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Kirishima suppresses another shiver. Gods it’s cold.
Rubbing his arms to stimulate some warmth, his cloudy sigh dissolves into the air. Where is he? He’s been standing here for — a glance at his watch — almost half an hour. His worry about leaving his phone in that shady takoyaki joint grows.
Right as he considers this ordeal a bust, he hears it: the clink of buckles. Heavy, snow-crunching foot falls. A familiar pair of combat boots step into light.
“Finally,” the teen says, chuckling despite his prior anxiety. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you weren’t showing up! But remind me again why you chose an alley of all places?”
Shaking off lingering snow from his shoulders, Bakugou snorts derisively. “Oh, yeah, because a mall or restaurant is much more inconspicuous. Especially for a wanted guy.”
Point there. “It doesn’t need to be public.” Kirishima fiddles with his hair, tucks his chin into his scarf. “I’m just saying — a warehouse would be better. My nose’s frozen.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Says the one with his tits out all the fucking time.” Before Kirishima can defend himself, he procures a manilla folder from his heavy-duty coat, which is a deep green that looks black in the dim lighting. “Here.”
Kirishima straightens quickly. Right. They’re not here for banter, no matter how familiar he wants to become with it. “Thanks.” Taking the folder, he speculates what critical information is inside. Another LOV base? More underground networks? Whatever it is, Kirishima wishes it could be handed to the pros directly, but he knows why that won’t happen. (Still, it’s getting harder to find creative ways to sneak the pieces among his teachers’ things. They grow more vigilant by the minute.)
The peek of white around Bakugou’s wrist as his hand returns to his pocket snags his attention. Kirishima frowns. Somehow he knows it isn’t a sleeve. “You’re hurt.”
Bakugou’s shoulders stiffen and his gaze settles just past his face. Bingo. “It’s fine.”
“Is it bad?” he asks, taking a step forward. Bakugou steps back.
“I said it’s fine,” he growls. “Are we done here or what?”
The blond turns on his heel, his intentions clear, but Kirishima doesn’t move. Barely registers how the folder warps under his fingers, bending its contents. “Bakugou,” he starts, “you can’t keep doing this.”
Bakugou pauses. “Doing what?”
Kirishima steps closer. “Destroying yourself.” Bakugou shoots him an irritated yet puzzled look. “It — I mean, who are you trying to prove yourself to?”
Kirishima almost takes the question back when his expression shifts to anger. He doesn’t.
Bakugou Katsuki is an enigma, and what goes on inside his head is a burning mystery. He has all the makings of a hero: strong, strategic, agile, and a flashy quirk to boot. But he’s also much more of a brawler than an ally. Kirishima noticed it back at USJ, and during the Sports Festival, and the whispered recounts of his and Midoiya’ final exam performance — before the blond received a suspension in warning. Any time Kirishima feels like he’s cracked the root of him, the puzzle shatters into new jagged pieces. But lately, his understanding of the other teen grows, no matter how much Bakugou tries to maintain anonymity.
The media, Kirishima’s classmates, hero society — they make the same assumptions about Bakugou. That he’s finally snapped; made his descent into the Shigaraki’s demented group; totally and completely lost his mind.
Kirishima disagrees. Bakugou, himself, hasn’t changed. His desire to be the best — to be number one — is still there. What has changed is his methods.
Methods that put him near the top of the HPSC’s watch list.
And considering the number of times Kirishima’s met up with Bakugou since he denounced U.A., he’s as good as an accomplice. It doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should.
Bakugou faces him, face contorted into a scowl. “What the fuck are you on about? I ain’t tryna prove anything.”
“But you are,” Kirishima stresses. His fingers are numb, his phone is likely long gone by now, and he wants to understand. “Maybe it’s U.A., the country, or even yourself, but this? This isn’t working! Brutalizing villains and even some heroes one moment and — and giving me these secrets the next.” He huffs. ”Do you think any of this actually makes you a better hero?”
“I’m already a better hero,” Bakugou sneers. “A hero who’s getting things done, unlike some chumps that do nothing but flash their quirk and sit on their asses. How many shitheads have I thrown into Tartarus, huh? How much quieter have the streets been since I stepped onto the scene? How much better have things gotten?”
Kirishim shakes his head. “Because people are afraid of you.” Frustrated, he runs his hand through his hair. “And now there’re rumors about bounty on your head —”
“So what!” Bakugou throws his arms out, tiny crackles emitting from his palms. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Those higher-up asswipes just don’t wanna face the truth: that I’m right. That being on the offense — ending the big battles — matters more than anything. People are gonna see I’m right when villain scum are too scared to even consider coming out! Then they can’t call me a —”
Suddenly his mouth shuts. Kirishima knows what came next.
“A villain..?”
Bakugou’s eyes flash. “I am not a — ! ”
Kirishima brings up his hands, palms facing out. “You’re not!” he says, eyes darting to the entrance of the alley, worried his volume will attract somehow. “I know you’re not.”
And he means it. Bakugou is a lot of things — and some aren’t manly — but a villain isn’t one of them. Although… he’s not exactly a hero either. Of course the redhead isn’t so foolish as to say that, but he’s thought about it.
All that power and strategy, completely overshadowed by his stubbornness regarding his shortcomings.
Bakugou straightens with a satisfied grunt. Tension lingers in his shoulders, but it’s nothing like the aggression from before. “Good,” he says, like Kirishima’s opinion even matters. Said with such finality, Kirishima imagines he’s ready to turn around again and disappear into the shadows. Until their next rendezvous, after he’s learned a bit more. If Kirishima were smart, he'd let him go — it's suspicious how long he's been waiting for his "food."
Instead he hears himself say, “It’s not too late, y’know, to come back.”
The look Bakugou gives him, like he’s grown a dozen heads, is so comical Kirishima could laugh. If he wasn’t aware of the landmine he’s stepping into. If he wasn’t, admittedly, a little desperate.
“And people say I’m crazy,” he spits. “You’ve lost your fuckin’ mind.”
“There’s still a chance for you to salvage your attendance at U.A. —”
“Weren’t you the one who just told me these fuckers might put out a notice to take me down?”
“To arrest you,” Kirishima stresses.
“To control me,” Bakuou retorts, and the hardness to his eyes tells Kirishima he is rapidly losing him. “Well, fuck them. They can’t tell me what to do. I don’t have to listen to them or anyone. Not anymore.”
“You listened to me once.” His voice is quiet. If he closes his eyes, he can feel the summer air whipping against his cheek. Iida and Midoriya’s arms wrapped around him. The urgency in his chest, clawing out of his throat as he cried out into the night. “You took my hand.”
That’s one thing Kirishima doesn’t understand: being Bakugou’s exceptions. He’s not the strongest in the class, nor the bravest or swiftest or flashiest. Yet somehow there’s a place reserved for him inside the teen’s mind, prompting several meet-ups with the rogue hero just like this one.
It makes him feel special, this ballistic and efficient — and that’s a dangerous train of thought to follow.
But even this special treatment has a limit. Bakugou presses his lips together, body wound up from the mention of Kamino. This time, when he turns, Kirishima doesn’t call out for him, knowing nothing else will persuade him to stay. To consider.
Bakugou’s parting words linger in the air, more biting than the freezing wind:
“And it won’t happen again.”