Chapter Text
It all starts with a handful of freshly-picked daisies.
It’s Saturday, and as it is also early July, it means that the sun is burning high up in the sky, even well after the nineteenth hour. With the heat comes the discomfort of dampened skin, skin that shines with a perspiration that even a cool shadow beneath a tree wouldn't hide it. And with a spiteful scowl cutting into the length of his brow, Bakugou Katsuki is making his way home.
Unfortunately for him, it is with the company of both Mina and Kirishima, the pair dawdling as they follow their fair-haired friend along the near-empty street before them. Neither of them are particularly paying attention to their surroundings—a fact that twists Bakugou’s scowl into something foul—skipping along the path as their conversation tilts to something more excited, if Bakugou is translating Kirishima's excited 'fuck yeah!' correctly.
Not that he's listening. Because, really, he isn't. He has more important things to be fretting over, such as getting home as quickly as possible so he can finally scrub away the hideously sticky sheen that clings to the nape of his neck. He's busy swearing under his breath, the corners of his mouth curling into a grimace as he angrily swipes the sweat from his throat, when a familiar block of houses appears around the next corner. His pace immediately quickens, only, it appears that he lacks any form of luck, because just as he’s crossing over the road, hand already shovelling into the back pocket for his keys, there’s a shrill bleat that comes from just a few paces behind him.
A scoff tumbles from the back of his throat—he doesn't even have to turn to know that Mina's about to say something stupid—but before he can yank open the front gate, a single hand clasps around the width of his bicep.
He's irritated enough to actually pause mid-stride, scarlet glare scorching as he whirls around to face her, and his mood only worsens when he catches sight of Kirishima's shit-eating grin from where he loiters at Mina's shoulder. When he meets Mina's gaze, she's already smirking up at him.
Bakugou’s eyes narrow, wary.
‘What?’ He barks, voice gruff enough to portray his irritation, worsened by a wave of hot air that billows across his face. His features screw into an expression that Kirishima can only describe as comical, blonde brows pinching together as he reaches to wipe at the line of sweat that is now trickling down the curve of his cheek. His lips part to voice his complaint, but Mina beats him to it, unceremoniously shoving her mobile phone so close to his face that it almost decks him in the fucking nose. A huff of a curse spitting past his lips, Bakugou all but slaps it away from his line of sight, reprimanding his friend with a, ‘stop that, shit-face.’
Mina's grin, totally unperturbed, only widens, 'guess what?'
Bakugou huffs, head already turning away as he continues his mission to return home. It is Kirishima who follows, laughing, 'go on, guess.'
Bakugou ignores him.
‘C’mon! You're supposed to guess, Baku-bro!' Kirishima protests loudly, hands thrown into the air. He's sporting an obnoxiously large pair of sunglasses that he pauses to push up the bridge of his nose, the skin kissed a gentle golden brown, only for the frame to immediately slip back to their original position, aided by the slickness that clings to the surface of his face. Mina, on the other hand, doesn't have a single strand of hair out of place.
The sight has Bakugou sneering.
‘You gonna tell me or what?'
Mina isn't bothering to hide her triumphant smile as Kirishima bellows a gleeful laugh that has his jaw tipping back all the way to the sky. Bakugou’s nose crinkles, his disapproval plastered across his face. He knows that laugh; they’re plotting something, which, from what Bakugou has learnt the hard way, means nothing good.
‘No,' he immediately says before Mina can even reveal her news, which only induces a paired groan of protest.
‘C’mon, Blasty! Denki and the others are—'
‘Don't give a shit,' Bakugou snaps, angrily throwing open the iron gate that leads the short pebbled path to the front door of his home, ‘I said no.' He stomps his way up toward the front step, almost snapping the key in two in his attempt to shove it into the lock.
He should have predicted it, really, because it’s an annoyingly Kirishima thing to do, but he doesn’t have time to duck as he’s ambushed from behind, an arm curling around the back of his neck, roughly pulling him into a head-lock. It's nothing he couldn't get out of if he really wanted, but it's a million degrees out, and he's sweating a ridiculous amount of perspiration that is beginning to pool underneath the collar of his shirt. Kirishima's body heat is stifling, nauseatingly so, but Bakugou’s fingers are quick to clamp around his friend's wrist before he ruffles his hair. ‘It's just a few drinks, bro!' Kirishima squeezes tighter, and Mina watches with blatant amusement, leaning with her elbow propped upon the stoned garden wall. ‘They've already started without us—we can't let Uraraka-chan and Deku out-drink us.'
Bakugou snorts at that.
As if Midoriya could out-drink anyone.
Bakugou’s hands dart out to shove Kirishima away.
His scarlet-haired friend stumbles, but his grip remains solid, and so Bakugou sways on the spot, his body unwillingly following Kirishima's as his legs stagger to regain balance whilst still hunched over.
‘Ain't lettin' go 'til you say yes.'
Bakugou’s left palm begins to warm with the familiar heat of his quirk, the power stirring to life with a sparkle that comes dangerously close to the back of Kirishima's shirt. Not that the red-head particularly cares, his stupid grin somehow stretching in size.
‘No.’
‘C’mon!’
‘No.’
‘It’ll be fun—Mina, tell him it’ll be fun.’
‘It’ll be fun.’
That shit-headed traitor, Bakugou thinks as he attempts to wriggle himself free a second time. Mina is still watching, knowing grin widening as her stare darts to meet Kirishima’s, and the two share a look above Bakugou’s head. Bakugo is still seething down at the ground.
And then Mina’s mobile beeps.
Kirishima’s distraction is one that costs him this fight, and the sharp cut of Bakugou’s elbow juts into his ribcage with a painful jab. The resulting bellow of pain is dramatic to say the least—completely ignored by Mina who is busy tapping away at the screen of her phone—and his grip falters enough for Bakugo to be freed.
Spine unfurling until he’s straightened to his full height, Bakugou shoves at his friend’s shoulder, spitting, ‘piss off, shitty hair, I gotta go.’
Kirishima, although winded, still manages to force a wobbly smile as he clutches at his ribs. ‘You really ditchin’?’ The wounded downward pull of the corners of his mouth is a manipulative tactic that would have worked on anyone else, but in the ten years that they’ve been friends, Bakugou has mastered the art of ignorance. He pretends to not see the pouty lip that is blatantly forced, the hard set of his own jaw anything but feigned.
‘If Bakugou tries to say no,’ Mina is busy reading a new text message aloud, not that Bakugou cares, already stomping his way back toward the front door, ‘then tell him that—‘
And then the pink-haired hero proceeds to sing out the syllables of your name, along with the knowledge that you will also be joining the group on their night out.
Bakugou stills.
Kirishima’s pain is long forgotten.
The length of Bakugou’s spine is rigid, the round of his fists curled tight. There’s a spattering of moisture that mars his nape with its unwanted presence, and although he now stands with his back presented, when Mina tilts her head just so, she can make out the cut of his jaw drawn taut. There’s a low rumble that splutters from the back of his throat, his words unintelligible.
‘What was that?’ Mina makes a show of cupping her ear, their red-haired friend spluttering a loud bark of laughter when Bakugou’s cheek turns to reveal the gentle tinge of pink that now mars his skin.
‘One,’ he barks, the word spat out of his mouth as if it tastes something foul. He’s glaring yet again, rudely jabbing a finger toward Kirishima, who teases back with a mocked surrender, the broad stretch of his palm in the air. Bakugou turns away, spitting under his breath as he goes, keys still clasped tightly in the palm of his hand.
Mina follows, smirking, ‘one what?’
Kirishima watches the back of Bakugou’s head tilt toward the sky, as if he’s muttering a silent prayer, before his head full of ash-blonde locks turn to scowl at them from over his shoulder. ‘One drink—and I mean one fucking drink,’ he seethes. ‘I got shit to do tomorrow.’ He’s then angrily shoving the key into the lock. ‘I’ll be ready in an hour. So piss off ’til then.’
And then he’s hauling the door open, and before either of them can follow him inside, he’s slamming it shut behind him with such a force that it’s a wonder that the hinges don’t snap. They listen to the key locking shut for good measure, and when Kirishima turns to Mina, there’s an odd look that swims in the depths of her eye that matches the satisfied stretch of her mouth.
They both exit the front garden, the iron gate squeaking shut begin them, and Mina strains to throw an arm over Kirishima’s shoulder. He leans toward her, despite the sickly heat emitting from her body, and eyes the sakura lock that curls behind her right ear.
‘What you plottin’?’
‘Who? Me? How dare you?’ Mina is laughing. ‘I would never plot anything at all to solve the case that is our dear little Blasty’s ridiculously blue balls—that’s totally not my style.’
Kirishima past the top of her head, the lengths of his fingers twisting around the pink stands, tugging once before he lets go to dodge well aimed swat from the back of her hand, his eyes glimmering as the corners of his mouth tilt upward.
‘Just don’t piss him off too much, will ya?’
Mina’s answering smile is vicious. ‘No promises.’
Kirishima chuckles, but his planned answer dies on the tip of his tongue when he becomes distracted by the sight of your form lingering outside of the only flower shop in town. You’ve moved a table to sit out in the sunshine, and you’re too busy sorting through an arrangement of sunflowers to notice the pair of them heading toward you. Mina is quick to ensure that you notice her, however, proceeding to bellow your name so loudly that she gains the attention of a few passer-by’s, who, in turn, peer at you curiously. This street is one of many in the hero-protection squad—also known as the HPS—one where the law states that the heroes residing in said neighbourhood are protected from the public and paparazzi alike—where they can shout boisterously in public without fear of being swarmed by fans. Not that Kirishima thinks it’d stop her if she was in any other neighbourhood.
Her tactic works, though, your head quickly tilting toward them, returning Mina’s enthusiastic greeting with one of your own. The smile you bare is a thousand kilowatts, all teeth and squinty eyes as the sun beams down on the three of you, but despite the sweat that matts the tendrils of baby hairs at your nape, you happily accept Mina’s hug, your arms mirroring the pinkette’s as they curl around her shoulders. Over the curve of her shoulder, you manage a soft ‘hello’ in Kirishima’s direction, the curve of your lips widening when he waves you off with a grin of his own, crimson irises gleaming with mirth.
When Mina finally releases you, there’s a content tilt to your mouth as you guide your friends to the table, pausing to clear a little space by placing a box of flowers by your feet. Your hair is braided back from your face, loose strands dampened and curled from the perspiration that has formed under your hairline. They fall to frame your face, and when Kirishima glances at your cheeks, there’s a golden glow that gives away the fact that you’ve obviously been sat in the sun a tad too long. The bridge of your nose teeters on the cusp of being burnt, too, but it doesn’t seem to be particularly bothering you until Mina coos at the reddened skin.
‘Won’t be stayin’ long,’ Kirishima promises as he slouches in the seat beside Mina, who is already gushing about the plan for the evening.
‘We’ve decided that we’re going bar-hopping,’ Mina announces, and by the small circle that your mouth forms, Kirishima surmises that this isn’t what you’d expected to hear.
You continue to pick through the delivery of sunflowers, looking for the best looking petals, gentle fingers easily flickering through the stems until you’ve formed a decent enough bunch. ‘Bar-hopping?’ You muse as you begin to tie the bouquet together with a length of red ribbon. ‘I thought we were just going for a quiet drink or something.’
Mina leans an elbow upon the tabletop, narrowly missing the bundle the you’ve just put together. You eye your friend warily, quickly snatching the bouquet from her reach. Kirishima is too busy basking in the sunlight to answer the pensive look that you aim his way, his eyes hidden beneath his sunglasses, head titled back as if he were asleep. You eye the steady rise and fall of his chest with narrow eyes, before your head swivels back toward Mina.
‘So cute,’ her teasing smile borders on something chilly, your answering expression morphing on the basis of your growing confusion.
’Okay…?’ You’re unsure of how to respond to the compliment, especially when it is Kirishima who—with his eyes still shut—snorts under his breath.
Mina hums, ‘Momo wants to get absolutely wasted, so we’re going to help her.’
You nod, busying yourself with forming yet another bouquet. ’Todoroki?’
Both Kirishima and Mina answer at the same time with an affirmative, ’Todoroki.’
You click your tongue, disapproving. Just a few years older than the pair, you’ve come to care for them just as equally as the other. However, their on-again, off-again relationship is one that is particularly hard to keep up with, especially when it is Shouto who seems to be unable to make his damned mind up. You have no doubt that the pair will someday grow old and wrinkly together, but right now, it seems that the pair are breaking up more often than not. That being said, you also have suspicions that by the end of the evening, the two will be back together once again.
‘Alright,’ you are quick to agree to Mina’s plans. In truth, you had originally planned to just have a drink or two, as you’re sure that the heat will ensure that you’ll get drunk faster than usual. But, between you running the flower shop—and the fact that most of your friends are pro-heroes, it’s also been so long since you last went out just for the sake of getting drunk with your friends, and so the prospect excites you more than you care to admit aloud.
Yet, it must have shown on your face, as Mina is reaching out a hand to pinch at your cheek, giggling when you pout back at her. ‘Aw! Isn’t she cute, Kiri?’ Kirishima hums in affirmation, but he’s definitely not listening, not when he looks about two seconds away from passing out. Mina tsk’s at him, before peering back at you. ’See, Sparky should take a leaf out of your book—he was so grumpy about coming.’
‘He was?’ You can’t help but perk up at the mention of Bakugou’s nickname—one that you know he’s long given up on trying to bully his pink-haired friend from using. It took a ridiculously long time for him to realise that the more he fought against her, the more she persisted, and by the time he stopped, the nickname stuck. Fingers busy looping around the shape of another piece of ribbon, you don’t notice the way that Kirishima has shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head, left eye peeled open to share a knowing look with Mina, who, currently, looks as if she’s won the lottery. The red-head can’t help but also spare a small smile at the blush that is now blossoming across the curves of your cheeks.
It’s hardly a secret that you have harboured feelings for the pro-hero for almost as long as you’ve known him. To everyone but him, that is. Six years long, and yet Bakugou Katsuki is as blissfully ignorant to your feelings as he was when they first developed. It’s just a small crush, you tell yourself, and on most days, you can manage to pretend that it doesn’t hurt at all when you look at him and realise that he’s leagues above you, in every way possible. That the sentiment you hold toward him, will never be mutual. So when Mina’s smile broadens in a way that it almost looks uncomfortable, you don’t really understand why she’s looking at you like that.
‘He was,’ Kirishima confirms with a nod, long fingers dancing with the stems that you have cut away, deemed not up to standard.
‘Yeah,’ Mina starts, taking the time to swipe Kirishima’s glasses before shoving them over her own eyes, ‘he’s so grumpy.’ She huffs, pushing back a curled strand of sakura from her forehead. ‘’Kay, I’ve got to take a shower before we head out, because I think I can actually smell myself now.’ She’s grimacing as she rises from her chair, hand reaching out to yank the back of Kirishima’s tee until he’s also stumbling to his feet with an exhausted grunt. Kirishima throws a farewell over his shoulder as Mina pulls him away, and just as they’re disappearing around the corner, Mina yells your name so loudly that you’re pretty sure the entire street hears her. ‘Wear something pretty! See you in an hour!’
And then the two of them are gone, bickering between themselves as they disappear around the corner.
You smile after them, shaking your head as you then decide that if you’re going to meet them within the hour, then you should probably close up shop whist you still have the time.
Years of practise ensures that it doesn’t take long to clean up the mess from the table, and then, you’re careful manoeuvring the completed bouquets into the small building, placing each one into their very own glass vase, complete with brightly coloured wrapping paper. You then heave the remaining boxes inside, stacking them in the storage room behind the counter, before locking it shut.
The shop floor is a small space, even smaller than your own living room. But you like the fact that the trinkets that you’ve collected over the years—along with the photographs of distant family, friends and even one of your childhood pet rabbit—decorate the little space that isn’t filled by some sort of greenery. On the right side of the shop stand shelving units, stacked as high as the ceiling. They display many a flower that are already in full bloom, and opposing them, on the far left, is a glass cabinet that boasts an array of bulbs and seeds for every fruit, vegetable and flower thinkable. By the front door resides a large bay window, where customers are welcomed to sit for consultations, where you sometimes aid them with their purchases, or where the neighbourhood children come to sit and draw the endless array of flower heads of all shapes, sizes and colours. On the wall behind the counter, you’ve accumulated an impressive collection of said drawings and paintings, and you like to think that these are the little things that make your shop—Amaryllis—a place you can proudly call yours.
And when you’re locking up, preparing to return home to ready yourself for the evening ahead, you can’t help but spare a wistful smile as you turn the key in the lock.
It’s small, but it’s home.
⁂
Four hours later, and it’s safe to say that Bakugou is in another of his foul moods.
When he’d first arrived at Kaminari’s apartment, he’d instantly snapped at the host upon discovering that they planned to travel to not one, but multiple bars. He’s deemed himself long-outgrown of the phase of gathering with his friends to get absolutely hammered—as Kirishima had cheered, already tipsy long before anyone had even arrived—like the filthy, stinking extras that they are, as Bakugou had spat. The revelation had been enough to extend his vexation for long enough to twist his features into the shape of a bitter scowl that is yet to disappear, even an hour after they’ve arrived at their final destination.
Upon arriving at Quirkin’—the name itself had made Bakugou sneer—his mood has somehow worsened significantly.
Currently, he’s sat at the end of the booth, miles more sober than anyone else. The little shits—all noticeably cheerier than himself, as Aoyama had made the mistake of pointing out (he’d received a painful, yet well-aimed kick to the shin for that comment)—were all somehow managing to remain in some form of upright position. Most have joined the dance floor, you included. And Bakugou’s eyes have followed your every move ever since you’d arrived—later than everyone else, that is. He can’t even remember the excuse that you’d babbled once you’d flown through Kaminari’s front door, dressed in a tiny black dress that Mina had made a huge fuss about. Bakugou doesn’t admit that the flushing of your cheeks under Mina’s attentions had been, dare he think, cute.
But because he has a stupidly terrible habit of running his quick mouth—and because he’d loathed the way that Mineta had leered at your legs for a second too long—it was with the palms of his hands burning with an unbearable heat that he’d snapped something about your dress being too fucking short.
Your smile had faltered, and he’d almost swallowed his pride long enough to apologise, but before he could, you’d simply turned away, forcing a bewildered-looking Midoriya into a conversation instead. But, he hasn’t missed the way that you’ve been tugging at the hem of your dress ever since, and each time he catches you doing so, he has a hard time admitting, even to himself, that he feels a tad guilty.
You’ve loosened your hair from your usual braid, and Bakugou thinks that it’s the first time that he’s seen you like this. It’s definitely a sight for sore eyes, not that he’ll ever tell you—or anyone for that matter, especially Mina, that godforsaken, shift-faced blabber mouth. Nursing a pint of lager that has long warmed to the disgusting heat of the summer air that has seeped into the building, he eyes drag over your form, and you are blissfuly oblivious to him doing so, downing what he guesses to be your fifth or sixth cocktail of the evening. You’d compromised with Mina, and had managed to weasel your way out of a pair of ridiculously high stilettos, and instead, had settled with a pair of reasonably heeled sandals, the heel just an inch tall. It means, that just for tonight, there’s an inch less between your height and his, not that he’s really thinking about that sort of thing as he’s too busy pretending that he’s not staring at the sway of your hips as you join Kaminari, Jiro and Sero in a group dance. And he’s definitely not paying attention to the stupidly upbeat song, the base so loud that he swears he can feel his teeth rattle.
The remainder of the group is scattered about the club; Todoroki had barged in on the group a couple of hours ago, and no-one has seen Momo since.
Kirishima and Mina had disappeared in a similar fashion not too long after, and even Mineta has made himself scarce. Even Midoriya, located on the other side of the booth, has a pink tinge that stains the shells of his ears, and when his head ducks to listen whatever a blushing Uraraka is spluttering away in his ear, his eyelids are drooping, heavy with an alcohol-laced exhaustion. Tokoyami, tipsy from whatever cider he’s been consuming since they started drinking, immersed in a conversation with Tsuyu, is talking the most that Bakugou has ever seen him, and despite the fact that the blonde can’t hear what he’s saying, it’s obviously interesting enough for Tsuyu to be smiling as coyly as she is.
Bakugou’s gaze slides toward you yet again.
You, at least, seem to be enjoying the company of your friends, and the four of you are engaged in some sort of dance that Bakugou doesn’t recognise. There’s a healthy glow to your natural skin tone, that has been kissed by the sun—despite the beginnings of a burn slightly pinking the bridge of your nose—and you’re currently sporting the biggest grin he thinks he’s ever seen on your face. Sero leans to yell something into your ear, and you laugh so loudly that from where he slouches into the back of his seat, Bakugou somehow manages to hear it over the music.
His teeth ache with the force of which he clenches his jaw.
Mina rejoins the group, Kirishima in tow, the pair staggering around so clumsily that they almost send a civilian flying as they duck under the tray of drinks he’s carrying, narrowly skipping out of the way. And from somewhere Bakugou doesn’t bother to care enough to wonder about, Iida suddenly appears too. He watches for a while, sipping on his drink until he eventually tips the rest down his throat despite the fact that it tastes horrific, quickly ordering a fresh round of drinks, and as he waits, he suddenly feels a weight pressed to his shoulder.
The sharp jut of his jaw tilts to see Mina’s temple pressed to his shoulder, so far gone that the sunglasses that she’d stolen from Kirishima are somehow missing. Was she even wearing them when they’d left Kaminari’s apartment? Bakugou can’t remember.
‘Oi, ‘Coon Eyes, where’s ya specs?’ He raises a hand to gently rap the back of his knuckles against her cheek, but all he receives is a garbled sentence that he can’t make out from over the music, Mina’s arm slumping around his waist as she decides that he makes an acceptable pillow. He, however, does not, and so he huffs, annoyed, and yanks the back of her shirt, attempting to shake her awake. And either he’s being ignored, or Mina is really that much of a deadweight when she drinks, because no matter how many times he flicks the tip of his middle finger against her forehead, she doesn’t budge.
He gives up, expelling a string of curses under his breath.
The next round of drinks arrive, and he’s sure it’s a sight; him, bored out of his mind and nursing the whiskey that he’s just ordered, an unconscious Mina clinging to his left arm. Luckily, now that it’s almost midnight, it’s not so hot outside, but Mina’s body heat—along with the humidity caused by so many bodies crammed into one area—is enough to form yet another bout of nauseating perspiration under the back of his shirt. It’s annoying—he’s already showered and washed his hair three times today, and he’s sure as hell is going to take another before he goes to bed later on, whenever that may be. It doesn’t take long for the palms of his hands to become clammy enough that he can’t resist the urge to wash his skin any longer.
And so, he shifts his body so that he can hoist Mina against the back of the booth, her left cheek smushed against the cool leather. It takes some manoeuvring, because he’s forgotten just how heavy Mina is, and by the time that he’s made sure that she won’t fall face-first and accidentally deck herself on the table, his shirt feels like a second skin as it clings to his torso. He’s grimacing, running a hand through sweat-streaked strands of sun-bleached blonde, and he spares Midoriya a nod as his emerald-eyed friend manages to tear his gaze from Uraraka long enough to acknowledge the fact that Bakugou is heading for the bathroom.
Along the way, he’s unfortunate to come across Todoroki at the end of the hall, Momo’s legs wrapped prettily around his waist, his mouth pressed to her throat as his hands busy themselves underneath the sheer fabric of her shirt. She clings to his shoulders, cheeks flushed, and when she moves to gasp into the pinned shell of Todoroki’s ear, her eyes open just enough to spot Bakugou storming towards them, and she starts, eyes widening.
‘What in the fuck—go do that shit at home, Half-’n’-half,’ Bakugou spits from over his shoulder, chin tilting as he quite literally turns his nose upon at them.
He’s already shoving open the bathroom door and disappearing inside when Todoroki huffs a quiet sigh of indignation to the curve of Momo’s shoulder.
Inside the bathroom, Bakugou is dubious of just how clean the taps are, so he makes quick work of scrubbing the sweat from his skin. He doubts the automatic soap dispenser is as hygienic as it’s supposed to be, and he already knows that he’ll be washing his hands again as soon as he gets home, but for now, it’ll have to do. Luckily, he appears to be the only person using the bathroom, so he makes sure to scrub between each finger, around each fingernail, over the tops of his hands and across the palms. He repeats this twice before deeming them clean enough to rinse, and because he doesn’t trust the hand-dryer either, he waves his hands in the air until they feel at least somewhat dry.
It doesn’t feel as if much time has passed, but it’s obviously long enough, because when he returns to the booth, Midoriya is guiding Uraraka from her seat.
‘Where you goin’?’ Bakugou demands, shouting over the music as his hand clamps around Midoriya’s free wrist in order to gain his attention.
‘Everyone has gone home!’ His green haired friend struggles to yell over the music, his words slurring. Bakugou’s stare darts toward the dance floor, where he sees that Midoriya is telling the truth, the others now nowhere in sight.
Including you.
He didn’t think that he’d been washing his hands for that long.
Midoriya is now leading Uraraka from the booth, ‘I’m taking Uraraka-chan home,’ he looks pointedly toward the booth, where a now-conscious Mina slumps in her seat, ‘Ashido-chan says that she’s staying at yours.’
Despite the growl that snaps from the back of Bakugou’s throat, it peters into a sigh so deep that he feels his entire body slump without an ounce of energy to argue. He bids some form of farewell to Midoriya and a very red-faced Uraraka, and watches them weave through the heaving crowd before they reach the exit. Left eye twitching with irritation, Bakugou turns to Mina and reaches for her, not bothering to be kind as he yanks her to her feet without a warning.
‘Woah!’ Mina bellows dramatically, arms flailing as she catches her balance by gripping a fistful of Bakugou’s hair. And if they weren’t in public, HPS or not, he’d probably have smacked her for it. But they are in public, and for the sake of his very public image as the number two hero, he grits his teeth, but doesn’t bother to be gentle as he starts to drag her to the exit. His friend is uncharacteristically sluggish on her feet, and their journey to the door takes for too long for his liking. Along the way, he keeps an eye out for you, just in case, but it’s clear that you’ve left with the others, as he’d spot you in the crowd if you hadn’t. He briefly wonders if you’ve gone home with Sero, but that line of thinking is quickly quashed down before he can feel the beginnings of vexation settling into the pit of his stomach.
The journey to his home is quiet, save for the dragging of Mina’s heels against the concrete—Bakugou has to admit that she’s doing a miraculous job at staying upright—and he’s relieved that the summer nights are much cooler than the daytime. A gentle breeze seeps between the thick strands of his hair, managing to billow under the surface of his shirt, and he feels his shoulders slump, relaxing as the tension in his body eases away with the wind. It cools the sweat that’s accumulated along the length of his spine, and by the time that he hauling Mina past the small iron gate and into his front garden, he’s feeling less irritable.
However, just as he’s stomping his way up to his front door, his fingers digging for his keys for the second time tonight, he pauses.
Because, on his doorstep, there is a small, white napkin with his name scribbled in ink across the front.
‘Huh?’ Mina slurs, head lolling until it thumps against his jaw. But Bakugou isn’t paying any mind, the reds of his irises darkening as they remain glued to the offending napkin, his feet daring to only step closer once he’s managed to sit Mina on the stone wall that separates his garden from his neighbour’s. Torso hunched in a position that almost looks uncomfortable, Mina manages to ask, ‘why’d we stop?’
Bakugou ignores his friend in favour of crouching before his front step, his fingers inching out toward the napkin. Upon closer inspection, he realises that the tissue-like material is actually wrapped around something, and after staring at the ink that has been blotched into the texture of the paper, he eventually picks it up. Mina makes a noise between a snort and a laugh from behind him, but he doesn’t acknowledge the sound as he flicks open the napkin to reveal…
Daises?
For a long moment, Bakugou glares at the flowers, downright confused and if he so admits, offended.
His neck straightens and through narrowed eyes, he looks from left to right, as if waiting for someone to pop out of the bushes and yell ‘surprise!’ He doesn’t realise that Mina is watching him, bleary eyed and heavily drunk, but still grinning nonetheless. Meanwhile, Bakugou returns his stare to the daisies, his index finger stroking over the tiny, white petals, a crease distorting the skin between his eyebrows as he brings them closer to his face, eyes scanning for any clues as to who may have left them behind.
What is most peculiar, Bakugou thinks, is that the roots have been left intact, as if the flowers had been freshly plucked from the ground. This only confuses him more, which, in turn, also pisses him off more.
He isn’t stupid enough to assume that someone has intentionally left him a bundle of flowers as a romantic gesture—he hasn’t earned the title of Japan’s grumpiest Hero in the Hero Billboard Chart because he’s known for being the ideal bachelor. Even his die-hard fans are somewhat petrified of him.
And so, he spends the next few minutes trying to wrack his brain for the list of morons that would’ve been stupid enough to do this to him.
Midoriya is out of the question right away.
It’s not in his nature, and the emerald-haired hero is also a shit liar. Bakugou would’ve immediately sniffed that something was amiss when he’d seen his friend earlier. That also kicks Uraraka out of the ranking—not only is she disgustingly obsessed with Deku, but she’s also too nice to stoop so low as to prank anyone. Kirishima, he doubts is smart enough to pull the daisies from the root—the idiot would definitely just snap the stalks in half, so it’s also not him. Todoroki and Kaminari are both spoken for—along with their other halves—so Bakugou also highly doubts that they’d taken a detour on their way home to drop off some flowers at his door. Iida, like Uraraka, is too nice, plus, he’s a stickler for manners and decorum, so it’s definitely not him. Neither Mineta, Aoyama nor Sero knows where he lives, and Mina is sat right behind him, so that leaves… You.
No.
Bakugou immediately throws the thought away, because: one, he doesn’t even know who you left with—if it’s any of the above, then that, alone, pulls you out of the running—and two, you’re a fucking florist, for god’s sake. You wouldn’t be so stupid to leave behind something so painfully obvious.
No. No. It can’t be you.
Maybe it was just a mistake, and whoever it was had left them at the wrong door?
But that argument is invalidated by the inky characters of his name scrawled onto the napkin.
So, who?
He looks from right to left, this time, and still, his brain comes up with nothing. And then, for a reason unbeknownst to him, to Mina, and to anyone else within a two mile radius, he brings the flowers to his nose, and inhales. There’s a faint sweetness clinging to the petals, masked by the stench of freshly cut grass. It’s a pleasant scent, but upon realising what he’s just done, his eyes widen comically, and from where she sits, Mina has to stile a laugh into the crook of her elbow. Luckily, Bakugou is busy with all but throwing the offending flowers to the floor to notice, glaring down at them with a newfound hatred.
The familiar tickling of his nostrils makes his nose cringe in a weak attempt to prevent what is inevitable, and he sneezes, head lurching forward with the unexpected force. His chest heaves, his eyes already watering, and he struggles to resist the tempting urge to rub them. He manages to turn his head to Mina, who is now staring at him, seemingly sobered up enough to peer at him, fascinated by his allergy.
Bakugou’s lips part, but before he can speak, his nose is itching once more, and he releases four consecutive sneezes, the gesture quickly followed by a short, pained groan. He sniffs thickly, the noise wet with mucus, which is already forming a headache between his eyes. When he manages to lift his head, it’s to scowl at the discarded stems, the petals scattered across the concrete.
‘What the fuck?’