Chapter Text
When Eijirou woke up that morning, he hadn't expected to find another boy hovering over him. For a second he doesn't think anything of it. Ikari must be getting to him with all his weird dream stories if his first thought was to completely brush aside hardened eyes glaring at him. He could see this being a dream-- a nightmare. The boy leaning over him certainly has a face worthy of haunting him even in the late hours of sleep.
It's only when the boy huffs - his breath fanning across Eijirou's cheeks, warm and definitely real - that he decides no, this is not a dream.
He'd like to say he handled the situation maturely but screaming in surprise and swinging his fist in the direction of the intruder (and missing) isn't exactly mature. In his panic, he rolls off the side of his bed, tangling himself further in his sheets. His red sheets that . . . aren't red.
Not much time is given for him to think on that minor change as the boy stepped over to him, hands on his hips and scowl resting across his features. His blonde hair hangs in his face as he stares down at him. Eijirou yelps again, scrambling away till his back meets the wall abruptly. The drywall felt cold against his bare back as he regards the boy with a wide doe-eyed look.
His heart thundering away in the confines of his chest, he tells himself to breath. His parents had to have heard him scream. They're probably on their way right this moment and there's no way the boy can kill him in the time it takes for them to run up the stairs. Does he want to kill him? Is that why he's here? How did he get here? The window is locked. It should be locked.
Several seconds pass - no parents burst through the door and the boy still stands there, watching him even as Eijirou rubs at his eyes in hopes he'd disappear.
"You done freaking out yet?" the boy asks, lightly nudging Eijirou's shin with his foot. Eijirou flinches at the contact, stifling the little squeak that threatens to spills from his lips.
"How. . . How did you get here?" he asks, his voice wavering and cracking in odd places. The boy simply raises an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side.
"Huh. Voice cracks."
He says it like a scientist would when pointing out a rare creatures adaptations. Eijirou feels his chest tighten, his gut lurching at the idea of being this boy's new science project. Maybe he's here to poke him with swabs and test his piss, the illogical part of his brain that watches too many movies inquires.
Eijirou debates screaming again.
"If you scream I will smack you," the boy threatens.
Right. No screaming then.
He sits utterly frozen as the boy squats down next to him, the quizzical look still in his eyes as he looks him up and down. He reaches out with his hand, his fingers extending to brush just above Ejirou's eye. His thumb touches the scarred skin there, tracing it lightly whilst Eijirou only stares, hands limp at his sides and panic increasing by the second. His poor heart stutters and stumbles, tripping over metaphorical shoelaces in his prominent fear.
The boy hums to himself before returning to his feet and offering a hand to him. Eijirou stares at it numbly. The boy rolls his eyes. "Take the damn hand, dumbass. I'm not going to bite you."
"I'm sure that's what every child murder says," he says, not completely aware of the words tumbling from his mouth.
"Kirishima, I swear on my mother's life if you don't get your ass off the floor I will throw you out the window."
He takes the hand quickly, allowing it to pull him up. He immediately lets go once he's stable on his feet, wondering how far he'd make it if he bolted for the door. He certainly can't try the other option of fighting his way out. One glance at the boys toned arms and overall aura of 'fuck-you' told him enough to know he wouldn't be able to hold himself against him. Besides, he knows his name so it's not unlikely he also knows how he swings and -
He knows his name.
Eijirou jumps back once more. The boy steps toward him again but this time Eijirou holds up his hands and snaps, "Don't come any closer!"
The ends of his fingers harden subconsciously; he can feel the skin there crack, spreading to the base of his hands. For once, he's grateful his quirk reacted before he did.
"Who are you?" he asks. His eyes sting like they always do before he starts to cry but he tries his best not to focus on it. He's not going to cry even if he is on the brink of a panic attack. "How'd you get in here?"
The boy gestures behind him. "Through the door."
Eijirou glances over his shoulder. Sure enough, the door is open, no signs of stress visible on it. What's odd isn't the lack of broken door knobs or any general tells of a break in, but rather the distinct poster pinned to it.
When he was eight, Eijirou had gone with his mother to the local heroes fair. The day had been hot, blisteringly so. He can still remember how the concrete nearly melted the base of his crocs. His mother had dragged them into one of the booths just to avoid the heat with a promise of letting them rest there no longer than a few minutes so they could make it to the float parade in time. In that booth, Eijirou had been overcome with awe for one of the many posters on display. It was the first ever crimson riot poster he'd found. That poster has hung on his door ever since.
That poster was not at all like the one that attached to his door now. Instead, a piece showcasing a man clad in black clung to the wood frame. The man's eyes stared at Eijirou, red and terrifying enough to cause a shiver to go down his spine.
Oh God.
He fell to his knees, his hand moving to grasp at his chest. The poster is not his. The door handle isn't the same as his. The carpet - his isn't that colour. This isn't his room. This isn't his room.
"Fuck," he distantly hears the boy curse from in front of him. It falls muted on Eijirou's ears as he curls in on himself. He's not supposed to be here.
Suddenly, there's a hand on his shoulder as his chin is jerked up, forcing his eyes to meet red ones. Not the ones of the poster but the boys. His eyes demand the attention of everything in the room. Eijirou doesn't dare try to look away.
"Calm down," he demands gruffly. "Do your stupid breathing."
"I. . . I don't," he stutters, confusion meddling with his mind. "What breathing?"
The boy groans, muttering, "Of fucking course. Why are you not in therapy already? Idiot."
"I - What?"
"It's not important. Just figure out a way to calm your ass down so I can explain." The boys stares at him. He stares back. "Well? Are you calming down?"
Honestly, he answered, "I don't know."
He shakes his head, leaning back. "You're a dumbass no matter what age you are," he notes then crosses his arms. He asks, "You're Kirishima, right? That's your name? You're not an impostor or villain?"
"Vil- no! I'm Kirishima! I'm just a random kid, I swear."
His head is spinning a little. He feels like one of those snow-globes in antique stores; the ones kids always shake around and the snowflakes swirl like a mini hurricane. Dizzy and disoriented. Uncertain of what to make of the boys analyzing expression, he feels his skin crawl.
"Bakugou Katsuki," the boys says, jabbing a thumb towards his chest. "And you, Shitty Hair, are in the future."
He'd like to say he handled that maturely too but again, none of his following actions were remotely similar to the definition of mature.
Half an hour later, he's situated in what seems to be a common room for the dorms (he thinks they're dorms at least) of the school. The school, which he's been informed, that is Yuuei. A cup of water is gripped in his hands, the glass itself made up of tough metal - for his hardening, a girl with choppy brown hair and pink dusted cheeks explains. He holds the glass like it's his lifeline. It takes everything in him not to hurdle it across the room in surprise every time a new face calls out his name.
He's. . . well, he's in the future, apparently, but he's also incredibly confused. No matter how many times the people around him tell him so, he still can't wrap his head around it. The future. Like, four years ahead from what he can last remember kind of future.
After yelling at the boy, Bakugou, and shouting that he was insane, Eijirou finally managed to calm down. It might have taken Bakugou trapping him in an embrace just to keep him from flailing his arms in panic so much as he was practically pinned in place, but he got there eventually. When he did, Bakugou explained everything to him as he promised.
There was an accident that day with him - future him - involving a quirk that drags peoples past selves into their timeline. According to Bakugou, future him had gone to bed perfectly fine. It wasn't until Bakugou came to get him for school that anyone realized he'd been affected by the quirk.
Bakugou guided him to the common room after that, filling him in on a few key details, all littered with curses and gruff insults. He goes to Yuuei, the people in the common room are his classmates, he's not allowed to leave the building if he wants to keep his legs intact. From there, it was a whirlwind of faces he doesn't recognize tossing him this way and that way till he made home on the couch, water in hand and a cluster of people gazing at him eagerly.
Suddenly, he really really wanted to go home.
There was a clang from behind him as someone new stepped into the room. He barely got the chance to look over his shoulder and see before someone shouted, "Kirishima got turned into a fourteen year old!"
"What?!" is the shrill response. Eijirou winces, resisting the urge to cover his ears. The voice, although high enough to shatter glass, feels vaguely familiar. Like a far off memory or something he's heard in a dream.
One of the students pipes up, "Don't worry, kero. Iida already went to get Aizawa-sensei."
Part of Eijirou takes a moment to link the the noise the student makes to be the same as a frog whilst the other eighty percent of his mind focuses in on the girl who just stepped into his view. Her hair is pink like bubblegum, matching to her skin. Her curls bounce as she steps fully in front of the couch, cocking her head to the side as she eyes him. Her purple stained lips purse together, black and yellow eyes softening.
"Ashido-kun?" he exclaims. The familiarity of her voice finally clicks in place. It's not the same as he remembers, but it's close enough to the one he catches snippets of in the hallways of his school. Of all people, the most popular girl in his school has to be the one to catch him like this: with bedhead and a cup in his hand as he shakes so hard it's a shocker his skeleton hasn't yet ejected itself. If Ikari was here, he'd never be rid of the teasing.
She takes one of his hands off the cup and holds it between her two. She squeezes it gently, a crease forming between her brows. "Kiri. . . I'm sorry. This must suck."
Her hands are colder than his, he notes. They feel unfamiliar and not at all comforting like how he's sure she means them to be. This is not the Ashido he's caught glimpses of before. It's impossible for him to pull his eyes away from where his hardened fingers are folded between her fragile hands. One move and cut -
"How did this happen?" She asks, looking to the ground. It's not directed at him. "Is he from the past?"
Someone, a boy with more freckles than there are stars in the sky, shakes his head. He says, "Not really. He is him from the past but it's not time travel. Kirishima more just turned into a past version of himself."
Bakugou raised an eyebrow from where he sat adjacent to Eijirou. His leg was lazily draped across the other couch, resting a top several of the people sitting there with no care for their personal space. "So we can tell him anything and it doesn't fuck with the timeline?"
"I guess. It's pretty much a de-aging quirk that affects the mind too."
"Peachy. I just love babysitting."
The girl who gave him water glares at him. "No one said you had to do anything, Bakugou."
"We all know he will though," another adds in, winking at Eijirou for some reason. Stomach lurching, Eijirou blinks at the blonde boy wondering what his deal is. His shoelaces are tied weirdly.
"Shut the fuck up, Pikachu," Bakugou snaps.
A tap on his shoulder draws his attention back to Ashido. She holds his hand with only one of hers now. "You're sweating a lot," she points out.
"Sorry," he mumbles, pulling his hand out of hers to wipe it on his pants. "Uh, you're . . . Do you know me?"
Her black eyes crease at the corners as she rests her hands neatly in lap, mouth sliding into a leftward tilt. Remorse is etched across her features as she continues to hold his gaze.
"Look, Kiri. You've told me how you felt in middle school before so I get if you're surprised but we're close friends. Horn buddies." She laughs a little, softly like there was some hidden humor he hadn't picked up on.
"But you're--" he starts to say but is cut off.
"-Not the out of reach popular girl you think I am." She smiles at him, lightheartedly punching his shoulder. "And you're not the side character you think you are either."
Ashido Mina was untouchable. Eijirou knows this; has always known this. When she stepped into a room, it was like someone brought the stars to it. Clad in her vibrant colours and just as vibrant personality, she was the center piece of everything. She walked the halls of his school with grace and joy. She faced the fear-worthy as a symbol of fearlessness.
Eijirou cowered away from her light. He tread along the edges of her brightness, tiptoeing the line between dark and spotlight. Where she thrived, bubbling over the brim with bravery, he curled in on himself.
He was not even a background character in her story yet here she was directly saying otherwise. It would be a lie to say his mind wasn't reeling, his chest tightening double fold along with it.
A jolt of electricity runs down his spine as a hand comes to rest on his shoulder from behind causing him to only barely avoid leaping ten feet in the air out of surprise. Looking behind him, eyes widening, he focused on a taller man dressed from head to toe in black matching to his hair. A grey scarf wound around his neck, yellow googles nestled in it. Eijirou eyed the scar across his cheekbone and felt dread pool in his stomach. This was the man on his poster.
"So it's true," the man says. His voice is tough in the way sandpaper is; alarming to hear as the material is to feel. It leaves him with more concern than should probably be warranted considering this is Yuuei. The man sighs, pinching his nose with the hand not on his shoulder. "A perfect way to kick off a Monday."
"Mr. Aizawa," the boy with freckles says, Eijirou nearly getting whiplash to look in his direction, "I think this is because of the villain Kirishima fought yesterday. They had a quirk that created similar effects to this."
The man - Aizawa - raised a dark eyebrow in the boys direction. "And was there anything on how long the effects would last."
"Er, roughly a day," he replied, rubbing at his neck sheepishly. "But we don't know when Kirishima made the, uh, switch."
The man looked down at him, his hand still resting on his shoulder - pressing into him even though it was light. Eijirou felt like his palm pushed through his shoulder into his chest, gripping his lungs and slowly squeezing the breath out of him. Aizawa remained oblivious to this all as he asked him, "Do you know when you arrived here?"
Eijirou shook his head. "N-No. I was sleeping. Sir."
He quickly tacked on the sir, heading the dozens of eyes he felt on him. Even with his hair cascading around his face, a sense of nakedness washed over him. He was the center of attention, not shielded by brighter spotlights. He knew this as he heard someone snicker did he just say sir?
"If that's the case," Aizawa continued, his fingers lightly squeezing his shoulder, "you'll return at a random point tonight. Until then, your classmates and the faculty will look after you. If you need anything, don't be afraid to reach out."
You don't even know me, he wants to point out but catches his tongue. These people do know him, future him. He is not a stranger to them but they are to him. They tower over him in the most terrifying of ways: with knowledge.
He wants to go home. He wants to go back to where Ikari teases him. To where his his mother would be waking him up with complaints about his alarm, and where he'd be able to sink into the shadows of his back corner desk. This brighter, louder, more overwhelming place isn't there.
He doesn't say any of this though. Instead, he nods again and Aizawa's hand finally leaves his shoulder. Ashido's hand still holds his as the man walks away, stopping to whisper to the blue-haired boy with glasses on his way out the door. Eijirou wonders for a moment if it's about him. Maybe they're saying something bad.
"Kirishima."
Ashido's voice breaks through his thoughts and he turns to look her in the eyes again. He doesn't think he's ever been this close to her before. She seems somehow more unreal with her face only a foot away. Black and yellow eyes pumped with confidence and joy. Unbreakable.
But, they soften when they meet his. She tilts her head and squeezes his hand, saying, "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. I'm. . . I'm okay," he answers though his mouth feels dry and his stomach has yet to cease rolling.
"Well if he's okay," someone shouts before he finds the source as a blonde boy launches himself into the empty couch seat next to him, "then he won't mind some questions!"
Ashido shoots the boy a look. "Kaminari. Be nice."
The boy - Kaminari - looks appalled. His eyes widen comically as he gasps, hand pressed to his chest. "How dare you assume I'd be anything but! I just want to know whats with the black hair. Who'd of thought Kirishima had an emo phase!"
His arms brushes against Eijirou's. Static travels along the hairs of his arms, almost unnoticeable if not for how overly aware Eijirou was feeling in that moment. He gnaws on his lip as he glances from the invisible static to the boys electric yellow eyes and golden hair with a black lightning bolt design in it. A quirk then.
"No," Eijirou responds. He shifts slightly away from Kaminari. "I'm not in a phase. My hair is just black."
By the way both Kaminari and Ashido's eyes pinch together, he knows they caught the tremble in his voice.
He's saved from any further questions when the boy with glasses claps his hands together and exclaims that introductions are in order. All the students (his classmates, he has to remind himself) are eager to share their names. Each do so with their own flare, some going as far as to share their hero names too. Eijirou struggles to keep up, trying to pair faces and names and quirks all the while failing to see where he fits into it all.
Soon enough, he finds himself with no control as he's whisked away to their homeroom. On the way there, several people offer to take notes for when he's back to his usual self but he declines them all. He can't rely on others to pick up his slack.
Jirou - a girl with interesting white earphone jacks dangling from her head - guides him to his desk. She tells him to ask Tsuyu if he has any questions. He glances at the frog-like girl seated next to him and tries not to visibly sink in on himself. He nods anyways, just in time for the bell to ring and Aizawa to walk in.
He tries to listen, he truly does, but his mind spins with names and faces he doesn't know. He can hardly believe he's in this class - a Yuuei classroom. He waits to wake from the dream as time drags on. The first period goes by before he realizes it. He barely caught a word.
The next class he's able to focus more. He stares at the math sheet laid out before him, pondering over equations he couldn't begin to solve. All around him, students hands shoot up without any hesitance. His shoulders hike up to his ears and he sinks deeper into his seat. They're all so smart.
I don't belong here.
That thought is so blatantly true as Kaminari and Eijirou's desk partner - Sero - jab at each other with inside jokes and teasing remarks. Every now and then, their gaze will slide to Eijirou and their chuckles will cut off; their eyes will loose their light and lilt towards the front again. Eijirou can't do anything but stare at his desk and pray for this all to pass soon.
The next class is English. Their teacher is pro hero Present Mic. Eijirou wants to hide, wants to run, wants to do anything but sit there when the hero looks to him and asks if he rather sit out. Eijirou shakes his head and says he doesn't want to be a bother.
He can feel everyone's eyes on him.
When Eijirou first entered Junior High, he remembers having hair that stopped just above his eyes. It didn't take long for him to let it grow out, to cover his eyes and the scar that passed over one of them. Black strands slowly lengthened into curtains that covered his always ducked head. A shield.
His shield, he thinks as he heads off for lunch surrounded by a herd of 2-A students, does nothing against these people.
"Kirishima!" Hagakure exclaims, gripping his arm. "How are you liking Yuuei?"
Her hand that burns into his skin, causing him to slowly pulling his arm out of it. He glances at her warily and says, "It's . . . good."
It's terrifying.
They all stare at him, like they're waiting for more. He doesn't know what else to say. He's not even sure he should say more; should be talking to these people. They're perfect. He knows that from only a few classes with them. They're smart, and kind, and all seem to have quirks that shun ones like his. He's just Kirishima Eijirou. He's not the kind of person who's supposed to be around them.
"That's nice and all," Kaminari cuts in. He jumps out of nowhere, grinning at him like the devil. "But, can we circle back to the fact that apparently your hair is naturally black!"
Eijirou frowns. "Is it supposed to be a different colour?"
"Uh, yeah!" he screams. He pulls out his phone, opening it before handing it to Eijirou. "Look man, your hair is red. Even your eyebrows are red! See?"
Cradling the phone carefully in his hand, doing his best not to accidentally harden his fingers, he looks at the picture. He stares at the photo with his mouth agape. There's two boys displayed, one who looks identical to Kaminari, and the other with red hair and an arm thrown over Kaminari's shoulder. The second boy beams at the camera, smile so wide it causes his eyes to squint and crinkle at the corners. His teeth are sharp, zigzagging together into the scariest of smiles.
It's one thing to see teeth like his out in the open - he always prefers to hide them behind tight lipped expressions - but it's a whole other to take in the gravity deifying red hair. It's spiked up, stretching towards the sky and practically screaming look at me. The little brows resting just above his scar are also red, just as Kaminari said.
This boy is bright. Untouchable.
"That's not me," Eijirou says.
A ball drops in his stomach, dragging his heart with it. There's a feeling in him, like something is out of place; just slightly to the left of where it's supposed to be.
"Of course it's you, dude!" Kaminari protested. He grinned at him. "It's so weird seeing you with your hair like this!"
"Yeah! And you're so much quieter!" Uraraka piped up.
Eijirou ducked his head, adverted his eyes. He mumbled, "Sorry."
"Don't apologize mon amis!" Aoyama said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "It is nice to see friends in a different light!"
"Friends?"
Eijirou stumbled over the word. He'd never had any friends besides Ikari. People weren't his strong suit and that fact tended to anchor him to his limited social circles. But these people - these bright, loud, joyous, heroic people - dared to call him a friend. He couldn't picture it.
"Stop fucking crowding him, you freaks!" Bakugou demanded, his voice carrying across the cafeteria. Eijirou flinched at the noise. The class parted, collectively taking a synchronized step back from him. Eijirou stared at the sparks that popped from Bakugou's hands, dancing across his fingers and up his forearms. They were glorious; little bits of starbursts that required attention.
When Eijirou woke up that morning, he'd first thought Bakugou to be a nightmare. Now, he looked more like a dream. There was a different look to his red eyes. Less like a terror and closer to the gleam his Crimson Riot poster had.
Again, he found himself wondering where a boy like himself fit into this class.
Bakugou crossed his arms and glared at his fellow students. He barked, "You're going to overwhelm him at this rate. Let him have his breathing room."
Jirou snorted. "Told you that you'd end up babysitting."
"Shut the fuck up, you sad excuse for an aux cord!"
"Defensive much?" Ashido said, giggling into her hand.
"You zip it too, bubblegum."
Eijirou watches them banter with a strange sense of curiosity. Before he could think any more on it, he felt a hand brush against his elbow. Following the hand's arm with his eyes, he was faced with the boy whose freckles reminded him of stars. He'd introduced himself as Midoriya.
"Come with me," Midoriya whispered.
Eijirou couldn't think of any reason to go against him, so he allowed himself to be dragged away from the group. As they turn the corner out of the cafeteria, he heard someone screech we lost Kirishima! and tried his best not to wince. He didn't want them to worry.
"They mean well," Midoriya says suddenly. He keeps his eyes trained forward as he guides Eijirou through Yuuei's halls. The boy chuckles lightly, his green hair curling around the highs of his cheeks and forehead. "I don't think they recognize how. . . much they can be at times."
Midoriya shot him a look, one that expressed sympathy. His eyes are green like grass on a warm summer day. Or like apples when they're ripening, providing nourishment to any animal that stumbles upon them. Midoriya's eyes look green but they feel comforting. Safe.
Mustering up his courage, Eijirou mutters, "Thank you. For getting me out of there."
"Anytime. I know that if my middle school self were here, I'd want someone to get me out too."
The way he says those words leaves room for so many questions. Instead of asking them, Eijirou simply wraps his arms around himself and nods. He understands, he thinks. There's an icy tundra in him that spreads, covering every one of his thoughts, consuming all the time. It's cold, numbingly so, and impossible to avoid. It never rests, always drawing the worst of feelings from him and whispering toxic thoughts that pierce like icicles to the soul. Midoriya's eyes may remind him of summer grass, but his words tell him he's been drowned in winter too.
"People change," Midoriya says. "Our class forgets that, regularly. Kacchan is not the same as he was when we were young. I'm not the same as I was a few years ago. You're not the same as you were in middle school. To them, you've always been the loud, manly, encouraging guy you are now. They forget your hair might not be the only thing that is different about you."
He shrugged. "I don't know if this makes sense to you, and please don't take it the wrong way, but often our past selves are more delicate than our hardened future versions. The Kirishima I know is strong and tough both on the outside and in. But, the Kirishima you are right now has yet to go through what that Kirishima has. You might not be able to deal with crowds like he can and that's okay, as long as the class understands that."
Then, Midoriya's face breaks into a wide smile. His freckles disappear under happy folds in his face as he gives him a thumbs up and says, "So don't be afraid to set some boundaries with them. They love you and will understand."
It's impossible not to feel amazed by Midoriya in that moment. Eijirou can't begin to comprehend the kindness he shows him. Here he is, spewing words of care of empathy, and all Eijirou can think is how do I manage to befriend this person?
"They really. . . love me?" Eijirou asks shyly. He feels so ridiculous asking such a question. The embarrassment that follows reminds him too much of when he was younger, asking his mother if babies truly did come from storks.
Luckily, Midoriya doesn't shame him for it. Rather, his eyes soften and he stops in his tracks. Without warning his arms wrap around Kirishima as he pulls him into a hug, whispering to him, "Of course they do. They love you so much."
Eijirou's father used to cry during holidays. Still does, actually. He'd weep during dinners when their family would thank the universe for all the good they had. He'd shed tears as he walked through streets illuminated by Christmas lights, hand tucked in Eijirou's own while his mother hummed carols under her breath. He cried on his birthday and anniversary when Eijirou and his mother always made sure to bring him breakfast in bed.
Once, Eijirou had asked him why he cried when he was supposed to be happy. His father had told him he was happy, so much so that he couldn't express it in any way but with tears of joy. Eijirou has always had his fathers handle on emotions. That much is clear as his eyes sting at Midoriya's confirmation.
The boy holds him tightly, like he's trying to squeeze the love into him.
"I get it," Midoriya says. He pulls out of the hug, looking Kirishima in the eye. "I didn't have people who cared for me before Yuuei so I get it. These people do care for you though. You just have to trust me on that one."
Eijirou nods, even if he doesn't believe him quite yet. He asks, "So are we, like, best friends or. . .?"
For some reason, Midoriya laughs. His face is red as he waves his hands in front of him and chuckles. "No. No, we're not best friends. I mean, we're super close and I would take a bullet for you - I have taken things worse than bullets for you but no. I'm not your best friend. That title belongs to and will always belong to Kacchan. I do not want to be the one to try and take that away from him."
He frowns, tilting his head. "Kacchan?"
"Bakugou Katsuki. The angry one."
He thinks of how he'd woken up that morning to said boy. He remembers the way he brushed his finger against his scar, gentle and enamored. He'd never been touched that gently by anyone but his relatives. Really, Eijirou should have guessed earlier that he was the one closest to him.
"Is he usually so. . . " Eijirou paused, waving his hand around in vague gesture as he struggled to find the words to describe Bakugou's brash attitude.
"Aggressive? Bitchy? Loud?"
Despite himself, Eijirou snorts a short laugh. He quickly covers his mouth and it's rows of terrifying teeth with his hand, internally cursing himself and shifting to chew on his lip. Clearing his throat, he nods and continues, "Yeah. That."
Midoriya's eyes narrow a little, like he caught something concerning, then shakes his head.
"He is and he isn't. He's the definition of Tsundere so he's harmless. Truth is he's a nerd who cares about us all underneath that grit he showcases. Don't worry," Midoriya explains, seeming to forget what had irked him before.
"Oh. That's good."
And it is. Eijirou doesn't know what he'd do if his best friend was an asshole. As a general rule, he avoided people who cursed and insult people like Bakugou at first seemed to do. It worked well enough for him. After all, none of his schools pricks have used him as a back alley punching bag yet.
At least Bakugou doesn't seem to be like that. It's good.
"We should head back," Midoriya said, interrupting his thoughts. "I can practically feel Todoroki theorizing about what vents you possibly escaped through already."
Eijirou laughs even as the reminder of others tugs at his stomach uncomfortably. It's better than before, he can give Midoriya that much. He follows him back.