Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Okay. Easy now. Breathe.

"Fuck."

I have to get up.

3… 2… 1…

“Shit.”

Again. Breathe. It’s just getting up—don’t be so fucking useless.

3… 2… 1…

Get up, you dumb piece of—

“Sero Hanta”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Ashido Mina”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Kaminari Denki”

“Yes... Uhh Sir!”

“Kirishima Eijirou”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Jirou Kyouka”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Congratulations, cadets, your training is officially over and you may call yourselves the new recruits of Yuei Secret Safety Organisation! Or USO for short.”

Beaming faces stared at ‘All Might’. Bakugou knew their happiness wouldn't last. If these recruits faced what he did two years ago, half would resign by tonight.

“They look quite promising this year, don't you think, Kachan?” Deku whispered to Bakugou.

“No. Shut up, Deku.” He snarled back. They were watching from the front of the hall, hidden in the shadows far enough for the new arrivals not to notice. No one seemed to notice that Bakugou had already missed half the ceremony by the time he arrived.

“They look so… young.” Ochako said, worry in her voice, putting her hands over her mouth.

Momo put an assuring hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry so much, Ochako-Chan. I'm sure they’ll pull through.” She sure as hell didn't look as confident as she sounded.

This was the first year that the USO accepted trainees from outside their elaborate entrance exam. They took in teen-behavioural and conversion camps kids, pulled some from abusive homes, the foster system, and off the streets, put them through a one-year training, and now they're supposed to just act as if they're the same. However, only a few lucky ones made it in.

Bakugou snorted. “Tch, they're not gonna last a day. Just because they got the training doesn't mean they're at our skill level. Pathetic.” With that, Bakugou left the ceremony, earning an annoyed glance from Aizawa Shouta, his supervisor.
Not that the old man could say anything. Bakugou was their star agent, the best of the best. He usually walked out of these things without consequence.

Usually.

“Katsuki.”

Fuck.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me by my given name?” He kept his voice low enough for no one else to hear, not holding back the frustration in his voice though.

“I don't care. Look, kid,” he said, suddenly sounding much less serious than usual. “I know you well enough by now to know what you're thinking.”

As if.

Aizawa sighed. "You're not going to like what I'm about to say, but I fear you have to stay for a while longer.”

Bakugou stopped in his tracks, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Why?”

All Aizawa did was smirk mischievously and give him the ‘you'll see’ look.

Ten minutes later, Bakugou found himself in a conference room with the files of their new arrivals in front of him. “Fuck,” he half-yelled, almost crumpling up the papers.

A knock on the door. “Hey, Kachan.”

“Fuck off, Deku, you're the last thing I need right now.” He didn't even look up.

Deku fumbled nervously with his hands before sitting down on the other side of the table. “Actually, they sent me to help you with the greeting thing.” He smiled at him.

Deku sure as fuck was way too nervous around Bakugou to be considered ‘one of the best.’

"Fine. At least you actually like talking to people.” He handed over the files to Deku. Anything to get out of paperwork and talking.

“Okay,” Deku said in a careful voice. This was the most civil it had been between him and Kachan in a while. “How about we go over each of them individually so we know what we're dealing with?” He was hoping for him to agree, it would make everything so much easier.

Bakugou grunted in agreement. “Alright, let's get this over with.”

Deku shuffled through his papers. “Hold on a minute… They're all our age. And…” He looked at Bakugou. “What are behavioural and conversion camps?”

Right, Deku was on a mission when they had the meeting about the newbies. And when Round-face said they looked young, she probably meant innocent, not broken yet.

“Are you fucking with me?” Bakugou asked. He knew it wasn't fair. Deku wouldn't know. He grew up with his mother protecting him from anything and everything.

He sighed, slumping back into his chair. “It's where some parents send their kids to when they misbehave.” He paused. “Or when they're gay.”

Deku gasped. “What! How could they do that! My mum would never send me there because of my sexuality!” Midoriya paused. “N-Not that I am gay! I'm just saying that if I was then—”

“Holy shit, I don't fucking care, Deku. Just tell me what you've got there.”

“Okay. Last out of the five placed, Kaminari Denki, very talented with building stuff and technology, not very good at school… 17 years old, behavioural camp rescue. Got sent there because he kept electrocuting himself while building something and his parents were sick of him. Rough.”

Dunce-Face, that Pikachu. Fucked up the only thing he had to say to All Might… Support Items Team, probably.

“Jirou Kyouka, also 17 years old, good with computers and technology, combat is not her strength but she pulls through. Conversion camp rescue… Poor girl… There's barely any info on her here.”

Emo girl, either Tech or Support Items as well. Fucking boring so far.

“Next up is Ashido Mina. 18 years old, got pulled from the foster system. I wonder if any of them knew each other before this. Medical trainee and got the basic martial training. That's great; we barely get any med staff anymore.”

Pinky, who just couldn't fucking stand still. Definitely gonna stay in Med, seems like the type.

“Alright, number 2, Sero Hanta, 18, very fast and flexible, almost beat you to your record on the parcours, Kachan,” Deku dared to laugh. “If number 2 almost beat you, I don't wanna know what the one that placed first did. Anyway, very smart too, it says. Rescued from the streets after his abusive parents kicked him out, apparently.”

Deku's expression grew sadder with every file.

He was so unnoticeable that I couldn't even come up with a good nickname. His face was so flat though… I'll name him Tape Face. But I don't want him on the offence team, fuck.

“And Kachan, drumroll for number one—”

“Just spit it out, Deku!”

Shitty Hair.

“Kirishima Eijirou.”

Right. Bakugou noticed him first. Very buff, but Bakugou is stronger, 100%. He was tall but only a bit taller than Bakugou! Bright red hair, tied loosely in the back, kind eyes, and a sunshine smile. Way too happy to be here.

“Look, Kachan! He was born only 4 days after you! His strength is… Strength. He's a good fighter, probably gonna be on offense with you then.”

“Where'd he come from?” Bakugou said, trying hard not to let it sound too intrigued.

“Uhh, conversion as well. I feel so bad for them,” Deku said.

Bakugou’s eyes tried skimming the word again, like it burned. He didn’t mean to, but his jaw clenched.

So he's… Right, otherwise he wouldn't have been there.

“Kachan?”

Bakugou snaps out of his thoughts. “What, fuck face?!”

“I think they're gonna be done soon, we should probably head back…”

“Why us anyway?”

Bakugou stuffed his fists into his pockets, stomping down the hall towards their living quarters.

“Because you’re number one, and no one else wants to deal with you. Kachan, you're gonna have someone training under you, you need to be nicer to people.”

Bakugou stopped. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Midoriya stammered, smiling sheepishly. “Uhh… They haven't told you?”

“Izuku, Katsuki,” Aizawa popped out from a door that Bakugou thought led to a storage room. “Are you ready?”

“No.” “Yes!” Bakugou and Deku said at the same time.

“Katsuki, here's the new dorm list since spaces are now going to be filled. Izuku can do the rest of the talking.”

Bakugou was not happy about that. He had his room on the second floor, no neighbour. Only Shinsou on the other side, but he was probably the most tolerable out of everyone.

“Fine. Where are they?”

Right as Bakugou asked, Ochako led the group through the hall, chatting with them.

“Alright, guys, here we are. This is where we're all going to live together.” She beamed at them while everyone else slowly scattered in the entrance.

“Listen up, fuckers,” Bakugou said with the least enthusiasm a human could manage. “Left side, girls; right side, dudes. First floor: joint common room and kitchen; second floor: girls' side, room 2a stays Pon—Momo.”

Aizawa is watching, can’t call them by their nicknames.

“2b Ochako, 2c Jirou Kyouka, 2d Tsuyu. Third floor: 3a Toru, 3b Ashido Mina, 3c Mei. Uhh, Mei, it says here that you're no longer allowed to use 3d as your storage room.”

A powerful voice emerged from the corner where a girl was hunched over something that looked like a robotic dog. "Oh damn it!"

Tsuyu looked up at Bakugou. “So our rooms stay the same, the others are just filling the empty ones?” He looked at her with an expression that's supposed to say Isn’t that what I just fucking said?

“Now, over to—” He stopped. Fuck, he should’ve read the list before diving in blind. “First floor, still a common room and kitchen with the girls; second floor: 2a Deku, 2b Sero Hanta, 2c Shoto, 2d Tenya. Third floor: 3a Kirishima Eijirou, 3b me, 3c Shinsou, 3d Kaminari Denki.”

Great. The sunshine idiot gets the room next door.

He ignored the weird twist in his stomach and shoved the list into Deku's chest.

Deku cleared his throat, shuffling the papers in his hands as the new recruits began looking around the common room. The dorm smelled faintly of polish and cleaning supplies, a mix of metal and faint disinfectant lingering in the air.

“So, uh…” he started, hesitating, “This is the dorm layout. Everyone’s rooms are assigned, but feel free to organize your things however you like in the common room for now, until your furniture arrives.” Not that they would have a lot to unpack, he thought to himself.

Mina practically bounced in place. “I can’t believe we all get to live together! This is amazing!” She was already unpacking a small first-aid kit. “This is perfect,” she whispered, eyes sparkling. “I finally get to do real medical work.” She had the kind of eagerness that would save lives later.

“Try not to trip over anything,” Shoto muttered, voice even but his eyes scanning the floor with that calm, precise focus of someone already measuring the room for threats or hazards.

Meanwhile, Aizawa lingered near the stairwell, watching his new students like a hawk. Deku could feel the air tighten whenever the man’s gaze landed on someone.

“Kirishima,” Aizawa called, voice low and controlled. Kirishima paused mid-step, then turned with that easy, polite smile. “You’ll be training with Katsuki for the first week. Observe his methods, learn where you can, and do not get in the way. Understood?”

Aizawa’s attention shifted. “Sero, your agility drills are scheduled for 8 am tomorrow. Ashido, med training immediately after. Jirou, technical assessment at 9 am. Be on time.” His eyes flicked over Bakugou, who had only just settled at his desk, glaring at the files. “Katsuki, observe and report. No distractions.”

Bakugou didn’t respond. He rarely did. Deku could practically feel the tension radiating off him, a tight mix of pure anger and irritation. He’d seen it before, glimpsed the way Bakugou handled people he considered weaker, silently, ruthlessly.

“Shoto, make sure the fire escape path is clear. I don’t want anyone trapped because someone thought it’d be funny to leave boxes in front of the stairs.” Shoto’s expression didn’t change, but his hands immediately went to work, sliding items into neat stacks against the walls.

Shinsou leaned casually against the wall, eyes scanning the room, the quiet observer. “This is going to be… interesting,” he said softly to no one in particular.

“I think interesting is one word for it,” Deku muttered.

Momo, now dusting off the sofa, frowned slightly. “We need to make sure everyone knows the rules of the dorm. Quiet hours, shared responsibilities… basic hygiene,” she listed, tone precise. “You can’t afford mistakes here.”

“Yeah,” Deku said, nodding. “Aizawa’s watching more closely than usual. I can feel it.” He felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, knowing that in a few hours, they would be expected to operate at the same standard he and Bakugou had been trained to maintain, but some of them had barely survived childhood trauma that no one should have to endure.

Bakugou shifted in his chair, hands brushing over the files. Deku caught a glimpse of something—a slight shake in his fingers, an almost unnoticeable twitch. The files were neat, organized, every detail recorded, but the tension in his shoulders remained.

He wasn’t just the best because he was skilled. He was the best because he refused to fail. And Deku knew, from experience, that kind of pressure didn’t leave a person unscarred.

“Izuku, come with me,” Aizawa said, voice still calm but carrying weight. Deku followed him down the hall, careful not to trip over Sero, who had somehow balanced three boxes while attempting to talk.

“Observation is key,” Aizawa said as they walked. “The newbies are raw. Some have endured things you can’t imagine. Watch their behavior, notice inconsistencies. Your responsibility is to guide them without letting them break before they learn.”

“Yes, Sir,” Deku replied, notes already forming in his mind.

“And,” Aizawa added, voice quieter, almost a warning, “Kirishima will be with Katsuki because their skills align the most. Pay attention to the dynamics. They may seem simple, but you’ll see complications arise quickly. Their personalities… clash.”

The room relaxed slightly after Aizawa’s departure, though Deku knew it was temporary. The recruits exchanged glances, some whispering quietly about their first impressions. Denki cracked a joke about Mina’s elaborate med kit, and she responded with a playful glare that had the group laughing quietly. Ochako tripped over a small bag, resulting in a chorus of laughter from Sero and Tsuyu as she recovered gracefully.

Even Shoto allowed himself a small smirk at the scene, his mask cracking just enough to hint at amusement.

Deku sank into the corner of the common room, his notebook open, though the events of the evening had already left him with half a dozen mental notes. He watched the new recruits unpacking, arranging, joking quietly, and adjusting to the new reality of living together.

Sero Hanta…

Deku scribbled, pausing as he watched the lanky boy nearly trip over a chair while juggling a stack of supplies.

Fast, flexible, smart. Street-smart. Needs guidance not just for skill, but for… trust. I wonder if he ever got to rely on someone else before.

Mina Ashido was running from one corner to another, making sure her med supplies were perfectly organized. Even in her chatter and constant movement, there was a precision to her, a focus beneath the bright, bubbly exterior. Deku smiled faintly.

She’ll keep the team grounded. She’ll notice things others won’t. Emotional glue.

Denki… He wrote the name with a little sigh.

Full of energy, overestimates his own control, heart in the right place. Needs someone to hold him back when he goes too far, or else the building’s going to end up electrocuted in a week.

Jirou Kyouka, dark hair falling into her eyes, had tucked herself into a corner of the common room, headphones in, tapping lightly on a tablet. Deku noted her silence.

Quiet, technical, sharp mind. Conversion camp… probably scars that aren’t visible. Could snap under pressure if pushed, but her intelligence will be important.

Then there was Kirishima Eijirou. Bright, red hair, a smile that could light the darkest room, and eyes that didn’t quite match the cheer if you looked closely. Deku had watched him carefully as he arranged his little belongings, as he answered Aizawa’s quiet instructions, as he moved around the dorm with a confidence that seemed natural. Too natural.

Conversion camp survivor. Was there for a long time, much longer than Jirou. Knows what depression looks like. Strength is obvious, but what he hides… that’s what will define him here.

Deku’s gaze flicked to Bakugou, leaning silently by the window in the far corner of the dorm. The new recruits hadn’t yet drawn his attention, and that was good for now. Deku knew enough to see the storm under that controlled exterior, the way he tuned everything else out until it was convenient to notice.

He flipped through his notes, adding quick sketches of the new dorm layout, potential pairings for training, and the first ideas for daily routines.

First impressions aren’t everything, and none of this will be simple. But…

He paused, watching the rest laugh at something Denki had done, Mina scolding him in mock exasperation, Jirou nodding in amusement from her corner.

There’s potential here. Maybe even a chance to make this work.

He rose quietly, moving to make sure everyone had what they needed for tomorrow. For now, though, the dorms buzzed with low chatter, laughter, and the shuffle of unpacking. The training was about to start, and the real test of endurance, of control, of trust would come soon enough.

Later that evening, Bakugou sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the wall across from him.

He dragged a hand down his face and exhaled slowly. “It’s just a week,” he muttered. “Don’t fucking lose it already.”

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. His hands itched for something to do, a mission, a fight, anything but this.

“Just survive the first week,” he said again, quieter this time. But the words didn’t sound like a promise.

They’ll be settled after a week, just the first week.

Chapter Text

The dorm kitchen looked like a battlefield.

Smoke curled from the toaster, the smell of burnt bread clinging to the air. Denki hovered in front of the coffee machine, pressing every button in a desperate attempt to make it work. The machine hissed, sparked once, and let out a pitiful whine.

“Bro, it’s coffee, not a science experiment!” Sero laughed, phone out and already recording. “Say hi to your fans, Denki. Last known footage before the explosion.”

“Shut up, I’ve got this!” Denki declared proudly, right before the machine sputtered and made a sound like it was dying.

Mina burst into laughter from across the counter, apron tied on backward, hair in a messy pink halo. “You said that about the oven, too!”

“The oven’s fine!” Denki shouted.

“The oven’s crying smoke, bro,” Sero countered.

A new cloud of smoke rolled from the corner, prompting Jirou to groan into her coffee like it was her only means of survival. “It’s six am,” she muttered, voice gravelly. “I didn’t sign up for arson before breakfast.”

Tsuyu stood quietly at the stove, calmly flipping pancakes with the serenity of someone who had long accepted the chaos. “Don’t worry,” she said mildly, “if we survive this, Toru can make breakfast tomorrow. She’s been on a lot of missions lately.”

“Who is that?” Denki whispered to Mina. “Boy, I have no clue.”

Kirishima clapped his hands together, trying to sound like a commander instead of a babysitter. “Alright, team! We can handle this! How hard can breakfast be?”

“Those were your exact words about the oven!” Mina shouted back, waving a spatula like a sword.

Kirishima just laughed, cheeks slightly pink, the energy infectious.

Deku was observing from the corner.

They’re comfortable. Good.

That was the moment Aizawa passed through the doorway like a ghost, hair messy, eyes half-open, holding a cup of coffee that looked stronger than his will to live.

“It’s too early for this,” he said flatly. “Try not to burn the building down.”

“Sir!” Kirishima saluted, grinning. “We’ll keep it standing at least until lunchtime!”

Aizawa didn’t even slow his pace. “Not confident enough.” He disappeared down the hall.

The room exploded with laughter. Mina nearly dropped her spatula, Sero wheezed, Denki raised the smoking toaster like a trophy.

Kirishima laughed the loudest, hands on his knees, the sound filling the whole room. For the first time in a long time, surrounded by smoke and noise and warmth, he felt something that almost hurt in its unfamiliarity.

He didn't have to watch his behaviour, carefully pick out what he can and can’t say. It felt more like home in a single day than his ‘real’ home had in his entire life. 

The air is still, too still. Mist lays low on the grass, the faint breeze biting at his exposed skin.

Bakugou is already drenched in sweat, throwing punches at a dummy until his knuckles bruise under the wraps. Each hit lands like a heartbeat, steady, deliberate, punishing.

Impact. Breath. Step. Breath. Punch. Breath. Duck. Breath.

It’s not training. It’s control.

He doesn’t count the rounds anymore. Doesn’t time his sets. He just keeps moving because if he stops, he’ll have to think. And thinking is worse than physical pain.

He straightens, chest heaving, and wipes a streak of sweat from his jaw with the back of his wrist. The light catches on his hair, turning it almost gold. It’s too bright, too early. He squints against it, jaw tightening.

“First day,” he mutters under his breath. “Just get through it.”

He takes a swig from a half-empty bottle, something too sharp for water, and wipes his mouth again.

The silence presses in. Even the forest noise feels far away here. No birds chirping. No cars. Just the hum of the old field lamps flickering overhead and the dull echo of his breath in his ears.

Too quiet. Always too quiet.

He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and resets his stance.

One more round.
Always one more round.

Aizawa’s voice flickers somewhere in his memory — “You can’t outfight exhaustion forever, Katsuki.”

“Watch me,” he mutters, slamming another strike into the dummy. His gloves leave faint red smudges across the padding.

He moves until his muscles tremble, until his lungs ache. There’s no audience, no applause. Just the rhythm of self-destruction that feels almost peaceful by now.

When he finally stops, it’s not because he’s done. It’s because the sun climbed high enough to hit his face directly, forcing him to pause.

He exhales through his nose, hands still curled tight.

Another day. Another pointless attempt at feeling normal.

He turns toward the dorms, grabbing his towel and bottle from the ground, shoulders tight with muscle and habit.

If he’s lucky, everyone’s still asleep. Aizawa said the first training is at eight.

The common room smelled faintly of burnt toast, coffee, and a hint of Mina’s floral perfume from the scattered cleaning cloths. Laughter rippled softly as the group picked up the remains of their chaotic breakfast. 

The door opened.

Bakugou stepped in, towel wrapped around his neck, hair sticking up in damp spikes, a glimpse of sweat still catching the early morning light. The room went quiet as if someone had pressed a mute button.

“Morning, Bakugou!” Deku said awkwardly, shifting to his feet.

“Looks like a fucking war zone in here,” Bakugou muttered, scanning the room with sharp eyes.

Denki, standing with a burnt toast still in hand, blinked. “...So, that’s a no on the pancakes?”

Deku made a mental note, scribbling furiously: Bakugou smelled faintly of disinfectant and sweat.

“Dude, Kacchan. It’s 6am.” Clearly hinting at the bottle of clear liquid in Bakugou's hand. “If Aizawa catches you, you're dead.”

Bakugou slowly turned around, lightly shoving Deku’s chest. “Watch your fucking mouth. Say one word and you’re dead.” Deku let it go without another word. He had other things to worry about at the moment. Kacchan knew how to take care of himself. He always did.

Quiet snickers ran through the room, careful not to attract Bakugou’s attention. Everyone except Kirishima. He stepped forward, arms folded, grin wide, entirely unbothered by the tense energy.

“Hey, man! Do you train every morning like that? That’s awesome. Maybe you can show me your routine sometime,” Kirishima said, eyes bright and curious.

“You can’t keep up,” Bakugou replied, voice clipped, tone like steel.

“You won’t know till you try me,” Kirishima countered easily, shrugging as if daring Bakugou to care.

Bakugou’s jaw tensed. “You talk too much.”

“And you don’t talk enough,” Kirishima said with a cheeky grin, leaning casually against the counter. His presence was warm and loud in a way that didn’t invade space but somehow pulled at it, a stark contrast to Bakugou’s cold, haunting energy.

Bakugou’s glare sharpened, but Kirishima’s grin never faltered. The unspoken exchange stretched between them, not tension exactly, but a spark, a tiny challenge hidden beneath their banter.

Kirishima tilted his head slightly, studying Bakugou as he usually did with people he wanted to understand. “You don’t smile much,” he observed softly.

“Not interested,” Bakugou muttered, turning away slightly.

“Fair,” Kirishima replied lightly, still grinning. “But you should know, it’s kind of scary and kind of awesome at the same time.”

Bakugou’s lips twitched, but he didn’t dare to let a smile slip. Kirishima noticed anyway. The first quiet understanding began to settle between them, subtle, unspoken.

Their gaze was broken by the main door swinging open.

All Might appeared at the edge of the common room, larger than anyone thought could be possible, even in casual clothes. His usual beam was tempered by the early hour, but the energy remained.

“Remember,” he called out, voice booming yet cheerful, “learning through unity is just as important as learning to fight! Work together, support each other, and you’ll all grow stronger!”

Bakugou muttered under his breath, loud enough for only Deku to hear, “Learning through bullshit.” He flinched but stayed silent.

All Might’s eyes flicked toward them for a fraction of a second, but he didn’t comment. He had other cadets to inspire. New, raw young people, full of potential.

A moment later, Aizawa appeared, gliding silently into the room, black coffee still in hand. His gaze swept over his agents, cold and precise. Names and faces were cataloged in his mind as if the room were a battlefield.

He began assigning tasks and schedules, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority.

“Kaminari, Sero, technical drills with Tenya. Ashido, med training with Ochako. Jirou, assessment on your systems integration with Mei.” He sighed. “Where is Mei?” What greeted him was pure silence. “Everyone else, observe and record. Be efficient. No mistakes.”

The room tightened under his scrutiny, even the noisier ones like Mina and Denki shifting slightly in their seats.

Finally, Aizawa stopped at the corner where Kirishima stood. His eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered for a moment longer.

“Kirishima,” he said, voice low and commanding, “as I mentioned yesterday, you will shadow Bakugou for the week. Observe his methods, learn what you can, and do not interfere unnecessarily.”

“And Katsuki,” Aizawa continued, ignoring the interruption, “try not to scare him off before lunch. He is your responsibility while under your supervision.”

Bakugou’s eyes flashed red, a low growl escaping him from the stairwell. “What the hell-”

Mina snorted quietly, covering her mouth. Denki leaned toward Sero, whispering, “He’s so dead.”

Bakugou’s glare sliced across them, instantly stopping any further commentary. The air seemed to crackle with his tension, and even the room’s light seemed to dim slightly.

“First training starts in thirty minutes. Dismissed.” Aizawa’s words were final.

Without another word, Bakugou turned sharply and walked up the stairs, towel still slung over his shoulder, fists clenched.

Kirishima jogged to catch up, grin unwavering. He called after Bakugou, his tone cheerful and eager, “Why did he tell you not to scare me? You can’t be that miserable, right?!”

The shadow of Kirishima’s tension and excitement followed them down the hall. Bakugou’s jaw tightened, but he kept moving, aware of the new trainee beside him. For the first time since he’d arrived, he felt the weight of responsibility pressing in, just enough to make the morning feel like it might actually matter.

The gym smelled sharply of metal, sweat, and the faint electric sound of drones racing echoed through the hall. Denki and Sero were at it again, shouting and laughing as they tried to guide their drones through a chaotic course. One nearly strafed a stack of crates before Sero lunged to save it, wobbling and crashing into a mat in the process.

“Careful!” Tenya yelled, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

“Relax! I’ve got it!” Denki replied, grinning like a maniac, completely ignoring the drone hovering above his head.

Kirishima let out a laugh and shook his head, but he didn’t waste time. He had a different mission: Catching up to Bakugou. 

He was already in full training mode, moving through stretches with an unnerving precision. His red eyes glinted in the shrill light, muscles flexing and relaxing like clockwork. Each movement was fluid, measured, and deadly efficient. Kirishima tried to mimic him, but even simple stretches made him aware of how much ground he had to cover.

“Hey,” Kirishima called, trying to catch up, “Mind showing me some of your techniques? I want to get my timing down.”

Bakugou didn’t glance up, his voice low and sharp. “If you’ve got time to talk, you’ve got time to train.”

Kirishima grinned. “Guess I’ll talk while training then.”

He quickly learned that ‘talking’ meant mostly doing so to himself while Bakugou moved like a machine. Every punch, every step, every stance was deliberate, optimized. Kirishima could match his strength for brief moments, but his speed lagged behind, leaving him constantly aware of his own imperfections.

“You’re blocking wrong,” Bakugou barked, his voice crisp like a whip.

“You’re slow.”

“Don’t smile. This isn’t a fucking picnic.”

Each comment stung, but Kirishima only laughed. “You’re intense, dude. I’m still learning.”

Bakugou’s lips twitched, almost a smirk, before he snapped his jaw shut. Kirishima noticed anyway.

Then it happened: Kirishima’s foot hit the pressure sensor, and a sharp metallic pop echoed through the gym. The sound clung to the walls, bouncing from the ceiling to the concrete floor, louder than it had any right to be. For a split second, the world went silent around Bakugou.

His red eyes snapped toward the source, every muscle in his body coiling like a spring. Heartbeat thundering in his ears, he froze mid-punch. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Where? Sensor? Check the ceiling—no, walls, np. Not the mats—don’t panic. Don’t freak out. Focus. Breathe.

He felt the familiar rise of adrenaline, stinging and biting, his senses sharpening unnaturally. Every crack, every faint hum of the gym became amplified. He could feel the subtle vibrations through the floor, the way air shifted from Kirishima’s movement nearby. 

Focus. Don’t let it catch you off guard. Don’t. Fucking. Lose it.

Kirishima’s voice broke through the haze, calm but concerned. “You good, man?”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened. “What?”

“You were kinda gone for a second. Everything okay?”

“Of course I’m okay, Shittyhair,” he snapped, but his voice was tighter than usual. The hiss of his breath betrayed him. He was painfully aware that he’d actually jumped at the sound, that for a second, his mind had gone somewhere else entirely. Calculating, scanning, anticipating threats like a cornered animal.

Don’t let them see. Don’t show weakness. Just… get back. Eyes on the target. Control the chaos. Control yourself.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, scanning the gym again with methodical precision. The drones, the mats, the walls. Nothing else moved. Nothing else could surprise him. Just Kirishima, standing there, quietly waiting, unaffected. How the hell is he so calm?

Bakugou’s knuckles flexed around his fists. He could feel the aftershock of tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles screamed for release. He shook his head, snapping back into the drill. 

Don’t let this throw you off. You’re not losing. Not today. Not because of a stupid pop of metal.

Kirishima’s casual smile almost made him flinch again. 

Focus. Don’t get distracted by… that. Don’t think about it. Keep moving. Control it.

He swallowed down the flash of frustration and the tiny sense of relief that he wasn’t alone. The world narrowed again to punches, blocks, and the rhythm of movement. But even as he threw the next punch, his mind moved over the subtle details: the low rumble of Kirishima’s voice, when did it get so hard for him to make out low sounds? 

By now, Kirishima tried to not look worried. 

He’s not just here. He’s paying attention. Why does he care so much? Ignore it. Focus. Training. Now.

Bakugou shook his head sharply, flexing his fingers. The pop was gone, but the echo lingered in his chest, a reminder of how fast his control could vanish, and how much he hated that it had even for a moment.

The rest of the session blurred past. Bakugou moved with inhuman precision, every strike, block, and punch was controlled. Kirishima followed, matching where he could, stumbling where he couldn’t. Each correction from Bakugou sounded harsh, even insulting, but Kirishima refused to take offense.

“You’re too tense.”

“You’re too loose.”

“Focus, damn it.”

By the final drills, sweat ran down both their faces. Kirishima’s muscles ached, his lungs burned, but his smile never wavered. He could feel the rhythm of Bakugou’s movements slowly imprinting on him, guiding him toward more controlled motion.

When the session ended, Kirishima leaned against a mat, breathing hard, proud he hadn’t completely fallen behind. Bakugou wiped his knuckles on a towel, chest heaving slightly, eyes sharp but calm.

It wasn’t just training. It was a challenge, a test, and the first real thread of connection between the two of them. 

The common room buzzed with low, chaotic energy. Mina and Jirou were locked in a heated debate over music, Mina waving her hands dramatically while Jirou groaned, earphones dangling. Sero crouched over his precious card tower, his eyes wide as he whispered frantic instructions to Denki. “Please, just focus on playing Uno with Yaoyorozu!”

Denki grinned mischievously, sliding a card under the table. “It’s not cheating if no one sees it, right?” Momo’s sharp glance silenced him instantly. “Kaminari, you can't fool me.” She smiled softly. “By the way, since you guys are officially part of our team now, I think it’s only fair that we talk to each other on a first name basis. You can call me Momo.”

“Uhh, do we have to? I’d rather just go by Sero…” He looked uncomfortable but no one commented.

“That’s okay!” Ochako chirped. “Shinsou and Bakugou also go by their last names.” Relief washed over Sero. “Me too, if that’s okay.” Jirou said, perking up from her phone.

Across the room, Shoto sat with perfect composure, quietly stacking pieces in a board game while Tsuyu, Tenya, and Mei tried to make conversation around him. Within minutes, Shoto’s silent efficiency earned him the win without so much as a flinch.

Bakugou sat a few feet away on the couch, gloves in hand, cleaning the scuffs and sweat marks from training. He didn’t look up, pretending not to notice the laughter, the faint chaos of voices and shuffling feet. 

Then Kirishima plopped down beside him, stretching out on the couch with a grin that didn’t falter in the slightest. “Hey, I wanted to thank you for training with me today.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Bakugou replied flatly, still focused on the gloves.

“Still counts,” Kirishima said. “Aizawa was right, you are kinda scary, but… that’s cool. Means you care.”

Bakugou’s eyes flicked toward him. “What kind of stupid logic is that?”

“Manly logic!” Kirishima said with a wink.

Bakugou scoffed, a faint twitch at the corner of his lips betraying amusement, but didn’t move away. Kirishima’s presence was loud, warm, and unwavering, somehow not unpleasant. But Bakugou would never admit that. 

The laughter, the soft chaos of the room, the background hum of voices filled the space between them, and for the first time today, Bakugou allowed himself a brief moment to just exist without calculating, without pressure.

The dorm kitchen was quiet, the lights off except for the faint glow of the moon spilling across the counters. Bakugou sat by the window, half-empty glass beside him, staring at his own reflection. The face looking back seemed older than he felt, tense with the weight of another day survived.

From upstairs came faint laughter, soft, chaotic hum of the others winding down. Deku’s laugh carried further than it should, too sharp, too bright, and Bakugou gritted his teeth.

Footsteps shuffled across the floor. Kirishima appeared, hair sticking every which way, yawning, grabbing a glass of water. “Do you ever sleep, man?” he asked.

“Sleep’s a waste of time,” Bakugou muttered.

“Yeah, I can’t either with all the noise they’re making,” Kirishima said with a grin. He waved, heading back upstairs. “Night!“

Bakugou’s eyes lingered on the faint reflection of Kirishima’s red hair as he disappeared into the darkness.

Kirishima must have said something to the others. Maybe he simply couldn’t hear anymore but it was quiet. Just quiet. It’s only a matter of days now until his new hearing aids arrive.

The dorm settled, warm light fading, cool shadow where he sat, staring into his glass of light brown liquor.

Chapter Text

The clock on Bakugou’s nightstand glowed faintly in the dark: 02:37 am.

The dorms were silent except for the low hum of the heating vents and the occasional creak of settling walls. It’s getting colder outside.

Most of the new recruits were in deep sleep, tangled in blankets after their first long day of drills.

Bakugou hadn’t even bothered lying down.

He sat by the window, elbows on his knees, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, the empty glass beside him caught a shard of moonlight. His eyes stayed on the horizon, the faintest hint of movement in the fog. He knew what it meant.

They’d warned him last week that the “assessment” was coming soon, a surprise night test for the new recruits, to watch their reaction under pressure. The kind of thing that separated the ones who wanted to be here from the ones who actually could.

He didn’t need the warning. He remembered every detail of his own first test years ago, the same alarm, the same gut-deep tension, the same quiet dread before the noise hit.

And then, as if on cue, the noise did hit.

The dorm’s emergency alarm shrieked to life, slicing through the silence like a blade. Red light flooded the hall through the cracks under the door, pulsing in time with the siren. Voices rose immediately, startled curses, the thud of feet hitting the floor, a half-asleep Denki shouting, “What the hell, is the building on fire?”

Bakugou was already standing. Calm. Controlled. 

Already dressed in their black tight uniform, he grabbed his jacket, holster, and comm gear in one smooth motion, slinging them over his shoulder as he stepped into the hallway.

“Up!” he barked, voice sharp enough to cut through the alarm. “You’ve got thirty seconds to get your shit together!”

Doors flew open in a blur of motion and panic. Deku appeared from his room half-dressed, tugging on his shirt while already scanning the hall. “Is it the test?” he asked.

Bakugou shot him a look. “What the hell do you think, nerd? Move.”

They split up automatically, years of instinct turning chaos into function. Deku banged on the doors down the left wing, shouting instructions. Ochako darted from her room, already dressed, rounding up Mina and Jirou, who stumbled into the hall in matching confusion.

Mina’s hair was a pink explosion against the flashing red lights. “Are we dying or training? Because I need to emotionally prepare either way!”

“Training,” Ochako said firmly, tossing her a vest. “Probably. Maybe.”

Jirou groaned, rubbing her eyes. “It’s too early for this crap.”

Bakugou moved past them in the common room, checking corners out of habit, until someone stumbled down the stairs.

Kirishima burst out, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep but alert enough to catch the tension. “What’s happening?”

Bakugou didn’t slow. “Congratulations, newbie. Time for your first mission.”

“What? NOW?” Kirishima blinked, looking down at his sleep shirt and boxer shorts.

“Unless you plan to fight in that.” Bakugou’s tone was dry, tossing him a box with boots, black trousers, a compression shirt and a vest.

Kirishima disappeared back upstairs, reemerging moments later half-armored, tugging on his boots as he ran to catch up. “Okay, okay, ready!”

Within minutes, the dorm became a blur of motion, boots slamming against tile, belts tightening, Denki pulling on his jacket backwards, Mina yawning as she tried to tie her hair and missed every other strand.

The alarm cut off suddenly. The silence that followed was heavier than the sound.

They gathered in the entry hall, adrenaline and confusion mingling in the air. Aizawa stood by the door, cup of coffee in hand, looking entirely unbothered by the chaos around him. All Might stood a step behind, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the dim light.

Bakugou, Deku and Ochako stood in a perfect line, completely still with their hands behind their backs. Years of training had drilled that into them.

“Briefing in the car,” Aizawa said simply. “Move.”

No one argued.

The team piled into the van parked outside, headlights shining through the dark, tires crunching over gravel. The night air was cold enough to bite, heavy with the smell of rain and fog.

Inside the van, the only light came from the dashboard glow. Kirishima found himself wedged between Bakugou and Denki, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, trying to sit straight despite the his ear piece sliding off his knee.

Bakugou sat with his arms folded, eyes forward, posture perfectly still. His silence wasn’t the tired kind, it was focused stillness, the kind that demanded attention without saying a word.

Denki yawned beside him. “So, uh, anyone know what’s going on?”

No one answered.

Kirishima glanced sideways. Bakugou didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just stared ahead at the blur of the road, muscles tight with something like anticipation.

The van accelerated into the night as the dorm lights disappeared behind them.

Kirishima finally broke the silence. “Uhm guys,” their gazes shifted over to the freezing red-head. “Why am I the only one without a jacket?”

Bakugou jerked his head over to him, eyes saying more than words ever could. “You have to be fucking kidding me.” 

Bakugou's jacket was the only one that would fit him, and everyone knew that, hence all the expecting stares.

“Fuck,” he growled. “Who was in charge of your-” Right.

I was.

He tossed his jacket at Kirishima who looked at him with that stupid soft, contagious smile. 

The van rumbled down a narrow road that cut through the woods like a scar, headlights slicing across trees that seemed to go on forever. Branches reached over the path like claws, the forest pressing close on all sides. The dorms were miles behind now, swallowed by fog and distance and still the city lights hadn’t appeared yet.

Inside, the air felt too still, heavy with that in-between quiet before something started. The hum of the engine filled the silence, low and constant. Every bump in the road made the gear bags clatter against the floor.

Aizawa sat at the front beside the driver, hood drawn up, eyes half-hidden but alert. A tablet glowed faintly in his hand, casting sharp light across his face. “Listen up,” he said without turning around. “This is a data extraction assignment, abandoned research site, low security, but possible equipment left behind.”

He flicked a few images onto the tablet. The faint hum of static filled the air as pictures rolled across the screen, the outline of a crumbling building, the interior full with faded hazard markings.

“Objective’s simple,” he continued. “Get in, secure the drive, extract cleanly. Here’s the catch: New recruits lead the operation, Izuku, Ochako and Katsuki observe and intervene only if necessary.”

Denki froze mid-yawn. “Define ‘necessary.’”

Aizawa finally glanced over his shoulder, deadpan. “If you’re about to die.”

The new recruits fell silent. 

Mina elbowed Denki, whispering under her breath. “Cool. So… not stressful at all.”

Sero snorted softly. “Guess we’re doomed.”

Aizawa ignored them. “You’ll move in teams of two and three. Communication is key. Stay sharp, stay low, and remember your basics. This is not a hero run. It’s stealth. Extraction. Efficiency.”

He switched the tablet off and leaned back, letting the quiet stretch. The hum of the road filled the gap.

Bakugou didn’t speak, posture straight, eyes forward. He didn’t fidget, didn’t blink, didn’t join in the nervous whispers. His calm wasn’t comforting, it carried weight, something strong and heavy. He’d done this too many times before.

Kirishima had his hands clasped loosely in his lap. He tried to look composed, but his leg bounced against the floor in small, rhythmic taps. He caught Bakugou’s reflection in the window, sharp profile, unmoving.

How the hell does he stay that calm?

A sudden bump in the road jolted them all slightly. Mina gasped, Denki cursed, Sero laughed too loud. Bakugou didn’t move an inch. He finally spoke, voice low, directed at Kirishima.

“Don’t overthink. You’ll fuck it up if you do.”

Kirishima blinked. “What?”

Bakugou turned his head slightly, red eyes catching faint light. “Follow orders. Don’t improvise. Keep your head straight. That’s it.”

Kirishima nodded quickly. “Right. Got it.”

“Good,” Bakugou muttered. “Then maybe you won’t die.”

Denki made a face. “So motivational, man.”

Bakugou ignored him, gaze returning to the window. The city lights passed like ghosts, flashes of color on wet concrete, dissolving as quickly as they appeared. He could see their faces, distorted by the movement, the nervous recruits, Ochako and Deku, calm as always. The contrast almost made him laugh, if laughing was something he still did easily.

Kirishima leaned back, watching the blur of streetlights and shadows. His nerves twisted tighter the closer they got, but the feeling wasn’t entirely fear, it was something sharper, excitement maybe, like standing at the edge of a cliff and deciding whether to jump into the water.

“You ever get used to it?” he asked suddenly, quiet enough that only Bakugou could hear.

Bakugou didn’t answer right away. He flexed his fingers once, jaw tense. “No,” he said finally. “You just stop hesitating.”

The van fell silent again.

Aizawa’s voice cut through one last time. “Two minutes out. Check your gear. Katsuki you carry these two.” Throwing him a pistol and a rifle.

Harnesses clicked, gloves tightened, comms flickered on.
No more whispers now, just the low thrum of readiness.

Bakugou reached for his earpiece, eyes flicking briefly toward Kirishima.
“Stay close,” he said, like it wasn’t advice but an order.

Kirishima grinned. “Didn’t plan on doing anything else.”

The van slowed to a crawl, tires crunching over gravel and debris as they turned off the main road into darkness. The dim streetlights flickered through mist and revealed the facility, a factory of rusted steel and glass, half-buried under ivy and years of neglect. The outer fence broken in places, topped with dead wires that used to glow with voltage.

The air was colder here, even the city noise felt distant.

Bakugou stepped out first, boots hitting the ground with quiet precision. He scanned the perimeter, every motion practiced, efficient. The others followed, slower, clumsier, adjusting to the darkness and the weight of their gear.

He didn’t say it aloud, but this was what he wanted to see. What they’d learned. How far the “new recruits” could go when the safety net was gone.

He’d watched them stumble through drills, watched them sweat through Tenya’s obstacle courses and flinch at Mei’s timed detonations. But drills weren’t the field. The field didn’t forgive hesitation.

Aizawa’s voice crackled through the comms. “You’re clear to enter. Remember, assessment protocols apply. No unnecessary risk. Goal: recover the drive.”

Bakugou’s eyes flicked to the recruits gathering near the door, Mina adjusting her gloves, Denki fiddling with his wristband controls, Kirishima tightening his vest strap with shaking fingers that he tried to hide.

Deku motioned them forward. “Formation. Now.”

They moved, uneven at first. Mina took point with a flashlight attachment, beam sweeping over the entryway. The door hung open just enough to creak when she nudged it.

Inside, the air was stale and thick with dust. The narrow hallway stretched into shadow, littered with cables, broken monitors, and half-collapsed ceiling panels. Every footstep echoed too loud.

Bakugou stayed near the back with Ochako, letting the recruits take the lead, eyes tracking every mistake. Foot placement. Line spacing. Poor visibility angles. Each one a mental note, each one a reminder of how easily someone could die out here if they weren’t careful.

“Keep your lights low,” Bakugou muttered. “Don’t cast shadows against the walls.”

“Got it,” Kirishima whispered, adjusting his stance automatically.

Mina nodded, steadying her flashlight. “This place is creeping me out, though.”

“Good,” Bakugou said flatly. “At least you’re paying attention.”

They advanced in small bursts, check corners, clear, move. Denki’s scanner buzzed faintly, reading faint heat signatures ahead.

“Uh, I think I’ve got something,” he said, tapping the screen. “Could be one of those drones Aizawa mentioned.”

“Mark it,” Bakugou ordered.

Denki crouched, pressing a small beacon to the floor, but his hand slipped. The scanner jolted and sent out a sharp electric pulse, a pop of blue static shot up the hallway.

A second later, a panel in the ceiling hissed open. A drone dropped down, lights flickering to life.

“Shit!” Denki yelped, stumbling back.

Bakugou moved before anyone else could react. 

One step, follow its movement, strike.

The drone cracked against the wall with a metallic shriek before sparking out, smoking faintly.

He kicked the remains aside. “Don’t get cocky,” he snapped, glaring at Denki. “You’re lucky that thing weren't armed.”

Denki opened his mouth, thought better of it, and just nodded. “Y-yeah. Got it.”

“Keep moving,” Ochako said. Her voice was clipped, calm. “No mistakes.”

The mission unfolded like controlled chaos after that. They cleared rooms one by one, broken labs filled with overturned desks and dusty glass. The recruits followed their drills: Mina on visual, Denki and Jirou monitoring signals, Kirishima and Sero covering blind angles. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

Bakugou trailed behind, letting them lead, letting the tension build. He wasn’t here to babysit. He wanted to see instinct.

When the next drone simulation triggered a burst of motion from the corner, Kirishima reacted on pure reflex. He threw himself in front of Mina just in time as the false projectile hit his shoulder with a dull impact.

Mina gasped. “Kiri!”

He straightened quickly, lips tight. “I’m fine! Totally fine-”

“You’re slow,” Bakugou cut in. His tone wasn’t loud, but it hit harder than a shout. “You hesitated. You think a real one’s gonna wait for you to play hero?”

Kirishima’s grin faltered. “I was covering her-”

“If that was real,” Bakugou interrupted, stepping closer, “you’d be dead. And she’d be next.”

The words floated heavy in the air. Mina glanced between them, uncertain. Even Deku shifted slightly behind them, as if ready to intervene but unwilling to break protocol.

Kirishima’s jaw tightened. His pride burned, but there was something steadier underneath. “Then teach me not to be.”

Bakugou stared at him for a long moment. The faint hum of electricity from Denki’s scanner was the only sound. Then, finally, a low exhale.

“Fine,” Bakugou said. “Next room. Your turn.”

Kirishima blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Prove you can do better.”

Sero shot him a quick thumbs-up from behind. “You got this, dude.”

He nodded, swallowing the rush of nerves, and stepped forward.

Bakugou followed a few paces back, eyes sharp but not as hard as before. Watching. Measuring.

This was what mattered. The mistakes. The recovery. The refusal to break.

As they advanced deeper into the complex, fog from the shattered windows rolled in behind them, swallowing their footprints. 

The corridor funneled into a wide chamber, its walls pulsing faintly with the flicker of failing power. A half-collapsed sign above the door read CENTRAL CONTROL.

Denki pushed the door open cautiously, the beam of her flashlight cutting through layers of dust. “Creepy factor just hit a ten,” he muttered.

Inside, the room was a round control table, lined with cracked glass panels and old machinery. A massive terminal dominated the center, a mess of tangled cables and dead screens.

“Objective’s there,” Deku said quietly through the comms. “Recover the drive, then leave.”

Bakugou gave a curt nod, signaling the recruits forward. He kept his eyes moving, corners, shadows, the ceiling grid. Nothing in places like this stayed abandoned for long.

Jirou crouched by the terminal, typing commands into a small portable console. “Okay, I think I can extract the data file if I-”

A sharp beep.

Then another.

Then the entire room came to life.

Red emergency lights flared up, casting the walls in a harsh crimson colour. Alarms screamed from hidden speakers. Panels along the ceiling hissed open, and the whirring of mechanical rotors filled the air.

“Shit,” Bakugou hissed. “Move!”

The first drone dropped fast, a sphere of metal and glass, lenses snapping open, lasers flaring. Jirou dove aside just as a stun round scorched the floor where she’d been kneeling.

“Engagement protocol active,” an artificial voice said from above.

“Contact confirmed,” Bakugou barked. “Evasive formation, NOW!”

They scattered for cover, behind desks, under panels, through any bit of shadow they could find. Sero threw himself behind a metal cabinet, yanking Mina down with him as rounds pinged off the walls.

“Denki!” Mina shouted. “Can you jam them?”

“Not without the main console!” he yelled back, frantically trying to reboot his pad. “These aren’t combat drones, they’re not supposed to fire!”

“Welcome to real missions,” Bakugou snapped, sliding behind the nearest control table. He scanned the drones’ flight paths, they were moving in coordinated loops, a programmed killbox pattern. Whoever designed this simulation wanted them trapped.

“On my count!” Deku ordered. “We move right, cover, then counter.”

Mina looked at him like he was insane. “Cover with what?!”

“Whatever you can lift,” Bakugou shot back.

“Great plan!”

But they moved anyway. Training took over where logic faltered.

Kirishima sprinted between cover points, grabbing a fallen monitor to use as a shield. He ducked just in time as a laser barely missed his shoulder, sparks flying.

Bakugou watched, calculating angles, scanning for weak points. “The drones’ sensors are front-heavy,” he called out. “Hit their blind spots, low and behind!”

They followed his lead, adapting in fragments. Sero grabbed a loose pipe, swinging it like a bat, Jirou used a fallen drone as makeshift cover while rerouting power from her console.

Then the drones adapted.

Three of them descended in formation, synchronized, scanning the floor. A high-pitched tone built, a warning frequency.

Bakugou recognized it instantly. “EMP burst incoming! Brace!”

The pulse detonated with a violent hum. All their comms cut out in a burst of static. The room plunged into half-darkness.

“-shit!” Denki’s voice was lost in the ringing silence.

Bakugou grit his teeth, slamming his fist against the floor once, hard. Fine. No comms, no safety net. Just them.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. FUCK. Breathe. Focus.

He turned to Kirishima, who was crouched a few meters away behind a control panel, breathing hard. Bakugou slid a small pistol towards him and gestured hand signals, field language begging he would understand. Flank left. Draw fire.

Kirishima nodded, no hesitation this time.

He bolted from cover, focusing the drones’ aim on him immediately. Mina followed his lead, darting in the opposite direction, throwing debris to create confusion.

Bakugou used the distraction, vaulted the terminal, closed distance, and smashed one drone with the butt of his rifle. Sparks burst across his gloves.

Another drone dropped down from above, spinning, laser fixed right on him.

Bakugou turned too late.

The flashbang simulation went off at his feet, white light swallowing everything for a fraction of a second. The sound hit like a concussion, shoving the breath from his lungs.

For a second, he wasn’t in the training facility anymore.

He was back there, the smell of burning concrete, the crackle of debris, the pressure wave that tore sound apart. His ears filled with the phantom ring of it, that endless, hollow static that never fully left. The floor tilted. His vision tunneled.

Move.

His muscles refused.

He knew it wasn’t real. He knew this was a simulation, cold air, artificial light, no real threat. But his body didn’t care. His brain had already decided.

Too loud, too bright, too late.

He could feel his pulse hammering in his teeth. The edges of the room blurred, his breath came too fast. Every instinct screamed at him to find cover, to lock down, to check the perimeter.

But the noise wouldn’t stop. The white flash. The taste of dust. The echo of someone shouting his name, not here, not now, but then.

Don’t freak out. Don’t freeze. You’re not there. You’re not there.

He repeated it over and over but the words bounced around uselessly in his head until a sharp impact broke through, Kirishima slamming into him, pulling him down, the sound snapping back into place all at once.

He froze again. Just for a heartbeat. The walls felt too close, the smoke too thick, his pulse slamming behind his eyes.

The echo of that explosion, the explosion, flickered through his skull like a ghost. The training ground. The scream. The pressure wave.

He couldn’t move.

Bakugou blinked, breath ragged. The alarm dimmed back into focus.

Kirishima groaned, half on top of him, but still moving. “You okay?”

“Get the fuck off me,” Bakugou rasped.

He shoved him aside, rolled up to his knees, grabbed a loose pipe, and slammed it into the nearest drone before it could reset its targeting.

“Next time, stay down!” he barked, voice rawer than usual.

Kirishima coughed out a laugh, shaky but alive. “Couldn’t let you take all the glory, man.”

Bakugou shot him a glare that wasn’t quite convincing anymore. Something in his chest, a knot of anger and something else, eased just slightly.

“Fine,” he said, pushing to his feet. “You want to help? Then move.”

Together they did.

Kirishima called out angles, Mina baited drones into crossfire, Jirou rerouted power to short-circuit the rest. What had started as chaos began to look like something sharper, messy, loud, but working.

When the final drone hit the ground with a metallic thud, the alarms cut off abruptly. The red lights steadied to a soft, pulsing white.

No one spoke for a long moment. The only sound was their breathing.

Bakugou finally straightened, scanning the wreckage. He caught Kirishima’s gaze across the room, still half-grinning despite the sweat and the burns on his sleeves.

Bakugou exhaled once. “Not bad, rookie,” he said quietly.

Kirishima grinned wider. “Manly enough for you yet?”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Don’t push it.”

The room lights flickered once more and then a speaker crackled above them.

“Simulation concluded,” Aizawa’s voice announced. “Report to extraction point.”

The silence that followed was disbelief, relief, and a faint sense of pride that none of them would admit out loud.

Bakugou turned toward the exit, not looking back as he muttered under his breath,

“About damn time.”

The van doors swung open to the sound of gravel crunching under boots.
Cold morning air rolled in, sharp and damp, cutting through the leftover heat of adrenaline. The sky was still half-dark, a washed-out mix of gray and blue with the first streaks of light bleeding through the trees.

Everyone looked wrecked.

Mina’s hair was coming undone, streaked with soot and sweat. Denki’s jacket was half torn from where he’d tripped over a crate. Sero leaned against the van door, eyes barely open. Even Ochako’s steady composure cracked into a quiet yawn.

Denki groaned, tipping his head back dramatically. “If this was fake, I’m suing.”

Jirou laughed weakly, brushing at the mud on her arms. “You can’t sue the government, dude.”

Sero yawned. “Watch him try.”

Their voices blended into the early quiet, an exhausted kind of laughter that came only when no one had the energy left to care.

The gravel shifted under new footsteps.

Aizawa stood by the dorm gate, hands in his pockets, cup of coffee in one hand as if he’d been standing there the whole time, waiting. The rising sun caught on the edge of his hair, making him look less like a teacher and more like a warning.

All Might stood just behind him, arms crossed, smile small but proud.

“You’re not dead,” Aizawa said flatly, eyes scanning over them. “Acceptable start.”

Denki blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s the compliment,” Sero muttered.

Aizawa took a slow sip of his coffee before continuing. “That wasn’t a mission. It was an assessment. Instinct, communication, restraint. You passed in some areas, failed in others.” His gaze swept over each of them in turn. “Some of you need work on all three.”

Mina’s jaw dropped. “Wait, you’re saying that entire nightmare was fake?”

“You think we’d hand you a real mission on your first week?” Bakugou’s tone made it sound less like a question and more like an insult.

Denki rubbed his face. “Kinda feels like you did…”

Even All Might’s shoulders shook with the faintest laugh. “You should be proud! You acted as a team, even under false pressure. That’s more than most could manage.”

Aizawa raised a brow at him but didn’t argue. He turned back toward the dorms, muttering something about “overzealous speeches” as he disappeared inside.

The others slowly followed, stumbling in groups, their laughter soft and scattered across the yard. Mina shoved Sero toward the door when he nearly tripped. Ochako and Deku helped Jirou carry their gear. Denki stretched his arms high and yawned so wide his jaw cracked.

Only Bakugou and Kirishima stayed behind.

Bakugou leaned against the van, unfastening his gloves, the motion slow and deliberate. His hair was a mess, his face streaked with dust, but his expression hadn’t changed once since they got back, sharp, still, unreadable.

Kirishima lingered a few steps away, still riding the leftover rush of adrenaline, his breathing uneven but eyes bright.

“You knew, didn’t you?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.

Bakugou looked up, one brow raised. “Figured.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“Would’ve ruined the point.”

Kirishima huffed out a laugh. “Guess I passed if you didn’t kill me.”

Bakugou’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Barely.”

There was a pause, quiet but not awkward. Kirishima’s smile didn’t fade, even through exhaustion, dirt, and the faint scrape on his cheek. The kid had fought like hell, reckless, unpolished, but brave in a way Bakugou couldn’t decide was admirable or idiotic. Maybe both.

Kirishima shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t talk much, huh?”

“Talking’s overrated.”

“Guess so.” He grinned wider. “But I’ll take that ‘barely’ as a win.”

Bakugou just shook his head. “You’re a damn idiot.”

“Manly idiot,” Kirishima said without missing a beat, then jogged toward the others, his laughter carrying faintly through the mist, his body still wrapped in Bakugou’s jacket.

Bakugou stayed where he was, watching his jacket disappear into the morning. The engine clicked softly as it cooled, the sound small in the stillness. Beyond the trees, the sun had started to break through in streaks of pale gold.

The dorms glowed faintly, windows catching the first light of morning, laughter still echoing faintly through the walls.

Bakugou exhaled, long and quiet. He looked at the ground for a second, then up toward where Kirishima had disappeared inside. His own reflection caught in the van window, tired eyes, faint smirk that never quite formed.

“Not bad, newbie,” he muttered, only to himself.

He grabbed his gear off the seat, slinging it over one shoulder, and started back toward the dorms.

The forest around him was calm again, drenched in dew and gold light, the world settling into a quiet he didn’t mind for once.

Chapter Text

Two weeks after the test mission, the dorms had fallen into a rhythm and no other mission had come up.

The chaos of those first nights, alarms, confusion, tripping over each other in the dark, had turned into something like order.

Mornings started before sunrise now. Aizawa made sure of that.

By six, the halls filled with the soft thud of running shoes and the echo of weights hitting mats. Mina’s music usually blasting faintly from someone’s speaker, all bass and attitude, while Denki complained about being awake, and Sero tried to one-up him with worse jokes.

It wasn’t perfect teamwork, but it was something.

A kind of functional mess that somehow worked.

Everyone had their place: Mina brought energy, Jirou balance, Denki chaos, Sero support.

Bakugou never joined their group meals.

He’d cook before everyone else woke up, eat standing by the counter, and vanish before the table filled. The others had stopped asking him to sit down by now.

Kirishima didn’t.

He’d still nod or throw a “morning” his way every time, and Bakugou always responded the same, a low grunt that could’ve meant anything from ‘hey’ to ‘shut up.’

But there was something else Kirishima started to notice.

Bakugou didn’t sleep.

At least, not properly.

Most nights, when Kirishima went for a glass of water or to clear his head after training, he’d spot a faint light through the crack of Bakugou’s door, always the same desk lamp glow. 

Sometimes he’d hear the sound of gloves hitting a sandbag. Other nights, it was silence. Just him, sitting there.

No one said anything.

Kirishima doubted anyone else had noticed. Or maybe they had and just left him alone. 

He didn’t know why it bothered him, maybe because he’d never seen Bakugou truly relax.

Even when he wasn’t training, he looked like he was fighting something invisible.

That morning, the dorm was quiet after training. The air outside was sharp with the smell of rain. Kirishima sat on the porch steps, towel around his neck, muscles pleasantly sore, watching fog drift through the woods.

Bakugou was a few meters away, dismantling one of the training drones Denki had attempted building. He’d already stripped it down to its wires, muttering under his breath about “cheap tech” and “lazy assembly.”

Kirishima hesitated before saying, “You know, you don’t have to fix every broken thing around here.”

Bakugou didn’t look up. “You know, you don’t have to talk every five seconds. Besides, if I don’t, Mei will. And you don’t want that.” At least Bakugou could hear him now, his new hearing aids worked like magic. 

Kirishima grinned. “Fair.”

A pause stretched between them, not tense, but not exactly comfortable either.

The sound of metal clicking filled it.

Kirishima leaned back on his elbows. “You’re like… always working, man. Don’t you ever just chill?”

Bakugou snorted. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.” Kirishima shrugged. “You just look like you’re trying to outrun something all the time.”

That made Bakugou freeze for half a heartbeat.

Then he stood, grabbed the half-gutted drone, and said, “Maybe I just don’t like sitting still.”

He walked off before Kirishima could reply.

Kirishima watched him disappear around the corner, something uneasy stirring in his chest.

It wasn’t just that Bakugou worked hard, they all did. But there was a certain presence to him that didn’t come from ambition alone. Something wound too tight, like a spring that couldn’t uncoil.

He didn’t say it out loud, but the thought stuck anyway.

He’s not just tired. Something’s wrong.

When the fog started to burn off, Kirishima stood and stretched, the ache in his shoulders grounding him back into the morning.

The dorm windows glowed warm against the pale light. Inside, Denki and Mina were probably arguing about music again, Sero pretending to be the referee. Normal noise. Easy, simple, human.

He turned once more toward the woods, half expecting to see Bakugou there again.

But he was already gone.

Kirishima hadn’t meant to keep it.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

After the mission, he’d folded Bakugou’s jacket neatly, meaning to return it the next morning. But Bakugou never asked for it back. Never even mentioned it. And somehow, every day that passed, it got harder to bring up.

It wasn’t like Bakugou was missing it anyway. He always wore the same stuff, black tank, some joggers and now usually a hoodie when he was outside, like he had an infinite supply of them hanging in his closet. So maybe one jacket gone didn’t matter.

That was how Kirishima justified it, anyway.

The jacket hung on the back of his chair now, worn and fitting perfectly. He’d pull it on whenever the dorm got cold, sleeves swallowing his hands, fabric soft from use.

It smelled faintly of something he couldn’t quite make out.

Like the inside of a training gym: metal, sweat, laundry detergent that actually worked. And under that, something faintly herbal, probably from the soap Bakugou used.

The mix was… steadying. Comforting.

Like him.

Kirishima pulled it tighter around his shoulders and sat on the edge of his bed, staring out at the window fogged with early morning light. The woods were half-hidden in mist again, just like the night of the test.

He shouldn’t be thinking about it.

He really shouldn’t be thinking about it.

But every time he wore the jacket, something about it reminded him of the mission, the van, the adrenaline, the look on Bakugou’s face when he barked orders like the world depended on it.

Focused. Sharp. Terrifyingly calm.

And when that flashbang had gone off, for just a second, he’d seen something else, fear, maybe. Or pain.

It was gone almost instantly, swallowed by control, but Kirishima hadn’t forgotten.

He ran his thumb over the seam of the jacket, tracing the stitching like it might answer a question he couldn’t put into words.

Bakugou was hard to figure out.

Not because he was complicated, he was actually pretty straightforward in most ways. You messed up, he told you. You trained hard, he noticed.

But there was something underneath all that skill, something Kirishima couldn’t stop seeing now that he’d caught a glimpse.

He liked him.

Not just as a leader or someone to look up to, though that was part of it.

It was more like… Bakugou made him want to try harder. To be stronger, better.

And that was dangerous in its own way.

He’d laugh if anyone else said it, the idea that Bakugou Katsuki, the guy who could silence a room with a single look, was someone you could actually admire.

But when Kirishima thought about him, he didn’t picture the yelling or the glare. He pictured the way Bakugou stood in the morning light after training, breath visible in the cold air, every motion deliberate. The kind of person who didn’t waste effort on anything he didn’t care about, which made it mean something when he did.

So when he pauses his own training to guide me, does it mean he cares?

Kirishima sighed and leaned back against the wall, pulling the jacket’s collar closer to his chin.

He’d planned to train today. He really had. But it was his one rest day, and the dorm was quiet for once.

Denki and Sero were probably playing videogames, Mina had gone on a walk with Jirou. Even Aizawa wasn’t lurking around.

For the first time in days, there was peace.

And that peace came with too much space to think.

He wondered if Bakugou ever thought about him, not in a weird way, but just… at all.

If he even noticed he still had the jacket.

Probably not.

But even if he did, Bakugou didn’t seem like the type to notice small things. Except he did, sometimes. He noticed when people hesitated in training, or when someone’s form slipped. He noticed the things that mattered.

Maybe this just didn’t.

Still, every time Kirishima passed him in the hall, there was this half-second where he expected Bakugou to stop him “Oi, give it back.”

But he never did.

And maybe that was worse.

Kirishima’s reflection caught faintly in the window, messy red hair, sleepy eyes, the black jacket on his shoulders. The letters BK printed on the chest in bright orange letters. For some reason, it made him smile.

It wasn’t his, but it felt right.

Warm in a way his own clothes weren’t.

He rested his head against the wall, staring at the line of trees through the fog.

When he finally did give it back, whenever that was, he knew it’d feel strange.

Like losing something he shouldn’t have gotten attached to.

He sighed, low and a little self-conscious, and muttered under his breath. “Man, I’m in trouble.”

It was well past midnight when Kirishima first heard it, a dull, uneven thud-thud-thud against the hallway door, followed by a frustrated growl that didn’t belong to anyone but him.

“Why the hell-” thud “-is this door locked? It’s my damn room.”

Kirishima blinked awake, disoriented. The sound came again, closer this time, followed by something heavy bumping the wall. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the fog of sleep, before realizing the voice wasn’t outside anymore.

He must’ve somehow gotten in.

Bakugou stumbled in like gravity had a personal grudge against him, red-faced, jacket half-zipped, one boot missing. His usually perfect posture was gone, shoulders slouched, steps uneven. He muttered under his breath, low and rough, “Stupid room… hate that place.”

He didn’t even look around before bumping straight into Kirishima’s desk, sending a pile of notebooks sliding to the floor.

Kirishima sat up quickly, heart racing.

“Uh… Bakugou?”

The blond froze, head lifting slowly like he was trying to process sound through a haze. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, met Kirishima’s. “Shut up,” he mumbled, not sharp, just weary. Then he exhaled hard and slid down against the wall until he was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, head tipped forward.

He looked completely wrecked.

Not the Bakugou everyone knew, not the one barking orders, not the one who trained like the world would stop spinning if he didn’t. This version looked like something had been ripped out of him and left him hollow.

The room went quiet except for Bakugou’s uneven breathing and the faint patter of rain on his balcony. Kirishima’s pulse slowed, but his confusion didn’t.

“…Are you drunk?” he asked carefully.

Bakugou cracked one eye open, glaring, or trying to. “Maybe,” he muttered, voice rough around the edges. “Not your business.”

He wasn’t angry. Just… tired. His words slurred, hands trembling slightly as he rubbed them over his face. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just alcohol. It was exhaustion, too deep for sleep to fix.

Kirishima hesitated, then slid out of bed, bare feet cold on the floor. “C’mon, man,” he said softly, grabbing a half-full water bottle from his nightstand. “You should drink some water.”

Bakugou didn’t move. His eyes were closed again, head tilted back like he was listening to the rain. “Tch. You sound like Deku.”

Kirishima smiled faintly, kneeling beside him. “Guess I’m just nicer about it.”

After a pause, Bakugou took the bottle, drank, and let it rest against his knee. His jacket had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the faint line of a scar Kirishima hadn’t noticed before. His hair was a mess, softer without its usual volume, sticking to his forehead in damp strands.

And god help him, even like this, even drunk and barely coherent, Bakugou still looked unfairly good.

Kirishima felt heat crawl up the back of his neck and forced himself to look away, suddenly hyper-aware that he was standing there in his ‘pyjamas‘, half-asleep, watching Bakugou like some lovesick idiot.

He cleared his throat. “So… what were you doing? You, uh, broke into my room?”

Bakugou made a low sound, something between a scoff and a sigh. “Wasn’t-” he started, then cut himself off, jaw clenching. His voice came out quieter. “Wasn’t thinkin’. Just… forgot it’s not mine anymore.”

Kirishima blinked. Forgot?

He wanted to ask, but something in Bakugou’s tone told him not to.

The silence stretched. Kirishima shifted, unsure whether to sit beside him or pretend this wasn’t happening. Then Bakugou’s eyes opened again, unfocused but sharper now and landed on Kirishima’s chest.

More specifically, on the jacket draped over it.

“That’s mine,” he said flatly.

Kirishima froze. “Oh- uh, yeah. I was gonna-”

“Keep it,” Bakugou interrupted. The words were soft, but his tone left no room for argument. He leaned back against the wall again, voice low. “Doesn’t matter.”

Kirishima stared at him. “You sure?”

Bakugou didn’t answer. His breathing had evened out, slower now, the sharp edges of anger gone. He looked almost peaceful in the faint glow from the window. 

Rain streaked the glass, soft and rhythmic.

Kirishima sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, not touching, just close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body.

He studied him quietly, the tension in his jaw, the faint tremor in his fingers, the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin. It hit him then that this wasn’t just about being drunk. Whatever Bakugou saw when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t rest.

He wanted to say something, to ask why he didn’t want to sleep in his own room, why he looked like he hadn’t really slept in weeks, but the words stuck.

Bakugou beat him to it, voice barely above a whisper. “Can’t sleep there anyway.”

Kirishima looked at him, searching for more, but Bakugou’s eyes had already fallen shut. His breathing deepened, not quite asleep, but close.

Something twisted in Kirishima’s chest. It wasn’t pity. It was something heavier. Understanding, maybe.

He sighed quietly and tugged a blanket from his bed, draping it over Bakugou’s shoulders. “You’re a mess, man,” he murmured.

Bakugou didn’t answer, just shifted slightly, the blanket catching around his arm.

Kirishima watched him for a moment, seeing how his jaw finally unclenched and his breathing steadied out. Then he sighed quietly and stood, stretching the stiffness from his legs.

He crouched beside him, hesitating for half a second before sliding his arms under Bakugou’s shoulders and knees. The movement made Bakugou stir faintly, a low sound escaping him, but he didn’t wake.

“Easy, man,” Kirishima whispered, almost smiling. “Just… go back to sleep.”

Bakugou’s weight was solid, heavier than he looked, but Kirishima managed to lift him, careful not to bump the desk again. He carried him a few steps to the bed and set him down, pulling the blanket over him.

For a second, he just stood there, watching him in the faint glow of the rain-filtered light again. Bakugou’s face, for once, was calm. Peaceful. Younger somehow.

Kirishima swallowed hard. “Guess it’s your bed now,” he murmured. Technically it was big enough for the both of them, but Kirishima didn’t want to risk it. 

He grabbed an extra pillow and the spare blanket from the end of the mattress, then got down on the floor beside. The wood was cold, but he didn’t mind.

As he settled down, Bakugou shifted slightly, the faintest murmur slipping out, something soft and indistinct, but it sounded like a name. Kirishima froze, listening, but the next breath was steady, dreamless.

He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

You really don’t want to sleep there, huh?

Outside, the rain eased to a drizzle. Inside, the only sound was Bakugou’s quiet breathing, steady, grounding, impossibly close.

Kirishima closed his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips despite him being on the floor.

“Night, Bakugou.”

Kirishima woke to the soft sound of rain still tapping against the window. The dorms were quiet, everyone had left for their special Sunday training with All Might. 

Fuck I missed it. 

His neck hurt from sleeping on the floor, but the moment he moved, he remembered why.

Bakugou.

He turned his head slightly. Bakugou was still asleep in his bed, half-buried in the blanket, one arm over his face like he was hiding from the light. His breathing was steady, slower than the ragged mess it had been last night.

Kirishima stayed still for a moment, watching him. Not in a weird way, at least, because there was something rare about seeing Bakugou like this. Peaceful. Human. His usual explosiveness was gone, replaced by a peaceful glow of sleepiness and calm.

Kirishima swallowed, his chest tightening. 

He rubbed a hand over his face and sat up slowly, careful not to make noise. His jacket, no, Bakugou’s jacket was flung over the chair. He’d planned to fold it up, maybe finally give it back when Bakugou sobered up, but that felt… wrong now. Like returning it would undo whatever strange, little thing had happened between them last night.

He stood, stretched, and glanced back at the bed. Bakugou shifted in his sleep, a small crease forming between his brows. Even asleep, he looked like he was fighting something.

Kirishima frowned. ‘Can’t sleep there anyway‘.

Those words from last night echoed in his head. He didn’t know what Bakugou meant exactly, but couldn’t ask either. 

Kirishima sighed and crossed the room, tugging the blanket up to cover Bakugou’s shoulder. The motion made him stir, mumbling something incoherent before settling again. Bakugou's hand brushed his, just enough to make Kirishima freeze. Then nothing.

He stayed there for a second longer than he should have, then stepped back, trying not to think about how the room felt heavier now, but warmer somehow.

He slipped out quietly, careful to close the door without a sound.

Kirishima padded to the kitchen barefoot, grabbing the first mug he could find. Coffee. He needed coffee and something to think about. Something that wasn’t Bakugou sleeping in his bed.

He leaned against the counter, waiting for the kettle since Denki broke the machine. 

Bakugou appeared in the kitchen fifteen minutes later, hair messy, eyes darting around, but slower than usual. He was wearing one of Kirishima‘s shirts that he had laid out the night before, just in case Bakugou wanted to change out of his booze-drowned clothes.  

Their eyes met. Neither said a word.

Kirishima tried to be casual. “Morning.”

Bakugou grunted, grabbing the mug from Kirishima’s hand like it was his by default. “Shut up.”

Kirishima almost laughed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Bakugou looked at him over the rim of the mug, unreadable for a beat too long. “…For what?”

“For not letting you sleep on the floor. Or the wall. Or whatever you were planning.”

A pause. Then, barely audible: “Didn’t ask you to.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Kirishima said, smiling softly. “You never do.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened, but his eyes flicked down, just for a second, something almost like gratitude buried under stubbornness. Then he looked away. Trying his best to hide the heat rising to his cheeks.

Kirishima didn’t push it. He didn’t mention the jacket, didn’t mention how Bakugou's hand had twitched, like he was reaching for something in his sleep.

Some things didn’t need to be said. Not for now anyway.

Bakugou finished the coffee in silence, then put the mug down with a quiet clink. “If anyone asks, you didn’t see me last night.”

Kirishima raised an eyebrow. “See you? You mean, in my bed?”

Bakugou shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Right,” Kirishima said, grinning now. “Didn’t see a thing.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes and muttered something about “dumb and idiot,”. He just turned for the hallway, shoulders tense, movements precise again like he was piecing himself back together.

Kirishima watched him go, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

“Can’t sleep there anyway,” he whispered under his breath. “Yeah. I figured.”

And upstairs, Bakugou disappeared behind his own room's door. He would never admit it but that was the best and longest sleep he had gotten in a while. 

The gym was filled with noise and laughter. The others were scattered across the space, Mina and Denki running movement drills, Jirou timing them with a stopwatch, Deku and Shoto sparring quietly near the corner.

Bakugou and Kirishima were paired again.

Kirishima’s shoulders were already tense, sweat sliding down his temple as he adjusted his grip on the practice staff. His heart was pounding harder than it should’ve been for a simple stance drill.

Bakugou stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes sharp and expression unreadable. “Your center’s off again,” he said flatly. “If I pushed you right now, you’d be on your ass.”

Kirishima huffed, shifting his weight. “You always criticise me but never actually show me how to do it right.”

That got him a look, one of those unreadable, narrow-eyed glances that said you’re pushing your luck. Then Bakugou stepped forward.

“Fine.”

He moved in close. Close enough that Kirishima could feel the heat of his body, the faint brush of his sleeve against his arm. Bakugou’s hands caught his shoulders, firm but not rough, and adjusted them, one forward, one angled slightly down. Then his palm pressed briefly against Kirishima’s torso, grounding him. “Here. That’s your balance point. You move from there, not from your arms.”

Kirishima’s breath caught halfway up his throat. He told himself it was the intensity. But it wasn’t. His pulse kicked like it was trying to get out.

Bakugou noticed the hesitation and frowned. “You listening or are you zoning out?”

Kirishima blinked, forcing a quick nod. “Yeah. Listening.” His voice came out a little higher than intended.

Bakugou’s hands lingered one beat too long before he stepped back. “Then fix it.”

Kirishima exhaled, refocusing, moving through the form again. This time his footing was cleaner. The motion had rhythm, he could feel it, the correction working, Bakugou’s voice still echoing in his head.

When he finished the set, Bakugou gave a small nod, barely visible, but it was there. “Better.”

That one word sent a rush of warmth through him, stupid and inappropriate. He turned away quickly, hoping the faint heat in his face didn’t show.

Bakugou noticed. Of course he did. His gaze lingered a second longer than usual, curious, not mocking. But he said nothing.

The silence between them stretched thin, filled only by the distant shouts of the others and the thud of practice hits on padded targets.

Kirishima cleared his throat, trying to be casual. “Guess you do know what you’re talking about after all.”

Bakugou shot him a look, somewhere between irritation and amusement. “You saying you ever doubted it?”

“I mean…” Kirishima grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re kinda bossy sometimes.”

Bakugou snorted, turning away. “Bossy gets results, shittyhair.”

“Yeah,” Kirishima said under his breath, still smiling. “Guess it does.”

They moved back into position, the rhythm of training slowly returning, stance, strike, reset. But every time Bakugou passed close enough to correct his form, Kirishima could feel the pull again, the quiet awareness of how close they were, how careful Bakugou was being, how different it felt from anyone else’s touch.

When the whistle finally blew, marking the end of drills, the tension broke all at once. Denki collapsed into the mats with a groan. Mina flopped beside him, complaining loudly about her sore arms.

Bakugou tossed his towel over his shoulder, barking, “Cool down before you start whining.”

Kirishima laughed, shaking his head, but he didn’t miss how Bakugou glanced at him once more before turning toward the lockers, quick, almost like a habit.

It was nothing. Probably.

Still, as Kirishima followed a few steps behind, he realized something had changed again.

Not big, not dramatic, just a shift.

Enough to make his heartbeat pick up for reasons that had nothing to do with training.

By the time evening fell, the dorms had settled into their usual rhythm. Laughter carried faintly from downstairs, Sero and Momo arguing over some card game, Shinsou's music pulsing through a wall from across the hall. 

Kirishima sat on his bed, laptop balanced on his knees, but he hadn’t processed a single word of his show in twenty minutes. The glow from the screen lit his face, catching on the faint lines of tension around his mouth.

He leaned back against the headboard, exhaling softly.

He could still feel it, the way Bakugou’s hand had pressed against his chest earlier, the brief weight of his fingers aligning his stance. It had lasted only a few seconds, but somehow it had burned itself into his memory.

The warmth had nothing to do with training.

He closed his laptop halfway, the hinge clicking softly in the quiet room. It was stupid, really. He’d trained with plenty of people before. But something about him, the focus, the silence, the roughness that somehow wasn’t careless, made it impossible to forget.

And it didn’t help that Bakugou hadn’t said a word since. Not after drills, not at dinner, not even a passing “good work.” Just that curt nod before he’d disappeared into his room.

Kirishima ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a quiet laugh. “Get a grip, man,” he muttered to himself. But even saying it didn’t make it true.

Without thinking, he reached for the jacket over the chair. It still smelled faintly of him. Kirishima pulled it on before he could stop himself.

The fabric was so soft, sleeves falling past his wrists, the collar brushing his jaw. It felt heavy in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable. Familiar. Grounding.

Outside, the night was quiet except for the steady chorus of crickets and the occasional wind threading through the trees that surrounded the dorms.

A few meters away, on the adjacent balcony, Bakugou sat alone.

He hadn’t turned the light on. The air was cold, but he didn’t seem to care, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed ahead. From where he sat, he could see straight into the next room, Kirishima’s.

The window was cracked open, curtains pulled halfway. Through it, Bakugou caught glimpses, the red hair, the familiar shape of that jacket, the way Kirishima was sitting cross-legged on the bed with his headphones in.

Bakugou’s jaw tightened for no reason he could name.

He told himself it was because of the damn balcony placement, too close, too exposed, but his eyes didn’t move. 

If he wanted to, he could easily climb over to Kirishima's balcony.

He watched as Kirishima laughed quietly at something on his screen, tugging the collar of the jacket closer like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Bakugou let out a quiet exhale, something between a scoff and a sigh.

“That idiot,” he said. The words came out softer than usual, stripped of their usual bite.

He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head up toward the fading sky. The stars were starting to cut through the darkness, one by one. The night smelled like pine and damp soil. Peaceful, almost. He was just sitting there, taking in the fresh air. 

When he glanced back toward Kirishima’s window, the light inside had dimmed to a warm, amber glow. The redhead was still there, half-asleep now, head tipped back against the wall, Bakugou’s jacket still wrapped around him.

Bakugou looked for another few seconds before pushing himself up from the chair.

“Whatever,” he muttered, half to himself. But his gaze lingered a heartbeat longer than it should have before he turned toward the door.

The curtain fluttered once in the night breeze.

And through the quiet hum of the forest, the dorms settled into stillness again, two rooms lit side by side, divided by a wall, connected by something neither of them was ready to name.