Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There was nothing quite like getting body-slammed by gravity itself to really drive home that you were not, in fact, built like All Might.  

Sero hit the ground hard—shoulder first, followed by the embarrassing thud of his whole body tumbling into a roll that wasn’t nearly as cool as it looked in his head. He could already feel the ache blooming in his wrist before he’d even stopped moving.  

"Yo, you good?" Kirishima called out, jogging over with concern written all over his face.  

Sero lay there for a second, staring up at the sky. "Define ‘good,’ bro."  

“Ah shit, that looked rough,” Kaminari said, crouching beside him.  

Sero sat up with a wince and cradled his wrist, rotating it slowly. It wasn’t broken. Probably. But it felt like someone had twisted it around and then smacked it for fun.  

Bakugou, of course, stood a few feet away with his arms crossed, looking deeply unimpressed. “That’s what you get for doing that dumbass spin in the air. What are you, a figure skater?”  

"It would’ve worked if I’d stuck the landing,” Sero muttered.  

“You didn’t.”  

"Yeah, thanks, I noticed."  

Aizawa’s voice rang out from the other end of the field, casually deadpan. "Sero, go see Recovery Girl before you start losing circulation."  

"Right, right," Sero sighed, getting to his feet with help from Kirishima. "Guess I’m out for the rest of the session."  

Bakugou didn’t even look at him. “Good. Less people to dodge.”  

Sero flipped him off with his good hand, which just made Bakugou smirk.  

-----  

Recovery Girl’s office was too bright and smelled vaguely of antiseptic and lemon candy. She clucked at him like a disappointed aunt when she saw the swelling already forming at his wrist.  

“You kids think you’re invincible,” she muttered, pressing cool fingers against his arm. “At least you’re not in here too often, that other boy from your class.” She shook her head as she spoke, Sero didn’t even have to ask who she was talking about.  

The kiss she planted on his wrist made his whole arm tingle, magic zipping up through his elbow and flooding the injury with that weird warm numbness that meant it was already starting to heal. He flexed his fingers, testing it.  

"Thanks, ma'am. You're the best."  

“You’ll still be sore for a day or two," she warned, wagging a finger at him. "Try not to use it for anything strenuous."  

Sero gave her a mock salute with his left hand. “No problem. Gonna coast on this and make everyone carry my stuff.”  

She snorted.  

He walked back to the dorms cradling his wrist and humming to himself, already trying to decide what snack he was going to emotionally blackmail Kaminari into buying him later.  

By the time he reached the common room, the ache in his arm was already dulling down to something manageable. The soreness was there—just enough to remind him that he messed up—but Recovery Girl was magic, literally.  

As he opened the door and spotted the rest of the squad sprawled across the couches, he caught Bakugou’s eye.  

“You still walking?” the blonde asked, clearly disappointed.  

Sero flopped into a seat beside him. “Barely. But don’t worry, man, I’ll stay out of your way next time I throw myself at the ground like it owes me money.”  

Bakugou snorted. “You’re lucky you didn’t snap your arm in two. You land like a drunk flamingo.”  

“Alright, alright, roast me later. My wrist’s still tender.”  

“You’re tender.”  

Kaminari laughed, already reaching into a snack bag and tossing a chip at Bakugou, who swatted it away like it personally offended him.  

Sero smiled, leaning back into the couch and letting the familiar rhythm of banter take over. His wrist throbbed dully, but it wasn’t enough to kill his mood. Not when the evening promised snacks, terrible jokes, and the general chaos that came from gathering the Bakusquad in one room.  

He figured he’d milk the injury a bit for sympathy, maybe get someone else to roll for once—  

He didn’t know yet that that was going to become a whole thing .  

-----  

The lights in Sero’s dorm room were low, his Bluetooth speaker humming with some lo-fi playlist Kaminari insisted made him smarter. The floor was scattered with snacks—half-eaten chips, candy wrappers, a questionable tub of hummus Mina had brought for some reason—and the squad was sprawled wherever they fit.  

Sero was curled up on his bed, his sore wrist draped across a pillow. He had a heating pack wedged between his elbow and his ribs. It helped a little.  

Kaminari was on the floor, back propped against Sero’s dresser. “Honestly, bro, that fall today? Traumatizing. For all of us.”  

“You practically fell over just watching it happen,” Jirou said from the beanbag, not looking up from her phone.  

“Exactly. Emotional trauma,” Kaminari said, then dramatically pressed a hand to his heart. “We should do something chill. Unwind. Light one up, maybe?”  

Sero blinked. “Are you seriously using me getting injured to justify smoking?”  

“Hey, I didn’t say it. You did.”  

Kirishima chuckled. “He’s been hinting at it since we got back from training.”  

Bakugou, slouched near the window with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, rolled his eyes. “You morons are incapable of chilling without killing brain cells?”  

“Sometimes you need help to relax, man,” Mina said, tossing a mini chocolate bar at him. He caught it reflexively, looked at it like it offended him, and lobbed it back.  

Sero stretched out his legs and reached into the drawer of his bedside table. “I was gonna roll one anyway. Don’t act like you’re not gonna smoke it.”  

He pulled out his little tin, opened it with one hand, and stared at it for a beat. He was sure grinding part he could do just fine. It was the rolling that might suck with his wrist fucked up. He sat up, braced the edge of the paper between his fingers—and hissed.  

“Shit. Okay. That’s not happening.” He glanced at his wrist. Still a little swollen. Recovery Girl had said “don’t push it,” and this definitely counted as pushing it.  

He sighed, flopped the materials onto his duvet, and looked up. “Okay. Someone else has to do it.”  

Mina perked up immediately. “Oooh! I wanna try!”  

“Oh god,” Bakugou muttered.  

Sero handed her the papers and the rest. “You better not waste it. This stuff wasn’t cheap.”  

She grinned confidently—then two minutes later was holding a sad, droopy attempt that looked more like a misshapen tamale than a joint. She held it up for everyone to see.  

“Behold. My masterpiece.”  

“It’s crying,” Jirou said flatly.  

“It’s… expressive,” Mina offered.  

Bakugou made a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “It’s pathetic.”  

“Alright, your turn, sparky,” Sero said, tossing the materials to Kaminari.  

“I got this,” Kaminari said with all the conviction of someone who absolutely did not got this . His fingers fumbled immediately. Bits of green spilled onto the blanket, the paper stuck to his fingers, and by the end he was glaring down at something that looked like it had been assembled by a raccoon.  

“Oh come on,” he groaned, holding it up. “This looks like it’s been chewed.”  

“Did you drool on it?” Kirishima asked, leaning in with wide eyes.  

“Dude, no ! I—okay maybe I breathed too hard.”  

Sero was laughing now, his whole body shaking. Even with his wrist still aching, this was too good. “You are never allowed to judge my handwriting again.”  

Kirishima took the supplies next. He was surprisingly focused—tongue poking out in concentration, fingers working with practiced intent. But even he struggled, and after a few tense minutes, he let out a breath.  

“It’s okay,” he said, holding it up. “Right?”  

Everyone collectively tilted their heads.  

“It’s like… mid,” Jirou offered kindly.  

“I’d smoke it,” Mina said. “But I wouldn’t Instagram it.”  

Bakugou, who had been silently judging from his corner, finally huffed. “You’re all idiots.”  

Denki turned to him, clearly over it. “Okay, then you do it, Mr. Perfect.”  

Bakugou didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the group for a second, like he was debating whether or not it was worth the effort. Then, with a heavy sigh that somehow managed to sound like both annoyance and boredom, he stood up and crossed the room.  

Sero blinked. “Wait, are you actually—?”  

Bakugou dropped onto the edge of the bed, grabbed the rolling tray and the supplies without saying a word. His fingers moved fast, methodical. No hesitation. He didn’t even look down the entire time. In less than thirty seconds, there it was—perfectly packed, tightly rolled, the kind of clean craftsmanship you’d expect from a tutorial video.  

He set it down in the centre of the tray like it was nothing.  

Silence.  

Absolute, stunned silence.  

Sero stared.  

Kaminari's jaw dropped.  

Mina clapped a hand over her mouth.  

Jirou leaned forward, squinting. “Did you just—?”  

“Shut up,” Bakugou muttered.  

“No, no, hold on ,” Kaminari said, pointing. “You. The guy who goes to bed at 8 o’clock every night. Can roll ?”  

“Where did you learn to do that?” Mina asked, eyes wide.  

“Does it matter ?” Bakugou snapped.  

“Yes,” everyone said in unison.  

Sero leaned forward, still trying to process what just happened. “That was, like… scary good , man.”  

Bakugou shrugged. “I’m good at everything.”  

“Oh my god,” Kaminari muttered. “He’s that guy.”  

Mina was still staring. “I feel like I just saw a unicorn do taxes.”  

“Okay but like— when did you learn this?” Kirishima asked, completely thrown. “You don’t even smoke that often.”  

Bakugou looked vaguely murderous. “Why do you care?”  

“Because we’ve known you for almost a year and you just unlocked a hidden skill tree ,” Jirou said, still half in disbelief.  

Sero flopped back onto his pillow, cradling his wrist. “Man, what else are you secretly cracked at?”  

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Bakugou muttered.  

And then, like nothing had happened, he sat back in his corner again—arms crossed, face grumpy, like he hadn’t just shattered everyone’s perception of him in thirty seconds flat.  

Sero exchanged a glance with Kaminari, who whispered, “This is gonna haunt me.”  

“Same.”  

And it really, really would.  

Chapter Text

The sun was beating down like it had a grudge.  

Denki splayed out on the warm pavement of Ground Beta, one arm flung dramatically over his face. The concrete should’ve been unbearable, but he wasn’t about to move. Not with the breeze barely existing and the music Sero had queued up pulsing just right through the speaker. The UA training grounds were technically off-limits on weekends, but they'd gotten Aizawa’s grunted permission under the condition that nobody ended up in Recovery Girl’s office again. Denki counted that as a win.  

Mina had bailed last minute for a salon appointment, and Jirou was stuck at home helping her mom fix their sound system, but the boys had still made it out. Sero was sitting cross-legged on his board, messing with the laces on his beat-up sneakers. Kirishima was halfway up the stadium steps with a giant bottle of water and Bakugou… well, Bakugou had shown up, which was still kind of shocking.  

He hadn’t said anything about it either, just grunted when Kirishima texted “u coming?” and showed up in shorts, sleeveless hoodie, and his usual air of barely-contained disdain. Currently, he was perched a couple steps above Kirishima, back against the railing, arms folded and scowl firmly in place like the summer heat personally offended him.  

Denki peeked out from under his arm. “I’m melting.”  

“No you’re not,” Sero said. “You’re dramatic.”  

“I could be melting. You don’t know my life.”  

“You’re loud, that’s what you are,” Bakugou muttered from the stairs.  

Denki flipped him off without looking. “Love you too, sunshine.”  

That earned a dry snort from Kirishima, who tossed his water bottle down. Denki missed the catch, because of course he did, and it bounced off his leg before rolling to a stop against Sero’s foot.  

“Nice,” Sero said. “Reflexes of a king.”  

“Shut up,” Denki groaned, propping himself up on his elbows. “You teaching me or what?”  

Sero grinned and turned his deck over with a practiced flick. “You sure you’re ready to embarrass yourself in front of your friends?”  

Denki sat up straighter, despite the sweat sticking his shirt to his back. “I’m ready to grow as a person.”  

“You’re gonna grow into a bruise.”  

“Let the man try,” Kirishima called, grinning.  

Bakugou made a sound that could’ve meant anything from agreement to you’re all idiots , but didn’t move. He looked like he was only half-listening, eyes tracking a cloud lazily drifting overhead. Denki was ninety percent sure he didn’t actually want to be here and was only tolerating their existence because Kirishima had asked.  

Still, he hadn’t left. And that counted for something.  

Sero tossed the other board toward Denki, who barely caught it. “Alright, you ready for Ollie 101?”  

“Absolutely not,” Denki said, already trying to figure out where to put his feet. “Let’s do this.”  

From the stairs, Bakugou finally spoke, just loud enough to carry. “Try not to break your face.”  

Denki glanced back at him, grinning wide. “Don’t blink, Blasty. You might miss history in the making.”  

Bakugou didn’t dignify that with a response, but Denki caught the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.  

He was taking that as a win.  

-----  

“Okay, foot here, and the other one… like this?” Kaminari squinted down at the skateboard like it had personally offended him.  

“Back foot on the tail, front foot near the bolts,” Sero said patiently. “Then you pop, slide, jump. Simple.”  

“That’s not simple. That’s like, four steps at once. You know what else is four steps? Grief.”  

“Bro, it’s muscle memory. You just gotta commit.”  

Kaminari bent his knees like he was preparing to go to war. “I am so committed. I’m engaged to this ollie.”  

“Sure you are,” Sero muttered.  

Denki inhaled. Popped. Slid-ish. Jumped. And immediately forgot what his limbs were supposed to be doing. The board shot out from under him like it was fleeing a crime scene, and Denki went flailing backwards with a shout, arms windmilling like a cartoon character caught in a tornado.  

“Jesus—!”  

He landed with a graceless thud , legs in the air for a second before he flopped onto his stomach.  

“Holy crap,” Sero said, running over. “You okay?”  

“Never better,” Denki wheezed into the pavement. “Tell my story.”  

Up the steps, the skateboard clattered loudly to a stop just a few feet from Bakugou’s boots.  

Bakugou, who had been halfway through opening a sports drink, slowly lowered the bottle. He stared down at the board like it had personally wronged him.  

“What the hell was that?” he barked.  

Kirishima chuckled and leaned back on his elbows. “Collateral damage.”  

“I’m so sorry,” Kaminari shouted, still face down. “The board has free will now. We must respect it.”  

Bakugou kicked the board upright with one foot and gave it a shove toward the base of the stairs, where it rolled to a stop next to Sero.  

“I think I popped too hard,” Denki mumbled into the ground.  

Sero tried to bite back a laugh and failed miserably. “You popped like you were trying to escape the earth’s gravitational pull.”  

“I was . That ollie was a spiritual experience.”  

“You got possessed .”  

Kaminari rolled over dramatically, flinging an arm across his forehead. “And the demon was bad at skating .”  

Bakugou muttered something under his breath and stood, dusting off his shorts. “You losers are exhausting.”  

He walked down the steps like the board was an insult he was about to correct personally. Kirishima looked between the board and Bakugou with a little knowing smirk.  

“Oh no ,” Sero said, pulling his phone out. “He’s gonna show off. I’m getting this on video.”  

Kaminari, still splayed like a tragic hero, squinted up at him. “If he does something cool, I’m gonna scream.”  

Sero grinned. “Start warming up your vocal cords.”  

Bakugou tilted his head side to side, neck cracking with a sound too loud to be normal. He grabbed the skateboard in one hand, gave it a once-over like he was inspecting a weapon, and then rolled his eyes like he couldn’t believe what he was about to waste his time doing.  

“You’re not actually gonna—” Kaminari started, but Sero hushed him like they were watching a sacred ritual.  

Bakugou dropped the board to the concrete with a clack that echoed in the stillness. The music playing from Sero’s speaker thudded low and rhythmic, matching the rising tension in Kaminari’s chest as Bakugou stepped back and adjusted his stance.  

Then—  

Push. Push.  

He picked up speed toward the stairs like it was nothing, like he wasn’t about to attempt something most of them would absolutely die trying.  

Kaminari scrambled to sit up, elbowing Sero in the ribs. “Are you getting this?! Are you—”  

“ Shut up, I’m filming! ”  

Bakugou crouched low as he neared the stairs, weight shifting like a wave ready to break. Then he popped—sharp and clean—his back foot slamming the tail of the board while the front dragged up just enough to carry him into the air.  

And then—  

Grind.  

The trucks locked perfectly onto the stair rail, sparking faintly as he slid down in a low crouch, arms out just enough for balance. No flailing. No hesitation. Just precise, calculated movement.  

He hit the base and popped again, flicking his foot with a twist—  

Kickflip.  

The board spun under him, clean, effortless. He landed like it was second nature, knees softening on impact, and cruised out into the clearing with barely a wobble.  

Silence.  

Then chaos.  

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Kaminari shrieked, clutching both sides of his face like he’d witnessed a miracle.  

Sero nearly dropped his phone. “I GOT IT. I GOT THE WHOLE THING. I AM AN ARCHIVIST OF HISTORY.”  

Kirishima whooped from the stairs, laughing like a kid who’d just watched someone break a piñata with a single hit. “ Bakugou! Dude, what the hell was that ?!”  

Bakugou kicked the board up into his hand without even looking and started walking back, scowling like they were the ones being extra.  

“Relax,” he muttered. “It’s not that hard.”  

“ Not that hard?! ” Denki staggered to his feet like he’d just emerged from the wreckage of his own pride. “I almost died doing a bunny hop!”  

“You almost died trying to bunny hop,” Bakugou corrected, stepping over him on his way back to the stairs.  

Sero was still watching the video on loop, mouth open in disbelief. “You said you hated skating.”  

“I do ,” Bakugou said flatly.  

“So why are you good at it?!”  

Bakugou shrugged like it was obvious. “Was bored one summer. Figured it out.”  

“That’s illegal,” Kaminari said, pointing accusingly. “You can’t just be good at everything. Pick a lane.”  

Bakugou snorted. “I did. You’re the one flailing into traffic.”  

Sero groaned like he’d just witnessed the fall of civilization. “How are we all this useless next to him? He’s just casually out here skating like he’s not been out of practice—”  

Bakugou paused at the top of the stairs, board under one arm. “Bit rusty,” he muttered, almost to himself.  

Kirishima looked up at him, brows raised. “ Rusty ?”  

Bakugou didn’t respond. Just grabbed his drink, and acted like he hadn’t just dunked on all of them without breaking a sweat.  

Kaminari collapsed onto the ground again. “I’m gonna start lying about knowing you,” he mumbled.  

Bakugou just cracked open his drink and took a long sip. “You think I tell people I hang out with you ?”  

It didn’t take long for Sero to recover from the spiritual wound of being shown up in his own element. He got to his feet, cracked his neck with exaggerated drama, and pointed directly at Bakugou.  

“Alright. You wanna be that guy? Fine. You versus me. Right here. Right now.”  

Bakugou raised a brow, unimpressed. “You serious?”  

“Deadly,” Sero said, climbing onto his own board with a mock salute. “I refuse to let the narrative end like this.”  

Kaminari flopped back onto the ground and threw an arm over his eyes. “God, it’s happening. This is my Roman Colosseum.”  

“Bro,” Kirishima called out, grinning from the stairs. “Winner gets a cold soda.”  

“I have four,” Sero said immediately.  

Bakugou shrugged, already stepping back onto the board. “Fine. Don’t cry about it later.”  

What followed was ten minutes of complete nonsense. Sero popped clean ollies and nose manuals while narrating his own tricks like a sportscaster with a god complex. Bakugou matched him without saying a word, landing everything with that annoying, fluid ease—half-serious, half-like he wasn’t even trying.  

Kaminari did his part as the totally biased commentator, sitting on the ground and pretending he had a mic.  

“Sero sets up for the legendary backside 180,” he said dramatically as Sero launched into the air. “He lands it with grace! The crowd goes wild! But wait—what’s this?! The blonde menace approaches!”  

Bakugou answered with a shuvit into a heel-flip, landing so perfectly that Sero stopped rolling and raised both hands.  

“Okay, that was sick. But it’s fine. We all have our moments.”  

Bakugou finally smirked. It was small—barely there—but real. Even let out a quiet huff of a laugh when Sero tripped over his own board trying to show off.  

Kaminari blinked, caught off-guard by the sound. It wasn’t Bakugou’s usual barking-laughter-while-mocking-them tone. It was… kinda light?  

“You’re not bad,” Sero said, brushing off his jeans. “Little rusty on the balance, though.”  

“Yeah,” Bakugou said absently, toeing his board straight again. “Haven’t done this in years.”  

Denki sat up straighter.  

Years?  

When Bakugou said he was rusty, Kaminari would’ve guessed at most a couple months. He watched Bakugou roll backward without missing a beat, facing them with the board under his feet like he’d never stopped skating. It looked like something natural. Like it was something he’d used to do a lot.  

Yet it was something none of them had ever seen.  

Kaminari leaned back on his elbows and squinted up at the sky. “Years, huh,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for no one to notice.  

Bakugou wasn’t just a surprise kickflip. He was a whole folder of undisclosed information.  

Noted.  

Chapter Text

Wrangling the Bakusquad to go on a shopping trip was always an exercise in diplomacy , strategy , and emotional manipulation —three things Mina prided herself on being freakishly good at.  

“This isn’t just shopping,” she insisted, phone in one hand, group chat open, thumbs flying. “It’s vibes . It’s character development. It’s team bonding.”  

Kaminari replied instantly: 
what if i die of consumerism 

Mina ignored him and pasted a link to a vintage store she’d been stalking for weeks. They had jelly sandals, charm bracelets, a slightly cursed porcelain deer she was obsessed with.  

[Kiri] sounds cool, i’m in!! Where?? 
[Sero] only if there’s food after 
[Kaminari] ok but i’m not carrying anything  
[Bakugou] don’t include me in this shit 

That last one? Expected. The reply after?  

[Mina] it’s in the Tatooin district 
[Bakugou] what time 

…Okay.  

She blinked. 
Did he… did he just agree? Just like that? 

No snarky follow-up? No insulting emojis? Not even a single threat to blow someone up?  

Mina narrowed her eyes at her screen, chewing on the edge of her thumbnail. The others didn’t say anything, too distracted by Kaminari sending memes of melting cartoon suns to notice. But she noticed .  

Bakugou never made plans easy. He resisted on principle .  

So why was this time different?  

-----  

“ You’re welcome ,” she said aloud the next day, arms spread wide like she was presenting a very dramatic musical number, “because today’s forecast is sun, serotonin, and shopping.”  

“You sound like a t-shirt,” Sero said, stretching his arms over his head.  

“I’d wear it,” Kirishima added brightly, hoisting a drawstring bag onto his back.  

Kaminari slumped dramatically beside Mina like the heat had already claimed his soul. “If I collapse from style overload, I want you to tell my story. Say I died bravely.”  

“You’ll die because you spent all your money on one overpriced bucket hat,” Mina said.  

He gasped. “ It was textured! ”  

They walked through the metro exit into Tatooin, sunlight bouncing off the glass buildings, the sidewalk already buzzing with foot traffic. Tatooin had that odd balance of old-school and new—coffee shops with hand-painted signs next to sleek boutiques with glowing holo-ads. You could find knockoff designer shades next to artisan pickles and probably a sword shop if you turned the right corner.  

Exactly Mina’s kind of place.  

She caught Bakugou walking a few steps ahead of them, hands in his pockets, not glaring at anything in particular. He didn’t look like he was being dragged. No earphones in, no visible suffering. That in itself was suspicious.  

“You good, man?” Kirishima asked him, bumping shoulders lightly.  

Bakugou grunted in reply.  

Classic.  

Mina strolled beside them, sunglasses perched on her head, scanning the street like a queen surveying her kingdom. Behind her, Kaminari and Sero argued about whether gelato counted as hydration.  

She couldn't stop the smug little smile spreading across her face.  

The plan had worked. Everyone was here. She got the gang out on a weekend with minimal emotional damage. And Bakugou hadn’t even exploded once.  

She’d consider that a win.  

But as they passed a cluster of ivy-covered shops tucked between two crumbling apartment buildings, Mina flicked a quick glance at Bakugou again.  

There was something weirdly calm about him.  

She didn’t know what she was expecting—but it definitely wasn’t this .  

And it definitely made her more curious.  

-----  

The main street of Tatooin had that chaotic energy Mina lived for—music from open shop doors spilling into the sidewalk, a guy on a hoverboard playing smooth jazz, a dog in a sun hat. The group moved like a loose cluster, breaking off to poke through racks or argue about whether vintage tees should count as collector’s items.  

Sero and Kaminari veered into a shop called Blitzed that sold nothing but sunglasses and patches. Kirishima paused at a ramen stall, already holding a sample cup and looking betrayed when no one else joined him.  

Mina let her steps slow, eyes scanning a narrow alley squeezed between a secondhand bookstore and a store claiming to sell “authentic antique perfume.” She wouldn’t have seen the little shop if she hadn’t caught the glint of something sparkly in the dusty window.  

The shop didn’t even have a sign. Just a cracked green door with a bell above it and display shelves full of chaos: faded glass bottles, wooden clocks with tangled gears, an unsettling amount of clown figurines.  

Which meant, obviously, that was the one .  

She pushed the door open, the bell giving a warbled ding , and stepped into a room that smelled like cinnamon and a thrift store’s backroom. It was dim, but sun filtered in through a crack in the curtain and caught on something behind the counter.  

A glass jar, half-filled with costume jewelry.  

Mina’s heart did a little cartwheel.  

She drifted toward it, hands already twitching. The jar was a mess—tangled necklaces, brooches shaped like stars and moons, earrings missing pairs. Glittery. Chaotic. Completely irresistible.  

She picked it up, turning it over in her hands, watching rhinestones catch the light. A jelly ring that looked like candy fell against the glass. Sold. Absolutely sold.  

There was a tiny, faded tag on the bottom: ¥3200  

“Huh,” she murmured, doing some mental math. “Kinda steep, but…”  

“What the hell are you paying that much for?”  

Mina yelped.  

Bakugou had materialized behind her like some aggressive thrift-store ghost, peering over her shoulder with a full-body frown.  

“You trying to get scammed?” he muttered, jabbing a finger at the tag like it personally insulted him. “Half that shit’s bent. That one's missing stones. You can buy that kind of crap by the kilo online.”  

She turned, eyes wide, ready to shush him— please, this is a small business —but the old woman behind the counter let out a delighted gasp.  

“ Katsuki-chan? ”  

Mina blinked.  

Bakugou’s posture didn’t shift, but there was something almost imperceptible about the way his shoulders twitched.  

“Didn’t think I’d see you again this summer,” the woman said, rounding the counter with surprising speed. She was tiny, wrapped in about four layers of floral fabric, her white hair swept into a frizz halo. “Still loud as ever. You haven’t scared off all your friends yet?”  

Bakugou clicked his tongue. “I’m workin’ on it.”  

The woman laughed and patted his arm like he was her favorite delinquent grandson. “Dehisa said you’d be around. You’re still living nearby?”  

“‘Course I am,” he muttered. “Told him not to tell people.”  

Mina stood frozen with the jar still in her hands, trying to catch up. 
Hold on. What? 

The old lady turned to her next. “You’re with him, then? What a sweet girl.”  

“Oh—I—um—yeah,” Mina stammered, because how do you explain friendship dynamics involving explosions and emotional repression to someone’s grandmother figure?  

“Well, since you’re with Katsuki, I’ll give you the jar for ¥800,” she said cheerfully, and Mina felt her soul briefly leave her body.  

Bakugou didn’t even react. He was already poking through a bowl of cufflinks with narrowed eyes.  

“Th—thank you!” Mina said, fumbling with her wallet, still slightly dazed.  

Outside, sunlight hit her full in the face again, the jar clutched to her chest, glittering. The rest of the group hadn’t even noticed she’d vanished. Kirishima had two bowls of ramen now. Sero was wearing three pairs of sunglasses.  

But all Mina could think about was the way Bakugou hadn’t reacted.  

He hadn’t denied knowing the woman. Hadn’t scowled through it or stormed out. He’d just… let it happen.  

And that tiny shift in his shoulders?  

Not anger.  

Embarrassment.  

Maybe even something softer.  

Mina looked down at her glitterbomb jar and felt the questions pile up in her chest like jelly rings.  

Bakugou Katsuki, local menace and vintage jewelry whisperer. Who knew?  

Definitely not her.  

-----  

By the time Mina stepped back into the sun, her brain was practically short-circuiting with curiosity. The jar of vintage jewelry was cradled in her arms like a treasure chest, and she kept glancing at Bakugou as they walked back toward the main road.  

He was pretending nothing had happened, eyes forward, hands jammed in his pockets, walking like someone dared him to not acknowledge her existence.  

Mina grinned like a fox who just sniffed out a rabbit.  

“So,” she said, elbowing him lightly. “Katsuki-chan, huh?”  

Bakugou didn’t flinch, but she caught the subtle twitch at the corner of his eye.  

“She seemed to like you,” Mina pressed. “Real cozy, huh? Secret grandma energy. What, you spend summers knitting and talking stocks?”  

“Shut up,” he muttered.  

“I’m just saying! Vintage shop grandma? Discount powers unlocked? There’s lore here, Bakugou. You’ve got lore.”  

“No, I don’t.”  

Mina made a thoughtful humming noise, ignoring him entirely. “You didn’t even deny it when she called you that. Katsuki-chan . That’s adorable. That’s intimate .”  

Bakugou let out a long, slow breath through his nose like he was counting down from ten in his head.  

“And you didn’t even blow up ! She called you sweet and smacked your arm like you were six! Who are you ?”  

He didn’t look at her, but the corner of his mouth twitched just slightly—too quickly to be sure.  

Before she could launch into the next round of playful interrogation, Kirishima jogged up to them, holding what looked like a suspiciously overstuffed crepe. “Yo, what’d I miss? You two look like you’re scheming.”  

Mina perked up and pointed dramatically at Bakugou. “He has secret old ladies who love him! Like, love him. She gave me a huge discount just because he stood near me and frowned!”  

“She didn’t give you a discount because of me,” Bakugou said without turning his head. “She just felt sorry for you buying overpriced trash.”  

“She said you came back every summer!”  

“Maybe I don’t want her shop to go outta business, dumbass.”  

Kirishima blinked, then laughed. “Wait, is this, like, a hometown thing? You know her?”  

Bakugou grunted. “Whatever. It’s just a shop.”  

“You could’ve told us you were a local celebrity,” Mina said, adjusting the jar in her arms. “I’d have brought more cash.”  

Bakugou rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “You two are freaks.”  

And with that, he picked up his pace and marched ahead, clearly finished with this conversation, the street, and possibly the entire planet.  

Mina slowed a little, letting him gain some distance. The grin never left her face.  

She watched him walk—shoulders tense, head down, like he could outpace his own embarrassment if he tried hard enough.  

Then she looked at the jar in her arms again. The jelly ring on top winked at her in the sun.  

She still didn’t know who the old lady was. Or how Bakugou knew her. Or why he hadn’t just stormed out of the shop like he usually did when people got too familiar.  

But now she really wanted to.  

And that smile—the almost-smile he’d barely let slip?  

Yeah.  

There was way more to Bakugou Katsuki than he let on.  

Chapter Text

Kirishima adjusted the straps of his backpack and powered through the next incline, boots crunching against the loose gravel of the trail. The sun had barely started warming the ridgeline, and the early morning air clung to the earth with a kind of hush that felt sacred—like even the birds were holding back out of respect.  

He glanced up ahead.  

Bakugou was a little ways in front, not quite out of sight, but close. His pace wasn’t punishing on purpose—Kirishima knew that. He just didn’t slow down for anyone, either. And that was fair. Bakugou hadn’t invited him to come along. He’d just… not said no.  

Which counted, right?  

Kirishima huffed a little laugh to himself, low enough not to echo. He’d learned early on not to fill the silence too fast on these hikes. Bakugou didn’t bring music. Didn’t talk much. Didn’t even check his phone. Just walked, climbed, breathed. Like the quiet helped shake something off his shoulders. Kirishima didn’t know what—but he liked being here when it happened.  

“Still with me, Shitty Hair?” Bakugou’s voice rang out ahead, just loud enough to cut through the trees.  

“Always!” Kirishima called back, putting a little extra spring in his step even though his thighs were already aching. “You thought I was gonna tap out or something?”  

Bakugou didn’t answer, just threw him a quick glance over his shoulder—something between an eye-roll and a smirk. That was good. That meant he was in a decent mood.  

They fell back into the rhythm of footfalls and distant birdsong, the occasional rustle of small animals in the underbrush. This trail was definitely harder than the last one. Narrower, steeper, more switchbacks. They’d been out here twice before—nothing crazy, just day hikes. But this one felt like it was leading somewhere more remote. More intentional.  

Kirishima didn’t ask where they were headed. He’d stopped asking by the second hike. Bakugou would tell him if he felt like it, and if he didn’t, well—Kirishima could enjoy the mystery. It was all part of the deal.  

Still, as he ducked under a low branch and scrambled over a rocky patch, he couldn’t help grinning.  

The thing was, he didn’t need Bakugou to be chatty. He didn’t need some big emotional breakthrough every time they hung out. Just being let in like this, even in these weird, quiet, half-wild moments—it meant something. Bakugou didn’t take people places. Not unless he trusted them. Not unless he wanted them there.  

That thought alone kept Kirishima moving, even as the trail narrowed again and the incline kicked his calves into protest. He adjusted his pace just enough to stay two or three paces behind Bakugou. Not right beside him. Not crowding. Just close enough that if either of them slipped, the other would notice.  

It was a weird kind of friendship, but it worked.  

And Kirishima wasn’t about to mess it up by tripping over his own feet or trying to fill the air with too much talking. Not today.  

-----  

The trail curved into a break in the trees, opening onto a sunlit clearing hemmed in by stone and moss. Ahead of them, the ground sloped upward into a sheer cliff face, at least fifteen meters tall—jagged, pale rock veined with patches of greenery and weather-dark streaks. It didn’t look like part of any official trail. No ropes, no bolts. Just raw earth and stone daring someone to make the first move.  

Bakugou dropped his pack without ceremony and cracked his neck. “Break.”  

Kirishima sat down, still catching his breath. “This place’s kinda sick…”  

Bakugou didn’t respond. He was already pacing the base of the rock wall like he’d seen it before, hands on his hips, eyes scanning for something invisible. Then, without a word, he crouched, jumped up to grip a ledge, and started climbing.  

Kirishima blinked. “Wait—what?”  

Bakugou didn’t bother looking down. “Keep your ass there. This part’s not for morons.”  

Kirishima scrambled up to watch, heart thudding with something between adrenaline and awe. Bakugou climbed like it was muscle memory—fingers finding invisible holds, feet anchoring in places Kirishima hadn’t even noticed. His movements were efficient, compact, and entirely unshowy. If anything, it looked more like instinct than effort.  

It made something spark in Kirishima’s chest.  

“I wanna try it.”  

Bakugou didn’t answer. Just kept climbing.  

Kirishima cupped his hands. “Come on, man! You can't just show off and expect me to sit here like some side character!”  

That got a snort. Bakugou was about halfway up now. “You’ll bust your dumbass face open.”  

“I’ll be careful!” Kirishima was already unlacing his boots, the better to grip. “I’ll harden if I slip, promise.”  

There was a pause. Then Bakugou, perched like it was nothing on a jutting ledge, called down, “If you fall on me, I’m leaving your body up here.”  

Kirishima grinned. “That’s a yes!”  

Bakugou reached the top ledge and sat with his back against the sun-warmed stone. He didn’t yell down encouragement, but he didn’t yell down not to, either.  

That was enough.  

Kirishima approached the cliff with a practiced eye. He wasn’t reckless—just determined. He picked his holds carefully, tried to mimic Bakugou’s path without overthinking it. His muscles screamed a little, but he welcomed it. The height was dizzying, but the view below was cool green treetops and sunlight catching on rock. He felt powerful.  

Until his right hand slipped.  

He gasped, scrabbling—his elbow slammed into the stone and skidded, skin tearing on the way down. On instinct, his quirk activated, a flash of hardening locking his limbs in place just before gravity could win.  

“Shit,” he muttered, wincing.  

“Are you stupid?! ” Bakugou’s voice rang from above, sharp and immediate.  

“I’m fine!” Kirishima called up, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Just a little scrape!”  

“You’re bleeding. Idiot.” There was no venom in it, though—just raw, unfiltered concern masked in volume.  

Kirishima slowly made his way back down, pushing through the ache in his arm, his boots crunching onto the dirt with a graceless thud.  

Kirishima sat down with a grunt, cradling his arm, but Bakugou didn’t give him the chance to fumble through his own supplies. The other boy was already kneeling beside him, kit snapped open with all the calm urgency of someone trained for this kind of thing.  

The antiseptic stung like hell.  

“Shit—!” Kirishima flinched, but Bakugou didn’t ease up. He held Kirishima’s arm steady, his fingers surprisingly steady and gentle even as he dabbed and wiped and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like dumbass.  

Kirishima chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “Guess I got too confident, huh?”  

Bakugou didn’t respond.  

Not even a grunt.  

Kirishima glanced at him.  

The guy’s face was pinched with focus, and not a trace of his usual irritation. No, this was something else. His jaw was tight, brows drawn low, like he was trying to keep something down.  

Kirishima shifted slightly. “It’s not that bad, man. I’m all hard-headed, remember?” He flexed the fingers of his uninjured hand, giving a lopsided grin. “Built like a rock.”  

“You could’ve cracked your damn neck.”  

Bakugou said it low. Even. Not barked or shouted. Not even in that usual grumble of his.  

Just flat.  

He finished wiping the blood away and reached for gauze. “Would’ve looked real manly dead at the bottom, huh?”  

The corner of Kirishima’s mouth lifted—reflexive. “That’s one way to go out, I guess.”  

Bakugou didn’t laugh. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t even twitch.  

He just kept wrapping the gauze, methodical. Too fast. Too quiet.  

Kirishima let the smile fade.  

For a few moments, all he could hear were birds somewhere high above and the wind shifting through trees. The warmth of the morning had mellowed into a still, sticky quiet, and Bakugou’s silence felt louder than either.  

Kirishima watched him work—watched the careful way he avoided pressing too hard, how his fingers stayed steady even though his shoulders were tense as coiled springs. There was a precision in it that didn’t feel learned so much as lived. Like Bakugou knew how to do this. Like he’d done it before. More than once.  

Too many times.  

And that haunted look? Still there.  

Just under the surface, clinging to his features like a bruise no one else could see. Regret maybe, or guilt. Definitely memory.  

Kirishima could’ve asked. Should’ve, maybe.  

But something told him not to.  

Instead, he just breathed in the forest air and said quietly, “Thanks for patching me up.”  

Bakugou finally moved—stood up in a single push and snapped the kit shut with a click that sounded final. “Don’t be an idiot next time.”  

That, at least, sounded like him.  

Kirishima got up more slowly, flexing his bandaged arm. “Hey, not bad work, doc. Pretty sure that’s the gentlest you’ve ever been with anything.”  

“Tch.” Bakugou slung his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t make it weird.”  

They started walking again, heading back down the trail, dirt and twigs crunching underfoot.  

Kirishima followed a step behind, still watching the back of Bakugou’s head.  

There was a tension in the way he walked now. Like he wasn’t just moving forward but leaving something behind. And Kirishima didn’t know what it was—what memory had clawed its way back during that patch-up, or why it had shaken Bakugou enough to go still like that.  

But he’d seen it.  

That crack in the armour.  

And he wasn’t about to forget it.  

Chapter Text

Jirou double-checked her phone screen as the digital ticket loaded, the confirmation pulsing on a neon-pink background: 
VENUE: THE WIRE TAP 
BAND: GUTTERBLOOM (W/ OPENERS) 
TIME: 8:00PM 
LOCATION: BLOCK 17, NORTH MUSTAFU 

She grinned, thumb hovering over the lock screen. 
Hell yes. 

It wasn’t the kind of place that had glossy ads or clean maps. You had to dig for this kind of thing—scrolling through forums and dead links, watching pixelated clips from old sets with shaky audio and sweaty crowds. But Jirou lived for this. The rawness. The mess. The sound that chewed through your ribs and dared you to call it music. 

She slid her earbuds in as she walked, a Gutterbloom track already thrumming through her skull—grimy guitar, glitchy synth overlays, vocals screamed like a busted speaker and still managing to hit something tender. This was the stuff that made her feel real, not the polished junk people expected from future heroes or radio pop idols. It wasn’t about image. It was about impact. 

Still, when the train pulled into North Mustafu, she hesitated. The station signage was cracked, and most of the platform lights were flickering. A kid sat curled up in a hoodie by the stairwell, and two vending machines were halfway gutted for parts. She pulled her jacket tighter and checked the address again. 

Three blocks west, one down, hook a left at the dry cleaner with the blown-out window.  

Right. 

She followed the path with confidence for the first five minutes, weaving between broken sidewalk tiles and alleyway shortcuts. But Block 17 was harder to navigate than she thought—more like a maze than a grid. The streets got smaller. The streetlights thinned out. Most of the signage was hand-painted or burned-out completely, and more than one door had a bar across it like it hadn’t been used in years. 

Her GPS flickered. Re-centered. Then cut out. 

“Seriously?” she muttered, tapping the screen. Nothing. Just a buffering circle and a map that didn’t move. 

Jirou stopped at a corner that looked like it belonged in a forgotten movie set. Graffiti covered every surface—some of it gorgeous, some of it angry, most of it unreadable. A dim streetlight buzzed overhead, casting a sickly orange glow over the cracked asphalt and rusted bike racks. She bit the inside of her cheek and turned in a slow circle. 

No venue signs. No crowds. No music bleeding through concrete. 
Just her. Alone. And a slow, sinking feeling in her chest. 

It’s fine, she told herself. You’ve played worse. You’ve wandered worse. This city’s just old in places, not dangerous. 

Still, her hands stayed in her jacket pockets now, one of them curled around the small canister of sound-amplifier she always carried. Just in case. 

She tried a side street that looked familiar from the photo someone had posted online— “follow the crooked light pole and you’re almost there,” they'd said. But three blocks in, the buildings pressed closer, the windows went darker, and the air felt… heavier. Still. 

The music in her earbuds cut out. She checked her phone— No Signal.  

Of course. 

A chill rolled up her spine—not from the cold, but from the quiet. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones. The kind that makes you feel watched. 

She slowed to a stop beside a chain-link fence draped in torn black tarp. Behind it, some long-abandoned warehouse slouched in the dark like it was trying to vanish. She turned back, unsure of when exactly she’d started walking faster. 

Then— 

Crunch.  

One footstep. Not hers. 

Jirou froze. 

She didn’t look right away. She listened. Another shift in the gravel, low and deliberate. 

Her heart picked up. Fingers twitching, already calculating the pitch and frequency she’d need to drop someone without fully rupturing their eardrums. 

Then a voice, low and familiar, drifted through the dark. 

“…The hell are you doing here, Earphones?” 

----- 

Jirou spun around so fast her earbuds almost flew out. 

At the end of the alley, framed in the dying glow of a streetlamp, stood Bakugou Katsuki—hood up, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, mouth twisted in that signature scowl. His eyes flicked over her, from boots to the tension in her shoulders. 

“The hell are you doing here, Earphones?” he asked, voice flat but sharp-edged. 

Jirou’s brain stalled for half a second. 

“…Are you stalking me?” she shot back before she could think better of it. 

He huffed through his nose. “Don’t flatter yourself. You looked like you were about to piss yourself.” 

“I was not .” 

“Yeah, okay.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You lost or just dumb enough to wander into an alley by yourself?” 

She bristled. “I’m not lost. I’m… directionally challenged.” 

“That mean lost.” 

Jirou crossed her arms, willing her heart to stop hammering. “What are you doing here? This isn’t exactly your vibe.” 

Bakugou tilted his head slightly, almost like he was assessing her. “Could ask you the same. But I’m not the one standing next to a dumpster lookin’ like I’m about to start cryin’.” 

“Rude,” she muttered, but the edge in her voice softened. Something about seeing him there—real, solid, unmistakably Bakugou—made the creeping unease retreat. “I’m going to a show.” 

He raised a brow. 

“Gutterbloom. At the Wire Tap.” 

Bakugou blinked slowly, then muttered, “Huh.” 

“What, you know them?” she asked, genuinely surprised. 

“I know the venue.” 

That was... unexpected. Bakugou didn’t strike her as the underground show type. Not the sort to hang out in sketchy parts of town after dark. Then again, maybe she didn’t know as much about him as she thought. 

“I’m fine, by the way,” she added, gesturing to the dark alley like it was no big deal. “Totally in control of the situation.” 

“Sure,” he said dryly, already turning away. “It’s a few blocks from here. You’ll get turned around again if you try solo. Come on.” 

She blinked. “You’re leading me there?” 

“You wanna get jumped or see your stupid band?” 

“…Fine.” 

He didn’t wait for her answer. Just started walking, his strides unbothered and confident. She had to jog a bit to catch up, her boots scuffing the pavement beside his quieter steps. 

The silence that followed was… not awkward. Just strange. She was used to Bakugou being loud, being aggressive. But now, walking beside him through unfamiliar streets, she noticed the way his eyes scanned everything—corners, rooftops, doorways—as if cataloguing risks. Like he’d done this before. Like he belonged here. 

That thought stuck with her longer than she expected. 

“So,” she said eventually, “you just… know this area?” 

He shrugged. “Been around.” 

“That’s vague and suspicious.” 

“Good.” 

She huffed a laugh, half to herself. “You act like this is normal. Most people don’t know their way around the back end of Mustafu like they grew up in it.” 

“I didn’t grow up here,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know how to walk a damn street.” 

There was a note in his voice—curt, a little cold—that made her decide not to press. Not yet. 

They turned a corner, and suddenly the narrow streets opened up to a slanted block lit with red and blue neon. A rusted sign blinked above a door, almost illegible, but she caught the jagged lettering: 

WIRE TAP.  

They crossed the street in silence, shoes scuffing against broken pavement. Jirou followed Bakugou as he veered toward the side of the building—run-down, with faded murals half-tagged over and more posters than paint left on its outer wall. Beneath a rust-flaked fire escape sat a narrow, dented door, almost invisible unless you were looking for it.  

“Is this… it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Bakugou didn’t answer. He just pulled open the door and started down the stairs without a word. 

She hesitated for half a second before following. 

The stairs groaned beneath their weight, winding down into a basement that smelled like concrete, old beer, and too much sweat. Music pulsed from somewhere below, just loud enough to be felt in her ribs. The walls were close, covered in overlapping band flyers, faded setlists, and torn-up caution tape. The kind of place that didn’t advertise because if you knew, you knew . 

And Bakugou knew. 

At the bottom of the stairs stood a man who looked like he could’ve once been a pro wrestler—or a bouncer in another life that didn’t include a broken nose, full-sleeve tattoos, and scars lining his knuckles. He was leaned back against a folding chair like a king in his court, only stirring when he saw Bakugou. 

His whole face lit up. 

“Yo, Kats ,” he greeted, a grin sliding across his crooked face. “Didn’t know you were coming tonight.” 

Did he just say Kats? Jirou blinked, slowing her step. 

Bakugou’s mouth twitched—just slightly. Not quite a smile, but the closest thing she’d ever seen from him that wasn’t followed by a threat. 

“Got dragged,” he said, jerking his chin toward her. 

The man’s eyes flicked to Jirou. “She yours?” 

Bakugou snorted. “Not a chance.” 

“Shame,” the doorman said with a shrug, then tilted his head toward the inner hallway. “Go on. Show already started. They’re three songs in.” 

Jirou felt like she’d just dropped into someone else’s dream. She wasn’t used to seeing Bakugou like this— known , like he was a regular, like he belonged . She’d expected maybe a side comment or a grunt of disinterest. Not this . Not the easy way he stood here, like this wasn’t strange at all. 

He didn’t even look at her. “Go. You’re late.” 

She frowned, but didn’t argue. The hallway yawned open in front of her, lit with red bulbs and filled with the thunder of drums and the low snarl of a bass guitar. She stepped forward, pulled in by the sound. 

The door creaked shut behind her— almost . 

She paused when she heard Bakugou speak again, low and quieter than usual. 

“Kenzo’s inside, right?” 

The doorman grunted. “Always is.” 

A beat of silence passed. 

Then the door clicked fully shut. 

Jirou stood frozen for a second, her heart weirdly loud in her chest. Kenzo? The name echoed around in her head like it was supposed to mean something. Like she was supposed to know what kind of person Bakugou was looking for—here, in a basement venue no one else from their school would ever think to visit. 

The music swelled, and a scream tore through the next track like lightning. The crowd roared back, and she jolted back into motion, winding through bodies and flashing lights toward the stage. 

But that name still lingered—heavy, sticky. 

She hadn’t known Bakugou even liked this kind of scene. Hadn’t known he had people here. That someone might call him “Kats” with warmth, not fear. That he’d walk through this place like he’d done it a hundred times, easy and unnoticed. 

-----

As the night wore on, Jirou found herself leaning against the edge of the crowded bar, her eyes scanning the room with a kind of detached curiosity. The music throbbed like a living thing, pushing and pulling at the air around them, but she wasn’t really paying attention to it. Her gaze kept drifting back to Bakugou.  

He was sitting on a barstool, back relaxed in a way she rarely saw. His usual stiff posture had faded, his broad shoulders uncoiling into an easy slump. Next to him, a guy, probably Kenzo —at least 20, maybe older—was talking casually, his voice cutting through the noise as he leaned in, laughing at something Bakugou had said.  

The guy had dark ash black hair, in a messy mullet that managed to look good despite clearly not having been styled. His eyes were a muted grey, almost ghostly under the dim neon. He wore a leather jacket that looked like it’d seen better days, but it worked—made him look both older and cooler.  

Bakugou, on the other hand, was still Bakugou. But this side of him—this part of him, the one that seemed to slip in and out of worlds without missing a beat—wasn't the version of him she knew. The sharp edges were softened. The anger that normally bled into his words wasn’t there. He was talking and laughing with the guy like they were old friends.  

It made her realize something.  

He wasn’t just the angry guy in their friend group.  

He had a life she didn’t know anything about.  

And, apparently, that life wasn’t as far behind him as she would’ve assumed.  

Chapter Text

It was already getting dark outside, though it wasn’t even five yet. The dorm’s living room was full of warm light and half-finished decorations—glittery banners, tangled string lights, bags of snacks crinkling under Sero’s elbow. Mina was humming as she tried to hang a sparkler garland. Kaminari had two boxes of mochi stacked on his head and was daring anyone to knock them off. Idiots. All of them.  

Bakugou sat off to the side, legs slung over the arm of the couch, thumb flicking across his phone screen. Kariage had just sent a photo—Dehisa holding up a bottle of cheap vodka like it was a trophy, half-grinning, half-daring Katsuki to back out.  

[Kariage] still on for tonight? or you gonna be stuck lighting baby sparklers with ur daycare kids  

[Katsuki] stfu  

His phone buzzed before he could lock it.  

“Knew you’d show. We’re pregamin’ at Dehisa’s, same as last year.”  

Bakugou brought the phone to his ear, letting Kariage’s voice fill the dull background noise of dorm chatter.  

“Did that dumbass really pick up the same shitty vodka?” he muttered.  

Kariage laughed on the other end, low and sharp. “Like hell I’d let him show up with anythin’ else. You comin’ solo?”  

Bakugou leaned further into the couch, ignoring Kaminari’s cackling across the room. “Yeah. Probably. I dunno.”  

That was apparently loud enough to catch attention.  

“Wait, wait —was that a phone call?” Mina’s head whipped around. “Was that a smile ?”  

Bakugou immediately scowled, snapping the phone away from his ear. “No, it fuckin’ wasn’t.”  

Kariage’s voice crackled faintly through the speaker. “Tell whoever’s yellin’ to sit the hell down.”  

“Who is that?” Kaminari was already creeping over, mochi forgotten. “You never talk on the phone. Like, ever.”  

Mina dropped the tinsel, dragging her words out. “Come on Blasty?”  

Bakugou felt his whole face twitch. “Tch. None of your business.”  

“You totally smiled,” Mina whispered like it was some great discovery. “I’ve literally never seen you smile on a call. What’s happening. Where are you going?”  

“Nowhere.”  

Kaminari leaned over the couch. “If it’s better than sparklers and senbei, we’re coming too.”  

Bakugou turned toward him with slow menace. “You’ll be dead in a gutter in ten minutes.”  

Mina beamed. “So it is a party.”  

He was going to murder both of them. “It’s not your kind of party.”  

“Define that,” Kaminari said, grinning way too wide.  

Bakugou glanced back at his phone. Kariage hadn’t hung up. He was probably listening to the chaos, smirking to himself. Asshole.  

“I’m not babysitting a bunch of dumbasses,” Bakugou muttered, more to himself than to them. “If you get pickpocketed, mugged, lost, or cry about the music being too loud, I’m not helping you.”  

Mina squealed. “So we can come?”  

Bakugou stared at the ceiling like it had the answers. For a second, he thought about saying no. Really saying it. These people didn’t belong in that part of his life—didn’t know the streets, the people, the weight of old nicknames shouted across a packed room.  

But Kariage had said it himself— you coming solo?  

And Bakugou, for some reason, didn’t feel like coming solo this time.  

He sighed, deep and put-upon. “Fine. You can come.”  

“Yes!” Kaminari fist-pumped.  

Mina grabbed a marker. “We need outfits.”  

Bakugou groaned. “You don’t dress up for this kind of party. Just wear somethin’ that doesn’t make you look like you go to fuckin’ U.A.”  

He heard Kariage laugh again through the speaker. “You’re already regrettin’ this, huh?”  

“Shut up,” Bakugou muttered, finally hanging up.  

-----  

They took the train two stops past where Bakugou figured any of them had ever gone. The kind of stations with chipped tile and the sharp stink of piss in the corners. He didn’t bother looking back to see if they were still following—if they weren’t, that was their problem.  

But they were. All of them, trailing after him like ducklings in the dark.  

The streets were louder here. Not from traffic, but from bass bleeding through walls, echoing out of cracked windows. Neon lights blinked tiredly behind scratched-up glass. Stores were closed or permanently shuttered. The only open businesses were corner liquor shops with handwritten hours taped to the door and flickering bug zappers overhead.  

“Uh,” Kirishima said, voice low, “are we still in Mustafu?”  

Bakugou didn’t answer. He could hear the tension in their steps, could feel it even. No more casual chatter. Just the sound of shoes on pavement and the occasional quick breath.  

Mina tugged her coat tighter around herself. “Is it, like… safe?”  

“Safe enough if you stop gawkin’ like tourists,” Bakugou grunted.  

Sero laughed once, quietly. “He says, while leading us straight into a horror movie set.”  

“Pretty sure someone’s tagging a building right now,” Kaminari muttered, glancing across the street. “At this hour.”  

Bakugou didn’t look. He knew the smell of fresh paint and cheap spray. Hell, the guy was probably one of Kenzo’s friends.  

They turned a corner. There was a louder thump of music nearby now—someone’s speaker system going to war with a rival inside. A group of girls in torn fishnets and platform boots passed them, not sparing the U.A. crew a single glance.  

Kirishima leaned in. “You’re real casual about this, bro.”  

“Yeah?” Bakugou said. “So?”  

“So… nothing.” Nervous laugh. “Just saying.”  

They kept walking. Two blocks down, the street dipped slightly. Graffiti covered the brick walls in layers, like old arguments screaming over each other. A rusted streetlight buzzed overhead, casting their shadows long and shaky.  

Then someone launched themself onto Bakugou from behind.  

He didn’t flinch. Just sighed. “Get off me, dumbass.”  

The rest of the squad snapped into motion—Sero’s tape already primed, Mina holding her hands out, Kaminari charging.  

“Wait, what —” Kirishima started, fists up.  

But Bakugou was already peeling Dehisa off like a too-friendly cat, shaking him by the collar.  

“God, you’re still jumpy as hell,” Dehisa cackled, ruffling Bakugou’s hair with zero fear for his life. “Happy almost-New-Year, loser.”  

Bakugou swatted his hand away. “You’re lucky I didn’t explode your spleen.”  

“Love you too.”  

Kaminari blinked. “...Who is that ?”  

Dehisa turned toward the group, still grinning like a maniac.  

“Aw, hell yeah,” he said. “You brought the students .”  

Bakugou pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t start.”  

A second figure strolled into view, the glow of a cigarette lighting up his smirk. Tall, sharp-eyed, wearing a beat-up bomber jacket over a threadbare hoodie. He looked vaguely amused, vaguely bored, and definitely half-drunk.  

“Oh,” Jirou said, quietly. “You look like Kenzo.”  

The guy raised an eyebrow.  

Kariage flicked ash to the side, looking her over. “Yeah, that’s my brother. You know him?”  

Bakugou cut in. “Don’t flirt.”  

“Wasn’t gonna.” Kariage blew out smoke. “Though now I’m wonderin’ how the hell Kenzo met yer school friends ‘fore I did.”  

He stepped past them, nudging Bakugou in the ribs with the butt of the vodka bottle. “You let the old man in before me. Harsh.”  

“I didn’t let anyone in,” Bakugou muttered, grabbing the bottle without much ceremony.  

He took a pull. It burned like battery acid.  

Kaminari looked like he might pass out from watching it. “Are you—did you just drink that?”  

“Vodka,” Dehisa said helpfully. “Real cheap, too.”  

Mina blinked at them. “This is, uh… kind of a new vibe.”  

“Yeah,” Kariage said, laughing a little. “Welcome to Katsuki’s world.”  

Kirishima glanced at Bakugou, then back at Kariage. “Wait, did you just say Katsuki?”  

Bakugou handed the bottle back, expression unreadable. “Tch. Let’s go.”  

He started walking again, leaving them to process it all.  

Behind him, Kariage blew out another cloud of smoke. “They’re cute,” he said to Dehisa, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Like puppies. Scared little puppies.”  

Bakugou didn’t bother turning around. “I will hit you.”  

Dehisa laughed harder. “You always say that.”  

-----  

The building didn’t have a name. It barely had a door.  

Flaking paint, second-floor windows glowing purple-blue, music pulsing through the bricks like a heartbeat. It had no sign, just a rusted metal “X” bolted above the entrance and a bouncer who nodded at Bakugou without asking for ID.  

The others hesitated just long enough for Kariage to snort. “You’re with him , you’re good,” he said to the group, stepping through like he owned the place. “Try not to piss on the floor.”  

Dehisa held the door open. “Metaphorically or literally?”  

“Both.”  

Inside, it was chaos. Not the explosive kind Bakugou was known for—but sprawling, alive, loud . Light strobed in jerky waves from overhead, throwing everything into a wash of purple, red, and acid green. The music was bass-heavy, experimental, someone yelling something in rapidfire verses over glitched beats. It shook the walls, the floor, the inside of his ribs.  

And somehow, the moment Bakugou stepped in, the chaos parted .  

“Katsuki!” someone shouted from the left, arm raised over the crowd.  

Two others echoed it. Then more.  

“Katsuki!”  

“KATSUUUUKI!”  

He barely managed to roll his eyes before a blur of a girl in glittering mesh slapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re late , asshole.”  

“Shut up,” he shot back, already smirking.  

They dapped up. Two more followed. Another handed him something in a cup, which he handed straight to Dehisa without looking, because if Dehisa got food poisoning it’d be funny and fair.  

Behind him, Kaminari sputtered. “Did… did that person just hug you?”  

“Is this a cult?” Sero whispered.  

Bakugou didn’t answer. He was already slipping into the rhythm—familiar heat under the skin, loosening his shoulders. He ducked someone’s elbow, shoved Kariage half-heartedly into a couch, and barked a laugh when the other immediately dragged him down with him.  

“You’re buzzed already.”  

“I pre-gamed , bitch.”  

They bickered like they’d never stopped, voices raised to match the noise. Dehisa slumped onto the couch’s armrest with a half-eaten lollipop someone definitely didn’t give him. Jirou hovered nearby, eyes scanning the room.  

Mina looked awestruck. “Everyone here knows you?”  

Bakugou shrugged. “I used to come around more.”  

Kaminari leaned in. “They called you Katsuki .”  

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s my name.”  

“Yeah, but like—we don’t even call you Katsuki.”  

Bakugou didn’t reply. Someone passed by and slapped a half-full bottle into his hand, ruffling his hair before vanishing back into the crowd. He let out a low breath through his nose and took a sip. Burned, but not bad.  

Sero was still staring at him.  

“What.”  

Sero just shook his head, like he was trying to rewire everything he thought he knew. “Nothing. Just… you’re different here.”  

That earned him a sharp look—but not the explosive kind. A quiet one, edged with something harder to place. Tired. Wary. Maybe even a little relieved.  

“I ain’t that different,” Bakugou muttered.  

But his voice didn’t carry the usual bite. He wasn’t even scowling. Kariage elbowed him for the bottle, and instead of snarling, Bakugou passed it over without hesitation. They clinked it in an absent little toast.  

Mina sat on the edge of the couch beside Jirou, watching Bakugou like he might spontaneously combust. “You’re actually… having fun ?”  

“Shut up.”  

She grinned. “He didn’t even yell that!”  

Jirou didn’t say much, but her eyes stayed on him. Watching the way his mouth curled differently when he laughed—real, full, teeth-bared. How his hands didn’t ball into fists when people bumped into him, how he leaned in close when Kariage said something stupid just so he could smack him for it. There was no performance here. No edge.  

He didn’t look the slightest bit out of place here.  

Kaminari sat down hard on a beanbag chair someone had abandoned, still stunned. “Okay, but this is wild. I’ve known you for like a year and I’ve never seen you like this.”  

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “I don’t bring school shit here.”  

“You don’t bring here to school either,” Jirou said, not unkindly.  

Bakugou went still for a second. Not frozen—just paused. Considering.  

“No point,” he said eventually, voice low. “Different world.”  

Kariage was already back with new drinks—two of which were definitely stolen. He passed one to Bakugou and sprawled beside him, leaning their heads together for a second as he shouted over the music.  

“You tell them about the time you passed out in the fridge yet?”  

Bakugou gave him a shove. “Shut the fuck up .”  

Mina perked up. “ What?! ”  

Dehisa flopped into her lap like a sleepy dog. “Ask him about the karaoke night. You won’t regret it.”  

Bakugou groaned. “I’m gonna kill both of you.”  

-----  

After an hour, the some of the group still seemed a bit too on edge. The vodka hit the table like a challenge.  

Bakugou picked up a shot glass, raised a brow at Kaminari and Kirishima, and downed it in one clean move. Barely flinched. Slid the glass back like it owed him money.  

Kaminari stared like it had personally offended him. “That… looked painful.”  

Bakugou smirked. “It’s not.”  

Kirishima lifted his, looking deeply betrayed. “You didn’t even make a face , bro.”  

“It’s vodka , not poison.”  

“Same difference,” Kaminari muttered, tossing his back—then immediately wheezing like he’d swallowed hot knives. Kirishima followed suit, blinking rapidly like he’d been hit with a quirk.  

Bakugou sighed. “You’re both pathetic.”  

Jirou sipped hers like it was water. Mina winced and fanned her face with one hand, muttering something about regrets. Sero didn’t even pretend to struggle, though he waved at Kariage like finally, someone normal .  

Kariage grinned, lazily lighting a joint. “You kids really weren’t ready.”  

“Who are you calling a kid?” Sero asked, already scooting over. “That roll clean?”  

“Clean enough.”  

They passed it between them like it was currency. Somewhere in the haze of neon and bass, Hiroko wandered up and folded herself into the circle on the cracked balcony, her mesh sleeves catching the light like spiderwebs. “Yo.”  

Bakugou nodded. “You made it.”  

“Was with Aki. She’s passed out in the tub already.”  

“Classic.”  

The air outside was colder than expected. Graffiti spidered across the back wall, half-covered in vines and smoke stains. The bass inside was muffled now, background noise to the laughter and clink of glass. They sat cross-legged or sprawled out, passing bottles, shoulders brushing.  

Mina tugged Hiroko closer with a grin. “Where’d you get that top? It’s gorgeous.”  

“Thrift. Yours too. The glitter’s criminal.”  

“You hear that, Jirou?” Mina leaned back, smug. “Someone gets it.”  

Jirou rolled her eyes, flicking ash over the railing. “I always got it.”  

Kariage leaned into Sero, exhaling smoke like punctuation. “So you guys all do the dorm thing, yeah? Feels weird. Like… structured.”  

“It’s… organized,” Sero said diplomatically, squinting at the joint. “And legal.”  

“That’s worse.”  

Dehisa returned from inside with two handfuls, one of snacks, the other another bottle, and a pair of sunglasses he definitely hadn’t owned ten minutes ago. “Who wants stale chips and poor decisions?”  

“Already made both,” Hiroko said, lifting her glass.  

They all laughed. A low, rising tide of it. Not performative—just easy. The kind that rippled through them and left everyone smiling a little softer.  

Kaminari leaned against the railing, drink sloshing in his cup. “Okay, seriously, Bakugou… how long’ve you been hanging out here?”  

Bakugou didn’t answer at first.  

He swirled the vodka at the bottom of his cup. Felt the burn in his throat and the heat in his cheeks. The question hung there—between names, between lives.  

Long enough to call it mine. Not long enough for it to stop being a secret.  

Before he could speak, Kariage cut in smoothly, arm draped over Bakugou’s shoulders like he’d always been there. “You guys stayin’ for the countdown?”  

It worked. Kaminari’s focus shifted immediately. “Hell yeah.”  

They all mumbled variations of sure , why not , might as well , and someone threw a chip at Dehisa for trying to sing the wrong lyrics to “Auld Lang Syne.”  

Midnight crept closer like it had nowhere else to be. More people spilled onto the balcony. Someone inside was yelling about broken speakers. A couple was kissing in the stairwell like the world was ending.  

Bakugou stayed quiet. Let the moment wrap around him.  

Kariage leaned into his side without looking. Dehisa cracked another bad joke. Sero and Hiroko were already arguing about which song should play at midnight.  

Fireworks cracked somewhere behind them—early ones. Probably illegal.  

Bakugou tilted his head up, watching the sparks split the sky between buildings. Red, gold, violet. Blurred slightly from the cold in his eyes he wouldn’t admit to.  

He didn’t know which version of himself stood there.  

The loud one who yelled in training and demanded perfection? The quiet one who drank cheap vodka in silence with friends who’d seen him at his lowest? The kid who used to punch walls because it was the only thing that made sense?  

Maybe all of them.  

Maybe none of them.  

The sky lit up again. Another firework, brighter this time.  

And Bakugou let him self smile.