Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You first meet Ground Zero when he's thrown, unceremoniously, through the glass window of your florist shop.

It's a tiny space, bursting to full with greenery and flowers, the smell of it heady - the dark, wet green of a garden in the rain. There’s just enough room for the flowers (strewn about in buckets or packed into the glass fridge) and for you, often sitting on the concrete floor as you make arrangements, soaking up what sunlight came through.

It is your space, hard found and hard won. And within seconds it is obliterated.

You’d been testing the taps when it happened. The power had gone out with a faint pop – like a generator had exploded, streets away, maybe. Through the thin walls you could hear Akane exclaim over her fryers – she must’ve had a fresh batch of curry bread cooking when the power rolled. Situated on the corner of this building next door to you, the older woman ran a successful little business, taking advantage of the weary salary workers that tracked through the street on the way to the train station and tempting them with her fried treats.

Akane was a warm woman, nurturing – who tried to mother you in a way she could not her own daughter, who worked hard and long office hours and did not have the space for it. It meant that the other woman would sew you aprons; cheery, shapeless things that you happily wore in-store. She’d also feed you, despite your insistence she shouldn’t worry; bringing you bentos, fresh curry donuts; leaving you with dinner in the late evenings when you were working single-handedly on big orders.  In return you obligingly gossiped about the rest of the street vendors with her and entertained her grandson when she had him: tiny, enthusiastic Haruto, who could leave you breathless with laughter at the way he saw things.

He'd been with you just before the chaos; when the power cut he’d startled, looking up at you with a furrowed brow and smiling at him you said, “It’s alright. Do you want to go see if your Nan is okay?”

Haru’s gaze followed your lips more than your hands, as you signed it – then he nodded, gripping his Ground Zero cup to his chest tightly before gingerly handing it back to you and surveying the foliage between him and the door, laid out around on the floor in mid-arrangement. There was a moment when his tiny face was solemn, undecided; and then the boy was bunny hoping through the buckets and branches, the spontaneous joy of his age shining through.

In hindsight, it was lucky you’d encouraged him to leave.  It was only by chance that you, still standing at the back your tiny store at the sink, managed to leave the shop uninjured, later.

One moment you were gently placing Haru’s favourite cup down, on the sink – and in the next the ground rumbled, the aftershock of what was, unmistakably, explosions. Earthquake, you think, fear coiling your muscles: but before you can react, people are screaming on the street outside and you’re instinctively dropping to the ground as your storefront is obliterated, the reason why crashing through foliage and flowers, showering you with glass and leaves.

The building shakes, the noise outside retreating into a high-pitched hum in your shock as you stare blankly at the intrusion.

It growls –a man, hoisting himself up easily, even with the heavy arsenal of his outfit. Dazed, you cannot place him but feel as if you should – the costume, the build of him (tall, a wall of muscle in black and orange in your too-small space) are tell-tale signs of a Pro Hero.

“Get down and stay down!” He snarls, ignoring your indignant noise as he shoves you roughly towards the up-ended table, acting as a shield. There’s shouting outside and without another glance at you (shell-shocked, your bright apron fanned about you, still clutching Haru’s cup) the hero leaps over the table in a fluid movement, racing to rejoin the fight.

Your ears feel like they’re ringing – you’re not sure how long you sit there behind your table, the chaos outside reigning supreme – but then you blink, realising that you can hear screaming --

Akane.

Scrambling up you have no room to think – you stumble out of your store, glass underneath your soft shoes as you break out onto the chaos of the street.  It’s like a giant has flung wild punches around, pockmarking the buildings around you, leaving gaping holes in store fronts, rubble and glass skewered out on the streets. For a moment you don’t recognise where you are, thanks to the nightmarish destruction – and then you realise, with horror, that Akane’s little store – her warm little cupboard of curry bread – is gone. Destroyed completely, nothing left but the wall that divides her space from yours.

“AKANE!” You scream, flinging yourself into the pile of brick and mortar that is left, scrabbling at it. You can’t see her anywhere, although you swear, you swear to God you just heard her -- Oh, God – where was Haru? Choking, you claw at the debris – your hands are useless, shredding on the concrete – it’s useless, you’re useless, you can’t even help –

There’s a crackle, whip-like; the hair on your arms, the back of your neck is standing, humming, like static electricity – is it a quirk? You grab at a piece of rebar, the hot metal searing your palm – but then there’s scrabbling, like a little mouse, and you see the bright orange of Haru’s Bomb Boy shirt as he darts out of nowhere, a piece of brick in his hand.  Someone is shouting at him, a furious booming above the chaos, but Haru is lightning fast – before you can even comprehend what’s happening, he’s taken a running leap, pegging the brick in his hand at something behind you.

A sharp thwack, and the static electricity that was humming over you drops, disappearing; but it’s the calm before the storm because in moments the charge is back, prickling your skin in warning.

You twist around to Haru, standing there facing off against a bedraggled, wild looking man, skinny and desperate, the air around him crackling with lightning -- Haru’s little face daring him to try it again.

“Haru!” You shriek, but it’s useless, more instinct than sense – you’re lifting yourself up, trying to run to him before the criminal can unleash his quirk again – and then the world explodes, ripping apart in heat and flame, the wind knocked right out of you before you could be incinerated.

It happens so fast that all that claws at you is your grief for Haru and Akane, overwhelming – they’re dead, you think.  We’re all dead.  Nothing could’ve survived that.

Vaguely, you’re aware of a heavy arm wrapped around you as you’re propelled forward from the blast – before you can process much else, you’re hitting the ground, angled so that whatever – whoever – is carrying you takes the hit first.

You both skid – your apron and your dress drag up, your leg dragging along the ground. You have no time to think about the pain – your savoir is grunting, their arm tightening around you in reflex and when you open your eyes it takes you a moment to realise you’re staring at the crook of a neck, grimy; pressed up so close to it that you can almost taste the pulse under the skin.

You breathe in, sharply, and his pulse jumps; he smells of thick, heavy burnt sugar, left on the stove too long.

This happens in moments; then you’re being dropped as your living shield hoists himself up, scowling, masked eyes on something behind you; you realise it’s Ground Zero – Haru’s idol.  Haru.

You’re twisting yourself up, ignoring the Pro Hero’s filthy look as pure fear shoots down your spine – he was just there –

A small orange blur is tackling you, then; released from the arms of another Pro-Hero, the bright red hair nagging at you.  You’re not really concentrating on that, though, as small fists twist themselves into your apron, proof of life.  He was safe, Haru was safe – realising he must’ve been grabbed by a different hero the same time you had, you wrap your arms around him tightly, the relief emptying you out.

“Haru.” You breathe. “Haru.” Tears blur your vision.

All around you there is chaos, movement; vaguely you’re aware of the two Heros who have saved you both moving, now, to tackle their villain, finally subdued -- but you are focused on the trembling of the small boy you’re holding, your hands smoothing down the back of his shirt.

“You were so brave.” You whisper into his hair. “You’re the best hero I know.”

Haru can’t hear you but you know he can feel it; in response, your little friend just hugs you tighter.

Akane is, mercifully, alive.

When her shop exploded she’d been by her fryers – the burns were severe, but treatable, or so a cheery (too cheery, considering) paramedic told you as you and Haru crowded around the woman, the both of you reaching for her.

The drugs they’ve given her have kicked into effect and she’s smiling at you beauteously, patting your hand. “You’re such a good girl.” She slurs as Haru presses in closer to her.

The paramedic is grinning at you as he untangles some empty IV lines, apparently finding the older woman’s drugged affection funny.  You ignore him, too awkward; Haru is trying to curl into his grandmother like a puppy, though her being strapped to a gurney makes it hard. His mother is going to meet you all at the hospital – Akane is the only one, in your little trio, who is seriously hurt. The grazing on your thigh and leg have already been salved and gauzed (by the smiley paramedic, no less, who kept up a constant stream of commentary as you tried not to make eye contact); you have a bit of a pause in your step, now, thanks to the stinging, but it’s nothing dramatic.

Haru, miraculously, is uninjured.  He’s the one who got Akane help, when the destruction rolled through your street – nearby shopkeepers pulled her aside from the rampaging, thanks to his insistence, the heroes swooping in as the fight narrowed. It was the reason you couldn’t find them, when you stumbled out of your store; they were already safe.  The only reason Haru was ever in danger again was because of you – the little boy had darted back for you and found you, scrabbling at the wreckage of the shop, completely oblivious to the criminal behind you, forced back by the fight.  The man’s quirk meant he was siphoning electricity, and returning it supercharged in the form of a deadly whip – a whip that would’ve wrapped around your neck had it not been for your fierce, tiny defender.  His distraction saved you – and almost cost the child his life.

Something you were both quickly called out for.

“Oi!” Barked a gruff voice. The tenor of it uncoils something deep inside your gut; for some reason, your gaze drops straight to the speaker’s boots – thick, black combat boots, with orange details, standing squarely before you.

Your eyes travel up, slowly; you think about a pulse, and how it could jump just at a sharp breath.

Ground Zero is intimidating. There is no other word for it. He’s beautiful, a fact that the marketing media caught on to quickly after his debut. However, it’s one thing to see his face (finely carved and baby-smooth) airbrushed in magazines under that shock of ash-blonde hair -- it’s quite another to meet his level glare in person and feel the full-force of his displeasure.

All the pretty-boy ad campaigns and billboards have failed to convey just how big the Pro Hero is; at how much space his heat and anger can take up.  You always knew he was muscled, most Pros are, it comes with the territory; hell, Vogue Japan’s latest issue had him shirtless, wearing nothing but tight athletic pants and sneakers on the front cover with a handful of other Pros – but the reality of him is – it’s –

He’s looking down, now, frowning at Haru who has frozen next to you. You shift so that your hand is against the boy’s back, reassuring him.  Ground Zero is his idol and despite the mounting anxiety you’re feeling, Haru’s pause seems more of disbelief that he could be so close to him than fear.

Ground Zero’s face twists under his mask, taking in how small Haru is. “What the hell were you thinking, kid?” He gowers, “You could’ve been killed, idiot! Why didn’t you stay put when we told you to!?”

Haru, bless him, is looking at the man towering over him with nothing less than stars in his eyes, and you know that he’s not following what the hero’s lips are saying.

“Haru’s deaf.” You say, quietly.

Ground Zero turns that intense red glare to you and it takes everything within you not to visibly wilt at the force it. Your nails – ragged, now – press into your palm.

“Hah?” He grunts. Still, his shoulders drop as he shifts back, just slightly.

Haru’s looking at you, maybe wondering what you’ve done to rob him of his idol’s focus. You rub his back, and then try to sign it so that he can follow, although you pause to think. You’ve only been learning, properly, for a little over a year, now; a way to encourage him.

“Haru’s deaf.” You explain again. The boy in question beams when Ground Zero’s eyes flicker from your hands to him, unreadable. “If you weren’t in his line of sight, he wouldn’t have even known you were speaking to him.” Your voice shakes at the end, remembering, suddenly, the shouting just before Haru launched his little attack – the roar of it, even above the catastrophe.  Of course, who else?

In JSL your explanation is patchy – both you and Haru are still accruing the basics, gaining new signs – but regular practice is key to helping him grow into it. The vocabulary will expand in time.

Ground Zero’s mouth tightens as his head tilts back, reappraising the two of you.  Haru is still smiling sunnily at him, undeterred by the foul mood.

It’s a relief when Red Riot steps up behind the other hero, smiling, holding out his hand for a high five as he crouches down. “Hey little buddy.”

As Haru enthusiastically hits his palm, the Hero grins up at you. You can feel your cheeks burning, made worse by Ground Zero’s eyes instantly narrowing at the flush. He doesn’t miss anything, you think wildly, but it’s hard to be unflustered around Red Riot. The man is built along the lines of brick wall, carefully carved like a Greek statue – and he’s shirtless.  His sunny face and shock of gelled red hair – swept back in a ponytail - are the only part of him you can safely look at.  God, even his arms were a distraction, wrapped in tight black sleeves.

Your face was getting warmer, and you decided for your own safety that you could only look at the frame of his headpiece, and his teeth.

The thing was, though, that even being a literal thirst trap, Red Riot was so… nice. It was a stark – and noticeable – contrast to Ground Zero’s smouldering disapproval.

His crouching for Haru levelled things evenly – Haru’s small face brightened considerably, unable to believe his luck at having two Pro Heros with him.

“You did well today, little buddy.” Red Riot tells him, beaming. Behind him, Ground Zero lets out a small tch; you and Red Riot both ignore him.  Haru looks at you, his joy shinning through – he didn’t need signing to know that someone was being kind.  Still, you signed the Hero’s praises for him, prompting Haru’s face to nearly split in two with his wild grin.

If Red Riot is surprised by your signing, he makes no show of it, smiling warmly at you both, his eyes crinkling.  Ground Zero is watching your hands again, clocking every movement.

“Are you gonna be a Pro Hero one day?” Red Riot asks Haru.  His voice is light, friendly, teasing.  It’s an innocent question, even as it makes your stomach drop. “Should be easy, for a manly kid like you.”

Haru’s chest puffs out; he’s caught enough words from Riot’s lips to guess the question. Grabbing your hand he’s nearly vibrating with pride. He doesn’t even need to sign for you to know what he wants to say.

“It’s all he wants.” You say, your hands still.

Both Heroes, you think, notice; Ground Zero’s gaze sharpens on you and Red Riot pauses, momentary, before laughing.

“You’ll have to train your quirk hard!” He advises cheerfully, and you can’t help your wince this time, something both Heroes definitely notice now.

Haru beats you to it, again reading enough words to understand, his hands flying excitedly. He’s six years old and already very, very proud. And very stubborn.

You open your mouth, then swallow, vocalising it for him. “Haru’s quirkless.” Your heart drops as Red Riot’s smile falters, Ground Zero stiffening imperceptibly.

“We both are.” You volunteer, signing it; it was the one thing your grandfather always did for you, as a child – let people know you weren’t alone. Power in numbers. Neither hero says anything, and you continue quickly. “Haru’s determined – he’s going to be a Pro-Hero.”

The boy beams at you, the whole world in front of him. It’s still all possible to him – somehow, someway. He cannot fathom the idea that he might not be able to have what he wants.

You had never had that drive; you were content to potter around with your grandfather, in his garden.

Red Riot’s sunshine comes back as he laughs, kindly, but it’s Ground Zero who speaks, looking down at Haru with his trademark intensity. “If you’re gonna be a Pro Hero, kid – you’re gonna hafta train hard. Especially if you’re quirkless. Train harder than any other extra and keep pushing yourself until you get where you wanna be.”

A small, concerned noise escapes you – it doesn’t seem right to tell a six-year-old child that – but Ground Zero’s eyes meet yours, his mask furrowed, waiting.

Haru watches you devotedly, his bright eyes shining.

You think about your grandfather – how he taught you to feel the earth beneath your fingers, to care for flowers. To love the velvety feel of their petals.

It’s important to have something to work towards. His voice in your memory is warm and quiet.  He had been a gentle man, unperturbed by his quirklessness in a society remade after them. All he ever wanted for you was to find your own place in it, like he had in his garden. Have something you love. Sometimes it’s the only thing that will carry you through.

“Work hard.” You tell Haru, at last. “Work hard and keep trying.”

Ground Zero’s mouth tightens; you cannot tell what he’s thinking, but he nods when you make eye contact and you think, for a moment, that beyond it all – the magazine spreads, the media, the pageantry of being a Hero – that this is a man who might know what it means to keep striving.

The smoke from the street’s destruction has turned the heat of the midday sky hazy; you glance up, and back to the Pro Hero, unable to help it.

He’s still watching you.

Chapter Text

The flowers in your arms are heavy: you roll your shoulder, trying not to let the straps of your tote bag slip as you walked.

It’s quiet in this neighbourhood, the morning light gentle along the empty street – a stark contrast to the busy hustle of the city centre you’d just come from. It was all salary-workers at this hour, school kids; on the way to the station you’d even gone past a rally of sound vans parked at an intersection, their flyers, shirts and posters screaming about Quirk discrimination. Standing on the roof of one of the vans a man shouted down at passersby about Quirklessness, like an angry God hailing down judgement. Your mouth had twisted but you tucked your head into the wobbling flowers you were holding and sped up. This wasn’t the first Quirk Defence protest you’d seen on these streets, but it seemed like there were more and more of them since the attack that levelled your street.

The Electro Whip incident was being torn apart by the media.

To be fair, you supposed, the media took savage delight in tearing anything apart. Especially anything involving Pro Heroes. After the dissolution of the Hero Commission and the continuing struggle of trying to rebuild some kind of answerable body of power, the scrutiny Pros were under was tighter than ever. 

And the footage from that day – well, you supposed if you were a journalist you’d have run with it too.

Most of the clips that the news-stations played were from the final fight, on your street. It had been a tight, busy space – it wouldn’t have made any Hero look good, yet the shots of Ground Zero and Red Riot trying to get close enough to take down the man (and failing) seemed unfairly damning.

The damage was insurmountable – and so much of it came from them. A wayward explosion of Ground Zero’s, shattering the glass of surrounding windows with just the aftershock; Red Riot being thrown into a wall by an electricized crackle and demolishing it.

Talk shows blared titles like, Pro Heroics: a failure in conflict resolution? as they played looped clips of Ground Zero angrily emerging out of your store window with a lordly scowl, boots crushing glass and petals as he fired off a controlled volley of blasts.

The paper had leaked that the heroes had done more property damage than the energy stealer – a PR nightmare for any Pro, you guessed, let alone a team made up of two of the most famous heroes of your generation.

It was part of the reason why you found yourself here, now, early morning at the agency. The receptionist had told you that someone would be around when you called by; she’d been kind about it, picking up on your hesitation over the phone.

“There’s always someone here.” She said, faintly amused. The duh went left unsaid.

Of course, you thought simply, staring up at the agency building in something of a daze. The neighbourhood was lush, lining a park – the building before you was an odd combination of industrial and whimsy; it was solid, concrete and glass – and overgrown with ivy, like the parkland behind it was trying to reclaim it.  You would’ve been convinced you had the wrong place – if not for the Riot Ground name in thin gold lettering on the doors.  The place looked more like a high-end wedding boutique, you thought; private and by appointment only, with soft-spoken sales staff who’d be able to tell your net worth just by looking at you.

Pro Heroes belonged in that kind of world, you realised – glossy, removed, by appointment only.

Out of nervous habit you nosed the foliage of the arrangement you were holding, making a face against the leafy greens. You’d picked a careful assortment for the reception desk – ornamental kale, purple and heavy, like something from a witch’s garden; dark, lush ranunculus with their sweet smell and bobbing heads. Hydrangeas, in their dusk sky colouring – it was early in the season for them, but these had been sitting prettily in buckets at your vendor’s and you’d been unable to resist.  You’d complimented them with a cluster of pale, flushed-green roses and sprays of tiny white flowers, star-like and delicate.  It meant the end result was a bouquet heavier than a toddler; grand and eye-catching and sickly in scent. Face still among the petals of it, you breathed in deep, waiting for an answer to the buzzer you’d pressed.

Eyelashes down you didn’t notice the movement behind the glass; you were too busy mulling over your early morning, the day ahead. When the door rattled, you startled – pulling away from the flowers in your arms like something guilty to stare as Ground Zero himself – maskless, a towel around his neck, wearing a t-shirt and some baggy sweats – opened the door, arching pale eyebrows at you.

“You make stupid faces often?” He asked, red gaze burning through you. The smell of burnt sugar lingered between you.

Your stupid face in question warmed, though your voice stayed steady, the paper you’d wrapped the flowers in crinkling under your fingers. “Only when I’m bored.”

His eyebrows twitched.  Giving nothing away the hero grunted noncommittally, turning to stride away – you admired the lithe lines of his shoulders as he moved, then blinked, slipping in after him.

It was cold inside, the linen of your outfit not protecting you from the chill that clamped down your spine. The space was large – like someone had gutted out a factory building and then sparsely redressed it with wrought iron and bare-bulb accessories. An interior designer’s idea of chic, masculine office space.

Ground Zero, who’d paused when he realised you weren’t immediately behind him, made a small, impatient sound. “Havin’ fun gawking?”

The flowers you’re holding wobble, raised in front of you like a barrier against your own embarrassment. “It’s not what I was expecting.” You say, unprompted.

The Pro juts his chin, proud. “Why the fuck not? You think I can’t decorate?”

You don’t miss the challenge in that. It reminds you, in a roundabout way, of Haru – the same need to prove themselves, take everything head on. “It’s a beautiful space.” You tell him.  And it is – sparse, but beautiful and not what you’d think of, when imagining a Pro Hero’s office. “I don’t think there’s much you can’t do.”

He scoffs in reply though you wonder, faintly, if the dry praise was a bit too much, his hand moving to the back of his neck, his teeth baring like the comment was a physical weapon. “Yeah, well. It’s nothing.”

“It’s beautiful.” You reaffirm, and yup, that definitely raises his hackles; Ground Zero glares at you, as though trying to size both you and your compliment up.

You smile at him, an automatic response – this reflexive cheeriness is why you’re so good at retail – and his eyes narrow, gaze following the curve of your cheeks.

Your face immediately heats; your flowers tremble, minutely.

Their movement has the Hero’s attention flickering to them, and something passes through his face, leaving him vaguely annoyed. “C’mon.” He orders, turning to stomp away again. You follow after him as he leads you down a hallway and into an expansive kitchen – a dining area.  It’s almost like a pocket-sized cafeteria, the space filled with long tables and chairs, a wall of glass windows overlooking the park behind the building.

You’re drawn to the windows as Ground Zero loudly rummages through some cupboards, looking for something.  Outside it’s green and lush, like unplanned woodland as opposed to a city parkland – you think about your grandfather’s garden, happily overgrown. You miss it; you miss him. In his final years he’d sit outside in the mornings, breathing in the sunshine like it could fill his lungs with light.

In the here and now that same morning light illuminates your reflection, in the windows. The flowers are ghostly in the glass, and absentmindedly you touch them, gentle.

A clatter of glass on marble startles you: Ground Zero jerks his head at the large glass container he has sitting before him, on the counter. “This better be good enough for your stupid weeds.” He says.

You arch an eyebrow at stupid weeds but say nothing. He’s pulled out a large pasta jar, you think; but it’s big enough for the bulk of your arrangement, and honestly, you’ve used worse, both at home and in the shop.

“It’s perfect.” You reassure him, moving away from the sunlit warmth to join him. He grunts, turning away to rummage through another cupboard. Deciding that this means he’s expecting you to set up the arrangement for the front desk, you let your tote bag drop, unbundling the flowers from their paper on the counter.

As you rearrange stems and leaves, Ground Zero starts cracking some eggs into a bowl, whisking in some mirin with a pair of chopsticks.

It’s weirdly domestic, though thinking that immediately floods you with the duel-punches of embarrassment and shame. Domestic is not a word that you should be using in conjunction with yourself and a Pro-Hero – the sheer nerve that you would almost shocks you. This is an appointment-only world; you’re just visiting.

“If there’s anything in particular you want for the front desk, let me know.” You say conversationally, breaking the quiet. Ground Zero glances at you oddly, and you wonder if he even knows about the deliveries – a charitable show of support in the wake of your business being totalled, you figured, by his management team. From now until the foreseeable future you were going to be supplying the Riot Ground agency with all their floral needs – which, you figured out quickly, meant front-of-house displays.  It wasn’t bad, though; the weekly budget they had given you was triple your usual prices and thanks to the overzealous manager you’d spoken to, you now also had similar arrangements with a couple of other agencies.  

You’re grateful, you are, but it seemed kind of… frivolous for these Pro-Heroes to have a florist on their payrolls.

Still.  It was a kind thought, no matter how calculated it was. The Agency could’ve just handed you over to Insurance and be done with the whole thing, and yet they hadn’t.  And, if you were honest with yourself, in the few weeks since the destruction of your store you had missed playing with your flowers; the cold fingers and damp aprons. Being surrounded by the cheery beauty that was your plants.  You’d gone overboard for your new commissions because of it.

Operating without a storefront meant that your apartment – with barely enough room for you, standing – had transformed into a makeshift greenhouse, your enthusiasm to be working properly again punishing your living space.

“I don’t give a shit about some shitty weeds.” Ground Zero says, effectively ending the Olympic-level mental gymnastics you’d been spiralling into with his silence.  He’s pouring the eggs into a square pan, now, rattling it over the gas aggressively. “Pick whatever, I don’t care – or ask Shitty Hair.”

You’re not sure you’re meant to know who ‘Shitty Hair’ is, and you don’t ask; Ground Zero kicks at the bench to get your attention. “Oi. Grab out a couple of bowls and fill ‘em with rice.”

It says more about you than it does the Pro Hero who’s bossing you around that you obey almost instantly. The easy servitude is great when working with customers – but you do have to wonder, sometimes, if it’s less being naturally submissive and more wanting to be useful, even while quirkless.

It’s not a thought you let yourself have often – you genuinely like being helpful to others, in any way you can – but with Haru’s revamped belief in his becoming a Pro-Hero you’ve found yourself mulling on it more, trying to remember if you’d been like that at his age, or if it was a special, Haru-shaped thing.

He believes in himself so much, you think suddenly, sadly. Please, please don’t let that belief be taken away from him.

As you dish out the rice, lost in your thoughts, Ground Zero prepares what ends up being breakfast – for the both of you.

“Food’s here, if you want it.” He grunts, taking a bowl of rice from you; he’s set out the other dishes on one of the tables – miso soup, grilled salmon. Tamagoyaki rolled up perfectly and sliced; pickled vegetables waiting.

Oh my God, you think, stunned.

Wanting to make a good impression you’d rushed out of your apartment without bothering to eat anything, grabbing a bottle of milk tea and a melon bread from the convenience store near the station, here. They were still in your tote bag.

The Pro Hero in question is sitting down, ready to eat – he scowls at you, still standing by the counter in nothing short of shock. “Are you eating, or what?”

Haru could have the melon bread later, then – trying not to trip over your feet, worried your face was burning in embarrassment, you move to sit down.

“Thank-you for the meal.” You say gently, overwhelmed despite yourself. You’re trying to think about all the times you’ve ever eaten, before this, reviewing your behavior, wondering if you’re going to look like a slob, or a pig –

Ground Zero grunts. “It’s whatever. Help yourself” He glances at you as you both start to eat and it strikes you how bare his face is, without his costume mask. How bare any face is, without one.

With anyone else that sentiment might’ve made you feel better, relaxed you: with Ground Zero it made your sudden wave of nerves worse. Whoever said that beauty was terrifying was right, you think faintly. The Pro was ridiculously good-looking, with his smooth face, the intensity of his gaze – ridiculously, and unfairly. 

Sitting with his back to the windows, the morning light crowns the edges of his blond hair; a divine spotlight.  For a moment, you dumbly take in the sight; then you realise what you’re doing and start immediately shovelling rice into your mouth to stop yourself from thinking such stupid things.

But still – your hand hovers as you go to take a slice of tamagoyaki, wondering how many people would kill to be sitting where you are, right now. There’s probably an ungodly amount of fan accounts out there who’d give blood and money to be in your position. You’ve seen the memes, the casual comments of “I would let this man snap my spine in half and thank him for it” – you are definitely living someone’s fantasy, you think faintly.

And yet – as the two of you eat in silence, you realise it’s kind of a disservice to the human in front of you.

He’s focused on his breakfast; he almost looks relaxed, although even as you think it, you realise it isn’t the right word. But the feral, delighted rage he so famously has in battle is absent. Ground Zero was wildfire trapped in a body; and right now he was flickering and calm.

There’s a banging from the hallway, before either of you finish your meal – you can hear someone calling out, already half-talking to themselves and then Red Riot arrives, hair down, grinning broadly. “Bakugou! How’d patrol go – “

In surprise he stops, taking you in, sitting there with a mouthful of rice and egg. Ground Zero keeps eating, unperturbed – Red Riot’s eyes flicker between the two of you and then to the flowers on the counter and then his face brightens, probably vaguely able to remember you, now. “Oh, hey there – Good morning! I didn’t realise delivery was today!”

He laughs, bright like the sunshine itself; before you can swallow your food properly, and stammer out a hello, Ground Zero is grunting at him. “Get your own rice, Shitty Hair.”

Red Riot ignores him, beaming at you as he moves to help himself. “Any news on when you can reopen?”

“Ah –”

Ground Zero watches you in lazy interest, making your face burn.

“I’m not sure.” You say at last, choosing to look at his elbow instead, safe. “Construction’s started, but, uh – the landlord’s been talking about selling the building, maybe.” The man was 74 and slowing down; he’d talk about moving away, before all the chaos. You can’t imagine the recent activity has helped dissuade that.

Making a concerned noise, Red Riot slips next to you, the bench thudding heavily.

“That sucks,” He says, empathically, as he leans in to help himself to the salmon. Troubled, he frowns. “That whole fight was a mess. Definitely not one of our best.”

Across from the pair of you, Ground Zero scowls at his chopsticks. “It was sloppy. But that fucker had no rhyme or reason to him – he had no fuckin’ clue. He couldn’t fight for shit.”

You must’ve made some kind of face at that, because the hero scowls harder. “He couldn’t. Normally when these fuckers decide to act up, they at least think they have a chance.”

Next to you, Red Riot is mulling over it. “His attacks were more like – lashing out.”

You think about the man that’d been all over the news – skinny, ragged, drugged out of his mind. He’d been homeless, according to reports. This had been his first serious offence.

The heroes at the table clearly know something more – they make eye contact that you pretend not to notice, chalking it up to some weird, mutual agreement to stop talking about it in front of the random civilian joining them. Even as you think this, Red Riot proves the suspicion correct by turning to you more fully, grinning, his teeth sharp. “You know, if you need help looking for new store space there’s probably some people we could hit up for you.”

You smile down at your bowl, amused at being right, before glancing at both heroes. “It’s okay. I’m not sure I could afford Pro-recommended real estate rent, anyway.”

That startles a laugh out of Red Riot; Ground Zero’s eyebrows twitch, though his mouth stays straight and thin.

“We could probably find you something.” Riot protests, playfully. “Maybe near an agency… or on a patrol route.”

Now you’re grinning; it seems like an easy thing to do around the red-headed hero. “I definitely couldn’t afford the rent on one of those places.” You tease him. “I need somewhere with… moderate crime. Maybe just a bit of light shoplifting.”

The blond snorts, while next to you Red Riot splutters in protest. “Naw man, we couldn’t do that to you and the little guy – you need somewhere safe! Hell, we could just chuck you guys in the reception here. Get you a little cart for your flowers. A couple of seats for you both.”

“Haru would never leave if that happened.” You say, stuck on how Riot had included the boy. It was cute that he’d remembered him, but – you tried not to laugh. “His family would probably end up pressing kidnapping charges.”

You think – you think – you catch Ground Zero’s eyes flicker to your hands for a moment, but then he’s busying himself with the last of his meal as Red Riot breaks into noisy laughter. “I thought he was yours! My bad. He’s a cute kid.”

“The cutest.” You agree merrily. “Definitely not mine, though. He’s way braver than I am.”

“The brat’s got guts.” Ground Zero breaks in with a frown. You instantly feel bad for managing to bring up the fight again. “He’s quirkless, Deaf, small for his age – he could’ve died.” Your heart clenches, and the hero’s red gaze meets yours. His fist tightens; there’s a crackle of pops. “Yet he dove in, despite it.”

For a moment, you don’t know how to take his anger – and he does look angry, mouth twisting in an ugly way. It doesn’t seem directed, though, and when he tchs to himself, releasing his fist, you have to wonder if he was thinking about something – someone? – else.

“I think…” You hesitate, both men waiting. “I don’t know much about being a Pro Hero – but… he sees you guys on tv fighting people, saving people, being strong – and he wants to be strong so badly. And I think he equates being a Pro Hero with being the strongest.”

Beside you, Red Riot’s face has softened as he looks away. Contrasted to that, Ground Zero has tensed, near boring a hole through you with his staring, and you hesitate, your eyes flickering over his face, unable to match his gaze.

“Breakfast was a feast.” You say, moving to stand. “Thank-you for inviting me to share it.” As you take your dishes, you motion to Ground Zero’s empty bowl. “May I?”

He gives you an undecipherable look, the lines of him lean as he stands and takes it himself – and yours, even as you protest. “Whatever. You’re not a fuckin’ waiter.”

Your face is burning again and next to you, head down over his own bowl, Red Riot is trying his hardest not to laugh.

It’s when you’re heading out to leave that Red Riot – Kirishima, he insists – makes his move.

“The flowers are great!” He approves, spinning their jar on the reception desk. Other agency members have started to arrive now, office staff mostly. None of them seem especially perturbed to find you or the flowers there.  Seeing the bouquet in the space, though, you realise it’s too gentle for the agency. Next time you’ll find some darker, richer colours – though, if you’re honest with yourself, the way the Red Riot’s face lights up as he plays with them does something funny to your heart. He’s so sweet.

“Bakugou!” He calls out as Ground Zero emerges in a change of clothes. “You wanna walk Miss Flower here out, since you’re heading home?”

Oh. You take back everything you just thought about him.

The blond hero makes a small noise of irritation; you’re horrified. “It’s fine.” You say, almost stuttering. “You absolutely do not have to trouble yourself –”

He stalks past the pair of you, and Red Riot gives you a thumbs up. “It wouldn’t be manly or heroic to leave you alone! Go! We’ll see each other later!”

The grin he gives you is toothy as he waves you off.

You catch up to Ground Zero outside of the agency.  He hasn’t paused to wait and for a few moments you trail behind him, like a duckling – it makes you feel like a stalker. Especially knowing you have the Hero Generation issue of Vogue Japan in your tote bag. It’s hitting your side with every step you take, Ground Zero and his compatriots immortalised on the cover in expensive, bare-minimum athletic wear.

The weight of the magazine is burning against you when Ground Zero abruptly stops at the intersection at the end of the street; your ears are hot.

“You need a babysitter for the train, too?” He asks roughly.

Oh, God. This is your worst fear, realised: you’re useless. He considers you absolutely useless.

“Probably not.” You say evenly.  Thank fuck – your voice comes out steadily, and you risk looking at the Pro, hoping the heat flooding your cheeks is less embarrassing and more attractive, although you’re not too deluded, on that front.

He’s staring at your cheeks again and you decide, right there, that you’re going to just pass away on the spot with the embarrassment.

He gets this all the time, you tell yourself, half hysterical. Just be normal.

“Thank-you for looking after me,” You say politely, finally facing him.

He nods in acknowledgement, looking coolly bored; a disinterested king.

“Fumi’s looking after you, not me,” He says gruffly, mentioning his manager. Red eyes are looking out, over to the train station across the road – you’ve never been so awkward in your life. You still have to –

“Not just with the flowers.” Your voice is quiet. “I never thanked you for pulling me out of the way.”

His shoulders tense; when he looks at you, his are eyes molten in the light.

You have enough self-control not to stare at his neck as you remember the jump of his pulse. The memory of it, of being so close to him, makes something deep within you hitch and stutter – don’t be ridiculous, you tell yourself, stomach clenching. It just showed how touch-starved you were, you guessed.

“Thank-you.” Your voice is clear; it makes your hesitation more obvious. There’s a hundred different platitudes you could say, but what comes out is, “You saved me, and – I’ll… I’ll always be grateful to you for that.”

His jaw tightens, just slightly – his eyes are on you, burning through you, but you find yourself too embarrassed to meet them levelly. When he says nothing in return you start to ramble, because you’re (apparently) an idiot who’s afraid of coming off too formal, “I mean, it’s not often I’m rescued by the Ground Zero.”

You try to sound lighthearted, jokey; the hero in question scowls heavily, the moment snapping. “Yeah, well, if your dumb ass keeps being useless then it won’t be the only time.”

You make a small, incredulous noise, as though your insecurities haven’t just taken a hay maker to the metaphorical gut. “I’ll remember that next time my shop implodes.”

The scowl deepens. “Your stupid little flower shop shouldn’t have been in the way!”

It’s so childish – and very unheroic – that it startles you. You almost laugh, your mouth trembling, but Ground Zero’s hunched into himself grumpily.

“Hm.” You say at last, trying to stay serious. “Maybe I should take Red Riot up on his offer; with the flower cart in your reception.”

The look the Pro Hero gives you is filthy. “Try it, and I’ll tip that shit over.” The thought of him in full uniform flipping over a cart of flowers makes it even harder not to laugh; you miss his jaw unclenching, just slightly. “Kirishima.” He corrects, and you’re lost, looking at him blankly.

“Shitty Hair told you his name.” He clarifies, looking annoyed. “It’s Kirishima.”

Unwelcome heat floods back to your cheeks. It seems wrong to call any Pro Hero by their actual names – they’re not a secret, not since most of the current generation debuted at the UA sport festivals before they could pick hero titles – but still.

“I’ll ask Kirishima about the cart, then.” You say, evenly.

The hero scowls at the sky. “I’ll reduce it to ash.” He threatens with a growl, and you hum in absent-minded agreement.

From where you’re standing you can hear the high-powered whirr of the trains as they slow, pulling into the station.

“I don’t care about some shitty flowers.” The hero next to you repeats, out of nowhere. When you risk glancing at him he looks put out, shoulders hunched again. “But Shitty Hair – Kirishima – likes red things. If you’re that useless you need inspo, or whatever.”

“I’ll see what the markets have next week.” You promise. He grunts and you think that this is your cue to leave cleanly, without letting it get anymore awkward between you and Ground Zero –

“Oi.”

You look at him properly; something within him has eased, now, his shoulders relaxed – he meets your eyes straight on. “Name’s Bakugou Katsuki. Next time I save you, dumbass, use my real name when you thank me.”

There’s no stopping it this time. Despite his shitty attitude, you laugh.

Safely on the train (and away from the burning vermillion gaze) you pull out your magazine and stare at the cover.

HERO GENERATION, the cover says in gold letters. Against a warm background there’s a cluster of UA alumni, all of them in varying brands of active wear. The new Symbol of Peace is front of centre, stretching out so though warming up, staring out from under wild curls – he has a baby face, you think. It makes him look hopeful, eternal, something that fit his title.

Red Riot’s there, too, his teeth tugging on a pair of gloves, his chest bare.

It’s Ground Zero you linger on, though.  He’s shirtless, oiled up like he’s been running. The pants he’s wearing are black, meant to be aerodynamic, or something ridiculous like that – they’re also nearly 20,000¥ a pair. Pressed up lushly against him, her hand on his chest is Uravity – sweet faced, lips parted.  His hand is on her waist, digging into her like the branded straps of her workout gear, indenting her skin – together they’re giving the photographer smouldering glares, like they’ve been pulled away, mid-moment, from each other.

You look at his neck; the photo’s captured the moment he’s tensed it, a vein jumping. With Uravity pulled into him so closely, her head against his shoulder, you wonder if she noticed.

The sunlight stutters over you as the train passes some buildings.  You look up out the window, watching the bay in the distance and remind yourself that their world is by appointment only.

Chapter Text

As much as you love him, Haru is being a little toad today.

He’s not paying attention to you – deliberately. Normally it wouldn’t really bother you but you’ve had to take him with you this morning, on your Agency deliveries.

At least it’s effective contraception, you think darkly, watching as he runs ahead of you despite your previous warnings.

You’re not sure when it started. Akane, you suspect, also hadn’t noticed until recently. The thing was: with all the adult stress you both faced (the building’s quick sale and the transferring of your leases, the renovations, the questions of bills and bonds) Haru had slipped through the cracks.

Every adult in his life was stressed – too stressed to baby him the way you all did. Between Akane’s recovery and his mother’s working, you’d taken to babysitting him more, being there after school finished. It had been easy enough, when everything was up in the air after the fight. But then – then the shift happened, and things got harder.

Haru stops just shy of the road and glances back at you, slyly – and though you’re in a quiet street, no real danger to him around, your heart freezes.

“Haru.” You say, stopping before him. He doesn't look at your hands, resolutely looking away. “Haru.” You repeat, firmly.

He’s taken a great interest in his brand new action figure, pretending you haven’t spoken to him. Your shoulders sag: this game is tiring, and you’re quickly realising you don’t have the same energy as a vindictive child.

Time for your cheapest trick, then.

“I guess you don’t feel like Bear Bread, then.” You say, signing it broadly with a sigh.

The boy’s caught enough of what you said to eye you carefully, weighing your bribe up; you stand there and pretend that you’re fascinated in some nearby ivy, growing wild along a fence.

After a moment you feel a small hand creep into yours, tentatively – you smile to yourself, a real one, and squeeze his hand.

He squeezes back and just like that your little friendship is mended, careful and precious.

Café milk vine – the lowercase empathised, on the chalkboard sign outside – was close to the Riot Ground agency, white-washed walls and windows peaking out from a curtain of ivy.

You’d passed it earlier as you carried the agency’s flowers, Haru peering into the window, leaving handprints on the glass. You’d seen what caught his interest, a drawing of it on the chalkboard: melon-bread in the shape of a friendly little bear head, cream pipped inside of it.

He looked at you, pouting.

“Maybe on the way back,” You spoke, trying to sign it around the bouquet you were holding. Haru turned before you could fumble through it, his equivalent of cutting you off mid-sentence. It was his rudest move, and one you’d been getting more and more of, lately: though, you mulled, he was happy enough at the moment, the pair of you finally sitting in the bright space of the café after your last delivery, the much-coveted bear-bread in front of him.

He played with the ear of his treat, too delighted to destroy it now that he had it. The little bear’s face smiled up at you through a sugary crust; Haru gingerly dug into the cream, his new Red Riot figure standing guard over both of them, a dependable – plastic – boulder.

It’d been the hero himself who’d given the toy to Haru.

Arriving already frazzled, you’d been dismayed to see that the Agency was busy. A camera crew of all things were setting up lights and rigging in the lobby, Red Riot in the centre talking to some of the crew, his costume on.

He noticed you almost immediately, Haru straining at the bit to be unleashed into the fray at the sight of him.

“Hey guys!” He waved, grinning, striding over to where the two of you were hovering at the edges of the fuss. “Wow, the flowers look great today -- and you finally brought Haru!”

The hero crouched down – and Haru finally wrenched himself free from your hand, launching himself at Red Riot in sheer glee.

Your dismayed yelp was drowned out by Riot’s – Kirishima’s – delighted laughter as he easily caught the boy, the people around you looking amused. “Hello to you too, Haru.”

It was the most affectionate you’d ever seen Haru be with a near-stranger – it had taken him months to come around to the idea of you, when you first opened up the shop next to Akane. He’d hidden behind the woman every time you saw him, until he finally felt he knew you enough to come out.

But… that was the thing, wasn’t it, you thought suddenly.

Red Riot – Kirishima – stood up, lifting Haru with him like he weighed nothing, the pair of them beaming at each other. This wasn’t a stranger to Haru. He saw Red Riot in the news; plastered on posters at the train station; on lunchboxes at school. He watched the officially licensed cartoons and collected the comics and had the toys – spent all that free, wild time of his childhood with heroes like Riot, Ground Zero. They were his friends – whether they knew it or not. They’d been on adventures with Haru to school, hidden in his satchel; crawled along with him in the undergrowth of the local park. He’d fought alongside them in their most epic battles, recreations he embellished while in his bedroom, or out on the street outside, alone. You’d seen his games, watched when you had him with you in the shop: the boy squeezed into an impossibly tiny space behind a display of myrtle flowers – moving his figurines carefully, soldiers performing reconnaissance in a dense jungle.

Your heart twisted against itself as Haru hugged the hero holding him. A big, scarred hand came up to rub Haru’s back, Kirishima’s face soft. Meeting your eyes the hero smiled, asking lowly, “He okay?”

Haru responded to the rumble of Kirishima’s voice against him by burrowing further into the man, and you tried to smile. “He’s alright.” You promised, shifting the flowers in your arms. “He’s… feeling a little ignored, I think.”

“Ignored?”

Bless him, you thought. The man – the Pro-Hero – before you looked so gently concerned that you smiled properly.

“It was his birthday last week.” You explained. “None of the original plans his family had for it happened. He’s disappointed.”

There’d been an ice-cream cake, bright and cheerful with a tiny Bomb Boy candelabra that spun sitting on top, a fire hazard if ever you’d seen one; but it’d just been yourself, Akane and Haru’s mother. Haru had been quiet for the rest of that afternoon.

Red Riot’s – Kirishima’s, you reminded yourself – eyes widened in understanding.

“You know,” He says carefully and clearly, hand still on Haru’s back, “We have something that might fix that.”

The plastic Riot - now standing watch over Haru’s dessert - still smelt new, unboxed quickly while you were still at the Agency.

“There’s a whole range of them coming out.” The life-sized version had told you, grinning his shark grin as Haru tore through the packing with an embarrassing ferocity. “It’s pretty crazy how involved the process is, when you’re licensing an image. They get us in to meet with the designers, chat, tour the office and the factory where they make ‘em – and then they send us a bunch before release!”

You nodded like you could relate, and Red Riot – Kirishima – laughed, teeth sharp. “I know Bakugou’s got some of his hiding around – just between us I’m pretty sure he takes them home to like, meticulously catalogue and add to his collection or something, but I’ll see if I can shake him down for one. For you.”

In the brightness of the café, you watched as Haru nudged his plastic Riot closer to him with careful, loving fingers. The hero had meant a Ground Zero toy for Haru – but you were stuck on the way the man had added for you at the end, like it could mean something.

Like you wanted it to mean something.

The weird crush you had on Ground Zero was ridiculous and awkward and had to stop, you decided a few days later.

It was the eve before your shop was due to reopen, and you were two peach-flavoured chūhai cans into a pity party; your tiny tv the only noise inside your apartment, the news blaring triumphantly.

Sitting at your table – a desk, really – you ignored it, staring out your window blankly. You’d been eating bruised strawberries for dinner, too lazy for real effort. Instead you preferred to pour over your copy of the Hero Generation issue again, flimsy emotional machoism.

They all looked so – good, the alumni of UA. Not just superficially, in the expensive sportswear they were all repping, but like good people. They looked like Heroes. Which is what they were, you supposed, stupidly.

But like, Deku for example – the new Symbol of Peace. His solo photos in the magazine had him beaming reassuringly; caught mid-laugh, bashful, hand behind his neck. He looked like someone you would trust to pull you out from a crumbling building.

And Red Riot – his sunny charm translated well in photos, you thought fondly. Even in a crop top hoodie, perfectly cut to show off his abs, it was his grin that caught you first – aimed straight at the camera as he held out a gloved hand, like he was helping someone across a gap.

God – even their pull-quotes were perfect, matching their earnest faces, sprawled out amid their interviews, the giant article about their graduating class. I want to be there, when someone’s in trouble, when someone needs help. I want to be able to say, ‘I am here!’ and let them know that there is someone who will fight for them.

The most heroic thing you can do for yourself – the manliest thing anyone can do – is to live the life you want, every day, and just throw yourself into it, headfirst.

And then there was Ground Zero.

The stylist for the shoot had him in yet another pair of expensive tights – dark, with mesh panelling that showed just how powerful his thighs were. He was wearing bright white sneakers, boring to you – the index said they were an unbelievable 68,000¥. His solo page had him crouching down low in this geddup, like he was about to take off in a race. With his shoulders and arms tensed, the wildly fierce look in his eyes, he looked like he was about to launch straight into the photographer. The first time you’d flipped to it, you’d nearly dropped the magazine.

I don’t care if people like me or not. His pull quote said. What matters is being the best and staying the best, so that you can help whichever dumbass needs it, no matter what, no matter if they like you.

His interview was the shortest, out of the group – snorting to yourself at that fact, you cracked open another can. There were other heroes, other photos – Chargebolt, running a hand through his hair, a zipper in his mouth as he undid a windbreaker. Cellophane, upside down and dangling from his own tape, powerful arms on display. Uravity in bright pink, floating midair like a ballerina, surrounded by confetti.

You’d seen more of her than you had of Ground Zero, lately – which made your crush on him even more stupid. Even right now, glumly looking over Uravity’s photo she was inescapable – playing on the news was the footage of her latest rescue in the southern sea off Japan, floating a wrecked fishing trawler during the last storm.

Watching it silently from your chair, your gut twisted. Above the dark, churning ocean she floated – wet hair whipping around her face, suspended in midair like a terrible, beautiful goddess of the sea, the trawler lifted above her.

She was – incredible, you thought desperately. Incredible and powerful. It dug at the bare ground where all your doubt about your Quirklessness was buried; broke the dirt of it painfully.

You’d learnt not to daydream about it, about having a Quirk. Any Quirk. But – now you couldn’t help but wonder, to tap into the agonised fantasies of your teen years where you’d watch the news, watch kids your age do impossible, incredible things. If you’d had a Quirk, you thought desperately – if you’d had one that could’ve gotten you into a prestigious school --

Flipping close the magazine, you stared at the backcover. Another group shot, everyone still in the same positions as they were on the front – Uravity still pressed up against Ground Zero. They were staring at each other, lips parted as though sharing the same breath.

What would it have been like? Being there, with the current generation of Heroes? The country was still dealing with the aftermath of their battles, their tragedies. And yet – they’d lived through it together. Grown up together, fought together on front lines children had no business being. You, raised in your quiet town amid your grandfather’s garden, writing in your stupid journal about the fights you had with your best friend, the boy you liked – how could you know? How could you compare? People – no, Heroes – like Ground Zero, Red Riot, Uravity: they needed people who knew them, who could match their strength.

You’d barely said hello to Ground Zero, since your first delivery; you kept missing each other, the combat hero throwing himself into an investigation -- or so Riot had promised, when you saw him. You weren’t in his world at all.

It shouldn’t have mattered, anyway, you told yourself. The Pro was just an insanely attractive man that’d saved your life, paying you the bare minimum in attention afterwards – of course your idiot self would get a crush. It would go away when things settled back into normalcy, you thought.

The news moved on; you rose from your moping and rinsed out your empty cans. They were cute, the main reason you kept buying them – bright pink, a perfectly illustrated peach on the front.

As you stood at your sink mulling over them, the anchor on tv laughed through a local story about a young child’s quirk triggering in class, setting fire to the craft display they’d been making.

“An amazing Quirk from someone so young,” She smiled. “’Caused a bit of a scare, of course – especially because our young friend had previously been believed to be Quirkless! What a generous stroke of luck, then. We look forward to seeing what great things come from this young hero, in the future!”

The report shifted to the damage done to the highway, further north: as the anchor talked through the investigation into suspected to Quirk-use, you picked up a few of the carnations you’d brought home, fully blown, ready to wilt.

Their peachy, ruffled petals were soft to the touch; you half-filled a clean can and slipped the carnations into their makeshift vase. It was ridiculous enough that you smiled, carrying them over to your desk, gently putting it down where it could overlook the JSL sheets you’d printed off, for practise.

Your eyes drifted from the illustrated signs to the backcover of your magazine, your gut twisting again at Uravity and Ground Zero’s closeness. Ridiculous, you told yourself. Unwittingly you focused on his thighs, well defined in his tights.

He would’ve made a good rugby player, you begrudgingly thought. The men on Japan’s national team were all built like they could crush your head between their legs, if they wanted to.

There was probably a fan account out there, you realised suddenly, who’d made the same remark about Ground Zero.

Your face heated immediately; letting your head drop onto your self-assigned homework, you groaned.

You are holding a bundle of sunflowers when Ground Zero stalks into your shop like he owns it.

It’s only the second day since your reopening – the space still smells of new paint, a warm white that you picked for the light to bounce off of. The heady, wet, secret-garden smell that you’d loved so much has been lost in the remodelling. Everything is too new to have settled, but – you supposed that in time, it’d come back.

Haru, like the gremlin he was lately, was toying with your new ribbon rack and unspooling them one by one, a rainbow of satin streamers.

“Haru,” You said, signing his name sharply. “Stop it.”

He sat down heavily, sulking, and you tried not to let your own frustration bubble. He should’ve been at school today – but he’d refused, and in defeat Akane had dragged him with her, shooing him out of her way when he got too restless. Bored and sulky, he’d come to you – and you didn’t mind, you didn’t, but this new Haru was hard to navigate. Mystifying, actually. None of your usual tricks worked.

Was having kids always this exhausting? You wondered. How did people do it?

Akane looked permanently exhausted whenever your conversation turned to him, his new attitude. “He’s going to be a delinquent!” She’d cried, the week before – something you consoled her wasn’t possible, though the older woman had already worked herself up into a frenzy over it, and wasn’t going to waste the drama.

Still – under the theatrics, you knew she was worried. Haru had been slipping in his JSL lessons – he worked with a special tutor at his school, who’d been just as puzzled as the rest of you. Haru before this was a chatterbox – he liked to be known. Haru now, however…

Inattentive, bored. A loss of interest in most things – hyperfixating on others, like his Heroes. An unpleasant thought struck you, blazing through you like lightning.

Was… was he depressed?

You stared hard at him, still crouched down under your ribbons. He didn’t look up, didn’t give any indication that he could feel your eyes on him; he only held onto Red Riot tighter, his small hand going white. He was only seven, you thought with alarm. Did – did kids even get depressed? Was that the word to use for it? In an adult with adult problems you’d have no issue calling the sudden change something like that – but –

Another unpleasant thought struck you. He’d been so excited in the days after the Electro Whip attack; talking constantly about how cool Ground Zero and Red Riot had been, how he was going to be exactly like them. And then somewhere along the way, the attitude had come in, the sulkiness; he had clutched to his heroes and play fantasies harder.

Your stomach swoops. Kids, you think faintly, aren’t always the kindest – and Haru’s desire to be a Pro Hero despite his Quirklessness wasn’t a secret.

Unaware of what you’re thinking, Haru jerked his head up, catching sight of something you haven’t. Before you can even make a noise he’s up and running – to Ground Zero, of all things.

Your hands tighten around the sunflowers you’re holding. The Pro is fully costumed, arsenal and all, standing amid a small crowd – tourists, you realise quickly, though you can see a few of the other shopkeepers in the street watching on in interest. Bright voices are speaking loud, happy and unintelligible English. From the way they’re waving their phones, you think they’re asking for – or just taking – photos, Ground Zero scowling plainly. His fists are gripped tightly; you wonder if you imagine the smoke from them.

“Get the fuck outta my face,” He grits out: judging from the excited squeals you’re guessing that not one person there understood.

Haru is the one that rescues him – weaving through the cluster of excited fans he throws himself at Ground Zero joyfully, fearlessly; it’s all the hero can do but catch him.

He still simmers: but at the crowd around them, not Haru, who looks viciously delighted, his grin wide and oblivious to the awkward way Ground Zero is holding him, trying not to fumble.

You move to the entryway of your shop; Ground Zero’s eyes slide to you and you cannot help the smile you give him.

He shoulders through the crowd – they part for him easily, now that it looks like he’s returning a child like a lent book. When they get to the threshold of your store, Ground Zero frowns.

“You got retractable doors installed?”

“The new landlord did.” You say. They’re still glass, but now you can move them as you please – since the days are still pleasant you’ve left them open, your plants and flowers happily spilling out into the street. You like the openness.

Ground Zero does not look as pleased by this as you are, though, instead watching Haru warily, the boy staring at him with mindless admiration.

Under his mask, Ground Zero’s brow furrows further, his mouth twisting. He looks deeply uncomfortable, for moment worrying you – but then he’s nodding at Haru, holding up a black gift bag. “Ei said you’d want this.” He grunts, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the child in his arms.

Haru’s followed enough of what’s been said to presume that Ground Zero is talking to him – he takes the bag without compunction, wriggling to be let down. The tension in the Pro’s shoulders eases when he releases him, Haru now pulling out an orange, green and black box and making small, excited noises.

“He hasn’t parted with the one Red - Kirishima - gave him.” You say as Haru rips his new Ground Zero figurine free. From where you’re standing you can see it’s got a lordly scowl on its face, delighted with the violence it was no doubt going to inflict on Haru’s other toys. “But I think it has competition, now.”

The life-sized version scoffs, lifting his chin. “Mine could beat Shitty Hair’s any day.”

“Oh, Haru’d never pit you against each other.” You say, confident. “No – you all fight villains as a team. I just mean that now poor Riot’s probably going to be replaced when it comes to being tucked in at night, or taken to the bath.”

Against the cut of his dark mask, Ground Zero’s red gaze is even more penetrative than usual. He’s staring at you, maybe trying to decide if you were making fun of him, unable to know of your earlier thoughts about he and Red Riot being Haru’s closest friends. You smile, tentatively; he tches and looks away, gripping his fists.

Haru has the packing from his new figure all over the place as he excitedly compares it to his Red Riot – he beams up at Ground Zero, his hands flying excitedly.

“Ground Zero is the best!” He says, though the hero he’s speaking to can’t follow it. “Thank-you so much. I love it!”

Before you can vocalise the words for him, Ground Zero surprises both of you by hesitantly signing, “You’re welcome. Happy birthday.”

“You know JSL?” You asked, a little stunned. Haru gapes up at the man.

“Not much.” Ground Zero says grimly, clearly uncomfortable with both of you staring at him in such unflattering surprise. He scowls, shoulders hunching defensively. “They made me learn some, as a kid – ‘cause of m’ Quirk. They didn’t know how it’d effect my hearing.”

His voice is loud – it’s always been loud, you realise, in the brief time you’ve known him. You wonder if it means that he’s Hard of Hearing, though he volunteers nothing further.

Haru’s mouth has broken out into a feral grin that splits his face, scrabbling to stand up.

“We should fight.” He says proudly, hands rapid. “When I’m a Pro-Hero – we should fight.”

Whatever JSL Ground Zero has, it wasn’t enough to interpret that; he looks lost – even more when he sees your look of horror.

“Hah?” He asks.

Oh, God –

Haru’s waiting on you to relay what he’s said – and despite your chagrin at his nerve, there’s a glint in his dark eyes that you’ve missed in the recent Haru.

“He, uh…”

Ground Zero waits, shifting on his feet a little impatiently, and you shake your head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” You tell him, signing for Haru to follow. “Haru wants to fight you. When he’s older – when he becomes a Pro-Hero.”

The Pro is surprised – and Haru makes a delighted noise, signing, “The ultimate fight. And make me sound cool!” The last point is emphasised with a deliberate look at you, the disappointing translator.

Oh, good Lord –

“The ultimate fight.” You repeat out loud, resigned.

Assessing the boy, Ground Zero takes him in, face deadly serious. And then his mouth curls into a wide feral grin of his own. “You’re on.” He promises, his voice a pleased threat. A tone that’d be concerning, considering who he’s talking to - if the rumble of it didn’t go straight to your core. “You become strong enough to become a Pro, and I’ll take you on one-on-one, brat.”

Haru’s answering grin promised nothing short of his eventual victory, leaving you to wonder where the sad child who’d been sitting under a flutter of rainbow ribbons had gone.

It’s important to have something to work towards, your Grandfather’s words repeat in your head.

You wouldn’t have thought the promise of getting your ass handed to you by a man technically old enough to be your father would count, but – there were probably more than a few stan accounts, online, that would disagree.

The birthday pit-stop, as you were calling it, was not the last time Ground Zero turns up at your shop.

It quickly becomes very apparent to you – and the rest of the street – that your area is now directly on a patrol route. That in itself doesn’t translate into automatic Ground Zero sightings – the most sense you can make of the situation is that Riot Ground is sharing the area with another, smaller agency; it’s that hero you see the most often. He’s a little older, and friendly enough, his costume bright. He stops by Akane’s store often: they have a mild flirtation going that makes you laugh.

You stop laughing though, whenever it’s Ground Zero who appears.

“It’s Bakugou.” He demands, when you slip up in calling him by his code name one time. “How many times you gotta be told, Weeds?”

Considering he’d given you such an unflattering nickname, you thought it was pretty rich of him to demand that you use his proper one. You’d kept that thought to yourself however, eyeing him as he stood under a wreath of rose and gum you’d just made, looking put out.

His visits often went like this: he’d march into the street like a man on a mission, never looking happy and watching, stony-faced, if anyone tried to approach him. There wasn’t a predictable schedule to these surveillance sweeps of his – sometimes he came in the mornings, sometimes in the afternoons. A couple of times in the evening, the two of you both surprised to see the other that late in the day.

Most of the time if he saw you in the store he’d storm over, always stopping short of the entrance – though he mostly scowled through it, you’d seen the flicker of discomfort across his face as he stood under curling ferns.

Could you blame him? Standing against buckets of roses, sprays of lavender he loomed large and awkward, making you wonder if that was the problem. Everything in the shop was so incredibly flammable. And Ground Zero – Bakugou – lived like he was ready to ignite at any moment.

“You good?” He’d challenge during these visits, always managing to make it sound as though he suspected there to be a villain lurking behind you and your flowers, holding you hostage.

No matter your answer he’d grunt, eyes sliding off you and darting around the shop – without fail finding something to insult.

“Why the fuck are your flowers wonky?” He’d asked once, staring at your drawing on the chalkboard you’d gotten for the front.

“Why not?” You’d retorted, childishly. When he came back a few days later, you’d drawn something new – a wonky, cartoonish him, smiling as he held a bouquet of fat, smiling daisies.

Ground Zero did not find it – or you – as funny as you did.

“Y’should sell something useful.” He grumbled one day, slower than usual. His check-in stretched on longer than he usually allowed himself – when you offered him a drink he didn’t refuse, draining the cup – Haru’s Bomb Boy cup – quickly. “Vegetables or somethin’.”

“My grandfather used to grow vegetables,” You reply, neglecting to point out that the couple across from you sold a plethora of picked and fresh ones already. “I like flowers better, though.”

He grunts, shuffling to your sink to refill his cup and you watch him go, wondering.

You were learning to read when he was in an approachable mood, or when all he could handle was a wave from you as he stalked past the store, glaring at it to make sure you were still there. That day, however, the slow day – he looked so tired, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his costume. His visits were patchy – patchy enough that you figured he’d been dealing with other more important things, like the investigation, maybe, that Riot had mentioned long ago.

Under the green, wet sweetness of your flowers you could smell the lingering burn of his scent; he drained a second refill, a gloved hand tight on the edge of the sink.

“Do you ever get a holiday?” You blurted out.

Ground Zero – Bakugou – scoffs, giving you a look that suggests you’re being particularly stupid. “Shit doesn’t stop jus’ ‘cause we do.”

You hum non-committally: Pro Heroes were still a government job. There had to be some kind of regulations on the time they put in – but whatever the man across from you was working on, he wasn’t resting because of it.

“You seem like you could – like you could use some time to yourself.” You say carefully, snipping the think ends off some ornamental kale. You’re pairing them with some pale blue hyacinths, some sprays of pastel pink rosebuds – they’re wild together, as though they’re growing around the base of a hidden tower, a princess with long hair waiting inside.

The Pro Hero snorts, looking distrustful as he moves closer to your workbench, glaring down at the kale. “The fuck are you shoving cabbages in that, for?”

You huff, a laugh. “Ornamental kale.” You correct. “I like them because they look like… like big greeny, purple roses. They’re witchy.”

“The only witch around here is you, y’ weirdo.”

Grinning, you look at him properly – his red eyes are tracing the curve of your cheeks. Heat immediately floods them, and to distract yourself you offer up some kale. “Here – your vegetables.”

Ground Zero – Bakugou - gives a disgusted tch, glaring at the wall beside you before his lip curls as he takes them from you. He’s holding them gingerly, looking more awkward than you’ve seen him, lately. “Can you eat ‘em?” He askes, gruffly.

You frown, thinking. “I think so – I don’t think they’d taste very good, though.”

His mouth, thin and flat in his discomfort, curls up into a challenge. “You’re on.”

When you see him again, after this, he doesn’t mention how the experiment goes and you don’t ask, trying not to laugh.

The days cool; the leaves on the sparse ginkgo trees that line the road by your street begin to turn. There’s new ads on the vending machine wedged next to your shop change: a fairy-like Pro posing cutely in a witch’s hat, lavender hair spiralled around her as she gleefully held a coca-cola bottle. You smile at the posters in greeting every morning when you arrange your bouquets and plants.

You draw a witch hat on your chalkboard scribble of Ground Zero, making him hold fat, cabbage-like roses now, still smiling.

He doesn’t see it right away. Red – Kirishima - has started the patrols instead, popping his head into your store each time. “Hey!” He brightly greets, and it makes you wonder if both heroes are somehow still feeling responsible for the Electro Whip attack, with their insistent babysitting of you.

Still, their attention is flattering; it’d be so easy to let it go to your head. Your crush on Ground Zero hasn’t abated at all, despite the way you bully yourself over it, and you’re dangerously close to getting one on Red – on Kirishima. You watch as he laughs at your doodle on your chalkboard, pulling out his phone to snap a selfie with it, and wonder that you haven’t already when he askes you to draw him as well.

The Aunties of the street love him. Love him. After the first couple of days of his patrolling, they’ve learnt to cluster when he appears, lead by – of all people – Akane, her poor colourful suitor forgotten when Kirishima is around. They offer him an assortment of things – picked radishes, curry bread, pork buns. He takes it all cheerfully, often arriving at your store already eating something. It both makes you laugh, and makes you sad – Red Riot the hero is so good with the judgemental old women of your street, and they dote on him for it. Ground Zero is… not.

You’re still thinking about it a couple of weeks into this new schedule. Sugimoto, the quiet, older man who delivers your flowers for you now is here, his little square van pulled up outside. You pass him the last arrangement – the biggest, for Riot Ground – and he dutifully tucks it into the van, surprising you when he returns with a tray of peaches.

“For you.” He explains, straightening his cap, and you beam as you accept them.

They’re beautiful and big, a sunset of peach and yellow laid out like they are in their tray. They make you think about one of your most favourite stories, as a kid – about the little boy born from a peach to older parents, who grows up and adventures and brings back a band of animals and treasure.

The smell of them floods your little store – you think you could poach them, maybe, like your Grandfather used to. It’s late in the season for them – but maybe Sugimoto had a little glasshouse.

The day marches on: you spend most of it diligently working on a wired display for a wedding – pink-flushed roses and cheerful clumps of daisies, silver foliage.

You’re sitting on the ground and spraying it gently with water when a shadow falls over you; it’s late in the day, the afternoon stretching out and you glance up only to start in surprise when you realise who it is.

“Bakugou.” You say, smiling instantly. “I’d thought you’d palmed off patrol duties to Kirishima.”

He huffs, looking out at the street and you realise that he’s not in costume – he’s in workout gear, baggy sweats and a dark hoodie, sneakers. In surprise you take in his bare face, naked without his mask. He glances at you, annoyed, and you can see what looks like bags under his eyes. What has he been doing?

“Shouldn’t you be done now, Weeds?” He asks grouchily.

You smile at him, ignoring the put-out attitude. “Just finished,” You reply, giving the flowers of your piece one last spray to keep them damp during the night.

He helps you silently as you close up – once you see him pause over some carnations, glancing at his hands. They light up with pinprick sparks, a few moments passing before he’s satisfied with whatever he was looking for, picking the flowers up by their buckets.

You don’t ask why he’s waiting for you. Your humming heart has taken one look at him, outlined in gold as he carries in crates of plants and --

It’s this.

Why the idea of him and Uravity is so painful. The reason why you haven’t developed an equally absurd crush on Red Riot.

This. This is what you want.

You stand there, overthinking kicked into gear, as Bakugou – Bakugou, you think wildly – brings in your little chalkboard sign, scowling.

“Why the fuck have you got Shitty Hair on here, too?” He scowls.

Despite his tone he sets the board down gently against the wall and you look at your little drawing; Red Riot dressed as a Jack-O-Lantern, smiling a wide, toothy grin, holding a scribbled bouquet.

“He asked.” You say simply.

Bakugou scowls down at chalk-Riot, and your heart tightens with unreasonable want.

It doesn’t lessen as you grab your bags, the bundle of wilting daisies you’re taking home. You leave the your peaches on the bench – your hands are too full today to carry them today.

Outside the Pro Hero starts off without you and it takes a moment before you catch up, bags and flowers flinging about wildly as you do.

He barely spares you a glance as he turns the corner onto the main road. “You walk home, right?”

“Yeah,” You agree breathlessly – you’ve gotta consider working out, you think.

Neither of you say anything more; you because you’re afraid to break the spell, and Ground Zero presumably because he’s just reticent like that.

The road is busy; you watch a line of taxis go past and look back to the path you’re walking, your heart still holding tight.

“You take weeds home often?” A gruff voice asks, and you look at your companion in confusion for a moment, before you take in the daisies you’re holding.

“Sometimes.” You answer, the pair of you turning down another street. “When they’re not fit enough to sell, but a waste to throw away.”

Red eyes glance at you as he listens, and it strikes you again how tired he looks. He should be going home, you think, not wasting his time with you as you dawdle home.

And yet –

The walk is calm. You lead him along your favourite way, the one that takes you around a park – in the golden afternoon light the shadows of the pine trees stretch out over the fence, dappling you both.

From inside the park you can hear the careful strikes of a gong as the shrine inside closes for the evening. It’s familiar and safe; the soundtrack to your journey home. The breeze picks up, the trees rustling; stepping into a pool of sunlight you smile to yourself, enjoying the tiny moment. Unable to help it you glance to the Hero walking with you.

He’s watching you back, face unreadable, golden in the late-light.

Your hair shifts with the breeze – his eyes follow the movement and you realise you’ve both stopped walking, your heart loosening from the suspension it’d been held in only to thump terribly, loudly, rapidly. You’re sure your face is burning at this stage, though you can do nothing but shift your bags and your daisies closer to you, self-conscious.

There’s some wild shrieking – the moment broken as a pair of boys run between you and laughing hysterically, trying to get ahead of each other in some unspoken race.

Bakugou scowls after them. “Watch where you're going, you damn brats!”

There’s more hyena laughter from the pair, wrestling with other to try and hold the other back – they ignore the steaming Pro beside you completely, and you grin.

“I don’t miss being a kid.” You tell him.

He snorts, still annoyed. “I bet you were a wussy one.”

Tilting your head back, you think about it: the looks and the laughter that someone would try to muffle, whenever Quirk careers came up in class. The off-handed jabs that were meant, you supposed, to be reassuring. Most people don’t even get to use their Quirks properly, outside of being Pros! You’re not missing out on much.

“A little.” You admit at last. “Although – I think it was less wuss and more… self-preservation.”

Bakugou side-eyes you. “Self-preservation?”

You shrug, shifting your daisies in your arms. Bakugou watches them warily. “I was…” You shrug again. “Being Quirkless is rare enough that people still… have opinions.”

You don’t miss how the man walking next to you stiffens.

“You were bullied?” He asks.

You shrug for a third time, but smile. “Nothing serious.” He frowns deeply, and you add, “It really wasn’t. But –” Some pigeons fly overhead, taking off from behind the park fence and you watch them go. “I’m a little worried that Haru’s… going through something worse. For wanting to be a Pro Hero.”

The last of the light from the golden afternoon is drenching everything; Bakugou, smooth face unhappy, is soaked in it, lit up. You look down at your daisies, at the edges of gold outlining their petals: then you look back to the Pro Hero beside you.

In the afternoon glow, his stare is ruby-rich.

“The kid’ll do it.” He says, mouth twisting into a sneer. “If he wants it that badly – he’ll find a way. And even if he doesn’t – the little shits that are bullying him will either burn out or amount to nothing but losers.” His tone is dark, and you wonder what he’s thinking about.

You walk in silence along the last of a golden path, silence gently binding you together.

And then the screaming starts.

Bakugou instantly drops into a defensive position, launching forward; before he can get far, however, the source barrelling out from the corner up ahead – it’s the kids from earlier, the ones that ran past you. In horror you can only stare, Bakugou – Ground Zero, now – pulling up short.

Both boys are screaming, one clear and terrified – the other muffled, choking as dark, viscous, sludge spews forth from his mouth, forming a limb already as long as him – it’s crawling up the leg of his friend, who is frantically trying to scramble away. The few bystanders around shout, scatter.

Ground Zero scowls, bracing himself as his hands spark up.

“Get back!” He snarls at you. Before you can say anything, protest, He dives towards the pair – the kid spewing out the tendrils has dropped to his knees, unable to breathe. It’s triggering whatever is happening – more of that awful, moving substance is pooling around both boys, now, keeping the other one rooted on the spot as he sobs in terror.

“Help him!” He screams at Ground Zero, who’s face pinches furiously as he pulls up short of the sludge.

“Can you move?” He growls, and the kid’s shoulders shake as he sobs harder.

The Pro takes that as a no – you yelp as the back-draft of an explosion whips past you, Bakugou using his Quirk to propel forward with enough force to grab the boy and wrench him free.

It works – barely. Boy and Hero tumble forward, but there’s something wrong, you think, stepping forward in reflex. Both boys are screaming, terrified, high-pitched wails of pain – the one at the epicentre of this is crying, dark tears crawling down his face as he thrashes against the muck.

It’s the same stuff, you realise in horror. The nightmarish liquid is now welling from out his eyes –

He screams louder, still muffled: without warning the sludge around him doubles, expanding amongst itself and rearing the boy up, hoisting him mid-air so that he towers over everyone, a tortured prince on a dark throne.

People are panicking around you – there’s a ripple of explosions, the Pro Hero you were with trying to burn the substance back from where it tries to touch him, touch the boy’s friend. It rears like it has a mind of its own – you have no time to prepare when it whips around and comes towards you like a tsunami wave, unchecked.

There’s a blaze of heat, someone roaring – in the space of moments, when all you could do was drop your bags and prepare to choke, Ground Zero has blasted through the air, landing roughly in front of you as he shields you both from the sludge with a thunderous explosion.

It rears back; you can hear the agonising noise of the boy amid all this, trying to scream – your throat is tight, unable to move or do anything but watch as bang after bang goes off in front of you, Ground Zero trying to keep the suffocating wave back.

It’s not enough. The Pro sends a devastating blast to a rolling hit of liquid that tried to rain down on you both – only for the smoke to part as a second followed in, hitting Bakugou in the face even as the light from his Quirk blinded you, going off a fraction too late.

The effect is instant: the sludge wraps around Ground Zero’s arms and face tightly, the terrible cacophony of the muffled sound of his roaring and his explosions joining the boy’s.

“Bakugou!” You scream. Now that it’s gotten hold of another body, the substance seems to tighten and focus – Ground Zero is lifted from the ground, jerked backwards and shaking as he thrashes against it. The muffled popping is becoming more furious -- you can see smoke curling from the edges where the sludge meets his skin, and you scream his name again. “Bakugou!”

He’s going feral, you realise in fright – straining like a wild thing in a trap. The popping – what you think is his Quirk, still going off under the liquid – only gets more rapid-fire, the smoke getting worse. Where it’s touching him, the sludge is starting to glow like lava and your heart is in your mouth as you scream again. “BAKUGOU.”

He’s burning himself alive, is your hysteric thought – whatever is encasing him is acting like a containment chamber and he’s the only one in it, the only casualty. Or so you thought, but there’s a wet rip and you can hear the kid, now, properly – screaming so hoarsely that your throat tightens in response. Not even half an hour ago, he was running in the afternoon light with his friend –

There is a rumble; and then a blanketed, delayed boom, the kid screaming anew as his sludge pulses.

It starts veining – bright, angry red, glowing – as though Bakugou’s explosions are rippling through it, tracking back to the boy at the epicentre.

He and Ground Zero scream in tandem and whatever is happening, it’s killing them both – the smell of frying flesh is hitting you, now, and you gag, choking on the horror.

You’re useless, you can’t help, you can’t -

The dark mass before you pulsates – and expands again, like it’s trying to flee the burning veins now webbed throughout it. Around you it’s chaos – you can hear people shriek as it comes up, an angry limb, and strikes out against a nearby building. Electricity crackles as a lightbox sign takes the hit, sparking as it comes loose.

Bakugou roars, the sound dampened as he struggles against it: you realise with a sickening swoop that he’s trying to rip his face free of the sludge in blind rage.

Hands trapped he’s jerking violently, dangerously – so hard that there’s a crack, his shoulder dropping instantly.

You’re already moving, no plan in place but unable to watch – sirens are wailing, too far to be of any help to anyone --

The kid at the centre of this wails, and it’s the worse nose you’ve ever heard: and then the black writhing mass lifts, dragging your Hero with it – Bakugou spasming, unable to do anything but fight as he’s lifted above the street.

The veins that web through the sludge fade as though on beat – and then the entirety of it lights up and glows, an implosion.

You’re not sure who’s screaming, now: you or the kid or both of you at once. 

Bakugou, having fought against his trap the entire time suddenly manages to tear free – by an explosion. He’s thrown back and you can only watch as he collides with the ground with a disgusting crack, his head jerking back on impact before hitting the ground.

You are there in a heartbeat, sobbing as your hands hovering over his body, trying to ignore the inhumane shrieking from the boy behind you, now cascaded by the sludge he’d spewed, the heat of it unbearable from even your distance, let alone at the middle. 

You can’t help him, you can’t help him –

That awful, awful gunk is still covering Bakugou’s mouth, dark like oil. Under you he’s buckling, eyes wide and open and unseeing and you think, no, he can’t breathe, he’s dying --

Your fingers shake as you dig at it and with a shuddering breath you realise it’s coming away easily, soft like jelly, nothing threatening about it, now it was free of the boy.

“Bakugou,” You breathe. “Bakugou –”

Clumsily you wipe it away from his mouth, his nose – there’s a great and terrible gasp, rattled and the blond is coming to, sharply. His red eyes bore into yours, unseeing, dazed as he is – and then his face is twisting and his hands (hot, blackened) shoot up, grabbing your wrists as your hands linger along the sides of his face.

You cry out. His Quirk is crackling on your skin, the burn painful. “Bakugou!” You sob out. “It’s me – Bakugou, please – it’s Weeds!”

Red eyes burn into yours – at the stupid, stupid nickname something in his face flickers; terror. He is terrified. He is terrifying in his realisation when he recognises you at last.

He drops your hands like they’ve burnt him, and not the other way around. “F-fuck.” He hisses, spasming.

The tortured shrieking behind you has turned into a pitiful gurgle that you think hurts worse than the burns throbbing through you. Sirens are now caterwauling all around you; Bakugou’s eyes have taken on a dangerously glassy quality, his breathing uneven – under heavy lids he’s staring at you, frowning.

You choke as there’s a sad, awful whine from the kid – the child – behind you. This is – this is -

Something rough bumps against your face: it’s a fist-bump of all ridiculous things, Bakugou bringing up a shaking, damaged hand to clumsily wipe at the tears now dripping down your face with the back of his knuckles.

“D’- cry. Dum’as.” He rasps out.

Your face crumples against his hand and you hold it against your cheek, ignoring the heat and his mumbling. “Ni-tro…”

He is frighteningly pale, damp with sweat, the sweet smell of him overpowering, mingling with the scent of burning skin.

“Bakugou.” You whisper, voice tiny and afraid.

His face tightens in pain; you press his hand against you.

He spasms again – and then, hitting breaking point, his head lolls to the side, his body going limp, a dead weight.

The world around you slows, then stops altogether. Someone is shouting Bakugou’s name – a familiar voice, deep and panicked and not close enough. Vaguely, you’re aware that the daisies you’d been carrying earlier are strewn around you.

The golden afternoon light is gone, now. Bakugou’s face flickers from blue to read in the siren lights and dimly you note the anguished yelling of his name is closer now, a red blur on the edges of your vision. Your wrists throb.

You tighten your hold on his heavy, sagging hand, afraid that if it slips – if you let it go - he’ll be gone, forever.

Chapter Text

You stare at the posters in front of you, throat burning.

It’s busy downtown: you’re swallowed up in the city’s usual chaos, holding a heavy bundle of ornamental kale tied with orange and green ribbons, and a bright orange and black Get Well card, handmade by Haru – a delivery. A delivery for the man staring back at you from the posters, side-by-side with the boy the media was now saying he’d failed to save.

For the past few days – since the accident, as everyone was insisting on calling it – you’d been holed up in your apartment, living off ramen cups and refusing to watch the news.  You’d tried, at first, just to know, to know something – but all there’d been were the accusatory headlines.  PRO HERO GROUND ZERO FAILS CHILD. GROUND ZERO AND VICTIM IN CRITICAL CONDITION.

Your stomach had flipped, the first time you saw it. And then you’d thrown your remote at the wall so hard it had smashed, was still smashed, days later, you ignoring it to go to the hospital, instead.

You should’ve known better than to walk through this district, you think, chest tight. But you’d had time to burn and had wanted the distraction from your thoughts. Instead you got them front and centre – unavoidable. Printed out and plastered over boards in the middle of another damned Quirk Defence rally.

A delighted, painfully young face is staring at you. Ogami Ryō – that’s his name. The boy trapped in the middle of that nightmarish sludge – it’d been disconcerting to see his face in such clear detail, hear his name, see his parents on TV, his mother sobbing. His name is Ogami Ryō, he is twelve years old, is apparently a big baseball fan, and he is – was – Quirkless.

Until that day.

His middle-school photo, only taken recently, has now saturated the public thanks to the media. He's beaming in it, his smile echoing the cackling laughter that he had chased his friend with, that afternoon, before everything collapsed.

He’s so young.

Your gut twists as you look at a row of him, repeated over and over; you think about the way he gargled as paramedics flooded the scene, trying to dig him out of his own body’s belated manifestation of power.

His cheery picture is deliberately at odds with the one of Ground Zero that the protestors have paired it with – a devastating still of the Pro mid-battle, two years earlier, surrounded by fire and covered in blood and emerging from the chaos like a demonic soldier ascending from Hell itself. You can’t even hate them for it, you think bitterly – the media did the exact same thing with that exact same still, zooming into the wildly gleeful look on the hero’s face, a face that promised that no one was going to walk off that battlefield unscathed.

The spokesman is shouting into a megaphone – most people are ignoring him and the surrounding protestors, going about their lives. But you have pulled up short in front of a LED billboard of Lemillion (standing tall and proud, cape billowing behind him against a clear sky), your mouth tight and your face hot with your anger as you watch them, from a distance.

“- many more of our children will we lose?” The spokesman rants, punching the air in front of him with a rolled up pamphlet, for emphasis. “The so-called Pros can’t even help themselves, let alone us! Those of us without their gifts – why should we live in fear? When will we, as a society, rise up and demand true equality for all? End the discrimination – end Quirklessness now!”

He jerks back from the megaphone, frustrated – and looks your way. You’re the only one on this street who’s dumb enough to have stopped, but you refuse to play shy, now. The things he’s saying are nonsensical at best, dangerous at worst (end Quirklessness, he demanded, like it was a program you could opt out of) – you look at him, really look, and see nothing beyond a lanky man, a touch-too skinny, dark-haired. Nondescript, average; the only distinguishable thing about him is that he’s wearing silver-thin glasses and has a weather-beaten face.

Your expression hardens as the two of you make eye-contact. He has no idea, and no right --

He looks away, distracted by one of the other protestors. A group of girls – schoolgirls, all in uniform still, walking as a singular body as they try to huddle around a phone one of them is holding – walks past, breaks you free. You look at the kale in your arms, tightening your hold, then up at Lemillion above you, shinning bright and bravely, the light of the billboard illuminating you in his unearthly glow.

Trapped between two sides, you think grimly.

You take a breath; look up over the busy street to the grey-gold of the early afternoon, the ribbons of your bouquet and Haru’s get-well card trailing over your arms in the breeze.

It’s not until you finally make it to the hospital that you begin to feel better, spying Riot’s – Kirishima’s – bright red ponytail, a lick of flame in the sunlight as he waits for you, outside.

He catches sight of you and your armful almost immediately, eyes sweeping over the kale and the ribbons as he grins, taking it all in. “Hey there!” He greets, moving to close the gap between you.

This is a habit, you’ve noticed; the natural tendency Kirishima has towards what you could only think of as affectionate hovering. It didn’t matter that you’d only known each other casually. He was easy-going with it, respectful: it gave his Pro Hero image approachable vibes. It gave his civilian-self approachable vibes, too.

And – it made you comfortable.

You meet his eyes – warm and wide – and smile, automatically.

“I’m so glad you could make it!” He says, beaming at you in mirrored relief. “It’s really cool of you to come down here!”

Kirishima had been the one to ask you to come, the text appearing on your phone late last night, apologetic but enthusiastic (“Hey there!! Its Kiri!!! Red Riot?? Hahahaha. im sorry for the random message!! and so late!!!!!! Sorry!! its the shifts!!!!!!!! i got ur number from Fumi. but i actually just wanted to kno if u wanted to come visit Bakugou tomorrow or smth??? no pressure!!”). You had wanted to, so badly – just to know if Bakugou was okay – but the hospitalisation of any Pro Hero was treated with ferocious secrecy. You wouldn’t have even known what direction to send flowers in, and it wasn’t as if you couldn’t understand why – villains, a frenzied media, passionate fans. All genuine risks. It just meant that you’d resigned yourself to learning about Ground Zero’s condition through the news, like the rest of Japan.

Until Riot’s message.

Back in the daylight you shrug, your eyes crinkling in amusement. “I couldn’t refuse a request from my favourite hero,” You say, keeping your tone playful, despite the way your heart sped up.

Maybe you’re more transparent that you realise; Riot’s feline eyes assess you for a brief moment, before he’s smiling all the more kindly. “He’s okay.” He tells you without any preamble. You almost choke, the Pro’s eyes lighting up playfully as he motions for the two of you to start walking. “He is! He’s been through worse, I promise. Much worse.” Kirishima chuckles darkly, at that; when you glance at him, his normally friendly smile is bitter in the corners, instantly dousing any curiosity you might’ve had.

You’re hit by the aseptic smell of the hospital as the pair of you pass through the doors; it throws you back immediately into those final days with your grandfather, bringing him flowers, fresh vegetables that he’d ask for, unable to eat. No matter where they are or how differently they’re built, hospitals are all united by that smell: strong disinfectant trying to cover the sickly warmth of bodies, in bed. The bitterness of greens, carried in your arms.

“I’m – I’m glad he’s okay,” You say after the beat of your joint footsteps. “The news made it sound…” You shake your head, the crack of Bakugou’s head hitting the ground reverberating in your bones, remembering. “He hit his head hard.”

Healing quirks were wonderful, incredible things – but they were rare, and varied. Humans were still human, for all the wonderful and weird things they all grew, now. Unless someone had a specific quirk that could protect their head in a fall, a concussion was still incredibly dangerous. That didn’t change from civilian, or Pro.

Riot – Kirishima – pauses, stopping you in your tracks as you pull up alongside him. When you look at the Hero, his face – normally open and friendly – is carefully still.

“It might not feel like it,” He says at last, his mouth hesitating around his teeth, “But you being there… made a difference, with Katsuki.” His eyes flicker to your wrists, hidden by your sleeves. “You kept talking to him – man, you kept him here.”

Burning with ill-placed humiliation, you look away. You didn’t do anything, and the guilt of it had been following you for the last few days, doggedly. Guilt over walking away from the scene unscathed, while a child less than half your age was trundled to hospital, dying. Guilt over the Pro Hero dragged into that mess, just because he was escorting you home.

And then guilt at that thought, that he was “dragged” into it – Ground Zero is Victory Incarnate, a symbol as much as his famous rival Deku was – and a public servant. Responding to danger and saving people in need is what Heroes – Heroes like him – did. You might’ve been part of the chain of events that led to him being there, at that moment, but you had no bearing on the rest of his life, on his wanting to be a Pro Hero. There would always be another fight, another victim to help: you had no more control over whether or not he got hurt in the line of his duty, his passion, than you did the weather.

And yet – you couldn’t help but take on the responsibility for it, couldn’t release it. Not when you thought of Bakugou in his workout gear, standing against the golden light in your tiny floral shop. When you thought of him blasting towards you in a race against a wave of sludge.

How much of this translates to your face, you’re not sure. You can’t meet Kirishima’s – Kirishima, you think firmly – warm, weighty gaze. Instead you press your bouquet of kale, your witch-garden roses, closer. “It was all I could do.” You admit at last. “I couldn’t – I couldn’t help him, or the boy. Ogami.” Ogami, you repeat to yourself. Ogami, laughing with his friend as they raced past. Ogami, making sounds no child his age should, as he suffered.

Saying his name is the least you can do.

“It’s…” You shake your head. “I couldn’t help.”

The Pro Hero beside you is quiet. For a moment you think he might try his spiel again – instead his tone, when he speaks again, is contemplative, weighted. “I invited you to visit Bakugou because…” He hesitates. “I think everyone – everyone – needs the reassurance that… we’re all okay.”

You feel your eyes soften as he smiles at you, gently. “It’s okay.” He tells you. “I can only imagine – I know it must’ve been scary as shit, being there that night: you’re not trained to deal with it like Bakugou and I are, day in, day out. But you did – you dealt with it, you stayed, and that’s what I mean when I say you made a difference.”

It almost – almost – sounds like a soundbite for the Vogue article. But his face is soft, like it had been when Haru had clung to him. That earnestness that saw him give those media-perfect quotes during interviews, press releases, was just who he was.  The hero Red Riot. The hero Kirishima.

You nod, wordless; Kirishima’s wide, trusting eyes search your face for a moment before he grins, starting to walk again, a long loping stride you had to speed to catch up with. “You know… you’re kinda like Bakugou, in a way. You both seem to find it hard to hear the sappy stuff.”

“I’m a florist!” You protest heatedly, making Kirishima laugh. “No, stop – I mean it! It’s literally my job to sell people sentiments!”

But the Pro is still laughing, trying to muffle it even as you’re glared at by a passing nurse.

“Stop!” You frantically whisper, mortified.

He doesn’t, to your embarrassment.

You hear Bakugou before you see him.

“The gang’s here.” Kirishima explains sheepishly, as you near his room. “You, uh… might wanna prepare. They’re all good people, but we’ve been told we can be a bit… overwhelming, together.”

Before you can wonder what he means at that, a furious – familiar - voice booms out, close by. “Fuck. OFF.”

There’s malicious laughter, cut off by a yelp as something clatters – Kirishima holds out an arm to warn you back as you both arrive, peering through the open door in caution. “Everything all good in there?” He asks.

“Eiji!” Someone exclaims, and then a blond blur is materialising in the doorway, clutching against the frame. “Dude, tell Blasty to settle down, he’s gonna rattle his head more if he keeps going on like this.”

Kirishima tuts, pushing his friend aside. “Man, Bakugou,” He says, fond and exasperated. “Can you give it a few days before you use Denki for target practise? Besides, we have a guest.”

The Denki in question moves back, languidly boxing you outside of the room: you recognise him instantly as Chargebolt, his lopsided, trademark grin in place as he eyes in you interest.

“Hey,” He greets, and it seems friendly enough – if not too friendly, golden eyes brightly flickering over you. “You must be the Flower Shop we’ve been hearing so much about.”

There’s an enraged snarl from behind him – and Chargebolt, the Pro Hero you’d once watch light up an evening battlefield like it was broad daylight, in a move so stunning it was replayed on the news for days afterwards – squawks like a wounded puppy as a book misses him, off by a fraction of an inch.

“Let her in, man,” Kirishima scolds, shouldering him out of the way.

Chargebolt whines, a hand in his bright locks, rubbing at the spot the book almost hit. “Geez, dude. At least pretend to care about my wounds.”

“I’ll more than wound you if you don’t shut up, idiot.” Bakugou growls as you’re brought inside, fully, by Kirishima’s large, encouraging hand on you.

There’s a beat of silence where both you and Bakugou stare at each other, taking one another in; taking stock of each other, you think a little desperately, noting the gauze on his hands. Similarly, you see him frown at your wrists, though they’re hidden by the sleeves of your cardigan.

The machines by the Hero’s bed beep, and then a cheery voice breaks the moment. “No way! Did you bring Blasty flowers?”

The speaker is none other than Pinky – curvy and stunning and currently reclining comfortably on Bakugou’s bed, like a languid queen. She’s grinning at you, welcoming – Next to her, Bakugou’s face twists. “Off.” He barks, shoving at her.

Pinky just laughs, unbothered, slipping off the bed as she bounces towards you. “It’s so cute of you to come – Hi! Cute cardigan. I’m Ashido Mina! The leggy danger next to Blasty is Sero Hanta – ” Cellophane, relaxed in a comfortable looking armchair by the only window, flashing broad teeth at you in a grin as he waves, “And the blond disaster by the door is Kaminari Denki.”

Chargebolt purrs his hello, apparently trying to live up to the idol-esque photos from the Hero Generation. Or maybe he’s doing it to upset the bed-bound Pro, because you can feel the pointed glare Bakugou’s threatening him with like a physical knife. Kirishima’s hand shifts on your back, just slightly, still gently reassuring.

You introduce yourself with what you hope is a brilliant smile. Your shop manners are handy, in moments when you’re overwhelmed – and who wouldn’t be, as the only civilian in a room full of famous Pro Heroes? Pro Heroes who attended and graduated the most infamous school in the country. Pro Heroes, who by the time they could actually, legally claim those titles, had already seen more destruction and change than some of Silver Era legends had.

Still comfortably ensconced in his armchair, Cellophane laughs at something Chargebolt is saying, his point emphasised with his arms as Bakugou scowls at them both. Pinky is asking Kirishima something about a dinner date (“Make sure he comes!” She demands. You can feel Kirishima rumble in disbelief. “Last time I tried he nearly broke his teeth trying to bite me. You really think now that he has the excuse of this he’s not going to use it?”), holding their conversation around you, happy and unperturbed. It’s so… average. It’s almost disconcerting. You can’t reconcile this friendly group of people with the extraordinary, powerful figures that you see on an almost daily basis, outside; the Vogue issue. Billboards. Posters advertising clothing collaborations. The comics Haru collects, his precious figurines.

Here they are, laughing around their friend’s bedside, surrounding him with their cheerful noise. Extraordinarily unexceptional.  Ducking your chin, you smile at the thought; as though unexceptional was really a word that could, conceivably, be seriously used for them.

The ribbons from your bouquet are tangling with the string-and-leaves tail of Haru’s Get Well card; you weave your fingers through them, until Pinky exclaims, “Is that a butterfly?” 

The Pro has brought the group’s entire attention down on you – in amusement you pull Haru’s card out for proper display, it’s tail fluttering. “It’s an explosion. From Ground Zero’s biggest fan.”

You don’t miss how Bakugou frowns, looking away – but Pinky is laughing delightedly, reaching out for the tail, while you hear Chargebolt ask, “Why are there leaves attached to it?”

“For more explosions,” You clarify, dryly. It had made sense to you after Haru had said it: the yellow of them, and the fan-shape of the gingko leaves lent themselves well to the idea. You’d seen Haru, staring at them outside, before he finished his card. The leaps and bounds a kid’s mind went through, you supposed.

On the bed you can see Bakugou’s jaw tightening as his friends launch into several loud conversations, all at once.

(“They don’t even look like explosions.” Chargebolt says, mystified.

Cellophane snorts. “Yeah they do, man. I know thinking isn’t your strong suit, but try to use your brain for something other than a conduit for your bolts.”

“Where’s my card?” Kirishima asks, sounding dangerously disappointed.

“Eiji,” Pinky coaxes, flicking a leaf to send it twirling. “Seriously? Blasty’s in hospital.”)

“OI.”

Everyone stops to look at Bakugou, grizzling on the bed. “You’re too fuckin’ noisy. If you’re gonna babble, get out.”

“That’s our cue folks, time to leave them to it.” Kirishima says, brightly. The blond scowls at him, but Kirishima just claps you on the shoulder and the group empties out quickly, though you can hear Chargebolt whining as Cellophane and Kirishima forcibly remove him, shutting the door behind them.

Bakugou looks thunderous about his friends’ lack of subtly, and your own face feels too warm in the cool of the hospital, but the damage is done: you smile through it, and offer up the bouquet. “I brought some cabbages for you.”

The Pro Hero grunts in affirmative, his jaw tightening again before he’s squinting at you. “Shitty Hair invited you here.” He says, matter-of-factly.

Of course he did? You want to say, ask. Instead what comes out is, “I wouldn’t have known where to send the cabbages, otherwise.”

Bakugou grunts again, taking in the room around you before he grabs a near empty carafe from his bedside tray, holding it out.

You take in his bandaged hand. Underneath the gauze and the cannula, his skin seems flushed, pink – not the blackened burn you remember.

Bakugou jerks the carafe at you, when you don’t immediately take it. “For your shitty weeds,” He clarifies.

A makeshift vase. He’s always giving you something to hold your flowers.

They brighten the room, after you’ve filled the jug and placed them on the bedside tray. Dark red gaze lingering on them, Bakugou stays quiet and you sit down in an uncomfortable chair, close to his bed. You’re both silent, and idly you begin tying the ribbons from the bouquet’s wrapping to join Haru’s tail, on his card: it makes it look more and more like a kite, and you hold it up so you and the Pro can assess it.

“It does kind of look like a butterfly,” You admit. An aggressive one, with it’s warning-sign colours of black and orange.

You hand it over to the blond, who only takes it after a pause, his lips thinning. The twine and leaves and ribbons are bright streaks against the sterile white of the hospital bedding: in Bakugou’s large, bandaged hands Haru’s card does, cartoonishly, look like an explosion.

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, staring down at it. Haru has written, GO BEST HERO GROUND ZERO! on it, in blocky kanji that he’d painstakingly done himself.

Wrapped fingers tighten, curling the paper. You watch Bakugou carefully, wanting to say something light-hearted, to tease him – but though his brow is furrowed, his face is soft. Sad.

You don’t even know if he realises he looks that way.

“The brat –” Bakugou clears his throat, frowning deeper as he sets aside Haru’s card, on his tray. “The kid could do better. For role models.” He’s looking out the window determinedly, though only the clouds are visible, the cracks of golden light.

The weight of your last evening together stretches out between you, creating a bigger distance than his being some indominable, untouchable Pro Hero ever did.

“You’re the one he likes.” You say, simply.

Bakugou’s gaze shifts to you; you shrug, then smile. “You are,” You say. “There’s a whole field of Pro Heroes out there, none of them are exactly easy to miss. But – it’s you. You’re the one he sees.”

The Pro’s face tightens in a way that worries you, makes you wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing, too much (“You’re kinda like Bakugou, in a way. You both seem to find it hard to hear the sappy stuff,”) – but his eyes drop to your wrists again, pointedly.

“They healed?” He grits out.

Pushing your sleeves back, you hold out your arms, turning them so that he can see for himself. They’d been healed in the ambulance, after Bakugou had been trundled away, Kirishima hovering at his side.

“Faster than yours.” You say quietly, deliberately not looking at how his gauzed fingers curl in response.

“I burnt your wrists.” He says, sharply. Frustrated, his red eyes are darting around your face, waiting for – what, exactly? Acknowledgement of that?

You shrug; his nostrils flares in anger. “Did you even know what was happening, at that stage?” You ask.

“Fuck off with this blasé shit!” He spits out, shifting closer: his bed is taller than your chair, and it means you now have a righteous Pro Hero glaring down at you, glowering. “I could’ve blown your hands off. You ever think about that, hah? You ever think about how hard it’d be playing with your stupid, shitty weeds, with no fucking hands? How hard physical therapy would be, to relearn basic shit?”

“Sure.” You agree. “But you didn’t.”

You jolt as Bakugou snarls, the plastic railing of the bed rattling as he slams against it, leaning in closer to you. “You wanna know what I remember, huh, dumbass? You, sobbing my name as I burnt your fucking wrists.” His eyes rake over your stunned face – you can feel it, the shock like a physical mask – and his mouth twists further. “You – you wipe that shit off my face, and I nearly take your fucking hands off for it. I’m not some – I’m not some gentle shitwipe like Shitty Hair, or – or fucking Deku. I nearly killed that kid, you know that? He’s fucking dying because I let off my explosions like some useless, no-good extra, and his fucking quirk absorbed the heat of it.”

The smell of burning plastic hits you; you look at Bakugou’s hands on the railing and jump up in horror, as you notice they’re smoking. “Bakugou – your hands!”

He rips himself away as he realises; there’s a melted impression of his fingers on the guard, and you hover close by, throat tight. “Bakugou,”

He won’t even look at you, face stony, his fists curled tight. They’re trembling, minutely.

“I’ll… I’ll go get a nurse.” You say, and it sounds empty even to you. Bakugou’s jaw clenches, the only acknowledgement you’ve spoken.

You both ignore that there is a call attendant button by his bed.

After you found a nurse (“There was a bit of an accident,” you’d said, apologetically. “I’m worried about the dressings on his hands”) you meandered, unsure if the Pro would want you back in his room so soon after his outburst.

You had no real plan for which way you wanted to go, but you turned a corner with a vague idea of standing morosely in front of a vending machine, maybe, stopping only when you heard hushed, familiar voices.

“—it?” An incredulous voice asked. Chargebolt, you thought distantly. “Like, you guys have no other leads?”

“Nothing, man.” Kirishima answered, too quiet. “The only thing we’ve got to go on so far is the fact that they’ve all been localised.”

“What about that little kid?” Another voice interjected. You pressed yourself up against a cool wall, silent, and pictured Cellophane leaning in to join the conversation. “The one in the news? Didn’t their quirk erupt during class, or something?”

“Set fire to a Festival banner the class was working on.” Kirishima explained. “But she was well within the realms of being a late-bloomer, y’know, and nothing stood out to her or her parents in terms of like, weird run-ins or anything, that could’ve triggered it.”

They all go quiet for a moment, apparently mulling this over; you don’t dare breathe, the stench of the hospital pressing on you.

“And it’s definitely –” Pinky, this time, her cheery voice too serious.

“Definitely forced.” Kirishima confirms. “Externally triggered. And –” He hesitates. “So far it seems the older they are, the more damage it does to their bodies.”

“Makes sense.” Cellophane says, darkly. “Think about all those times Midoriya broke something. Didn’t your Electro Whip guy die in custody?”

You feel the air leave your lungs noiselessly, in horror.

“Yes.” Kirishima’s voice is flat. “Electrocuted himself from the inside-out while in quirk suppressants.”

“Dude.” Chargebolt breathes. “That’s fucked up. How –”

“That’s part of the problem.” Kirishima says, frustrated. “We don’t know. Doctors couldn’t tell us shit, beyond vague ideas about his general health.” His voice drops. “Malnourishment was a big a factor. Anyone would’ve struggled with gaining a Quirk overnight, let alone some poor, miserable guy who’d been living off whatever he could rifle through the trash. Katsuki was furious when we found out.”

The too-skinny, ragged man, ripping up your street, uncontrollable.  You were going to be sick.

“I thought he’d been acting particularly vintage, lately.” Pinky, again, pondering out loud. “Especially with this latest one – ”

“He feels responsible.” Kirishima says quietly, and you recognise the tone, because your chest is thrumming with the same protectiveness. I nearly killed that kid, you know that?

There’s an undignified snort. “Yeah, well, no offense dude, but when does Blasty ever not feel responsible for something? He’s been that way since we were kids. I’m surprised he’s not bowed over with back problems, for all the shit he carries.”

Cellophane ignores him and asks the question you’ve been thinking. “Is the kid gonna make it?”

Kirishima is too silent, for too long. “They don’t know,” He says at last. “Even if he wasn’t pressure-cooked from Katsuki’s explosions, they’ve had to feed him quirk-supressing meds 24/7 just to keep him from drowning in his own body. He’s in an induced coma.”  

“Poor thing,” Pinky says, miserably.

You think about how Ogami gurgled, after all his shrieking. The hysterics of his friend, afterwards. Ogami’s photo, splayed out on posters for the Quirk Defense Rally.

An orderly with a cart comes rattling down the hallway and the Pros neatly segway their conversation into a – deliberately – loud argument, over some game show.

You breathe in, shallow, and try not to choke on everything you’ve just learnt.

A week passes; then two. Despite the suspension in your heart life pulls you forward, wrapping you up in the noise of your daily life, the shop, street gossip.

Bakugou gets released from the hospital, the footage of it chaotic as Kirishima and Deku flank him like bodyguards, pushing through a crowd of journalists. There’s no word on Ogami, making you wonder if it’s being deliberately supressed. You don’t let yourself dwell on what that might mean.

“You’ve seemed so sad, lately.” Akane bullies one day, pushing a bag of curry-bread at you. “You’re such a good girl; being sad is a waste, there’s no point.” She leans in closer, conspiratorially. “What you need is a boyfriend. A handsome one, then you won’t have the time for depression. Maybe like Red Riot, eh?”

There are several pressing – and very wrong -  points she’s made, there, and your heart hurts, thinking of Bakugou’s unhappy face, in the hospital: but you laugh despite yourself. “Why?” You tease, fingers curling into the paper bag of the curry pan you’re holding. “Are you going to share him?”

She scoffs, turning her nose in the air at the suggestion, but the evidence is damning: he’d appeared for a patrol only the other day, curry bread in hand as he waved at you. You’d felt the eyes of every woman on the street boring into you as he stood at your door, beaming at a pot of primroses as he admired them, before asking about your day.  

You didn’t speak about how awkward things were, when you left the hospital. How Bakugou wouldn’t look at any of you, belligerent; how your uniform cheerfulness rang hollow when you said your goodbyes. Kirishima’s confusion, then apprehension as he walked you out.

“Whatever Bakugou said, he – ” Kirishima, that day outside the hospital, had faltered, pale autumn sunlight haloing him. “He’s super manly! And incredible at a lot of things -- but articulating his feelings isn’t one of them.”

The Kirishima in front of you, in your shop, grins brightly, teeth gleaming. “You like cake, right?”

“Who doesn’t like cake?” You say, mostly joking – but he perks up at that, eyes sharpening, and when you get a text from him just a few days later, you have to wonder at your surprise.

Hey!! It’s Kiri!! Me n Baku came by the shop but its closed??? We have something for u!!!

Which is how you ended up in the middle of an existential crisis, flurrying around your tiny apartment in a last-minute effort to make the place presentable for your – apparently – impending guests. The Hero Generation of the Vogue issue sat on your desk, damning evidence of your obsession – hurriedly, you pick it up and hurl it into your bedroom in a flutter of pages, shutting the door tightly.

You manage to vacuum quickly, shoving it back to where it tucks in by your washing machine just as there’s a strong – but polite – knock on your door.

“Hi!” You greet too loudly, trying not to sound breathless as you fling it open. “I – oh – hi.”

They’re both dressed in civilian clothes, with the devastating casualness of models. Kirishima smiles at you, bright and fond, his hands in the pockets of a denim jacket. Behind him is Bakugou, wrapped in a dark peacoat, not looking at you as he frowns down at the white cake box in his hands, the trailing string tied around it.

“We brought you a cake!” Kirishima explains, happily. You both ignore Bakugou’s tch.  

You let them inside, trying to ignore the pinprick sensation of having someone glare at the back of your neck as you turn.

Your entire apartment is syrupy sweet with the smell of peaches: you’d been poaching Sugimoto’s gift, finally, when Kiri texted. The older man must’ve had a Quirk that let him manipulate organic things, because they were still summer-perfect, keeping their fairytale rosiness in the pan as they simmered. You’d already filled a few jars, mismatched on your bench, cooling.

As the two Pro Heroes struggled to take off their shoes in your doorway (the space impossibly small for the both of them), you survey your apartment with fresh eyes.

It’s not a bad place, you reassure yourself. Small, with white-washed walls and dotted with enough plants and trailing vines to keep you amid the greenery that makes you so happy. You have enough in the way of knick-knacks to make it homey: pastel candles from an Akane, who thought they were cute. A couple of photos washi-taped above your couch: your friends from middle school, your friends from high school. The friends you had now, the overlap varying in all three pictures. A photo of you and your Grandfather in the wild of his garden. Next to it, a photo of you in front of your shop, holding a giant bouquet of roses and tulips, toothy and teary-eyed.

There’s a couple of volumes of Swan-Hime and the Garden of Stars on your coffee table, with their pastel spines – the reboot of the now decades-old classic. You’d liked the original one, as a kid; the romance of a girl who used her Quirk to fight monsters while in an assortment of delicate dresses, trying desperately to hide her growing feelings for a childhood rival (and at one stage, crying star-like tears when the feelings weren’t returned) had always impressed you.  But what you’d liked most was how there’d always been so many flowers in the panels; entwined in Swan-Hime’s long hair or tied in ribbons and pinned to her outfits. Framing pages and borders. It was a theme the new mangaka had not only kept but actively flew with, and you made it a point to collect the volumes as they came, despite Haru’s disgust at your choice in reading material (“Where are the explosions?” He’d said, hands rapid-fast as he scowled.  “She doesn’t do anything cool!”). 

It’s too late to hide them now, you think to yourself with some exasperation. Instead, you smile at Kirishima and Bakugou as they emerged from your tiny hall to your tiny living space. “Sit where you fit,” You instruct, trying not to imagine cats loafing themselves into too-small boxes. “Did you want a drink? I have some jasmine tea, or something cold if you prefer? There’s water, or lemonade. Uh -- green iced-tea? Soda water?”

Kirishima pauses, taking in the room as Bakugou sets the cake box down on your coffee table, assessing your bare floor for a moment before letting himself drop in a soft thud.  Between your couch and your table, Bakugou looks awkward, bulky: yet he’s more lithely built than Kirishima, who makes your living room feel like a dollhouse made out of a flimsy shoebox. 

“Lemonade!” The redhead says, decisively. You admire his hair; he has his ponytail, as always, but he’s gelled his trademark horns in and it makes him look like a cheery, friendly devil.

Bakugou is leafing through one of your Swan-Hime mangas. “Soda water.” He says, as he flips the book back to the beginning and starts reading it properly.

As you ready everything, Kirishima settles down on the floor opposite his friend – running a commentary the entire time as he craned his head to look around. “Whoa, man – it’s a neat little place! Your plants are totally cool – is that you? You’re practically a baby in that photo!”

You set down his drink then Bakugou’s, in matching plastic tumblers, white flowers raining down. The ice in them clinks as you try not to laugh. “You say that like your middle school pictures wouldn’t be any different.”

Kirishima takes his drink, laughing as he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Ah, yeah, probably man. I was a wimp as a kid. I’d definitely be unrecognisable!”

Bakugou, who’d been impassive as he read (and he was actually reading your manga, you realised in wonder, returning to the little table with plates and cutlery) frowned, looking up. “Oi, Hair-for-Brains. We’ve talked about this.”

Kirishima’s feline eyes widen as you both take in the blond, surprised, and then Kiri’s face is splitting into an illuminous grin. “Yeah, yeah.” He looks to you and amends, “I was a wimp. But then I met some pretty cool people and became super manly, so it’s a total glow up.”

You grin at him as Bakugou gives the redhead a filthy look – clearly that’s not what he meant, but the boys don’t get a chance to fight about it when you lean over from the end of the table, and open the box they’ve brought you.

It’s a strawberry shortcake. You instantly think of Christmas, the cakes in the display windows of department stores, the ads of loving husbands bringing one home to their families, friends laughing over generous slices. This one is beautiful – picture perfect, smooth and white, piped cream on the tops and sides. The cluster of uniform, ruby-red strawberries in the middle have been lightly dusted with icing sugar, like snow on roses. It’s classic and lovely and you’re not surprised in the slightest when Kirishima crows proudly, “Bakugou picked it!”

You glance furtively at the blond, who’s scowling down at Swan-Hime and trying to ignore you both.

“I love it,” You say warmly, unable to hide how pleased you are. Kirishima shows his teeth, glad; you think the tops of Bakugou’s ears grow redder, but as his face doesn’t change you can’t be sure.

Your curtains move; they’re long and sheer and let the light in, which was important when you lived in such an enclosed space. You’d left everything open today – your windows, your balcony door - all for the simple joy of having some movement in the apartment, while you poached your peaches.

Serving up the cake, you watch the faint shadow of your curtains as they drift back and over the table. The plates are mismatched, you think idly – there’d only ever been yourself to please, so you just picked up whatever struck your fancy, odd pieces, here and there. You give Bakugou’s slice to him on one of your favourites –  with tiny, golden stars and roses with ribbons; a Swan-Hime collab. His dark red eyes flicker over the pattern, and then to the manga he’s reading and when he glances up at you with a furrowed brow, you smile innocently.

Kirishima grins at his, scalloped with dancing kittens, holding a garland of roses between them. Yours has pastel dolphins leaping against an orange sunset, MIAMI in blocky letters.  You’d gotten it for 110 yen, at a discount shop.

“Aw-ff, man.” Kirishima’s mouth is full as he shovels his cake down like it’s a race. “This is great!”

Bakugou’s carefully set your copy of Swan-Hime aside, holding his glass and looking at something out on your tiny balcony, his slice untouched. Kirishima leans over and prods at him. “Bakugou! Don’t tell me you’re not gonna eat it? You’re not watching your waistline or something, are you?”

“Shut up, Shitty Hair!” The blond cusses, cutting his friend a murderous glare, his hands sparking in warning. They’re perfectly healed, you notice.  

Kirishima cackles, and it’s almost mean – a side of him you definitely haven’t heard from the Media-friendly Red Riot, but one you could imagine, maybe, in a UA uniform, losing his shit alongside a younger Chargebolt, or Cellophane.

Gritting his teeth Bakugou’s turned away from you both, now, embarrassed. You let your fork trail through another sinfully soft cut of sponge, admiring it for a moment, before you offer, “I have some peaches, if you’d prefer…?”

Fruit was within the wheelhouse for a Pro Hero on what you could only assume was a strict diet, right? You weren’t sure if naturally occurring sugar counted, or not: it had to be better than processed. You just ate whatever you felt like, damn the consequences.  

The disgruntled Pro grunts. “Your place reeks of them.” His eyes flicker to you, then the cake in front of him. “The cake’s fine.”

Well, you think, amused. You did pick it.

Kirishima’s plate is almost completely clean when he sets aside his fork, and as you toy with a fat strawberry, he says out of the blue, “We’re going to a group thing, after this. You should come with us!”

You look up in curiosity at the same time as Bakugou truly scowls, now, levelling his friend with his red gaze. “No.” He says hotly, his vehemence taking you by surprise. The redhead, looking like he’d expected it, shrugs. 

“What’s ‘a group thing’?” You ask anyway, twirling your strawberry. Bakugou bristles.

Kirishima grins and you’re reminded of the idea of a younger, merciless him. “We meet up with some friends at an izakaya like, once a week, catch up. It’s like a standing date! Whoever’s off duty just rocks up – we’ve been doing it since we left school.”

“That’s kinda cute,” You say, wistfully.

Kirishima beams at you in approval. “It’s great! The place does the best chicken, the beer’s cheap, and the owners give us our space – you should come! You already know some of the others and I know Midoriya is biting at the bit for an official chance to meet you -- ”

Bakugou swears, his palm crackling threateningly, “Deku isn’t gettin’ shit – ”

You -- wait. Deku? As in, the Symbol of Peace Deku? In growing horror you realise that what Kirishima is talking about isn’t some casual, friendly get-together between old classmates, it’s a weekly dinner date with a rotating group of Pro Heroes. You almost choke at the thought of the sheer humiliation of being in a tiny bar, surrounded by some of Japan’s best. It was like some nightmarish science experiment: what happens when you’re placed in a room full of people who are better than you in every possible, conceivable way? People who would, through no fault of their own, make you hyperaware of every physical and emotional shortcoming you had – all by simply existing?  

“I, ah – don’t really -- ” How do you politely say, fuck no?

Bakugou, stabbing his fork into his cake, beats you to it -- without the politeness. “Fuck off, Ei. You and that damn nerd can die – I ain’t goin’, and neither is she.” He looks apoplectic at the thought. “Fuck. The last thing anyone needs is shitty fucking Deku muttering to himself – ”

“Okay, okay!” Kirishima’s holding his hands up, placatingly. “Neither of you have to come, jeez. Well – ” The redhead looks at you, thoughtful. “I mean, you can come if you want! Don’t let Bakugou scare you out of it.”

Across the table, Bakugou looks ready to bury him. You shake your head. “No, it’s okay, I, uh – I’m not sure I’d really…”

“She doesn’t wanna go, shithead.”  The blond clarifies, shortly.

Kirishima just chuckles in defeat.

“I need some salt,” Bakugou grumbles. 

He’s washing the dishes from your impromptu, Pro Hero-themed tea party: Kirishima has already made himself scarce, escaping both the clean-up and the blond’s rage.

(“Just be good, okay man?” He’d called out playfully, from the safety of your doorway. Then to you, in a not-subtle aside, “If he gets too much, text me! I’ll come collect him.” 

“Go choke.” Came Bakugou’s snarled answer.)

You twist the lid on the last of the peaches you’ve poached. You have about half a dozen jars, now, and you pause to admire the rosy blush of them. You have no idea what you’re gonna do with so many, but — 

“Do you want a jar?” You ask the Pro. 

He grunts, wiping your MIAMI plate dry: you decide to take as a yes, pushing the prettiest - subjective, you guessed, but the colours were the sweetest - jar towards him.

A cutting red gaze eyes it, then he tches. “I still need some salt after all that sweet shit.”

For one stunningly stupid moment, you’re genuinely confused; is he asking for a salt shaker, maybe? Then he looks at you again, waiting, and you realise – oh.

“There’s a konbini down the end of my street,” You suggest.

Bakugou shakes his head. “No, I need something decent.” He hesitates. “Do y’, iunno – do you feel like ramen?”  

Even if you didn’t, you wouldn’t have said no.

The day outside is overcast, colder than it has been, so you wrap yourself warmly and take an umbrella. As you walk, you realise that Bakugou seems to have a special hatred of the cold; he’s turned the collar of his coat up, protecting his ears, a scarf tucked in around his neck, making him look childlike, ducking away.

He’s leading the way – there’s a place he frequents that does, apparently, “actually decent shit”. It also has the added bonus – in the Pro Hero’s words, not yours – of being in the opposite, “absolute fuck-off direction” as the bar his friends are congregating at.  

You’re both silent for a few streets, though your heart is humming, elevated. Neither of you talk about the hospital, though when you pass the cheery blips and pings of a pachinko parlour, Bakugou -- who’s walked with his hands in his pockets, hunched in on himself -- suddenly says, “If Koemi’s Quirk were real, she’d be able to wipe the playing field with everyone, including that loser boyfriend of hers.”

The conversation is so disconcerting that it takes you a moment, genuinely, to think about what he’s saying before you realise. “Swan-Hime?” You ask, a little stunned.

Bakugou grunts in the affirmative, then, unable to resist, continues with, “She’s basically a walking powerhouse – if she can control the elements around her that makes the bitch unstoppable.” He grins, ferally. “You have any idea whad’ that be like, to fight? She’d be able to ward off any attack, from any angle.”

“She’s a crybaby though,” You point out. Strategic thinking isn’t really part of the Swan-Hime brand.

Bakugou snorts. “If she broke enough bones she’d get over it.”

You laugh at the darkness of it. “Maybe you should pitch the idea to the publisher. Apparently the mangaka is being signed on for a new story.”

The conversation loosens the tautness between you; by the time you arrive at his secret ramen spot, the tense lines of his shoulders have dropped.  

The ramen shop itself is small, a hole-in-the-wall that you would’ve walked straight past had it not been for your guide. You pause by the vending machine outside it as Bakugou pushes the heavy wooden door open, a bell ringing above you.

“Yes!” Grunts a voice. “Come in, welcome!”

You follow the Pro Hero like a shadow; it’s warm inside, and you tuck your umbrella into the waiting stand, looking around the closet of a space. There’s a bar big enough for five people – on the other side of it is a surly, older man, who hasn’t even bothered to look up, finely chopping some spring onions.

“You.” The old man grunts again; Bakugou makes an angry noise back as he unravels his scarf, and you realise it’s a greeting. The owner (you think? He must be, to be so… detached) seems unbothered that Ground Zero has walked in, just as surly and as uncommunicative as the Hero himself, and you can instantly see why Bakugou likes this place: no-one is forcing him to try and be a likeable Hero persona.  He’s just… Bakugou, here.

The blond guides you to a stool at the end of the bar, and waits for you to sit before seating himself.

“The usual.” He says, the old man just waving his hand in response.

Neither of them look at you, but you know they’re waiting, and your eyes skim the menu – a whiteboard by your head. “Uh – tonkotsu, please. Extra rich, and an extra egg.”

Your chef grunts again and Bakugou looks at you, assessing you. His hair moves, slightly, as a fan in the corner blows over you both. You smile at him, taking way too much amusement in how he jerks away at that, his cheeks reddening.

You’re both nursing hot green tea when your ramen comes; yours first, buttery and deep. And then Bakugou’s – which is so spicy it makes your eyes water from where you’re sitting.

“The broth is red,” You whisper to him.

“Congrats,” He tells you, already spooning into it, chopsticks waiting. “You’re not colour-blind.”

You roll your eyes and linger over the warmth of your own bowl. “Is this why you don’t like sweet things?” You ask, “Because you’ve literally burnt out your taste buds?”

“Eat your damn noodles,” He says roughly, lightly pushing at you; you smile into your broth.

Bakugou wasn’t lying when he said the food was decent, here – it’s delicious, and you’re warm and happy as the Pro Hero pays, grumbling his thanks (he’d scowled at you when you pulled out your purse, so you’d backed away from the fight, swiftly).

The walk back to your apartment is slow; it’s late afternoon now, early than you’d thought it’d be. Your day has stretched on, languid and surreal and now the light is watery, the last of the hesitant sunshine. You’re walking a little bit too close to Bakugou, you think, but it’s been a steady graduation – he’s radiating warmth.

The breeze picks up, and it smells like rain. You hug your cheap, clear umbrella to yourself, tighter.     

You’re not sure why you decide to bring it up. Maybe because it’s been playing on your mind, since it happened. Maybe because you think of Haru, and his fierce, wild little heart, loving whatever he did, unquestioned.

“You said Haru would be better off, having a different role model.” You try to keep your voice neutral, but you can see how Bakugou stiffens, instantly.

The beat of your footsteps counts against the beat of your heart, one, two, three; then he’s saying, gruffly, “Yeah, well. He would.”

“Why?” You ask, looking up at the clouds. There are golden cracks in the gray and white; the lining, coming through.

Beside you, the blond is silent and you worry that maybe you’ve managed to clam him up until, finally he says, “Deku’s a damn nerd. But he’s a nerd that never gives up. He knows what it means to keep… to keep going.”

You pause by some trailing wildflowers, growing along a chain-link fence. Bakugou stops after a few strides, but doesn’t look back at you.

“From what I’ve seen,” You say carefully, “You don’t give up, either.”

You can almost feel the wall he’s building up around himself, and you move so that you’re next to him, on the edges of it. It seems to force him to answer, because he scowls down at the road. “Deku… Deku’s a self-sacrificing idiot. He gives up a lot for people. Too much, sometimes. He’s a bet – ” Bakugou stops himself, mouth twisting. “The kid could learn a lot from him.”

You shrug. “I’m sure he could. But he can learn a lot from you, too.” You smile, thinking about Haru’s disgust at the lack of explosive action in Swan-Hime. How he still carried his action figures around. “It’s Ground Zero Haru admires. Not the Symbol of Peace. They represent two completely different things to that boy – and it’s you he wants to be.”

You start walking again, slow. After a moment, Bakugou follows and the silence is - while not comfortable - is companionable, at least.

Easing up to each other, again, you end up on the edges of a park, the last of the afternoon light breaking out, on it. You can hear kids, yelling to each other – maybe a football game – but then there’s a little trill of bells, and you and the blond shift, just slightly, so a pair of little girls can ride past on their bikes. They’re wobbling precariously as they try and hold hands, laughing. It’s sweet. The sunlight touches them, illuminating the pair, but you’ve stopped, stiff, and it’s a long moment before you realise Bakugou, next to you, is similarly frozen.  

Neither of you have to say it. The memory of your last walk together, the last pair of kids to go past you, laughing – it’s there, leaving you in between two moments at once.

“Does it ever get easier?” You ask, after the girls are gone.

The Pro is quiet, too quiet, for too long. “Maybe for other people.”

You nod, and the breeze picks up; right as it starts to gently rain, golden and clear. A sun shower.

Snapping open your umbrella, you hold it up high enough to cover you and Bakugou both. He shifts, duck-footed, moving closer to you like a resentful cat. You’re half under shelter by a gingko tree, the leaves a brilliant yellow fire in the light; but even though the late-light is still out, the rain comes down harder, beading down your umbrella.

You hold out a hand, letting your fingers flex in the rain, then glance up to the golden lining of the clouds. It’s a weird, magical moment – like you’re on the edge of two separate worlds.

A branch above you bows, brushing the umbrella and you edge in closer to the Pro, aware of his scent, now: vaguely sweet and warm, like soap. You stare down at your feet, close together, then glance up at Bakugou himself.

He’s staring at you, ruby eyes glimmering.   

Something in your throat works, unable to swallow.

He dips his head down, just a tiny space of a fraction. It’s not even a breaths width. But something within you is coiling up and you move back, just a hair away.

“Your back’s getting wet, idiot.” He says, gruffly, the words ghosting over you.

“Oh.” Is all you can say, all you can manage.

Red eyes dart to your lips, and you know exactly what you’re doing when you tilt your head to him, just slightly, almost curious –

Bakugou frowns, brow drawn as his jaw works, tightly.

And then he kisses you.

Chapter Text

Bakugou’s mouth on yours is hot and insistent, firm fingers against your face, keeping you close as you kiss.

He tastes of spice and salt and something else, something fundamentally human – in response you feel your hand tighten around the handle of the umbrella as a tiny noise escapes you.

Bakugou pulls away just enough to draw in a frustrated, shaky breath – dazedly, you’re aware of his molten gaze on you, his shinning lips, and then you’re letting your eyes squeeze shut as he slants in to deepen the kiss, large hands fisting themselves against the small of your back, pulling you closer to him, to his warmth. 

You make another small sound as your free hand curls against the lapels of his coat; he holds you tighter, the glide of his lips over yours making your breath hitch. You breathe him in, his clean, sweet scent

This is it, this is –

And then he’s ripping away from you, snarling; before you can process the shock of it, Bakugou is shoving you to the side, roughly angling your umbrella to cover you as he simultaneously lets off a sharp explosion – incinerating a soccer ball that had nearly collided with you both.  

The heat from the blast waves over you. 

There is an instant chorus of disappointed cries; it’s a huddle of kids, wet hair and muddy clothes and shoes, all frowning at you. 

“You exploded my ball!” The tallest of them screeches, his scaled green face twisting in indignation. A little girl behind him boos loudly and Bakugou’s scowl turns ugly as his hands flex, irritated popping going off.  

“Watch where you’re kicking it, y’damn brats!” He shouts, baring his teeth.

The boo-er fists her hands into the tall kid’s shirt, leaning around him as she sneers, empowered by her human shield, “You shouldn’t have been in the way!” She jeers back. “Kiss your ugly girlfriend somewhere else, butthead!”

“Hey!” You say, though you’re startled into an indignant laugh. It’s too much like Bakugou’s insistence that your shop shouldn’t have been in the way, those months ago – but the Pro Hero doesn’t find it as funny as you do (you could’ve done without the ugly part, admittedly), snarling as explosions propel him forward, chasing the kids who shriek and scatter, delighted with the drama. 

You lean against the trunk of the gingko tree, nevermind the damp; your heart and your nerves are trying to catch up with your brain, processing everything that’s just happened, thumping along to the slow drip of rain hitting your umbrella. You and Bakugou had just –

There’s several excited screams; you look up to see that the Pro Hero Ground Zero has been, somehow, roped into playing tag. 

“You’re gonna lose, y’shitty little nerds!” He roars. 

The kids jeer at him, breaking into hysterical laughter as he lunges for the closest, their mouthy little leader. You watch them play, your heart half-suspended in a twilight trap of hope, and try and remember how to breathe.

The walk back to your apartment is a long and slow one, Bakugou half a step in-front, taciturn; you’re not any better, your blood still thrumming in your ears.

Night’s almost fallen by the time you reach your complex. Silently, the Pro sees you to your door; you can smell food being made as you go along the walkway, hear the sizzle of cooking and the bright sound of televisions playing as you pass other apartments. When you stop at your door you pause, finally prompted to say something. 

“Thank-you for dinner,” You venture. 

Bakugou scowls heavily, his hands in his pockets. He’s standing a good few feet away from you, like he’s trying to repel himself. “It’s – whatever.” Despite his harsh expression his tone is unsure. For a moment you can see the hesitation flicker across his face.

Were the two of you really so… inept? You think, in frustration. You’re proving to both be as bad as each other.

Your own hesitation must be obvious, must look sadder than it is, because Bakugou’s face contorts into something like alarm. “Shit,” He curses, more to himself than anything, “I—” He swallows back his frown. “Today was – alright.”

He won’t look at you and unbidden, you think about the battle still of him, the one the media’s been parading over and over again; where he is untouchable, surrounded by the heat of battle. Glorious and violent and so, so confident in himself, in his every move, grinning through the blood. It’s a stark contrast to this version of the blond; unsure, waiting.

“I thought today was amazing,” You tell him, your voice a touch too-soft. Bakugou jerks his head up, red eyes assessing you (finally looking at you) before his hesitation comes back. 

“Yeah,” He agrees just as quiet, tucking his chin into his scarf, imperceptibly.     

The gesture tightens your heart: you want to step forward, step into him and when you see he’s closer you think for a startled moment that you have, until you realise he’s the one who’s moved.

Bakugou looks down at you, his mouth drawn back. You’re aware of how warm it is, suddenly, between the two of you. “I – ”

Down the walkway, a door slams. You both flinch and as Bakugou yanks away you feel a furious resentment towards the other tenants of your complex, unable to say anything as the Pro frowns to himself.

He leaves after that, both of you mumbling goodbyes; you lean against your door and wait until he disappears down the stairs of your building, pausing before he does, his hands in his pockets – but not looking back. 

Inside, your apartment still smells of peaches, the last of the twilight long lost. There’s a stillness to your home, an emptiness that you’re not sure you like: standing there, in the dark of your small kitchen, it wells up inside you, twisting. 

You throw your keys into the bowl on your counter; touch your remaining peach jars. It’s an absence, you realise. The absence and loneliness of another evening by yourself, waiting for – wanting – something to happen, something surreal and magic and life-changing.  It was the same kind of feeling that had caught you, in the twilight moments of your teen years – the ache of wanting something more. 

Breathing in, you think about the touch of Bakugou’s lips -- the press of him against you. 

In the darkness, the quiet, the hitch of your breath speaks volumes.   

The moody skies have cleared by the next day; you’re at work, swathing a dried arrangement in soft tissue paper and dithering over ribbon - pink would be a nice contrast, but orange would go with the paper daisies, the dried orange slices - when a voice calls out, cheerful and teasing. “Hey! Anyone home?”

You turn with smile, knowing the voice immediately: Kirishima, flashing his predator’s teeth in a sheepish grin as he tugs down a mask, holding up a couple of plastic bags from the convenience store. “I brought lunch,” He says brightly, like he isn’t singularly responsible for the sun shining, today.

“You’re going to make me public enemy no. 1 on this street,” You tell him, gravely. “I’ve already been threatened by Akane for hogging you.”

The Pro blinks, confused, then realisation dawns and he laughs, clutching the back of his neck, his bags rustling. “Ah, my bad. But it wouldn’t be manly of me to abandon you now! C’mon, let’s have lunch — I’ll protect you.”

You hum in faux-thought, then grin at Kirishima as you wave for him to flip the closed sign on your door, your fingers twirling around a pink ribbon for your bouquet. Even in your amusement, a small, wary part of you is wondering why he’s here. You think of the way Bakugou had looked at you, last night, by your door. Had they talked? It was hard imaging the blond having any kind of emotional conversation without it being dragged out of him.

Still, despite your suspicions about the redhead’s motives, he’s a literal delight to have in store: as he fumbles back through your flowers and plants he openly admires them all, his fascination ridiculous and charming.

To his visible glee, you decide to set out a picnic on the shop floor, using some of your aprons from Akane’s compulsive gifting as a rug. It’s a tight squeeze amid your buckets and stands of flowers, the overhanging greens, only just touched by a strip of midmorning light: with Haru, it might’ve been a gateway to one of his play-pretends, a secret base in a foreign jungle filled with enemies. With Kirishima, it takes on the self-conscious air of two fully grown adults who are playing house, like newlyweds in an empty apartment, the lease freshly signed; giddy enough with the novelty to keep the game going.

Now officially in charge of your small party, you set out your meal as the Pro buys drinks from the vending machine outside your store, the rumble and roll of the machine familiar and comforting. “I didn’t know what you wanted to eat!” He calls out, crouching to get the bottles. “So I just got what looked good!” 

He’s brought a lot of things, you think in amusement as you free them from the bags – several warm and greasy packets, from the hotbox; they smell like ribs and chicken, as well as a couple of corndogs for good measure. And then he’s also brought a selection of breads – sausage, cheese, chocolate. There’s several onigiri, and some noodles that he’s already heated in a konbini microwave.   

The redhead is easy company and your picnic – and it is a picnic, hidden away in the secret garden of your store – is relaxed and pleasant as he stretches out and talks about his morning, the perils of trying to work out, hungover. Having free time to do stuff like this — and the group dinner the night before.

“You should’ve come,” Kiri says, three yakatori skewers in the one hand. “It was fun!” He snorts, remembering something. “Everyone noticed Bakugou missing.” 

The mention of the blond makes your heart skip, but you like to think your face gives nothing away as you unpeel the plastic wrapping from the sausage bread, the mayo smearing. It’s this careful neutrality that Kirishima picks up on though, and he adds, “I make him sound like he doesn’t like hanging out with us, and he mostly doesn’t, to be honest – ” It’s your turn to snort then, but he gallantly ignores it, going on, “—at least, not in big groups like that. But he tries. He always tries, and it’s nearly always for someone else’s sake. His… social battery just…. gets used up harder and faster than others.”

You lick mayonnaise from your lips, watching the Pro as he watches you with unguarded, expectant eyes. His face is open, a little curious; your suspicions about this visit come back in full force. 

Pressing the tips of your fingers into the soft bread of your meal, you say nothing. Is he playing wingman again? Is wingman even the word you want? Whatever part he’s playing in your… whatever, with the blond, it is active, almost aggressive. You’re not stupid – you’ve noticed how it’s always been Kirishima, at the end of the day, who gets the ball rolling between you and Bakugou.

Your silence must translate into something for him, – or maybe it’s just years of being friends with someone like the other Hero, who needs others to lead the conversation, because Kirishima continues, “Bakugou… man, Bakugou is a commitment. In everything. He’d be one even if he wasn’t a Pro. He’s a great guy!” He hurriedly emphasises, gesturing with his yakatori skewers, “He’s the best! But that doesn’t make him any less of a commitment, and – it’s not one that everyone can make, or should make! It wouldn’t be fair to expect anyone to deal with him at his worst, no matter how much he tries.” You’re stock-still as Kiri finally hesitates here, letting his chin fall to his knees as he draws them in. “The thing is, we’ve all learnt that with Bakugou… you need a lot of patience. You need it and he needs it, for himself. And sometimes he doesn’t have it. And… sometimes that means he makes everything harder for himself.” 

Wide, warm eyes are watching you, imploringly. It gives the Pro – indominable and unmoving in the field – a puppy-like quality, the sweetness of him shining through. There’s a traitorous part of you that thinks of how much easier it would’ve been, to have had a crush on Kirishima instead. He’s so easy-going, so approachable and kind, determined in his work. Knowing him, even shallowly like this as adults, is a treasure. You can’t imagine how growing up with him – going to UA with him – would’ve been like. It must’ve been fun, you think wistfully, those secret fantasies of your life with a Quirk whispering like an enchanted mirror. 

But still – all his warm attention, the tea party yesterday, the picnic today, the invitation to the hospital: all of it came because of Bakugou. He was attentive to you because of Bakugou. Bakugou, the glue that held you together – whether the blond knew it, or wanted it. The invitation you had inadvertently accepted into their appointment-only world.

Unashamedly, you take Kirishima in as he waits. It’s surreal, having the Pro Hero in front of you: broad and leggy and surrounded by flowers. He’s sitting directly in the lone strip of sunshine, hair glowing like the halo of a candle; the scar above his eye shining. Waiting anxiously, like he’s the one with a heart on the line.

You could’ve loved him very, very easily, you think with a stab – or you could’ve, in another life. One where you hadn’t met Bakugou first. Where you didn’t linger over the the image of him, silhouetted in the afternoon light, carrying in buckets of flowers. Or the way he had looked at you like he was calculating every movement, before kissing you.

Where you hadn’t sat there in the dark of your apartment afterwards, wanting nothing but him. 

“Bakugou’s lucky that you guys love him so much,” You say, simply. Then you smile. “My friends can barely remember my birthday.” 

Kirishima grins in response, in open relief, taking in what you’re not saying, an expert at reading what people mean as opposed to say.   

“I dunno if ‘lucky’ is the word he’d use,” He says easily, honestly. “We do give him absolute shit, too – but be our friend! We’ll remember your birthday… probably.”

You snort again and his grin just widens as he nudges you playfully with a large foot.

The rest of your lunch together is easier; you bask in Kirishima’s bright buoyancy as he stretches out amid the mess of your picnic, whining that he wanted to nap instead of go to work. He’s large and sprawling and keeps papping against your thigh with his, as you sit alongside him, soaking up the attention like a sunflower.

Neither of you talk seriously about Bakugou – what he is, what he entails – again. Instead you laugh when Kirishima threatens to sleep right there on your shop floor, head pillowed in his arms. Somehow you end up alongside him, like two kids hiding in a garden bed as he scrolls through his phone, showing you his photos, his favourite gifs and memes that he’s saved. Some of his friends, his colleagues. Kittens taking baths. Puppies falling over in a tumble. Pro Hero fumbles, with ridiculous soundtracks.

You both laugh, stupidly, and your game of playing house only ends when Akane furiously raps at your closed door, concerned that you’ve been shut so long. The look on her face when you and Kirishima both shoot up, guilty faced, is almost worth the needling you know you’ll get later on.

Kirishima looks back at you sheepishly when he leaves, uncharacteristically meek. The older woman just glares at him, her crush on the Pro Hero momentarily forgotten. “Rolling around in the flowers, at your age!” She says. “You’re a city defender, not a spring calf – go work!”  

The redhead stammers out apologies, like he’s disappointed his own mother – you think you do well in trying not to laugh, at least until Akane turns back to you furiously. “And you! Letting him!”

Kirishima cannot leave fast enough, all his manly promises about protecting you forgotten.

Afterwards, when Akane has gone back to her curry bread (with warnings that the shopkeepers across from you will let her know if anything suspicious happens again), you go back to your flowers, ruminating.

Yes, you think; Bakugou is a commitment. You couldn’t imagine him being anything less, even without the soul-crushing career choice he’s given himself. He was a man – and a commitment - that you either met him halfway on, or left alone.

A man and a commitment you’d take on with everything you had, if he let you.

The city is a week out from celebrating Halloween when two things happen: there’s another Quirk incident, and Bakugou ends up at your apartment. 

The banging on your door is possessed; you jump when it starts, caught off-guard and half a bowl into a late dinner. Frozen like a startled rabbit, you don’t know what to do – the documentary you were watching (about the golden-era of anti-hero exploitation films) plays on tinnily and you almost wonder if you’d imagined it: but then there’s another furious bang and you scrabble to answer it, fear making you stumble. It’s 10pm on a weekday – either the home invaders were doing you the courtesy of announcing their imminent assault, or it was an emergency.

You crack your door open, ready to either fight it shut or take bad news – and your chest immediately eases up in relief.  

“Bakugou,” You croak, flinging your door open wide, a silent command for him to come in. “What – ”

The Pro Hero scowls down at you, leaning so heavily against your doorframe that you’re afraid he’s going to fall.

“You’re fine.” He says, incredulous. It’s not a question.

“Yes?” You confirm, bewildered. Why the hell wouldn’t you be? “What are you -- get inside.”

He’s still tensed, coiled like he’s priming for a fight for all that he also, simultaneously, looks ready to collapse. He looks livid that you’re alright.

“You’re fine.” He repeats, breathing in sharply. Then he jerks away, snarling. “M’gonna kill him!”

You can comfortably say that you have no idea what’s going on. In the small space of your doorway, neither of you move, waiting for some unspoken signal. Bakugou’s eyes are now burning a long path over you – an assessment, like the one he’d given you back in the hospital. You do him the courtesy of one of your own, your hands still hovering; he’s dressed in dark casual clothes, shouldering a backpack, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his distinguishable hair.  Hunched as he is, it gives him the look of overgrown delinquent. But there’s too many layers to tell if he’s hurt and you make an angry, disapproving noise: the Pro carries himself like he’s gone several rounds with a concrete wall and lost.

“Come inside,” You tell him again, pressing against the wall to give him space.

Bakugou’s eyes – rimmed with smudged eyeliner, why eyeliner? – dart around the tiny space of your apartment, visibly weighing his options. He’s alert, then. Something within you eases a little.

He shuffles into your home heavily -- as he moves to sink onto your couch, you fumble about in your kitchen, pouring him a drink. Then you pause, thinking, and pull out a bowl for him, your innate servitude needing to do something to redirect your anxiety. The people in your family have always fed each other when things went wrong; thanking your earlier cravings for wanting something more substantial than a packet of chocolate cookies, you start spooning in a heap of rice, layering on as much beef as you can – gyūdon. You’d been so pleased with yourself, you think distractedly; the beef had been on special at the supermarket so you’d loaded up, remembering to buy the other things you needed – more sesame oil, onions. Pulling yourself together long enough not to be lazy, for once.

Bakugou’s eyes are closed and his head is hard against the wall when you approach with his meal. Setting everything down on the coffee table, you watch his chest rise, under his hoodie; he’s breathing hard, but it doesn’t seem especially laboured… you think. Maybe just tired? But you’re also not a doctor, and he’s been so obviously roughed up that you can’t help but worry.

You perch at the end of the sofa, waiting for a few long moments. “Do you want me to call Kirishima?” You ask after a while, hushed.

“Hah?” He grunts, lifting his head to look at you in disconcertment; then he frowns, sitting up, immediately tensing again. “What?”

“Do you want me to call Kirishima?” You ask again, loudly – but he’s already shaking his head.

“No,” He says roughly. “No point, m’fine.”

The scepticism on your face makes him scowl. “Whaddya want, a medical? I said I’m fine, Shitty Hair wouldn’t be able to do shit, anyway. I just – ” He twitches away, annoyed. “I’m fine.”

He takes the drink you set out for him; and three more refills after that. You don’t push him for why he’s ended up at yours of all places, or why he had seem so pressed about you being okay, of all things, but he still seems cagey, glaring at your TV as the documentary blares on. It’d been exploring the birth of anti-hero narratives in Italy, during a volatile presidential election – before their rise in popularity in America, following the wake of the Bridge City siege.

“Fuckin’ idiot extras,” You hear him grumble as you grab him a clean towel. You snort unflatteringly, amazed that he still had the energy to be judgemental.

“You don’t believe in protest art?” You ask him, teasing. You only know the term because the documentary keeps throwing it around. Cinematic protest art about the rise of government-funded martyrs and thugs, had been one quote.

Bakugou gives you a shrewd look as you hand him the towel, and you know that you’re both thinking about the fiery collapse of the Hero Commission.

“Nothin’ to protest if the idiot extras had done their jobs right,” He says at last, looking way from you to the television. You hum in agreement.

As Bakugou showers, you finish your dinner; tidy up. The sound of your water running made you pause. You have no idea what to expect, now – is Bakugou going to disappear back into the night? It’s late, and while you suppose that wouldn’t normally bother a Pro Hero who worked in shifts, the tired way the blond had settled on your couch made you wonder if he’d have the energy to leave.

You change the linen on your bed, hands smoothing over the fresh sheets. If he crashed (literally, or figuratively) you wanted to be able to at least offer him somewhere comfortable to sleep. You could handle the couch easily, had done so before on lazier nights; you suspected it wouldn’t be as comfortable for a Pro Hero with such a physically demanding job as it would be for you, used to its grooves.

The click of your bathroom door opening tells you Bakugou is done, just as you’re done changing pillowcases – you end up meeting him in the lounge room as you both emerge from separate ends, the blond towelling his hair as you set down the magazine you’d picked up from your floor.

He smells like your body-wash, you think in unnecessary surprise. Mandarin orange peel, rosemary – sweet and green. It’s light in the space around you, but you can feel your face warming at the thought of him using something from your shower.

“My room’s yours, if you’re staying.” You motion abortively, already embarrassed with yourself. It almost sounds like a proposition, now the words are spoken out-loud. “I… you seem tired, and my bed’s more comfortable -- there would’ve been a 50/50 chance of me falling asleep on the couch, anyway.” 

Red eyes peer out from under the towel as he surveys you calmly, still palming his hair dry. He must’ve had clothes with him, in his backpack – he’s wearing a loose pair of gray sweats that hang low on his hips, and a faded black tank top that hugs him perfectly.

He has a really narrow waist, you think in some amazement, staring. At least – narrow in comparison to his shoulders, his arms. You’ve seen memes (and thirst posts) about his hourglass shape, the jokes (and thirst photos) about any one of his Pro Hero colleagues trying to span their hands around it – but this is the first time you’ve actually noticed it for yourself.

You know he’s watching you – you can feel it – so you turn your head resolutely away, like you weren’t just imagining trying to get your fingers to meet in the small of his back.

From the suspicious look he’s giving you, you don’t think it worked.

“Gonna brush my teeth,” You mumble, before he can say anything.

He grunts, and you cannot flee to the safety of your bathroom fast enough.

Except --- it’s not so safe after all. It’s still warm from his shower; you can smell your body wash and soap in the steam, can imagine him under the running water.

You let your head hit the glass of the mirror, silent punishment for your thoughts.

Don’t be a pervert, you frown at yourself, straightening up as you push your hair back with a Deku-themed headband. You focus on it instead, the green ears – it was a Christmas gift from Haru, bought at a yen store and specifically, you knew, so that you could play the Symbol of Peace to his Symbol of Victory, his Ground Zero. He’d bought himself one, modelled after Ground Zero’s mask, and for weeks the two of you had worn them together as you tried to keep up with his play-pretend.

Still, thinking about those games circles you back to what you were trying to avoid dwelling on in the first place. But it’s hard; there’s evidence of Bakugou all around you, in the tiny space of your bathroom. The impression of his hand, wiping away the condensation on the mirror. The militant evenness he’s folded your handtowel with, hanging over the railing. Your packet of makeup wipes, moved just slightly.

The tiny, traceable acts of someone else in your space.

Forget pervert – now you were just being a straight-up weirdo.

“Stop it,” You whispered, frowning harder at your reflection. It just frowns back, neither of you paying any heed to your warning.

When you pad back into your lounge Bakugou is slumped on your couch, flipping through the magazine you’d brought out of your room. He looks at you oddly, eyebrows raised – and then you look at the cover, properly this time, and realise with horror that he’s holding that goddamn Hero Generation issue of Vogue Japan. 

“Can’t believe you read this crap,” He grunts, like it’s not just a massive promo piece for himself and his former classmates.

You make a small, horrified noise and he has the audacity to snort, mouth curling in mean amusement. “Like it, you little pervert?”

You consider screaming, just letting loose and going for it until your throat is raw – maybe your face twitches with it, you’re not sure - but instead what comes out of your mouth instead is the obnoxious, “Oh, I did. Deku looks great.”

Bakugou’s face sours instantly; it was the perfectly worst thing to say. Their rivalry is infamous, for all that you can’t understand it. He’d been so vehement against the idea of you meeting Deku, the other day – and yet when it came to being escorted out of hospital, it was the Symbol of Peace who’d been there for him, alongside Kirishima, his arm hovering around him.  They constantly made headlines together, faced – and took down – the biggest threats together.  Online, just the discussion of either one of them turns into a flame war between their fans; even their merchandise is directly marketed to play off against the other.

The magazine is thrown to the side, pages ruffling as Bakugou leans forward, snarling up at you. “That damn nerd doesn’t know jack –,” He says wildly, “Y’think he’s so great? He can’t even tell a florist apart from a goddamn nursery worker -- ”

“Okay, okay,” You placate, more to stop him before he can go into what you can only guess would be in irate rant, though you’re a little alarmed at the florist tangent. What does that even mean?

Bakugou crosses his arms, face still twisting furiously – you realise he’s sulking, and you try not to laugh as you smile at him. “I was joking,” You say, unnecessarily.

The blond just grunts, glaring out into the darkness beyond your window; you shift on your feet, and then decide to add, “You all look good. You and… Uravity, especially. You look good. Together.”

You have no idea what’s possessed you to say that, but it’s not jealousy. It’s not, you tell yourself furiously. Bakugou kissed you, whatever that meant – a fact you’d been avoiding thinking of all night while he was here, burning and existing in your space -- but was unavoidable now in the shifty-eyed, suspicious way he was looking at you.

But whatever that kiss was, whatever it meant, a momentary attraction wasn’t the same as a lifetime working together. Bakugou is a commitment, Kirishima had said. He’d be one even if he wasn’t a Pro. But that was the thing – he was a Pro Hero. They all were. And you’d known the most basic rule of their world from the very beginning; that they were extraordinary. Extraordinary people who needed extraordinary partners. Partners who could challenge them, match them. Fight alongside them.

What were you? Some silly little idiot with a flower shop, that’d happened to be in the way one day.  What was that, compared to someone who could lift a trawler from the storm-tossed waves threatening to sink it to the bottom of the sea?

Bakugou sees it on your face, you think, the overthinking and the self-pity; red eyes sharpen on you as he frowns, a tiny thing in comparison to his previous – ugly - scowls. Beyond that his smooth, handsome face gives nothing away and you just stare back, taking in as much of him as you can before your invitation to this surreal world of his is revoked, and you never see him again.

He frowns harder. “Me n’ Round Cheeks,” He repeats, slowly, as though testing the words.

You shrug, trying to affect indifference, though your heart is dropping up and down like the beats of a butterfly’s wing at that nickname. It’s cute, you think in detachment. It suits her, Japan’s darling. “She’s… impressive.”

The Pro looks at you like you’re particularly stupid. “Yeah, and?”

You stare at him blankly and when it’s clear you can’t – or won’t – answer, Bakugou stands abruptly, tiredness forgotten, heated gaze searching your face for a long minute before he makes up his mind.

He’s scowling as he stalks over to you, stopping barely a foot away, your heart pounding the entire time.

“You’re jealous?” He asks roughly. “Of some fuckin’ photos?”

“No,” You lie, and badly at that. Even to yourself you sound mulish. “I’m not jealous.”

Bakugou just stares at you, incredulous. Either at the ridiculousness of the initial situation, or your audacity in lying so poorly to him, you can’t actually tell; you just know he’s unimpressed with both.

“You’re a dumbass,” He says at last, like it’s a fatal diagnosis you’ve just been given in front of him, his eyes wide in disbelief. “You – fuck.” Grimancing, his mouth curls; working through all the stages of grief at your evident idiocy. “Who the fuck – who’s fucking apartment am I standing in, stupid? ‘Cause I can tell you now, it ain’t fucking Round Face’s – ”

“Alright!” You say crossly, flinging your hands up in protest. “I get it, I get it!” You frown at his collarbone for good measure, unwilling to meet his gaze.

The butterfly beat of your heart is back, up and down, up and down – and it has nothing to do with Uravity’s nickname, now, but instead the realisation that Bakugou is right, he’s here, he’s in your apartment, standing in front of you, too close. It’s not just some fantasy you’ve made up for yourself, in the twilight darkness of a lonely room, waiting for something to happen. He’s here, in front of you, every bit the temperamental menace he’s proven himself to be. He’s so close. He’s so warm.  

You could count the fine ribbing of his singlet, if you wanted to. Trace your fingers along it.

Without thinking, you swallow; your gaze flickering up to his neck – the dip and shadow, the long line of it. Bakugou’s pulse jumps and you finally, finally look up.

Red eyes have sharpened on you, waiting, and when they meet yours he edges in, carefully, testing. “Do you get it?” He asks, and his voice is husky, too low. Involuntarily, you shiver; it pulls you closer.

“Yes,” You whisper back, your chest tight with the ache.

He breathes into the space between you, unsteady as his face drops closer, imperceptibly. “Y’sure?” His voice is rough, too quiet and you can feel the heat of him, smell the green, the citrus of your bodywash.

You swallow again. His ruby eyes follow the movement of your neck with predatorial fascination and it’s you, this time, who leans in, leans up, one hand against his chest, fingers curling into the material of his top – as you tip your head and kiss him.

His lips are soft under yours, caught in the moment – and then Bakugou makes a noise, a growl, pulling you flush against him so that your softness presses against the lean, hard planes of his body, the both of you breathing in at the feel of it.

Together, you fumble backwards – hitting the wall by your bedroom door. Something tumbles to the floor – maybe one of Akane’s ridiculous candles – but you can’t think beyond that, Bakugou hooking your leg up around his waist, trying to get more of you as blunt fingertips knead into your thigh.

It brings your hips together, plush; you gasp into his mouth when you feel the hardness of him, hot against you.

Bakugou jerks his head back, breathing hard as he looks down at you, crowding you against the wall. “This – ‘k?”

You close your eyes and try to focus on the heaving of your chest to his; they rise and fall together.

“Yes,” You breathe. The hand you have on his shoulder slides up, careful, until you can curl your fingers into his fine, light hair. “Yes – ”

He presses back in, a big hand on the small of your back, urging you closer; you’ve never been so aware of what you’re wearing, too many layers between you and desperate you grind into him, causing you to mewl against his mouth just as he pulls away to groan into your neck, his teeth ghosting against your skin. “Fuck,”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” You huff out, dryly. Bakugou barks out a laugh against you, jerking his head back enough that you can see he’s smiling at you, an actual smile, long mouth curled and his eyes warm.

You make a soft, pleased noise, Bakugou bumping your foreheads together in a gentle headbutt as he murmurs, “S’ddup.”

Unable to help it now, you start to wheeze, a laugh – but his mouth is covering yours, harder this time, the heavy touch of his tongue swallowing your mirth and making you arch into him as he manoeuvres the both of you into your room, to your waiting bed.

The backs of your knees hit the edge of it, and you chirp like a cat as Bakugou drops you onto the mattress, sinking down with you, breaking away from your mouth to kiss along your neck, the skin by the collar of your shirt.

It’s old and soft and slips off easily when his hands (hotter, now) run under it, along your skin, pushing it up, tugging it off.

You let him, feeling the pull of it as it catches in your hair – and then you’re exposed to the cool, to Bakugou, who is looking down at you as though he’s been caught in the blast-back of one of his own explosions, stunned.

Under his gaze you feel warm and liquid; as though you’re floating in the quiet lull of the ocean, the dawn sky above you.

Knuckles graze your side; your breath is caught in your throat as he leans over to kiss you again, a gentle tug of your lips.

Curling your fingers in his top you clutch at it – and he pulls back to shrug it off, leaving him bare-chested and dishevelled. Your hands ghost over him, marvelling, taking your time to feel along him. He is soft, a smoothness built on a defined bedrock of hard muscle. You want to press against him, into him: instead you settle for letting your fingers linger over the star-like pattern of a scar on his abdomen, the muscle flexing involuntarily as you do, Bakugou watching you in silence.

It’s a twin explosion to the scar on his shoulder, you realise; the blanket beneath you bunches as you sit up to reach it, the one on his shoulder, tracing the spidery edges of it, the hardness of his collarbone. Then, because your Hero is still watching you with glistening, unfathomable eyes, you dip against him and press your lips to it.

A warm, large hand comes up to your back, holding you against him so that you are skin-to-skin; you close your eyes as you feel him nudge you, tilting your head back so that he can press his hot mouth against yours for another searing kiss.

You rock out of your shorts, Bakugou helping the cause by grabbing them, pulling them out of the way before breaking the kiss to tug his own pants off, his briefs, until he is over you in nothing but his own skin, a finely-carved statue of a Grecian warrior, breathed into life.

There’s no shyness to the blond, not even when you run your fingers along the velvet length of him, curved against his stomach; instead he makes a guttural, impatient noise, using it as an excuse to tug you together in another kiss.

You can feel him against you; hot and imposing, even through the soft, silk-like cotton of your underwear, worn with age. Frustrated, you make a diminutive noise against his mouth – his knuckles skim against your thigh, hooking your leg up over his hips so that he can rut into the wetness of you, pooling and ready.

As he breaks away from your kiss you keen – only for it to stutter in your throat as he trails his lips along your throat, the dip of your collarbone.  The soft swell of your breasts, his tongue slow and wet against them, their peak.

You are pliant and heady underneath him, floating in those warm ocean waters, seeing nothing but the dawn stars; when his mouth finally meets the silken dampness between your thighs, you gasp, silently and hard, arching off the mattress.

Your panties are heavy with your arousal, and easily slipped off, Bakugou kneeling between your legs as he dips his face back down, his tongue a soft glide against your swollen sex.

It’s strange and illicit; something so foreign and gentle adding to your heat, your ocean-dawn stars. His knuckles press in deeper against the curve where your bottom meets your thigh; it’s timed with a kitten-lick that makes your lips part in silent wonder, your eyes flutter shut.

“Ba-Baku…gou,” You whisper, coiled tight and hot beneath him.

He stops his ministrations to leave a hot kiss against you, where you’re bare to him.

“Katsuki,” He rasps. Another languid glide of his tongue has you gasping again, though he pulls back just as fast. “My name – Katsuki.” It’s a growl; a command. You heave under him, your fingers threading through his hair as you whisper back obediently, “Katsuki.”

When you are on the verge of collapse, he pulls away, abrupt; you make a wordless noise in indignant frustration, even as he strokes his knuckles down the cleft of you. “You’re so wet,” He says hoarsely, one knuckle dipping into you. “You’re – fuck,”

He jerks his hand away and you whine, only cut off by him roughly scooping you up, smashing your mouths together in a hungry, sloppy kiss.

The taste of yourself is strange, metallic. You are fluid in his arms, slippery like silk; you move, ending up in his lap where your wetness coats between you, making it easy for his hardness to glide along you in a stuttering, haphazard rhythm, shallow.

“You’re so – good,” Bakugou breathes out mid-kiss, hot and low. “You’re so – haa,”

An ill-timed thrust deepens the contact between you, Bakugou tilting his head back, eyes closed as he grips you to him, tighter. His neck is bare and long, the vein of it taut and mesmerised you lean into him, letting yourself do the one thing you’ve imagined doing since that day he catapulted into your store: you nose against his skin, feeling his pulse jump, and then carefully lick a long, soft stripe along it.

You can feel his throat jump, his jaw working silently; all you want is this man, you think headily.

“Katsuki,” You whisper wetly, against his skin. His knuckles knead into your ass in response. “Please – ”

He huffs against your hair, breathing you in. “You’re so soft,” He says instead, quietly, like he can’t believe it. You press a languid kiss to his collarbone, and then lift yourself from him, a tiny bit – seeking permission, giving permission. In answer, his arms tighten around you and guide you back down, the two of you joining in a move that makes you both groan.

It’s your ocean-current waves, again; you tip your head back and breathe through the rhythm Bakugou – Katsuki – is thrusting into you with, caught in his arms, soft against him. He arches you up and then slams you into your bed with a grunt, deepening his strokes, panting. Your hands are everywhere; palming the scar on his shoulder, tracing his pecs, pressing into them. Carefully, carefully, your fingers follow the lines of his neck, moving to his jaw, his parted lips.

He closes his eyes, pressing his mouth into your palm. Your heart is suspended in your chest, suspended in the warm, dawn-pink sea you find yourself caught in.

“Katsuki,” You say in a threadbare voice. His eyes open and he watches you silently, the way you can only gape wordlessly as you tilt your hips and he thrusts deep, too deep.

He leans back, stilling inside you, leaving you pressed into the linen of your bed; Your thighs together are slippery, you’re slippery and swollen and feel as though you could swim away.

“M’hands,” He mutters, holding them up. “Can’t – can’t touch you like this,”

You make a questioning noise, too breathless for real words – your own hand reaches out to his abdomen, feeling it twitch under your fingers as Katsuki’s palms spark up between you, tiny, pinpricks of popping light.

“Burnin’ off,” He says in way of an explanation. You wonder if his hands – his Quirk – has been why he’s been so careful with his touching, running his knuckles along you instead.

Tightly controlled, his Quirk is nothing more than a flickering cascade of glitter, illuminating his face, softening him. Like this he is far removed from that Soldier of Hell image the media kept parading; instead, with his blond hair swept back and his eyes glimmering he looked more like the prince in a ballet, waiting in the wings.

The sparks die down, Bakugou’s hands between you still warm -- he curls them into fists on either side of you as he noses against your cheek, rolling in an experimental thrust.

“Katsuki,” You whisper against his ear, the softness of his hair. It smells like your shampoo. “It’s okay, you can touch me.”

He goes taut, saying nothing. You run a hand up along his arm, the hard, smooth muscle, feeling it cord underneath your touch.

“I want all of you,” You say, and you don’t recognise your voice; a bedroom voice. “I can handle it.”

He breathes in, sucking his teeth – and then, hesitantly, so slowly you can hardly stand it – places a hand over your hip, thumbing the velvet skin there, carefully.

It’s hot, pleasantly so, searing a lightning path straight to your centre and making you buck against the Hero. “Yes,” You whisper to him, threading your fingers together along his back, pulling him closer. He shudders against you, settling his other had in the drip of your side – the same, searing heat. Then you’re both moving again, resuming a loping pace.

“You feel s’good,” Bakugou grunts, his eyes blown wide with desire as he rocks into you, making you arch. You pant in nonsensical agreement. “Come,” He demands, going harder, hot fingers on you, hot mouth against your skin. “Come for me. Fuck -- come with me,”

It is all you need to be spooled undone. You cling to him as you peak towards the fall together – buoyant in the warm ocean waters, seeing nothing but dawn-sky stars and bioluminescence.  

In the blue-dark of dawn you shift in your bed, coming into contact with a solid, balmy warmth beside you.  It tightens an arm around your waist and you snuffle, blearily; it’s your Hero, who’s watching you with hooded eyes.

“I got’a go,” He says, voice sure and awake, a steady rumble under you.

You sniff against his shoulder, nodding in dreamy assent but he nudges you so that you have to look at him properly, and you breathe in his skin – burnt sugar, mandarin peel – before deigning to meet his gaze.

“Be careful,” He glowers, although you’re not sure at what. You close your eyes and nod against him but he nudges you again. “Oi, I’m serious – watch your shit when you’re out there, avoid people ‘n places you don’t know, got it?”

“Got’t.” You murmur back, sleepily. How he isn’t is a mystery to you, considering the state he’d been in when he first came to your door, but you feel Bakugou huff, his arm tightening around you further, a warm vice as he presses his mouth into your hair, soft between you.

“Be careful,” He repeats, a mumble. You nod again and then belatedly reach out a hand to try and pat him reassuringly, though all you manage is to brush his nose a couple of times as he grunts his annoyance.

It’s not until he’s gone, well into the cool daylight of a grey morning that you learn why he’d been so insistent, the news playing behind you as you readied your lunch for the day.  

“ – Pro Hero Deku on the scene, managing to save four of the nursery staff in what officials are calling a disastrous Quirk-related accident.”

Shaky footage plays, then, someone’s phone capturing the chaos as people scream – it’s a small garden centre, dense and green but the plants are moving, you realise – it’s not just a shaky hand. There’s a wriggling mass of vines but – no. You watch in fascinated horror as you realise it’s not just greenery but a person, a woman in the centre uniform, the vines strangling her as they press in closer, like they want to crawl under her skin. Her face is clear for a moment and you jolt, realising that from a distance you could be mistaken for each other; you share the same colouring, similar hair, a similar build.

There’s a crackle of green lightning and a blur – a yelp – and then the Symbol of Peace is on the scene, trying to direct the phone-holder to safety. “Stand back!” He yells, but then he sees the woman amid it all and even with the haphazard footage, you can clearly see his horrified expression, his power crackling around him. “Wait - ! Is that Kacchan’s – NO!”

The phone clatters to the floor as the plants around them implode, going wild, green lightning filling the screen and the footage cuts back to the news anchors, sitting there with grave faces.

You don’t need to see anymore to know the results.

Bakugou at your door, exhausted, furious, stunned that you were okay. The livid rant against Deku -- he can’t even tell a florist apart from a goddamn nursery worker.

 Kirishima in the hospital, whispering, Externally triggered.

Bakugou, warning you to be careful, to avoid people and places you don’t know.

“Oh,” You say out loud, the anchors already talking about the next story -- a mining cave-in, in the Philippines. The footage of workers scrambling to help plays out loudly in the sudden silence of your apartment.

There’s nothing you can say.

Haru, still keyed up from his dance, jumps in front of you to pose in a vaguely unsettling, spider-like manner, grunting as he pretends to explode you.

You fumble accordingly, feeling the butterfly wings you’re wearing wobble as you pretend to be hit.

“You’ve defeated me, Ground Zero!” You say, signing widely. Then you pretend to choke, which probably isn’t the danger you need to worry about when faced with an explosion, but does have the desired effect of making Haru cackle, breathlessly and mean.

It’s a cold night; you’re walking home with Haru from his Halloween Party – a silent disco, thrown by the local JSL organization that his signing tutor was apart of. It’d been fun to watch Haru have fun, running around chasing balloons, the music bluetoothed for implants and hearing aids, headphones. They’d had games, prizes, interactive lights that half the kids had chased around the room like butterflies. Haru had had friends, other kids that stood around him as he explained how he knew not one but two Pro Heroes.

“It’s good to see Haru being himself, again.” His tutor had said aloud to you in his throaty voice, smiling as he rattled a plastic jack-o-lantern filled with sweets at you. You had smiled back, taking a polite handful, the pair of you standing under dangling bat cut-outs as you watched the kids enjoy themselves. Haru had been buzzing for days with his excitement about the party, nearly vibrating in his eagerness to show off the Ground Zero costume he swore black and blue that Akane was making him. A big claim, considering that you knew for a fact the older woman had had no idea about this.

Your usually merry neighbour had been stressed, lately, sad: a long-time friend of hers was dying. They’d grown up together, married men who’d known each other, together – raised babies together. And now Akane was sitting vigil by the woman’s bedside, waiting for the end with her. Together.

When she asked if you could babysit Haru more, take him to his dance, you didn’t even think about it. 

“Of course,” You’d promised, “That’s what I’m here for,” It had been worth it just for the sag of relief in her shoulders. She still had no idea she was responsible for making Haru the costume of a lifetime, though – in the end, his mother ended up buying him one, complete with plastic grenades. It didn’t seem to deter the little liar at all when you pointed out how nice it was of her to do that, the boy just shrugging, unphased. He was getting to be more and more like his role model every day, you had thought ruefully at the time.

It’d been a few days since you’ve seen Bakugou – Katsuki. Thinking of him in terms of his first name, so intimately, still had the power to stop you short each time, the potency of the memory (you, whispering it as he thrust into you) taking your breath away.

Your phone pings, and you glance at it; Kirishima, a message from the groupchat he’s made with you and Bakugou just the other day, the suspicious timing firmly concreting his position in this psudeo-ménage à trois you three have going. Despite the thought, you smile. He’s been the most enthusiastic in the chat so far, sending random photos of his day, cheery hellos, song links. Most of the time you react with emojis – Bakugou rarely reacts at all, leaving you both on read.

Tonight Kiri has sent a photo of his current view; the Tokyo skyline. It’s beautiful, and distant; you wonder if it does something for him, for Bakugou, all the Pro Heroes – to be able to literally watch over a city you’ve sworn to protect.

There’s another ping; another photo. It’s a selfie, Kirishima’s shark teeth flashing brightly underneath his jaw armour, holding up a peace sign. Beside him Bakugou is making an angry face, distorting his Hero mask, mid-yell. It makes you grin, and you have to oblige, now. You send them a picture of your view – Haru in a classic All-Might pose, hands on hips as he carefully surveys a promotional poster for cute, monster-themed ice-creams, a Halloween collection.

One of his grenade bracers – puffy and soft - is slightly squished, the fins of his mask uneven; he looks like he’s standing tall after a hard victory, his idol in miniature.

Ground Zero squaring off against his greatest enemies: cavities, you type.

Kirishima instantly reacts to it, a line of laughing emojis. So manly!!!!

Then Bakugou replies.

Tell the brat to brush his teeth.

You smile down at your phone, then glance back at Haru, who’s staring hard at the Cat ice-cream, it’s chocolate witch hat, the sprinkles.

You wait, Haru glancing back at you. “I know,” You say, signing it quickly. “Maybe tomorrow.”

He huffs but obediently follows you, leap frogging along the way to the train station.

You hear them before you see them. It’s a busy Wednesday night, office workers and tourists and shoppers all around you the closer you get to the station. People are getting excited for Halloween on the weekend, so the noise of someone shouting into a megaphone doesn’t surprise you until you turn a corner with Haru and see the posters again.

Ogami and Bakugou, printed over and over – the lanky, too-skinny spokesman standing before them with his microphone and his rolled up pamphlets.

Haru is delighted; he jumps to copy Ground Zero’s pose, growling as he does, a gremlin that’s crawled from purgatory as opposed to Bakugou’s soldier who’s come roaring out of Hell.

“Come on,” You tell him sharply, signing it quickly. He roars and then leaps ahead of you, continuing his growling – but you’ve both already caught the attention of the protestors, of their spokesman, his silver glasses glinting as he frowns at you in recognition.

He watches you and Haru both, his eyes lingering over the boy in particular, the adornments of his costume. The grenade bracers. The mask and fins. It sends a cold wash down your spine and you glare at him as you put yourself between Haru and the man, feeling your costume wings bounce at the movement, ushering the boy away towards the platforms where you can hear the soft wind-down whirr of the trains pulling in and out.

Haru doesn’t notice it at all, the blessings of innocence. You feel Spectacles’ gaze on you both, though, until you turn the corner again, finally away from his line of sight.  

Akane’s friend died that night, while you and Haru were dawdling back, playing on the street.  

You make a boutonniere for Akane to wear to her friend’s wake, white chrysanthemum. Simple enough, pinned neatly to her black dress when she dropped Haru off to you, at your store.

“You’re a good girl,” She said, her face lined, gripping the envelope with her funeral offering tightly. Beside her, Haru waited with unusual patience. He’d dressed up in his Ground Zero costume again, today for Halloween proper, demanding that you wear your butterfly wings once more, determined to make you play an oversized mutant terrorizing the city. If anyone could’ve seen your trio, standing in your little store, it would’ve been ridiculous – you in your apron, your glauzy Monarch wings, Haru in his Hero gear. Akane, every inch the mourner.

You held her hands, the feel of them like soft paper-creche. Gentle hands that sewed aprons for people she loved, that cooked and cleaned and cared. “I’m so sorry,” You told her. “Akane – I’m so sorry. Your friend was lucky to have you in this life. You took such good care of her – please take of yourself, too.”

It was something people had told you after your grandfather had died. Akane had nodded stiffly, her eyes glistening and neither of you parted for a long moment, before she gently tugged away, dabbing at her eyes.

Haru hugged her tightly before she left, and then it was just you and your little shadow, amid your flowers for the week, a cascade of bright pink roses.

You can feel your wings tremble as you shift between buckets, pulling what you need. Haru makes an impatient noise but you have to work.

“Go play,” You say, rose in hand. “Later, I’ll play with you. We’ll go to the park before dinner.”

He gives you a flinty-eyed look of mistrust, but disappears quickly enough. He knows not to leave the boundaries of the street, and every shop keeper here knows him, used to seeing him rough-housing by himself. He’ll be fine.

You spend a long while de-thorning roses, a tedious and sometimes painful job, the thorns flying about like shrapnel. You’re making an obscenely massive display piece – for the Pro Hero Pinky, of all people, her order coming earlier that week, with do direction beyond, “Cute, pink and ROSES!!” She’d insisted on talking to you herself about it, though she was a part of a larger agency; the call had been less about floral arrangements by the end and more about gossip, Pinky – Ashido – delighting in telling you about her and “her boys’” UA days.

These Pros were infliterating your life, you thought in bemusement, smiling. And then you remembered Bakugou, the touch of the back of his hand against your cheek as his lips brushed against yours like the papery beat of a moth wing.

Warmth pools in your gut, and you pause mid-strip of a long rose, your breath caught.

As if on cue, your phone pings. It’s the groupchat again – Kirishima has sent another photo, another selfie of him and a reluctant Bakugou. Kirishima’s wearing a headband with little, bobble Jack-o-Lanterns, beaming brilliantly as though you’re there in person. Bakugou is scowling, mid-motion in ripping off a witch hat, a flash of light that you think might’ve been the beginnings of his Quirk, exploding in his palm.

Halloween at work!!

Despite your warm face, you linger over the blond. You want to see him again – but you have no idea what you’d say. Or do.

Instead, you try and take your own selfie. You take a lot, unhappy with the face you’re making – or maybe just your face in general – in all of them, but at last you manage to get one that includes your wings, the roses around you. And it’s flattering enough, you guess.

Halloween at work, you return, sending it.  

Kirishima sends a paragraph of hearts. Bakugou leaves you both on read, making you snort when you realise. Typical.

You’re done with the bulk of your arrangement when Haru finally comes back. He’s so quiet, you don’t even realise he’s there until a small hand grasps your apron, startling you.

“You okay?” You ask, dropping the roses you’re holding on the table, slipping the metal flower stripper you’re using into your pocket to sign. “What’s up? Want lunch?”

Haru shakes his head, frowning. He’s pushed his mask up, holding back his dark hair and he takes a long time before he says, signing small, “There’s someone weird outside.” 

Your heart instantly drops.

“It’s okay,” You tell him, smiling a shop smile. “Let’s just stay inside, okay? It’ll be better to stay together, until they’re gone.”

He doesn’t move, pressed against you, and then he says, “He offered me a Quirk.”

The look on his baby-face is heartbreaking as he signs it, even as warning bells are going off in your head. You’ve never, ever seen Haru this unsure.

“Hey,” You say, dropping to his height, your wings beating against your back with the sudden movement. “You did the right thing coming back here.” You stroke his hair and smile, though you’re frightened now. This is weird enough that you feel justified in messaging Kirishima and Bakugou about it, but before you can reach your phone, Haru is tensing up underneath your hands, a scuff of shoes announcing an arrival.

“Oh,” Says a familiar, grave voice. “It’s you again.”

Everything within you tenses at the words. Without a megaphone, his voice is deceptively calmer and you swallow before turning around to stare at the man on your shop threshold.

It’s the rally spokesman. Spectacles, his eyes watery under his glasses, though his gaze on the pair of you is sharp. “You’re wearing the same costumes,” He comments mildly. “How cute. Is he yours? Is that where he gets his Quirklessness from? What were you coming back from, on Wednesday?”

“Get out of my store,” You tell him, your voice shaking with rage, shifting so that Haru is behind you. Every word he’s speaking is like a rope around your chest, tightening the fear. How did he know about your Quirklessness?

The man before you nods like he expected no less and then says, “This is inopportune. I wasn’t planning on acting today, but I saw our young friend here and recognised him. It’s such a shame, isn’t it? That they’re taught so young to admire the people who oppress them.”

“Better that then standing on street corners, harassing people.” You say hotly, loudly. You want to scream but Akane isn’t next door, and the shop on the otherside of you is closed, today. “Get out of my shop.”

A white, square van pulls up outside – Sugimoto, you think in a surge of hope. But then you realise – you haven’t arranged for any pick-ups, today, and your fears are confirmed when the side door opens and a pair of unfamiliar men in drab green jumpsuits climb out, pulling their hats down low.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” Spectacles says, like you’re being unreasonable. The men join him, flanking either side and you have to wonder at how quickly this has happened. How did they know? “If you come willingly, you could be a part of something greater than yourself, than your store. Than this society.”

Haru has not breathed behind you, watching the whole thing, feeling the tense lines of your body. You think of him and his vibrant joy, how still he is now, afraid.

“Go to Hell,” You tell the intruder thickly, your hand already wrapping around the metal of your flower stripper, hidden in your pocket. If you can distract them, maybe Haru can dart away –

Spectacles sighs. “You’re the first one I’ve offered that to directly, you know. But it’s fine. Bring them,” He says, off-handedly.

Even without quirks, you think, humans still find ways to hurt each other. The men are faster than you, knocking over buckets – you yell as one grabs your arm, the other going for Haru, who screeches. You jab the teeth of your flower-stripper into the arm that’s got ahold of Haru, the boy thrashing – someone swears – and then there’s a blinding pain in the back of your head, and everything goes black.

When you wake up, your head is pounding, your mouth is dry and your cheek is pillowed on cold concrete.

“You’re awake,” Says that hateful, mildly surprised voice. “I was beginning to wonder.”

You try to move – your hands are tied behind your back and you groan, pressing your face into the cool of the floor. When you open your eyes again your vision is blurred, but you can make out a high concrete ceiling, pillars. Are you in a parking lot? An abandoned building? You’re trying to think of possibilities through your thumping headache, but it’s hard to keep hold of coherent thought. It’s empty here, cold; you’re shivering before you realise. It could be a new building, a unfinished development, but you have no idea where in the city that could be, or if you were even still in the city. 

Your headache and your dry mouth tell you little – mostly that some time has passed, at least. Depending on how long you’ve been knocked out for, people should know you’re gone now. Akane will – maybe one of the Pros on patrol. Someone on the street would’ve noticed something, the van, your empty store, the fact that you didn’t close up, your plants and flowers still spilling out onto the sidewalk. People knew you and Haru were gone, you were sure of it. All that mattered now was keeping Haru unharmed, while help came.

If help came.

“Haru,” You croak, huffing against the concrete. Managing to turn your throbbing head, you glare at your captor, who’s sitting a ways from you, cross-legged, watching your struggle with interest. Next to him (curled up tightly into himself, the fins of his Ground Zero mask trembling) is Haru.

The boy’s head is buried in his arms and you say his name again – more habit than sense - but he doesn’t move.

Spectacles has a hand on the back of Haru’s neck – your blood boils over. “Don’t fucking touch him!”

His wan face pulls – he makes a face like you don’t know what you’re talking about. “Aren’t you curious about how I knew?”

“No,” You lie furiously. You can feel the pull of your ridiculous costume wings as you shake. “I don’t care.”

The man before you could’ve very well made a good teacher, in a different world. He gives you a patient look, knowing you’re being deliberately obtuse – and then he says, “I think you are. It’s alright, I’ll explain it to you. People deserve to have their options laid out for them, simply: my Quirk lets me see the power in people, gives me the ability to draw it out of them, to help them. I saw yours the first time you paused in front of our rally, with your flowers.”

You cough, throat sore, though it turns into a sickly laugh. “You’re insane,” You breathe, cheek still pressed up against the concrete. “So what, you just ruin peoples’ lives for the fun of it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” He admonishes, his hand on Haru shifting, just slightly. The boy peeks up – you make eye contact and Haru’s head shoots up, the tear-tracks on his little face stabbing at you, guiltily. “I help people. Or I try. But we can’t be expected to live our lives under the thumb of a super-powered majority. The world is skewered in the Quirkeds’ favour; this boy will grow up – is growing up – in a society that has no place for him. Is that what you want?”

You stare at him blankly. “You think this is helping people?” You ask, thickly. “You don’t help anyone, you’re just hurting people!” Then, gripped by your overwhelming fury at his hypocrisy, you shriek, “You have a Quirk! You don’t know anything!”

Haru is staring at you with wide, wet eyes, his lashes stark against his face; you feel your lips trembling, unable to smile for him. You have no idea how much of what you’re saying he can read, but – you hope he’s oblivious to it, to it all.

Spectacles waits for a beat longer, before talking with that same, measured calmness. “You think this world is kind to someone, just because they have a Quirk? Our society has a very narrow definition of what is good enough, my friend. If your Quirk isn’t flashy, if it’s ugly, or awkward -- if you’re quiet enough to go unnoticed – you will slip through the cracks, and no one will care.”

He sounds so – convicted. And you can’t deny it, the truth in what he’s saying – wasn’t that why the Hero Commission collapsed like it did? Why a class of high school graduates could bring it toppling down? Why they were working now to rebuild something better, something that actually helped people?

Nothin’ to protest if the idiot extras had done their jobs right, Bakugou’s voice whispers in your mind.

“You’re no better than the worst of them,” You tell him, voice tight. “If you really cared about change, you wouldn’t be hurting random people.”

Your captor tilts his head, considering your words. Then he smiles indulgently, like a parent responding to the rambles of a child. “Sometimes change can only come from violence. We’ve had more successes than failures, you know – grateful successes, who come to see what we mean. You could be one of them.”

You grin, and you can feel it crack, awful and ugly. “I’d rather die.”

And you would, you think fiercely – your Grandfather, his garden. Your life, your little green, happy shop. Katsuki, shuffling into the store, awkward and grumpy. If you had a Quirk you’d have never lived this exact life. This exact, precious life. It’s yours, everything it entails – your twilight loneliness, the warmth of the golden afternoon light as you walk along familiar streets. The hum of your refrigerator at work, keeping your most fussy of flowers fresh. You love it and you won’t let anyone - anyone - make you feel like it wasn’t enough.  

Spectacles hums, your bravo instantly souring when he begins to stroke the back of Haru’s head, lightly. Haru looks so small next to him, so small and frightened. It makes you sick. I’d rather die, you’d said, like it was something to be proud of, like you didn’t have this small creature to worry about.

“Don’t touch him!” You gasp out. “Don’t you dare touch him!”

He almost looks pleasant when he smiles at you, almost kind, his glasses glinting in the low light. “Don’t you think it’s our job, to empower the next generation in any way we can?” He asks.

Before you can suck in your breath, he places his hand firmly on Haru’s head, the palm glowing – and you scream as Haru begins to convulse, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

Your throat is shredding, the sound you’re making inhuman – but you can’t stop, you don’t stop, you can only see Haru in pain, can only imagine the too-skinny man from your street, tearing it up, dying in custody later on, when his own body couldn’t handle his newfound abilities. Ogami, running past with his friend, laughing. Ogami, choking on the viscous fluid he couldn’t help but spew.

You scream into the concrete when the monster across from you lets a now unconscious Haru drop.

“You’ll have your turn,” He promises over your wailing. “Don’t worry so much, there’s no need for dramatics. The boy is fine, look.”

Even as he’s speaking, you choke on your rage, your grief – but he’s right. Haru twitches, then looks up, fresh tears shinning on his cheeks, his big eyes dazed.  He looks at you like he’s pleading, and your heart breaks, your vision blurring. “Haru,” You whisper, your own tears a warm trickle. “Haru, baby, I’m so sorry.”

He’s so pitifully young. He’s a child. The agony of not being able to save him is awful, it’s overwhelming and you feel yourself heave with it, your wings twisting beneath you. You might as well go with him, you think numbly. Even if you lived – you could never, would never be able to face Akane, or his mother again. Not in this life. Not even in the next.

“This is an… interesting reaction,” Spectacles says, musing aloud. “I hope that means it’s promising. Normally the delay is much longer.”

The delay, he says. Like the delay with Ogami? The Electro Whip attack? The Garden Centre worker? Were they even aware that they’d been affected? How had he gotten them? Just reached out, randomly, and touched them as they went past on a busy street?

“Haru,” You whisper through your tears. He blinks at you wetly, looking so lost and hurt and confused and you have never, ever felt pain like this before – overwhelming, all-consuming.

Is this what parents feel, when faced with the horrific ramifications of watching a small, dependant being suffer? The future Haru should’ve had – all its’ disappointments, its’ glories, its’ agonies and love – it should have all been his to shift through and feel and deal with. How long does he have? How long did the others have? Is a Hero – one of his Heroes – going to have to put him down like some kind of rabid dog, when his Quirk mutates?

And worst of all – would Haru even understand what was happening to him?

You watch, empty, as your captor lifts himself to his feet, moving over to you, lifting you up so that you’re kneeling, execution style.

He straightens your wings, the misplaced tenderness making you want to vomit.

“Don’t you want to know what kind of power you have inside of you?” He asks, quietly. “We’re ending Quirklessness – we’re ending being defenceless. None of us are equal until we’re all equal.”

His hand is heavy against your hair, and you try to jerk it off, but he pets you steadily, and you can’t help but watch Haru, who’s staring at you both, frightened.

“It’s okay,” You tell him, managing a watery smile. “Haru, it’s okay.”

His eyes dart to Spectacles’ hand in your hair, growing wide with alarm – and before you can comprehend it, Haru opens his mouth and screams – not a sound, but a blast. A physical soundwave.

Everything happens in an instant. The building itself rumbles, and you’re lifted from the ground by the shock of it, thrown backwards at a terrifying speed – before you collide with the concrete behind you, you think of three things, the moment suspended.

The watering can in your Grandfather’s garden, green and rusted, weather beaten.

A smaller Haru, barely four, laughing breathlessly at Akane as she deliberately fumbled through her newly learnt signs, telling him she was a cat instead of his grandmother.

And lastly – Katsuki. Katsuki, outlined in gold, holding buckets of your flowers, unsure. Katsuki hesitantly brushing your face with his knuckles as his lips hovered over yours, brushing against them in a fairy’s breath as he tried not to swallow. Katsuki, walking along side you in a wet street.

Time catches up with your heart, too fast: the blast of Haru’s shriek hits you, and there is a wall of concrete –

And you don’t know anything, anymore.

Chapter Text

Katsuki wakes up without his alarm.

It’s early; too early. The world outside his dorm window is a deep blue, the dawn barely a thought. Through the wall he can hear the rumble of Kirishima’s snoring – irritating, familiar. Comforting, though Katsuki would rather choke than ever admit it aloud.

His fists tighten beside him as the boy breathes in, easily. He has air. He’s in his bed. He’s not dreaming anymore.

There’s no going back to sleep now; Katsuki’s too awake, staring at the dark map of his ceiling, assessing each shadow. He could lie here and wait for a more respectable hour, get ready for class, dwell in the suffocation of his own overthinking – or he could get up, and do.

There is never really a choice.

Katsuki Bakugou is seventeen and running, the sky lightening around the dorm grounds as he runs to the  soundtrack of his heart, the beat of his feet, his breath. The trees rustle, the pale glitter of Musutafu Bay flickering through them like the distant city lights.

It’ll still be too early, when he gets back to the dorms. He will still be alone. The chaos of the morning won’t start until later, a cacophony that can only be created by the collection of idiots he’s forced to live with. Horns will be blasting her “motivational, get-up and dance” bullshit from the girl’s floor so loudly the rest of them will physically have to suffer through it. Dunce Face will be making the bathroom unbearable as he generates his own static electricity, blow drying his hair and mumbling sleepily to himself with the power cord in his mouth, inadvertently zapping anyone that gets too close. Four-eyes will start shouting at someone for not following the revised dorm rules.

And Katsuki –

Katsuki wakes up without his alarm.

He’s no longer seventeen and it is still too early. The world outside his apartment windows is blue-dark, the city glittering, dawn yet to touch here. He is an adult, and he doesn’t feel any different from that boy in his past. They’ve both hurt people, and been hurt. They both have trouble sleeping.

He could lay in bed and wait for his alarm to start his day, get ready for work, dwell on the hazard that is his own overthinking – or he can get up, and do.

Katsuki makes the same choice he always does and sits up in his bed, ignoring his aches, the wear and tear of being a Pro Hero, and starts to get ready to race straight into another day. 

The last thing Katsuki wants to see this morning – or any morning, really - is Stupid Deku’s stupid face. And yet here’s the fucker, lingering around like a bad smell as he leans against the Riot Ground kitchen counter as though he’s in his own home.

“And?” Katsuki tuts, working on not letting his annoyance show. The fucker’s been rattling on for twenty minutes now, and shows no sign of winding down.

No matter how far they’ve come, no matter what they go through together or share, there will always be a fundamental part of the blond who’s knee-jerk reaction to Deku’s hopeful, earnest expression is nothing short of irritation.

Deku, who is used to Katsuki’s need to get to the fucking point, carries on, “- the autopsy’s not giving anything conclusive beyond general weakness, which, given the state the man was in is no surprise. Considering his health, it’s a miracle he managed to hold on for as long as he did, but – ”

“Oi,” Katsuki snaps his fingers in front of the nerd’s face to stop him from rambling. “I get it, shuddup.”   

Green-eyes blink at him owlishly, and then Deku – one of the greatest heroes of their generation (if not the greatest, Katsuki thinks, begrudgingly) – has the gall to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his dark green curls. “Sorry, Kacchan.”

Katsuki flattens his mouth, ignoring the ridiculous apology as he opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water, throwing it to Deku who catches it without fumbling, grinning at him gratefully (why the fuck is he always so grateful for every scrap?).

“There’ll be another lead,” Deku promises, in the same tone he declares to civilians that he’s there for them, that he’s arrived. “We’ll find who’s doing this.”

Shrugging, Katsuki takes a swig from his own bottle, though he can’t help his frown. The poor bastard that was the Electro Whip attacker should’ve never have been there, and Katsuki can feel the age-old rage crawl up his chest at the thought of the man’s useless death. The police should’ve done better to keep him alive while he was in their custody, to fucking monitor him, instead of chaining him up like an animal (like a fifteen-year-old child on national television, losing his shit, muzzled and enraged). He should’ve done better, found answers sooner. And now, because he didn’t – the miserable bastard was dead.

The man was weak, lost and in the worst possible state to survive something as sudden and all-consuming as a forced Quirk mutation. Whatever happened to him, whoever had happened to him, it was cowardly. Attempted manslaughter at fucking least, as far as the Pro was concerned – unforgivable.

Outside in the hallway, they can hear the noise of the television crew wrapping up their take, the agency too lively for Katsuki’s tastes. It’s some sponsorship thing, a paid gig – fucking Heroism, coming down to who could pay the highest for them to endorse shit – but their manager had been keen and Shitty Hair, as usual, had shone at the idea.

“My offer still stands, Kacchan.” Deku says, quietly, drawing the blond’s attention back to him. Katsuki assesses him; dressed in the green of his Hero costume, his white cape back-lit by the morning light now flooding through the windows, the nerd looked like some shitty poster for Symbol of Peace propaganda. My offer still stands – of course it does, Katsuki thinks. Izuku has never been good at recognising when to give up. Not when it comes to what he wants.

“Still no.” Katsuki says bluntly, rewarded for that with the dubious pleasure of seeing the most popular ranked Hero in Japan pout like a child.

“Kacchan, you said you’d think about it!” He argues back, like he has Katsuki impeccably cornered.

The blond scowls, incredulous. “Yeah, and I did fuckin’ think about it, you shitty fucking nerd. You said you’d give me three more years – what part of me ‘n Ei starting an agency together did you not fucking get? Y'really think I’d just up and leave Ei with the fucking bill for this place to go play caped crusaders with you?”

Deku the teenage martyr would’ve risen instantly at the challenge in that, just as volatile as Katsuki the teenage psychopath, for all that the people around them refused to see it. Deku the Pro Hero, however, just gives his oldest friend (that’s not the right word for them, Katsuki thinks distantly, not with all the rot between them, but nothing else fits) a long-suffering look.

“I know Kirishima wants to absorb some of the others into Riot Ground soon,” He says in a patient tone that makes Katsuki want to headbutt him out of pure spite. “It’s not like he’d be left alone with an empty warehouse and some kids – you guys want to open this up to some of the best in the field. He’s literally filming a sponsorship right now, Kacchan – the two of you together have been very attractive, deal wise. I know for a fact that Riot Ground can pay for itself and then some – ”

“You gave me three years,” Katsuki says loudly, mostly to stop Deku because he could start rattling off the Agency’s combined capture and rescue states, or something equally obnoxious and stalkerish. “M’not going solo with you yet. There’s shit I want to do, first – nag Half ‘n Half if you’re desperate.”

“Kacchan!” Deku protests, exasperated. “This isn’t about being desperate! We work well together – we always end up teaming up, anyway.” Something determined in his face settles, and his voice drops. “I want you next to me. Properly. You know that. You know it’s always you. You know why.”

Katsuki scoffs, though he can feel the noose that is the secret of One For All tighten around his throat, burning – like the prickle of Deku’s Blackwhip, reaching out for him during their stupid exercises of Catch-A-Kacchan (like the sludge of a villain, pulsating down and around the throat of a fourteen-year-old kid. Like his guilt, hot white).

“Yeah,” He says at last, not missing the way Deku’s eyes brighten, like a cat. “I know.”

Eijiro Kirishima is the nosiest bastard alive, and between ruining a perfectly good, Deku-less week with the shitty nerd’s shitty face, and now his best friend apparently taking on the traits of a pushy housewife, Katsuki has had enough.

“I’ll look,” He says, annoyed. “The pet brat can have one, shuddup.”

Eijiro gives him a sideways glance from where he’s admiring today’s flowers, twirling them in their vase. “Katsuki, man, the kid’s name is Haru.”

Katsuki just tches.

He’d missed you and the pet brat, apparently, Eijiro casually informing him like Katsuki should care. The blond wasn’t fucking dumb; he knew why Eijiro was taking such careful, special interest of all your visits. The idiot wasn’t subtle and Katsuki had no idea what Eijiro was seeing in either himself or you that was warranting the push, but – that was just how Ei worked.

He’d always been pushy; their friendship was testament to that, to Eijiro’s assurance that pushing was the right thing to do, that he needed to befriend every lonely thing in the world like the sunshine he was. That day on your little street, amid the rubble and the chaos and the dust, Katsuki had looked at his friend and partner and had practically seen the moment he lit up with his interest in you, in the kid. Eijiro was always a mushy sap for that kind of shit, and you were a perfect recipe for it: your stupid little flower shop, decimated (thanks to him, Katsuki reminded himself). The overly-protective, self-sacrificing brat. The look on your face as you explained how the both of you were Quirkless.

(The sharp intake of your breath as Katsuki had held you in the aftermath of his attack, both your hearts pounding.)

He wonders, briefly, if you’re one of those annoying extras who has a crush on Eiji. It wasn’t like it’d be surprising. Katsuki had noticed the way your eyes had widened when Eijiro swooped in to save you and the brat from his temper. The warming of your cheeks as your eyes flickered over him. The blonde sees similar shit on a day-to-day basis; the office girls, tittering around Eijiro as he beams his blockhead smile at them, taking a genuine interest in their day. The way kids flock to him when he’s on patrol, making a game of following him, laughing at his easiness, the way he'll entertain them, spoil them by suggesting everyone needed ice-cream (ice-cream that he then buys himself, like a moron);

“- really manly if you could spare one! I know you like them for your collection, dude, but you should’ve seen the little man today. The way his little face just lit up – and I promised – ”

Katsuki feels his mouth pull as he frowns, Ei still prattling on about you. Maybe he was asking himself the wrong questions – maybe Eijiro was the one with the crush. He was so insistent on this kid getting a new toy – because he promised you.

Eijiro is a pusher. He will push and push at people, push his way into peoples lives, their hearts. Katsuki has been surrounded by pushers all his life. Eijiro. Deku. The idiots he went to school with, their teachers. Hell, even the League of Bastards – people have always, always pushed at him for something. Betterment. Power. Friendship.

And now a fucking action figure.

“I said the brat can have one, didn’t I?” Katsuki says, without heat. “Cool your fuckin’ jets.”

The grin Eijiro gives him is blinding and Katsuki scowls, still burning about the collection jab.

It’s not as if he’s obsessed: Katsuki’s merch collection is tightly controlled, a curated representation of his favourite pieces. It’s nothing like Deku’s All Might room (rooms, plural, if you counted the Nerd’s own bedroom). Or even the heavily rotated pieces of Class-A merch that Deku keeps in his wardrobe. A Froppy raincoat; a Uravity hoodie. Ingenium sneakers. The punk even has Ground Zero gear – Katsuki’s seen him in it, much to his horror – but that’s the shitty nerd for you, forever the fanboy, no matter how big or stupid powerful he got.

(It makes the lack of Izuku’s own merch in his collection even more obvious, Katsuki thinks – not that the morons around them have noticed. They just see the enthusiastic fanboy, the supportive friend. They don’t see the Quirkless middle-schooler who got bullied mercilessly while the teachers looked on, or how he grew up into a bashful, embarrassed Pro Hero, disbelieving, still, that he deserves it. Just like how Katsuki has been surrounded all his life by pushers, Deku has been surrounded by takers – Katsuki the worst one of all; that self-confidence, that belief just another thing he ripped from Izuku when they were younger – that had to be restored by other, better people.

Deku has long since forgiven him. He wouldn’t be the Hero he is, if he couldn’t. But for all of Katsuki’s ups and downs, he hasn’t forgiven himself yet, wearing their past over his heart as a reminder of what he’s capable of –

And a warning.)

He ends up delivering the toy himself, like some discount Santa.

Ei offers to drop it off – they’re both busy, Katsuki actively moreso, thanks to the current investigation – but the blond just shrugs him off.

“Fuck off,” He says, one hand already on the agency door, the other gripping the handles of the gift bag he’d picked out. “You wanted me to do this, so m’gonna do it,”

Your little street is nondescript when it’s not a makeshift battlefield – a nothing street, really. Unremarkable. The same Mom & Pop stores Katsuki could find on any other one. Produce. Hot food. Your shitty little flower shop, with it’s stupid flowers –

A shitty little flower shop he has to fight through a group of enthusiastic fans to get to, apparently.  That’s on him – wearing the full regalia of his Hero costume out in public does this, no matter where he is. Climbing to the top like he has warrants public attention and for all that he’s a surly shit, Katsuki tries, with people – he does. It’s more than he ever did as a teenager and so when this group of loud, bright foreign kids accost him, he’s gruff but signs whatever they shove in front of his face, over and over. But they press in too close, too excited, and Katsuki’s hard-won patience begins to fray: it’s only when an excited streak in the form of your pet brat missiles its’ way through them that Katsuki is freed, allowed to be obnoxious when the kid throws himself at him.

Katsuki has never been… great, with kids. He’s too loud, too violent to connect with them – an oversized bully. But your little friend clings to him like Katsuki’s personally responsible for whipping his soft-serve and pouring it out into a cone for him, or something – and after shifting, making sure he won’t drop the brat, the Pro manages to move them both out of the crowd and towards your shop: towards you, standing there and holding some stupid sunflowers, beaming like one yourself – like you’ve wanted nothing else, all day.

Your shop stinks of the bittersweet snap of dark greens, the coy perfume of flowers – Katsuki pauses at the threshold of it, unsure. He feels too flammable, too explosive to be safely among all the greenery; instead he frowns, taking in all the plants spilling out to the pavement, unfettered by the glass window that used to be there. “You got retractable doors installed?”

You look amused by this, saying something about a landlord – Katsuki tries not to frown harder (retractable was smart, really – less likely to be smashed in by another careless pro), and then glances at the kid he’s still holding, who’s staring at him with rapt attention, making the Pro’s jaw tighten.

(It’s not as if Katsuki is worth it.)

The thing is –

You and the kid both just – you treat him like – like he’s worth the admiration. The kid stares at him with a Deku-like devotion, which, yeah, Katsuki guesses he’s had some experience with, by now.

But you – you’re not like the extras he’s surrounded by, the ones he went to school with. They’re all good Heroes – they had to be, to survive their teen years – but there’s a sliding scale for how much they can tolerate him and how much he can tolerate them. They all care about each other, and even Katsuki will admit to it, begrudgingly; but he knows the idiots look at him a lot of the time and still see that teenager with the hair-thin trigger on his anger, still laugh at expired jokes and habits that Katsuki is beginning to think he’ll never escape.

(“Isn’t past your bedtime, Kacchan?” Denki asks without fail, cackling to himself every time they end up together on the same late-night job, the city glittering before them.

“You’re always such a jerk,” Round Face says decisively, catching Katsuki as he finally snaps and tells Deku to back off – exercising that propriety right she thinks she has over the shitty nerd, just because she likes him.

“Ah – hey, Bakugou,” Tails greets him, an awkward afterthought after going through every other idiot from Class-A at the bar.

And yes, these are his own doing. Katsuki chooses to put distance between himself and other people, he chooses to tell them to fuck off when they need to – but at times it wears on him, grinds him down just that little bit further.)

You – you see him in a crowd of tourists, angry and annoyed and ready to implode and you smile. You welcome him in. You seem friendly, something that Katsuki guesses comes from your line of work – customer service – but he watches the way your eyes crinkle, the way your cheeks warm sometimes and it makes him awkward, leaves him standing there trying not to frown, trying to figure out if you’re making fun of him or being sincere. Katsuki has never been good with dealing with sincerity. It’s another level of vulnerability he still hasn’t quite come to terms with, finds hard to accept with the same open heartedness that other people do.  It feels like something he (explosive, dangerous) shouldn’t be capable of, something better left to the Eijiros and Dekus of the world, the people who can embody sunshine as opposed to wildfire.

It’s why he steels himself when he signs happy birthday to the kid; a phrase he’d watched videos on to re-learn, to remember, trying to do it right, do it fluidly and not just throw the words at the boy. Why he insisted on delivering the toy himself.    

(You, standing there in the bright daylight, the smoke of the scene, your hands moving clearly as you told him and Eijirou both that you and the kid were Quirkless. As far as Katsuki could tell, you still had your hearing – which meant you were doing it for the brat, and something in the blond’s chest tightened with the old memories of learning basic phrases, the unwillingness he had, the resentment at being alone with it.)

The surprise you and the pet brat level him with, after he says it, would almost be insulting if Katsuki didn’t already mistrust the lack of basic human decency – competency - that would lead to that surprise in the first place: that someone might bother to learn how to communicate in a way that wasn’t just opening their fat trap.

This seems to prove something to the kid though, darting up from where he’d been admiring his toys – grinning in a familiar, feral way, his hands rapid.

It takes you interpreting for him for Katsuki to get it, the look on your face suggesting you wished you were anywhere else in that moment. “Haru wants to fight you. When he’s older – when he becomes a Pro Hero.” The kid says something else to you, sharp and insistent and Katsuki can almost feel your resignation. “The ultimate fight.”

The wild, smug look on the kid’s face – something similar within Katsuki recognises it, responds to it. The kid has guts; Katsuki appreciates that, appreciates the nerve it takes for this brat to think he can square up to an adult at least three times his age – it’s a self-assuredness in himself that Katsuki can respect. At first, back in the remains of your street, your shop, flowers strewn everywhere, the Pro had looked at this kid and had seen shades of Deku – small, odds stacked against him, starstruck and hopeful. But he has more fire to him than the Nerd ever did at this age. A fire that burns like Katsuki’s own, the blond thinks.

The ultimate fight, the kid had said. Katsuki hears; someone who can give him their all. The brat’s probably used to people holding back around him, treating him with kid gloves – his size, being Deaf. His Quirklessness.

A victory was only worth it when you earned it – Katsuki knew that all too well. “You become strong enough to become a Pro, and I’ll take you on one-on-one, brat.” He promises, just as feral – and he means it as he and the kid grin at each other.

After thinking about it, Katsuki is the moron that proposes adding your little district to Riot Ground’s patrolling area, adding to their workload.

Propose is a polite way of putting it: the way it happened was later that night, after seeing you, Katsuki decided that your stupid little shop – and by extension, your street – needed more protection. The poor Electro Whip bastard was the worst and most obvious of attacks, but there’d been enough uptake in petty crime in the adjacent areas that the blond was sure adding a direct walk down your street would be worth it. Especially with the random Quirk mutations still happening – they could keep their ears to the ground while they walked, and your stupid closet of a store wouldn’t have to worry about anymore unplanned renovations.

New plan decided, Katsuki had thudded back into the agency on a mission, kicking in doors til he found Eijiro in his office, looking baffled over some paperwork he knew the idiot had been procrastinating on.

“Oi,” Katsuki growled, in lieu of a hello. “We’re adding Weed’s street to our route.”

Ei, wide-eyed and confused, said, “We are?” And then, “Wait, what? Weeds?”

“Your florist friend,” The blond clarified, annoyed. The look Eijiro gave him upon realising who he meant was – irritating.

“My florist friend who has a name,” Eijiro said, his voice warm with his teasing. Katsuki just grunted in agreement, ignoring how the redhead surveyed him for a moment, before his grin became toothier, sharper, as he pushed his paperwork away.

“I’m pretty sure Canopy has dibs on the area,” Ei said, tapping his pen against the desk in a way that made Katsuki want to flick it at his head. “I dunno if he goes down that street specifically, though.”

Canopy – Katsuki frowned, trying to place the man. Older, definitely. Never cracked the top fifty, or Katsuki would’ve remembered him, no matter the generation. Probably a ditherer who wouldn’t fight hard over territory or pride, especially not now.

“Let’s set it up,” He says decisively, not missing the furtive glance Eijiro gives him. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like this is a big deal – yes, it’ll add to their workload, but the whole point of their job was to keep shit safe. You, your shitty little weed shop – Katsuki had already let it be collateral damage once before. A necessary evil, sometimes, in his line of work; but like hell he was going to let it happen again.

Canopy is happy enough to share the area, and he doesn’t question Katsuki’s pedantic need for your street in particular to be walked through. The whole point of having Pro Heros do patrol is to deter crime, villains – it was literally the first thing any of them learnt, back in their high school internships. It’s a cushy, easy job for the smaller Pros – just a hair above being a beat cop. But Katsuki comes to appreciate the old timer: he doesn’t complain about the extra steps being added to his patrol, especially since he’s the one doing it most of the time, thanks to Riot Ground’s investigations. Eijiro tells Katsuki (like Katsuki cares) that Canopy’s apparently got a thing going, with one of the old Aunts on your street. How he knows, Katsuki has no clue, but it’s just like Eijiro to pull these insignificant details from people – perpetually the Sun, with it’s own gravitational pull.

When Katsuki is finally free to take the patrol himself, he treats it like a tactical mission: make sure everything is in its’ place, that you and your shitty little shop are fine, and then get the fuck out.

You and your shoebox of a store – you make him fumble in a way he hasn’t since he was a teenager, gritting his teeth and trailing around after Best Jeanist silently, too aware of what he is and how people see him.

Katsuki is a teenager, standing silently before Japan’s no. 4 ranked Pro Hero, being told he is ferocious; Katsuki is an adult, standing at the threshold of your tiny closet of a florist shop, watching as you light up at his presence, again and again, day after day.

It’s – infuriating. Everything about this is infuriating. You, your stupid shop, your stupid chalkboard scribbles, your bouquets. The way you smile when you see him, instant. You are infuriating and soft and when Katsuki arrives on your street, tired, burnt out from a long night of scowling over the empty leads into these Quirk accidents – you are there. In your stupid, infuriatingly dependable flower shop, happily surrounded by your weeds, brightening as soon as you realise he’s patrolling.

The case keeps him travelling, jaunts that lead out of the city, up and down Japan. An accident on the highway, causing a crater big enough to wipe out multiple lanes. A little girl setting fire to her class’s Cultural Fair banner that they were diligently scribbling on. An elderly woman far North, living alone, her house coming down around her one morning. Katsuki is on every scene, scrabbling for any kind of clue to what’s causing this and finding nothing solid, time and time again.

It’s beginning to show, he thinks – the exhaustion of coming up against a brick wall, every time. Enough so that he has to start dodging Ei’s instance on taking a day off – enough so that you notice, the weight of your gaze following him one day as he refills a Bomb Boy cup at your sink (fuckin’ Bomb Boy, Katsuki thinks. That shit was around when he was a kid – he’s pretty sure his Hag of a mother has Bomb Boy themed baby album of him somewhere, probably waiting to pull it out to torment him with it next chance she gets).

The stupid face you’re making shows you’re about to snap – and sure enough, you end up blurting out something dumb about holiday hours and Katsuki scoffs, thinking darkly about the Electro Whip guy dying alone, in his holding cell. “Shit doesn’t stop jus’ ‘cause we do.”

And it’s true – more and more of this bullshit could happen if Katsuki and the others don’t find some way to end it.

You hum in non-agreement, snipping at the ends of some overgrown cabbages – and despite himself Katsuki moves closer, pulled in by invisible strings. “The fuck are you shoving cabbages in that, for?”

They’re big and purple and smell like bitter greens, bundled on the table with some tiny, delicate looking flowers in pastel colours.

You laugh at him, the sound of it going straight to his gut. “Ornamental kale. I like them because they look like… like big greeny, purple roses. They’re witchy.”

Your eyelashes almost touch the curve of your cheek when you smile, looking down at your stupid weeds like you are. Katsuki follows the swell of it in absent-minded interest, not even flinching when you glance at him and your face warms, holding up some of your stupid, witchy cabbages between the two of you. “Here –”

He takes them, trying to avoid your eyes as he does, trying not to scowl. No one has ever given him flowers before, not even ones better suited to a vegetable stand. Kale, you’d said. Edible, Katsuki hears. If you’re not a coward.

Still – he gets home later that night, stupid witch roses in hand, and instead of boiling the shit out of them to prove a point, Katsuki grabs a glass, fills it with water, roughly chops down the stems and then dumps them on his counter, a bouquet.

When he wakes up the next morning (still too early, still without his alarm) and shuffles into his kitchen, already tired – he sees them. Sitting there in the blue-dark of the dawn, their leaves unfurled wider, waiting for the day.

His flowers, he thinks, reaching out to brush one with a knuckle. His weeds.

Shortly after that, he’s called away again – travelling with Deku this time, the pair of them chasing after a possible lead all the way in Hokkaido (a man, an idiot; bragging that he can transfer people’s Quirks to others, the chaos it could cause in the wrong hands enough to mobilize them both).

Despite what Katsuki tells Deku when he’s shooting him down, he has to agree that they work well together – too well sometimes, the weight of their shared past giving them an edge over everyone else in their lives, making them seamless.

They’ve come to rest on a transmissions tower, deep downtown Sapporo, the city twinkling below them, the mountains dark in the distance. Katsuki finally looks at his phone, his hair moving with the wind as Deku floats next to him, cape fluttering as he mumbles to himself about the possibilities of this latest idiots’s Quirk being real – the blond automatically tunes him out, scrolling through messages from the other pain in his ass, a never-ending correspondence in the one-sided conversation Eijiro insists on having with himself.

He’s taken over the street patrol. It should be fairly routine – it’s not as if Ei has to do much but walk around and smile, something he’s always been good at. Katsuki thumbs over the texts; inane shit about stuff Eijiro’s remembered, a series of exclamation points about the lunch he had, some photos from his patrol. A cat sitting on a wall. The mochi some old hag gives him. A selfie with your chalkboard – the same fat-faced caricature of Katsuki in his Hero costume you teased him with last time, only now holding a bunch of your stupid cabbages and wearing a damn witch hat. Ei’s got a shit-eating grin on in the photo and Katsuki scowls down at it, hoping the fucker can somehow feel the pointed glare, like a voodoo doll. It’s not even good, he thinks grumpily.

He thumbs past it, annoyed; and then pauses at the next photo, still frowning. It’s a shot of your store, from further down the street –  as though Eijiro is walking away from it. Katsuki can just make you out in one of your garish, shapeless aprons, reaching down to pick up a bouquet. Eijiro’s scribbled on it in bright red, all safe <3 and despite his irritation at the assumption (seriously, the fucker is about as subtle as a shovel to the face), something in his jaw eases.

Next to him Deku shifts; he’s gone silent and Katsuki realises, too late, that the shitty nerd has been watching his phone over his shoulder as Katsuki scrolls. The blond immediately shoves it back in his pocket – but it’s too late, the idiot has seen enough to make his face soft, contemplative, as he watches Katsuki, waiting.

“Don’t fuckin’ say it,” Katsuki growls.

The warning is lost on Deku, as all warnings are.

“Kacchan – ” He starts, then pauses. “Is that –?”

He’s heard about you then, Katsuki thinks darkly. Eijiro has a big mouth – big enough for his teeth and big enough for his fucking gossiping.

In response Katsuki just grunts, unwilling to talk about it and Deku nods along like he’s going to leave it alone, before doing the exact opposite and saying, softly, “It’s… unlike you, Kacchan. To get close to random… civilians.”

The blond can hear what Deku is trying not to say: it’s unlike you to let anyone in. But he hasn’t, Katsuki thinks fiercely. You’re still on the edges of his life – still safely at a distance. Just because Ei’s got it in his empty head to tease him about you doesn’t mean shit –

“This view is beautiful,” Deku says suddenly, dreamily.

Katsuki glances at him suspiciously but the nerd is looking out over the city, his face solemn, and the blond follows his gaze. It’s the same jewellery-box glimmer of all cities; but Deku is right. It’s still beautiful.

It’s rare for Deku to just let the two of them exist in silence for too long, though, and sure enough the dweeb opens his mouth again to ruin the peace and quiet. “From here, it all looks so… safe. That everything and everyone is alright. That nothing bad is happening to anyone.”

Get to the point, Katsuki thinks grumpily. Deku seems to read his mind and gives a little laugh, turning to look at the blond with those big, dumb eyes, the city lights making them shine. “I want to do this for the rest of my life, Kacchan – keep everything, everyone, safe.”

Something about that sends a chill down Katsuki’s spine. The rest of my life, Deku says. Katsuki thinks of All Might, as he is now – emancipated, sickly – and hears, until I can’t anymore.

The price of One For All.

“Then shud’up ‘n do it,” Katsuki grits out, trying not to choke on what he’s thinking.

Deku looks back out at the city, smiling wryly to himself as he flexes a heavily scarred hand. “I will,” He promises, simply. He looks down at his palm. “Always.” Then he looks to Katsuki again, something in his gaze settling into hard determination. “I’m glad you’re in my life, Kacchan. I’m… I’m glad it’s you.”

Katsuki’s shoulders stiffen, his mouth flattening. They don’t talk about this often – the responsibility of who they are. Victory and Heart. Saving and Winning. One For All, and what it really means.

The two of them have shaped so much of each other’s lives; more than anyone or anything else, in some ways. Chasing after one another in an endless loop, forever – until one of them dies.  

He looks at Deku, furtively; the nerd is smiling to himself, still watching the glitter below them. The rest of my life, Deku had said.

He’s never said it explicitly, but Katsuki has never needed things spelt out for him, and the shitty nerd is easy – too easy – to read. Out of the two of them, the lives they lead, the battles they face down, Deku has always been so, so sure that he will die first. Leaving Katsuki behind, like he always does in the end.

“Kacchan, I think it’s brave.” Deku says out of the blue, making Katsuki wonder for a paranoid moment if the twerp can hear his thoughts, now. “I mean – I think it’s brave that you’re letting yourself get close to someone, again. Someone who isn’t one of us.”

Katsuki scowls. No one is close to anything, he thinks hotly, though he’s removed enough from the reactive little shit he used to be not to snarl this.

Deku looks at him, and adds, “I know it’s not easy. We don’t – we don’t exactly get… normal. And with One For All – ”

“Yeah,” Katsuki says at last, cutting him off. “I know.”

He’s always seen One For All for what it is: not just some generational power, handed down to the next Hero – but a curse. He saw it when they were teenagers, when it was given to the biggest, most self-sacrificing idiot he knew, passed down from another big, self-sacrificing idiot who’s life had already been ruined. He sees it now that they’re adults, the current Symbol of Peace sitting stretched out alongside him, smiling down at a city he doesn’t live in, prepared to give up his life for it and everyone in it.

Izuku is ready to lay down his life for the world before him; and it’s not a burden Katsuki will let him carry alone. Not this, not the worry of making sure One For All won’t perish off the face of the Earth with him.

(“I need someone I can trust,” Deku, eighteen, tells him quietly, as they overlook the school grounds, warm and gold in the afternoon light.

The blond is silent, mouth tight. Someone I can trust, Deku says. Someone who will make the hard choices, Katsuki hears.)

The idiot is still smiling and Katsuki feels something harden within him. Deku thinks he can do anything, have everything – and so far the universe keeps proving him right.

He can be Quirkless and still become one of the most powerful Pro Heroes in the world. He can have his childhood idol become his mentor, his father figure, guiding him through this life with a gentle hand. He can find and make and keep new friends that love him for who he is, support him, come to him in his time of need. He can even, finally, have his childhood friend – his former bully – at his side, as an equal.

Deku is so transparent – Katsuki can practically see the damn nerd vibrating with satisfaction at his life, at what it is now, what’s been created around him. But one day he’s going to run out of that luck – one day the idiot is going to bite off more than he can chew, and it’s going to be Katsuki who will have to jump in, who will have to sacrifice something to save him.

It’s already happened, hasn’t it? Them, sixteen, nothing more than child soldiers mobilized on a battlefield, Katsuki’s body moving of its’ own accord as he jumps in front of Deku, his fear for the self-sacrificing moron propelling him forward.

The older they get, the higher the stakes rise. And they will always circle each other, bettering one another, challenging one another. An ouroboros of their own making.

There is only one way for it to end.

Katsuki, eighteen, having finally (begrudgingly) allowed people into his life and allowed himself to admit that he does care about them, about Deku, hears what the nerd is asking and sees it as a burden – and a challenge. One For All is a curse, one that he won’t let Izuku carry alone anymore. Even if it means being left behind again someday, holding the responsibility of ensuring One For All is passed down (holding the responsibility of Deku’s blood on his hands). The price is heavy, weighing down on him – but there has never been a choice. Katsuki will always pay it.

But this Katsuki, here, now, overlooking the city below them as the wind ruffles his hair – the one who knows that with each fight, each battle, they get closer and closer to the possibility of that future where Katsuki has to remain behind, the last man standing – this Katsuki finds his gut twisting at the thought.

He still won’t let Deku burden himself with this: not alone, never alone. But he will never admit that the stakes have been raised now. That a new Katsuki – the one who finds himself in your closet of jungle like he’s been pulled there, watching your face transform at the sight of him – is watching this future (where someone will have to sacrifice something) unfurl with a growing sense of dread.

There is no choice. The outcome will always be the same: Deku, One For All. Katsuki won’t be the reason the world loses it’s Symbol of Peace again. But –

But now that resolution is coming at a price he isn’t sure he can pay as easily, anymore.

A price in the shape of a future he could choose.

(A future where Katsuki wakes up to some stupid weeds, in a vase on his kitchen counter – brightening up the blue-dark of the pre-dawn morning, waiting and hopeful.)

It’s midday when he and Deku arrive home, parting ways.

Katsuki gets back to the agency to find Ei’s out – a team-up rescue with the Idiot Collective. The blond is exhausted: the lead in Sapporo turned out to be dud that still didn’t spare them the scuffle, and he spent a painful night with Deku’s muttering on all the possibilities of where to go from here, and then some. But still – he works out, burning through his tiredness and reducing the concrete blocks in their gym to rubble, flipping over them as he practises burning a straight line cleanly through them.

The shower afterwards burns through the ache in his muscles, Katsuki letting the changing rooms fill with steam as he closes his eyes against the spray.

He signs out, nondescript gym bag in hand and stupidly expensive sneakers on (a gift he’d helped himself to, on the set of that stupid Vogue Japan shoot they all did – they’d all been given free reign of the closet for it, and he’d taken them only because they didn’t have any obnoxious branding on them, a weird mesh cream design that was a nightmare to keep clean, but that he kept wearing, anyway).

The Pro fully intends to go home and sleep – he needs to – and yet his feet have a mind of their own and he finds himself on your street, staring down at the familiar strip of shops without surprise.

The afternoon is warm and gold, warmer than it had been in Sapporo. When Katsuki steps up to the threshold of your shop, his shadow stretches long through the afternoon light, like a knife – causing you to glance up from where you’re sitting on the ground, amid a flurry of roses and silver leaves, daisies, diligently trying to piece them together into some floral abomination.

The instant, reflexive smile you give him when you see him: it tightens his heart.

He’s done nothing to deserve it – but he missed it. The realisation makes his brows pinch together, roughens his voice when he asks, “Shouldn’t you be done now, Weeds?”

Katsuki knows why he’s here. But he doesn’t let himself think it; instead he helps you pack up, bringing in crates of your shitty flowers, pausing every now and then to burn off the sweat on his palms before he touches anything. Taking in the little, green-filled space you’ve carved out for yourself.

You’ve paused, making a stupid face as you stare off into the space in front of you – Katsuki grabs your chalkboard, the last thing to be brought inside, scowling when he sees what else you’ve drawn on it.

“Why the fuck have you got Shitty Hair on here, too?” He demands, trying too late not to sound insane as he sets it against your wall. Stupid Shitty Hair – you’ve got him dressed up like a fucking pumpkin, and even in broad, wobbly strokes, its’ stupid smile is all Eijiro’s.

“He asked,” You say, and it annoys Katsuki even more. Fucking Ei – he needs to make up his mind. Is he trying to push the two of you together, or seduce you himself?

He waits for you outside as you gather your things, setting off at a slow pace, easy enough to catch up with.  You’re breathless when you do, loaded up like a pack horse with bags and carrying wilting daisies, like the remnants pulled from a cemetery. Irrationally, it annoys him – he thinks of the cabbages you gave him, fresh and healthy. Shouldn’t you have fresh flowers, if you wanted them? When he asks about this, you seem unperturbed, Katsuki flicking his eyes over the busy road as you stroll past, eyeing the shinning taxis that are waiting for the lights like a procession. The city around them moves in the Friday afternoon hum – the promise of the weekend, waiting, and Katsuki matches your pace as you lead the way, veering you both into quieter streets.

You end up walking along the fence of a park; the shrine inside closing for the day, the heavy, melancholic tone of the gong ringing out. Katsuki is watching you from the corner of his eyes, taking in the moment you step into the last of the golden afternoon – the moment your face brightens with it, like the light is spilling out of you.

Katsuki stops as you glance at him, still staring, his head empty of everything except the sunlight. He takes in as much as he can – his staring is making you nervous, he can tell, your daisies wobbling as you draw them closer, holding them to you.

What he wants is –

What he wants, he realises in cool detachment, is to close the space between you and step into your light.

He doesn’t get the chance – you’re pushed further apart as a pair of kids shriek, running between you like the little shits they are. “Watch where you’re going, you damn brats!” Katsuki shouts after them, irate.

He doesn’t miss the shit-eating grin you’re wearing, at their bullshit.

“I don’t miss being a kid.” You say, and despite himself Katsuki snorts. The brats have disappeared around the corner ahead of them, and all the blond can imagine is a wuss of a child, too soft for its’ own good. Easily led around by bigger, brasher kids.

“A little,” You admit at his accusation of this. “Although – I think it was less wuss and more… self-preservation.”

Katsuki’s mouth thins at the words and he glances at you. They’re kind of words Deku uses, when talking about their childhood together.

You shift your wilting bundle of daisies, their heads wobbling as Bakugou watches, waiting.

“Being Quirkless is rare enough that people still… have opinions.” You explain carefully, and Katsuki’s blood runs cold as he finally asks, “You were bullied?”

His voice is hard – he doesn’t need an answer. He already knew on some level, didn’t he? The idea of a smaller you, following around louder kids – easy pickings. Katsuki could picture it easily because he had been that, had been that louder, brasher kid, bullying around a smaller, easier Deku.

(This is why, he thinks distantly – this is why he didn’t want to get close. Because Katsuki has always, always known that he was too rough for good things.)

You’re flippant about it, making him frown as you try to say it wasn’t serious (it’s always serious, Katsuki thinks, side by side with his fourteen-year old self as Izuku’s notebook chars in his hands); but then you hesitate, watching some pigeons flap away. “I’m a little worried that Haru’s… going through something worse. For wanting to be a Pro Hero.”

(Katsuki is fourteen, laughing down at Izuku’s bowed head, at the dream he’s held close all his life, telling the other boy he has a better chance of achieving it if he kills himself and reincarnates)

“The kid’ll do it.” Katsuki says at last, sneering. His fist tightens in his pocket as he thinks of Izuku on the floor of their middle-school classroom, cowed. As he thinks of the Izuku next to him in Sapporo, smiling as he looks over the city, content with his life. “If he wants it that badly – he’ll find a way.”

It’s true, he thinks. It’d be true if the pet brat was just like Deku, alone an idea that tightens Katsuki’s stomach. In some aspects it fits – the kid is physically small and the odds are stacked against him with things that people will always insist are barriers: being Quirkless, being Deaf.  But Deku was Quirkless, was fucking weird – an obsessive fanboy – and that failed to stop him, because Deku had what mattered – the drive and the heart.

This kid needs some of the same, needs to hold onto the fire he has right now, that separates him from Deku – a fire that makes Katsuki think of himself. The blond has always strived towards what he’s wanted, has always known what’s his, by divine right, by ego. This kid – your tiny brat, Haru – is the same, he thinks.  Or will be, if nothing breaks him.

Ruminating, Katsuki says nothing as you walk the last of the sunlight together.

Until all hell erupts, screaming coming from ahead – Katsuki drops into position instantly, his blood already thrumming with the fight – until the brats from before roar around the corner, pulling Katsuki up short before he can throw himself and his explosions into them.

It’s his old nightmares staring back at him. One of the kids is choking as he spews out prehensile sludge, which is crawling over the other kid as he screams bloody murder.

Katsuki is fourteen again, crushing a can in his hand with his explosions, the idiots he hangs out with pausing in fear as a shadow looms over him.

Katsuki is here, now, an adult – sparking his hands as he dives in, trying to divide the boys. He wretches one free – but the other, the one at the centre of this – is still choking, still trapped, spewing out more sludge and the Pro looks at him, sees the pain on his face as he’s being choked and it unlocks some old rage within him. The helplessness, the suffocation.

His anger makes him sloppy when the sludge expands, lifting the boy and going for you like it knew the fastest way to piss him off – Katsuki’s heart is hammering as he blasts his way towards you, just in time to burn back a wave of vile shit.

Katsuki is fourteen, none of the Pro Heroes on the scene moving in to help, hesitating because of their Quirks, their lack of suitability –

Katsuki is an adult, the Pro Hero now, punching blast after blast into the thick sludge, determined not to be useless like them –

But he misses, hit in the face with a thick mass of it, and Katsuki is that teenager all over again, choking to death as a street full of adults, of Pro Heroes, watch on.

Katsuki the adult fights just as hard against it as Katsuki the kid did. All his life he’s had to save himself, to keep fighting – helped only when that damn idiot Deku stumbled along, reaching out even when Katsuki didn’t want it.

But Deku isn’t here now and Katsuki can hear you screaming – his name. You are screaming his name and Katsuki feels his throat restrict with the lack of air and burns, as hard and as hot as he can, and it’s too much, he can feel himself burning with it –

He doesn’t remember screaming, or the kid he’s connected to via the sludge also going ballistic. But he does remember trying to rip his face away from the shit covering it, with a roar –

There’s a sharp pain in his shoulder as he jerks back and Katsuki chokes, almost at his end – and then he hears you screaming again, wild, and he focuses the last of his energy and sends out one final, pointed explosion – tearing free.

He is free-falling sharply, and then there’s a crack and for a moment, everything is blissfully black – he’s finally asleep, he thinks, detached. But then –

He’s coming to, panicked, something on his face, covering his mouth – Katsuki reacts, grabbing at it to burn through it, his head spinning – but then he hears someone sobbing his name, hears you sobbing his name, and his vision unblurs just enough to recognise the shape of you over him.

To recognise he’s blistering your wrists beneath his hands.

The fear that swoops through him is bitter and low and makes his mouth water with the need to be sick – he cannot drop your wrists fast enough, his head swimming. This is why, he thinks. This is why –

Katsuki only ever hurts people.

But you are clutching at him, the blur of you hunched over as you make an awful, sad sound – and despite himself, despite the warnings that’s being whispered that he’s already done enough damage, that he shouldn’t touch you, Katsuki lifts his hand, bumping the back of it against your cheek.

“D’- cry. Dum’as.” He manages to say.

And then the world spins as a spasm of pain overtakes him, and the last thing he remembers before the darkness swallows him back up is you, pressing against him, soft like a cat, too – too sad.

Everyone around him knows that Katsuki has fucked up.

They’re strewn about his hospital room in faux-casual poses, though the blond can clearly see the idiots making eyes at each other over the top of his head. For fuck’s sake – Dunce Face alone looks like he’s about to have a stroke, instead of whatever covert message he thinks he’s sending.

It’s infuriating and infantilising, but Katsuki doesn’t speak, trying instead not to choke on the anger that’s been roiling around within him in the days following the sludge brat’s accident and subsequent hospitalisation.

Accident. The word makes him angrier. Whatever happened to make that kid suddenly manifest a deadly Quirk at twelve years of age wasn’t a fucking accident: it was premeditated murder at least, and Katsuki – nearly vibrating with his rage – is going to find the fucker responsible and hold him down and incinerate him.

“Katsuki, man,” Eijiro says in the same, carefully cheery tone he’s chosen to use with him since the blond ended up in here, “You’ve got to stop beating yourself up.”

Next to him on the bed, Mina shuffles in closer, slinging an arm around the explosive Hero. “Ei’s right, Blasty baby.” A slim hand pats his hair and Katsuki scowls like a child. “You’ve had your time to sulk, but it’s not going to help anyone. Especially not that boy.”

“Just so you know,” Soy Sauce Face pipes up, still lounging on the armchair like he lived there, “I’ve been advocating for your right to sulk as long as you want to.”

Katsuki grunts, not amused, especially when Denki cuts in brightly, “Dude, no. It’s not healthy! You’ve been pissy since you woke up – which I get is pretty standard fare for you, but dude! You didn’t even enjoy Flower Shop visiting – ”

“Don’t.” The Pro grits out. “Don’t talk about Weeds.”

Dunce Face throws his hands up in mock surrender but it’s Eijiro who’s shoulders drop, wearing the same disappointed expression he’d had when he’d returned from escorting you from Katsuki’s room; like the blond was a favourite dog that had shit on an expensive carpet.

It’s not his thing to fix, Katsuki thinks bitterly, letting his head fall back onto the stiff hospital pillows. He didn’t ask for Ei to come along and play fairy-godmother to him or you. That was Ei – inserting himself into other peoples’ lives, because the dumb shit cared – but he can’t patch this up for Katsuki, can’t wave that magic fucking wand he has up his ass and wrap it all in a tidy bow for everyone.

Mina reaches out a hand to touch the cabbages you brought him – brushing pink fingers over your stupid, witchy roses. “She brought you flowers, Blasty,” She feels the need to say, like he can’t fucking see them with his own eyes.

“That’s her fucking job,” He says meanly and Mina just gives him a look, golden eyes too sharp, and Katsuki resents the tag-team she and Shitty Hair make, guilt and bullying perfectly balanced between them.

Raccoon Eyes is right – you did bring him flowers. Denki had been running his mouth just before you came, needling Katsuki in that shitty way he had. “You’re gonna get hella vacation days after this,” The idiot had joked. “You should use it, for once. Maybe ask your Flower Shop sidepiece out for dinner where you can show off how unaffected you are by spicy stuff.”

“Fuck off,” Katsuki snarled, not wanting Dunce Face to say anymore. But Denki, who has never heeded the blond’s warnings before, gleefully keeps pressing whatever buttons he can reach as he pushes on with, “I’m serious! You need to do something, man, or you’re never gonna seal the deal like this – ”

Katsuki snaps. “I said – Fuck. OFF.”

Denki laughs, high and delighted and mean-spirited and it takes Katsuki pegging an empty mints’ tin at his fucking head as a warning shot for the moronic fuckstick to finally shut up.

He’s only saved by Eiji, of course – who sticks his head in the door like a curious kid, hiding something behind him and that’s when Katsuki realises what the sneaky fuck had been up to, when he said he had to go “get something”.

You’re pulled into the room then, like some kind of present that Eijiro had been dying to share with everyone; carrying those stupid cabbages, the propriety hand Ei had on your back making Katsuki’s jaw clench even as relief washed over him. You looked fine – smiling in your usual way like everything was normal, like Katsuki had dropped in on your shop during a patrol, instead of you visiting him after he failed to save that kid.

He couldn’t see your wrists. Eijiro swore black and blue that you were okay, but what did that dumbass know? He hadn’t heard you sobbing in pain as Katsuki tried burning them off, he hadn’t been the cause of that.

What makes it worse, Katsuki realises eventually, is how little you seem to care about this, about how Katsuki could’ve easily ruined your life; you still smile at him, holding up your pet brat’s art like a damn kindergarten teacher and something painful and ugly within the blond’s chest tightens.

He doesn’t deserve this – not you, pleased to see him, relieved to see him; not the pet brat’s admiration of him. He’s not a Deku, or an Eijiro, everlasting and hopeful, sure and bright. He’s not an All Might, triumphant and warm and easy to love, even with all his shortcomings, his failings.

It coils up and snaps the moment the two of you are finally left alone, no thanks to the unsubtle morons in his life.

You’re there next to his bed, safe and whole and dismissing what happened – and it’s all Katsuki can see. The wetness of your tears against the charred flesh of his hands: it’s not good enough, he thinks wildly, gauzed fingers tightening against the card he’s holding. It’s not fucking good enough, and Katsuki ends up doing what he does best – he loses his shit.

This time he burns through the rail guard of his bed, instead of you. It hurts – but the pain is nothing and Katsuki sits with it after you’ve backed off, staring at the ceiling, empty, until a nurse comes bustling in, tutting at him like he’s a naughty child, already armed with fresh gauze.

Katsuki lets her bully him. There’s no real damage to his hands – the healing Quirk they’ve been using on him (slowly, as not to send him crashing back into a coma, depleted of all energy) has worked well, though his palms are still too-tender, baby soft.

The blond flexes his fingers slowly, after the nurse leaves him to the peace of an empty room. They sting and stretch and he grits his teeth, jaw tense, thinking of your face as you’d jumped up, alarmed. 

You trail in last, after everyone comes back, and Katsuki – Katsuki can’t even look at you, at the others. He can feel the weight of Ei’s concern, wide eyes on him; can see Mina and Hanta’s shared frown. Dunce Face never stops with his terrible jokes and Katsuki doesn’t even have the energy to tell him to choke on them.

When you leave, Eijiro escorts you out, shooting a betrayed look back at him and –

Katsuki just closes his eyes warily as Horns rounds on him, asking indignantly, “Blasty, what is your problem?”

It’s not their thing to fix, he tells himself, furiously.

Despite Ei’s clear disappointment in whatever damage Katsuki’s wrought, the idiot does, in fact, try to fix it – which is how Katsuki finds himself a few weeks later, standing in the cold shadow of your apartment block, holding a fucking cake box like some damn delivery boy.

Ei had planned this perfectly. Katsuki’s still officially on leave from the Agency – it’s Class-A’s weekly dinner date of irritation, and Eijiro had innocently (too innocently) suggested that they drop into your store with a cake before they go.

“Before you go,” Katsuki corrects him, still loath to see anyone. He’d already been dealing with Deku more than usual – the shitty nerd had dropped everything just to come baby Katsuki out of the hospital, hovering around him like a new parent. And while being on leave meant that Katsuki couldn’t (officially) belt out the usual physical duties being a Pro Hero required, it didn’t stop him from working with Deku the Super Pain on their case, pouring over all the information, the faint hopes, again and again; first in Katsuki’s apartment, then in Deku’s.  

Having to see the green-haired fuck in a social setting, too, is too much – Katsuki will immolate himself first.

Eijiro ignores his surliness, bullying him along to some shitty little cake shop – it’s bright white inside, the cakes carefully decorated and as the redhead hums and ahs over which one to buy, Katsuki surveys them all with a critical eye before pointing to a simple strawberry shortcake.

“Tha’one,” He grunts. It’s the best out of them all. Ei gives him a look, but asks for it anyway.

But it’s all for nothing: your stupid little store is closed, the dark green jungle of your plants trapped and looming behind the retractable glass door. The idiot next to Katsuki is pouting like a damn child – until he suddenly brightens and pulls out his phone, deftly texting something, visibly perking up when he gets a reply. “C’mon, man – her place is this way.”

“You have her number?” Katsuki asks incredulously. Ei grins at him sharply and Katsuki doesn’t know why no one else can see that he’s a manipulative shit, for all the sunshine he exudes. “Yeah, got it from Fumi ages ago.”

The blond tches, his jaw tightening. Of course he did. How else could he plan how to be a pain in Katsuki’s ass so well?

Your neighbourhood is quiet enough, Katsuki reasons grumpily when they get there, assessing it with professional eyes despite himself. There’s a few Mom and Pop shops on the corner, and it’s away from the busier streets – less foot traffic, then. Less chance for chaos. It could be any other residential street in the city.

Eijiro leads the way to your apartment with unwarranted confidence, Katsuki following along, resigned.

He’s not ready for the suspension of his heart, the pause before the free-fall, when you open your door, flustered and loud. Katsuki stares at the string around the stupid cakebox in his hands, willing it to catch on fire and give him an excuse not to be here – but it doesn’t. It’s only when you turn, your back to him and Ei both that Katsuki feels it’s safe enough to look, his eyes running over the back of your head, your shoulders, darting from them to the space around you.

Your apartment smells sickly sweet, of peaches. The place is you, Katsuki thinks with a small frown. Very you. Filled with light and welcoming; he feels himself getting surly at the thought, though it’s true. It’s small, but you seem to flourish in the small spaces you occupy, filling them colourfully and haphazardly, like you can’t be contained. Your apartment, your shop, both overrun in shades of you.

You’ve left a couple of novels, on your coffee table – manga, the covers pastel with light linework. Bored, Katsuki picks out the first volume, flipping through it gently as he reasons it’s better than having to listen to Eijiro babble himself into a tailspin.

There’s a lot of the same character twirling around in big, frilled dresses, hair wild and dripping flowers as she dodges attacks; her footwork is too wild to be that effective, Katsuki thinks with a small frown, but he can appreciate the idea behind it. He flicks to the title page, feeling his interest piquing when he recognises the artists’ name. This was different from their other title – a short print of a Pro Hero drama. Katsuki had liked it well enough, having found it randomly – it’d only been two volumes, independently published, but it’d been dramatic and bloody and tightly told.

Reading Swan-Hime in earnest, now, Katsuki manages to block out the worst of Eiji’s bullshit, looking up only when the idiot starts ragging on himself for laughs, or something equally as stupid. The blond doesn’t know or care why he does it – but Eijiro is better than that, and Katsuki reminds him. “Oi, Hair-For-Brains. We’ve talked about this.”

Ei’s one of their best; always has been. The bastard needs to start believing it.

That charitable thought lasts for all of two seconds before Eiji’s laughing him off, the redhead’s teasing getting worse the longer this tea-party drags on. It’s the usual idiot affair, Katsuki not missing how you play along with Ei as you both shovel down cake. Takes two to tango, he figures, sourly.

It’s taken the blond years to learn to tell the difference between being laughed at and being invited to laugh. Even now he still finds it hard, the ability to be as stupidly merry as the other clusterfucks he knows something that doesn’t come easily to him, if at all. Vulnerability in Katsuki’s world is something hard won, especially when it asks him to blindly trust.

It’s why you – with your stupid weeds, your warm face – set him on guard, in the beginning. Katsuki had no idea if he could trust it, any of it: your easy way of going with things, the invitation you always seemed to be holding out. He has always blazed his way through life, like a furious meteorite; cutting across the sky bright and hard and fast, leaving the extras behind. As a teenager, Katsuki never had room or time to entertain others with mundane crap like friendship: if they wanted to come, then they had to prove themselves to him, that they would match the blaze and fall.

As an adult he’s learnt differently; that he needs to prove himself to others, too. You, your reflexive amusement in things. The way you light up when you see him, without question. Katsuki still hasn’t managed to prove himself to you – to prove worth it.

He stares out past your flimsy curtains, your tiny balcony, and wonders how he’s meant to do it.

Doing the dishes is meditative; Katsuki sets to them without being asked, letting his earlier irritation wash away in the suds as you bustle about behind him, jarring the last of your peaches.

Eijiro is not subtle; is literally, physically incapable of being so. His suggestion to drag you to the Moron Meal instantly set Katsuki on the defensive. Ei thinks he’s being clever – thinks you going is the perfect bait to get Katsuki to follow, but the blond knows exactly how it’d go; the idiots they work with are all too predictable, too stupid to be worth dealing with. The worst of them would be Deku, by far – he’d be on you in a flash, trying to absorb everything about you like a parasitic sponge.

Despite the nerd’s gentle prying, Katsuki’s been tight-lipped about you, and it’s only made him even more curious. The blond knows, he knows that having you there in person would give Deku some kind of aneurysm, the idea of you being some kind of… imagined source of unlocked Bakugou Katsuki information enough to send the green-haired dolt jittery.

The others wouldn’t be any better, laughing to themselves drunkenly, laughing openly. Katsuki hates being laughed at on a good day, and the idea of them laughing at you, too?

It would’ve ended in a bloodbath. At the very least, Katsuki would have made damn sure to have gotten them all collectively banned from that izakaya for life by Howziting a few empty heads through a table or two. At the thought of it he grins to himself, darkly satisfied.

Even with his childish fantasy of ruining everyone’s night, it’s easy, in your little space, to let the bullshit go. Katsuki dries the dishes carefully, as you fuss around with your fruit – he needs something more substantial than damn cake, he thinks, and when you offer him a jar of peaches he decides, fuck it. He’ll take you and your stupid jarred peaches to ramen.

The place he drags you to is his favourite, tucked away from the reach of tourists or fashionable crowds, found during those hellish years when he was a still a sidekick to Miruko, fresh out of high school.

The actual restaurant – if that’s even what he could call it – is about the size of a damn cupboard, like the cheap bastard owner has just sectioned off a hallway in his house and thrown some stools against a wall. Katsuki’s only ever been here by himself: he’s never bothered to bring anyone else, his friends too noisy, too overwhelming for such a small place. The old guy who owns it is decent, not chatty, and the only other diners that Katsuki’s seen here have been similar, a couple of old farts who eat their shit in silence. It’s perfect just how it is – Katsuki gets his damn noodles, and some peace to eat them in.

You – standing there in the entrance, bundled up against the cool outside, waiting to take your cue from him – you slot right in. You fit the space, you fit the space with him, even when you’re both sitting down and you’re still taking everything in. The flush and curve of your face when you smile at him, pleased with yourself –

It slams his heart up against his chest, violently, leaves it there, thumping out of rhythm for the rest of the meal, Katsuki staring hard down at his bowl.

The owner squints at you when Katsuki pays as you leave, a silent question. The blond just shrugs in answer and the old man nods imperceptibly, satisfied enough, watching the pair of you exit with an interest that Katsuki ignores.

The walk is… fine, the pair of you falling into step, you moving closer to him with time. It’s – nice. Neither of you are trying to fill the silence with empty words and Katsuki appreciates that. Something dangerously close to satisfaction is lurking under his skin; it’s been a… good afternoon.

And then you bring up his meltdown at the hospital, and Katsuki instantly goes rigid. “You said Haru would be better off, having a different role model.”

It’s not an attack, he tells himself. You’re not attacking him. But a lifetime’s worth of defences wires the blond’s jaw shut, makes it hard to articulate everything in a considerate manner – as if considerate was ever a word people would use, to describe him.

He needs to be better at this, he thinks furiously. He needs to do better and so, reluctantly, Katsuki answers. “Deku’s a damn nerd. But he’s a nerd that never gives up. He knows what it means to keep… to keep going.”

Deku the damn nerd who is always breaking himself for other people. Who jumps in without thought, who inspires the people around him. The kid – your pet brat – Haru – needs someone like that. Someone good, someone who will be a shining example. Not someone destructive, who’s only capable of hurting, like Katsuki.  

You don’t seem to agree, gently pressing, even when Katsuki presses back, still rigid.

“- it’s you he wants to be.” You end up saying, carefully nonchalant as you weigh everything he’s said.

You start walking again, leading the way – Katsuki watches the movement of you before following.

Your little speech – it doesn’t fix shit. There’s still shit you still don’t know – like, for instance, just how much of prick he was as a teenager. And there’s a part of Katsuki – the wild, burning part of him that eggs him on in battle, that takes pleasure in bringing enemies down, in the idea of burning himself out until there’s nothing left – that resents it, almost. The condescension of being told that Katsuki’s still somehow worth it, worth the admiration.

But you walk along together, following the boundaries of a green-gold park, the last of the day’s light making one last show and the tentativeness is only broken when a pair of little girls wobble past on their bikes, trying to hold hands. They’re laughing about it and it brings Katsuki to a stop as he watches them, waiting.

Nothing happens. The breeze shifts the leaves of the gingko tree nearby, and you – standing next to him, close once more and so still, just like him – ask, “Does it ever get easier?”

Katsuki had asked himself the same thing, once, when his nightmares started becoming amalgamations of all the awful things he’d done, the awful things that had happened around him, to him. “Maybe for other people.”

You just nod, and like it triggers something, it starts to rain, golden in the light.

The blond feels himself beginning to scowl, a cat caught in the shower – but you open your plastic umbrella and hold it above him, protecting him as the two of you move closer. Katsuki, hypervigilant of every inch of himself, of you, watches silently as you hold out your hand to the rain in wonder, like you’ve never felt it before.

It unlocks something within him. You’re so close; you smell sweet, your peaches lingering on you, combining with your soft warmth. When you shift in closer to him, his heart picks up, the hum of it high as you glance at him and Katsuki decides, fuck it.

Kissing you is –

Incredible. It burns through him like a fire and the blond presses in closer, wanting more of you, wanting you to himself.

There’s no thought of, if someone sees or what are we doing – there’s only the taste and warmth of you against him, everything else suspended –

Until the whistle of a ball interrupts everything, Katsuki tearing away just in time to blast it away, shielding you roughly, his blood pumping through his veins, caught between fury and lust.

The pair of you have an audience – a fucking shitty one, the mouthiest of them booing loudly in response to Katsuki destroying their ball.  And then the fucking brat opens its’ mouth and insults you and Katsuki launches after them, too reactive. He had no real plan beyond chasing them away – but their little Brat Commander screams that he can’t catch them, and the challenge is on; Katsuki mows them all down, tagging each and every one of them out like the physically superior being he is.

He’s still steaming by the end, surrounded by this ragtag group of kids who are all panting with exhaustion. They look like they’ve had fun, he thinks, though he’s still bothered, reluctantly feeling bad about their shitty soccer ball. Gruffly, he pulls out his wallet, tugging out what notes he has left – 6000 yen – gesturing for the oldest kid to take it. “For y’ball.” He says, roughly. They could probably buy several good quality ones, with that. Or a shit-ton of sugar.

The kid’s lizard eyes widen, before his face splits into a grin as he takes the money eagerly, and Katsuki feels like he needs to add something, turn this into a lesson somehow, or whatever other responsible adult thing he’s meant to do, so he says, “Don’t accept shit from strangers, alright?”

Their little Brat Commander laughs as she hangs onto the oldest one, her voice high. “You’re a stranger,” She points out, fairly.

Katsuki scowls, about to retort that he’s a fucking Pro Hero – but it doesn’t matter, he realises, the words cutting out in his throat. Pro Hero was just a title – and people did just as many bad things with titles as they did without. “Don’t accept shit from strangers who expect something back, then.” He says, adding, “Now get lost.”

The kids giggle, not taking him seriously – but they do leave, a push-and-pull huddle as they jostled to be closest to the one with the cash. Probably right about that load of sugar, Katsuki thinks to himself as he turns back to you, eyes catching you where you’re waiting by that gingko tree, watching him with a soft face.

His heart skips, the beat of it hard, like his blood is pumping as he steps to the edge of a battlefield.

The walk back to your apartment is awkward as fuck. Katsuki’s mad – at himself, at the brats, at everyone. Has he ruined shit? Is there shit to ruin? He has no idea how to do this, he realises furiously. He’s inept – an infuriating thing to realise, after a lifetime of excelling.  

At your door it’s still awkward – until you look sad, and then Katsuki finally hates himself for making it worse. He’s too rough for good things, hasn’t that been proven over and over again? But he lingers – you look vulnerable and malleable and the blond wants to – he wants to –

He wants to kiss you again, he realises, stepping in closer as the thought comes to him. He’s going to – but then a door slams, startling you both as Katsuki jumps back with the reflexes of a wild animal, the moment broken.

He mumbles his goodbyes, after that. You both do, just as awkward as each other. When he leaves he pauses at the stairwell, wanting to turn around – to turn back. He lets himself have that moment, that weakness and instead he sets his shoulders, tightening his fists in his pockets and walks away.

(Katsuki the adult, too rigid, his heart racing as he leaves your apartment complex. Katsuki the teenager, too stiff, trying to hide his shaking as he walks away from Deku and All Might on that first day of school. Even with a lifetime between them, he is still the same person, unchanged.)

He ends up at the bar where the morons are, too jumbled and restless to want to go back to his own apartment, where he’d just pace.

They’re already drunk. When he opens the door to the room they’ve all piled into there’s a loud cheer, his idiot squad the worst of them, Eijiro fumbling to stand. “Katsuki, man!” He says too loudly, and the blond is already regretting coming. “What happened? I thought – ”

“Everything’s fine, Shitty Hair,” He growls in warning. 

“Kaaa-channn,” Dunce Face sings out, his head lolling against the table as he grins up at him. “Did you scare off your Flower Pot again?”

Fuck. Nine pairs of eyes look at him then, and Katsuki knows that they all know, like the nosey fucks they are – he feels everything within him tighten, like the last string of a guitar, about to snap.

Deku straightens, watching in keen-eyed interest, a beer can in his heavily scarred hand and Katsuki scowls harder. 

“Y’re all fuckin’ drunk,” He accuses, like that isn’t the point of these get-togethers. Sero snorts at him, lifting his glass as if to say, duh.

From the corner there’s a dark chuckle – it’s that anaemic mindfuck, Shinsou, his lavender eyes gleaming in the low light. “You didn’t come here to state the obvious,” He says, like his opinion is anything close to welcome.

“Fuck off,” Katsuki says venomously, and Iida steps in then, literally, placing himself between them, his hand moving strictly. “Now, Bakugou, this is a private establishment: you’re not to bring force into your disagreements, here – ”

Katsuki can feel his blood pressure rising – coming here was a mistake. “Get out of it, Four Eyes,” he grits out. 

Mina giggles, unflattering for Iida, their former Class President looking like he was about to take the stick perpetually shoved up his ass and whack Katsuki with it to tempo while he delivered another lecture – but there’s an amused tinkle of a laugh, Aoyama looking up from the table where he’d been leaning on his elbows, batting his blue eyes at the pair. “All this violence!” The glittery fucker admonishes, airily, “Mes amis, should we not be celebrating that our beloved Beast has, at last, found love?”

The commotion that happens in the aftermath of that is not Katsuki’s fault; flash grenade to Sparkles’ face or no. Though the looks everyone gives him when they have to shuffle out of the bar, shamed-faced at being kicked out for the night, is almost enough to make him laugh out of spite anyway.

As a group they are obnoxious, wandering through the city streets like a herd of cats; Shinsou leads the pack, hands in his pockets and his purple hair wild as he broods like some rip-off Noir-era Superhero. Sero, by virtue of being the least drunk out of the idiot clump, ends up having to literally leash Denki with his tape, the blond idiot trying to weaving in and around streetlamps, tittering out onto the road. 

Eijirou has his arm around Katsuki’s shoulders as they walk, loosely, warm and tipsy as he turns to him and asks in not-quiet voice, “Did everything go okay?”

Katsuki’s mouth twists, turning his head away from the stink of Ei’s boozy breath. “It went fine, Shitty Hair,” He says curtly, but even drunk the redhead knows better, pushing at Katsuki in reproach, looking resigned.

Something about it annoys Katsuki even more than the gossiping, the lack of subtly; it’s the lack of belief that he could do something as normal as hang out with someone, unsupervised, without it turning into some kind of drama.

It’s not what Ei means by it, he knows. He knows this. But it isn’t helped when they walk past a little jewellery store, the windows lit up warm, Katsuki pausing as something catches his eye, Ei tottering ahead as Mina latches onto him, whispering something that makes them both laugh.

It’s not jewellery. All the truly valuable pieces have been packed away for the night, probably secured in a safe somewhere, leaving the window bare – except for a display of vases.

They’re not a thing he’d notice or care about, usually. But he thinks about your weeds, the stupid things they’ve been shoved into since he’s known you. A jar from the agency kitchen. A water jug in the hospital. A pink can, today, in your apartment, sprigs of rosemary sticking out.

Under the glow of the warm spotlight lighting, the vases sit in varying shapes and sizes. They’re webbed with golden lines, like they’ve been cracked and carefully pieced together, the repairs reflecting the light brilliantly: kintsugi. Broken pottery repaired with lacquer and gold dust.

Katsuki stares hard at one vase in particular: pale porcelain, painted with bright spring flowers and wide dark leaves, the kintsukuroi turning the cracks between the pattern into thin golden threads, like spiderwebs in a dewy, sunlit morning. It makes him think of you; of your secret little flower shop.

Someone leans against him – Kaminari, draping over Katsuki as he peers into the shop window. “That’s nice dude,” He says, drunkenly, tapping the glass. Katsuki hisses at him, shouldering him back, but the blond leans into him further, soaking up his heat. “You shouldn’t buy a vase that’s already been broken, though, Kacchan – s’too fragile for you, yeah?”

“Denks, shut-up,” Sero says without heat, tugging on his makeshift child-leash as Denki yaps, tugged away. Katsuki frowns into the glass, his reflection mirroring it. He knows who he is – what he is. He’s built his life on being intimidating. The explosive Pro Hero, Ground Zero. His whole identity – the one that the public sees, that his friends still see – is tied to his ability to destroy things. It wasn’t surprising that some idiot would look at him contemplating something delicate, something fine like a porcelain vase, and say, that’s too fragile for you.

Katsuki flexes his hands in his pockets, feeling his lip curl as his eyes cut away from the vase – it’s a stupid thought, anyway – only to meet the reflection of Uraraka, standing behind him as she eyes him shrewdly. When he frowns at her in question, she smiles, stepping in beside him as she surveys his vases, her head tilting.

“What’s your new friend like?” Cheeks asks without much preamble, and Katsuki grinds his teeth. Does no one in this group have any tact or fucking subtly? Was that really asking for so much, from a group of professionals?

Instead of vocalising this he just huffs, shrugging after half a moment. “Plays with weeds for a living, shit like’at.”

Despite his nonchalant tone, the look Uraraka assess him with tells Katsuki he’s not getting away with it. Maybe he should’ve expected that, considering Cheeks had been pining after Deku for the better part of a decade – she of all the extras here would know what careful denial sounded like.

Instead of immediately calling him out on it though, she looks back at the vases for a moment, admiring them before catching sight of the prices and wrinkling her nose. “You know,” She starts slowly, “I’m pretty intimate with the idea of gravity.”

Katsuki glances at her, mouth thin, just barely holding back the, and? he’s thinking.

“The inevitability of it,” She explains, turning to him. “Everything has its own gravitational pull – we do, as a group. We did as a class. We’re all… forever bound, now, caught up in each other’s pull.” She eyes him critically, then adds, “It’s stronger for some of us than others. Like Deku, Kirishima. You.”

Here Katsuki is unable to stop himself as he scoffs openly, but Uraraka is shaking her head, pressing on, “No, don’t do that – I’m being serious. You drew Eijiro to you, you drew in Mina and Sero, Kaminari – and you’ve always had Deku there, circling you even when neither of you wanted it.” Her brown eyes glimmer in the shop light as Katsuki looks down at her, frowning harder. “I don’t think you should fight it so hard, that inevitability. I know you always have, it’s just who you are, but Bakugou – it’s drawn in someone else, now. And… you should let it.”

She smiles then, like she’s solved all of his problems, and Katsuki huffs again, glancing back at the others as they all milled about, their idiocy on pause, waiting.    

Cheek’s shit about gravity and inevitability is inane, too corny for his tastes – but she’s right in that they are stuck with each other now. Despite his best efforts to shake them off, the emotional leeches that make up Class-A have stayed; with each other, with him.

“Stick to lifting buildings, not givin’ advice,” Katsuki says, though his voice is distinctly lacking his usual ill-intent. Uraraka rolls her eyes – then punches his arm lightly, as she moves away to rescue Iida from being ganged up on by Mina and Eijiro.

Hanging back, Katsuki watches as the idiots he works with – his friends, he might as well admit it – flail and fling out, acting like a pack of drunken children and proving his point that none of them know how to act right in public, despite being top-ranked Pro Heroes.

There’s a scuff of shoes on the pavement behind him, and Katsuki doesn’t have to look down to know it’s Izuku’s obnoxious, wide red sneakers.

“Don’t fuckin’ say it,” He warns him, and Deku doesn’t, just humming as he pulls up beside the blond.

“Are we still on for tomorrow?” He asks, though he already knows the answer.

Katsuki grunts in the affirmative and Deku nods, humming back; the pair of them watching as their friends start turning on each other, for the question of finding some place else to pile into.

“I want food,” Denki whines, burying himself into Mina as she pats his shoulder lovingly, Iida standing over them both as he says, severely, “You’ve already eaten – ”

These idiots, Katsuki thinks. It’s almost – almost – fond.

When their schedules allow it, Izuku and Katsuki make an effort to visit All Might, together.

Deku visits regularly, would probably do so daily, if he could; Katsuki less so, though still more often then he’d ever admit. Despite the dire predictions made when they were teenagers, their former teacher is still alive, withered and thin. Today, the former no. 1 Hero beams proudly at them as they tell him about their respective weeks, the current case that has them chasing ghosts around the country, all three of them ignoring the Press that’s been paraded around since Katsuki’s latest failure.

The man’s dark eyes shine – with pride, maybe. Katsuki cannot help the hidden part of himself, the secret fifteen-year-old that feels as though that pride is for Deku, and Deku alone. Neither self-sacrificing idiot has ever been good at hiding about what the other means to them. Deku flourishes under All Might’s attention, has always done, even when the truth of One For All came out – Deku has never stopped loving him, even in the face of that man’s very real, human weaknesses.

And as for All Might himself – he has always loved Izuku. That has always been clear.

No matter the half-truths, the omission of consequences, the misguided fumbling – everything All Might has done has been for Deku’s betterment. Everything. Even taking on Katsuki: less for his benefit and more for Izuku’s, an act of tying cattle dog puppies to their mother, to teach them together on the job as she herds and turns and follows commands. To show Izuku the value in victory, in winning to save. To give him a good, strong opponent to sharpen his skills against. What better way to help the next Symbol of Peace improve his combat skills by having him train with one of his most combatant peers?  

Even knowing this – as unspoken as it was between him and his aged idol – Katsuki would never begrudge it of the nerd. Deku brightens with All Might, all his childhood dreams come true. He tends to the man like he is his father, and he might as well be. All Might has both helped and failed Izuku. Loved him. And Deku in turn has grown into himself, because of the Hero – the man he is.

“You’re both doing well, boys!” All Might says brightly, like he’s still their teacher, commending them for working together on an exercise. “Cases like these aren’t easy, but I believe that you’ll find your suspect, soon.”

Deku beams. Katsuki, head propped up by his hand as he leans against the armrest of the couch, gives a small grunt, staring off to the side. He would’ve missed the furtive look All Might gives Deku altogether – if the damn nerd didn’t make too much of a show of fumbling to stand. “I’ll go get more of those cookies you brought, Kacchan!”

The blond cuts him a fine glare – but Izuku disappears quickly, leaving Katsuki and All Might alone, the older man smiling as he leans over the coffee table to pour himself another drink.

It’s closer to Katsuki; so the blond reaches out and beats All Might to it, taking his cup and pouring more tea into it, steadily, All Might accepting the cup bashfully when Katsuki offers it.

“How are things going for you, my boy?” He asks, like he’s genuinely interested. And he probably is, made up of that same infuriating stuff that Deku and Eijiro were, that gave them all the unholy need to get into everyone’s business. “I’ve heard about your little friend – ”

Deku comes back in the room with a plate of biscuits (ridiculously tiny in comparison to his large, scarred hands), just in time for Katsuki to glare at him murderously.

“I’ll make us some more tea!” He volunteers; he’s not flinching away from Katsuki like he would’ve, years ago – but he hurries out of the room all the same, ignoring the fact that they have a half-filled pot in front of them, already.

“Don’t be mad at him,” All Might says, fondly. “Izuku’s just curious about who – well, about who could be special enough to – to capture your attention.”

Katsuki scowls, unable to hold it in any longer. “Y’need your head checked; nothing’s going on.”

For all that All Might looks like he’s on the verge of falling head-first into Death’s door, the look the man gives him is anything but weak. Katsuki’s reminded of Uraraka, looking at him as though he were thick – what about him is making these idiots think they can read him, suddenly?

“You shouldn’t be afraid to allow yourself to fall in… well, to feel something, for someone.” He looks at Katsuki, almost pitying. “You’ve always been merciless with yourself, my boy. Always. Maybe you cannot see it, but I can. Ever since you first stepped into UA, your drive and your ambition and your ruthlessness with yourself have always been clear.”

Katsuki shifts uncomfortably, and All Might continues carefully, picking over his words, “I know that… things have changed, now. You and Izuku are both adults and fine Pros. And… I know that being – being a part of the secret of One For All can make you feel as though you share the same noose. But…” The man hesitates, “You have always tended to carry more than your share of the burden, young Katsuki. And none of the reward.”

He pauses, assessing Katsuki with sunken, dark eyes. “Perhaps that is my fault, for not stepping in sooner when you were both younger. But you are worthy of love, as embarrassing as that might be to hear. You’re worthy of a lot of things, my boy. From your friends, your family, your fans, even – and… your flower shop girl.”

You have a name, is all the blond can think, annoyed. But he doesn’t correct All Might, doesn’t say anything, sinking down further into the couch, unable to run away from the conversation like he wants to. Everyone is talking down to him like he’s some kind of idiot, some emotionally disturbed child –

“I know that people oftentimes tend to be… blinded by your strength,” All Might continues, when it’s clear that Katsuki won’t actually leave. “And sometimes it’s all they’ll see. I’ve failed you in the past by doing exactly that, I know – but, my boy… it’s okay to let the ones that see more to you in.”

Let them in, let it happen – it’s all he’s been hearing, and Katsuki’s stomach tightens in rebellion. Before he can stop himself, he finds himself accusing, “How can you say that trash, when y’know what One For All can cost? When y’know what it’s like, being a Pro Hero?”

He can practically feel Deku trying hard not to breathe too loud, from the kitchen – but All Might takes it in stride, his gaunt face grave. Katsuki won’t apologise for it – he’s said nothing but the truth. How can All Might preach to him about letting people in, trying to have a normal life, when he knows all too well how volatile the future can be? The man was going over his damn funeral plans, just before – the fucking family plot that’s been reserved for him, in the Heroes cemetery. All Might can’t talk about future –

The man coughs, an awful hacking noise that – thankfully – doesn’t bring up any blood this time, and Katsuki sits on the edge of the couch, waiting warily as All Might struggles to pull himself back together. After a moment, the former Pro brightens, his emancipated face glowing with his grin, even as he chuckles to himself, sardonically. “I know it must seem like a joke, having to listen to an old geezer like me, try tell you to find some value in what you can, of this life: but that’s exactly why you should. Claim what you can, young Katsuki. Being a Hero will take everything from you, eventually, in some way or another – so claim what you can and live it. As long and as hard as you can.”

Deku chooses that moment to come in with a tray of tea cups, face bashful as he tries to pretend he hasn’t heard a thing – and Katsuki is saved from having to answer, taking a drink in hand and pretending he doesn’t feel All Might’s eyes on him.

He is not the surrogate father to Katsuki that he is to Deku. All Might is the childhood idol that Katsuki failed, will always feel like he failed, no matter what the man or even time itself says.

But, still –

Katsuki glances up as Deku shuffles through the paperwork for All Might’s cemetery plot in interest, and catches his former teacher’s eyes.

The smile he gives the blond is warm. Understanding. Katsuki lets himself relax, just slightly, and holds his tea closer.

Chapter Text

The twilight makes the asphalt of the road glow. Katsuki tilts his head into the wind, letting it ruffle his hair as he watches a cyclist peddle past on the street below.

“I won’t use my Quirk on these people,” Shinsou speaks up, and Katsuki just shrugs in response, not caring. Next to him, he can feel it when the Mindfucker snorts.

It’s his week, Katsuki thinks, for spending time with fucksticks who attract surrogate fathers, All Might and Aizawa doing their damndest to corral as many broken children between them as possible, like a sick menagerie. Maybe it was the saviour complex that came with being a Pro Hero – maybe it was a need to look after something when they couldn’t look after themselves.

Either way, it was fucking irritating when Katsuki was lumped with dealing with the morons they let loose on the world.

“Just making sure we’re on the same page,” Shinsou says dryly, unaware of the blond’s thoughts as he adjusts his mask (his fucking muzzle, Katsuki thinks suddenly) with a click.

They’re an hour out from the city, crouched down on a low-lying rooftop, overlooking the run-down building across from them. Shinsou found it, and their lead; his work in the underground lending him an excellent nose when it came to sniffing out information from dark, inconsequential corners. And this place – shabby, rundown – is as inconsequential as they came.

It’s small and residential, dwarfed by the bigger, more commercial buildings along the street: a halfway house – mostly used by homeless drifters, shifting from one city to the next. Occasional victims of domestic violence. It’s why the purple-haired freak next to Katsuki is refusing to use his Quirk; they’ve worked together enough times for the blond to see the pattern, the way Shinsou won’t force control over people who’ve had so little of it.

It doesn’t bother Katsuki. The Mindfucker’s Quirk was a quick cheat, anyway: it’ll be much more satisfying getting what they can without it.

“Y’ready?” He asks, adjusting his domino mask. Shinsou just nods, and they both drop from their perch – Katsuki using his explosions with careful, tight control as the purple fuck uses his capture weapon to repel down.

They’re expected, when they open the shelter doors. Shinsou nods at the woman who’s waiting for them, sitting at the front desk behind heavy-duty, shatter proof glass. She’s maybe in her fifties, assessing them with a hard-bitten face that gives nothing away as she looks them over, evaluating them for danger. Apart from their masks, both men are in civvie gear – making it easier to get around, without fuss. Eventually, they pass muster; she stands.

“If you upset him or anyone else in here, I will ask you to leave.” She says firmly.

Both men nod, silent, and satisfied she motions for them to follow her.

It’s fucking depressing, Katsuki thinks as they walk through the shelter. The funding the place is getting is private, and clearly not enough: the paper on the walls is peeling, the stains from water damage – from the ceiling, pockmarked with leaks – stretching down, like long ghosts hiding in the walls.

They pass by a few open doors; a spare, too-tiny kitchen. A bedroom, lined with bunk beds, a couple of wary faces watching them as they pass. A few beds are hidden behind makeshift curtains of bed sheets, walls of ugly floral patterns, faded colours; the illusion of privacy.

Despite the misery tourism they don’t stop, and their guide – the warden, Katsuki decides, spitefully – finally leads them to a larger space, a rec room, furnished with a couple of worn couches and an old, heavy television, sitting against the wall.

Katsuki’s eyes glance from a few kid’s books, faded and torn, sitting on the floor – to the person waiting for them on one of the couches, meek and pale and silent, a physical ghost.

“You Ito?” Katsuki asks. Despite himself, in the quiet of the room his voice is too loud – but their lead doesn’t flinch, just tilting his dark head in acquiescence. 

The Explosive Pro is better at beating shit out of people, than coaxing it; people don’t look to Katsuki for a soft-touch, or gentleness. But Deku got caught up with Agency bullshit, back in the city, and Ei was on a mission, leaving it to the blond and his blustering ways to do this.

Despite Katsuki’s brusque greeting, the man in front of them is unbothered, too thin, too sad. He’s wearing a sweatshirt several sizes too big for him and baggy pants – it makes him seem smaller, a skinny hand holding a paper cup, still half-full. “I’m not sure I’ll be much help to you, Ground Zero.” He says quietly, his lanky hair falling like a curtain around his face.

Katsuki shifts his shoulders, uncomfortable. This has always been the hardest part of the job for him – the gentleness needed. He’s never trusted himself to be capable of opening his hands and giving it. “You… it’ll be fine. Just – whatever y’ve got.”

Ito shudders like the command releases something within him, finally looking up at the Pro Heroes before him with a wariness that belied his years. “They found me. When it started… when I started manifesting it. I was strung-out at the time – stayed in the same area. I think they must’ve… expected it. S’not like it matters now, I guess.” He shrugs.

“They nursed me through the worst of it: the manifestation, the detoxing and shit. And when I was clean, when I could control it better, I just… started working. I never left the property. Commune. We grew a lot of our food – and there weren’t many of us, you see? Maybe a handful. Most of the others were like me, who’d just – you know – one day, and been found by ‘em. There were a few other guys, cleaner guys, healthier – they always got to go into the city. They weren’t like us, you know, they hadn’t manifested their... Quirks randomly. I think they were just… part of the cause, or whatever. I dunno what they did though, they never made a show of it, and I had my own little life, then. Something I cared about.”

Ito’s face grows sadder, Katsuki studying it carefully. There’s more than sickness to it, etching in deep lines, the weight of grief. “You know –,” His eyes flicker to the blond, “Well, I guess you wouldn’t, but when you… grow up different, and you know you’re different, you… I guess – sometimes it’s hard. Finding a place for yourself.” Staring into his paper cup, Ito doesn’t say anything for a long moment, Katsuki and Shinsou watching him, waiting.

Eventually, the man shrugs again. “I had people I cared about, for the first time in a long time. I didn’t – I didn’t question what was going on. I was…” His eyes drift away, unfocused. “I was happy. I was… at  home.”

Ito’s done a whole lot of waffling, for what amounts to very little information – but Katsuki’s mouth tightens, stays tight as they thank him after a little longer and go to leave, their tour-guide waiting for them by the rec room doors, watchful.

“Did he tell you why he left?” She asks as they get to the reception, because apparently everyone needs to overshare everything.

Katsuki grunts and next to him Shinsou droops at his attitude, before answering in his low voice, “No.”

Their Mother-Warden nods like she approves, then tells them anyway. “Didn’t think he would. When he came to us, he was half-dead. His Quirk had retriggered, like a growth spurt. Happened to a few others too, from the sounds of it, but he’s the only one that made it out. He walked all the way here. Took him weeks.”

I had people I cared about, Ito had said.

I lost them all and no one helped me, Katsuki hears.

Grinding his teeth, the blond is thrumming with anger as he and Shinsou step into the night. They’re still no closer to stopping this bullshit – bullshit that’s actively hurting people.

Katsuki thinks about Deku, five years old and Quirkless with his big, buggy green eyes. He thinks about your pet brat, Haru: seven and vicious, wild, delighted with everything. He thinks about you, in your shop, happily playing with your stupid weeds. I guess you wouldn’t, Ito had said, about the blond understanding. Understand what? If he’d been meaner to Deku, if the nerd hadn’t found All Might –

If you didn’t have your flowers, your easy temper –

If the pet brat didn’t have you, have his passion – it could’ve been anyone of you in there, glassy-eyed and empty.

Izuku isn’t in danger now, not from this. And you – well, you’re a grown-ass adult, you do have your shop, your temper, a steady life that doesn’t involve wanting to be a Pro Hero. But the brat – if Haru’s dreams don’t pan out, could that be him? Of all people, Katsuki knows the value that others put on Quirks. He did it himself, he fed into the system, was the system. He fought the system. But generations of bias aren’t erased overnight. Ito, in this shelter – he was proof to that. That a group like these mysterious vegetable-growing fucks could swoop in, fuck his life around and yet still answer his loneliness by giving him something that felt like a home – it was all the proof needed to show that things hadn’t changed enough.

The thought doesn’t help, at all, and Katsuki’s jaw jumps, tense.

Shinsou is busy ignoring him, typing their report on his phone – Katsuki’s rings, and annoyed the blond answers it curtly, turning away, looking out over the street again. “What?”

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end. It’s Deku. “ – couldn’t –  Kacchan, I’m so sorry – I couldn’t save her, the plants just, they were choking her before I even got there, and – there were others but, but I couldn’t save her,” The nerd is choking up, overwhelmed and Katsuki’s blood runs cold.

He couldn’t be talking about – No. The shitty nerd doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He hasn’t even met you, how would he know what you look like let alone –

“Plants?” Katsuki demands. “Izuku, what the fuck are you gabbling on about?”

On the other end Deku is drawing in another shaky breath, before choking out, “It’s your – Kacchan, it’s – I’m so sorry – ”

No.

The force of the thought rips through Katsuki, violently enough that he jerks forward, an unwitting step. No.  

The nerd has got it wrong. He doesn’t know – he’s never even met you –

But Katsuki thinks of Eijiro, the too-friendly bastard with his penchant for fucking selfies – his little, indiscreet store shots. He’s the reason Izuku knows about you in the first place, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine Ei sharing his fucking photos, Izuku copping an eyeful –

“Bakugou, what – ”

Wild-eyed, Katsuki spins on the spot to a suddenly still Shinsou, who’s put his phone down and is watching him with a Pro’s wariness. “Bakugou,” He tries again, a voice used for someone on a ledge. “What’s wrong?”

The blond’s aware of Izuku’s voice, still babbling apologises – it sounds like the fucker is crying – and he stares down at the phone in his hand before hanging up the call, blindly.

“Gotta go,” Is all Katsuki gives Shinsou, not sparing the purple-haired fuck another glance as he lets the power of his Quirk ripple through him and propel him up, giving him enough height to start jumping from building to building in a race to get back to the city.

It’s not fucking true, it’s not –

Your apartment is closest, though “closest” is a nominal term; the prefecture the shelter was in was an hour away by car – even racing along rooftops and throwing himself into the air, suspended for a few death-defying moments before his explosions could lift him up and forward again – Katsuki was still a far way aways.

The constant boom, boom of his Quirk rattles windows and leaves a traceable path behind him that no doubt will end up on some fucking stalker’s social media – but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but proving Izuku fucking wrong.

He drops heavily when he arrives on your street, panting as he straightens. He doesn’t even give himself a moment before he’s ripping off his mask, ignoring the burn in his arms as his feet race along the asphalt, taking him to your apartment.

There’s a light on under your door, when he finally gets there. Katsuki stares at it in disbelief, even as he can hear the faint sound of a television, voices. His mouth is furiously dry and without letting himself think about it he is pounding on your door. Deku’s fucking wrong, he knows he is –

All sounds within the apartment still. There’s nothing but those faint voices, still talking, and a new surge of fury wells up in Katsuki and he’s pounding the door again with enough force to make the wood move, the tempo matching the fear in his heart. If he’s got the wrong apartment –

When it finally – finally – opens and you peek through the crack, Katsuki is stunned. Emptied out, everything he’d felt within the last hour leaving him as you fling your door open, breathing his name. “Bakugou, what – ”

Katsuki can feel his face twisting in ugly relief. You’re fine.

“You’re fine,” He repeats out loud.

“Yes?” You say, alarmed and confused. You’re fine, he thinks. “What are you – get inside.”

The blond can only stare.

“You’re fine,” He says again, and then he breathes in like he can taste it, can taste the rage that is rippling through him, instant. He’s gonna fucking tear Izuku apart – “M’gonna kill him!”

He’s gonna rip the nerd to shreds – orphan One For All once for all. Fingers digging in tight to your doorframe, he’s about ready to turn and blast his way across the city until he arrives on Deku’s fucking doorstep and melts his stupid freckled face off –

But even as the fury bubbles up under his skin, the relief is still there, tempering him as he lets his eyes roam over you, making sure you’re fine, that you’re untouched; not choking on your beloved fucking flowers like he’d imagined – you’re alive. You’re whole, staring at him like he’s grown two fucking heads.

Katsuki wants to touch you. Smash you against him and just feel you, alive and breathing under his hands, the only things he trusts more than his own eyes.

His fingers curl. The exhaustion from his flight suddenly hits him, and when you urge him inside, he lets himself follow.

Your little home is dim, at night; intimate, wrapping around Katsuki as he drops on your couch, you hovering anxiously over him. He suddenly doesn’t have the energy to respond, and must drop off for a moment, the last few days catching up with him: when he wakes it’s to food, water – your irritated concern. It’s all affectionate attention that he notices, even in his weariness.

The voices he’d heard – you were watching a documentary and Katsuki focuses on it without any real interest, frowning when he realises it’s about Pro Heroes. Anti-Pro Hero films, specifically. It throws him back to being seventeen in the dorms at UA, the idiot squad all piled into Eijirou’s room as Kaminari pauses the latest anti-hero exploitation piece he’s picked, hands flying as he literally sparks up, ranting about why the Pro system in America created them.   

(Katsuki is a teenager, shouting at Dunce Face to watch his fucking Quirk as he goes off, static electricity zapping them all as Mina yips in surprise, next to him; Katsuki is an adult, bone-weary and half-alive on your couch, listening to some dry fucker’s voice go on and on about failed sieges, protests, a demand for change.)

You bully him into showering, fussing. Katsuki, figuring it’s better than sitting on your couch dead-eyed, eventually moves, shouldering into your bathroom as he looks around, already stripping. It’s tiny and shows another faction of you. The bottle of perfume, sitting on a shelf above your sink. The collection of washes; the smell of them, your soap. The scent of everything translates differently on you, on the warmth of your skin and unbidden he thinks about the day you met – the feel of you in his arms, after he’d slammed the both of you into the ground; alive and tight, clutching at him. The way you had stared at his neck, your breath ghosting over him.

Under the spray of your shower, lathered up in your soap, Katsuki’s stopped short, the core of him hot and coiled as he suddenly imagines you under him – the shape of your mouth as your lips part in a silent O, how the flush of your skin would feel against his.

His dick agrees intensely with this image – and Katsuki grits his teeth and turns the taps to cold.

When he’s done and emerged from your bathroom you’re there, pre-emptively embarrassed as you gesture to your bedroom. “My room’s yours, if you’re staying.” You don’t meet his eyes as you prattle on about your couch – and something inside of Katsuki shifts, plateaus. Here’s someone who’s urging him to sleep. Telling him, here, take my bed, I’m fine on the couch. Denki’s dumb ass still laughs over Katsuki’s early bedtimes, still teases him about them, even though being a Pro Hero himself the idiot should know the value of a full rest, when you can get it. And yet here you are – your eyes gleaming in the low light of your home, pressing your concern at him.

He should leave; go back to his place. You’re fine – you’re alright. You’re alive and standing here awkwardly in your little apartment, offering your bed to the lunatic that nearly broke your door down. You’re okay.

But Katsuki doesn’t leave; instead he towel dries his hair and watches as you stare at him – at his stomach? You’re a fucking weirdo sometimes, he thinks. When you seemingly get flustered by this – his noticing of you being a damn weirdo – you mumble something about your teeth, disappearing to clean them.

Why does he always attract idiots? He thinks, almost fondly, grabbing his phone as he sits down. He hasn’t looked at it since he left the purple-fucker back at the shelter and, predictably, he has several missed calls and a handful of unpleasant messages from the Mindfreak, none of them particularly nice about Katsuki’s sudden disappearance. To be fair, Katsuki did just fuck off on him, but still – Shinsou could fuck off right back.

There’s a few missed calls from Ei – and a barrage of messages that scroll across his screen.

IZUKU CALLED ME MAN –

ISNT –

WAS A NURSERY ACROSS TOWN

-- left Shinsou?????????

WHERE R U KATSUKI

Similarly, there’s a metric-ton of texts from that fucker Deku, too; Katsuki’s blood pressure rises just seeing his fucking name on his screen. The fragments the blond catches tell the same story as Ei’s –

KACCHAN –

PLEASE CALL ME

SO SORRY I DIDN’T –

JUST ANYTHING, A TEXT, LET ME KNOW –

A fucking nursery. Incredulous, Katsuki stares at his screen. The stupid fuck had gotten a fucking florist confused with a fucking nursery? They were completely different fucking things –

His anger flares, hotly; this is what happened when idiots stuck their noses into shit they shouldn’t and came away with only half the fucking story. That stupid fuck – losing a civilian was bad enough without the dipshit punishing himself for thinking he’d also failed Katsuki, too. Fucking hell. Katsuki was surrounded by idiots.

Angrily jabbing at his screen, the blond sends a joint message to Ei and Deku.

Fine. Report in tomorrow.

Balefully, he throws his phone aside, glaring around the room. The documentary is over – you’ve packed away the mangas you had on the table last time, a magazine left in their place and Katsuki frowns at his own face staring back at him as he picks it up. This stupid fucking issue – their management team had been up his ass for weeks beforehand to do it. Not even Eijiro could get him to budge – it took a cheap shot of suggesting that Deku would be the biggest draw for the issue, anyway, to get Katsuki to agree to it. Something he quickly regretted once it came to the day of and they paired him with fucking Round Face.

There’d been talk of them, specifically, being offered a fitness gear collab with some overpriced brand – an idea Katsuki shot down immediately. Like hell he was selling out his Hero name for fucking workout gear with Cheeks, of all people. The combination of colour alone – green and orange and pink – was enough to put his foot down, but it also meant that he had Uraraka bitching at him incessantly throughout the shoot for not wanting to do it, even as they hung onto each other.

(He’d scoffed in her face in the end, nearly dropping her. “What’s the matter, y’don’t think you’re enough to sell it by yourself?”

She had frowned, then – but Katsuki had seen the glimmer of recognition in her eyes, and when they broke again he overheard her standing her ground with the sales people on the idea of a solo line.)

He’s flipped through to the main article when you come out, fresh faced and minty. Glancing at you, and then down to the magazine, Katsuki grunts, “Can’t believe you read this crap,”

He means it in an offhand way – but then you make a small noise of horror and his mouth is curling instantly, amused at your embarrassment, and what it means. “Like it, you little pervert?”

It’s funny until it isn’t – your face instantly calms as you say, perfectly civilly, “Oh, I did. Deku looks great.”

The fucker’s name flips a switch inside Katsuki, instantly, and he is thrumming with his anger about earlier, throwing the magazine to the side with a snarl. That useless fuck –

“That damn nerd doesn’t know jack –,” He says, wild with it when he remembers Deku had thought you had – you had – “Y’think he’s so great? He can’t even tell a florist apart from a goddamn nursery worker -- ”

You’re alarmed, trying to placate him and Katsuki instantly drops it, simmering as he glares out your window. Fucking Deku, getting as bad as the half-asser Shouto –

“You all look good.” You say, trying to smooth things over. “You and… Uravity, especially. You look good. Together.”

It literally does the opposite. The careful way you’re speaking – the weird tone – makes Katsuki look at you, confused, until he sees the face you’re trying not to make and –

You’re jealous.

He’s stunned. Nah, that can’t be right – it’s his ego talking. What the fuck would you be jealous of? Round Face, constantly annoying him?

“She’s impressive,” You say, helpless, and no, there it is. Katsuki cannot believe that he’s attracted to this idiocy, that he wants this – how is he attracted to you?

He’s standing now, eyes darting over your face as he tries to read it better – are you seriously jealous?

You are. It’s there on your ridiculous face, in the way you fucking lie when Katsuki outright accuses you of this, stopping inches from you – it’s just his fucking luck, he thinks wildly, that he’d be sexually attracted to morons –

“You’re a dumbass,” He says, still unable to believe it – fuck, seriously? How could you not see –

If he wanted some fucking random extra, he’d be with them. Not here in your fucking apartment in the damn all hours of the night. Not at your stupid, shitty little shop, trying not to combust your damn daisies, or whatever –

Pointing this out – half of this out, anyway – does nothing but get your defences up too, your hands flapping at him in annoyance as you frown somewhere at his chest.

And then something shifts and Katsuki realises his breathing has hitched, somewhere there; your face softens. And – he finds that he needs too know, if you get it.

“Do you get it?” He asks, voice low, trying to swallow back the sudden heat inflamed inside him.

You’re so close. You’re there and so close that it would take nothing to reach out and touch you: you, with your wide eyes, the painful vulnerability on your face. Katsuki wants to take it all – he wants it all, waiting, hovering, needing you to tell him it’s okay.

And then you kiss him, hot and soft, pressing into him and –

It’s the beginning of the end.

Katsuki wakes up without his alarm.

In the cool blue-dawn of morning he holds you closer, nosing into the shell of your ear, breathing you in. The sweetness of whatever shit you use is mingled with the lingering earthiness of sex, the saltiness of skin, from both of you, and Katsuki feels his heart tighten.

He has to leave: the investigation has ramped up in the wake of last night’s attack. He’s seen the messages from Deku already, glowing bright on his phone screen. There’s the ghost of a lead with the nursery worker, and it means Katsuki has to go, has to leave you –

But he waits. He waits until you shift, moving away and then rolling back to his warmth as you stir awake, eyes shining in the gloom. Dazedly, you rub against him like a cat, and Katsuki feels a furious realisation ripple through him – that he wants this. Every morning. There’s too much shit to do, though – he has a job to do, a job he excels at, and there is some crazy fuck out there who’s trying to force Quirks onto people. People like you.

And yet – Katsuki wants this stolen moment with you. Just for a bit longer. He lets himself have it for a heartbeat longer, then reminds himself why he needs to go in the first place. He has a city to protect, people. You.

“Be careful,” He orders, but you’re too far gone to really hear, or agree, apart from some sleepy mumbling. It doesn’t matter; Katsuki presses you against him tighter, breathes you in deeply. He’s a Pro Hero, and a damn good one – he’ll just beat this bullshit for you, make things safer anyway.

You pat his face haphazardly, like you’ve heard the thought.

Actually leaving you is – weird, moving around your darkened apartment like a ghost as he washes, gets ready for a long day. Fully dressed and with his bag over his shoulder he moves back into your bedroom, standing over you like a creep. You don’t notice anything, sleep reclaiming you, your face relaxed against the pillow Katsuki slept on.

He bends down, hesitating. Is this – ? Is this okay?

“Oi, Weeds,” He says, gently knuckling the side of your head. “I gotta go.”

You hum, blinking sleepily as you nose towards him and Katsuki thinks, fuck it. He kisses you gently, lightly, huffing at the morning breath – but you make a thin noise, pleased, a hand coming up to pat him in the face again. A goodbye, he guesses.   

“Be careful,” He orders again. But you’re already gone.

Riot Ground is in full roar when Katsuki makes it to the agency, the sky dawning properly into a shade of pink that’s reflected in the glass of the doors as he pushes them open. It’s a shade of pink that makes him think of your stupid flowers and – fuck, he’s so in over his head.  

Eijirou is relieved to see him, emerging from the hall as Katsuki makes his noisy entrance. “Katsuki, man! Where’d you go last night? You had everyone worried, dude – I haven’t seen Shinsou show that much concern, like, ever – ”

The blond just shrugs him off as he strides past to go to the changing rooms, Ei following, undeterred. Before they can make it there’s a crackle of green lightning along the floor, like the trickle before a tidal wave – Deku quickly follows it, the promised disaster, skidding into the hallway like he’s afraid Katsuki would bolt if approached otherwise.  The lightning ripples around him; he’s still in his civvie gear, dressed down in a fucking –

“Get that shit off!” Katsuki demands, livid.  

The nerd doesn’t even have the decency to glance down at the Ground Zero hoodie he’s wearing as he straightens, standing firm. “No. Kacchan, please, I’m so sorry – ”

Shoulder-checking him out of the way, Katsuki scowls heavily, “Just fucking drop it.” Then, because Deku’s stupid freckled face falls, the blond reluctantly adds, “Y’done enough, ‘Zuku. You’re fine. Don’t… don’t fuckin’ add this to your list of shit to beat yourself up over.”

Deku’s mouth tightens – but he nods, eventually giving a wobbly smile and Eijirou’s eyes have suspiciously softened enough to make Katsuki tch as he heads into the changing rooms, going to his uniform locker for his shit.

Ei’s still not done, quickly following to lean against the locker next to Katsuki’s, Deku hovering behind them, waiting. “Seriously though, man – where’d you go?”

Unbidden, Katsuki thinks of you. You, tremulous in his arms like a rose softened in the heat, petals quivering, ready to drop, to fall apart if touched. The trembling of your thighs as he kissed them.

Fuck. He was getting as horny as a teenager. Setting his jaw, he grunted, “Nowhere.”

The look that Ei and Deku share between them, though, tells Katsuki that they know exactly where he ended up.

Deku ends up having to leave the country that Friday.

It’s a rescue mission: he and Uraraka are going together, flying to the Philippines via military aircraft to assist in a cave-in operation. There’s twelve workers buried alive – the thirteenth died earlier in the week, succumbing to what should’ve been minor injuries, if they were free. So now the remaining survivors are waiting in the dark with rising water and their friend’s corpse. Everyone’s getting desperate, the fear international as the world watches.  

Katsuki sees them off in the early morning, his hands jammed into his pockets as he stands with Izuku in the mouth of a hanger, overlooking the airfield. The world is blue, dawn coming in slowly.

“Watch y’self over there.” The blond says, not looking at the idiot next to him, already in costume. With Uraraka alongside him, rescuing those poor bastards should be easy work: barring Deku’s perchance for getting himself into deeper trouble. 

“I will,” Deku promises solemnly. Katsuki says nothing, just lifting his chin in response – he knows the dweeb will. Deku is a lot of things, good and bad (reckless, sympathetic, self-sacrificing, stupid), but above all he is capable.

Deku’s face – open, easy to read, even without the roundness of his teen years – stays solemn. Troubled. And dropping his shoulders, Katsuki asks him, “What?”

The Symbol of Peace turns to the blond after a beat, the troubled expression hardening into determination. “Find them, Kacchan. Imai needs to be the last one.”

His ridiculous white cape flaps behind him, thanks to a low wind; Katsuki just nods. Hiroto Imai – the woman from the nursery Deku hadn’t reached in time. She’s going to be a name and a face that Izuku will carry with him for a long time, yet. The cost – the toll – of being a Hero.  

“’Course I will,” Katsuki says easily. And he will. These bastards must’ve slipped up, somewhere – and when he finds it, when their inevitable fuck up leads Katsuki to them, he’ll burn through their whole operation with an explosion their great-grandkids will have generational blisters from.

From the corner of his eye, Katsuki can see Deku smile as they look out over the airfield together. The cargo plane that’ll take him and Cheeks is a big, lumbering shadow in the dawn, still being loaded; ants, feeding a Queen. For a moment neither man speaks, watching.

Uraraka’s bright voice echoes from somewhere behind them, too cheery for the morning – she’s greeting someone, one of the airfield workers – and Deku hesitates a moment before glancing to Katsuki, gauging him. “Kacchan… can I – I mean, would you consider letting me – can I meet – ”

“Yeah,” The blond says in answer, cutting the dweeb’s stammering off, firmly. “Whatever.” He might as well, at this point.

Deku brightens almost instantly, like he’s four all over again and looking at one of those ridiculous, giant chocolate All Might eggs they both went nuts over – and Katsuki’s going to regret agreeing to this, he knows he is, but they stand there together for a few moments longer, just taking in the pale sky.

There’s not much time to stand around, after the extras leave.

Ei’s been working with the police and Imai’s family, taking over for Deku – when Katsuki arrives back at the agency the redhead grins at him, toothily. “It’s not much,” He starts, “But there was a pamphlet in Imai’s things – for some kind of rally van.”

Katsuki grins back at him, sharp and bright. “Fuck yeah there was!” It feels like after months of standing around and scratching their asses, they’re one step closer to finding the bastards.  

The pamphlet itself is a rambling mess of Anti-Pro propaganda – not the first Katsuki’s dealt with, or even the most polished, but the name of the group immediately has his attention.

“The Quirk Defence Rally?” He repeats out loud, slowly. It sounds like an underground militia. He can see why Ei’s so hopeful about this, though the literature in his hands doesn’t go into much detail, apart from decrying Hero Society. And there’s nothing there about Quirklessness beyond a single sentence. We must share what we can, to protect ourselves from those who would not care about what is crushed under their feet in battle.

It still manages to leave a bad taste in Katsuki’s mouth, though, as he thinks about your shop, the glass of your window raining down as he smashes through it. About Ito, sitting on that shitty, lumpy couch in the shelter, staring down at his paper cup. I guess you wouldn’t understand.  

Backtracking the vehicle these fuckers use for their rallies should easy enough, now that they have somewhere to start, but they’re halted by the fact that the organisation they’re after is so damn small – the van isn’t registered to a group, but a private citizen.  

It takes the better part of their day to track it down, tedious work that leaves Katsuki restless as he and Eijiro pour over registrations and possible sightings. There’s no discernible pattern for where the QDR pops up to protest – until Ei, going through social media posts, draws in a sharp breath.

Katsuki’s head snaps up. “What?””

“Dude,” Eiji says, “They were protesting nearby Keio Middle School, the day Ogami manifested.”

Katsuki stands, hands on the desk. “Those fuckers,” He breathes. He knows – he knows, it’s them.

Eiji’s feline eyes flicker to him, then back to his screen. “It’s not conclusive,” He says – but the fucker doesn’t sound too convinced of that either, and the blond grins at him. It’s more conclusive than what they had before.

It’s well into the night – the long day of nothing wearing Katsuki down in a way a battle doesn’t – when Shinsou appears, like a gloomy cloud.

“You’re a prick,” He says to Katsuki in lieu of greeting, Katsuki in turn flipping him off as Eiji watches them both with reproachful eyes. Still, he’s as pleasant as ever as he says, “We’re glad you could come, dude.”

Shinsou grunts, throwing down a thin folder. “Our new friends have been doing some charity work, under a different name. Mostly food services, for drifters and halfway homes,” Lavender eyes cut to Katsuki then, who thumbs through the papers as he stares back, waiting. “It’s how Ito knew to go to that shelter. The shit they grow’s been feeding into their charity work, literally.”

“Those fuckers,” Katsuki says, soft.

Shinsou flicks at the Crimson Riot bobble Eijiro has on his desk, watching it sway as Eiji makes a small noise of protest. “I’m willing to bet your Electro Whip guy came across them too, shortly before he erupted. As far as I can trace, they were giving out bentos at Hanto bridge that week.” He snorts, stopping the wobbling Crimson Riot with a pale finger. “Ironic, don’t you think? They’re doing more charity work than we are.”

“Fuck off,” Katsuki snarls, not in the mood. At his desk Ei just groans, raking broad hands through his hair, like he’s trying to hide from this particular conversation. “These fuckers grow some fuckin’ vegetables and give out some fuckin’ rice balls and suddenly we’re bad guys? They also fucking ruin peoples lives, Q.E.D.”

Instead of rolling his eyes and shooting off some dry quip like Katsuki had half expected, Shinsou surveys him in cool, clinical detachment. “They’re really bothering you, aren’t they?” He asks.

Eijiro looks up, surprised: that Shinsou would say it, not that Katsuki would feel that way. He’s seen Katsuki on their worse cases, the kind of horrors that, even as Pros, can leave you questioning humanity. The world was easier, in some ways, when they were teenagers.

The blond scowls, jerking his head away so he doesn’t have to look at either of them. “If the shit these fuckers are doing doesn’t bother you then why be a hero?”

Like the creepy mindfucker he is, Shinsou just arches a brow and Katsuki hates how much he reminds him of Aizawa in that moment, seeing right through the bluster – straight to the vulnerability, the concern.

Ei, the shitty-haired fucker, added both you and Katsuki to a group chat earlier in the week, like some overbearing chaperone. 

He spams the fuck out of it, ignoring Katsuki’s venom; you don’t seem as annoyed by it as the blond is, playing along, replying to Ei’s links, his videos, the fucking photos he takes, catching Katsuki off-guard when they’re on patrol.

In return you send back the occasional selfie or view, like proof of life. Katsuki keeps the chat muted, out of sheer principle – only looking when Eiji laughs to himself, smiling down at his phone.

Everyone in the agency – barring Katsuki – has dressed up for Halloween. Ei’s wearing some ridiculous headband, jack-o-lanterns that bobble against the bright red of his hair every time he moves. They’re meant to be planning a raid – the purple mindfucker is still here, too, sitting at Ei’s desk with fucking black cat ears on, watching lazily as Ei tries to wheedle the blond into wearing a damn witch hat, of all things.

“Fuck off,” Katsuki snaps, elbowing the other man. Ei wheezes in a laugh, phone in hand, before his ruby eyes are glinting – he grins, all teeth, and Katsuki is suddenly in a headlock, Ei shoving the hat onto his head, holding his phone up as he proceeds to take as many photos as possible.

Using a sharp flash of a blast, Katsuki gets him to back off; but the damage is done, Eijiro laughing to himself as he sends one – the photo that makes Katsuki look the most insane, of course – to the dumb group chat.  

“Are you done flirting?” Shinsou asks, bored, his tone far too fucking superior for someone wearing cat ears.

Ei chuckles to himself, amused; Katsuki just flips him off.

They’re going on the bare bones of a hunch that these QDR fuckers are the ones responsible for the random manifestations – the raid they’re going to launch on their little farm, west of the city, is tight and small, and the three of them are hashing over the finer details when Ei’s phone pings; the groupchat.

He looks at it immediately, nevermind their work – and the idiot’s face softens in a way that has Katsuki frowning, going for his own phone.

You’ve sent a selfie back. Halloween at work, you’ve added, echoing Shitty Hair – you’re sitting on the floor of your shop and wearing butterfly wings, a bright clash against the pink roses all around you. Katsuki’s eyes assess the details of your face, amused and warm and –

He swallows dryly. You look like some damn… some damn flower fairy, hidden among the roses like you are, in your secret, dark green world. It’s stupid. It’s perfect. He wants to hold your face in his hands, just hold it, hold you, breathe you in.

He wants you, you in his life with your stupid weeds, that look on your face.

Katsuki’s gut tightens and Shinsou leans over to peer at his screen in mild interest. “That’s what you abandoned me for?” He asks, and the blond straight-up hisses at him, flipping his phone over. “Fuck off!”

In the end Ei has to sit solidly between them to make sure Katsuki doesn’t murder Shinsou, who’s taking great pleasure in needling the blond about you.

Ei’s phone rings; he answers it, face mildly harassed, though it drops into seriousness when whoever’s calling speaks. “Oh,” He says, stunned. Katsuki and Shinsou both are watching now, Ei’s face carefully blank until it brightens in a face-splitting grin. “No, that’s fantastic news, thank-you so much. Absolutely. Yes, thank-you again.”

He hangs up and beams at the others. “It’s Ogami – Katsuki, man, the kid finally woke up. He’s stable.”

Katsuki breaths out, long and hard. Something within him softens, just slightly. “That’s – yeah. That’s great.”

It is. The kid wasn’t out of the woods yet, if Ito’s sad-sack shit meant anything; but for him to come this far after that day – Katsuki frowned down at the papers before them. “We’ve done our part, we need to let Otsuka know so they can pull their shit together.”

Otsuka was the detective they’d been working with, on the case. He was alright, Katsuki thought. Competent at his job at least, which the blond wouldn’t have thought was asking a lot of others, before turning Pro.

The afternoon stretches on; the conference call with Otsuka less painful than usual. Things are looking up and Katsuki feels himself easing slightly, the wound cord of his intensity loosening, just a little. He listens to Eijiro and Shinsou banter peaceably, stretching his hand in the light that’s stripping across their desks.

He wants to see you, he thinks suddenly. Maybe tonight, though there’ll be a lot of prepping for the oncoming raid. He wants to do it properly – see you, properly. To spend a day with you, drag you out to a supermarket and pick up the shit he’d need to make you dinner. To have enough time to linger in your presence, your amusement, the reflective warmth you hum with. To spend whole afternoons with you, evenings, mornings. To listen to you talk about your work, the inane things on television, the people you know. He wants to stand close enough to you to feel you, feel that glow.

To press it against him – press you against him.

It’s distracting him. Ei’s phone rings again, an old metal tune he likes to blare in the gym – Katsuki doesn’t pay much attention as the redhead answers cheerfully. “Canopy, hey, thanks again man for taking up patrol – ”

He stops, Katsuki glancing up in time to see Ei’s face drop as he listens.

The blond frowns. He can hear the cadence of the old timer’s voice, but the words aren’t clear – something instantly rises within him, tightening his veins, his lungs. Canopy was on patrol today, he remembers, taking over for them while they worked overtime on the QDR case –

“No,” Eijirou says, sharply. “We’ll be right there.” He looks at Katsuki and – the blond can’t feel himself breathe.

“What?” He demands as his friend hangs up, Eijiro’s mouth and eyes working like he’s trying to find the words to speak. “Spit it out!”

It takes too long for him to find them.

“Katsuki,” Ei whispers at last, and oddly, Katsuki stands. He stands because his body knows, it knows that something has gone wrong, that it needs to fight –

Ei stands too, his face grave, Shinsou silent as he watches and that’s when Katsuki knows. “Man, It’s – ”

He doesn’t need Eijiro to finish his sentence. He didn’t even need him to start it. Katsuki is hollowed out as the foundations he’s always stood on – that he is strong enough to protect the people he cares about, that they will be safe – crumble under his feet, and –

And every fear Katsuki’s had over the last few months comes true.

He doesn’t remember the race to the shop.

Ei stops Katsuki from blasting ahead with his explosions, maybe scared of what Katsuki would do if left alone.

All he does know is that when they finally arrive, too slow – too fucking slow – all he can see is the absence of you.

Your little flower shop is a cold, empty mess. Eijiro stops outside, the street now filled with ambulance chasers and police – Canopy is standing there in his bright Hero colours, propping up a distraught, older woman. Haru’s grandmother; she’s wearing black, with a white boutonniere. A touch of you, Katsuki thinks, seeing through her as his eyes slide to the store. 

The emptiness inside of him as he looks at it – buckets of roses upturned, water along the floor, the sunniness gone – is compounded. Solidified into a cold, ice-hot rage that tightens Katsuki’s veins, shortens his breathing.

He’s been likened to a bomb so many times throughout his life, his temper a live fuze that doesn’t take much to set off: but in this moment, standing on the threshold of your store as he stares down at the signs of struggle – Katsuki is nuclear. The detonation moments away before he combusts with it, a flash of light before the shockwave.

Katsuki could level this entire city, see it become a burnt fucking crater and feel nothing beyond his rage.

“Why the fuck didn’t anyone notice until now?” He asks out loud, choking on his anger. This is a small street, full of busybodies – how did no one fucking see a kidnapping?

(Katsuki is a teenager, violated by sludge as a streetful of adults around him watch, wringing their hands; Katsuki is an adult, shaking with barely-contained fury as another streetful of adults wring their hands and claim they have no idea how this could’ve happened.)  

There’s a scuffle of shoes; Katsuki looks down, and sees dark boots gently toeing some roses out of the way, before stepping alongside him. It’s Shinsou, who takes in the little store – the dark curling ferns that hang along the walls, the splash of colour that is the flowers – with serious, tired eyes. “They were distracted,” He answers, Katsuki belatedly realising he’d asked something. “Sounds coordinated. Apparently it’s not uncommon for a van to pull up, collect deliveries. The couple that run the store across from this saw one, but ended up being distracted by a customer – by the time he left, the van had gone,” Purple eyes flicker over the mess. “From where they were, nothing looked amiss.”

Katsuki’s jaw twitches. How could no one fuckin’ notice you, just gone? The pet brat, no longer fliting in and out, throwing his toys around? It had taken the kid’s fucking grandmother, returning to collect him to realise something was wrong – to find nothing but your plants spilling out on the street, your signs still out, you and Haru disappeared.

The nuclear core that is Katsuki’s heart pulses in tempo with his fury. How could your absence not be the first thing anyone notices?

“There’s something else,” Shinsou says as Katsuki cuts him a dark look, waiting. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Just say it,” Katsuki spits out, fists already tightening. He is made of fine lines, tethered together, pulled taunt; waiting for the snap.  

Shinsou takes in the shop once more, mouth thin. The blond has no idea what the fucker is thinking, his apathetic mask firmly in place as he silently observes this nightmare, seeing Katsuki at his worst. Is Shinsou judging him? Looking around and thinking, pathetic. He couldn’t even keep someone he loved safe.

He glances back to Katsuki, and despite the blond’s paranoia about Shinsou’s thoughts, he has to wonder if he’s not imagining the shine of pity in his eyes. “There was a rally, at the end of the street. They set up this morning… and left around midday.”

Katsuki feels his lips part; then the shock leaves him, everything tightening within as he turns around with a snarl. “Eiji!” He barks, the redhead looking up from where he’s trying to comfort the kid’s grandmother.

He knows. He knows. It’s them, their vegetable-growing, homeless-feeding fucks: Katsuki’s blood is singing with his rage, his need to implode. It’s now a race against time – they need to find you and Haru before they lose one of you – or both.

Before Katsuki can implode, taking the city and the people he’s worked most of his life to protect, Otsuka calls.

“We have the driver,” He says in way of greeting. Distantly Katsuki wonders how he even knows about this – but of course, this was his precinct. He must’ve known before even they did. “Pulled him over for speeding, a couple of hours ago – he was driving the same van they use for the rallies; we’ve managed to detain him thanks to several prior offences, nothing severe but – I think you need to come in.”

It’s a lead, a whisper of one – Katsuki’s mouth is a hard line when he hangs up, and when they get to the precinct he kicks the doors in so hard that the bullet-proof glass shakes in the metal frames, as they hit the wall.

Eiji and Shinsou flank him tightly: they’re waiting for him to explode, escorting him like he’s a loaded bomb. Otsuka, waiting for them, raises his eyebrows but says nothing about the doors – he just turns, leading them to the interrogation room they’re keeping the scumbag waiting in, the one-way mirror showing him sitting there, sedately.  

At first glance, the guy is – nothing. Just some two-bit extra. He’s in a muted green jumpsuit – like he could be landscaping, or picking up rubbish. Not kidnapping random fucking people – Katsuki’s eyes flicker to the fucker’s hand, which has been bandaged. There’s the faint stain of blood seeping through it and the blond lifts his chin, just a fraction, jaw tight. His breathing evens out, and before anyone can stop him, he moves.

The extra flinches in his chair when Katsuki kicks the door to the interrogation room open, everyone behind him shouting.

It’s nothing compared to the fear on his face, however, when the Pro slams it shut on Eiji’s and Shinsou’s alarmed yells, concentrating the heat and power of one of his blasts to melt the doorknob, effectively locking them in.

The door moves with the pounding it’s getting from the other side – Katsuki doesn’t have much time. Ei can easily go unbreakable and shoulder the door down, so the blond marches to the suspect who is pushing his chair back, trying to scramble away before Katsuki grabs him by the collar of his jumpsuit and lifts the fucker up, bodily.

“Where are they?” He snarls. “You think you’re fucking tough, right? I’ll fucking end you – ”

“Stop!” The guy cries out. “Stop! I’ll talk, I’ll – just stop!”

“Then fuckin’ talk,” Katsuki breathes, wrenching the guy closer. “And maybe I won’t reduce you to ashes – ”

“Hamasaki wanted the boy!” The fucker blurts out, gripping Katsuki’s hands, weakly. “He saw him, walking home with the girl, and he knew they were both Quirkless and – everything he’s been trying lately has backfired, but nothing happened! We were out in the open and they left but then – we set up today and – and the kid came past, playing by himself and Hamasaki thought – everything’s been going wrong! No one’s surviving the gifting! So Hamasaki thought that since the kid was younger, it might take better – ”

He’s babbling and Katsuki shakes him roughly, hissing, “I don’t have time for your life story, fucker; where are they?!”     

The extra shudders, fear keeping him tense. “Hamasaki told me to be on standby! That’s it! I just helped with – distracting people. And – and grabbing them. I can – my Quirk – I can make copies of myself and – I just distracted the other shop keepers, helped Hamasaki get the kid and that florist worker in the van – ”

Katsuki glares at the man’s hand, pointedly, and the guy swallows. “She stabbed me with some – thing, I dunno, but – please, I just got them in the van.”

That florist worker, this fuck has the audacity to refer to you as. That florist worker who fought back, despite being outnumbered, despite not having a viable Quirk – all to protect the kid. Haru, the kid you loved. That florist worker –

Eijirou breaks down the door just in time to stop Katsuki as he goes to smash the fucker’s face against the table.

“Bakugou!” Comes Ei’s voice, and it speaks to how fucking blind he is with his rage that Katsuki doesn’t stop to think why Ei is referring to him by his last name; he answers with a snarl, and Mindfucker’s got him, literally and figuratively, wrapping Katsuki still as a voice whispers in his mind, calm down.

He hates it; under Shinsou’s control Katsuki twitches.

It takes both the Mindfucker and Eijirou in Unbreakable form to push Katsuki out, to get him away from the now sobbing fucker, in his overalls; out in the hallway the building is in chaos, officers jogging pass, some of them warily eyeing the damage Katsuki’s wrought.

When Shinsou finally releases the blond it’s to do so in front of Otsuka, his lined face serious, radio in hand. “We won’t talk about what just happened in there,” The detective says, seriously. “But you should know, there’s been a situation – a building’s collapsed, couple of hours outside of the city. We’re thinking it’s Quirk related, since there’s been no seismic activity.” He searches Katsuki’s face then, trying to get a read on the Pro, but the blond can only feel the numbness of his face, his mask, the one he wears when he doesn’t know what to feel and Otsuka doesn’t hesitate with his next words, doesn’t soften them. “I don’t know why this is so personal to you, Ground Zero, but – the building’s gone. It’s… it’s near where our friend here was pulled over, coming back.”

Shinsou’s capture weapon tightens around the blond pre-emptively, at the same as Eijiro makes a small, wounded noise.

“No,” Katsuki says, meaninglessly. It’s the first word that comes to him in the instant, empty, white-noise screaming of his mind.

But Eiji is a warm weight next to him, reaching out – Katsuki staring at him blankly as the redhead’s face crumples, like the world has ended.

The only fear Katsuki has ever allowed himself to admit to is his fear for other people.

All Might at Kamino. Deku, breaking himself apart to face off against Shigaraki, the pair of them crazed and overpowered.

And now… you.

Katsuki is silent as the whomp whomp whomp of the aircraft’s blades vibrates around in the empty hull. Next to him, still flanking him on either side, is Ei and Shinsou, still.

Shinsou is staring straight ahead, lost in his own thoughts; Ei is just as listless as Katsuki, his devastation plain for anyone to see.

“There’s… we’ve still got a chance,” Ei finally says, weakly.

Katsuki tightens his jaw, tongue against his teeth, and doesn’t answer.

They’ve never talked about your Quirklessness. It hasn’t been there for them, hasn’t existed, living as they do in a world where it’s their job to protect the defenceless. A world where they have always been there to win, to save the day. To make sure the world is safe.

(A world where someone powerless, someone physically weak, could be given the world’s greatest power and come out on top –)

But they’ve been living a dream that didn’t apply to the reality around them, to the rules that everyone else lived by.

Katsuki should’ve known. He should’ve seen this coming.

“They’re dead.” Katsuki says finally, flatly, speaking the awful truth into existence. The words sink like a stone in his stomach. Next to him he can feel as Ei breathes in sharply – as though it’s his own lungs expanding and contracting with the pain of it, the pair of them tied together with it.

“No,” The redhead says, stubborn. “They’re – they’re in there somewhere. We’ll find them.”

“It used to be a Lamco shopping centre,” Shinsou says, quiet. Careful. “Five stories, and an underground parking lot. That’s a lot of concrete to come down around someone.”

“Are you listening to yourselves?” Eiji demands, sitting forward. Voice low, the muscles in his arms are tense, his jaw set straight – he’s furious, eyes darting between Shinsou and Katsuki both. “Man, we’re Pro Heroes! Rescuing people from impossible situations is literally what we do! We were trained for this! We excel at this!”

“We were also trained to look at situations objectively,” Shinsou rebuts, looking grim. “To assess risks. We’re going in facing ugly odds and a mountain of piping hot rubble.” His eyes flicker to Katsuki, gleaming in the low light. “I don’t like this. I don’t like saying this. I want to find them for you both, and I will keep going until we’ve cleared every inch of debris out of there – but we have to be realistic. If either of them had a Quirk, something that could’ve… protected them in the collapse –,” He looks away again, silent for a few long moments, before he says, softly, “The world isn’t kind. It doesn’t care what you want, or who’s good, or what people deserve. We see that all the time.”

They do, Katsuki thinks. They have fought against it and been apart of it, over and over.

“We see plenty of miracles, too.” Eiji says in return. He looks at them both, his mouth a hard line. “We’re going in to find two people.” His voice is stern, ruby eyes blazing – broking no room for discussion. When neither man answer him, he turns that gaze to Katsuki, who can barely acknowledge it. “Katsuki, man, you know we’re going to find them. We’ve pulled through on worse shit than this. You’ve pulled through.”

There’s a note in his voice that’s turning desperate – and the blond looks at him, his best friend.

Katsuki is a teenager, fifteen, standing on a dark battlefield and surrounded by villains, watching as his classmates blaze through the sky, one of them holding out his hand for Katsuki to catch a hold of it.

Katsuki is an adult, too old and too tired, sitting in the empty hull of an aircraft as that same classmate – his best friend – holds out his hand once again, and asks him to do what Katsuki has always, always strived to do before: win.

He sets his shoulders. “We’ll find them.” He agrees, at last.

“Alive,” Ei adds.

This is the difference between them, Katsuki thinks, his gut churning. Eijiro lets himself have his hope, wear it on his sleeve like a beating heart. Katsuki holds his close and doesn’t dare even breathe on it, fear making him curl up around it, protecting it.

They arrive on the scene to find an apocalypse.

Its dark, floodlights being set up, the bright light cutting through the cloud of dust, the night to illuminate the jagged remains of the shopping centre, skeletal and giant, a monster from folklore.

An armada of recuse services is circled in a caravan of ambulances, firetrucks, blue and red bouncing off each other. Now and then there’s a flash of warm light, the crackle of electricity – Denki, syphoning it away from the wreckage and releasing it harmlessly into the sky.

Jirou is waiting for them when they step off the plane; her hair’s longer than when Katsuki saw her last, brushing against her shoulders, and when she crosses her arms the leather of her jacket tightens like a second skin. “I’m listening out for our survivors,” She says immediately, leading the way to where a HQ tent has been set up. “So far, there’s nothing. It’s hard to get close to the rubble, the heat reflecting off it is making things difficult.” She looks at Katsuki, grim; the earphone jacks of her lobes tentatively lifted, still listening. “Denki told me what this means to you,” She says, lowly. “We’re going to find them. We just need to figure out how.”

The Pro Hero promise, in the Pro Hero voice.

(Katsuki is fifteen, staring wide-eyed at All Might as the man, the mountain he was, stands before him in the League of Bastard’s lair and tells him he’s done well, that he’s okay.

Katsuki is an adult, staring at the ruins of a building as his friends – the Heroes, now – stand before him, determined to find you.)

Recuse workers are milling at the edges of the debris field, ants edging their way along a crack.  It’s like the images from the mining cave-in, in the Philippines; the same response for a different disaster. Deku and Uraraka were probably looking at the same scene.

The one time he needs them, Katsuki thinks suddenly, in angry despair. The one time – and they’re in another fucking country.

If they’d had Uraraka’s anti-gravity, clearing the rubble and the debris would’ve been easy, easier. Suddenly Katsuki is aware of how useless he is, his firepower having no place in a field of rescue so delicate. He could melt concrete, take out the side of a mountain – but with no idea of where you were, where the kid is, if he used his Quirk to destroy the heavier pieces then he could end up being the thing that kills you.

His fists tighten, the knowledge of that rising up in his throat, choking him. A muzzle. A prison of sludge. Another terrible thing to haunt him in his nightmares: the simple fact that he is useless. That he is too rough for good things, too rough to help them.

“The water’s been cut off for a year,” A firefighter is saying, explaining to Jirou and an intense Ei, as they huddle underneath a tent filled with radios and blueprints. “So we’re not worried about flooding. The thing is, trying to get across the rubble to the epicentre – or least, where we think the blast originated from. Because the damage is definitely localised, which might give us a better chance of – ”

A shout goes up from the respondents around them, Katsuki instantly on edge, stepping forward; for a moment, he doesn’t see it, the reason for the sudden panic, but then there’s movement from the centre of the collapse – a small figure, struggling to scrabble up slabs of jagged concrete.

It’s Haru.

There is no thought; Katsuki is off, pushing through the useless extras that have stopped in their shock, the ones hovering by the smouldering debris – he barrels ahead, sprinting until the idiots around him get the idea and leap out of his way as he jumps, using his blasts to streak him forward.

The kid sees him, lifting a tear-stained face towards him. He’s alive. Katsuki lands on stable platform of concrete, a former wall that’s levelled out; no sooner than his feet are on the ground does the kid throw himself at him. The blond’s boots slip, just slightly with the weight, but he catches Haru easily, holding the boy tight like his own life depended on it.

“I’ve got you,” Katsuki says, Haru’s sobs wracking his entire body. He can feel the tremors of them reverberating in his own chest, and pressing the kid against him tighter, Katsuki just repeats, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The kid is alive – he’s alive. You wouldn’t have been far from him – Katsuki needs to get in there, needs to dig you out, claw his way through the rebar and the concrete to find you –

You have to be alive. You have to be.

From behind them the shouting and chaos of the rescue services sharpens, sudden. Katsuki can hear his name, hear Haru’s – he turns with the kid in his arms to see Ei running towards them, jumping what he can, leaping over bigger chunks until he’s heaving himself up to the ledge Katsuki landed on, panting with the strain.

“He’s okay,” Ei breathes as he straightens, face awed. “He’s really okay,” He lifts a big hand to cup the back of Haru’s head, stroke it.

The boy flinches, wholly and bodily, burying his face deeper against Katsuki, clutching at his Hero suit with small, bloodied hands.

“Ei,” Katsuki breathes. “Take him, get him to the medics – I need to find Weeds – ”

It grips him, the uncertainty of whether or not you’re alive clawing up inside him – but Haru won’t let go, no matter how gently Ei tries to coax him. It takes Katsuki crouching with him, whispering into his hair that he’s okay, that he’s safe, that everything’s alright for the kid to trust the safety enough to glance up and see Ei there hovering, eyes soft and glimmering.  

When Katsuki goes to offer the kid out to him again, Haru finally reaches for him – his small frame shaking with his gulping tears, a terrified, desperate child, looking for something familiar. Ei wraps big arms around him, holding him tight, the same fear Katsuki felt there, plainly, on his face. Have they ever been this invested in someone outside of their lives like this, before?

The kid twists around to stare at the blond, and it grabs his heart, holds it there; the kid’s wide, wet, unseeing eyes. It’s a look Katsuki has seen on older Pros, on the faces of his classmates when they were much too young for it. On his own face in the mirror, in the dark mornings.

“You’re here,” Katsuki tells him, heavy hand on his head. “You’re here, kid.”

Haru doesn’t blink, just staring at him; Katsuki’s mouth tightens, and he glances to Eijiro, who’s eyes are dark.

“Weed’s still out there, Ei,” He says, desperation tightening his voice.

Both men turn to stare at where Haru has crawled from – it’s deep, the damage expanding from thereout, like shockwave. You wouldn’t have left the kid alone, if you were able. But the idea of you, under all that –

Katsuki stares, his ears ringing, only to realise Ei is talking to him. “ – know where to start now, man, but we need to get Haru back to the EMTs.”

The blond can’t breathe in – the thought of walking away, even just momentarily, when you’re still out there, when you still need help, traps him.

“You take him,” Katsuki orders. “I’m going in.”

“You’re not going in without me,” Ei says in his Hero voice, and Katsuki snarls at him, ready to fight over this, but there’s more shouts, a clatter of metal on concrete – the firefighters have picked their way through the debris, following him and Ei both, arriving to take the kid back.

“Watch him,” Katsuki tells the guy closest to him, reaching out for the boy – Ei goes to pass Haru on, carefully, cradling his head like a newborn, but Haru whips around and sees that he’s being palmed off to a stranger and screams –

The shock of it throwing everyone back.

Eijiro, by virtue of holding the kid, just drops. But Katsuki and the fireman are both flung backwards, in opposite directions. For a heartbeat, Katsuki is wildly airborne – but he manages to right himself with a explosive boom, using his Quirk to gain control midair.

It doesn’t last long; the kid is still screaming, a wailing now that has gained an unnatural pitch, throbbing at the base of Katsuki’s skull as his explosions stutter and falter, sending him plummeting to the ground again.

It’s not a long drop but it still fucking hurts when he collides with the rubble bodily, angled so that his shoulder can take the brunt. He can’t move – physically cannot lift himself, the soundwave like a physical force, keeping him pressing his face into the ground, gritting his teeth.

It lets up in a stutter, almost just as instant – when Katsuki lifts himself on shaking arms he realises that Haru has cried himself sick, choking up, distraught and clinging to a just-as-shaky Eijiro, hunched over him protectively, half in unbreakable form.   

“What the fuck,” Katsuki chokes out, gagging. His ears are ringing – a fucking warning sign, considering he dealt with constant explosions.

The chaos intensifies – the poor bastard of a fireman is dragged up by some of his friends as Katsuki staggers to his feet.

Ei’s pulled himself together – figuratively and literally – to grab the kid and slide down the slab they were perched on, Katsuki meeting them, still shaky.  

“What the fuck,” He says again, louder.

Ei just shakes his head, bewildered, lips parted around his sharp teeth. “I dunno, man! Was that a blastwave? But – Haru can’t – he doesn’t have a Quirk – ”

“He has one now,” Katsuki says, grimly, eyeballing the kid. Haru is pressed so tight against Eijiro that it looks like he’s trying to osmosis into him. The blond doesn’t like the implications.

Everything within him is on edge, vibrating – who knows what that blast has loosened, under their feet. You’re still in there, somewhere, but the kid presenting with a new fucking Quirk, now, right the fuck now, can only mean one thing –

Hamasaki wanted the boy. No one’s surviving the gifting; so Hamasaki thought that since the kid was younger, it might take better –

The fuckers.

One of the ballsier drivers with the paramedics manages to four-wheel drive an ambulance towards them, picking its way through the flattest of the debris – Ears and Denki have hitched a lift with them, stumbling out when the van pulls up, Ears’ earphone lobes pricked up, swivelling.

Ei is setting the kid down on a gurney, one of the medics using enough broken JSL to explain she’s going to look after him – Katsuki grabs Jirou by her arm, asking, “Anything?”

She sniffs, eyes off to the distance as she listens. For a long moment there’s nothing but the terrible thump of Katsuki’s heart – Jirou must be able to hear it, he thinks, but then her earjacks straighten, pointing, her eyes widening.

“I think – we might have something. I think I’m getting the shallowest of breathing, maybe a heartbeat, but – ” She looks at him, face serious. “It’s real faint, Bakugou. And slow.”

“Where?” He snaps, his stomach dropping; Jirou barely points to where the crater is deepest and of course – Katsuki doesn’t wait any longer, dashing forward as he’s spurred on by the mindless, empty need to get to you. Vaulting over foundational remains and leaping from rubble mounds to get to the crater, nearly sliding down into the hole when he skids towards it.

It’s a dark maw – inside he can see the seemingly chasmal space of the parking lot, underneath. His eyes scan the area – the kid crawled up from somewhere –

He can hear his name being called out, but ignores it, finding a slope of concrete and plaster easy enough for a small kid to clamber up, to get a foothold; Katsuki lets himself slip down it, dust kicking up as he goes.

It’s silent in the pit of this destruction, an oppressive weight only broken by the groaning of what little infrastructure is left, metal expanding and receding. Katsuki’s jaw tightens as he glances back up, the dark, cloudy sky lit up by the floodlights.

Everything around him has been pushed back, blasted back. Like an invisible wave – the same kind of pattern they’d all fallen to, when Haru screamed.

If kid’s newfound Quirk did this – then Katsuki really was standing at the epicentre.

He moves forward; then stops. If you’re in here – Katsuki’s teeth grind down. The force of the kid’s shockwave has done a lot of damage down here, concrete pillars toppled over, the ceiling of the parking lot caved in.  

“Weeds!” He shouts, on the off-chance you can answer. He waits for long moments, his heart thumping visibly; nothing.

Dust rains down on his hair, coming from the edge of the hole – rubble gives way underfoot as Jirou arrives, frowning down at him. “You couldn’t wait?” She calls out, annoyed. Despite her frown, her earjacks are lifted attentively, trying to focus in on any small sound. “To your right, about… twenty metres in. That might be something.”

Katsuki turned – and was met with a wall of crumbled concrete, heavily packed.

He looks to Jirou, desperate, and she shakes her head. “They’re still coming. The vans are blockaded.” She pauses. Doesn’t tell him to wait, doesn’t tell him to trust them – instead her mouth flattens, and she says, seriously, “Bakugou… the pulse is getting weaker.”

There is no more waiting.

The impact has meant this section is walled in; Jirou calls down, saying she thinks there might be a pocket of space behind it, your best chance for survival without being completely crushed. Katsuki just needs enough space to tunnel in and get you.

Nimble, Jirou slips down after him, skidding up alongside him as he touches the concrete before them, testing.

“Here,” She says, slapping a big, foundational chunk. “If you can get past this you can get into the pocket.”

Katsuki glances up – it’s tall, with not much leaning above it or against it from this side. There’s nothing from here that could collapse back on you, if you’re in there.

He grits his teeth, willing himself to do this properly, as he presses his gloved palms to the concrete, summoning every inch of control within him, his chest tight. One moment of loss with that control, and he could create an explosion that, at the very least, could deafen everyone amid the echo chamber they were in – and at worse, outright kill you. Katsuki licks his lips, still too dry, heart thumping –

And then he melts a hole straight through the rock.

The kickback from the searing heat washes over him and Jirou both; she flinches, lifting an arm to cover her eyes but Katsuki just presses forward, using the slow-burn effect of his careful heating to make enough space for him to finally duck through, scraping against the edges of hot concrete, his heart pounding.

It’s dark in here, empty and cavernous. Katsuki’s boots scrape along the ground, small rubble caught underneath. The damage is like a domino effect – here, he can see the clear wave of the blast expanding out, concrete pillars toppled over.

“Weeds?” He calls out, met with nothing but the oppressive silence. He can hear the crackle of Jirou’s radio, behind him, but Katsuki ventures forward into the darkness, his breathing tight, shallow.

He has to find you. He will find you.

It’s slow, though – too slow. Everything within Katsuki is screaming at him to rush in, rush around, blast what he can away; but there’s so much that can go wrong. The better part of his life has been spent learning control, restraint, to save people by being smart – he won’t win by being mindless.

But the fear – the same one that gripped him for All Might, for Deku – is crawling up in his throat, threatening to make a prisoner of him again. Twenty metres, Ears had said; Katsuki is over halfway when he sees the slab of concrete, angled just right –

And smells the blood.

He pauses, fear and disbelief flooding him before he scrambles to the slab, the hot smell of blood stronger the closer he gets. There’s a dark stain pooling out from behind the concrete and Katsuki going to be sick, he’s going to –

It’s dark, here. Too dark, Katsuki left alone with his breathing and his fear, both coming up too fast, jagged.

There’s a torch on his suit, fitted for this occasion. He clicks it on with shaking hands, and stares.

His first thought is – irrationally – that you have been turned inside out, ripped apart by the sheer force of the blast.

The second thought is that – it’s you. In the light of the flashlight your apron is bright, almost painfully so and Katsuki is going to throw up, he’s going to unleash, implode, wipe out this entire place and reduce the both of you to ash –

He stumbles forward, falling to his knees and he realises – no, you’re still whole. You’re twisted in a way that doesn’t promise anything good but you’re not splayed out, like a carcass on the butcher’s table: the hot stink of blood and guts is strong but it’s not entirely yours Katsuki realises, finding himself staring at dull, dead eyes, just above you.

It must be your kidnapper, Katsuki thinks, empty. The man’s head has been smashed against the wall, smeared against it darkly, half gone and leaving that slack, terrible face. He must’ve been behind you, or something, when the blast hit, taking the brunt of the impact; what’s left intact of his mangled body are his limbs, mostly – an outline print of the human he used to be, before he collided with a wall, cushioning your body as much as a bag of meat could.

And you – at first glance you look like a child, almost; curled up asleep. But you are laying in a bed of blood and gore, sheltered in the literal bones of another human, smeared together with the man that put you here in the first place and Katsuki’s rage is cold, ice-cold, when he realises you’re not naturally curled in some fetal position – that you’re tied up like a pig, like a prisoner.

He makes a small, wordless sound of rage and dives for you, at last.

His stomach roils at the gore; your head is wet with blood and tissue, too soft under his probing hands and Katsuki can’t tell if it’s a head injury or the remains of the fucker beneath you. He can barely feel a pulse, running his hands along your body, under you, carefully, never mind the disgusting slop of wet flith; Katsuki gags a little, swallowing it down in favour of ripping the ties that bind your hands together clean apart, his rage fuelling the snap. He won’t have you die like this – tied, trapped.

You’re twisted at a painful angle, one of your arms bent unnaturally, even freed – but when he’s satisfied that you’re whole, that you’re not torn into pieces, he does what he can to lift you, pull you out of this dark, deadly cave.

From his makeshift entrance he can hear the crackle of a radio, voices – but he’s focused on you in his arms, the taste of blood in his mouth. There’s a drag, when he lifts you – dark, wet things, hanging limply from your back. Wings, he thinks distantly. The wings you were wearing in your photo. He can’t pull them off without tugging you, unnecessarily, and without knowing for sure what’s broken, what’s bleeding, he won’t risk it.

Instead, Katsuki rearranges the dead weight of you in his arms, trying not to think of how much larger when you’re awake and breathing, moving, how much more space you take up when you’re alive; the easy weight of you, moulding to his body as he pushed you against a wall. His breathing is short, rapid, and he lifts himself up, staggering only slightly as he shuffles forward, willing himself not to drop you.

Normally moving a body – an injured person – is a fucking stupid idea. But neither you nor Katsuki can wait for the paramedics to fumble their way in here, led by luck – he has to take you to them.

There’s a scuffle by the entry Katsuki’s created – a light shines in just as he drops to his knees again, under the weight of your limp body.

“Ears,” He chokes out. “I need someone – ” in here, he doesn’t finish.

A silhouette cuts across the light, the gravelly sound of stone giving way under boots and hands as someone clambers into the chamber.

It’s Denki, staring down at Katsuki like he’s never seen him before – and maybe he hasn’t, Katsuki thinks numbly, not like this. Not holding the heavy, lifeless body of someone he –

Only Izuku has ever seen Katsuki close to this, there for every one of the blond’s worst moments – except for this. Izuku isn’t here for this, to look down at Katsuki one step and a shallow breath away from losing it, holding your broken body in his arms.

“Kacchan, dude,” Denki breathes and it’s wrong, it sounds wrong, but the sparks of Denki’s Quirk zap up around them, the other Pro nervous as he drops in front of Katsuki. He’s reaching out, cautious and wide-eyed and Katsuki realises that he’s retreating into his blank space of shock, clutching you to him too tightly, precious cargo he won’t relinquish.

The static of Denki’s radio crackles; Jirou’s voice comes out, though it’s ghosted over her in real time, not metres away. “I can’t hear a beat anymore, guys,” She says urgently, and Katsuki makes a low, pained noise, holding you tighter, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of you, running his hands down your arm as though he could will his life into yours.

“I can’t feel her pulse,” Katsuki chokes up, and something hard settles on Denki’s face.

“Put her down,” He says, suddenly, authoritatively – the voice of a Pro Hero. It speaks of the shock Katsuki’s retreating into that he does after a moment, holding Denki’s golden gaze, trusting him inexplicitly with this, laying his heart out for him.

Denki takes a shakey breath, steadying himself; and then electricity sparks up around them, his hands crackling as he shouts, “Clear!”

The world lights up in an instant, then goes dark again; Katsuki starts compressions, furious, as Denki tilts your head back, blowing air into your lungs.

There’s nothing, no response, no jump, and Katsuki’s throat is hoarse as he snarls, “Again Denki!”

His friend takes a shuddering breath, then sets his mouth stubbornly: his hands spark.  “Clear it!” He shouts again, and Katsuki backs away just enough to feel the hum of the careful energy Denki uses to try and shock you back into this world.

They’re on you again in a moment, Katsuki pounding down, willing the life back into; Denki trying to inflate your lungs and there’s a pause, a fraction of a heartbeat –

And then your body takes in a great, rattling breath, arching up – a livewire. Alive.

Denki makes a tiny, incredulous noise of disbelief; Jirou is shouting something at them directly, forgoing the radios completely but to Katsuki this is just vague background noise. He folds himself over you, forehead to yours as his shoulders tremble with his rage and his grief and his relief. Your breath is still too faint – it is still too close to call –

But you are here, now, still with him, and Katsuki touches his lips to your bloodied forehead in a shaky kiss, as the shouts of the paramedics echo in the ruins, time slowing down around him.

He waits.

You’re too broken, too weak for healers to be used straight away, and the first 24 hours are an agonising blur that Katsuki sits there in the waiting room for, empty.

There’s no sign of a Quirk being triggered; but they now have to contend with your very human body suffering. The doctors come and go, prophesising the worse. Succumbing to your wounds, infection, internal bleeding. Just flat out dying. It gets to the point where Katsuki snarls at any fucker who makes the mistake of wearing a white coat as they approach him, none of these dumb fucks able to give any one, clear, answer.

Eijiro hovers, just as shell-shocked as Katsuki but able to pull himself together, quicker. He’s the poor sap that has to deal with the paperwork, their agency, as the blond just sits like a broken computer screen, flickering and trapped.

On Day 3 Deku strides into the waiting room fresh off the plane, still in his Hero costume. It’s almost ridiculous – some part of Katsuki wants to laugh – but Deku pulls up short at the sight of him, taking in Katsuki as he slouches down in the uncomfortable plastic chairs of the waiting room, miserable, face contorting angrily every time someone comes near. It doesn’t change just because Deku’s here, now – and the green-haired man slips into the chair next to him, silent for a moment.

“You got him, Kacchan.” He says. “Hawasaki Hiro will never be able to hurt anyone again.”

“I didn’t get shit,” Katsuki says, quietly, his anger still rippling, under the surface. “The fucker was already dead.”

“He was working alone,” Deku offers, just as quiet. “Had maybe a handful of people who were following him. They’ve all folded, now. He’ll never be able to hurt anyone, again, Kacchan.”

At the cost of taking Weeds with him, the blond thinks. He doesn’t say it out loud, but Izuku turns those big, glimmering eyes his way, finally seeing through Katsuki, instead of being blinded by him, his deeds or his temper.

“She’ll be the last, Kacchan.” He whispers.

It’s a promise that means absolutely nothing to him.

But still – every day you prove the doctors wrong, still breathing, still alive. Healers are called in once you stabilise, about four days out. Katsuki hovers like a ghost, pacing restlessly; no one questions him, too afraid of his smouldering temper. Ei brings him a bag, some change of clothes; the nurses let him shower on the ward, half taken by his dedication, half bewildered.

No one pushes him. Not even Izuku, who Katsuki knows has picked up his slack outside the hospital. As a teenager, that would’ve sent him apoplectic – the idea of letting that damn nerd cover for him, disgusting. As an adult he can barely bring himself to care. He just wants to know what will happen.

Aizawa comes in one day after, specifically looking for Katsuki.

“You haven’t been to your apartment in a few says,” Aizawa states, bland.

Katsuki shrugs and his former teacher narrows his eye at him, before sitting down, close.

“You’ve been extraordinarily hard to get ahold of, recently,” He continues and Katsuki scowls, leaning forward in his seat.

“Just say it,” The blond snaps, too impatient for this game.

A manilla folder slaps him in the face, Katsuki shaking it off like a dog as he growls, catching it. “What the fuck is this?” He demands, already twisting it in his hand.  

“The details of the case,” Aizawa explains, calmly. “You might want to make yourself familiar with them. If you’re going to sulk around here, you could do some damn paperwork at least,”

Katsuki’s face twists, ugly, throwing the folder aside.

Aizawa sighs, nothing more in that moment than a tired, worn out man, and if Katsuki was capable of it right now, he would feel guiltly. Maybe.

“It was a good call, by the way,” His former teacher says, after a few minutes have passed. “To have Yamada take on the boy. They get on well.” He assesses Katsuki shrewdly. “Together they’ve brought down several buildings in Ground Beta, and Yamada’s already managed to frame your kid for disrupting an emergency assembly.” 

Looking at the white wall across from them, Aizawa frowns. “We’ve gotten in some therapists, a Quirk specialist – the boy’s being monitored 24/7. There were some rough patches there, but… Yamada thinks they’re working out the triggers together. Your little friend’s taken to his new Quirk pretty well, all things considered.”

The pet brat was currently ensconced on the grounds of UA; learning to control his newfound power. Living the life, according to Aizawa. Katsuki takes this all in with no thoughts.

“There’s a lot of trauma there,” Aizawa says, suddenly quiet. “He might have fun during the daylight, surrounded by Pros and spoilt shitless, but at night it’s a different story.”

He’s had some experience with that, Katsuki thinks, grimly.

“He’s got a good specialist, though,” Aizawa continues. “She lets him ask questions; answers in an age-appropriate way.”

That makes Katsuki snort despite himself. When did UA ever care about what was age-appropriate for the kids under its’ care?

His former teacher ignores him, just sitting comfortably beside the blonde, existing in silence, the pair of them staying like that for awhile until there is a scuff on the floor, Shinsou standing at the edge of the waiting room. Purple eyes flicker over Katsuki, openly curious – and the blond realises this the first time the Mindfuck has seen him since he emerged from the sinkhole, covered in blood and retreating into shock.

Aizawa nods to Shinsou, acknowledging him, then turns to Katsuki. “Hitoshi will be checking in on you, for however long you insist on staying here.”

The indignation is instant, “Get outta here –,”

“No buts,” Aizawa commands. “You have enough leave stored up that no one is asking you to return to duty, but I’m not leaving you in this hospital alone with your guilt and your self-loathing. Hitoshi will be here to make sure you take time for yourself, too.”

Jaw tightening, Katsuki glares at the older man hard, but Aizawa doesn’t flinch, staring back. Underneath the force, Katsuki can read the concern. This man – a raccoon made human, tired and done – is probably the only other man Katsuki considers to be something of a father figure, apart from his literal father. He’s been firm when the blonde has needed; unrelenting. Has always believed in him.

Take time for yourself, Aizawa says. Find a way to be okay, Katsuki hears.

Eventually, the blond nods, and they both ease back into their seats, their comfortable silence resuming, Shinsou settling across from them, already bored.

The Mindfucker proves just as irritating as Katsuki suspected he’d be; showing up when the blond least wanted him (which was all the time), nagging him to eat, to go home and sleep. Katsuki, who’d been making do on the awful, dull grey plastic chairs of the ICU waiting room, just tells him to fuck off.

“I don’t need y’babying me!” He says, hotly.

Shinsou barely spares him a glance, watching the nurses move around in the ICU ward through the frosted glass doors. “You’re refusing to take care of yourself; you’re not qualified to tell me what you need.”

Katsuki scowls, gripping his fist; he watches the Mindfuck’s face as he takes in the activity in the ICU and petty and annoyed, he snaps, “Stop gawkin’ in there, you fuckin’ creep.”

“I’m not gawking,” Shinsou returns, patiently. “I’m watching.”

“Don’t do that, either,” The blond hisses. “Weeds ain’t a fuckin’ circus attraction for freaks like you to get your rocks off to.”

“Why Weeds?” The purple fuck suddenly asks. He turns, cutting Katsuki with a critical look. An evaluation. “I’ve yet to hear you refer to your friend by anything but that stupid nickname.” His tone’s mocking, and Katsuki’s almost glad for it; it gives the helpless anger and lust for some kind of violence within him something to surge towards, the blond on his feet instantly.

“Shud’the fuck up,” Katsuki hisses, grabbing Shinsou by the shirt. “Don’t fuckin’ yap about her, don’t fucking yap about me, like you know anything – ”

Shinsou doesn’t fight back, doesn’t try to use his Quirk; he waits, passively, for Katsuki to burn himself out, the blonde scowling all the while, before he finally lets go, the challenge of the moment gone. 

They part and Katsuki stares into the ICU, to where your bed is. From here he can just make out the shape of you, under the sheets; your hand, still and bruised. The healing has been gradual, everyone too afraid of a sudden drop in stamina that could leave you crashing. Katsuki knows, he knows why it’s been so long, why they need to wait –

But he hates it. He hates knowing you’re in here, hates seeing you so deathly still when you should be moving around your stupid little shop, bundles of flowers in your hands – when you should be pacing around your tiny apartment, fussing around. When you should just be – okay, awake. Free.

Shinsou says nothing, staying mercifully – and suspiciously – silent, watching the ward with him; Katsuki’s reluctantly grateful for it. He couldn’t take one more idiot offering up unsolicited advice –

“You’re allowed to, you know… care.” The Mindfucker says, and Katsuki huffs bodily, glaring at him – but that’s all the purple dickweed says, going back to pretending the blond isn’t standing next to him, staring daggers into the side of his head.

Katsuki huffs again and says nothing.

The next day you’re released into your own room – but the relief Katsuki thought he’d feel with it doesn’t come. He stands in the doorway after they moved you, staring at your prone figure, the gentle beep of the monitor a constant, reassuring noise.

He feels sick. Without the darkness of the ruins, the blood of that Hawasaki fucker on you, the damage is stark. Obvious. You are bruised, puffy. Katsuki can’t reconcile it with the vivid brightness of you, before this.

He hears the footsteps from a long way off and doesn’t move when they slow on seeing him – or finally walk up, pausing behind his back.

“Katsuki,” Eijiro says, concerned. “You okay, man?”

The blond pulls away from the door frame to look at his best friend – dressed in casual clothes, a hoodie; holding a obscenely large, bright bouquet of flowers.

Maybe Katsuki frowns at them, he doesn’t know – but Ei takes it in stride, motioning to them. “I thought the room could use some brightening.” He says easily, like he’s talking about adding new curtains to a living room.

Katsuki didn’t even think to go grab something –

A fist comes up, and Ei gently hits him on the shoulder. “C’mon, man. Let’s go give ‘em to her.”

Your room slowly fills with colour.

First it’s Ei’s bunch; then Izuku brings some, wild and colourful. And then a massive display comes from the hags on your street, big enough for its own stand, obnoxious. It reminds Katsuki of funeral flowers, and he scowls every time he glances at it, sitting by the end of your bed as he does. Most of the flowers that end up in here do – remind him of a funeral, too formal and stiff. You’re surrounded by them, like you usually are – but it’s not the same.

There’s letters, and art – handmade cards. All from your pet brat. Aizawa drops some off – they’re the ones that are stuck around on your walls, painstakingly done drawings of you and your weeds, of you and the kid, playing Heroes. Of Haru training, he and Present Mic shouting together. The brat must miss you, that much is clear.

His idiot squad eventually tracks in, tentative. Eijiro’s a given, even with the bullshit he’s dealing with outside the hospital, thanks to Katsuki – and Deku will visit too, moreso to check on Katsuki in the odd, quiet midnight hours, like an over-anxious parent. The nerd’s fucking separation anxiety is something they’re gonna have to deal with, eventually, but Katsuki can’t bring himself to find the energy to care, at the moment.  

But then Mina and Denki show up – both of them trailing after Ei. Mina brings roses, pale pink ones, and talks brightly, keeping her hand on Katsuki in a reassuring manner.

Denki hangs back, quiet, until Katsuki barks at him, annoyed by the change in him. “Oi! Dunce Face – why’re over there?”

If Katsuki’s being honest, it weirds him out, seeing the idiot so subdued. Denki glances at them all, but stares at you, on the bed. Eijiro, who seems to realise what the problem is, moves over to their friend and puts his hand on his shoulder, smiling. “You’re allowed to get closer, Denks.”

Golden eyes glance to Katsuki, who says nothing, and eventually Denki moves in closer, stopping by the foot of your bed, staring down at you, taking in your collection of bruises. The rise and fall of your chest.

Katsuki follows the line of his vision, and says nothing for a long moment, until, at last, he can say, “Thanks.”

No one speaks. Denki stares at him with wide eyes, speechless for once in his miserable life. Katsuki looks at him head on. “Without you, Weed’s be – well. You’re the reason she’s even still here. So… thanks.”

Denki’s mouth opens wordlessly, an idiot pantomime – and then his face is breaking out into a blinding smile. “Dude,” He says, awe-struck, “Kacchan – I think that’s the first time you’ve ever thanked me for like, anything.”

Katsuki tches, but Eijiro is laughing now, Mina keeping her hand between the blond’s shoulder blades, a gentle touch.

“Ogami’s improving,” Ei says, eventually, when the morons are all settled comfortably around your bed. “A lot. His doctors think he’ll be able to be released by the New Year, if it continues.”

Ogami. Katsuki muses for a moment. “He got a handle on that Quirk yet?”

“He’s still on suppressants,” Ei admits. “They don’t want to risk anything, but if his recovery tracks then Aizawa was thinking of bringing him to UA with Haru, just to give the kid a safe, monitored space to learn it.”

More broken children for Aizawa’s menagerie, Katsuki thinks. The idea of his former school collecting these kids with powerful, suddenly manifested Quirks, though –

“The kid gets a choice, right?” He asks.

Ei doesn’t look surprised by the blond’s line of thinking. “Always.”

It’s not the comfort it should be, though, but Katsuki doesn’t dwell on it any longer when Eijiro stands. “Have you eaten today, man?” He asks, and Katsuki scoffs but doesn’t answer otherwise, knowing his friends will fuss.

The redhead glances to Mina and Denki and the weight of their combined stare settles on Katsuki heavily.

“What?” He asks, annoyed, bracing himself.

“I think you should go home,” Eijiro says, calmly, easily. “Just for a bit! Just to… freshen up. Recharge a little.”

Katsuki scowls, about to tell Ei to shove his concern up his backside, but it’s Denki who speaks up. “I’ll stay with her,” He promises, again too serious for his usual, socket-licking self. “I know… you worry. And I’ll stay here. I have the rest of today and tomorrow off, anyway.”

“I’ll stay with him!” Mina volunteers, reaching out to take Katsuki’s hand. “C’mon, Blasty. Let us do this for you. No one’s getting in with us here.”

Mouth flattening, Katsuki says nothing, not knowing how Mina managed to nail his one, irrational fear so cleanly on the head – but maybe he was more obvious than he realised, especially with this.

Especially with you.

“Fine,” He agrees after a long while. All three of the morons audibly ease up, breathe, and Eijiro claps him on the back like he’s done a good job. 

The air in his apartment is stale when he walks in, Katsuki wrinkling his nose. He opens the glass doors to his balcony, lets the cold air of the day in, the light – and decides, fuck it. He might as well shower, maybe take a catnap on something that wasn’t a plastic hospital chair.

He doesn’t move though, breathing in, letting the weight of the past week and a half settle on him, release. He is emptied out, ungrounded – maybe he’ll make a proper meal, too, while he was here, but the thought of leaving you longer than he needed to makes him frown.

His phone buzzes, and he glances down at it. It’s the damn nerd, having heard that he’s left the hospital, willingly. Katsuki ignores it, stretching, before walking to his bathroom, dark and tiled, pulling out the towel he’ll need.

In his living room his phone buzzes again, lighting up, a single message from Mina.

Blasty babe!!! She’s woken up!!!!

Chapter Text

You breathe in, almost tasting the warmth on your face, the light. It’s a gentle touch all of its own and you open your eyes slowly, your vision blurred until you blink — and realise you’re in your Grandfather’s garden.

The humidity has already left you damp; you shift on the bench you’ve found yourself on, frowning. Cicadas shrill in the wild growth around you, insistent and loud, the sound of summer in full swing. 

Something is nagging at you – something setting you off balance – though when you touch the wood of the bench it’s solid under your hand, reassuring. It’s just… you haven’t been to your Grandfather’s garden in a while, you think distantly, though you can’t remember why.

Nothing about it has changed, though. If anything it’s in full bloom, happily imploding – his prized watermelons are stripped and fat, waiting to be picked and chilled, sliced for the heat. His leeks, too, are going crazy – thick and tall, their bristle-like tops bobbing under their own weight. The okura in the bed across from you is thriving happily, the potatoes behind them flowering, and – you frown, sudden, and look around again.

The garden is perhaps the fullest you’ve ever seen it. Lush and green, everything is doing well. But – it’s so warm. It’s summer-warm, oppressive almost, and some of these plants shouldn’t be doing as well as they are, in this heat. In fact —

It comes to you, suddenly. Some of these plants shouldn’t even be in season.

You stare at the garden around you, unsettled. In the thicket of trees that surround this place, you can hear a bird whooping – smaller ones twittering in response. You’re the only human here, amid the green and brilliant nature which moves and lives, unperturbed by your presence.  

The tops of flower-like weeds – weeds you used to pick as a child, bundling them up and selling them to your Grandfather for 100 yen each, playing at shop keeping – are brushing against the ends of the bench, with light, cheery little heads. You can smell the wisteria, planted long ago over the garden gate arch, for a Grandmother you never met: it’s all familiar, safe. You are sitting in your Grandfather’s garden, you know that – you would recognise this place in your dreams, in another life. But –

Why –

Why are you here?

Your body responds to the instant fear on instinct, like a spring-trap, and you find yourself standing, the flower-like weeds swaying as you do.

You shouldn’t be here, you think desperately. It shouldn’t be possible – there’s a reason why it shouldn’t be possible, but you can’t remember – what was the reason –

The hesitant, padded footfall of someone moving through grass stops you; that instinctual fear tells you this is wrongand in response you move, wound up and keyed, to look behind you.

He’s a lanky man. A touch-too skinny, dark-haired. Your eyes flick over his face, weather-beaten, pock-marked up close. The only distinguishable thing about him is that he’s wearing silver-thin glasses, fine like spider’s thread.  

You think of a spider, and then you look at his hands and think of them on you, sickening, and your gut hardens, everything slamming back into you –

“Get the fuck out of my garden!” You say, the words thick as your anger swoops in you, low. “Where’s Haru? Why are you here?” The rallies, the assault in your store, him touching Haru – it leaves you choking, unable to get the scream you want to out.

Spectacles is awfully, hatefully, calm. Bemused. “Garden?” He echoes, ignoring the rest of your demands. He shrugs, just slightly. “We’re not in a garden.”

Your scoff is strained, incredulous, and this hateful, awful man looks around, thoughtful. Quiet. “Maybe it’s a good thing the boy isn’t here.” He says at last, and you make a wordless noise of indignation, but he shrugs again, taking a seat on the tiny bench you left. You recoil from him, hissing like a stray cat as you back away. The flowers, growing thickly at the ends, sway gently with the motion; you feel weirdly betrayed, that they could still look so merry.

“I don’t see a garden,” He repeats, and it annoys you enough that you frown at him. He’s looking around at something. You don’t know what. “I see… a vastly different setting.” Glancing to you, he pushes his glasses up further, on his nose. “But, given the nature of our meeting, perhaps… perhaps this is a dream. Perhaps it’s something more.”

“Something more?” You ask, your voice tight. The trees in the thicket around you move and rustle, and your intruder – your kidnapper – shrugs. “Maybe we’re dead,” He suggests lightly. “And waiting judgement.”

Everything within you seizes. The idea is – stupid. Ridiculous. You can’t be dead, everything around you is so – it’s so –

You feel as though your centre of gravity has shifted, taken and then spun into a tailspin, just to disorient you. Everything is so alive; you’re assaulted with it. The hidden cicadas, like a white noise; the birds in the trees around you, calling out to each other. The green, dark smell of the garden, freshly watered.  Even the humidity, weighing down your clothes, making them cling to you, uncomfortably, convinces you that you are standing there, in the garden you grew up in.

But –

You look down at yourself, and almost expect to see your school uniform. You spent so much time here, after class. That’s what you remember: the heat of the day making the thin cotton of your button-up cling to you, your jacket always discarded on the bench as you rooted around eating sugar-snap peas and tiny tomatoes, overripe persimmons, hiding under the Morning Glories as you read comics and avoided your homework.

But you’re not in a school uniform. You’re wearing an apron, of all things. Obnoxious and bright. An apron… for your work, in the flower shop. The flower shop you were only able to start with money from –

You look up, blinking back the faint idea of tears.

This area has always been beautiful, and half-wild. There’s a river nearby, and you can almost hear it, beyond the cicadas, and the trees. But – it’s too wild now, almost. Everything is thriving, but it’s like a child’s idea of a good garden. Everything growing at once.

It’s the moment before the freefall; the moment you are lifted from your feet, in the darkness of an empty, concrete parking lot.

Your shoulders drop. You’re a florist, with your own little store in the heart of a busy city that you moved to – after your Grandfather died. His garden, the land it sat on, his house – all of it was sold, after his death. Sold and developed. Last you’d heard, it’d made way for more houses. 

That you’re standing in it now shouldn’t be possible. Not in this world – not in this life.

“What’s your garden like?” That hateful voice asks, and you almost ignore it, focusing instead on the burning of tears that’s blurring your vision, but your unwanted guest doesn’t take the hint of your silence, and continues on, “I have a garden. Had.” He corrects. “Vegetables. Useful crops.”

“Stop talking,” You manage to say at last, thickly. Your breathing is ragged; in tune with your heart, you  think, as you try to imprint the garden into your soul for one last time.

“This might not be real,” The man behind you says, like he has a right to. The cicadas chirrup on, unbothered. “So why not indulge me? What harm can you do, by entertaining this?”

You close your eyes, like you can block out the sound of him. “Shut up,” You hiss wetly. “Just – shut up!”

Having him here with you taints everything: you can only think of the way Haru convulsed after this monster touched him –

Making a small noise of disgust you look out at the vegetation around you, green and lush. Where was Haru? And why were you here?

The leaves rustle, your only answer, and your heart twists painfully. Eventually, the voice behind you speaks again. “Shall I tell you what I see?”

“I don’t care,” You tell him, glancing back despite yourself. He isn’t looking at you, though, but somewhere to the side, his gaze distant, not focused on the world around him.

“I’m in my old office.” He says, quite calmly, telling you anyway. “It was my first serious job. I tried very hard to be good at it – I was good at it. I kept my head down and I worked hard. I was fortunate enough to have a desk by the windows.”

Despite yourself and your simmering anger, you’re still listening to him, so when he pauses you unwittingly look to the man. His eyes are still trained on something else, far away, and when he speaks again his voice is soft. “No natural light reached in there; we were perfectly pocketed away. In a way, humans are like your garden. Your flowers. We need sunlight. We need warmth. I worked in that place for years, quietly, and felt everything leech out of me. It began compounding everything wrong in my life. My empty apartment. The lack of a life I enjoyed, outside of that office.”

His glasses glint when he turns to face you, suddenly, his lean face serious, and you take another step-back, automatically wary. Considering this for a moment, Spectacle’s gaze flickers over you before going back to that view only he could see. “Our building was in the back streets, behind the tourist spots. You can see a lot from a few paltry floors up, you know. You’re free to notice things that maybe, on the ground, you’d keep walking past. I saw a lot from my desk, in my years there.” His mouth is thin and mean. “It wasn’t uncommon to see the homeless, milling about the alleyways. There were enough hidden spaces by the restaurants and bars that every now and then I’d see someone sifting through rubbish bags, looking for something edible, taking whatever they could find back to some dark corner. One night – I was working late. I must’ve been bored by the job, but I looked out the window and… I saw her, shuffling out from one of those alleyways, onto the street. Some tiny, old grandmother. You could tell she was dirty even from where I sat. It was cold and she had a coat that was too big for her – and no shoes.”

Your kidnapper – your kidnapper, you remind yourself, the man who tried to hurt Haru and you both – pauses, like he’s back there, looking down on that street and seeing that woman again.

“I watched her as she found a quiet spot and pissed,” He says, at last. “Just there, where anyone walking past could’ve seen. And then she just… shuffled away. Miserable and revolting in her existence.” He shakes himself, then, like he’s shaking the memory off of him, and looks at you with that teacher’s patience, though you’ve done nothing except stare at him, revolted yourself.

“I was repulsed,” He admits to you, quietly. A confession. You wonder why he’s sharing it. “Disgusted. But I wanted to help – no one should suffer that indignity. And yet I was scared. I didn’t move. In the end I just… turned away. Kept my head down. It’s human nature to despise the weak, you know. To despise weakness in others. Our disgust in it is natural, a hold over gift from our dark days where every moment alive was a fight – if you couldn’t pull your weight, you were gone.” In the sunlight, his glasses shine when he moves, frowning at you. “Doesn’t that remind you of anything? Can you not see how unchanged we are?”

“It reminds me you’re crazy,” You answer obtusely. You know what he’s implying.

The sunlight dapples over your kidnapper as his shoulders drop, looking nothing more than a tired man. The trees shift, moving in a barely-there breeze. It’s stifling with the heat.

“The leading cause of homelessness is substance abuse – followed by Quirk abuse, or discrimination,” He tells you, as dry and serious as a news article. “And in most cases, you can trace the drug use back to Quirk abuse, regardless. Society has failed us, deeply. We use our Quirks and the Quirks of others to qualify and judge one another. To hold one another back. We had a chance, as a species, to change, when we first started evolving again. When we first got Quirks.” He looks away from you. “But we didn’t. We just made things harder, as we always do. I just… wanted a better world, where the footing was even.”

You’ve had enough. From anyone else, the words could mean something. But from him? Incredulous, you stare at the man. “Are you serious?” You demand. “A better world? A better world means – I dunno, volunteering with the homeless, feeding them, something, helping people like that old woman. It doesn’t mean forcing Quirks onto people that their bodies can’t handle!” You’re shouting, now, a flutter of wings and leaves telling you the birds nearby have taken off, startled by your volume. “You just did more harm than good! You can’t – you can’t ruin peoples lives and then justify it by saying you were trying to make things better! You just see people as – weak! You’re just seeing them as being weak! You can’t view people like that!”

He takes your rage calmly. Unbothered. When you finally let go, your limbs heavy, annoyed and angry and just – everything – he says, “Well. I guess it’s too late either way, then, isn’t it?”

You laugh, bitterly. It’s not funny – but how else do you respond?

He lets you have your misery, the silence stretching out between you as the garden hums. “I wonder…” He starts. “I wonder what the next life will be. Better than this, I hope.” He looks around, and you try to imagine his dreary office; though you find yourself unable to, surrounded by so much bright life.

“Maybe we’ll meet again.” Your intruder says, thoughtful.

Bewildered at his audacity, you choke, only managing to tell him, “I hope we don’t.”

To your surprise, he laughs. It’s the most normal thing you’ve heard from him: it lightens his face, gives him a warmth he doesn’t have, normally – makes him human, almost. Like he hadn’t committed all those crimes. You feel your mouth thin, annoyed with yourself, but then you blink and he’s –

He’s gone.

He’s just… gone.

You’re alone again, staring at the empty space where he sat, surrounded by the sounds of your Grandfather’s garden. From somewhere in the trees, a bird whoops again, and that fear you felt earlier, when you first realised you weren’t meant to be here, comes back ten fold.

He was just there.

Perhaps it’s a dream, he had said. Perhaps it’s something more.

You swallow, your throat working against the dryness of your mouth. This was a dream; you could believe that, you think. It would explain so much. But…

You look around again, and see the gate that leads to your Grandfather’s house. It’s slightly ajar, like it  hadn’t been latched properly when closed, last. You can almost imagine the rusted swing of it as its pushed open, a sound that’s followed you from your childhood. It’d be so easy to walk through it, you think suddenly. No effort at all, really — just a few steps and the wisteria of the arch would be brushing against your hair, the overgrown path to your Grandfather’s veranda before you.

Seeing him again – it’s the one thing that makes you pause. If this was a dream… why wouldn’t he be there? It’d be good, you think dazedly, to see him healthy, hear his terrible jokes, his recaps of his favourite TV shows. To have his sympathy, when you tell him you’ve had a hard day. To surrender, for a while, to being cared for again.

But… if you do, if you walk out of this garden and to that house, then what? Was it really a dream?

The garden stirs around you, the whisper of a breeze making your flower-like weeds bobble, the sunlight darting over you, filtered through the trees. You hold out your hand, watching the light between the leaves dance on your palm, like fish in a pond – you could almost be sixteen again, curled up against the bench, hiding away in a secret world of your own making.

The light on your palm moves and stretches – and then you start, surprised, when it begins to rain, your fingers coiling as the fat patter turns into a sun shower, light and warm.

You drop your hand instantly, glancing up in bewilderment – realising with a swoop of your gut that you’re under the brilliant fire of a gingko tree, the last of the late-light setting it ablaze.

Your heart hums. You recognise this tree, the park you’re suddenly standing on the edge of. The humming in your chest lifts and drops. There’s no shouting kids this time, however; no one else around. It’s just you and the rain and the leaves.

A gust bows a branch just above you, the leaves dipping with the weight of water. Your throat, so dry before when you were standing in your Grandfather’s garden, works tightly now.

There’s a tiny shift of shoes against gravel; and suddenly, you’re no longer being showered on, a clear umbrella canopying you from the rain.

“You’re getting wet, dumbass.” A familiar voice says, gravelly.

In the aching hollow of your chest, your heart tightens: responding to the sudden warmth behind you.

You let yourself have that, for a moment. Then you turn, properly, to face him. Bakugou.

Katsuki.

In the last of the golden light his eyes are glimmering as he holds your umbrella, shielding you both from the sun shower. He’s in the same outfit he was that day – the peacoat, the scarf, and without much thought you reach out, trail your fingers down the ends of it. Bakugou – Katsuki – watches you with a panther’s wariness, his gaze tracking every minute movement you make. He doesn’t talk or move, beyond shifting just a little bit closer, curling in.

Your throat is tight; too tight. You can feel the tears pricking at the back of your eyes. Is this some kind of bastardised memory? Is your mind replaying things to keep itself active? Or is this – is this –

You think of the coldness of that parking lot you were held in. The weightlessness of being lifted from the ground, thrown backwards. How you can remember nothing beyond that, until you woke up and found yourself in the one place on Earth so special to you, and so long gone.

The breeze picks up, casting the rain sideways, a shower of glitter in the afternoon light. Katsuki’s hair moves with it, fine and gold. You reach up, mindless, wanting to just touch the edges of it –

Katsuki frowns, a small thing; his jaw tight as his eyes flicker between your fingers, and your mouth before he leans in, kissing you as you breathe him in, his sweetness and his warmth. Soap and cologne and skin.

The rain rolls against the plastic of your umbrella in scattered flick; a warm hand comes up to the small of your back to hold you steady, hold you close, and you are so, so afraid that this is some kind of goodbye –

You make a small, terrified noise against Katsuki’s lips, the taste off him, squeezing your eyes shut tight, trying to stop your tears –

And open them, too warm and dry and back in the garden, the chorus of cicadas swelling around, like they’re trying to press their noise against the shape of you, in their space.

You can feel the track of your tears, slow and fat, and for a moment you can do nothing but stand there, amid the vegetables and weeds, shaking. You don’t know what this is – you can’t say what this is. A dream, something more – but all you want, you think desperately, is to wake up. You miss your Grandfather – you will always miss your Grandfather, he was so fundamental to everything you are — but you can’t stay here. You don’t want to stay here — you want to go back to your life, to your tiny shop in the massive city. Back to Akane and Haru. Back to Katsuki, you think dazedly, to the possibility of him. Back to your flowers.

You lift your face to the sunlight, the flicker of it through the trees.

You close your eyes, feeling the warmth and movement of it against you.

Please, you think, your nose and mouth tightening. Please.

There’s no answer but the birds, the cicadas. That warm, flickering light.

And then you wake up.

Your head feels like it’s splitting, a painful thump that leaves you confused. Muddled. There’s something tight around you – sheets? – but you make a small noise, trying to move against the restraints. It’s then you realise that there’s a couple of wide, surprised eyes staring at you – you get an impression of pink, black and gold, bright yellow.

“’oo ‘igh.” You say, thickly. Your throat’s so dry.

You don’t expect the shouting; it makes you jolt, squeeze your eyes tight, and you can hear chairs being pushed back, a furious shhing – someone is arguing with a hiss – but you don’t dwell on it long, can’t, almost immediately falling back into a dreamless sleep.

Home, at last.

You wake up intermittently after that, over and over again, the day restarting each time and leaving you with fragments of light and conversations that you’ll only half remember, eventually. You’re vaguely aware of a doctor, in the earliest of these; a couple of nurses fussing around you as you’re asked questions like your name, the year. You must’ve answered satisfactorily because everyone looks pleased, one nurse beaming at you brilliantly, as you let yourself drift back into sleep.

The next time you’re awake, it’s just as short; you open your eyes to find the light in the room has changed, elongated, stripping over the floor and — your guest, who sucks in a sharp breath when he realises you’re staring at him.

“‘M,” You mumble, sleepily. It’s meant to be a hello, or something like it; in response there’s the plastic clatter of a chair being pushed back, Bakugou standing at your side, wide-eyed and disbelieving.

“S’Haru ‘kay?” You manage to ask, moving your hand, just faintly, across the tight cotton of your sheets.

The blond before you gives an incredulous huff, sharp, wet. “The brat’s fine,” He promises, voice low and hoarse.

You nod, head pleasantly dulled; and then you close your eyes again.

There is no concept or awareness of time, between these moments. They could almost be happening in short, sharp bursts of each other, like fireworks, except the light changes each time. The third time you wake up randomly, without the gentle intrusion of a nurse, it’s to a bright voice, cheerily reading poetry aloud, exaggerating it.

“ — bottom of my shoes are clean, from walking in the — oh! Ah ha! Sleeping Beauty awakes.”

You can hear the smile in the voice, vaguely familiar, and when you squint you realise — of course. It’s Chargebolt.

And then you frown. Why — why was Chargebolt here?

Next to you, where he’s sitting pulled up close to your bed, the Pro Hero grins, showing off the book in his hands. “Jack Kerouac. Did you like them? Normally people accuse his work of putting them to sleep, not waking them.”

You close your eyes, then open them to squint again. “‘Idn’t really… hear ‘em.” Your ears are ringing slightly, a sharp hum that comes and goes, but you ignore it in favour of watching the Pro, without expectation.

He half-hums as he rearranges himself on his chair, then leans back to smile at you, once more. “You’re probably wondering where Lover Boy is, right? Well,” He answers anyway, “Let me tell you, it’s been a nightmare trying to contain him — it’s Ei’s turn to wrangle him now: he’s taken him outside, makes it easier to feed and water the beast. The nurses were going to go on strike if he kept breathing down their necks — ”

You nod like you’re even remotely capable of agreeing, at this point, and something in Chargebolt’s face softens. He’s looking at you like he’s weighing up the pros and cons of something important, before snorting to himself. “You know — I’m ragging on your mans a lot, but — do you… do you remember, like… anything? From the…” He wriggles his fingers vaguely, and you shake your head.

The bright-haired Pro nods, like he was expecting that. “Well, just so you know — Kacchan’s the one that dug you out. He’s the one that found you.” Chargebolt smiles at you winsomely, and you nod again, thinking drowsily, of course.

It’s Bakugou — of course.

You must’ve fallen asleep again, shortly after; when you wake up again properly, actually feeling something close to alert, it’s morning. You’ve come to just before the nurse comes in, brightening when she sees you’re awake.

“Our star’s alive!” She cheers. “Your poor body really wanted to catch up on all that sleep, huh?”

You give a half-snort, a smile, and the nurse grins brilliantly at you. You realise that she was there, back when you first woke up. “Well,” She starts, gaily, “I’m here to check all the usual suspects, go over a few things. The physiologist is gonna come up at some point today, see how your bits are working — but, after you and I are done for the morning, I’ll bring you in some breakfast to try and you can have your visitors for the day!” She lifts her eyebrows at you, clearly amused, like you’re both in on the same secret. “I overheard him ripping into Dr. Arai last night — very funny. I’ve never seen that man try to wriggle away from a conversation faster.”

Lost, you can only ask, “Who?”

Your nurse pauses to look at you more closely, perhaps mistaking your confusion for something more serious as her eyes flicker over your face, gauging your alertness. “Your friend,” She decides to clarify at last, stressing the word. “He’s been here since the beginning — I don’t think he’s left your side since, at least not of his own volition.” Pulling out a pen from her pocket, she taps it against the railing of your bed, a steady beat. “You’ve both been the talk of the station, you know. Specifically him; half the nursing staff are in love with him and the other half are too terrified to even make eye contact.”

Despite yourself you snort, knowing exactly who she’s talking about now.

“He ‘as that effect on people,” You say.

The nurse grins back. “I bet he does.”

She’s finishing up the last of her tasks – your tasks? – when she glances at the door in surprise, hearing something you don’t; you follow her line of sight, startling when you realise Bakugou is standing in the doorway, staring at you with that intense, single-focus gaze of his.

The smile the nurse gives him is impish at best, the curve of it crinkling her eyes as she glances back at you. “You’ve come just in time, Mr. Zero — we’ve been waiting for you.”

He doesn’t acknowledge her, choosing instead to stare at you hotly from where he’s rooted to the floor. It sets your heart going, a rabbit-sprint that echos back on the monitor and you can almost feel the delight of your new friend as she tries not to laugh.

“Behave, kids.” She says with a wink to you, smoothing down your bedsheets in a final action, before leaving quickly, closing the door shut behind her.

You and Bakugou just stare at each other; he doesn’t move from where he first stopped. The look on his face is — disbelieving.

He goes to speak: opens his mouth only to clench it shut again, his brow furrowed, like he can’t trust words, yet. He almost looks pained.

“You’re okay,” He says, strained.

Your hospital gown slips on your shoulder as you shift on the bed. “We’re both.. okay,” You counter, tentatively.

Bakugou’s face — the smooth, handsome face you thought you might never see again — tightens, and he moves in half-step towards your bed, before pulling himself short, frustrated. You drink in the sight of him, the tension in the lines of his body, and when you glance at his face you realise that his eyes are shinning.

“Don’t — don’t ever do that again,” He says angrily, like you could’ve helped it.

You smile, ignoring the tightness of your own tears, around your eyes. “Get kidnapped?”

The Pro Hero makes a small noise of outrage, arms jerking like he wants to fight against the very idea.

“Shuddup,” He says tightly, without real heat. “Jus’ — just don’t.”

Bakugou doesn’t move any closer. You want to touch him, you think drowsily. “Come here,” You suggest, a demand really, letting yourself fall back onto the elevated pillows. He does, eventually, hesitating: when he’s sitting (gingerly) in the chair by your bed, you reach out a hand to brush it against his coat, not missing how he stiffens. 

Your voice is soft when you speak again, letting your hand drop away. “Thank-you, Bakugou Katsuki. For saving me.”

His face twists into an ugly, childish scowl, his eyes glimmering. “S’wasn’t — wasn’t me.” He admits, voice rough. “Denki’s the one y’wanna thank. He — ” Bakugou can’t seem to form the words he wants, his throat working over them. You watch the bob and drop of his Adam’s apple, like he’s trying to force them out — or keep something in.

You go to reach out a hand, again — you want to touch him — but the two of you only have the brief pause in time where he’s watching your fingers, eyes softening even in the wake of his palatable hesitation; and then the door is swinging open, your nurse from earlier calling out, easily, “Breakfast’s up! Something nice and light to start your day.”

Bakugou retreats into himself instantly, his face shuttering of all expression. You are left curling your fingers into themselves, palm empty, and unbidden you think back to being in your Grandfather’s garden; the way the light would play over you, warm.

Red eyes sear into you, never breaking your gaze even as your guest bustles about, effectively talking to herself as she fills you both in on idle gossip.

You smile at him, unable – unwilling – to look away.

It’s a miracle you survived.

For all intents and purposes, that’s the official diagnosis; a miracle.

“You were very fortunate to have survived at all,” The serious-looking Dr. Arai tells you, in no uncertain terms. You can see why someone like your morning nurse would take great delight in watching him be dressed down — he slips a pen into his pocket as he frowns at you, as though you’d fallen off a bike while being irresponsible and not been tied up and held hostage in a collapsed building.

The injuries you sustained are a daunting list that doesn’t quite seem real; a snapped spine, dislocated shoulders, a shattered arm — all on top of a collection of broken and fractured bones, to varying degrees. The most severe of the damage has been healed with the Quirks of several specialists, apparently, the bulk of the credit going to a doctor who can control bone matter. Your hearing, however, will likely never be the same again — and there is a good chance that some of your injuries will manifest as varying aches and conditions as you age.

“Very fortunate,” Dr. Arai emphasises, disapprovingly. Fortune or dumb luck — the only thing protecting your body from complete annihilation was the meat of your body… and what the impact did to your kidnapper’s, first. Hawasaki Hiro.

He finally has a name. Your gut churns with it, and you stare at the far wall of your room as the acting head of the new Justice Tribunal, Aizawa Shouta, talks to you about your experience; tells you about your experience, gives you the pieces you didn’t have so that you can cobble together some semblance of a picture.

“And… he’s dead,” You reaffirm blankly, needing it to be repeated; needing the touchstone to refer back to. Bakugou, who’s been hovering protectively by the head of your bed, mouth taunt the entire time, tightens his fist.

Aizawa’s dark gaze doesn’t leave your face. “The moment everything came down around you.”

You swallow, nodding, letting your vision blur for a moment. It’s — it’s weird. Uncomfortable. You think of your fever dream, of Hawasaki in your Grandfather’s garden. Perhaps it’s something more, he had said.

You — you frown, and try to swallow. “I…”

You can’t finish your sentence; no one presses you for it.

“It’s normal to feel conflicted,” Aizawa says, smooth tenor is reassuring, almost, in of itself. “The roller coaster doesn’t stop just because we tell ourselves it should, or that we should know better, or that someone deserved it.”

Bakugou makes a tiny noise of angry disagreement, shifting closer so that he’s pressing into the side of your bed, moving as though to shield you. Aizawa’s good eye tracks the movement, face deceptively impassive. The man has been careful ever since he stepped into your hospital room, you think; dressed in casual, dark civilian clothes, and leading the conversation with a dry tone. You wouldn’t have known him for someone important, at a glance.

“He’s the only one we all trust,” Bakugou had told you reluctantly, before you agreed to meeting the man. “After the Commission —,” Here, the blond had shrugged. “We need to be answerable to everyone, not just each other. He’s the only one who can make sure that happens.”

You blink away your tears, feeling your nostrils flare, looking to Aizawa Shouta again. It was big praise, you thought, letting yourself be distracted — that Bakugou spoke so highly of him.

“What’s going to happen to Haru?” You ask, your voice scratchy.

“He’s adjusting well, given the circumstances,” Aizawa tells you. It’s the same thing Bakugou has said to you, just a different flavour, but you just — you need to hear it. “We’re housing he and his mother at UA, since the campus is specifically designed against total destruction. All we’re waiting for now are some signs that Haruto can exhibit enough control over his Quirk to prevent another disaster.”

“He didn’t mean to do it,” You say a little too sharply, defensive, thinking about Haru’s wet, terrified eyes, the terror you had felt in response.

“Of course not,” Aizawa agrees, blandly. “It doesn’t change the fact that it happened, though. We have a responsibility to equip him with what he needs to master it. For himself and for others.”

You can’t argue with that, you guess, though it settles uneasily in the quiet of your stomach. Noticing this — your discomfort, the tense lines you’re made of — Bakugou adds, quietly, “Learning enough control now means the brat’ll have more choices — ‘n the future.”

You look at each other — the blond’s face is impassive as he watches you, your hands tightening on the artwork Aizawa’s brought you, from Haru. Choice. You wondered how Bakugou could know it was the one thing you worried about, now, for Haru — that he would have a choice.

It made you feel guilty — worrying about it. All Haru wanted was to be a Pro Hero and now, thanks to this terrible thing that had happened to the both of you, he could be. His dream was being given to him on a silver platter, the cost of it not withstanding. It was an opportunity, more than what some kids would get, despite how it’d been given.

Still — you can feel your mouth flatten, lost in your thoughts. You just didn’t want Haru’s opportunity to turn into a trap.

You glance at the man beside you, his red gaze lingering over your face. Was being a Pro Hero something normal people would call a trap? Even with everything that had happened to Bakugou’s generation — the collapse, the wars, the rebuilding — there was still so much glory. You couldn’t imagine someone like Bakugou in an office job, so naturally bright and fierce, squirrelled away to a desk by a window that missed the natural light. Someone like Bakugou — someone like Haru.

I worked in that place for years, quietly, and felt everything leech out of me.

Your nostrils flare, again; the pressure of tears threatening to come back. It wasn’t even real, you think furiously — it was just a dream. But Hawasaki’s words were entwining with your fears. He had enough drive within him to feed people, by the accounts Aizawa had just given you. To try and help them, in some small way. And yet with his Quirk, how many lives did he ruin? Was the charity just a front? How could people hold so much chaos within them, good and bad and indifferent, all at the same time?

“Oi,” A gruff voice says, and instead of looking to Bakugou, you glance to his hand, where he’s tapped the rail. He has broad hands, you think. Broad and powerful; careful. You glance back at him, and he is watching you with something unnamed that threatens to crawl within your chest and make a home for itself. “Y’okay.” He says. Says, not asks. He’s reminding you.

“We’re okay,” You reply, conscious now that the acting head for the Justice Tribunal is still watching you both, inscrutable.  

He doesn’t say anything about your sudden, secret code; instead the man looks down at the drawings you’re holding.

“Like I said,” He continues, dryly. “it’s normal to feel conflicted.”

Akane visits next.

You don’t realise how much you’d been dreading it until it happens. Bakugou is there, silent and watchful; he would’ve preferred to give you some space, you think, having moved to leave when Akane first arrived, but you’d looked up at him in terror and he stayed, reluctantly, acting the royal guard.

The pair of you stare at Akane as she stands stiff and grave by your door.  Her face is serious, gathered with new lines and your heart hammers, unable to think of anything other than how you failed her — how you didn’t keep Haru safe enough.

“Akane,” You start, and to your intense embarrassment your voice is already cracking, thick. Bakugou shifts near you, but you don’t look at him, your eyes on Akane’s, silently imploring her. “I’m — I’m so, so sorry I couldn’t protect Haru — ”

The woman’s face crumples, your heart dropping with the fear of it, and before you can comprehend the moment she is striding towards you, on the bed — Bakugou moves, maybe to stop her, and you wait for the stinging burn of a slap as she throws herself at you —

Your eyes are squeezed shut, but no hit comes; you make a tiny, tiny noise instead, when you smell her perfume, feel the paper crèche softness of Akane’s skin against your cheek — blinking slowly, tears blurring your vision, you find yourself in her arms as she hugs tightly, fiercely. The hug of a mother.

“You were always meant to be in our lives,” She whispers to you, furiously. “Always. Whatever we did to have you with us — it will never be enough.”

Your face is hot with your tears, and you press into her as the fine tremors of your silent sobbing rocks through you both. Akane just holds you tighter, smoothing a hand down your back as she lets you cry.

It takes some time; when you pull away at last, the both of you puffy-eyed, you’re aware of the weight of Bakugou’s gaze — watching silently, protectively. He doesn’t speak, just shuffling around begrudgingly when Akane bullies him aside — he just stays, watchful eyes on you as you wobble, listening to Akane talk.

“It’s a big school they’ve got him in,” She says. You can hear Bakugou’s scoff, but she ignores him. “Too big! But Niko has taken time off, to be with him — ” Akane stops herself here, looking at you askew. “It’s good they are getting time together; Haru has needed his mother. But he misses you, my girl. Niko says he’s been having nightmares — please visit him, when you can. He needs the reassurance of seeing you.”

Unbidden, you glance at your Pro Hero, who’s frowning at the wall opposite him as he listens. Reassurance, Akane says. You think of Kirishima, saying something similar in what felt like a different life, now; we all need the reassurance that we’re all okay.

In the light from the hospital window, Bakugou’s — Katsuki’s, you allow yourself — hair is gold.

We’re okay, you think to yourself.

And — you are, surprisingly. Akane settles back into the comfort of complaining to you. The others on the street have been unbearable gossips, apparently, and she’s considering shutting up the shop, she explains — just so she can move closer to the school, to Haru and Niko. Money though, has stopped her; the shop makes just enough to cover its bills and provide a little extra in the way of income, now, though Niko has applied for and been granted a special Villain Disaster policy payment — it’s enough, for now, but the bills always threaten to loom.

“I’ve been trying not to think of mine,” You admit to the room, glumly. Akane pats your hand in sympathy, though she’s shaking her head.  

“You’ll have to apply for the same thing as soon as possible,” She says firmly.  

There’s a small tch, Bakugou looking up from where he’d been slouching against the wall. “You’ll be eligible for several, probably.” He says, frowning like he was annoyed. “‘Disaster one’s automatic. There’s a Special Victim’s one, too — Aizawa’s already gone ahead and started th’ one for you.”

Akane sniffs, disgruntled. “Well, that’s something, then.” It’s the only time she talks directly — well, tangentially — to Bakugou the entire duration of her visit, unable to forgive him, it seems, for not being Kirishima.

You improve rapidly after that visit, something within you – something small and frightened – finally watered and nourished, transformed. Bakugou — Katsuki — visits every day still, lingering, bringing you food in silver canisters that stack: his own cutlery, wrapped and tied in dark cloth. Your morning nurse — Sakurai Yui, she tells you impishly, cementing a friendship you were never going to escape making — informs you that your Pro Hero (your Pro hero, she emphasises) has been terrorising the other nurses and aides, grilling them about the patient menus, coming away unsatisfied.

His disgust in their failure to feed you properly, according to him at least, manifests itself in the meals he brings you. Carefully made things, all delicious: light at first, the portions controlled for your temperamental stomach — steaming broth, simple onigiri. As you recover faster, return to yourself quicker, you gain more of an appetite that Bakugou accordingly rewards — you get diligently presented sandwiches, crispy fried goods, occasionally: more solid, building food.  

There’s fruit as well, Bakugou bringing them to you like some kind of offering to a forgotten God; fat, perfectly round grapes, presented in the department store box, the trailing ribbon. Plump pears, hefty and juicy. Imported mangoes. Bakugou sits by your bed and silently slices whatever you want, like he would for a sick child, you think; handing you a wedge or square as you’re ready for it.

You watch his hands one time, as he quarters an orange — broad and careful. When you glance to his face, you’re unsurprised to find he’s watching you in return. There’s a lot of this, now — the sharing of heavy looks, wordless moments where one of you catches the other staring and neither look away.

It’s — what? A personal challenge? Some new line neither of you are sure of how to cross? He saved your life, you think, surreally; this man found you in the dark and the deep, and pulled you out — but yet neither of you have made the move to touch each other. Something so simple, so fundamental to other people.

Bakugou offers you a fat orange slice, and you take it with a murmured, nonsense noise. It’s sweet and sticky, refreshing, and you watch as the blond sizes up another piece, frowning at it before he gives a tiny, barely audible tch, biting into it with a wide mouth, like a child.

You try not to laugh around your own slice, but you’ve never been good at hiding anything you felt — especially not something as contagious as mirth, and Bakugou hunches into himself as he scowls, fruit still in his teeth.

“Cut y’own damn shit then, next time,” He says and you laugh outright at that, knowing that despite the threat, he’s too restless and sharp to let anyone do anything while he sat by.

True to form — he starts slicing another orange eventually, and you watch his hands again, the span of them and you think about how they saved you — how they save people.

“When —,” Your voice is scratchy, and you swallow before starting again. “When do you go back to… duty?”

“When’ver I want,” Bakugou grunts, knife and fruit in hand as he eyes the slices critically. They’re perfectly even to you, you think, but you don’t say that, instead watching his face.

He continues as though you aren’t trying to burn a hole into him with your eyeballs — pretending he doesn’t already know what you’re thinking. You dutifully take another orange slice when he presents it, obeying the gravitas of the game between you. For long moments, neither of you breaks it; you have learnt, intimately, that Bakugou seems to prefer the silence, finds comfort in it where you find noise reassuring. He adds to things when he needs to, you guess — or when he’s weighed down by them.

Eventually — he adds.

“M’thinking of going back soon.” He says, slowly, like the decision is still on a seesaw — you realise it is when he looks at you, searching for anything that might tip it either way. “I — Ei’s been doing double time to cover me, him and Deku both and I — ” The blond stops himself there, jaw tightening. He doesn’t need to say it out loud.

Absently you trace your fingers against the smooth starched sheets of the hospital bed. What had you just thought, before? That Bakugou was too restless and sharp to sit by, idly — and it’s true. He was a man — an explosion — fuelled by nitrogen and ambition. He needed this city, this country, as much as you all needed him.

You watch each other carefully; drinking each other in. It’s a trite way of thinking about it, you think, but it’s true — Bakugou always looks at you, looks over you, like he is taking in everything about you, all at once. But that intensity — the singular focus of his being — had to be shared. Dynamite in human form, he would always have a duty to something more. You either met him on this, or you left him the hell alone.

“Good,” You say at last, trying to keep it light. “Sakurai says you’ve been bullying the other nurses,”

Bakugou’s scowl is instant. “If the useless extras did their fuckin’ jobs — ”

You laugh, and despite the furious twist of his mouth the blond’s shoulders ease — though it doesn’t lessen the way he looks at you. As though — as though he’s searching for you in the dark, trying to reach you.

Sometimes, at night, you wake up in the gently illuminated hospital room blinking the sunlight from your Grandfather’s garden – and your tears – out of your eyes. It burns at you — the fear of not knowing what really happened, not being able to remember. Of only having the fleeting tangibility of a fever dream, instead. But then the morning creeps along, like sunlight on the floor, and with it it brings Katsuki — Katsuki — who sits by your bed, who feeds you, who you (if you’re being honest with yourself) don’t actually want to leave. It’s the same fear of that unknown evening, staining your life — it makes you want to cling to him, like something helpless.

You know that he knows it, that he can feel it. It makes his reluctance worse — your fear, you think, is tugging at something within him, something that binds you both beyond just attraction. It’s the darkness, the terrible hours after the collapse — sometimes, when Katsuki looks at you, you can almost see it: the minute intake of his breath, the haunted look he’ll have, occasionally. The way he looks at your fading bruises, your still puffy face. It’s in his fierce, automatic protectiveness, the way he steps in, small, when someone comes into the room, like he is shielding you. Whatever horror you were missing from that day, Katsuki had — and was carrying it in your place.

Your Hero, you think. The one you had to share with the rest of the country.

“It’ll be good for you,” You say at last. “You know — to go back out there. Kick some ass.”

Katsuki’s jaw shifts, just slightly; his red eyes meet yours and you can see that he’s still undecided.

“We’re okay,” You tell him, more seriously now.

His face softens, imperceptibly. “Y’okay.” He says roughly, in response. You’re not sure who he’s reassuring, and maybe he doesn’t either, because he scowls immediately after, holding out another orange slice to you.

Katsuki, you think. Just that, just his name, the overwhelming tenderness and ache you have for him welling within you, living and breathing like its own being, overwhelming all other words. Just — Katsuki.

You’re finally able to go home – to pick up your life – as the city readies itself for Christmas, dressing in tinsel and ribbons, a dress it’s slipping on before a party.

You’re mostly healed. Mostly. There are new parts to you, now — new aspects that you have to adjust to, learn.

You’re now officially Hard of Hearing; qualifying you for a hearing aid, a little plastic lump that you’re uncomfortably aware of, at first. It hadn’t been obvious to you at first: the small tells were easy to shrug off, explain away as a side-effect of the pain medication, or the isolation of a hospital room. But you kept missing small things — like the footsteps before someone would walk into your room. How if someone spoke to you in a low tone, they had to be close to you for you to properly understand. The Tinnitus, that would come and go. 

The hearing aid balances that — though, as the audiologist tells you, you can go without it for most things.  If anything, it sharpens your hearing, tunes you into a wider field of awareness that’s sometimes overstimulating. A new aspect of yourself now remade, unfamiliar and yet still exactly the same.

It’s the scars that unnerve you. Remind you of what happened.

They’re small and jagged, sitting in-between your shoulder blades; twin scars from the wire of your fairy wings, dug deeply to your back on impact.

“You’re lucky they didn’t puncture anything,” Dr. Arai says crossly, holding up a tablet that shows photos of them. Your stomach flips, seeing them for the first time; you’ve already been told how the wings had to be pried out during surgery with a careful hand, the wire of them inches away from being life-threatening — but to you, when you see them, it looks like… it looks like something was dug out from you. Taken. As though… as though you’d had real wings, once, that’d been been torn away.

Don’t you want to know what kind of power you have inside of you? Hawasaki had asked.

You could imagine it too easily, you think — when faced with those scars. How having a pair of wings could’ve changed you. Would’ve changed you. The silhouette of your shadow and how it would’ve changed. The way the sunlight would appear, diffused through the gossamer of them. It would’ve been a Quirk that would have defined you, for better or worse, become an integral part of your identity.

Your thumb traces the screen, following the edges of your scar. For one fleeting moment — you’d had wings.

If your hearing was a new aspect of yourself you had to grow into, and your scars were a reminder, then returning to your apartment after being away from it for so long was a test, one you don’t realise you’re afraid of until you’re in the shadow of your building, staring up at it. Daunted, almost — if it weren’t for Katsuki behind you, an unwitting reassurance, carrying the plastic bags of your grocery shopping and following you up the stairs and to your door, nondescript from the others in the hall.

The silence after you open it speaks plainly. You wonder if Katsuki can hear it, your fear of this place — what its emptiness means.

“Home sweet home,” You manage at last, cheerful, wobbling as you move to take off your shoes. Something cups your elbow, a firm heat — a broad, careful hand, keeping you steady, Katsuki’s warmth at your back.

“Watch it,” He scolds, annoyed and concerned; you can feel his shallow breath against the curve of your neck, hot and it takes you back to the feel of it in the dark, on your skin, his panting. You breathe in with the memory — in response, Katsuki’s hand tightens for a brief moment, before he’s pulling away, sharply.

“Don’t fall over,” His voice is gruff and deep and you want to press your face into your wall and scream with what it ignites in you. Instead you swallow, and try to wriggle your shoe off, pretending that nothing happened. “It smells so bad in here,” You say out loud, moving into your small space. It’s stale, is what you mean. Unlived in — your small home a tomb. Almost a tomb, you think. That fear crawls in, a tiny beast with claws.

“‘Be fine when you open shit up,” Katsuki points out, moving in behind you loud and alive, and it’s enough, for the moment, to send the fear away scurrying. You hum in non-agreement and the blond scowls, moving to beat you to your balcony doors, flinging them open with a noisy bang so that the life of the city below is magnified, your curtains moving.

You can see the sky; the clouds. You think of your Grandfather’s garden and not the coldness of the parking lot.

Katsuki – unwittingly – doesn’t let you wallow, striding from the balcony to your kitchen, setting the groceries down with a plastic rustle, moving in the space like it was his own. He opens your fridge to peer into it, critically — then, disgruntled, digs around in your cabinets for some garbage bags.

“You don’t have to tidy, you’re not a housemaid,” You start, turning, but Katsuki throws you a look that’s so insulted that you immediately backtrack, throwing your hands up in acquiescence.

He stays for the rest of the day, cleaning and cooking furiously, making you lunch and then dinner, for later. Your kitchen’s never been tidier, now subjugated to a minimalistic décor — but nor has it ever smelt as good, either.

While he takes command there, you go and air out your bedroom, strip and make your bed, sitting down in a nest of unwashed sheets when it overwhelms you, letting yourself stare at the sky you can see from your windows.

You’re fine, you think. You are fine and you are safe. The noise of Katsuki in your space, just beyond your bedroom, is comforting — there’s life and noise here. A patch of opportunistic sunlight warms the floor, near your foot, and you curl your toes into it, listening to your Pro Hero cuss to himself when his knee hits the side of something.

When he leaves that evening, going straight to a patrol, you stand at your door in goodbye, watching him walk away.

He hesitates at the top of your stairs, glancing back to you. You wave, like a kid from a car.

“Get inside, dumbass.” He calls out brusquely, loud in the open-air hallway. “‘S too cold for this shit.”

He’s right, you’re freezing, wrapped in a knitted throw blanket you’ve had for the better part of your life, but you grin at the order, his delivery.

“‘M okay,” you call back, and his eyes rake over you, affirming your solidity. “Go to work, dumbass — go save people.”

Even with the scarf he has, bundled around his neck, you can see him scowling. “Just — go inside and get warm.”

You lean against your doorframe. “‘M okay,” You repeat. “We’re… we’re okay.”

You can’t tell, from the distance or the early evening light, but — you think his sharp eyes soften. He breathes in; you follow the movement of his chest, under his coat. “Yeah,” He says at last. “Now get inside.”

You laugh again, and the twilight solitude you’re left with, after he’s gone, doesn’t feel as empty — or as lonely, surrounded in a home that’s finally welcoming you back, that’s still filled with the presence of him.

Determined to get your life back into some semblance of what it was, you reopen the shop — for the second time that year.

The first morning you return to it is — hard. Harder than you thought it would be.

Katsuki isn’t with you — he has to work. Akane is there though, hovering with a critical eye; it was her and the other aunties of the street who cleaned the shop for you, threw away the dead flowers, tended to the plants they could. But that first morning, when you unlock the glass doors and open it, breathing in the still air, dark and green and rotting — your fury had welled up. Hawasaki had taken a month of your life away from you, longer; the vending machine outside of your shop had a new ad, now — Christmas themed, three young kids laughing over bottles who’s labels could be folded into ribbons, bright red. Time had moved forward while you’d been unconscious and Hawasaki had been the one that had taken your right to move through the changing days awake and whole. He’d tried to take you from your store. Your life.

There’s a gentle hand in the small of your back; Akane, holding a bright yellow bundle in her other hand. A new apron for you — a new start. “Time to work,” She says, simply. An older generation’s solutions to all problems, and there’s so much to do. You wet your lips, and nod.

Slowly but surely, you take root again.

You go to the flower markets in the early cold of morning; some of the vendors there recognise you, cheer your return, though they don’t know the details. Being in the iciness of the refrigerated space, deep in the comforting scent of green and sweet plants gives you back a part of yourself you’ve missed. You buy heavily and make to-go bundles for the season, romantic red roses, sprays of tiny pink buds.

“Those are awesome, Petals,” Kirishima says, admiring a bouquet. He’s in his Hero costume — with shinning sleeves for the winter, and a cloak for the bitterness of today in particular. It makes him look like some wayward traveller in a fantasy, especially with his hair tied back. You pass him a hot mug of tea as he beams at you.

Kirishima comes by often, on patrol — checking in on you. You’d never be able to say it to him, but his delight at your recovery has been touching, was touching, from the first moment he’d seen you awake and conscious back in the hospital.

Katsuki, keeping guard next to you, had looked up before you could, making a strange face — and you’d glanced up just to startle at the sight of Kirishima in the doorway of your room, his eyes wide and disbelieving before he broke into a grin, bright and uncontained, like unmitigated sunlight.

“Petals —,” He’d started, his voice catching a little, and you were confused at first until you realised it was a new nickname, Katsuki scowling at him all the while.

Now that you were back in the world, he filled in the gaps when Katsuki couldn’t: deliberately, you were sure.

“When are you guys goin’ to UA?” He asks, twirling the head of a red rose between large fingers. “It’ll be good for the little guy to see you’re okay.”  

You fish around in the pocket of your apron, finding a tiny claw clip, motioning for his flower. “Monday, I hope. We’re just waiting for the all-clear.”

Kirishima nods enthusiastically, his tea wobbling dangerously and you make a small, scolding noise — the Pro Hero stilling for a moment as you clip the rose in his hair, behind his ear.

“There,” You say, holding your hands up in a flourish. “You’re ready for the ball. Be home before midnight.”

His face lights up with his delight, easily, like a child. You go back to trimming greenery with a shake of your head, your own amusement spilling over.

Katsuki arrives at your door early morning, the following Monday. An escort to finally, finally see Haru again.

He scowls when he sees you, his hands jammed into his pockets. “Where’s y’scarf, dumbass?” He’s dressed warmly — a coat, his own thick scarf twinned around and around his neck, bundling him.

“I think I left it at the shop,” You say, shrugging, shifting the bouquet you have for Niko – Haru’s mother – and the bag with Haru’s Christmas present to your other arm. You’re warm enough, in multiple layers. Katsuki’s scowl deepens though, like you’ve casually admitted to indulging in some light crime, tugging off his own.

“You’ll catch a cold like this, idiot.” He berates you, his hands — large, broad, warm hands — gently jostling you this-way-and-that, wrapping you in his scarf. It’s still warm with him, soft; securing you, as though your younger self is being tucked into bed. You turn your face into it, breathing in the smell of his cologne. Warm and smokey and sweet.

Katsuki tucks the ends of the scarf into your coat, his hands lingering for the count of a heartbeat; one, two, three.

The flowers you’ve picked out for Niko tremble between the two of you; you stare at the shoulder seam of his coat, too aware of the heated gaze that flickers over your face.

If you look at him, you might ignite; like flimsy, whisper-thin tissue paper, burning away until there’s nothing left but the floating ash of your feelings, your wants. Your fears.

Your Pro Hero finally lets his hands drop. “C’mon, your brat’s probably already waitin’.”

Musutafu is a big district; you crowd in close to Katsuki as you jump train lines, eventually starting the walk up the hill that leads to the infamous UA. It’s slow going; the cup of your hip hurts now, sometimes, if you stand too long, push yourself. It’s something that can be worked through — but for now it’s a reminder, your pace steady and unhurried, Katsuki stopping for you occasionally, unbothered, looking out over the trees to the bay, or up towards the school.

You see the gate first, tall and impenetrable. Then Katsuki scoffs and you glance at him, before looking back — there’s a familiar small figure that’s now waving an excited hand at the sight of you both, standing with a few adults. Haru. Your heart swells and lifts, catching your delight — and his, it seems, the boy unable to wait any longer as he pulls away from the nearby adults to dart out, throwing himself at you in a desperate, flying leap.

You catch him with difficulty, the pair of you going down hard. Your hip twinges with it and you’ve dropped the flowers you were holding; Katsuki is swearing, already reaching down, and you can hear the voices of several others shouting, laughing — but none of it matters. Haru’s small fists are balling up in your jacket and his warm, sticky face is pressed tight against your neck and he is alive. He is alive and he is okay and you can feel the heat of your own tears as his little body shakes with sudden sobs.

Katsuki crouches down next to you, frowning — protective, glaring up at someone who hurries over. “They’re fine,” He grunts in warning.

You ignore this and stroke Haru’s hair, his fists tightening in response. What had you been told? It’ll be good for the little guy to know you’re okay.

He needs the reassurance of seeing you.

Your brat’s probably already waitin’.

It’s the iron weight of the horror he went through. The destruction around him. A horror he and Katsuki and Kirishima (pausing by your hospital room door in careful hope) and even Chargebolt, you thought, (reading poems by your bedside as he waited) shared. They all knew the reality of that day, had lived through it; this small boy in your arms, clinging close like a koala, didn’t get the pretty fever dream. He only had the horror of the aftermath.

“You’re okay,” You say into his hair. “I’m okay. You did so, so well.”

He pulls away at the feel of your lips moving, clinging still — you smile at him, teary eyed, matching his big, shiny eyes.

You free your hands — Haru makes a noise of dissent, holding tighter, but you manage to have enough space to properly tell him again, “We’re okay. I’m okay. And you are so, so brave. You did so well.”

His small face crumples. You feel his fingers clutch at your coat and pull him back in, wrapping him tight.

Eventually, after a long while, Haru starts squirming to be free — the energy of childhood, unable to stay still too long. You pull apart and as you dab at your face you glance up, at the person Katsuki had growled at, still waiting: it’s a woman, her beautiful face calm, smiling at you, patient. She’s generously curvy, snug in a turtleneck with her long, dark hair tied back into a high pony tail. It’s the hair that you place, first — she’s vaguely familiar — and you realise it’s Creati, another of the famous Hero generation. Was Creati? Last you’d heard, she’d stepped back from active duty to —

“Welcome to UA.” She says warmly, holding out a hand. “Let me help you up.”

Katsuki scowls as she helps you, bending to pick up the flowers you’ve dropped, hovering close regardless. She glances at him, amused, her eyes flickering from the bouquet in his arms to his unimpressed face. “Bakugou, it’s good to see you again.”

He just grunts in response and she turns to you, still holding your hand. “Please, allow me to introduce myself — I’m Yaoyorozu Momo. I’ve been helping Haruto adjust to things — I teach here, during the school year.”

You stammer, a little starstruck. You’ve seen this woman in the revealing nature of her Pro Hero costume on billboards, that beautiful face serious, and deadly, at odds with the smiling teacher who’s looks ready to step in and help you sound out your words if you can’t get them out properly. “I’m — it’s my pleasure, I’m — ”

You chuff, then — Haru has cannonballed into your midriff in another hug, still desperately clingy. Creati – Yaoyorozu – laughs, her dark eyes shining in humour. “Haruto’s been quite excited to see you again. We have a range of things to show you, if you’re willing. We’re quite keen to give you a tour of the grounds.”

There’s a cough behind her — you glance over her shoulder to a grinning man, his blond hair pulled up high, like a cockatiel tail. An older Pro; Present Mic. Haru has been drawing him in some of his pictures you’ve been sent, the pair of them shouting down buildings. You let your hand settle in the boy’s hair.

“There’s a fun-packed day planned out for you, listeners!” He says, far too loud to be comfortable. Next to him is a man with wild purple hair and a wan face, eyebags stark under lilac eyes. He vaguely reminds you of Chairman Aizawa — the same perpetual air of being done, though his eyes are alert as they dart over you.

“Hm,” He says, unflatteringly. “Good to see you alive.”

You don’t really know what to say, to that. “Thanks,” You decide. “It’s… good being alive?”

Yaoyorozu gives an awkward cough as Present Mic cackles, but all of it pales to the ugly, naked fury of Katsuki’s expression as he steps up possessively, next to you. “‘M gonna melt your face off — ”

“Later,” Eyebags says, “We have some shit for you first. Aizawa’s waiting.”

He and Present Mic, who shrugs, go to move — expecting Katsuki to follow. But the blond scowls at them, standing by you firmly and it takes Yaoyorozu, gently saying, “I promise, Bakugou — it’ll be okay,” before he even considers moving, glancing at you with a frown.

“If you go,” You start, solemnly, Haru still pressed against you like an imprinted duckling, “I’m going to ask for every single embarrassing delinquent story there is about you.”

From where he’s paused, Eyebag snorts. “There was no delinquency,” He says dryly, those jewel-tone eyes gleaming. “He was a nerd. The most exciting thing about him was his anger issues.”

“I’ve yet to encounter a student with the same dedication Bakugou had,” Yaoyorozu offers, trying to be fair.  

You look to Katsuki in malicious delight — his face is sour, as though he’s swallowed lemons.

“A nerd?” You ask, your feral amusement at the thought clear; he shoves your flowers back at you.

“I’ll fucking end you,” He hisses as you snort, though there’s no edge to the threat. His fingers don’t let your bouquet slip until you’re holding it, properly.

“There was a lot of that, too,” Yaoyorozu says, apologetic. Present Mic cackles again, even louder.

You shift the flowers in your arms, careful of Haru, still attached. Their colourful heads bob with the movement, Yaoyorozu’s dark eyes following them as she lifts a gentle hand to touch a tiny blue bud. “I can’t imagine him any other way,” You say, honestly. You meant for it to come out playfully — you’re still watching Katsuki, smiling openly at his grumpiness — but your sincerity is like a glass heart, held out for them all to see, clear and faceted and catching the sunlight.

Katsuki’s eyes meet yours; burning through you, dry lightning magnified through the glass.

Haru, feeling your stilted breath, squeezes against you harder.

“Gross,” Eyebags says, and briefly you wonder how no one can see it, how the earth shifts beneath your feet every time Katsuki stares through you. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d gone to school with him.”

Yaoyorozu protests. “Bakugou was rough, but he was a good classmate — ”

You laugh, the approximation of a good response to the bickering; but Haru is clutching at you tighter, tugging impatiently, now, and Katsuki —

Katsuki is still watching you.

Haru notices your hearing aid as your little makeshift group – you, Yaoyorozu and Haru – tour the daunting husk of a city that is Ground Beta.

It’s a ghostly place — you think of the overpowered teenagers they let loose in here, and how the noise of them, their cheers and their screaming, probably echoes and catches in the empty infrastructure around you, the only life within the shell of a city.   

Haru doesn’t seem to think of it in the same way you do, though; excitedly telling you about how he and Present Mic – Micophone, he’d been calling him – got to scream down buildings sometimes, bouncing as he explains this.

“They’re testing the range of his abilities,” Yaoyorozu had clarified, when you explained what had been too fast for her to catch.

The thought of that sits in your stomach, weirdly — it makes sense, on a rational, utilitarian level — but it makes Haru sound like a weapon, not the little boy who’s vibrating in his excitement, in front of you. You glance at him askew, his excited face brightening as he says, hands rapid, “I get to pick the buildings!”

This is good, you remind yourself. This is all to give him a choice, eventually, some degree of control over this thing that has happened to him. That his choice was already blazing in front of him, a path cleared by the Heroes before, didn’t matter — just that it was his choice to eventually walk down it.

It’s heavy, serious thinking — you miss it when Haru stills, noticing something, and it’s not until a small hand is pulling at your sleeve, stopping you, that you look at him properly.

He’s staring at the side of your head in sudden, stern concentration — where your hearing aid is. It’s small, but bright yellow; you’d picked it for the colour deliberately, liking the visibility of it. Most people still didn’t notice it — and if they did, they pretended not to, out of some misplaced notion of courtesy. Only Katsuki had met you head on, so far, with his staring — his gaze flickering to it when you wore it, his expression inscrutable.

You hadn’t asked why. Nothing about the way he acted or spoke changed, and that was what you held people to, now.

Haru, however, wasn’t as hard to read.

You drop down as he begins to back away, his small face pinching — “Haru,” You say steadily, your hands firm. “Pay attention to me —,”

“You didn’t need one before,” He points out, quickly, furiously. “Why do you have one?”

You take a deep breath, and look around at the empty buildings, like they can help you. Behind you Yaoyorozu has stilled, concerned; it’s so quiet here. Eerie. Overhead a bird calls out, echoing down. You swallow, and try to explain.

“I’m Hard of Hearing, now.” You say, clearly. “So I’ve decided to wear one.”

The look of betrayal that Haru gives you is — you suck in your breath, surprised despite yourself. It’s an anger and a hopelessness you rarely see on adults, let alone his baby face.

“I did that,” He says, and you’ve never seen him sign so sloppily, jerky. “I did, didn’t I? When I hit you!”

Yaoyorozu has tensed, now, unsure of what to do. And you — you have no idea what to say in the face of his sudden, adult-like anguish. You wouldn’t know what to say to someone twice, triple his age, about this — if you were honest, you hadn’t even thought of the possibility that Haru would’ve been able to connect his Quirk, the soundwave, to your new hearing aid. You barely understood it. The doctors couldn’t tell you why it hadn’t been more severe: why only one ear was affected. So many random chances at play — no one would be able to understand it all.

“Haru,” You say, and your voice is trembling even as your hands remain sure. “Please — it’s not your fault, okay?” You reach out to grab his hand; he lets you take it, reluctantly, his face tight with anger or with tears, you don’t know.

“It’s not your fault,” You repeat, when you’re sure he’ll stay and listen as you release his hand. “Something bad happened to us — but we’re okay, we survived, and this is a result of that. It shows that we’re okay. That we made it out.”

Haru’s lip is wobbling; a watery pout as his tears spill over. You give him a moment, taking his hands again, squeezing them.

Eventually, he squeezes yours back.

“We’re okay,” You tell him again, after a long moment. “And I’m okay. I promise.”

He dabs at his face with his palm, rough; then he scowls at you. “You’re not allowed to get hurt again,” He says furiously, his signs pointed.

You laugh; Yaoyorozu, who’d been hovering anxiously, watching everything, looked at you curiously.

You can only shake your head at her, helpless to explain. “I’ll my best,” You say to Haru, who’s unimpressed. It’ll have to do.

“I think,” Yaoyorozu starts, diplomatically, “that it’s time for tea. What do you think? I have some of Haru’s favourites, waiting in the staff room.”

You repeat this for him, emphasis on the favourites, and he looks between you and Yaoyorozu suspiciously, wary of some kind of trick — or maybe just all-too-aware of being the sole, intense focus of two waiting adults.

“Promise?” He asks, pressing in close to you, refusing to be distracted.

“Promise,” You say again.

His young face is very serious as he stares up at you, trying to gauge your sincerity. Finally, he nods. “I want egg sandwiches,” He tells you, and you relay that back to Yaoyorozu, trying not to let your surprise show — when you’d last been together, he’d hated eggs passionately. You’d only been apart for a month.

She smiles warmly, not put out in the slightest by the conversation she’s only been able to follow half of. “Of course,” She says, graciously; a perfect host.  

You’re rejoined by Katsuki and Eyebags — Shinsou, Yaoyorozu greets him as — in the middle of your afternoon tea.

Niko is there in the staff room, waiting for your little group. It’s the first time you’re meeting her, after the incident — she has the same eyes as Haru, the same lashes, and you wonder if you imagine the distance in them when she sees you. The resentment of indirectly putting her only child in danger, the toxic part of you supplies: but she bows to you deeply and long, a formality you are unworthy of — and when she straightens again she smiles, genuine and warm.

Haru’s recovered his initial enthusiasm. As it turns out, Yaoyorozu’s egg sandwiches come in one compelling variety: bear-shaped. You think of the melon bread he wanted, ages ago. Of course they’re bear-shaped, you think wryly, watching him.

There’s a drink before him, sweet, milky tea in a dainty teacup that Yaoyorozu explains is an antique, English bone china; the boy ignores it in favour of double-fisting the bear-shaped sandwiches while also trying to explain the worksheets he gets to do (the homework, you realise, giving a very amused Yaoyorozu the side-eye), and talking about two other kids — teenagers? — a pair named Kota and Eri, who are on campus a lot.

“He has a crush on one of them,” Niko says, matter-of-factly. You try not to snort into your tea — she doesn’t sign, and Haru can’t see her face to know that she’s talking, squirrelling sandwiches away like he is. Yaoyorozu graciously pretends nothing is amiss when you snort anyway, catching Haru’s attention.

“They’re so cool,” He says, proving his mother right and making all of you smile into your drinks, or food. It’s a messy conversation — at one point he decides the best way to talk is by shovelling multiple sandwiches into his mouth, thus freeing his hands — and you don’t notice the company arriving until Yaoyorozu greets them. “Bakugou, Shinsou — please, join us.”

Katsuki sits next to you on the couch, heavily, his handsome face scowling. Whatever he was pulled aside for has bothered him, but he takes the teacup Yaoyorozu offers him, glaring at a plate of proffered éclairs.

Shinsou takes one easily, sitting across from you and Katsuki directly, putting him next to Haru. The boy eyes him in mistrust and takes another sandwich, biting into it like a wolf, growling at him in defence.

“Manners,” Niko reminds him, crossly, but he ignores her, now staring at Katsuki, hands free.

“I’m gonna be able to fight you soon,” He tells him. “Don’t forget your promise!”

“Haru!” Niko scolds.

You groan and Katsuki and Shinsou both look at you, waiting for an explanation.

“He doesn’t want you to forget your promise to fight him,” You say aloud, glancing to Katsuki. Across from you the purple-haired stranger breaks out into deep laughter, causing Katsuki to scowl again. Yaoyorozu, perched on the edge of her chair, posture impeccable, just sighs.

“I’m sorry,” You add, embarrassed. “Haru, um… he’s been training hard, apparently. He thinks you’ll be able to fight… soon.”

Katsuki just grunts. “The deal was when you become a Pro, kid.”

Shinsou snorts; Yaoyorozu gives another sigh.

Niko watches this all with shinning, amused eyes, stroking Haru’s hair as he waits for you to interpret what his idol’s just said.

“When you’re a Pro Hero, remember?” You end up saying, gesturing helplessly at the end.

Haru gives an audible sniff, glaring at Katsuki. “Okay,” He agrees. You can’t believe the audacity of this kid — “I’m gonna kick everyone’s butt, and be the best Pro Hero.”

You wrinkle your nose. “You’ll be the best Pro Hero because you’ll be a good person who cares about others,” You correct, speaking it out aloud for the benefit of the other adults at the table. Pausing, you have to think about the signs you need to use, then add, “That’s what being the best is. Being a good person.”

No one says anything for a moment, and you begin to feel your face heat with the embarrassment — maybe it was too trite — but Yaoyorozu sets her teacup down, with a delicate clink of china.

“I agree,” She agrees, softly.

Huffing, Haru rolls his eyes, attitude you’re wondering idly he’s picked up from his newfound teenage friends — next to you, Katsuki watches the exchange, silent.

Shinsou just snorts again.

You can’t decide if you like him, or not; but he catches your eye and smirks, and it’s your turn to snort, then.

The afternoon is golden and deep when you leave the school, walking along the tree-lined path, the Musutafu bay glittering in the distance.

The goodbye was hard. For all that Haru had regained his bravo, since your tour of the school’s empty training ground, when it came time for you and Katsuki to leave he was devastated, dissolving into heavy tears that finally, finally betrayed his age.

Nothing you or his mother or even Yaoyorozu had said could calm him down, sobbing into his mother’s neck as she held him. In the end it was Katsuki, who lightly nudged the boy, getting him to look up.

“We’ll be back,” He grunted, your hands flying as Haru’s wet eyes flickered between them and the Pro Hero’s mouth. He snuffled, squeezing into his mother further, for a moment, before lifting his head and saying, with trembling hands, “Promise?”

“Promise,” Katsuki said, copying the sign back, face serious. That he knew what Haru had said surprised you, on multiple levels — but an upset child was obvious, in some ways, in what they ultimately needed. How they would grab for reassurance, in a way that adults wouldn’t, too afraid.

You’re thinking about this, on the train home; jostled back and forth as it rocks, staring mindlessly at the block of sunlight on the floor, shadows racing across it every so often.

You and Katsuki are both standing — though the carriage isn’t overly crowded, neither of you separated to sit, and now you are loosely together by the door, Katsuki keeping close, one hand gripping the handles above you.

His scent, you think idly, hasn’t changed. Warm and deep and sweet.

“Mn, what –” Close as he is, Katsuki’s voice is a low rumble, and you glance at him as he stares down at you, frowning before he pulls away, just slightly, clearing his throat. “What’re you doin’, Christmas Eve?”

You think of the posters of husbands buying their families perfect, white and red strawberry shortcakes in boxes with ribbons. Kids laughing over festive coca-cola bottles as snow falls behind them.

“Nothing yet,” You answer, and it’s mostly true. Your new friend from the hospital – Sakurai, the nurse – had invited you out to a group date, but you hadn’t answered yet.

Red eyes – deep and sharp – watch you watch him, a continuation of a game you both kept going. You wondered if he was asking you out, if this was the bubble bursting, at last, but he looks away, along the heads of the other passengers, a Pro Hero’s assessment for danger.

“Shitty Nerd — ” He stops himself with a heavy frown, correcting gruffly, “Deku wants to meet you. And… I want you to meet Deku, or whatever. ‘Hought dinner would be easiest for everyone. If y’wanna.”

You’re not sure how the surprise of this — of Katsuki wanting you to meet Deku, the Symbol of Peace, his public rival — translates on you, into your expression. But you can feel the same, knee-jerk embarrassment you’d first had at the idea, before Halloween. However, the blond waits for your word, either way: those red eyes flickering over your face in that same, careful Hero’s assessment.

The light of the late afternoon races over him, stuttering as the train passes by buildings, poles. He is made of gold, brilliant and gleaming.

You can almost taste your heart, it’s thumping so hard. This feels… important. Katsuki doesn’t press you, doesn’t say anything more to sway or dissuade you — he’s given you what you need to know. Deku — the Deku, you think faintly — wants to meet you. And Katsuki wants you to meet him in turn.

A hundred different things – words, phrases, pre-emptive embarrassment – run through your head. But only one word comes out of your mouth, though.

“Yes,” You say. You don’t look away from him. “I’d — I’d love to meet him, too.”

Katsuki’s mouth pulls; then he nods, looking away even as he moves into your space closer, the light flickering over you both, like a sun shower.  

You wear your new coat, on Christmas Eve.

It’s a deep wine red, made of thick wool that’s gathered around you. An early Christmas present from Akane — you feel warm and bundled up within it, safe; a blanket to hide from monsters, under.

Katsuki meets you at your door, dressed just as warmly in dark pants, a dark jacket. He looks good; dangerous and lean, dressing slimmer than he actually is. He’s wearing a turtleneck underneath it all, and you cannot help your smile, your grin, when you realise it’s almost the same shade of red as your new coat.

“We match,” You point out, merrily. His eyes flicker over you, from your wrist corsage (red roses, trailing green ribbon, white jasmine and pine), to the hints of your outfit underneath your coat — layers and pieces that you bought for the daydream, the possibility of them, of being seen as something fleeting and beautiful.

He frowns. “You’re still not wearing a scarf,”

You make a face. “I didn’t — ” Katsuki pushes a gift bag at you, stopping you mid-sentence as your hands come up to take it gingerly.

“Merry Christmas, or whatever,” He says offhandedly, like he doesn’t care. The way he’s watching you belies it though, and you make a stupid face at him as you pull a thin gift box from the bag, wrapped in a red satin ribbon.

It’s cold out here by your doorstep: even in your coat, you can feel the chill, running your fingers along the edges of the box in thought. It’s not quite dark yet, the cold-pink blue twilight of winter settling over the city.

You pull the ribbon loose, a slow drawl, wrapping it around your fingers as you tug the lid open, to reveal what’s inside.

It’s a scarf; warm yellow, almost orange, like — like sunlight filtered through gingko leaves, you think dazedly. It spills out of the box as though it’s liquid, cashmere and icing sugar soft.

“Katsuki,” You say, “It’s — this is beautiful — ”

You wonder if you imagine the faint rosiness to his face as he grunts, moving to – gently – tug it from your hold. “Put it on, idiot,” He says, even as he’s wrapping it lightly around you; one hand has come up to the back of your neck, a light touch, warm even through his gloves. You tilt your head obediently, watching his face: the minute way his jaw jumps as your lips part.

“I got you something too,” You say. It comes out as a whisper, a secret.

He breathes in; your perfume is caught between the two of you, trapped by your coat. Flowers and heavy greens in the cold. It weaves with his scent, the warmth of it, the two of you together a warm wooden cabin hidden away in a dark, enchanted forest.

In the low-light, Katsuki’s eyes are dark.

“Don’t need a present,” He says, low and hoarse. You’re so close now that you can feel the breath of his words, take them in like your own. You shiver, despite the warmth of his hand still on the back of your neck.

His fingers shift: fan out, stroke slow. Reassurance.

“Katsuki,” You start, quiet, and his answering breath is sharp, as though he’s readying himself for the dive off a board.

You reach out — the ribbons of your corsage flutter like kite tails as you slide your hand up, under the lapel of his jacket, the flowers on your wrist catching for a moment. Under your hand, however, you can feel the firmness of him, the warmth, and he moves in —

There’s a sharp vibrating, followed by what you recognise, belatedly, as the tune to an old All Might cartoon —

Katsuki jerks away like he’s taken a physical hit, fumbling for his phone in his pocket. “Deku,” He breathes as he answers it, and if you weren’t looking directly at the incredulous rage on his face you’d say he was almost calm. “What?”

You can hear the buzz of someone talking on the other end; blinking hard, you focus on the pockmarked concrete of the wall next to you, trying to talk yourself off the ledge. You are burning with misplaced embarrassment.

“I don’t care,” Katsuki hisses into his phone, ruthlessly cutting Deku – the Deku, you think – off mid-sentence to hang up on him.

You let your head tilt back against your door, feeling the sharp exhale the blond takes like your own lungs are expanding with it; then you smile.

“I got you something,” You say again, determined to bully things back on track. “It’s not much — ”

There’s enough space between you, now, to comfortably drive a small van through. You hold out Katsuki’s gift to him regardless, watching as he looks at you instead.

Finally — finally — he takes the plastic container from you, assessing its contents before opening it, carefully.

He holds the boutonniere in his hands like it’s delicate; you take a moment to admire how festive it is against him, a twin to your corsage. Red roses and dark, flush pine needles, the sap of which was a sticky nightmare to work with. You’d added the white jasmine for contrast and left the dark green ribbon to trail, like Katsuki was some kind of gift box.  

He flips it over, assessing the pin, and you say apologetically, “You don’t have to wear it, if you don’t want to.”

Katsuki frowns at you, already pulling the pin out. “Y’made it to wear, didn’t you?” He demands, glancing down to his jacket where he lines the boutonniere on his left, near to wear his heart would be.

You hug the box your scarf came in, close. “Yes, but it doesn’t mean you’re obligated — ”

“I wanna,” He says with a firm finality, looking down as he pins his boutonniere in place.  

You almost reach out to help — but you don’t, holding your box to you still, and when he’s done he looks to you. “C’mon,” He says, roughly, holding out a hand. “Let’s go meet the Nerd.”

Dinner is at a Tonkatsu restaurant; it’s in a nice area in the heart of the city, all warm lighting and wood. The entrance is discreet, nestled between a motorcycle garage and a guitar shop as it is, a white banner the only hint of it being there.

Once inside, you’re led to your table – the private room – by a friendly waitress, who opens the shoji door for you with a bow. The brief moment as she slides it is the only preparation you get, for meeting the Symbol of Peace; behind you, Katsuki places a warm, broad hand in the small of your back, and you breathe in with it, your fizzling nerves easing.

Deku near jumps up like an excitable puppy at the sight of the two of you. “Hey! Hi! Ah – oh, wait, I got you something – um, oh no the cup –”He greets you loudly, hoisting up a large bouquet of orange roses as he stands, knocking over a small cup in the process.

Once he’s in control of all his limbs he beams, effortless and bright. “I’m so glad to meet you,” He says earnestly, holding out the flowers to you. “I got you these — I wasn’t sure if it was right, I mean, I understand that you’re a florist so you probably have access to all the flowers you could want, but at the same time I thought that it’d be — ”

“Deku, calm the fuck down,” Katsuki hisses, his hand still on you in ownership. No —

You glance at him, and he scowls as he looks at you, his fingers flexing. It’s not possessiveness, you think, but reassurance, again. Letting you feel safe. Letting you feel strong. You’re still nervous — Deku the Pro Hero is larger than life and everywhere — but Katsuki is a solid wall against you.

You smile at the blond, who’s trying to read your face. He shoots Deku a flinty look as the other Hero starts muttering to himself about — the cup, you think? — but then Katsuki glances back to you, waiting. You twist your face, the stupidest expression you can think to make, and the hand in the small of your back presses in firmer as a small smile graces the corner of his mouth, just briefly. We’re okay.

“Oi,” He says, motioning at Deku. “Pull y’re shit together,”

Under the warm, low lighting of the restaurant, Deku’s famous green hair is dark. The man before you laughs, low and embarrassed, running a large, heavily scarred hand through his curls.

“These are for you,” He says, apologetically, offering you his flowers once more.

“Thank-you for thinking of me,” You say, taking them as you beam. Deku goes beet red, chuckling as he looks away from you, mumbling something, but you bury your nose in his roses, the sweet smell of them. It’s a large, heavy bundle, and you hold it to you close, like a doll. The roses are open and full, sunset orange, and you think, with professional detachment, that they must’ve cost the Pro Hero a pretty penny. “They’re lovely,” You say aloud. Deku goes even redder, saying something you miss.

“Stop mumbling,” Katsuki orders again, and you glance at him reproachfully as Deku just protests. “I’m not!”

They fight like siblings, you think in wonder. Face pinched, Katsuki swats Deku away; Deku dodges, staring at the pair of you expectantly, waiting to be introduced and at last, Katsuki motions to you.

“Dek — ” He stops himself, frowning, then gestures. “Izuku, this is — ”

The Symbol of Peace’s smile is blinding.

You sit together at the low, traditional table. Deku – Midoriya, he insists – is excitedly explaining the place even as Katsuki scowls, next to you.

(“I told you to pick a nice place, shitty nerd,” He says, disgruntled.

Deku – Midoriya – doesn’t bat an eyelid. “It’s got a Michelin star, Kacchan.”

“You’re just here for the greasy katsudon,” Katsuki accuses, and Dek – Midoriya – makes a small, insulted noise as you try to not laugh at them.)

For all of the blond’s snobbishness, the place is nice; nicer than anything you’d usually go to. The menu details the cuts of pork you can choose, the breed — Midoriya makes recommendations that Katsuki counters with his own, to both of their irritation.

It’s a fun, eye-opening dinner. Deku is a little nervous at first, you think, stammering here and there, especially when you say something complimentary, but he’s very enthusiastic — about everything. Anything. It seems to annoy Katsuki on some level, the blond frowning — but he also prods topics before him, offering him new tangents to hook into.  

“You’re both into the same manga artist, th’one that’s doing the Swan Hime reboot,” He says at one point, and Midoriya’s green eyes light up.

“I’m in negotiations for a comic series with them!” He tells you, excitedly.

You flap your hand, too excited in turn. “I knew that there were talks, but — ”

Throughout dinner, Katsuki has his arm behind you, relaxed on your chair. The boys order copious drinks; ice-cold beers with heavy froth, sake in sleek bottles. Deku insists on ordering the most expensive Champagne on the menu at one point, Katsuki just snorting when you protest.

“Let ‘im,” He says, breezily, “The idiot’s paying.”  

Your food comes, at last. Just as Katsuki had said, Midoriya has ordered Katsudon. You and Katsuki, however, went with the house Tonkatsu, the fried cutlet laid over crisp cabbage, served with a sweet dressing, miso soup. Rice.

Midoriya talks as you all eat. “Kacchan’s got us all doing a charity drive for a halfway house,” He says, proudly. “We can’t agree on the project, yet, but he’s pushing for something that’ll make easy money for them, that they can keep the rights to — ”

Katsuki scowls at him over his rice. “Shut the fuck up, Deku,” He counters hotly, like the man had mocked him instead of praising him.

They get into several arguments, throughout your meal. You’ve never seen anything like it, watching them both as you leave nothing but the tiny clams of your miso soup in the bowl. Sometimes, their bickering sounds like it’s one wrong word away from bloodshed — Deku is surprisingly snarky, you think, your eyes widening at one point when he says, “How’d that work out for you last time, Kacchan?”

It’s something the media never sees. Katsuki grips his chopsticks like he’s about ready to stab them through the Symbol of Peace himself and you change the topic, clumsily.

Neither talk shop, beyond funny stories about other Pros they know. You hear a lot about Shouto, (“That useless fuckin’ half n’ half,” Katsuki hisses, Deku protesting viciously) who’s been based in Okinawa for the past year, as well as Chargebolt and Pinky’s antics, as teenagers. You leave for the bathroom towards the end — mostly just to have a moment to yourself, staring at your reflection and wondering how you got here — and when you come back both Deku and Katsuki’s heads are down, their faces serious. Deku’s leaning in, talking solemnly — Katsuki listening intently, chin propped up by one hand, the other on his glass as he frowns, leaning back in his seat to say something you don’t hear as you slide open the door, noisily.

Deku – Midoriya, you keep reminding yourself – brightens when you step inside the private room, though Katsuki is unreadable, mulling over something.

He stands after a few minutes, muttering about the bathrooom; leaving you and the Symbol of Peace, alone.

You’ve seen enough of Deku – of Midoriya – by now to not to be as intimidated as you’d thought you’d be, being left alone with someone so… important. Someone in the Pro Hero game who wasn’t Katsuki, or Kirishima. But there’s still the awkwardness of being with someone new and unsure of how to fill the awkward, small silences.

“I’m glad you meet Kacchan,” He says abruptly, looking down at his empty beer glass before peering at you, smiling. His eyes flicker to the flowers at your wrist; you’d seen him glance at Katsuki’s boutonnière, throughout the evening. “I’m sorry if that seems weird, I’m just — I’m glad someone sees how amazing Kacchan is, beyond the flashy stuff.”   

You nod, curling your hand around your own glass, the ribbons of your corsage trailing across the table, dragging in the condensation of your drink. “He’s incredible,” You say. “And I wouldn’t be here without him.”

That sobers Deku up immediately, his smile dropping. “My Quirk went off,” He explains. “While I was in the Phillipines; I don’t know if you — but it’s… it’s a danger sense, I guess is the best way of explaining it, and with some people it’s stronger, although, thankfully, there hasn’t been much of a test on that — ” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake off his own rambling, “Their top Pro had to hold me down, with all eight of his arms,” He explains, ruefully. “Ochako says I was screaming for Kacchan, at one point.”

He’s serious when he says this, and you feel a ripple of chills down your back, imagining it. You don’t entirely understand — danger sense? — but it speaks to something that’s been on the back of your mind, all night, watching them.

“You must be close, to know when he needs you,” You say, tentatively, and Deku gives a nervous laugh.

The internet, you’ve seen, have a lot of opinions about these men. There’s speculation about their Quirks — especially Deku’s — and speculation about their relationship, to others and to each other. One account posts paparazzi photos of the two of them, citing it as evidence of them dating whenever they look at each other, cataloguing their saves and battles together. You’ve seen people argue back, they hate each other, they don’t work well together; you’ve also seen people plead, they’re just friends, why are you trying to push something that isn’t there?

Being with the both of them tonight, listening to Deku now launching into a thorough explanation of the time his Kacchan-sense (he’s joking, when he refers to it like that, you can tell; it’s a transparent bid to stop you from asking more about that danger sense) told him Katsuki needed backup in a low-level thug fight — you wonder at their bond. It’s beyond the shallow internet speculation, you think; it doesn’t fit into any neat category. They are themselves, tied together by the intensity that is being a Hero, together, a bond forged in fire, in life and death.

Katsuki arrives eventually, interrupting Deku’s story, and soon your party is finished with dinner, with your meal. Outside of the restaurant, between the brightly lit guitar shop and the still-open motorcycle garage, Deku bows low to you, embarrassingly reverent.  

“I’m glad we met!” He says as he straightens, taking your hand warmly as he smiles big, sincere. His hand is large and calloused but you would trust your life to it, you think; that is the kind of belief that the Symbol of Peace inspires.

You beam back, taking his hand with both of yours. “I am too; thank-you so much for dinner.”

He waves goodbye to you and Katsuki both, like an eager school boy. Katsuki assesses him calmly for a moment, then grunts an order at him to watch himself on his way home.

You look back, waving hesitantly. Deku beams and lifts his hand higher, smiling crookedly, watching the pair of you turn the corner.

The walk through the city is easy, quiet, Katsuki walking you home as you cradle your sunset roses to you. You are humming; like the bubbles of the Champagne from earlier are fizzling up inside of you. This feels like — the closing of the evening… and the beginning. You want more, you think; it’s welling up inside you, that constant, lonely twilight wish. There are others out and about, walking like you and Katsuki are, clumped together against the cold; but it might as well only be the two of you in the city, the pair of you walking through the empty quietness of decoy streets; a training ground for Heroes.  

Your quietness together only lasts as you come to a stretch of street in the now silent business district. The trees here are lined with fairy lights, warm glitter as you walk under them together, slow.  Up ahead you can see the blond head of a famous mural, several stories tall — All Might, from his Golden Age, looking over his shoulder in profile. It’s been apart of the city’s landscape for more than two decades, apparently, well cared for: a giant, silent guardian, watching over Japan through the rise and fall of his comrades, his own self.

It’s been unchanged for years.  But now there’s a new figure with him, the paint fresh and bright. Painted so that he’s to the side, just beyond All Might, mimicking his pose, proudly. His famous white cape flows out on an unseen breeze.

Deku. The new Symbol of Peace with the old.

“Midoriya was so nice,” You say, aloud.

Katsuki grunts in agreement, and you peek at him — he’s frowning, deeply. It’s something more than his usual expression: when he came back from the bathroom to find you and Deku laughing it had gathered there and he’d been reticent, withdrawn since. Another wall he’s building for himself, piece by piece.

You count your steps as you wait it out, the mural of All Might and Deku looming closer you both with every one.

“I bullied him,” Katsuki admits suddenly, his shoulders tense as he comes to a stop in front of you. He doesn’t look your way, scowling to himself. “I bullied him… badly. When we were kids. Older than that. When we were… teenagers, or whatever.”

He glares at you then, where you’ve stopped to take this all in. Then he jerks away with a grimace, like he can’t stand the sight of you. “Physically. Emotionally. I fuckin’… I tried ruining his life. Fucking… told him he’d be better off dead at one point. Shit like that.”

You wince. Katsuki says it roughly, like he’s trying to be offhanded about it, but he won’t look at you, his fists balled up tight and you are quiet for a long, terrible moment, where you wonder — what are you meant to do with this?

Reassessing everything you’d witnessed between them, tonight, you try to think if anything gave this away; the way they bickered, maybe. Katsuki’s scoffs. Midoriya’s laughter, the way he’d push back.

Carefully, you glance to the blond — his face is turned from you, like he is waiting for the executioner’s axe and unbidden, you look to the mural again. Whoever has painted Deku in has done it well; captured the shinning promise of hope in his smile on that broad, freckled face. The Symbol of Peace, you think.

You breathe in to say something, then stop. You’re — you’re not a way for Katsuki to seek resolution. Because you would give it easily, too easily, you realise with a pang.

But it isn’t yours to give.

Whatever reason Katsuki has for saying this now, for telling you now, has less to do with absolution, you guess, and more to do with — with whatever has been been building between you, for all these months. Whatever natural peak it had reached before the abduction, whatever decision you were both about to come to, had been dammed; was still dammed, blocked up, water pushing at the walls. You’d both been skirting around the edges of it since, unsure of how to proceed, palming the concrete of it.

Katsuki — Katsuki is adding to it, though. He’s doing what you always want to do, with new people in your life: he is giving you the brick and mortar, the trowel, letting you decide if you want to add to the wall or not. He is warning you of the parts he thinks will scare you off for good.

You think back to that golden afternoon, together — walking home, before Ogami. Katsuki’s frown when he asked, you were bullied? His vehemence against the other kids picking on Haru.

Haru. The way he spoke to him, made an effort with him — saw him.

It’s all you can think of, all you can see. Whatever Katsuki was like back then as a teenager, whatever he did — that was a child you didn’t know. That you’ve never met.

You think of the adult you do know, the one before you, shoulders around his ears as he waits for your reaction. All his good and all his bad: his gruffness, his rudeness, the dismissal sometimes. The way he still tries to be gentle, handling the flowers of your shop carefully. His determination, in everything. The way he saves, and wins. His unwavering sense of justice; all the more remarkable, stronger, considering his admission. You have to wonder — would he have been half as passionate with Haru’s plight for Pro Hero if he didn’t know how… cruel the world could be? If he hadn’t — if he hadn’t of contributed to it? Seen it first hand?

Your dream comes back to you, intrusive, deceptive. Hawasaki, speaking calmly about human nature’s disgust for those weaker, percieved weaker. Fever dream, or some other kind of reality — your own mind or Hawasaki’s own words, it didn’t matter. They’d come from somewhere.

And your own bullies. What were they doing now? Living their lives, you imagined. Impacting others, for better or for worse. They probably didn’t even think about you, caught up in the everyday chaos and routine of their days.

You think of Deku, smiling as he waved goodbye. Katsuki’s gruff concern for him. The way the Symbol of Peace had said to you, I’m glad someone sees how amazing Kacchan is.

You give a small huff, amused despite yourself, and it’s that that finally has Katsuki looking at you, his eyes unfathomable.

“Whatever happened between you and Deku is —,” You struggle for a moment, parting your lips before shaking your head. “It’s between the two of you. And it’s… it’s in the past. A different life. Different people.”

Gesturing with your hand still in your coat pocket like some absurd puppet, you ask, “Have you ever… I mean this seriously, but like: have you ever listened to Deku talk about you?” You shrug, more to yourself than to him, continuing anyway with, “It’s — I mean, I don’t know him, I guess, but… it’s pretty clear that whatever happened back when you were kids — he cares about you.” Ochako says I was screaming for Kacchan.

You pull your hand out from your coat and open your palm in gesture, imploring as you’re only able to offer him this: a mirror, reflecting what you see. “He wouldn’t… he couldn’t do that for someone he didn’t love, and trust.”

The fine line of Katsuki’s jaw twitches. You let your hand drop, and hold your roses to you closer.

“It’s pretty clear that you care for him too,” You say, low, talking into your flowers. “You care for each other, Katsuki. And your friends care for you. Kirishima?” You add, throwing his name out like he’s a lifeline. The roses in your arms tremble. “I can’t — I can’t imagine Kirishima loving you like he does if he — if he didn’t know he could.”

Those intense, Pro Hero bonds again, you think. All that life they’ve lived, the death they’ve faced together, from such tender ages; it binds them tightly, formed them. Someone they didn’t trust wouldn’t have lasted long among them, you realise suddenly. Could Katsuki really not see that? Trust their judgement? He was smart — too smart, maybe. You wondered if he’d ever forgiven himself, thought of the possibility of it.  

But he’s frowning down at the pavement now, like he won’t believe the saccharine things you’re saying, can’t believe them. He is all tension, solid and built from it, and you want to press up against him and push back at it, step within him and release it, let it float and disappear like champagne bubbles.

“You’re who you are because of what you are,” You say, quietly. In the distance, a car horn blares and you can feel the tips of your ears freezing but — none of it matters. “Because of your friends. Because of your past, the good and the bad. And I — ” You stop yourself, unsure, holding onto the words you want to say for a moment longer, before letting them go. “I like who’s standing in front of me. I like who you are. All of you.”

Under the fairy lights, his red eyes – now dark, in the low light – glitter.

The fine line of his brow knits together; you want to trace it, smooth it, even as his mouth thins, finally finding his words.

“Shud’up, dumbass,” He says, hoarse, and you almost laugh at the ridiculousness of him — I was a bully, also you’re stupid — but it’s him. It’s Katsuki, his roughness. His.  He’s loosened up, the tightness melting from his shoulders and even as he looks away, frowning furiously into the night, you think you have never felt safer with anyone.

Your Hero — your eyes catch the mural again, Deku and All Might looking down at you both, smiling proudly. But Katsuki wasn’t just yours, was he? He belonged to Japan, like Deku did, like All Might had. The Symbols of Peace. The Symbol of Victory. Ground Zero was Japan’s Firepower. Japan’s Fury, personified. He made the country stronger. And Katsuki was Ground Zero.

You study All Might’s face, the wrapping of your roses crinkling as you hold them tighter. He doesn’t look like that, anymore; who knew what would happen to Deku, in the future? Beaming, friendly Deku. You didn’t think he could go far, be in danger for long before Katsuki would follow.

All Might gave up so much — that could be Deku one day. That could easily be Katsuki.

You glance at him. He is looking at you with his glittery, fairy-light eyes. Not the mural.

It catches you, holds you there. You are at the edges of the dam with the brick and mortar in hand, waiting for the moment you can drop them.

His mouth eases around his words before he can say them. “I don’t — it’s late.” He says, gaze burning through you. There’s still a few more blocks to the train station that will get you to your side of town. “Don’t —,” Frustrated, Katsuki shrugs. “Don’t go back to yours. Mine’s nearby.”

You could tease him, easily. You don’t. You finally lay the brick and mortar he’d given you down.

“Lead the way,” You say.

His building, when you arrive to it, is discreet and modern; white-washed concrete and warm foyer lighting that spills out onto the pavement outside, nestled away in the backstreets, surrounded by taller buildings of bank offices, tech companies.

Inside you are — intimidated. Katsuki lives at the top — a penthouse — and from the foyer to the elevator to the hallway to his apartment, all sound is hushed, the whisper and comfort of wealth.

His door opens up to a large entry with a waiting shoe cupboard, an open wardrobe for jackets and coats, scarves. You take yours off, Katsuki helping you shrug out of your coat, hanging it up for you quietly. It’s cool, in here; not as cold as outside, but cool enough that your arms prickle. You move out from the hallway cautiously, leaving the blond to slip his shoes off.

You don’t know what you were expecting, when he opened his apartment door. Maybe something like Riot Ground — wrought iron and masculine minimalism. Instead it’s — inviting. Warm and open, everything centred towards the glass windows – the glass wall – that overlooked the glittering lights of the city, the bay and the bridge. It’s an all-encompassing view: catering to what you suspect is a Hero’s need to constantly supervise, to watch their city from afar.

The walls are light washed, the lighting warm. You glance to the kitchen, open-planned; it’s all exposed brick with a warm-wood kitchen island, pots hanging down above it. There’s an impressive oven — a little wall of herbs over the deep sinks. The kind of kitchen to entertain with.

Katsuki’s home is catalogue tidy. His lounge is long and deep, bookended by twin lamps; it looks comfortable, easy to pass out on, more so than your own tiny couch at home. On the living room wall, painted a deep, dark green, there’s a framed piece of art – huge, backlit. It’s a charcoal drawing, the lines fluid and dark and you realise after a moment that it’s All Might. All Might as he appeared in Kamino. Small and broken, a tiny figure in the picture, but standing, still.

You think of the mural, of his smiling, Golden Age face.

Katsuki moves from behind you to his kitchen, opening cupboard doors. You stare at the city view. “Y’need something for your weeds?” He asks, jarring you. You blink at him as he starts to rinse out a heavy glass jar — your eyes meeting over the counter.

You clutch your flowers closer. “Sure,” You say. He is always offering you something to hold them in.

You move to the counter, dark marble, and unroll your flowers as he slides the now full jar to you. They’re a little too tall for it, but sit easily. In the space of Katsuki’s home, they look good, inviting. He’s staring at them with an unreadable eyes and you look away.

You want to poke around. That innate need to see how this man has feathered his nest — what he surrounds himself with. He’s seen your home, been in it, intimately; you’ve wandered to the shelf he keeps in the space of his living room, eyes skimming over the titles of books — you can almost feel the weight of Katsuki gaze as he watches you, silent.

He is so careful with his space, you think. Deliberate. You venture around further, Katsuki just shrugging as you take in the rest of his apartment. The bathroom, when you find it, is all dark tiles; there’s a deep stone tub, avant-garde with bronze taps. A walk-in shower. It smells the most like him, in here; his cologne, soap. You don’t linger in it long.

The hallway that leads from the openness of his living space to his bedroom, his office, has a built-in shelf: professionally lit and lined with Ground Zero merch — action figures mainly, which makes you grin when you realise. If they’re in some kind of order, you can’t tell, but there’s one figure that catches your attention — a truly abominable knock-off with wide, unevenly painted eyes that point in different directions. You laugh out right.

The door to his room is open. You don’t enter, only brave enough to peek inside. There’s more window, here, a wall that overlooks a different angle of the city — and a large, large bed, against more forest green, the lighting jungle-warm against it, the bedding dark with a dull, sateen shine.

When you reappear in his living space Katsuki is standing at his counter, fiddling with something. It looks like a weapon, you think, a gray gauntlet. His hands span over it carefully, veining: the hands that saved you. That dragged you out of the dark.

Hands that — that you want to touch you, run over you in their careful, deliberate way.

The blond looks up at your silence, and you motion to the hallway. “I think my favourite is the wonky one,” You say, light, and his handsome face is blank for a moment before he understands, grimacing.

“Denki,” He grunts in explanation. It says a lot, though, that he added it to his collection anyway.

He sets his project down, watching you watch him and you know — you know — where this night is going to lead, you can feel it, welling up within you and you half turn, suddenly overwhelmed.

The city beyond Katsuki’s windows is beautiful, waiting; you move to it, and wonder if this is the start of something — or the middle of it, the two of you colliding and beginning when he was first hurtled through your shop window.

From here, you can see the building All Might – and Deku’s – mural is painted on, though its facing the wrong way to actually see it itself. But you know it’s there. Was this — was this a good idea? To get involved with a Pro Hero? Especially one like Katsuki, tenacious and serious — a frontliner. How many of them got to retire peacefully? What about the devastation, the chaos, that followed him and his peers throughout their teen years, that all but destroyed the older generations before them?

Katsuki was spectacular, a firework, an explosion — but how long did those last? You feel the fear of your unknowable, dark, trapped hours loom up; a fear of all your nameless things. How long did someone like Katsuki get?

The city glimmers, deceptively peaceful. A city he’d die for, you think. You don’t have to ask, would never — Katsuki would never just be yours. You would always have to share him.

All Might’s mural. Katsuki’s collection of Ground Zero toys. All Might’s end, at Kamino Ward. You hold them all in your hands and you think about your dream, your Grandfather’s garden, waiting for you.

Commitment, you were telling yourself — it wasn’t just that Katsuki was a commitment, it was love. If you let go and surrendered, if you loved him like you wanted to, you were only setting yourself up for the end, eventually. Tomorrow, the next day, the next week — years, down the track.

You tilt your head, and in the reflection of the glass you can see him past your own shape, illuminated by his kitchen lights, golden. He’s watching you, still, overlaid with the city lights: like he is caught in a sun shower. Is the sun shower. The breath within you halts. The city and Katsuki, overlaid with each other — a package deal.

A commitment, you remind yourself. No matter how it ends. You either met with him on this, take it on with everything you had or you left, now.

You turn to him; he’s giving you space, still watching, eyes flickering over you. It’s the same focused intensity of swimming in the rain — all encompassing. Drenching. He’s cataloguing everything about you, taking tally to make sure you’re okay, that you’re there.

You mirror each other, in some ways. The secret of those dark hours. Maybe he has the same fears for you — whereas you only have what-ifs, maybes, he has pulled you, broken, out of a collapsed building. He saw you lifeless; didn’t get the pretty fever dream. How could you ever keep each other safe, completely?

Something in the way you breathe in, then, echoes within him as he mirrors it, releasing it. Katsuki’s eyes are glittering and wide, like a starving animal. Primal. You turn, fully, go to move to him — but he comes to you, striding across the room purposefully, instant, pausing in front of you.

His mouth moves; no words come out, like he can’t find the lungs for the words.

You can.

“I’m in love with you,” You say, and you can hear it distantly, like someone else is speaking it. Katsuki draws in a sharp, shaken breath — and then he is in your space, all you know, a hand coming up to protect the back your head as he pushes you against the cold glass of his windows, kissing you like it’s his last chance.

You are cradled against him, tilted for him; your hands come up between the two of you, grasp at his warmth as his lips slide over yours, your mouths hot, opening for each other.

He breaks away, only for a moment, forehead against yours as he pants. “‘M —,” He swallows thickly, his hands gripping you tighter, a fistful of your hair, your skin. “It’s you,” He says, breathing into the space between you. You nose up against him, and he huffs against you. “‘S always gonna be you.”

Your palms run against his chest, his shoulders, and you meet each others’ eyes, reflected in one another.

No more waiting, you think. No more bricks.

You surrender; at long, long last.

You wake up without Katsuki’s alarm.

It’s early morning. From the warmth of his arms, his bed, you can see the city, glittering in the blue-pink world of dawn. You let your eyes close and roll, nose against Katsuki, breathe him in. He’s warm; against your hands you can feel the reassuring thump of his heart.

It’s April now, spring. Six months since the abduction. Time’s been meaningless; you count your days in the ways you’re together, in the colour of the leaves. If you stand by the windows you can see the pink tops of the cherry blossom trees.

There’s a calloused hand in the dip of your side, a warm thumb stroking you, stirring up something slow within you. You’re still malleable from last night, wet; the heat of Katsuki’s open mouth against your neck, the feel of his smirk against your skin like a traceable ghost you linger with, the memory of his hot hands against your scars.

A broad hand moves between you, dipping between your legs. You make a small noise, and Katsuki shifts the two of you amid the sheets so that he can press into you further, your legs parting for his weight.

You breathe him in, feel his hair under your fingertips. Outside, the world slowly wakes.

You have to work; Katsuki walks with you part of the way til you have to separate.

“Have fun with your Dad,” You say, as he leans in so you can kiss his cheek. It’s chaste but his smooth face is grumpy afterwards, standing in the street as you both are, under the cherry blossoms. People don’t look at either you but Katsuki’s face still burns and you grin.

“Stupid old man,” He says. “Like I don’t have better shit to do with my time off,”

You jab at his stomach, flat and smooth. “I know you like your lunch dates,” You say, warningly. Katsuki scoffs but doesn’t argue, and when you go to leave he pulls you back, leaving a kiss in your hair, pink petals falling around you in a light gust of wind.

Work is the same as it ever is; you separate what you need for the day, make some orders. Akane pops by with more curry bread, and a little bento box. She’s been livelier, now that Niko and Haru are home.

It’s a beautiful day outside, chilly. You leave the shop doors open, despite it. On the vending machine is an ad for the sakura-themed collector bottles they have now, the drinks sitting amid the flowers. It’s a good day, you think, smiling to yourself as you sort through tulips, the waiting roses.

Your phone pings; a message from Kirishima. Katsuki’s birthday is coming up soon and Kirishima is leading the charge on organising a party, though if you’re honest you both know that the blond would prefer to suffer through something smaller, lowkey, like a dinner. He and Katsuki are meant to be hiking, tomorrow — as far as your Hero is concerned, this is about as much of a celebration as he wants. He and his friend and the nature around them, no fuss.

You’re almost looking as forward to it as Katsuki is; when they go you’ll go back to your apartment. You haven’t been in days and you miss your space, sometimes, your things, although you’ve been slowly slotting into the blond’s life. You’re both combining, a weird mishmash of places and objects. Pot plants in his living room. His jackets, on your coatrack. It’s natural, almost too easy to combine each other, even if the chaos of it makes Katsuki scowl.

“Just stay here,” He’d said that morning, frowning at you as you brushed your teeth. “Y’don’t need to leave just ‘cause I’m gonna be out with Shitty Hair,”

It’s a surface argument for a deeper one; his building is safer, deliberately built for those in “high-risk jobs”, built for discretion, security. And he wants you there, with him. He’s not shy about it. “‘S smarter,” He’d argued, brows knit.  You can hear the thread of fear under it; it’s safer. He wants to keep you safe, the shadow of your kidnapping still hanging over you both.

And you want it, so badly — almost. You like your neighbourhood, it’s friendlier, closer to Akane and Haru. And you like your tiny apartment, your breezy curtains. Your space. But you understand the sacrifices of Katsuki’s job. You just — you’re content, for now. The lack of that twilight longing; it’s settled into a peace, a warmth that stays with you in your apartment, alone. In his, watching the city glow at sunset as Katsuki moves behind you, cooking. It’s a delicate, tentative balance. You wish you could hold these moments in your hands, like jewels.

The day stretches; you sit facing your doors and in the early afternoon, close to your new closing time, you look up, smiling as Katsuki appears, a bag in hand.

“Old man doesn’t know when to let go,” He says disapprovingly, turning into you, nose against your hair. You swat at him even as you relish in his warmth. “What?” He mumbles, “‘S true.”

You stay together like that for a long moment; he smells of the cool spring air, his cologne — the spicy warm of his lunch. You feel him breathe against you, similarly, for a moment more and then he’s pulling away, just slightly, to ask in a gruff voice, “Y’eaten anything more than junk?”

There’s a few stray petals, caught on the shoulders of his coat. You pick them away, gently. “Akane brought me lunch,” You supply, making Katsuki tch. They have a bitter, unspoken competition now, of who can feed you better. Neither one will concede defeat, though they often try and spy on the enemy’s efforts. You’ve been enjoying it immensely, egging them both on when you want variety.

Your Hero is looking at you, taking you in; you smile at him and his brow furrows, light. He holds up the bag he’d brought, pushing it against you. “Yours,” He says without ceremony, and you take it, perplexed.

Setting the flowers you’d been stemming down, you open it, curious. There’s a simple box inside, wide, and you pull it out as Katsuki takes the bag for you. With one more glance at his impassive, waiting face, you open it.  

It’s a kintsugi vase.

“I’ve been meanin’ to get you one for a while,” Katsuki explains gravelly, your fingers following the fine, golden webbing of the kintsukuroi. It threads over and around bright flowers, dark leaves. “Saw ‘em, once, but couldn’t find the shop afterwards — walked past it today with the old man, though.”  

The vase is beautiful. Your breath catches in your throat; your smile pulling. He is always giving you something to hold your flowers.

“I thought my weeds were stupid?” You tease him, holding the vase close. The golden cracks gleam.

Katsuki tches, touching some of the flowers you have on your table, waiting in their buckets. “They are,” He says easily, rearranging a few into a small bouquet. He huffs to himself when he gets a bundle he likes, holding them out to you. “But they’re your stupid weeds.”

You can feel the surprise, gathering up under your heart. He looks at you, waiting, flowers in hand. In the light from your windows the edges of his hair glows; the fine gold of a kintsugi repair.

This man, you think.

“You’re okay,” He says, by way of wanting a response. It’s your thing now, as automatic as breathing, as I love you.

“We’re okay,” You promise.

His eyes are unfathomable, and you move into him, breathing him in as he holds you.

“You ready to go home yet?” He asks.

Home, you repeat to yourself. His apartment, the big windows overlooking the pink-gold of the city in sunset, the patchwork of cherry blossom trees in amidst it. The news that’ll play as he makes dinner, grunting when he hears something he doesn’t like.  

It’ll be an easy walk home, the cherry blossoms whispering above you as you walk under them. Your lives, together and woven, holding you tight.

You think about all the stuff you still need to pack away, pack up, the sign you need to bring in, but you don’t mention it aloud. You hear what he’s saying. I want to go home, with you.

You cannot contain it.

“Yes,” You tell him, your heart singing in wordless light. “Whenever you’re ready.”