Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Date: October 14, 20XX | Location: Musutafu City - Downtown District

The autumn air is crisp, carrying a slight chill that cuts through the fabric of the hero costumes. The streets of Musutafu are bustling with the usual morning crowd—salarymen rushing toward their offices and students heading to school. The sunlight reflects harshly off the glass facades of the surrounding skyscrapers, casting long, jagged shadows across the pavement.

Kirishima walks beside Bakugo, his posture relaxed but his eyes scanning the crowd with professional alertness. He’s listening intently, his expression a mix of genuine sympathy and slight bewilderment. He rubs the back of his neck, his crimson hair contrasting sharply against the grey concrete of the sidewalk.

“I’ve already told you 50 damn times. He doesn’t like me, and he won’t, even if I tell him,”
Bakugo says, huffing lightly. He shifts his weight, the heavy gear of his costume clicking with every step. He looks ahead, his crimson eyes narrow and filled with a lingering frustration that hasn't faded since the conversation started.

“Plus, I even tried a few days ago, basically telling him I liked him, and he just thought I was picking on him and laughed it off,”
he adds, his tone sharp, though there's a hidden layer of exhaustion behind the aggression.

Kirishima lets out a small, awkward laugh, glancing over at Bakugo with a grin.

“Man, i mean, you’re talking about Midoriya, right? I mean, the guy is a genius with quirks and textbooks, but when it comes to this stuff... he's practically blind!”
Kirishima chuckles, punching his own palm lightly.
“Maybe you just gotta be more... I don't know, blunt? Like, 'Screaming-at-the-top-of-your-lungs' blunt? That usually works for you!”

A few pedestrians give the duo a wide berth, intimidated by the sheer intensity radiating off the Pro Hero. In the distance, a siren wails, echoing through the urban canyon and reminding them that despite the personal drama, the city is still their responsibility.

The sound of the sirens grows deafening as Bakugo breaks into a sudden, explosive sprint, his boots pounding against the asphalt. The smell of ozone and smoke begins to clog the air, mixing with the scent of burning timber and plastic. Behind him, Kirishima keeps pace, his expression shifting from amusement to professional focus as they approach the scene.

“How much more blunt can you get by giving a gift and going on a date?!”
Bakugo barks, his voice cutting through the wind as he runs. He looks genuinely appalled that his efforts were misinterpreted, his shoulders tensing with every word.

“And i’ve already tried yelling at him! He just thinks i’m joking!”
he shouts, the sheer frustration in his voice nearly rivaling the noise of the emergency vehicles. The idea that his aggression—his primary form of communication—was seen as a punchline clearly grates on him.

As they round the corner, a two-story residential home is engulfed in orange and black flames. Thick, acrid smoke billows into the blue sky, and the heat is palpable even from the street. A crowd of civilians has already been pushed back by the police line, huddled together and coughing into their sleeves. The fire department is currently hooking up hoses, the chaos of the scene humming with urgency.

Bakugo skids to a halt a few feet away from the gathered residents, his crimson eyes scanning the group with a sharp, analytical intensity. He doesn't move toward the fire immediately, first ensuring the perimeter is clear.

“Is everyone fine?”
he asks, his voice loud and commanding, projecting over the roar of the fire as he looks them all over for injuries.

A police officer gestures toward the house, looking stressed.
"The family is out, but there's a report of a pet still inside! The fire's spreading too fast for the crews to get a clean entry!"

Kirishima steps up beside Bakugo, hardening his arms with a metallic clink.
"I've got the perimeter if you want to blast a path in, Dynamight!"

The heat from the house is intense, shimmering in waves that distort the air around the front porch. Pieces of the roof groan and crack, sending showers of burning embers dancing across the lawn. The smell of charred wood is overwhelming, and the roar of the fire sounds like a hungry beast.

“No, you go in, you’re basically fire resistant. I’ll keep watch incase of collapse,”
Bakugo says, stepping forward with Kirishima. His gaze remains fixed on the flickering structure, his mind shifting instantly from his frustration with Izuku to the tactical requirements of the rescue.

Kirishima nods, his expression hardening as he fully activates his Quirk. His skin takes on a jagged, rock-like texture from his head down to his torso, making him look like a living sculpture of granite. He gives Bakugo a quick, confident thumbs-up.

"Got it! I'll be in and out before the ceiling gives way!"
Kirishima shouts over the noise. With a sudden burst of speed, he charges forward, crashing through the front door with a heavy thud. The wood splinters under his weight, and he disappears into the thick, grey haze of smoke and orange light.

Bakugo doesn't move from his spot, but his posture shifts. He stands with his feet planted firmly, his eyes scanning every inch of the house's exterior. He watches the way the beams are sagging and how the smoke is billowing out of the second-story windows, calculating the structural integrity of the building in real-time. His palms itch with the familiar tingle of nitroglycerin, ready to launch himself forward or blast debris out of the way the second things go south.

A small group of civilians nearby watches him with a mix of awe and fear, the Pro Hero's presence alone acting as a barrier between them and the danger.

A sudden, thunderous crash echoes from inside the house as the front door frame gives way entirely. Kirishima bursts through the smoke and embers, his rocky skin blackened with soot and scorched in places, but his expression is triumphant. In his arms, he clutches a trembling Akita, the dog's fur singed and smelling of smoke, but otherwise intact.

The crowd of civilians lets out a collective cheer, the tension breaking instantly. The owner of the dog, a woman who had been sobbing into her hands, lets out a cry of relief and rushes forward as the police allow her through the line.

Kirishima skids to a stop in front of Bakugo, gently setting the dog down on the grass. He exhales a long cloud of grey smoke and begins to deactivate his hardening, his skin returning to normal as he wipes a smudge of ash from his forehead.

"Told you I'd be quick!"
Kirishima grins, though he's breathing heavily, his chest heaving from the heat and exertion.
"Pooch was hiding under a heavy table in the kitchen. Nearly missed him, but he's safe now."

Bakugo remains standing in his authoritative posture, his gaze lingering on the house for a moment longer. The structure gives one final, loud groan, and a section of the second-floor balcony collapses in a shower of sparks and flaming timber. He clicks his tongue, finally relaxing his shoulders as he realizes the immediate danger to lives has passed.

"Tch. About time, Shitty Hair,"
Bakugo mutters, though there's no real heat in the insult. He glances back at the street, the adrenaline from the rescue starting to fade, leaving him once again with the lingering, annoying thought of Izuku's oblivious nature.

The arrival of the fire brigade and a handful of U.A. students in their bright, oversized work-study costumes signals the end of the operation. The students look on with wide-eyed admiration as the Pro Heroes move out, their youthful energy contrasting with the weary professionalism of the adults. Bakugo doesn't stick around for the accolades; he knows the drill, and he has no interest in being the center of a media circus today.

“Guess we’re not needed anymore, come on,”
Bakugo says, gesturing for Kirishima to follow him back toward their original patrol route. He moves with a brisk, purposeful stride, keeping his head down to avoid the eager gaze of the press who are already beginning to swarm the perimeter with microphones and cameras.

As they walk, the silence of the city returns, though the underlying boredom of the modern hero era weighs on him. He reflects on the current state of their profession. It's a strange, quiet time. The days of city-leveling battles and world-ending threats have faded into a memory. Now, the 'greatest heroes' spend their shifts dealing with the mundane. Stolen purses, cats in trees, and the occasional house fire—it's a far cry from the glory he'd envisioned as a teenager. The lack of a real challenge makes the personal frustration of his love life feel ten times more grating.

“Anyway. As I was saying, I just want to give him something that, just makes him actually notice,”
he continues, his voice dropping some of its volume now that they are away from the crowds. He sounds genuinely stumped, a rare expression of defeat crossing his features.

Kirishima catches up, walking in step with him, his expression thoughtful. He tilts his head, considering the list of things Bakugo has already attempted.

"I mean... you've tried the high-end stuff, right?"
Kirishima asks, counting off on his fingers.
"The expensive limited-edition notebooks? That fancy tea set? And you even took him to that high-end restaurant where the menu doesn't even have prices! What more do you want? If he's still thinking you're just 'being a good friend,' maybe you need something that isn't... so.. much?"

Kirishima stops abruptly, his eyes widening as a lightbulb moment hits him. He snaps his fingers, a look of sudden inspiration crossing his face. He looks over at Bakugo with a grin, his enthusiasm returning in full force.

"Wait! I got an idea!" Kirishima exclaims, nearly jumping in place.
"There's this rock crystal place I went to a while back. I picked up a few things for Mina, and the stuff there is seriously high-quality. Not just the usual store-bought junk, but real, raw crystals and ores that look like they came straight out of a mine!"

He starts gesturing wildly with his hands, trying to describe the aesthetic.
"It's got this really atmospheric vibe, and some of the pieces are just... stunning. Since Midoriya is into analyzing everything and loves the details of how things are made, maybe something like a rare mineral or a unique geode would catch his eye? Something that feels like a treasure, you know? It's different enough that he might actually stop and think, 'Wait, why is Kacchan giving me this?'"

Bakugo narrows his eyes, considering the suggestion. He isn't exactly the 'crystal' type, but the idea of giving Izuku something complex and rare—something that requires a bit of observation—actually sounds like it might appeal to the nerd's analytical brain. It's more strategic than just throwing money at a restaurant.

The two heroes turn the corner, entering the heart of the shopping district. Here, the streets are narrower and lined with a chaotic mix of neon signs, boutique cafes, and small, independent shops. The crowd is denser, a sea of people drifting between stores, but Bakugo cuts through them like a knife, his presence forcing others to instinctively step aside.

"Tch. You think a damn rock is gonna make him feel something and wake him up?"
Bakugo asks, his tone skeptical and biting. Despite the harsh words, he doesn't walk away. He crosses his arms over his chest, his crimson eyes glancing toward the storefronts of the district with a calculating look. The idea is absurd, yet it's the first thing that hasn't felt like a waste of time in weeks.

"Where is this place?"
he demands, his voice sharp, though there's a flicker of genuine curiosity beneath the aggression.

Kirishima beams, clearly proud that his suggestion didn't get immediately blasted away. He points down a side alley, away from the main commercial strip, toward a street that looks a bit more antique and weathered.

"It's just a bit further down this way! It's called 'Geode's Heart.' It's a tiny shop, kind of tucked away so it doesn't get too crowded,"
Kirishima explains, leading the way.
"The owner is a real enthusiast—he can tell you the exact chemical composition and origin of every piece. Knowing Midoriya, he'll probably spend three hours just reading the descriptions on the labels. It's the perfect kind of 'nerd-bait' that might actually make him pay attention to who gave it to him!"

Bakugo lets out a loud, impatient huff, his shoulders hunching forward. He looks away from Kirishima, staring intently at a random storefront to hide the fact that he's already mentally calculating how many minutes are left in their shift. The idea of the shop has already taken root in his mind, and the prospect of waiting several more hours feels like an eternity.

“I guess i’ll head there after our patrol,”
he says roughly, his voice lacking its usual conviction. He sounds as if he's doing it as a favor or a reluctant experiment, rather than admitting he's actually excited.

Kirishima glances at him, catching the subtle tension in Bakugo's posture. He knows that look—it's the same one Bakugo gets right before a combat trial. The 'reluctance' is a complete lie; the man is practically vibrating with the need to get this over with so he can finally find something that works on the oblivious nerd.

"Right on! I can show you the exact spot when we clock out,"
Kirishima says with a knowing smirk, though he's smart enough not to call Bakugo out on his eagerness. He knows that would only result in a face full of explosions.

As they continue their walk, Bakugo remains silent, his gaze scanning the city. He's barely noticing the pedestrians or the scenery anymore. In his head, he's already imagining Izuku's face—the way his green eyes would widen, the way he'd start muttering a mile a minute about the geological properties of whatever crystal he picks—and the hope that, just once, the conversation would shift from the 'rock' to the person giving it.

Date: October 14, 20XX | Location: Musutafu City - En Route: Geode's Heart

The evening sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving the city bathed in a cool, purple twilight. The neon signs of the shopping district are now humming to life, casting vibrant pinks and blues across the damp pavement. Bakugo has swapped his hero gear for a simple, oversized black t-shirt and dark cargo pants, though his expression remains as sharp and intense as ever. He walks with a slouch, his shoulders squared and his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“The hell do rocks do anyway? Did they really change raccoon eye’s mood or whatever?”
he grunts, his voice raspy and skeptical. He sounds like he's fighting with himself, trying to reconcile his logical side with the fact that he's currently hunting for a 'magic rock' to win over a man who is functionally blind to romance.

Kirishima, dressed in a maroon hoodie and jeans, lets out a hearty laugh, glancing over at Bakugo with a playful glint in his eyes.

"Mina's just really into the vibe, man! She says some of them help her stay focused or feel more energetic. I don't know if I believe all that mystical stuff, but honestly? The things look cool!"
Kirishima points toward a small, dimly lit storefront with a wooden sign that reads 'The Geode's Heart' in elegant, gold lettering.
"And that's the thing—Midoriya isn't into 'vibes.' He's into facts. If you find something rare or a weird mutation of a crystal, he's gonna be obsessed with it. That's your opening!"

They arrive at the door, which is adorned with a small brass bell. As Bakugo reaches out to push it open, the scent of old paper, damp earth, and incense wafts out from the interior, immediately contrasting with the sterile, metallic smell of the city outside.

The interior of the shop is cramped and dimly lit, with warm yellow spotlights focused on various glass display cases. Shelves made of rough-hewn mahogany line the walls, packed with thousands of small, labeled specimens. The air is heavy and still, smelling of dry minerals and a hint of sandalwood incense that clings to the velvet linings of the trays.

“This place reeks of nerd,”
Bakugo grunts, his voice sounding loud in the quiet atmosphere. He doesn't wait for a response, stepping further into the shop with a scowl. He moves with a measured pace, his crimson eyes scanning the displays with a critical eye. He's not looking for something 'pretty' or 'spiritual'—he's looking for something that screams 'rare,' something that would make the nerd's analytical brain short-circuit.

Kirishima, far more relaxed, wanders off toward a section of larger geodes, humming to himself as he examines a giant purple amethyst. He seems perfectly content to explore on his own, leaving Bakugo to navigate the narrow aisles in a state of perpetual annoyance.

Bakugo stops in front of a display of raw, unpolished ores. Most of them are dull and grey, but his gaze is caught by a small, jagged cluster of deep, iridescent bismuth. It looks less like a rock and more like a futuristic city made of metallic rainbows, its geometric structures spiraling in a way that defies natural logic. It's strange, precise, and visually loud—much like himself.

As he stares at it, the shop owner—a thin man with thick glasses and a tweed vest—approaches quietly from the shadows, his voice a soft, scholarly whisper.

"A fascinating choice. Bismuth is an anomaly in the mineral world, isn't it? The way it forms those hopper crystals... truly a marvel of chemistry."

Bakugo barely glances at the man, his eyes remaining locked on the metallic, rainbow-colored stone. He doesn't care about the chemistry; he just wonders if it's enough to finally get through to that idiot.

Bakugo reaches out and picks up the bismuth cluster, the metallic weight of the mineral feeling solid in his grip. He holds it up to the light, the iridescent colors shifting as he tilts it. It's an odd piece, but its complexity is exactly the kind of thing that would trigger a ten-minute monologue from Izuku about molecular structures.

“Ya got anything that’s wearable? Like, a bracelet or some shit?”
he asks, his voice rough and direct. He doesn't look at the owner, his focus still on the stone. The idea of a rock on a shelf is one thing, but something Izuku has to wear—something that would constantly remind him of who gave it to him—feels like a more effective tactical move.

The shop owner blinks, adjusting his glasses with a slow, methodical movement. He looks at the bismuth in Bakugo's hand and then glances toward a separate, smaller glass case near the back of the store. The case is lined with midnight-blue velvet, holding a few delicately crafted pieces of jewelry that look far more refined than the raw ores on the shelves.

"Ah, yes. We have a few bespoke pieces,"
the man whispers, stepping aside to lead Bakugo toward the case.
"I specialize in setting raw, untreated crystals into minimalist bands. It preserves the natural energy and structure of the stone without masking it behind too much gold or silver. It's for those who appreciate the specimen itself, rather than the jewelry."

He opens the case with a soft click. Inside, there are a few rings and bracelets. One in particular catches the light—a thin, matte black titanium band holding a small, perfectly cut piece of deep green tourmaline. The color is a striking, vivid green, almost identical to the shade of Izuku's hair and eyes. It's subtle, but the intensity of the color is undeniable.

Bakugo stares at the green tourmaline for a long moment. The similarity to Izuku's eyes is a hit he didn't expect, a sudden jolt of recognition that makes his chest tighten for a split second. He doesn't do 'subtle' and he certainly doesn't do 'sentimental,' but the vividness of the stone feels right. It’s not a flashy, cheap piece of jewelry; it’s a specimen, a concentrated piece of nature that demands attention.

“I’ll get whatever that is,”
he says roughly, his voice slightly lower than usual. He points a sharp finger toward the tourmaline, his expression returning to its default scowl to mask the fact that he's actually decided on something based on a feeling.

The shop owner nods with a faint, knowing smile, carefully lifting the bracelet with a pair of silver tweezers. He places it into a small, black velvet-lined box and snaps the lid shut with a satisfying click.

"A choice of exceptional taste,"
the man whispers, sliding the box across the counter toward Bakugo.
"The green tourmaline is often associated with healing and emotional balance. I suspect the wearer will find it quite... grounding."

Bakugo sets the bismuth back onto the glass counter with a muted clink and reaches into his wallet to pull out the cash. As he does, his eyes catch a small, oddly designed display next to the register. It's a series of long, triangular boxes in a striking red-and-white pattern. Each one contains a single, slender black willow branch. A small, handwritten sign beside them and all over the boxes that reads:

“One Wish Willow. Surprise your friends! You only get ONE wish.”

The premise is written in a whimsical, almost childish font: Speak your deepest wish into the branch, then snap it to release the intent into the world. To any sane person, it's a cheap, gimmicky party favor—the kind of thing sold at shrines or tourist traps to suck money out of hopeful people.

Bakugo pauses, his thumb pointing vaguely toward the display as he picks one of the boxes up, his curiosity piqued by the sheer absurdity of it.

“The hell are these?”
he asks, holding the triangular box in his hand. His crimson eyes narrow. He doesn't believe in wishes, and he certainly doesn't believe in "magic" willow branches, but there's something about the simplicity of it that appeals to his current state of desperation. If a rock is the strategic approach, this is the 'last resort' approach.

The shop owner chuckles softly, his glasses reflecting the dim light of the store.

"Ah, those are just little curiosities from a local artisan. Most people buy them as jokes or small tokens of luck. Some say the act of stating the wish aloud makes it a commitment to the universe... though I personally believe it's just a bit of fun for the soul."

Bakugo looks from the tourmaline bracelet to the willow branch. The contrast is stark: one is a physical, tangible object of value, and the other is a flimsy piece of wood promising the impossible. He clicks his tongue, but he doesn't put the box back.

Bakugo lets out a sharp, dismissive "Tch," and tosses the willow branch box back onto the counter with a casual flick of his wrist. The box slides across the glass, landing near the bismuth. He isn't about to admit to anyone—especially not Kirishima—that he's actually considering the possibility of a "wish," no matter how ridiculous it is.

“Maybe i’ll wish for shit-hair to finally get a new haircut,”
he grunts, a small, genuine huff of a laugh escaping him. It's a rare moment of levity, the kind of teasing that defines their friendship, though the edge of his voice remains as sharp as ever.

Kirishima, who had just wandered back from the geode section, looks over and lets out an offended gasp, clutching his spiked red hair.

"Hey! My hair is iconic, Bakugo! Don't you dare wish away the manliness!"
Kirishima exclaims, though he's grinning, clearly used to the constant barrage of insults.

Bakugo ignores him, his expression returning to a focused scowl as he digs in his wallet for cash, sliding enough on the table, not caring for change, confirming the transaction for both the tourmaline bracelet and the cheap willow branch. He snatches the white plastic bag given to him

"Whatever. Let's get out of here. This place is making me sleepy,"
Bakugo says, turning on his heel and heading for the exit. The brass bell chimes once more as he pushes the door open and steps back out into the cooling night air of Musutafu, the weight of the gift in his bag feeling like a ticking time bomb of anticipation.

Date: October 14, 20XX | Location: Musutafu City - Shopping District Parking Garage

The parking garage is a concrete cavern of echoing sounds and flickering fluorescent lights that hum with a low, irritating buzz. The air here is thick with the scent of exhaust fumes and old rubber. Bakugo’s boots click sharply against the grey pavement as they walk toward his vehicle, the sound bouncing off the low ceiling. He doesn't look back, his focus on the rhythmic jingle of the keys he's digging for in his pocket.

“You need a ride home or you got some other way to get home?”
he asks roughly, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. It's a blunt offer, lacking any softness, but it's the most honest form of kindness he knows how to provide.

Kirishima slows his pace, glancing up at the overhead lights and then back at Bakugo. He rubs his chin, thinking for a second.

"Actually, I promised Mina I'd help her move some of her gym equipment later tonight! I'm good, man. I'll just hop on the train,"
Kirishima responds, giving Bakugo a supportive pat on the shoulder that nearly knocks the wind out of him.
"But seriously—good luck with the nerd. Use the bracelet, use the rock... just don't blow up his house if he doesn't get it right away, okay?"

Bakugo lets out a sharp clicking sound with his tongue, finally finding his keys and unlocking his car. The headlights flash twice, cutting through the dimness of the garage. He doesn't respond to the warning, but his grip tightens slightly on the handle of the door. He doesn't plan on blowing up anything—unless the look on Izuku's face doesn't change.

Bakugo slides into the driver's seat, the leather upholstery creaking under his weight. He doesn't look at Kirishima as he closes the door with a heavy, metallic thud, sealing himself inside the quiet cabin of the car. The interior smells faintly of citrus and the lingering scent of burnt nitro, a constant reminder of his Quirk even when he's off the clock. He then rolls down the window enough for Kirishima to hear him, before rolling it back up

"Whatever. Just don't tell that nerd I spent an hour looking at rocks,"
he mutters, his voice low and grating. He stares straight through the windshield at the concrete wall of the garage, his expression one of intense, focused concentration. He isn't thinking about the cost of the bracelet or the absurdity of the wish-branch; he's mentally rehearsing the delivery.

He imagines the exact moment he'll hand over the box. He doesn't want to do it with a smile—but he wants it to be unmistakable. He needs to see that look of realization hit Izuku's face, the moment where the analytical brain finally connects the dots and realizes that 'Kacchan' isn't just being a friend.

Kirishima lets out a muffled laugh from outside the window, waving a hand as he begins to walk away toward the garage exit.
"Your secret's safe with me, Dynamight! Go get 'em!"

Bakugo ignores him, turning the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life, a powerful, aggressive sound that echoes through the parking structure

The car idles with a low, steady thrum, the heater starting to push a wave of warmth into the cabin. Outside the windshield, the grey concrete of the garage remains dim, but inside, the blue light of the smartphone screen illuminates Bakugo's sharp features. He rests the phone in the center console, his thumb hovering over the screen.

He scrolls through their chat history, his crimson eyes narrowing as he looks at the wall of text. Izuku's messages are a chaotic stream—long paragraphs about new hero theories, frantic questions about what Uraraka would like as a gift, or what kind of dinner dates they should go on, and a relentless barrage of photos. There are pictures of weird-looking clouds, a particularly interesting piece of street architecture, and a blurry shot of a stray cat that looked 'determined.' To anyone else, it was spam. To Bakugo, it was just... Deku. He'd usually respond with a single word or a thumbs up emoji, but he never deleted the threads. He liked knowing that in the middle of the nerd's day, something had reminded him of Katsuki.

He huffs, the sound echoing in the quiet car, and scrolls back to the bottom. His thumbs move with a blunt, efficient speed as he types out the message.

‘Izuku, you need a ride home? Still at the school?’
he sends, the text devoid of any fluff or affection, yet it's the most direct invitation he's offered in days.

He tosses the phone back onto the seat and grips the steering wheel, staring intensely at the exit. He doesn't want to seem too eager, but the tourmaline bracelet is sitting in the passenger seat, and the anticipation is starting to feel like a physical weight in his chest.

The car glides out of the parking garage and merges into the flow of evening traffic. Bakugo drives with a focused aggression, his eyes darting between the road and the smartphone resting on the seat. The city lights blur into streaks of neon as he weaves through the lanes, his mind already halfway to the school gates.

A sharp 'ping' echoes through the car. He doesn't even have to look to know who it is. He glances down and sees the notification.

'Ah! Kacchan! You don't have to pick me up, I can just take the train! But... I actually am still here. I was just finishing up some grading for the 1-A remedial students. That would be really helpful, though! Are you sure it's not out of your way?'

Bakugo reads the message and feels a familiar surge of irritation. Even at twenty-four, the man still thinks he's a burden, still questioning why someone would do something for him. It's that same self-deprecating habit that makes him so blind to everything else.

"Tch. 'Are you sure?'... Idiot,"
Bakugo mutters to himself, his grip tightening on the wheel. He doesn't bother replying with a long message, tapping the text-to-speech button.

‘Stop asking stupid questions and be at the gate in ten. I’m not waiting.’

He accelerates, the engine roaring as he pushes the car faster toward the U.A. campus. He reaches over and glances at the small black velvet box sitting on the passenger seat. He feels a strange, twitchy sensation in his palms—not his Quirk, but a nervous energy he refuses to acknowledge. He just needs to get there, hand over the gift, and finally make the nerd realize what's happening.

Date: October 14, 20XX | Location: U.A. High School - Main Gate

Bakugo pulls up to the curb in front of the massive U.A. gates, the engine continuing to purr with a low, impatient vibration. He looks at the black velvet box in the bag for a few more seconds, his crimson eyes narrowed. The impulse to just hand it over the second the door opens is strong, but he catches himself. If he does it now, in the middle of the school grounds, Izuku might just treat it as a 'celebratory' gift for finishing grading or something equally oblivious.

With a frustrated click of his tongue, he grabs the bag and shoves it behind the passenger seat, hiding it from immediate view. He’ll do it at the house. Somewhere private. Somewhere the nerd can't just laugh it off as a joke between friends.

Despite the bluntness of his text, Bakugo is far from indifferent. He stares at the sidewalk, his leg bouncing in a rapid, rhythmic motion against the floor mat. His eyes dart to the clock on the dashboard every few seconds, the seconds ticking by with agonizing slowness.

“Come on..”
he mutters, his voice a low growl of anticipation. He’s practically vibrating in the seat, the tension in his shoulders mirroring the restlessness of his leg.

Just then, a familiar figure emerges from the main building. Izuku is jogging toward the gate, his green curls bouncing with every step. He's wearing his teaching attire—a neat button-down and trousers—and he's clutching a stack of papers to his chest, looking slightly frazzled and out of breath. When he spots the car, his face lights up with a bright, genuine smile that makes Bakugo’s chest tighten.

Izuku reaches the car and pulls open the door, a gust of cool evening air following him inside. He smells like old ink and coffee.

"Sorry! I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, Kacchan!"
Izuku says, breathless and beaming as he slides into the seat. He sets his papers on his lap and looks over at Bakugo with those wide, innocent eyes.
"Thanks for the ride! You really didn't have to, but I appreciate it. How was your patrol? Did anything interesting happen?"

Bakugo doesn't even look at him as he speaks, his eyes fixed forward on the road. His tone is as blunt as a hammer, completely contradicting the ten minutes he spent staring at the gate in anticipation.

“I just got here,”
he says, lying through his teeth. He ignores the way Izuku blinks, likely knowing that Bakugo is usually too punctual to have just arrived.

He waits with a rigid, impatient stillness until he hears the distinct 'click' of the seatbelt. Only then does he shift the car into gear. Usually, Bakugo drives like he's in a Grand Prix, but today, he keeps the speed steady and disciplined, sticking strictly to the limit—and occasionally dipping below it. He doesn't want to rush this. He wants the ride to last just long enough for him to gauge the mood, even if his exterior remains a fortress of aggression.

“It was fine. Just a house fire, nothing special,”
he adds roughly, his voice grating but lacking its usual explosive heat. He keeps his hands steady on the wheel, but his mind is drifting back to the bag hidden behind the passenger seat. He can practically feel the tourmaline pulsing there, a secret weapon waiting to be deployed.

Izuku leans back into the seat, letting out a soft, relieved sigh. He looks over at Bakugo, his expression soft and appreciative. He doesn't seem to notice the intentional slow-down or the tension in Bakugo's shoulders; he's just happy to be in the car.

"A house fire, huh? I hope everyone got out okay,"
Izuku says, his voice trailing off into a thoughtful mutter as he looks out the window.
"I wonder if they used a new type of suppressant... or maybe the wind direction played a part in the spread... oh, sorry! I'm doing it again, aren't I? I'll stop muttering."

He laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. To anyone else, it's a quirk. To Bakugo, it's a reminder of why the nerd is so damn hard to pin down—he's always analyzing the world, but never analyzing the person sitting right next to him.

Bakugo listens to the low, rhythmic hum of Izuku's muttering, and for a split second, his expression softens. He’d never admit it—not in a million years—but he actually loves it. It’s the sound of Izuku's brain working at full capacity, a familiar, comforting noise that has followed them since they were kids. It’s a part of the nerd that hasn't changed, regardless of how many years have passed or how many ranks they've climbed.

He quickly catches himself, remembering that he has a reputation to uphold. He lets out a sharp, loud huff, leaning his head back against the seat as if the muttering is an unbearable annoyance.

“How was your school brats today?”
he asks, his voice rough and grating. He doesn't ask 'how was your day'—that's too soft. Instead, he frames it as a question about the students, a roundabout way of checking in on the man next to him without admitting he actually cares.

Izuku blinks, his green eyes lighting up as he shifts back into 'teacher mode.' He practically glows with enthusiasm, his hands gesturing vaguely in the air as he talks.

"Oh! They were actually great today! Though, a few of the students in the remedial class are still struggling with their quirk precision. I spent an hour explaining the difference between output and control to one boy—he's got an amazing combustion quirk, but he keeps overloading his circuits. It reminded me a bit of how you used to handle your explosions in the first year, actually!"

Izuku beams at him, completely oblivious to the fact that he just compared Bakugo's refined professional technique to a clumsy student. He looks at Bakugo with genuine admiration, a look that is so pure and unsuspecting it almost makes Bakugo want to yell.

"I think they're really starting to get it, though. It's so rewarding to see that moment when it finally clicks for them,"
he adds softly, a small, contented smile on his face.

“I’ve always been the best with my damn quirk, you nerd!”
Bakugo spits, his voice rising in a familiar, sharp cadence. He doesn't look away from the road, but the aggression is performative, a shield for the warmth settling in his chest. As he speaks, tiny, brilliant sparks pop from the corners of his mouth, scattering like miniature orange and yellow stars into the air of the cabin. It's a subconscious tell—a sign that he's in his element, playful in his own abrasive way.

He lets out a sharp click of his tongue, glancing briefly at the road signs as they enter the residential district. The streetlights cast a golden glow over the quiet neighborhood, slowing the pace of the world down as they approach the familiar street.

“Tch. Well they got plenty of time to learn. Not like heroes are in supply and demand nowadays,”
he grumbles, his tone returning to that low, rough hum. It's a comment on the current state of the industry—the saturation of the hero market and the shifting public perception—but beneath the social commentary, he's just trying to keep the conversation moving, keeping the atmosphere light before the tension of the gift takes over.

Izuku giggles, a soft, genuine sound that makes the sparks in Bakugo's mouth pop a little faster. He leans his head back, looking at the ceiling of the car with a fond expression.

"You always were the best, Kacchan. I don't think anyone could ever argue with that,"
Izuku says softly. He turns his head to look at Bakugo, his eyes reflecting the passing streetlights.
"But you're right. The world is different now. It's not just about being the strongest anymore... it's about how we help the people who are left behind."

Bakugo huffs lightly, the sound barely audible over the hum of the engine. He doesn't argue. He can't. The nerd is right—the world shifted, and while Bakugo spent years focusing on being the strongest, he'd eventually realized that victory meant nothing if there was no one left to save. It's a realization that had mellowed him, even if he'd rather die than admit it aloud.

He shifts his gaze slightly to the side, pretending to be intensely interested in a nearby street sign, though his focus is entirely on the man beside him. He clears his throat, his voice sounding a bit more strained as he asks the question he's been chewing on.

“So, how’s you and round face?”
he asks. He keeps it casual, almost dismissive, but there's a subtle edge to his tone. He knows they're close—they've always been close—but the uncertainty of where they stand is a dull itch in the back of his mind. He needs to know if the ground he's about to step on is stable, or if he's about to walk straight into a wall.

Izuku blinks, surprised by the sudden change in topic. He looks down at his lap, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He doesn't answer immediately, and the silence in the car suddenly feels heavy, filled with the unspoken weight of years of friendship and confusion.

"Oh, Ochaco?"
Izuku says softly, his voice warm. He lets out a small, airy laugh.
"She's doing great. She actually just got promoted to a lead position in her agency's rescue division. We... we've been talking a lot lately. She's been a huge support for me with the teaching stress. She’s also been helping younger kids with their quirks.. so there’s not another, her.”

He turns to look at Bakugo, his expression open and honest, completely unaware of the turmoil swirling in the blond's chest.
"Why do you ask, Kacchan? Do you want to grab dinner with us sometime soon? I'm sure she'd love to see you."

Bakugo catches the subtle shift in the conversation. He doesn't know every gritty detail of the war's end—the sacrifice Toga made just to keep Uraraka breathing—but he knows enough to understand why the mention of 'her' carried that specific, heavy weight. He doesn't dwell on it, though. He doesn't have room for other people's ghosts right now.

“Tch, and be a damn third wheel? You should get dinner with just her you nerd,”
he snaps, the response instinctive and sharp. He doesn't want to be part of a group dinner. He doesn't want to share Izuku's attention with anyone, least of all the pink-cheeked girl. He wants the nerd's focus entirely on him.

The car slows as they reach the house. Instead of pulling into the driveway, Bakugo steers the car to the roadside, coming to a halt with a soft hiss of the brakes. He leaves the engine running, the low vibration of the car echoing the restlessness still humming in his own limbs. He doesn't turn the car off; he doesn't want the silence to settle too quickly.

He reaches back, his hand gripping the bag he'd hidden. He pulls it to himself with a sudden, jerky movement. Digging in the bag for the items. He doesn't look at him, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the dashboard, his expression one of sheer, focused intensity.

“Here,”
he says. The word is short, clipped, and devoid of any sweetness, but the way he holds the bag betrays him. His knuckles are white, and his breathing has become shallow.

Bakugo huffs. He pulls out the bismuth and the tourmaline bracelet, the iridescent colors of the metal and the deep, grounding hue of the stone catching the dim light of the streetlamps. He leaves the willow branch tucked away. He then shoves the bag back behind the seat with a definitive thud, as if hiding the evidence of his effort.

“I saw these at some shit crystal shop. Thought you needed something to look at that wasn’t a damn pen and paper,”
he grumbles, shoving the items toward Izuku. He’s not looking at him, his face twisted into a scowl to mask the fact that he’s practically holding his breath.

For a fleeting second, Bakugo sees it. A flicker of something in Izuku's eyes—a moment of realization, a spark of 'oh,' as he looks from the bracelet to Bakugo. His heart hammers against his ribs, the heart rate monitor on his wrist probably spiking. But then, as quickly as it appeared, the moment vanishes. Izuku’s expression melts back into that familiar, wide-eyed warmth, the oblivious glow of a man who just thinks his best friend did something incredibly thoughtful.

"Wow! Kacchan! These are amazing!"
Izuku exclaims, his voice brimming with genuine excitement as he takes the gifts. He holds the bismuth up to the light, turning it over in his hands with a look of pure fascination.
"The crystalline structure on this is incredible! And the tourmaline... it's a beautiful shade of green.. Thank you so much! This is so thoughtful!"

Bakugo feels a vein throb in his temple. The nerd is unbelievable. He’s sitting right there, holding a stone meant to protect and ground him, and he's treating it like a cool rock from a museum. He wants to scream, to reach over and shake him until the message finally sinks in, but instead, he just lets out a long, frustrated groan.

“Whatever, just don’t loose ‘em you damn klutz. Now get outta my car,”
Bakugo spits. The words are harsh, but the delivery is hollow, lacking the genuine aggression that usually defines his outbursts. His eyes finally shift to Izuku, taking in the way the nerd is practically cradling the bismuth like it's a holy relic.

He doesn't move to help him out; he just sits there, his hands returning to the steering wheel, though he doesn't shift into gear yet. He’s watching Izuku’s reaction, hoping—hoping against his own logic—that the realization will hit him one last time before the door closes.

Izuku laughs, a bright, airy sound, as he gathers his papers and the new treasures. He opens the car door and steps out onto the sidewalk, the cool night air rushing back into the cabin.

"I won't! I'll keep them right on my desk where I can see them every day!"
Izuku says, turning back one last time. He beams at Bakugo, a look of pure, uncomplicated affection that makes Bakugo’s chest feel tight.
"Thanks again for the ride, Kacchan! And for the gifts! I'll text you tomorrow, okay? Get home safe!"

Bakugo doesn't respond. He just watches as Izuku jogs toward his front door, the green curls bobbing.

The window glides shut with a sharp, final hiss, sealing Bakugo back into the sterile silence of the car. He doesn't move for a long time, simply staring through the glass as the front door of the Midoriya residence clicks shut, disappearing the green-haired man from his sight. The world outside is quiet, the neighborhood still, but inside the cabin, the air feels suffocating.

Suddenly, the frustration that had been simmering beneath his skin boils over. Bakugo slams his palm into the side of the steering wheel with a violent, resounding thud that makes the whole car shudder. He doesn't stop there, leaning forward until his forehead presses against the leather, his eyes squeezed shut in a mixture of anger and genuine agony.

“Fuck.. FUCK!”
he groans, the sound muffled by the steering wheel, his voice vibrating with a raw, jagged desperation. He isn't just annoyed; he's livid. He's livid at the hesitation, livid at the doubt, and most of all, livid at his own feelings for acting as a cage.

He stays there, curled over the wheel, his chest heaving. He can feel the heart rate monitor on his wrist pulsing—a steady, rhythmic reminder of the physical toll his emotions are taking. He had the perfect opening. He had the gifts. He had the man right there, leaning into his window, and he had let the moment slip through his fingers like sand.

"Why the hell am I such a coward..."
he whispers to the empty car, his voice sounding small and exhausted. He lets out a sharp, jagged breath, the scent of burnt nitro faintly clinging to his skin, though this time, there are no sparks—only the crushing weight of a secret he's not yet strong enough to share.

Bakugo lets his head drop back against the headrest with a dull thud, then another, his movements sluggish and defeated. He stares up at the grey fabric of the car's ceiling, the dim interior light casting long, oppressive shadows across his face. He looks completely drained, the explosive energy that usually fuels him replaced by a heavy, hollow frustration.

Slowly, he lolls his head to the side, his crimson eyes drifting toward the bag resting on the passenger floor. The willow branch is still in there, partially obscured by the fabric. He stares at it for a long time, his gaze intense and skeptical. He remembers where he got it, the vague promises of 'wishes' and 'luck' that the shopkeeper had mumbled. It sounded like a scam—the kind of superstitious nonsense he used to laugh at when he was a kid.

He’s a man of action. He’s a man who wins by sheer force of will and calculated precision. The idea of relying on a piece of wood to change the trajectory of his life is absurd. It's weak. It's the opposite of everything he stands for.

Yet, as he looks at the bag, he remembers the look on Izuku's face just now—that oblivious, happy smile. He remembers the fear of being rejected and the crushing weight of the words he couldn't say. For the first time in his life, Bakugo feels like he's fighting a battle where his Quirk is useless.

"Am I really going to wish to a damn stick?"
he mutters, his voice a low, grating rasp.

He doesn't move for a long time, the engine still idling, the car vibrating beneath him. He knows it's stupid. He knows it's a waste of time. But as he glances back at the closed door of the house, he finds himself wondering if 'stupid' is the only thing left to try.

Bakugo reaches over, his arm disappearing into the bag as he fishes out the red and white triangular box. He holds it in his hand, his thumb brushing over the cheap, glossy cardboard. He reads the words again, a sneer curling his lip: ‘Amaze your friends!’ ‘You only get ONE wish!’ It sounds like something you'd find in a discount bin at a carnival, a desperate plea for attention from a product that likely does absolutely nothing.

“I really am fucking pathetic, huh?”
he mutters to himself, his voice thick with self-loathing. He’s a Pro hero, a man who has faced down the most dangerous villains in the country, and here he is, sitting in a parked car in the suburbs, contemplating a piece of cardboard and a dream.

With a sharp, decisive motion, he flips open the top of the box. The moment the seal breaks, a loud, piercing digital jingle erupts from a hidden trigger. It's a haunting, tinny sound—out of tune and distorted, as if the electronic component has been rotting in a warehouse for decades. It's not a celebratory sound; it's a jarring, archaic noise that slices through the silence of the car.

Bakugo flinches, his entire body jerking back against the seat. He nearly drops the box, his shoulders snapping up as a few reflexive sparks pop from his palms. He glares at the box as if it just tried to attack him, his heart hammering against his ribs in a sudden spike of adrenaline.

"What the fuck was that?!"
he hisses, his voice a low growl of genuine irritation. He stares down at the contents of the box, the distorted jingle finally fading into a static-filled silence, leaving him alone with his racing heart and the absurd possibility of a miracle.

Bakugo reaches into the box and pulls out the branch. He holds it up to the light, his expression one of pure skepticism. It looks like garbage—a thin, hollow piece of black driftwood peppered with strange white specks, riddled with natural holes that make it look fragile and brittle. It doesn't feel magical; it feels like something he'd find washed up on a beach after a storm.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. The absurdity of the situation finally outweighs the desperation, and he feels a wave of genuine embarrassment for even entertaining the idea. He grips the stick on both sides, his fingers squeezing the dry wood.

"Whatever.."
he mutters. He closes his eyes for a brief second, the image of Izuku’s oblivious smile flashing in his mind. In a voice that is half-hopeless and half-sarcastic, he speaks the words into the quiet cabin of the car.

"I wish.. Izuku loved me more than everything and anyone in the fucking world."

With a sharp, sudden snap, he breaks the branch in half. There is no flash of light, no thunderous roar, no magical shimmer. Just the dry, pathetic sound of wood splintering. He huffs, tossing the broken pieces into the backseat with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

"Fucking piece of shit.."
he growls. He isn't sure if he's talking about the useless stick or his own pathetic need for a shortcut to the one thing he can't win through combat.

He shifts the car into gear, the engine roaring as he finally pulls away from the curb. He drives away from the house and the nerd, his eyes fixed on the road, completely unaware that the moment the wood snapped, a silent, invisible ripple had surged forward, crossing the distance to the front door and sinking deep into the heart of the man who had just waved him goodbye.

The screech of tires echoes through the quiet neighborhood as Bakugo slams on the brakes. The force of the stop jerks him forward, his seatbelt locking tight across his chest. His heart hammers against his ribs, the sudden surge of adrenaline far more potent than any wish-stick gimmick.

"What the fuck was that?!?"
he yells, his voice booming in the confined space of the car. He doesn't even wait to breathe before he slams the car into park and throws the door open, stepping out into the cool night air. His movements are instinctive, the pro-hero reflexes kicking in as he rushes toward the front of the vehicle.

He doesn't see a clear figure in the gloom—just a silhouette sprawled on the asphalt. He fumbles for his phone, flicking on the high-intensity flashlight. The beam cuts through the darkness, illuminating a familiar mess of green curls and a beige button-down.

"IZUKU?!"
Bakugo shouts, his voice cracking with a mixture of panic and fury. He drops to his knees beside the other man, the flashlight shaking slightly in his grip.

Izuku is lying there, looking dazed, but he isn't bleeding. He doesn't look injured, just startled. In fact, as he looks up at Bakugo, there is something... different. The usual softness in his eyes is still there, but there's a new, intense hunger behind it. A focused, shimmering obsession that Bakugo has never seen in the nerd's gaze before.

Izuku doesn't even complain about the impact. He doesn't ask why Bakugo was turning or if he's okay. Instead, he reaches up with a sudden, quick movement, his fingers gripping Bakugo's forearm with a strength that is almost bruising.

"Kacchan..."
Izuku whispers, his voice sounding strained, almost breathless. He doesn't try to stand up. Instead, he just stares up at Bakugo with a look of absolute, terrifying devotion, as if the entire world has vanished and the only thing left in existence is the man leaning over him.
"I... I forgot to tell you something.."

Bakugo freezes for a heartbeat, his mind struggling to process the sudden chaos. The adrenaline is still coursing through him, manifesting as a loud, aggressive bark that echoes off the nearby houses.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST TEXT ME THEN?! YOU MORON! I HIT YOU WITH MY DAMN CAR!"
He yells, his voice grating and sharp. Despite the shouting, his actions are instinctive. He doesn't wait for an answer before he's grabbing Izuku’s arm, hoisting him up with an efficiency that speaks to years of mutual training.

Once Izuku is steady on his feet, Bakugo doesn't let go immediately. He keeps a firm grip on him, his eyes scanning the nerd for any signs of blood or fractures. The anger is there, but it's layered over a genuine, frantic concern that he can't quite hide.

"You didn't get hurt, did you?"
he asks, his voice dropping a few decibels, though it's still rough.

Izuku blinks, shaking his head slowly. He lets out a small, shaky laugh, trying to maintain his usual demeanor. He looks down at his clothes, brushing off some dust from the asphalt with a clumsy hand, mirroring the sheepishness he's had since they were children.

"I-I'm okay! I'm fine, really! I just... I realized the second you drove away that I forgot to tell you..."
He pauses, his voice trailing off. He looks up at Bakugo, and for a second, that intense, predatory gaze flickers back into his eyes before he quickly masks it with a clumsy smile.
"...I forgot to tell you that I really like the tourmaline. Like, really, really like it. I just wanted to make sure you knew."

He gives a small, nervous chuckle, stepping just an inch closer to Bakugo than he normally would, his presence feeling slightly more oppressive than usual, even while he tries to play the role of the oblivious nerd.

"I.. okay??"
Bakugo responds, his brow furrowing. He doesn't let go of Izuku's arms, his grip steady and protective. The situation is completely illogical—running into the middle of the street just to express gratitude for a piece of jewelry is a level of stupidity that even the usual Deku wouldn't sink to.

"Still, you could have just texted me that. Are you okay? You look... like, confused?"
he adds, his voice lacking its usual bite. He searches Izuku's face, his crimson eyes narrowing. There is something off. The air around them feels different—thicker, more charged. It's not a quirk, and it's not an injury, but the way Izuku is looking at him is making the hair on the back of Bakugo's neck stand up.

Izuku doesn't pull away from the grip. In fact, he leans into it, his shoulders relaxing as he allows Bakugo to hold him. He looks up, his expression carefully curated to look like his normal, sheepish self, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. Instead, his gaze remains locked on Bakugo's face, tracing the line of his jaw with an intensity that borders on obsessive.

"I'm... I'm fine, Kacchan,"
Izuku says softly, his voice sounding a bit more grounded, though there's a strange, humming resonance to it. He lets out a breathy laugh, tilting his head.
"I think I just got a bit lightheaded. Or maybe I just... really wanted to see you one more time before the night was over."

He lets out a small, nervous giggle, but he doesn't move to create any distance between them. He stays right there, within Bakugo's personal space, his eyes shimmering with a devotion that is becoming harder and harder to mask as 'just friendship'.

"Okay.."
Bakugo says, the word trailing off. He’s clearly unsettled. The comment about wanting to see him 'one more time' is out of character for the nerd—usually, Izuku is the one who doesn't want to overstay his welcome or be a bother. The logic doesn't add up, but Bakugo doesn't have the patience to dissect it right now.

"Well, come on, let's get you back to your damn house,"
he grumbles, finally releasing his hold on Izuku's arms. He turns on his heel and heads back to the driver's seat, his boots clicking on the asphalt. He slides back inside, the interior of the car feeling smaller and more claustrophobic than it did five minutes ago.

He reaches for the ignition, twisting the key to finally shut off the engine. The low thrum that had been the background noise of the entire encounter vanishes, replaced by a sudden, heavy silence that seems to amplify every sound of the night. Bakugo doesn't even bother to lock the door as he steps back out, his movements sharp and decisive as he returns to the front of the car.

As he approaches, he finds Izuku standing exactly where he left him. He isn't walking toward his house. He's just... standing there. He's staring at Bakugo with an expression of such raw, unfiltered longing that it's almost physical. The 'oblivious nerd' mask is slipping again, his eyes wide and shimmering, tracking Bakugo's every movement as if he's the only point of light in a dark room.

When Bakugo stops in front of him, Izuku doesn't move away. He stays perfectly still, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his gaze never leaving Bakugo's face.

"Kacchan,"
he whispers, the word sounding less like a name and more like a prayer. The tone is soft, but there's a possessive edge to it that sends a strange shiver down Bakugo's spine.

"You good nerd?"
Bakugo mutters, his voice returning to its usual rough cadence. He doesn't like the way Izuku is just standing there, staring. It's unnatural. He reaches out, placing a hand firmly on the center of Izuku's back to guide him away from the road and back toward the safety of the sidewalk.

As he pushes him forward, Bakugo notices the tension in Izuku's frame. He isn't resisting, but he isn't just following either; he's almost gliding, his body leaning subtly toward Bakugo's touch. The contact seems to electrify him, though he's trying desperately to hide it.

Izuku turns his head to look back at Bakugo, and the expression on his face is... strained. He's smiling, but it's too wide, too fixed. It’s a smile that’s trying far too hard to look like the gentle, supportive expression Izuku usually wears, but the muscles in his cheeks are tight, and the corners of his mouth are pulled slightly too far back. It's an imitation of his usual self, a mask that doesn't quite fit the intensity of the hunger in his eyes.

"I'm great, Kacchan! Really!"
Izuku says, the words coming out a bit too fast, a bit too eager. He lets out a small, breathy laugh that sounds slightly forced.
"I just... I think I'm still a little dizzy from the bump. I might just need a second to... gather myself."

Even as he says it, he doesn't move to create any space. Instead, he subtly shifts his weight, brushing his shoulder against Bakugo's arm, a lingering, intentional contact that feels far more deliberate than an accidental bump.

"Alright,"
Bakugo responds, his voice flat. He keeps his hand on the nerd's back, playing the role of the reluctant guide. The night is quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the city and the rhythmic scuff of their shoes on the pavement.

As they approach the final stretch, just a few houses away from the front door, Izuku suddenly stops dead in his tracks. He halts so abruptly that Bakugo nearly walks right into him. For a fleeting moment, the mask shatters. Izuku’s expression goes completely blank, his eyes darting around the neighborhood with a genuine, bewildered confusion. He looks at the familiar houses, then back at Bakugo, his brow furrowing as if he’s woken up in a dream and can't remember how he got there. He looks lost—not geographically, but fundamentally.

"Wait... why did I..."
Izuku mutters, his voice barely a whisper, the tone returning to that stuttering, analytical softness that Bakugo knows so well. He looks genuinely perplexed, a flicker of the old, honest Deku peering through the haze.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the confusion vanishes. It’s as if a switch is flipped in the back of his mind. The vacant look is replaced by that shimmering, predatory devotion. The transition is seamless, terrifyingly fast. He doesn't even blink as he shifts back, his gaze locking onto Bakugo with a sudden, overwhelming hunger that makes the air feel heavy.

"Actually,"
Izuku says, his voice dropping an octave, the sweetness returning but with a dangerous, syrupy thickness.
"I don't think I want to go inside just yet. I think I want to stay right here with you for a little longer."

He doesn't move toward his house. Instead, he turns his body fully toward Bakugo, closing the gap between them until the heat from their bodies begins to bleed together in the chilly air.

Bakugo pauses, his muscles tensing. He lets out a weird, nervous scoff of a laugh, the sound jarring and out of place. This isn't how the nerd operates. Deku is the king of overthinking and boundaries, not the king of lingering in the middle of the street with an expression that looks like he wants to swallow Bakugo whole.

"The hell's going on with you?-"
he asks, his voice a mix of genuine confusion and growing suspicion. He doesn't like the feeling of being the one who is out of his depth. Acting on instinct, he brings his hands up to Izuku's shoulders, his grip firm. He isn't being gentle; he's trying to ground the other man, to snap him out of whatever weird headspace he's drifted into.

"You need to go to bed, Deku,"
he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. It's the voice he uses when he's taking charge of a situation, blunt and commanding. With a decisive heave, he pivots Izuku around, forcing him to face his front door again and steering him forward with a steady pressure on his shoulders.

Izuku doesn't fight the movement, but he doesn't exactly cooperate either. He allows himself to be turned, but he's leaning his weight back into Bakugo’s hands, prolonging the contact. He lets out a soft, humming sound in his throat—not a protest, but a purr of contentment.

"Just five more minutes, Kacchan..."
Izuku murmurs, his voice sounding dreamy, almost intoxicated. He doesn't look back at the house. Even as he's being pushed toward the door, his head is tilted just enough that he can still see Bakugo in his peripheral vision, his gaze fixed on the blond man with an intensity that feels like a physical weight.
"I just... I can't stop thinking about how much I missed you the second you drove away."

Date: October 14, 20XX | Location: Midoriya Residence - Front Door

Bakugo reaches out and opens the door, the familiar scent of the Midoriya household—a mix of old books and laundry detergent—hitting him. He pauses, the door still open behind them. He can't shake the feeling that something is fundamentally wrong, and the sheer absurdity of Izuku’s behavior is starting to wear on him.

"Why..?"
he asks, the word barely escaping his lips. He gives another scoffing laugh, though it's devoid of any real amusement. It's pure, unadulterated confusion. He’s known this man since they were toddlers, and the script has always been the same: Bakugo yells, Izuku apologizes or has a small comeback, and that's their tango.

"You literally always just go inside and go to bed,"
he adds, his voice rough. He doesn't let go of the nerd's arm, guiding him firmly through the doorway and across the living room. He steers him toward the couch, practically depositing him onto the cushions with a final, steady push.

"Here, I'll just get you some damn water,"
Bakugo grunts, turning away to head toward the kitchen. He assumes the 'dizziness' from the car bump is finally manifesting as some kind of concussion, and the only logical solution is hydration and rest.

As Bakugo walks away, the silence of the room is broken by a soft, lingering sound. Izuku doesn't slump into the couch in a daze. Instead, he sinks into the fabric, his arms resting on the cushions as he watches Bakugo’s retreating back. The mask of the 'confused nerd' is completely gone now that Bakugo's back is turned. His gaze is heavy, possessive, and utterly focused, tracking the movement of Bakugo's shoulders and the sway of his stride with a hunger that borders on the predatory.

He doesn't want water. He doesn't want rest. He just wants the man in the kitchen to come back and look at him again.

Bakugo stands by the fridge, the rhythmic, steady sound of the water dispenser filling the glass echoing in the quiet kitchen. He’s focused on the task, his mind still trying to categorize the strange behavior Izuku has been exhibiting. It has to be the bump. It has to be a concussion. Anything else is too ridiculous to consider.

From the living room, Izuku leans over the armrest, his posture soft and deceptively innocent. He clutches a throw pillow against his chest, hugging it tight like a curious child, his large green eyes peering out from behind the fabric. He looks harmless, but there is a sharp, focused quality to his gaze that hasn't faded.

"How's your dating life been?"
Izuku asks. His voice is light, almost casual, as if he's simply making conversation, but the question hangs in the air with a sudden, heavy weight. It’s a topic they rarely touch upon—usually, Bakugo would just bark a "Mind your own damn business" and end the conversation.

Bakugo freezes, the glass overflowing for a split second before he snaps his wrist back, cutting off the flow of water. He stares at the glass, the sudden question catching him completely off guard. His heart gives a sharp, erratic thud against his ribs, and he feels a heat creep up the back of his neck.

"The hell kind of question is that?"
Bakugo barks, the sound echoing through the small kitchen. He tries to channel his usual aggression, but the conviction isn't there; he's too rattled by the sudden shift in conversation. He turns around sharply, his knuckles white as he grips the glass, glaring at the green-haired man perched on the couch.

"I'm a Pro Hero, I don't have time for that shit."
he snaps. He’s lying through his teeth, using his career as a shield to hide the fact that his heart is currently doing a frantic drumroll in his chest. As he speaks, the memory of their conversation in the car flashes through his mind—how he'd asked about Uraraka, how he'd felt the cold sting of jealousy.

He assumes this is just a retaliatory question, a bit of social curiosity because he'd pried into Izuku's life first. It's a logical conclusion, and it's the only one that keeps him from spiraling.

Izuku doesn't flinch at the yelling. In fact, he seems to lean into it, his expression remaining strangely calm. He doesn't let go of the pillow, but he shifts his gaze, his eyes scanning Bakugo from the top of his spiked hair down to the grip on the glass, as if he's cataloging every detail of the man before him.

"I just... wondered,"
Izuku says softly, his voice devoid of its usual stutter. He lets out a small, thoughtful hum, and the smile on his face is subtle, but it lacks any of the nervousness he usually displays. He looks at Bakugo with a terrifyingly clear intensity, as if he can see right through the 'Pro Hero' excuse.

"Because you're so.. amazing, Kacchan. It seems like a waste... that you'd be spending all your time on work and not on someone who could actually appreciate everything you are."

The way he says it isn't a compliment; it's an observation, delivered with a possessive undertone that makes the air in the room feel suffocatingly thick.

"Tch.."
Bakugo lets out a sharp, dismissive sound, turning his back on Izuku again. He grabs a paper towel, meticulously wiping the stray droplets from the side of the glass. He pours a bit of the excess water back into the sink with a steady hand, his mind racing. The comment about him being 'amazing' and it being a 'waste' sends a jolt of confusion through him. It’s too forward. Too direct. It’s not the way Deku speaks.

"Trust me, if I was going to be with anyone, it would have happened already,"
he says, his voice regaining some of its usual hardness. It's a defensive statement, a wall he builds to keep the sudden tension of the room from overwhelming him. He doesn't want to admit that the reason it hasn't happened is because no one else compares to the idiot sitting on the couch.

He walks back into the living room, his footsteps heavy on the carpet. He reaches the coffee table and sets the glass down with a decisive 'clink' of glass on wood.

"Drink,"
he commands, the word short and blunt. He doesn't move away immediately, standing over the table, his presence looming. He’s waiting for the nerd to take the glass, half-expecting Izuku to go back to his usual, flustered self now that the 'dizzy' spell should be wearing off.

Izuku doesn't reach for the water immediately. Instead, he remains leaned over the armrest, his eyes locked on Bakugo's face. He doesn't look at the glass. His gaze is heavy, tracing the tension in Bakugo's shoulders and the sharp line of his crimson eyes. The air between them is practically vibrating, and as Izuku finally reaches out, he doesn't just grab the glass—his fingers deliberately brush against Bakugo's hand, a slow, lingering contact that feels far too intentional to be an accident.

"Thanks, Kacchan,"
he murmurs, the words barely a whisper, his voice sounding low and humming with a strange, dark satisfaction.