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It’s a tribute to how much he’s developed as a person that Bakugou Katsuki counts the two minutes and forty-three seconds of peace and quiet he enjoys while eating his breakfast a win. That’s because at exactly two minutes and forty-four seconds he hears the bellow of his name echo down the hallway, and at two minutes and fifty-one seconds Kaminari rounds the corner in a skid, Sero and Kirishima clipping his heels. He spots Bakugou and lets out another shout, crossing the room and dramatically slapping both hands onto the table in a move that upends both Bakugou’s rice bowl and his life forevermore.
(He doesn’t know that second part yet, of course.)
“You lookin’ to DIE, dunce face—“ Bakugou bristles, glaring down at the remnants of his meal then up at his friend, but Kaminari is already talking over him, clearly unbothered by the death stare but worked up over something else.
“Bakugou!” he exclaims for what must be the fifth time in as many moments, alternating between tones of disbelief and excitement. A glance to his left finds Sero gaping at Bakugou, openmouthed and amused, while Kirishima gnaws his lip in a nervous tell.
What the fuck.
“I’m honestly kinda hurt?” Kaminari frowns, looking supremely disappointed as he drops, chin in hand, into the seat across the table. “Why didn’t you tell us!” he demands, as if Bakugou is supposed to know what the hell he’s on about.
“Okay, first, I don’t need to tell you idiots anything—“ he starts, raising a chorus of offended protests from the peanut gallery; Bakugou rolls his eyes and speaks over them, “—second, what the fuck are you even talking about.”
Kaminari gives him a skeptical look across the remains of his breakfast—this wouldn’t be the first time Bakugou had played him for a fool. Not that he needs help in that department.
Bakugou exhales a long breath through his nose, clinging to the threads of his patience. It’s too early for this.
“Bakubro, you don’t have to hide it,” Kaminari protests earnestly, “—you know we’re cool! I mean it’s kinda about time anyway—“
“Denki,” Kirishima elbows the boy jerkily, giving an aborted cut it out movement.
“Am I wrong, though!”
“Dude, I don’t think he knows,” Kirishima whispers to the other frantically, at a volume Bakugou can clearly hear.
Bakugou’s eyes narrow suspiciously at his three best friends, questioning, not for the first time, both his life and his choices.
“What don’t I know…?” he asks, voice deceptively calm. Kirishima gulps and Kaminari blinks, but it’s Sero who gives him a conspiratorial grin and answers:
“Todoroki asked you out.”
—
“—All students, please be advised that the cafeteria is CLOSED for repairs due to a small explosion on the ground floor. Please also be advised that the use of quirks in communal areas is, as always, EXTREMELY DISCOURAGED—”
—
Asked him out.
Asked HIM out.
The words cycle through Bakugou’s mind on loop the entire walk to their first class, just nearly but not quite blocking out the cackling from the trio of hyenas at his side as they recount, for the fourth time, the way Bakugou’s face had turned the same shade of red as Todoroki’s hair~ before his sweaty palms had ignited and splintered the table into pieces.
Those idiots have no idea what they’re talking about, Bakugou insists to himself with a scowl, because insisting it to the other three will only bring about another fit of wheezing laughter. (He knows. He’d tried.) That half & half bastard couldn’t have asked him out, not a chance, because Bakugou is more than confident he’d remember something like—
“Oh, Bakugou.”
Speak of the fucking devil.
He’d yanked open the door to their classroom—with more force than necessary maybe, he’ll admit—and ended up nose to chin with Todoroki Shouto. Snapping his gaze upward finds the taller boy blinking at him sleepily, muffling a yawn. Bakugou takes a deep breath in through his nose and counts, because he can’t afford to have two incidents on his record in one morning, but his calming tactic does nothing but fill his sinuses with the smell of Todoroki’s damn rich boy shampoo.
“Are we still on for lunch Saturday?” the other interrupts his inner cursing. His voice is monotone as usual, if thicker with sleep, and the expression on his face is bored. It’s baseline Todoroki, which doesn’t explain why Bakugou’s critical thinking faculties have decided to take a hike.
Inwardly he berates his own brain, but outwardly Bakugou just blinks at him—the words taking long enough to register that Todoroki has begun to raise a brow at him, fuck his life—before abruptly shaking himself out of his stupor and grumbling, “Yeah, yeah,” with a wave of his hand.
Todoroki is pleased with his nonchalant brush off if the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips is anything to go by. He nods once and brushes past the blond into the hallway.
Bakugou turns and watches him go, just for a moment, before barking, “And don’t forget, half & half—you’re paying!”
Todoroki raises a hand above his head in a lazy wave of acknowledgement without even looking back.
Bakugou’s friends give him the “courtesy” (Kaminari’s word) of waiting until Todoroki’s turned the corner before losing their fucking shit and all speaking over each other at once.
“OOOOOHHHHHH!”
“AND YOU SAID HE DIDN’T KNOW—“
“Bakugou, wait, why didn’t you tell me you ACTUALLY have a date—”
It takes about that long for the pieces to click in his mind, and Bakugou’s face drains of blood before flushing a startling (a dangerous) shade of red.
He doesn’t blow up the doorframe the way he blew up the lunch table, but it’s a close thing.
—
bakubro: it can’t be a date if both parties aren’t aware it’s a date [read 15:03]
bakubro: kirishima. [read 15:11]
bakubro: I know you’re reading these. [read 15:15]
Shitty Hair: i meaaaaaan….. [read 15:16]
Shitty Hair: kinda sounds lk a date bro [read 15:16]
Shitty Hair: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ [read 15:16]
bakubro: i can see you both laughing over there DO YOU WANT ME TO KICK YOUR ASS [sent 15:17]
—
“—On behalf of the staff, we apologize for any disruption this power outage may have caused. Maintenance has isolated the cause of the power surge and expects the lights will be up and running again shortly. We would like to take this moment to remind students that sparring in the dormitories is NOT PERMITTED, and, once again, the use of quirks in communal areas is VERY MUCH FROWNED UPON—”
—
Here’s the thing: it’s not a date.
It can’t be a date, because if Todoroki Shouto—the most socially oblivious person Bakugou knows—had asked him on a date, he would have noticed. Conversely, if Todoroki Shouto—the most socially oblivious person Bakugou knows—had asked him on a date, and Bakugou hadn’t noticed? Well, he might just have to fling himself off the nearest cliff.
They'd been in Bakugou’s room studying the night before, a habit the pair hadn't quite kicked after their supplementary lessons ended. (“Study DATES!” says Kaminari, “Shut UP!” says Bakugou.) At least once a week the pair will end up in one of their rooms, and what starts as neatly completing their homework in relative silence (enjoyable silence, thank you very much) nearly always devolves into Todoroki sprawling flat on the floor, reading aloud from their group chat with Camie and the windy fucker while Bakugou instructs him to write increasingly rude responses on his behalf.
“Uuuuuugh,” Bakugou had groaned toward the end of that night, a few hours into studying when he’d finally pushed himself away from his notebooks and flopped onto his back, arms flung wide to either side.
“Yeah?” Todoroki had humored, not looking away from where he typed at his phone. He’d given up on studying maybe thirty minutes before, but had remained sprawled on Bakugou’s floor while the other pored over his notes a second time, then a third.
“Fuck. I'm fuckin’ hungry.” He’d rolled then, turning onto his stomach and digging his forehead into the fabric of the carpet.
Todoroki had hummed in reply, a thoughtful little sound, and when Bakugou finally tipped his head to look his way he’d seen that Todoroki was already watching him.
“What do you want to eat?”
“Don't care. Something spicy,” Bakugou had muttered, turning back to the floor. Todoroki hadn’t said anything else; Bakugou heard him tapping away at his screen for a few moments before there was the telltale snick of a locked home screen.
“Have you been to the new ramen place by the station yet?” Todoroki had asked him, and this time when Bakugou looked over the other boy was staring up at the ceiling.
“No,” he’d grunted, wondering where Todoroki was going with this. It was late—even if the station wasn't fifteen minutes away, any restaurant would’ve been long closed at that hour.
“Uraraka said they have a bowl so spicy it makes people cry.” The corner of his lips had quirked up, just a bit, but he still wasn’t looking at Bakugou.
Bakugou tipped onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “Oh?” he’d prompted.
“You’d probably cry,” Todoroki had mused, shooting him a glance, and even the insinuation had jackknifed Bakugou into a sitting position.
“Fuck off, I would not!” he’d snapped, and Todoroki, the asshole, started to laugh.
Bakugou had then taken it upon himself to crumple a spare sheet of note paper and whip it at his head.
“We should test it,” Todoroki had said once he calmed down. He hadn’t lost the smile clinging to the corners of his lips, and Bakugou… well he hadn’t looked away. “Saturday. We should go.”
It’s not like there was ever more than one answer here.
“You're on. Bring your tissues, half & half.”
But for the rest of the night, Bakugou couldn’t figure why Todoroki had looked so damn pleased with himself.
—
Fuck. Bakugou thinks, laying in bed that night. Maybe it is a date.
—
It takes hours of precious time that he should have spent sleeping, but by the next morning Bakugou has formulated a plan.
The way he sees it, the score is Todoroki: 1, Bakugou: 0.
And okay, yeah—dating isn't a competition. Bakugou knows this.
He may have never been in a relationship before, but that doesn’t mean he’s oblivious. A relationship means wanting to see someone’s stupid face all of the time, and trusting them to have your back even when you don’t expect them to. It means taking care of an idiot that’s overworked themselves, again, and only being sort of mad about it.
He gets that.
He thinks he’s kind of already doing that.
But since Todoroki was the one to make the first fuckin’ move, the bottom line is that Bakugou is at a disadvantage. And losing to Todoroki Shouto is something he’s refused to accept since day one, so… Bakugou just has to up his game.
No, dating isn't a competition.
But that doesn’t mean Bakugou isn't gonna win it.
—
“Here.”
Todoroki blinks. There, in front of him on his once-empty desk, is a bento. There’s a bed of rice, sliced fish, assorted vegetables; not a grain or leaf is out of place. He looks up.
Bakugou Katsuki, deliverer of said bento, is staring pointedly out the window.
“Is this…” Todoroki trails off, gaze bouncing between the box and the boy standing resolutely in front of his desk.
“Lunch,” Bakugou says simply, like that’s a real answer to Todoroki’s question.
“For… me?”
On his next glance up Todoroki sees that Bakugou’s brow is knitted, a tell of frustration, before he rolls his eyes.
“Would I have given it to you if it wasn’t for you, Icy Hot?” Bakugou drawls, and the condescension is toned down from what Todoroki expected of him.
“Possibly,” Todoroki replies, and reaches out to touch the bento—still warm. “Why?”
“Ah?” Bakugou squints at him, “Why what?”
“Why did you make me lunch?”
That earns him a frown that quickly morphs into a scowl.
“‘Cause you eat like shit—it’s like you’re trying to be the first Pro Hero who lives on cold soba alone.”
“… Okay?” Shouto tips his head to the side consideringly, but Bakugou just keeps going.
“If you eat crap and you’re always tired—which you always are, don’t deny it, I’ve seen you nap standing up—there’s no way you’re gonna make it to the top. And you’re definitely never gonna be a match for me. So if you’re not gonna take care of yourself then somebody fuckin’ has to!”
“And that somebody… is you?”
Bakugou crosses his arms with a small scoff, puffing up his chest, but it does nothing to hide the way the tips of his ears go red.
“I don’t see anyone else stepping up for the job.”
It’s then that something miraculous happens: Todoroki Shouto, Class A’s ice prince—
Blushes.
—
Bakugou: 2, Todoroki: 1
—
Todoroki sighs.
“Uuh…” Midoriya trails off, looking at his friend with slight concern. Their class is out in the training grounds for sparring exercises; Midoriya and Todoroki are part of the group who’d gone first, and now it’s their turn on break to watch the others. In front of them, Iida and Hakagure are in a deadlock of stealth vs speed, and further beyond Bakugou and Yaoyorozu clash in bursts of light and explosion. “Todoroki-kun. Are you alright? You’ve been…”
Sigh.
“… Sighing.”
“Midoriya,” Todoroki begins, brows furrowed as he stares across the training grounds. “I can't keep up with him. One minute he's calling me names and yelling that he wants to fight me, the next he's making me food and worrying about my sleep habits. How am I supposed to interpret that?”
“You—I mean, uh—? You’re, it’s—”
“Breathe, Midoriya.”
“Are we talking about Kacchan?” he asks in a rush.
“Yes,” Todoroki confirms, and now Midoriya registers the way he’s watching Bakugou catapult himself into the air in a move reminiscent of their first year sports festival match.
“I guess…” Midoriya starts, pursing his lips as he considers. How does one go about dissecting the behavior of Bakugou Katsuki, especially in the context of…
Love.
Midoriya shudders as he imagines the way Bakugou would explode, quite literally and quite violently, if he ever heard Midoriya discussing his (fairly obvious) crush on Todoroki.
“Maybe you could… ask him?” he hazards, voice pitching high with uncertainty at the end. He feels terribly, it’s probably the lamest, most generic advice he could have offered his friend, what kind of support is that—
“You’re right,” Todoroki says, and Midoriya snaps his head up to stare at the other boy, because Todoroki sounds… hopeful? He turns and offers the green-haired boy a small smile. “Thanks, Midoriya. I think I will.”
“N-no problem, Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya smiles back weakly and scratches the back of his head, wondering just how that will play out.
—
It’s Friday, and Bakugou is winning.
Part of him wonders if he should be concerned at the unfairness of a one-sided competition, considering Todoroki isn’t exactly aware that Bakugou is keeping score, but the rest of him is more concerned with keeping his lead.
The current tally is 4:3 in Bakugou’s favor.
It had been 4:2 for a solid day and a half, until yesterday evening. They’d been walking through the train station, the crowds uncomfortably thick at commuting time. Instead of telling Bakugou to keep up, or offering a meeting point like a normal person, Todoroki had glanced back and taken Bakugou’s hand, towing him through the mass of people and out onto the sidewalk.
(He’s lucky Todoroki had used his right side, or else he might’ve accidentally blown both their hands off.)
That move had earned him a grudging point, plus Bakugou’s inability to look him in the eye for half the walk back to the dorms.
But he’s resolved that if he wants to keep his lead until Saturday (and, y’know, keep from making a fool of himself before this “date” even happens), the best way is to avoid Todoroki altogether.
This is harder than it seems because Todoroki is, for some reason, incredibly fucking determined to get Bakugou alone.
Bakugou manages to make it through the whole morning and all of that days’ lessons, feigning extensive use of headphones and even, once, ducking into a closet to avoid the other boy.
(Does he feel a little ridiculous? Yes. But this is his pride, dammit.)
He’s been tasked with room clean up, a job he’s determined to finish as quickly as possible so he can go hide out in his room (too obvious? he wonders. Maybe Kirishima’s, then) and maybe try to figure out what the fuck he’s gonna do tomorrow.
Shit, what am I gonna wear?
It’s that train of thought that distracts him from the door sliding open.
“Ah, Bakugou.”
God-fucking-dammit.
Play it cool, he tells himself.
“Yo,” is what he says, and wants to slam the eraser he’s holding into his own head. Can he lose points in this self-refereed competition?
Todoroki is walking towards him, and he’s saying something, but Bakugou doesn’t know what that something is because he finds himself thinking inexplicably about the other night when they’d laid together on his floor. Todoroki looks now like he’d looked then, relaxed, settled, watching Bakugou from across the space between. Only this time Todoroki is closing the distance, this time he’s nearly in arms reach, and Bakugou abruptly, stupidly, wonders if Todoroki is going to hold his hand again.
Oh, fuck no.
It takes seconds to assess his exit routes. The main door directly behind Todoroki, no. The far door at the end of the room, a possibility. The window at his back…
“Text me,” Bakugou instructs, cutting Todoroki off completely as he stuffs the eraser into the boy’s outstretched hand, and then he makes his move.
—
Todoroki-kun: Midoriya. [read 4:14]
Midoriya: hi todoroki-kun! whats up [read 4:15]
Todoroki-kun: I think Bakugou is ignoring me. [read 4:16]
Midoriya: ????? what makes you say that [read 4:18]
Todoroki-kun: I tried to talk to him after class, like you said. [read 4:21]
Todoroki-kun: And he jumped out of the window. [read 4:22]
Midoriya: ?????????!!?!?!!!?? [read 4:22]
Todoroki-kun: We were on the third floor. [read 4:23]
[incoming call Midoriya Izuku ]
—
“—All students please be advised that, as a result of a certain INCIDENT, the second and third floor classroom windows will, going forward, be SECURED. If you require fresh air, please obtain permission from your homeroom teacher—”
—
“You did WHAT?” Kirishima nearly shrieks when Bakugou finally drags himself to his doorstep and explains the situation in a flustered, frustrated storm of expletives.
It’s not like he’s proud of it, okay?
“Shut up, I know,” Bakugou groans, tugging at his hair.
“I thought you liked the guy, why are you even avoiding him?” Kirishima frowns, bewildered, and okay, Bakugou hadn’t explained that part of the story to him. He mutters under his breath.
“You what?”
“… I said, I’m not letting him beat me.”
Kirishima stares at him for a long, long moment, and then falls backwards to collapse on his bed in exasperation.
“Bakugouuu,” he berates, hands thrown in the air.
“I know, I know!”
“Well Todoroki obviously doesn’t!” Kirishima points out, hitching up on one elbow to give Bakugou a pointed look. “If you still want this date to happen, you’d better text him.”
“It’s not a date,” Bakugou protests, for what may be the millionth time, but this is the weakest one yet even to his own ears.
This time the look Kirishima gives him is a few shades closer to sympathetic, and Bakugou abruptly remembers that Kirishima is friends with Todoroki too.
“Are you sure about that?”
—
Bakugou: hey [read 10:23]
Icy Hot: … Hi. [read 10:26]
Icy Hot: Are we talking again now? [read 10:26]
Bakugou: fuck [read 10:28]
Bakugou: yes [read 10:28]
Bakugou: if you want to [read 10:29]
Icy Hot: I’m not the one who jumped out a window earlier, Bakugou. [read 10:31]
Bakugou: i didn’t mean to jump out the window ok [read 10:31]
Icy Hot: …… [read 10:32]
Icy Hot: you’re telling me you *accidentally* threw an eraser at me and jumped out the window [read 10:34]
Bakugou: N O [read 10:34]
Bakugou: and i didn’t throw it at you [read 10:36]
Icy Hot: Well then what would you call it? [read 10:37]
Bakugou: evasive maneuvers [read 10:38]
Icy Hot: ? [read 10:39]
Bakugou: nevermind [read 10:39]
Bakugou: i just wanted to check. that we’re still on [read 10:41]
Bakugou: for ramen [read 10:42]
Icy Hot: Yes? What made you think we weren’t? [read 10:42]
Bakugou: nothing [read 10:49]
Bakugou: i’ll see you tomorrow [read 10:49]
Icy Hot: … Goodnight Bakugou [read 10:58]
—
Bakugou makes it through nearly an hour lying flat on his back, staring into the darkness of his ceiling, vehemently not thinking about the boy in the room directly above him, before he cracks. He lets out a frustrated yell, kicks the covers off his legs in a tangle, then stomps to the door, throwing it open and barely keeping it from slamming behind him—he does have some consideration for his sleeping classmates.
That, and Bakugou doesn’t want an audience for this if he can help it.
He takes the stairs two at a time in his impatience, then realizes that despite the long minutes wasted contemplating this very act in the damning silence of his own bedroom, he's made it to Todoroki’s door without any concrete plan of attack.
Ah, fuck it, he thinks. It's far from the first time he'd follow his gut, consequences be damned, and it's definitely not the first time he’s been that way concerning Todoroki Shouto.
Bakugou knocks before the squirming in his stomach (not nerves—must be some kind of indigestion) can get any worse. He finds himself holding his breath, and then almost immediately has to tell himself to cut that shit out because 1) it’s stupid and 2) he can only hold his breath for so long. And the latter is an issue considering no one is answering the door.
“Fuckin’ Todoroki…” Bakugou curses, rapping his knuckles on the door once more. He spitefully hopes that Sato and Sero sleep as deeply as Todoroki appears to. Sensing a lost cause, Bakugou goes for plan B.
—
Todoroki is sitting in a patch of sunlight. The air around him is warm, the colors of spring a kaleidoscope of crisp greens and yellows. He's happy because he's managed to convince the stray cat who lives on his street that he's a friend, someone to be trusted, and the small tabby purrs when Todoroki scratches gently behind its ears. He pulls his hand away just for a moment, to reposition for better pets, and the cat opens its mouth, letting out a displeased ringing.
Ringing? Todoroki thinks, blinking at the small animal as it takes a breath then makes the noise once more. That's weird, I’ve never met a cat that rings.
He blinks again, into the darkness of his room this time, and realizes his phone is buzzing violently where he'd left it on the bedside table. Squinting blearily he picks it up without checking the caller ID.
“H’lo?”
“Open your damn door.”
Todoroki’s mind stalls, cogs turning slowly as he sheds the webs of sleep. He understands the component parts—recognizes the instruction he's been given, knows the voice on the other end—but putting them into context doesn’t add up. Todoroki pulls the phone from his ear, staring at the call screen for a moment, and yep, that's him all right.
“Bakugou?” he asks into the receiver, returning the phone to his ear, and gets a grunt in reply.
Well that's not enough motivation to get out of bed.
“Why do I need to open my door?”
A silence where it's just their breathing on either end of the line, and then—
“I’m outside.”
“You're…” Todoroki trails off, then he's crossing the room, sheets tossed aside in a heap on the floor. “Are you alright?”
Bakugou gives a wordless scoff, one Todoroki translates to exasperation and fondness like Bakugou’s saying yeah, stupid, you worry too fuckin’ much.
(Todoroki likes to think he's pretty fluent in Bakugou-speak these days. His friends usually laugh or look at him with gentle concern if he says as much, but that has more to do with Bakugou than with him, he thinks.)
He unlocks the door and tugs it open, and there stands Bakugou in a black t-shirt and red sleep pants, slippers foregone for socked feet. The socks have small explosions on them.
“Uh…” Todoroki blinks, staring at the boy, phone still held to his ear. “Hi?”
Bakugou stares at the wall to the left of Todoroki’s ear, decidedly not blinking. Todoroki lowers his phone.
“… Hi.”
His mind isn't quite awake, so when Todoroki opens his mouth he's not even sure what he was going to say. It doesn't end up mattering because Bakugou raises his hand in a halting gesture.
“Shut up,” he instructs.
Todoroki pointedly raises his eyebrows and doesn't listen. “I didn't even say anything.”
“Did I not just say to stop talking?”
Todoroki leans against the doorframe, closer to the hole Bakugou’s eyes are boring into the wall. “Why else would you come to my room in the middle of the night if not to talk?”
Bakugou gets the silence he was wishing for, at the cost of a furious blush leaving him ruddy-cheeked, heartbeat adrenaline pounding in his ears. Small mercies, Bakugou thinks, Todoroki is blushing too.
“This is what happens when you speak,” Bakugou complains, dropping his forehead to his palm.
“This is what happens when you wake me up in the middle of the night,” Todoroki informs, too tired to roll his eyes or be overly embarrassed—but the sentiment is there.
“Would you stop saying it like that!”
“I’m not saying it like anything.”
“Half & half.”
“Bakugou.”
“Have dinner with me.”
Todoroki stares at him, derailed by the non sequitur and the late hour, but this time Bakugou stares back.
“… Okay?” Todoroki agrees with a frown, head tipped slightly in confusion. “It’s past midnight, though, and I already ate. I guess we could make something—?“
“No!” Bakugou groans, all restraint collapsing as he slaps his hands over his eyes miserably. “No, you idiot, not now. Tomorrow.”
Todoroki blinks at him.
“… Don’t we already have plans for lunch tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” Bakugou scowls, his ears hot. “Your point? God, you’re really gonna make me spell it out for you, huh?”
Todoroki hopes he takes the look of baffled incomprehension as a clear yes.
This time, when Bakugou speaks he looks Todoroki in the face. (Maybe not the eyes, not yet—but the bridge of his nose, the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the curve of an eyebrow. Those are all close enough to count.)
“… Go out with me,” he says, and despite his earlier self-reprimands he holds his breath.
It takes a long moment of staring, Todoroki’s lips opening then closing again as he searches for the proper response, before he finally settles on one.
“You’re asking me out…” he begins, beginning to frown, and Bakugou refuses to budge despite the nerves trying to drown him right there in the doorway.
“Yes.”
Breathes, counts.
“By one-upping me with dinner?”
Exhales, chokes.
“Oh my God, Todoroki, fuck you,” the laugh that escapes Bakugou is a few parts hysterical, but relief and incredulity will do that to a guy. “I’m gonna fuckin’ take it back—“
“No!” the protest leaves Todoroki automatically, far louder than he’d expected, and he snaps his mouth shut.
“No?”
“No, I mean yes.”
“Yes?” Bakugou is scowling at him again, but Todoroki knows Bakugou-speak, so he knows this is the fond kind of scowl where the other boy is trying not to show that he’s actually happy about something.
“Yeah. I’ll—“ go out with you, is what Todoroki means to say, but then the reality of this entire situation catches up with him in one fell swoop and unbidden he feels heat—starting from his cheeks and rapidly spreading all down his left side. He smells smoke, eyes going wide. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait, what—“
“Goodnight,” he says, and slams the door shut.
—
Bakugou: you’re a lunatic, you know that? [sent 12:43]
Bakugou: meet me out front at seven [sent 12:49]
Bakugou: (and you gave me shit for jumping out a window…) [sent 1:02]
—
In the morning, Todoroki discretely tosses the remains of his singed sleep shirt into the garbage. It’s a shame; he’d really liked that one.
—
In the absence of a competition to keep him distracted (though, for the record, Bakugou definitely won), Bakugou spends most of Saturday meticulously going through every potential disaster route, every hypothetical worst case scenario their date could endure. Best to keep expectations low, Bakugou thinks. And then, when the nerves build too high he switches tracks, instead going through every possible outfit combination he could wear that night.
It’s going smoothly, considering, until his traitorous brain decides to derail him with all the potential outfits Todoroki might be wearing. There’s enough of a range there—Bakugou’s been wary of Todoroki’s fashion sense ever since he debuted his first hero outfit back in 1-A—that by the time he settles on an outfit and glances at the clock it’s nearly time to meet Todoroki downstairs.
He brushes his teeth, thorough and aggressively (it’s a date, okay?) then slips into a pair of jeans, pulling a t-shirt over his head. It’s only once he reaches for his button-up that he realizes there’s a problem.
Wrinkles.
He glances between the creased shirt, the clock on the wall, and the iron sitting patiently on the bathroom counter—it’s already hot, but he’d gotten distracted and now he’s out of time.
“Fuck it,” he mutters, slipping the shirt over his shoulders and buttoning it with nimble fingers. He glares at his reflection in he mirror, the nerves and now the anxiety at being late leaving a flush high on a cheekbones, then shifts his focus to the offending wrinkle.
If he’s careful, he thinks as he reaches for the iron with one hand, the other pulling the fabric of his shirt taut and away from his torso, It’s just one fuckin’ wrinkle…
“MOTHERFUCKER.”
—
Bakugou makes it to the common area two minutes before their meeting time, and Todoroki is already standing by the door waiting for him.
Oh, his mind supplies helpfully. The neat blue button down and white pants weren’t one of the combinations his anxious mind had come up with. They’re better.
Todoroki looks over from the window and spots him by the stairs. “Oh,” he says, and Bakugou has to take a second to breathe at that, to push down the bubble of laughter that wants to escape. Fuck, is this how it’s supposed to feel?
He manages to keep his composure as he crosses the room, Todoroki watching him every step of the way. The other boy isn’t smiling this time, but Bakugou’s not bothered; he likes the look in Todoroki’s eyes when he watches him almost as much.
“Icy Hot,” he greets, coming to a halt closer than is probably necessary but—date.
“Bakugou,” Todoroki returns, sweeping a quick look over him before it’s back to his eyes. “You look…” he trails off, and there’s the small twitch of a smile that Bakugou is getting so used to.
“Yeah,” Bakugou coughs, glancing away at the heat he feels on his cheeks. “You too.”
Todoroki ducks his head and snorts, a small, helpless sound of amusement as if his mirth couldn’t be contained in his body one moment longer. He’s flushed too.
“So…” Todoroki leads, “should we go?”
Bakugou nods. “Yeah, I’m starving.”
It should’ve been fine from there; that was it—the hardest part was over. But then Bakugou goes left when Todoroki goes right and since they’re both still facing each other they collide in the middle in a tangle of limbs and chests and somewhere in the tangle Todoroki’s elbow digs into the blond’s side.
“Fuck!” Bakugou practically yelps, jerking back at the unexpected sting. His hand hovers over his waist protectively; he can feel the heat coming off his skin even through two layers of shirt.
“Are you all right?” Todoroki asks, hands up and outstretched cautiously. “I—did I hit you that hard?”
All at once the mortification from earlier rises back up; it’s possible Bakugou is the color of his shirt, but he doesn’t dare glance at his reflection to check.
“No, fuck,” Bakugou rushes to correct, because Todoroki looks like he might get genuinely upset at having hurt Bakugou unintentionally (not that he has any problem laying on the bruises during hero training). “It’s not you, I just…” he rolls his eyes skyward, as if the ceiling could help guide him out of this mess. “Burned myself… earlier…”
When Todoroki’s wide-eyed look gives no sign of lessening at that, he sighs and finishes.
“… with an iron.”
Bakugou waits for a reaction. Laughter, most likely. An insult, some teasing. Even more concern isn’t out of the question, honestly.
What Bakugou does not expect is for Todoroki to lift his hands to the pretty blue collar and, button by button, begin to undo his shirt.
“Whoa!” The exclamation bursts from his throat. He thinks he might be going into shock. “What the fuck are you doing right now?”
Todoroki hums a distracted sound, undoes the last button before spreading his shirt wide.
Abs. Abs, and hips, and chest. Bakugou knows what Todoroki looks like, has seen him in far greater states of undress over their years in school, but somehow this—pale skin half-covered by a mundane button down—is infinitely more devastating.
He blames that for why it takes him so long to realize Todoroki is pointing to something.
“See?” he’s saying, “Look.” As if Bakugou isn’t already looking—
Wait.
There, an angry red against the pale skin over Todoroki’s right pec, is the near perfect imprint of an iron.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Bakugou mutters, staring at the burn, and before he knows it he’s undoing his own buttons, tugging his t-shirt untucked and up and—
There, pressed to the curve of his ribs on the left side of his torso, still throbbing hot to the touch, is a near perfect twin to the burn on Todoroki’s chest.
“We match,” Todoroki points out—completely unhelpfully, Bakugou thinks.
“Did you—how?” he asks, even though he has a fair guess.
“My shirt was wrinkled,” Todoroki shrugs, which is far more distracting gesture when your shirt is hanging open
“Did you run out of time getting ready, too?”
“No,” Todoroki replies, matter-of-fact. “I just already had it fully buttoned.“
“Oh my god.”
“It was only one wrinkle,” Todoroki protests, as if he still thinks his logic was fully justified.
Bakugou can’t exactly call him out on that one.
“Do you need to go to the nurse?” he asks instead, and Todoroki blinks at him, owl-like in surprise.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Good,” Bakugou states, tugging his t-shirt down but leaving the other unbuttoned. “Then let’s go. You’re buying me ramen.”
He turns to the door and Todoroki follows automatically, doing absolutely nothing to cover himself up.
“Aaah! How helpless are you? Button up your shirt for fuck’s sake, do you want to flash the whole world?!” he complains, then proceeds to step close and do up Todoroki’s buttons for himself. “There,” he mumbles when he does up the last one, fingers ghosting over Todoroki’s throat.
“Thank you,” Todoroki says, sounding stunned, and Bakugou covers up his pleased smirk by turning away.
Before he steps out the door he reaches a hand behind him blindly, expectantly. Todoroki’s palm slips into his after only a moment, fingers lacing together, and together they push open the door.
—
“—All students, it has come to the faculty’s attention that MULTIPLE CASES of appliance misuse have been reported at the nurse’s office. From this point forward all irons will be held for communal use under the supervision of a class representative—”