Archive of Our Own

a white rose

“Can you start on Monday?” 

“Yes, yes, thank you so much,” Hitoshi says, unable to hold back his eagerness. 

The woman hangs up the phone and Hitoshi leans his head back against his headrest in relief. Finally, a fucking job. 

When he clocks in for the first time on Monday morning, Hitoshi is given a green apron and shown around the flower shop. It’s nice, definitely the nicest place he’s ever worked. Hitoshi is used to working odd jobs for quick cash so this is a step up. 

He works the cash register while the store manager, Uraraka, helps customers with their floral arrangements and flower choices. He likes listening to her talk to the patrons, likes listening in on their various events and anniversaries and circumstances that require flowers. And Uraraka seems to know everything about flowers, all of their meanings and which would be best for what occasion. 

Hitoshi sleeps in his car for his first week in Musutafu, working as much as he can and looking for somewhere cheap to live in his free time. Somewhere he can pay with cash. Somewhere he can’t be traced back to. 

Sunday morning, Hitoshi is greeted by the floral barrage of aromas as he enters the flower shop. He breathes in deep–and apparently loudly. Uraraka giggles behind some particularly tall arrangements and Hitoshi jumps. 

“Sorry, Shinsou,” she says, her small frame emerging, “I didn’t realize you were so skittish.”
“I’m not skittish,” Hitoshi grumbles as he walks to the back to clock in and dons his apron. The bell of the front door chimes before Hitoshi gets back out. He hears the cheery pitch of Uraraka greeting the customer and as he rushes to tie the back of his apron as he assumes his position behind the register. 

The customer is a tall man with black hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. His low voice doesn’t carry well in the shop, but Hitoshi catches the word anniversary . Uraraka asks excitedly about their plans, and Hitoshi catches the slight smile that the man offers when he answers her. 

“Oh!” Uraraka exclaims. “We have a new cashier! A future florist maybe?” 

She glances playfully in Hitoshi’s direction and he feels the warmth of a blush paint his skin as the attention shifts towards him. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  

The man turns towards Hitoshi and gives him an unimpressed lookover. “Florist, eh?” 

“Oh, uh, not really–” Hitoshi stutters “–I mean, maybe, I don’t really know, you know?”

“It’s okay, kid.” The man snorts. “Are you new to Musutafu?” 

“Uh, yeah.” 

“You got family here?” The man leans against the counter as Uraraka disappears to fetch his order. “Stayin’ nearby?” 

“What is this, an interview?” Hitoshi snaps and the man puts his hands up. 

“Whoa, woah, they’re just questions, kid.” 

Hitoshi ducks his head. “Sorry…I’m just a private person.”

“It’s fine. I just didn’t recognize your face, that's all.” 

They sit in uncomfortable silence, and minutes feel like hours as they wait for Uraraka to return. The man turns and leans back against the counter facing out towards the store. Hitoshi takes the chance to examine him. He’s not as tall and intimidating as he looked standing next to a tiny Uraraka. In fact, Hitoshi likes the black knit sweater and dark wash jeans that the man is wearing. It’s something he would probably wear himself when he’s not working. On the man’s left hand is a gold wedding band–must be the anniversary he had mentioned before–and next to his ponytail is a child’s Hello Kitty clip. 

“Do you have a kid?” Hitoshi asks, almost startling himself with the fact that he asked that out loud.

The man turns and raises his eyebrows. “Is it my turn for an interview?” 

“No, I just–You have a clip in your hair.” 

“Maybe it’s mine.” The man smirks, and he radiates a sort of comfort that Hitoshi doesn’t usually feel with strangers. Hitoshi chuckles, and the man looks pleased. “I have a daughter.” 

“My name is Shinsou Hitoshi. And, uh, I am new to Musutafu.” 

The man faces him. “Nice to meet you Shinsou. I’m Aizawa.” 

He’s still terrifying, Hitoshi decides. But not in a harmful way, more in a way that makes Hitoshi want to impress him. 

“I haven’t found a place to stay yet. I am planning on finding an apartment or something nearby.” 

“You staying with a friend?” Hitoshi shakes his head no and fights the trained feeling of paranoia that gnaws at his throat. “Family?” 

Hitoshi shakes his head again. “No, sir. Uh, just my car for now.” 

The man’s face scrunches with concern and it looks as if he is about to say something when Uraraka emerges from a backroom with a vase of bright red flowers. 

“I got them! Mr. Yamada’s chrysanthemums!” She sings brightly, setting the vase next to the cash register. Hitoshi admires the arrangement. It’s lovely. And absolutely massive. 

“Your husband?” Hitoshi asks as he rings up the flowers. 

“Yeah. He’s, uh,” Aizawa chuckles fondly, “larger than life. So of course the flowers I get him must be too. And red chrysanthemums are his favorite.” 

An unfamiliar warmth bubbles in Hitoshi’s chest. He doesn’t ever remember his parents getting each other flowers. The only thing his father ever gave his mother was a black eye. Not that his mother was any more affectionate than that. They spent the first ten years of Hitoshi’s life pretending–to the best of their ability–he didn’t exist until they could loan him out for any profit they could get. 

“They’re lovely,” Hitoshi says, half entranced, thoughts running as red as the chrysanthemum petals. The front door chimes and Uraraka hurries off to greet the new customer. 

“Kid,” Aizawa says once she is out of earshot, “we have an extra room. Come on by if you need a place to stay. You don’t need to be sleeping in your car.” 

He scribbles out an address on the back of a receipt and leaves it for Hitoshi before gathering up his vase. 

“I don’t–” 

“I’m serious, kid.” 

The man turns and leaves, the chime of the door bidding him farewell. Hitoshi touches the receipt, runs his thumb over the ink of Aizawa’s handwriting. 

And while Hitoshi can’t financially afford much right now, can he really afford to get mixed up in another family? Was he really going to run away from one “family” just to get caught up in another? 

No. 

C’mon Hitoshi. 

Be realistic about this. 

He puts the receipt in his back pocket anyway. To throw away later, obviously.

Hitoshi barely has time to breathe the rest of the day–Sundays are a busy day for flowers, apparently. After he clocks out, his feet ache. When he collapses in the front seat of his car, he almost falls asleep right there. 

But, first, Hitoshi grabs something cheap from a gas station and fills his car up with gas. When he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, the receipt with Aizawa’s address on it crinkles against his hand. Hitoshi doesn’t know what he’s doing by holding onto it, what kind of fantasy he is prolonging. 

It’s as if the ink that the address is written in holds some kind of power, and whenever Hitoshi looks at it he can pretend he has a family that cares about him and is waiting for him at home–and not just waiting to exploit him either. 

Hitoshi cuts the engine of his shitty little car in the lot of a public park and reclines his seat. Having a job has made him complacent, comfortable, eager for a new day, and sleep pulls him under quickly. 

An aggressive banging near his head shakes Hitoshi back into consciousness. He blinks through the fog of sleep and is blinded by a bright light shining in his eyes through the driver’s side window. Hitoshi covers his face and leans back as he attempts to regain his bearings. 

“Hello?” A muffled voice shouts through the window. “Musutafu Police Department. Please roll down your window.” 

Hitoshi’s stomach curls into itself and his first instinct is to put the car in reverse and drive away as fast as possible. Of course his parents would look for him. He was their main source of income. Fuck. 

Fortunately, Hitoshi’s common sense overrides his instinct this time. Just don’t be suspicious , he thinks and rolls down the window. 

“Hello, officer,” he says as friendly as he can manage, having just been woken up at god knows what hour. 

The officer lowers the flashlight and Hitoshi’s eyes adjust to see her face. “What are you doing out here, kid?” 

“I’m not a kid,” he snaps and the officer raises her eyebrows. He could not have sounded more like a kid. 

“Okay, then, can I see your driver’s license, Mr..?”

The last thing he needs is the fucking police department having his name and location when his parents start looking for him. 

“Hitoshi…Aizawa Hitoshi.” 

The officer straightens up. “You’re Aizawa’s kid?” 

“Uh, yeah.” 

“Hmph,” the officer grunts. “Okay. Well, I am taking you back home. There ain’t no sleeping in your car here, alright?” 

“Yes ma’am,” Hitoshi says hurriedly. Home . Like Aizawa’s house ? Fuck. 

His car reluctantly groans to life and the time lights up on the dash. 1:13AM. Hitoshi is really about to wake up this absolute stranger at 1:13 in the morning knowing that there is a very high chance the man will turn him away and leave him in the hands of the local police department. 

“Good plan, Hitoshi,” he mutters to himself as his Google Maps guides him to the address Aizawa had written on the back of the receipt. 

The house is nicer than Hitoshi expects–not that he knows anything about Aizawa or his husband’s jobs. But it’s a little two story home, longer than it is wide, and Hitoshi follows the sidewalk all the way up to the front door. 

The officer rings the doorbell and Hitoshi’s heart beats painfully against his sternum as they wait for someone to answer. He’s just about to take off running when the light flickers on, and he hears the click of the front door unlocking. 

It’s Aizawa, in black sweatpants and a long sleeve t-shirt, looking entirely disheveled and puzzled as to why he is being woken up. His face scrunches in brief recognition, followed by absolute confusion as he looks between Hitoshi and the officer. 

“Mr. Aizawa, I apologize for waking you up at this hour.” The officer places her hand on Hitoshi’s shoulder and he winces preemptively at what she is about to say. “I found your son sleeping in his car at a park. He said you got into an argument, but I can’t have him just sleeping in random public places around town. I’m sure you understand.” 

Hitoshi was sure Aizawa understood very little at this point. 

“My–? Right.” Aizawa sighs. “I apologize, officer. I will talk to him. It won’t happen again.” 

The officer smiles, nods, and turns to leave. Hitoshi watches her go, waiting until she drives away so he, too, can leave. But as she is climbing into her car, Aizawa steps to the side and opens the door for Hitoshi to enter. 

And maybe because it’s been a crazy week, or because Hitoshi is running on approximately three hours of sleep, or because he is still holding on to that fucking fantasy that he is welcome here–whatever the reason is, Hitoshi enters without a fight. 

a blue periwinkle 

Hitoshi stares at the checklist Uraraka left him to follow before closing. She had rushed out early to attend to a family emergency, leaving him to lock up the shop for the evening. Unlike Sundays, Wednesdays were not a busy day for flowers. Only one customer had come by after Uraraka ducked out, so Hitoshi doesn’t really think much of it as he stands outside the shop to lock up ten minutes before the actual closing time. 

“Oi!” Hitoshi jumps at the voice yelling at him from the parking lot, dropping Uraraka’s keyring for the shop. “It ain’t six yet!”

Hitoshi bends over to pick up the keys and when he straightens up, he is eye to eye–well, eye to forehead–with a very angry man. His light brows are furrowed together, and a black beanie pushes down blond hair over his forehead. As Hitoshi lowers his gaze, he meets the intense crimson stare of the man’s eyes.

“I have eight more minutes to get my flowers,” the man says roughly when Hitoshi doesn’t respond. “I’ll be quick, ‘kay?” 

“Sure, sure.” Hitoshi fumbles with the lock and pushes the door open, the familiar chime welcoming them back into the shop. “Are you looking for something specific?” 

Hitoshi watches in real time as the previously intimidating man sinks into himself. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and scans the shop anxiously. Hitoshi shifts his weight and the man catches it and looks over at him apologetically. 

“I just–Sorry,” he grumbles, “Ochako usually has the flowers out for me to just grab and go.” 

“Oh,” Hitoshi says, because this wasn’t on his checklist. “I can go check in the back?” 

Hitoshi points a thumb over his shoulder to the walk-in cooler and the man nods. “Yeah, yeah, please. Thanks.” 

“Name?”

“Bakugou Katsuki. It should just be a bunch of foxgloves.” 

In the cooler, Hitoshi pushes up the sleeves of his jacket and goes one by one through the ready orders because of course he doesn’t know what the fuck a foxglove is. And Hitoshi would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised when he finally reached the vase tagged in Uraraka’s cursive, Katsuki . 

They must be friends, Hitoshi thinks as he pulls the bunch of foxgloves from the vase. Apparently, foxgloves are tall and unwieldy and objectively look like octopus tentacles. Hitoshi’s never seen the flower shop carry them before, and he’s sure he would have noticed this . 

Hitoshi walks the flowers out to the register and places them down on the counter. The man–Bakugou–is fiddling with his wallet. 

“Sorry for the delay. Hope it doesn’t make you late for your date or anything.” 

Bakugou blushes and ducks his head to dig out some cash. As Hitoshi rings up the foxgloves, he catches Bakugou eyeing the tattoos that peek out from under his hoodie sleeve. 

“Is that a lobster?” 

Hitoshi looks down at the head of the lobster he already knows is inked into his forearm. “Yes.” 

“Cool.” 

Bakugou grabs his foxgloves and leaves. Hitoshi watches him go and hopes whatever weirdo this man is dating enjoys their tentacle-looking flowers. 

For the next week, Hitoshi watches the shelves at the flower shop. He waits for Uraraka to set up a display of brightly colored foxgloves. But he doesn’t see another foxglove. 

Not until a week later.
Exactly a week after his run-in with Bakugou, Hitoshi is cleaning out the walk-in cooler while Uraraka helps their last customers of the day. Tucked to the side of all the big, showy bouquets, is a simple vase. A bunch of light pink foxgloves are wrapped in brown Kraft paper and a tag is tied around the neck of the vase with Uraraka’s delicate cursive handwriting: Katsuki . 

As he finishes up, Hitoshi grabs a waiting customer’s order–a small pot of unimpressive flowers—–and swings open the cooler door, questions primed about this Katsuki and his weird taste in flowers. But he stops dead in his tracks at the sight of Bakugou, leaning against the counter as Uraraka speaks energetically to another customer. 

Bakugou clocks Hitoshi immediately, piercing red gaze catching him in the doorway of the cooler. And, like the awkward sonofabitch he is, Hitoshi waves. He fucking waves . 

Bakugou raises his eyebrows and Hitoshi seriously considers retreating back into the cooler. But before the decision reaches Hitoshi’s feet, Bakugou is walking over to him. 

And he’s not wearing his coat like last week, so Hitoshi is able to get a full view of Bakugou’s arms in his black tank top–the curve of muscle softened by the floral sleeve painting his left arm. It extends onto his chest and just barely up his neck, and Hitoshi wonders how he missed it last week. He obviously wasn’t looking close enough. 

Bakugou’s attention flicks down to the flowers in Hitoshi’s hands and then back up to catch Hitoshi’s gaze. “Your presence soothes me.” 

“What–” 

“The flowers,” Bakugou says, like there is some piece of shared knowledge that Hitoshi should be privy to, “they’re petunias.” 

“Oh.” 

“It’s what petunias mean,” Bakugou clarifies again, “‘Your presence soothes me.’” 

“ Oh .” 

“You didn’t know that.” 

“Um…no. Why would I know that?” 

Bakugou tilts his head, unimpressed. “I thought you were a florist.” 

“Why does everyone think that? I just work the cash register.” Hitoshi pushes past Bakugou, his shoulder hitting solid muscle as he passes. He places the little pot of petunias down on the counter and flags Uraraka down so she can hand it off to the customer. 

Bakugou just shrugs. “Cheeks over there is really into that stuff, so I figured whoever she hired would be too.” 

Hitoshi bites down on the frustration that builds in his gut but not before he snaps, “Are you a fucking florist too or something?” 

He wants to add, Why don’t you just grow your own weird looking flowers? but thinks better of it. He already shouldn’t be talking to a customer like this anyway. Luckily–or unluckily–Bakugou just smirks. 

“Nah, I work at the tattoo shop around the corner.” 

“Oh.” Hitoshi looks over at Bakugou who grins knowingly, victoriously at the fact that he knew what would capture Hitoshi’s attention. As if the patchwork of odd tattoos up both of his arms makes it difficult to tell.  

“You should stop by sometime. Y’could let me tattoo another weird little guy onto your arm.” 

A tattoo shop. Near here. And of course the hot blonde asshole is the tattoo artist who works there. 

“Uh, sure, yeah–”

“Shinsou!” Uraraka brings a solid hand down onto Hitoshi’s shoulder, and he flinches. “You finally got to meet Katsuki.”

“Katsuki,” Hitoshi repeats and Bakugou rolls his eyes when Uraraka grins widely at him. 

“Look, I just came for my flowers, Cheeks.” 

“Right–” Hitoshi remembers and rushes back to the cooler to grab the foxgloves, pushing them into Bakugou’s hands back out at the register. 

“Thanks…” Bakugou switches the flowers from hand to hand as he digs in his pockets for his wallet. When he eventually fishes it out, Bakugou pays and lets Uraraka fuss over him as he exits the store. 

Hitoshi has a hundred questions for Uraraka. Like, why is she friends with such a punk? And, who is he dating that likes foxgloves? And, most importantly, is Hitoshi hotter than them??

Hitoshi stops himself there. He’s not about to ruin this job. Mr. Aizawa had some conditions on letting Hitoshi stay, one of which being he needed to maintain a job. And at least with this job, Hitoshi gets to see that beautiful blond boy every week. 

a pink verbena 

“What’s up with you?” 

Hitoshi gasps and jumps in surprise, a string of expletives mumbled under his breath. He turns  to see Mr. Aizawa leaning against the counter, taking an amused sip from his “Cat Mom” mug, Hitoshi rolls his eyes because he feels like he should be annoyed at the lurking, at the seeming waiting-up for Hitoshi to get home. 

But instead, a pleasant warmth settles in his chest, and he has to clench his jaw in order to suppress a smile. Mr. Aizawa is awake–not angry, just awake. There was no curfew that Hitohsi was aware of, not that he ever had anywhere to be. And why would he stay out when he had a bedroom to come home– home –to? 

“What are you talking about?” There is a blunt edge to his words, a natural inclination to be defensive, and suddenly Hitoshi is back in his childhood home. Bracing himself for the impact of his father’s fist or readying himself to duck at the bottle thrown by his mother. Arriving back home was always an Event. Even if he had been out making money to support their bad habits, they always thought he was lying. 

Mr. Aizawa straightens up, setting his mug down on the counter next to him. Hitoshi watches the man’s hand all the way down, shoulders relaxing a bit when the potential projectile is no longer being held.

“Woah, kid–” Aizawa takes a cautious step towards Hitoshi “–this isn’t an ambush. You just don’t usually miss dinner.”

Hitoshi’s toes uncurl in his sneakers, and his fists unclench at his side. Mr. Aizawa’s concern permeates the kitchen, and it sits awkward and heavy and unfamiliar around Hitoshi. 

But still. It’s…nice. 

To be cared for. And worried about. And fed. 

“You don’t–” Hitoshi’s voice breaks, and he swallows down whatever emotion is bubbling in his gut “–no, I just want to say thank you…” 

Hitoshi lowers his head, watches the tile while he waits for a response. He’s about to lift his head when Aizawa’s socked feet appear in his vision. When Hitoshi looks up, Mr. Aizawa is less than a foot away. Before he is able to process what is going on, Hitoshi is engulfed in a hug. And he sits there for probably a beat too long before reciprocating, wrapping his arms around Aizawa’s lean frame. 

“Hey, hey, hey! I didn’t realize I was missing out on a hug fest with my favorite people!” Hitoshi quickly releases Aizawa, unintentionally pushing off of him. Mr. Aizawa’s husband leans against the door frame, long blonde hair pulled up into a messy bun and a big old toothy smile plastered onto his face. 

“Oh–Hi, Mr. Yamada.” 

Yamada gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Hitoshi, please, for the last time, call me Hizashi.” 

“Yeah, okay, Mr. Ya–Hizashi.” 

Hizashi walks over, places his arm around Aizawa’s waist, and kisses his temple. It’s an intimate moment. He can’t remember any time he saw either of his parents exchange these little tokens of affection. 

Then again, Hitoshi can’t really remember the last time his parents hugged him either. 

So he is surprised when his primary emotion is not discomfort, but peace. The Aizawa-Yamada kitchen suddenly seems like the safest place in the universe. Hitoshi backs up slowly out of the room, reluctant to leave, watching Aizawa and Hizashi discuss something in low voices. 

Back in his room, Hitoshi pulls up the Instagram for Bakugou’s tattoo shop. He had already looked up the address of the shop, driven by it, attempted to muster up the confidence to go in, failed, and driven home. It was why he missed dinner. Not that he was about to admit that to Aizawa. 

Instead, Hitoshi scrolls through the pictures of recent client’s tattoos, one’s the artists were obviously very proud of. He stops when he gets to a picture of Bakugou. Bakugou is not looking at the camera, entirely focused on the tattoo he is working on. 

Hitoshi thinks of Bakugou at the flower shop–all abrasive and rough edges, softened only by the bunch of foxgloves as he rushes out of the store. 

But here–in this Instagram picture–Bakugou’s never looked softer. There is a certain grace about how he holds his pen. And the crinkle between his brows as he focuses on his work makes Hitoshi smile to himself. 

a daffodil 

A bell chimes as Hitoshi pushes the tattoo shop door open. The familiarity of being in a tattoo shop is quickly squashed by the feeling of two sets of eyes on him. A petite girl glances up briefly from the tiger she is tattooing on a man’s back, and a very-pierced man with dark hair looks up from where he leans against the front desk. He puts his phone down and straightens up as Hitoshi steps into the shop. 

“Hey,” Piercing Guy says, “what can we do for ya?” 

Hitoshi notices the glaring lack of Bakugou and suddenly regrets his decision to stop by without an appointment. 

“Hi–I, uh, had talked to Bakugou about getting a tattoo–” Hitoshi has already taken a step back, ready to retreat back to his car, when his attention is pulled by bang of a door near the back of the shop. 

He sees a flash of blonde hair first and then the familiar floral sleeve wrapped around toned muscle. He almost doesn’t recognize Bakugou in this new environment. It’s not that the man looks out of place in the flower shop, but he definitely looks like he belongs in this one. Hitoshi reluctantly peels his gaze off of Bakugou to readdress Piercing Guy, who is also looking over at him. 

“Well, speak of the devil,” Piercing Guy says, and Bakugou narrows his eyes at them. 

“Oi,” he says, and Hitoshi’s stomach does cartwheels as Bakugou gets closer, “you’re the flower shop guy that doesn’t know shit about flowers.” 

The red heat of regret spreads across his face, and Hitoshi swears he sees Bakugou notice and smirk. But he turns and says something indistinguishable to Piercing Guy who leaves the register to go through the door Bakugou had appeared from.

“Actually, uh, the tattoo I wanted is a flower.” Good one, Hitoshi, real smooth.  

But, really, he had spent days researching flowers and trying to decide on one to get tattooed. Thought it would be the perfect commemoration of this new life. 

Bakugou raises his eyebrows with interest. “Just any flower?” 

“No, no, uh, a daffodil.” Saying it out loud makes Hitoshi smile, certain in his choice. 

“Daffodil, eh?” Hitoshi nods. “Hmm–” Bakugou holds a thoughtful finger to his chin “–if I am remembering correctly, that one means new beginnings and hope.” 

Hitoshi nods again, feeling exposed. He had naively not considered that Bakugou would know the meaning of his flower, and now he has unintentionally exposed too much of himself. 

“Okay then,” Bakugou says and waves a hand for Hitoshi to follow. He sits down at his workbench and starts drawing up a sketch of a bunch of daffodils. Hitoshi can’t help but watch over his shoulder at the way Bakugou’s pen moves easily across the tablet screen. His mouth is pulled back in a thin line and his focus mirrors the way he looked in the tattoo shop’s Instagram. “How’s this?” 

Bakugou holds up the tablet and Hitoshi tilts his head to analyze the curve of the stems, the lay of the petals. He tries to picture it curled around his forearm. 

“It’s lovely.” 

“Heh,” Bakugou huffs, pleased with himself. “Size alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Alright, I’ll be right back. You can get comfortable.” 

Bakugou walks to the printer by another station and Hitoshi does as he’s told, climbing into the chair. They discuss placement, and Bakugou peels back the transfer paper to reveal the rough outline. It is all so familiar, and the whir of the tattoo machine settles his nerves. 

Bakugou doesn’t really try to make small talk as he works, and Hitoshi is grateful. But as he inks in the veins of a leaf, Bakugou says, without looking up, “So, you’re staying with Aizawa.”

It’s just a statement. Not a question or anything. So Hitoshi doesn’t actually have to answer. But he does.
“Yeah.” 

“Is that your new beginning?” 

“Part of it.”

“What are the other parts?” 

None of your business, Hitoshi instinctively wants to snap. But he doesn’t. Maybe being a bit more vulnerable can be part of his new beginning too. 

“The flower shop,” Hitoshi says. “Apparently I am gonna be a florist one day.” 

Now Bakugou looks at Hitoshi, amused, and raises his eyebrows teasingly. “Is that right?” 

Hitoshi smiles and nods, a sudden swell of pride in his chest. 

“Well, you got a lot of flowers to learn the meanings of if you ever wanna be on Cheeks’ level.”

“On it.” Hitoshi raises his free hand to his forehead to salute. 

“Dumbass,” Bakugou grumbles. But it’s… fond , Hitoshi thinks and grins stupidly to himself. 

“Let’s start with your foxgloves, then. What do those mean?” It’s supposed to be light, Hitoshi’s voice carrying with it a teasing lilt. But as soon as the question leaves Hitoshi’s lips, Bakugou tenses up, doesn’t respond, and Hitoshi knows he's misstepped somewhere. 

“The daffodil really accentuates the lobster,” Bakugou says sarcastically and Hitoshi recognizes the effort to change the subject. 

With a grin, he accepts it, “You know, that’s exactly what I was going for.” 

Bakugou adds some final shading to the stems and rinses Hitoshi’s arm before leaning back to admire his work. He gives himself a conclusive nod and sets down his tools. Hitoshi remains mesmerized as he watches Bakugou rub a thin layer of antibiotic ointment over the irritated skin.

“D’ya like it?” Bakugou asks, fingers lingering on Hitoshi’s skin. Hitoshi just nods and Bakugou scrunches his eyebrows together a bit. “Well, don’t sound too excited there, jeez.”

“No, no. I love it, I swear.” Hitoshi holds his arm up to examine his new addition. It’s shiny in the light from the ointment, and the delicate lines are fresh and defined. 

New Beginnings . This is his new beginning. A garden of new people and places and experiences. With hope that it will grow to be something, anything. As long as it won’t be what he had before. 

“It’s perfect,” Hitoshi reassures again, still looking at the flower. When he looks back over at Bakugou, he seems satisfied with Hitoshi’s reaction. 

“Okay, well–” Bakugou leans over to scribble something on a piece of paper before holding it out for Hitoshi to take “–text me in a few days to follow up on how it’s healing. Or before if you have any questions.” 

Hitoshi looks down at the paper and, sure enough, there is a phone number written down. Bakugou’s, presumably. He did say “text me ” not “text some rando at the other end of this number”. 

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” 

a yellow jonquil

The little piece of paper with Bakugou’s scribbled phone number haunts Hitoshi on his bedside table for the next 48 hours. The tattoo’s been healing like a dream, the inflammation fading and the thin black lines settling. Hitoshi is frustratingly disappointed at this. As much as he doesn’t want anything to go wrong with his tattoo, he really would have liked a reason to go back to the tattoo shop. 

Another tattoo , Hitoshi realizes. He can literally just go get another tattoo. He grabs the paper and types Bakugou’s number into the contact line before typing out a message. 

Shinsou Hitoshi: tattoo is healing great

Shinsou Hitoshi: i really love it

He waits for what feels like hours but is actually four minutes. Bakugou’s number popping up on his screen with a new message has a swarm of butterflies swirling in his stomach. 

Bakugou Katsuki: cool

Bakugou Katsuki: let me see it

Hitoshi sits straight up. A picture. Of the tattoo. It’s just his forearm, it’s no big deal. He takes one picture sitting on his bed, but the lighting sucks. So he gets off the bed and walks over to his window, opens the curtains and lets the floral ink soak up the sun. Hitoshi snaps a picture of his arm and sends it to Bakugou, climbing back onto his bed as he awaits the response. 

Shinsou Hitoshi: [image]

Bakugou Katsuki: looks good. what’s on your leg?

Hitoshi looks down, forgetting that his entire leg is covered in tattoos of skeletons doing various tasks–watering flowers, carrying grocery bags, drinking coffee, etc. He looks back at the picture he sent and, sure enough, he managed to capture his calf in the background. 

Shinsou Hitoshi: thats my skeleton leg

Bakugou Katsuki: your what

Bakugou Katsuki: nvm 

Shinsou Hitoshi: most of my tattoos are just weird little guys

Bakugou Katsuki: how could i forget

Hitoshi hugs the phone to his chest. He wants to keep texting Bakugou, wants to see his cheeky little smirk, wants to get a hundred tattoos just so he can see him again–Wait. Hitoshi’s chest hollows as he remembers the foxgloves. 

Bakugou’s taken. Hitoshi leaves his phone face down on his chest as he reaches up to cover his face with his hands. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

His phone buzzes on his chest and Hitoshi reluctantly picks it up, expecting it to be Aizawa or Uraraka. But it’s Bakugou again. 

Bakugou Katsuki: wanna come over? 

If Hitoshi’s eyes could widen any more, they might fall out of his head. Come over for what ?! 

Shinsou Hitoshi: you wanna see the rest of my tattoos or something? 

Hitoshi presses send before the rational side of his brain can catch up and start beating him upside the head with regret. 

Bakugou Katsuki: im making dinner, dumbass. thought you might want some. 

Shinsou Hitoshi: oh

Shinsou Hitoshi: yeah totally sounds great

Bakugou sends his address, and Hitoshi has never gotten dressed faster in his life. He’s halfway out the door when Mr. Aizawa grabs him by the collar. “Where are you going this late?” 

“Late? It’s like six o’clock.” Aizawa narrows his eyes in a way that puts a new fear of god into Hitoshi. He rolls his shoulders back and straightens up. “Sorry. I’m just going to hang out with a friend–uh, Bakugou Katsuki?” 

Aizawa raises his eyebrows in recognition, and Hitoshi watches as the man’s entire body softens at the name. He thinks about how Bakugou had brought Mr. Aizawa up in conversation during their tattoo appointment. Mr. Aizawa was a high school teacher, Hitoshi remembers, though he hadn’t really considered that Aizawa would have been Bakugou’s high school teacher. 

Aizawa moves his hand to Hitoshi’s shoulder. “Okay. Have fun then. Text me if you’re going to be too late.” 

Hitoshi smiles, fights the urge to squeeze Aizawa in a hug. “Thanks, Da–Aizawa.” 

Fuck . Hitoshi’s face brightens with embarrassment, but Aizawa doesn’t acknowledge it, just smirks and goes back inside. 

Bakugou’s apartment is surprisingly close. Like, if he had the motivation, Hitoshi might be able to walk there. He knows he’s at the right apartment when he arrives at a doormat that just says “Go Away”. Hitoshi chuckles and knocks, hears the shuffling of someone on the other side and the turn of the door handle. Bakugou answers the door holding a kitchen towel. He grins when he sees Hitoshi and tosses the towel over his shoulder. 

“You came,” he says–not really surprised, but pleased. 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Hitoshi rubs the back of his neck, laughs awkwardly, “I make it a habit to never turn down food.” 

They stand there for a beat before Bakugou steps back, opens the door wider and welcomes Hitoshi in. He steps into the apartment–Bakugou’s apartment–and looks around. It’s clean. Not just like he tidied up before Hitoshi came over. This kind of spotlessness is a way of life. 

Bakugou returns to his place in the kitchen, and Hitoshi watches him, the ease at which Bakugou moves in his environment. It’s not much different to how he is at the tattoo shop. And food and tattoos? He’s a man after Hitoshi’s own heart. 

“Take a seat. I’m just about done.” Hitoshi sits at the table while Bakugou serves them. “I didn’t know if you were a vegetarian or something, so I just made something with tofu.” 

Bakugou slides him a white bowl full of tofu and veggies in red sauce. He can smell the spice. Mr. Aizawa and Hizashi are both good cooks, but definitely stick to simple meals–partly because their daughter, Eri, is only four and a picky eater. 

Hitoshi is whatever the opposite of a picky eater is. Greedily, he picks up his chopsticks and starts to pick up a piece of tofu when Bakugou’s movement catches in his peripherals. 

Right. The polite thing to do here would be to wait until Bakugou starts eating (manners were never a strength of his). He slowly lowers his chopsticks back to the bowl and rests them there. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Bakugou gestures over to a bar cart. “Pick your poison.” 

“Oh, I’ll just have whatever you’re having. Thanks.” 

Hitoshi holds his hands in his lap, nails digging into his palms, until Bakugou places a glass in front of him. He reaches for it and takes a sip, feels the light burn of alcohol on the back of his throat and the warmth in his chest that follows. Whatever the drink is, it’s good. Whiskey, Hitoshi thinks, and something citrus. 

Finally, Bakugou sits with his glass and bowl, and Hitoshi scoops up his chopsticks, shoveling rice in with his mapo tofu. The first bite is what Hitoshi imagines heaven to be like, a chorus of spices and flavor and warmth. And the tofu must have possessed his tongue, because he’s spewing compliments the moment he’s done chewing. 

“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” Hitoshi gushes, and Bakugou laughs. 

“What? The ol’ man doesn’t feed you?” 

“No, no. His stuff is good. But this . This is incredible.” Hitoshi stops talking so that he can continue eating, and Bakugou just watches him for a beat, a fond smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

When the bowls are empty and seconds and third have been had, Hitoshi and Bakugou lean back in their chairs and sip on their drinks and talk about the flower shop and Aizawa and Uraraka and Piercing Guy (a man apparently named Sero Hanta). Bakugou tells him all about this little town that Hitoshi’s found his new beginning in. They talk about everything–everything except the past looming behind them. 

“Thanks again for dinner,” Hitoshi says for probably the 83rd time. 

“No problem. I always make way too much, so it’s good to have someone else helping me eat it.” 

Hitoshi wants to slap himself. Of course he always makes too much. Whoever he’s dating is probably usually here too. Hitoshi takes a cursory look around the apartment. This time he sees it–a picture on a bookshelf of a man with bright red hair, half pulled back into a ponytail, and an arm around Bakugou. Red-hair guy must also be Foxglove guy. 

Fuck, Hitoshi thinks, What is he doing here? What is he hoping to get out of this? What is–

The clink of the bowl and glass as Bakugou picks them up brings Hitoshi back to earth. He picks up his own bowl and glass and follows Bakugou into the kitchen. 

“Here, let me help,” Hitoshi offers, making himself at home in front of the sink. Hitoshi can’t cook, but he can definitely wash dishes. 

“Sure, I’ll dry.” Bakugou pulls out a fresh towel, and they make quick work of the dirty dishes. When the last glass is put away, Hitoshi smiles victoriously. He honestly didn’t really mind doing chores if he got to do them with Bakugou. 

But now that the food was eaten and the kitchen cleaned, Hitoshi couldn’t find a reason to linger any longer. He took a deep breath, readying a farewell on his tongue. 

“I think I do want to see the rest of your tattoos actually.” 

Bakugou’s voice knocks the air from Hitoshi’s lungs. It’s lower than it was at dinner, less aggressive, but laced with want . He looks up at Bakugou, who leans casually against the back of the couch. Hitoshi also wants . 

“Yeah?” His voice catches in his throat, the swell of desire building in his chest. 

“Yeah.” Bakugou pushes off the couch, and Hitoshi watches his lips until they meet his own. He doesn’t know how they could still be hungry after the meal they just had, but there it is. On the tips of their fingers, in the bite of their teeth, in the press of their bodies. 

Hitoshi stumbles back a few steps until he hits a wall. His head falls back and Bakugou kisses down Hitoshi’s jawline, down his neck where his rapid pulse betrays him. Hitoshi moans involuntarily as Bakugou sucks a purple mark right under his collarbone. 

Bakugou snickers and moves back up to Hitoshi’s lips. He chases the taste of them even as Bakugou speaks. “Found one.” 

“Mm?” 

“A tattoo.” 

Hitoshi looks down at where his loose collar exposes the dagger he has tattooed right under his collarbone, the blade of it now colored purple by Bakugou’s hickey. 

“You gonna do that to all my tattoos?” 

Bakugou smirks. “Is that a request?” 

“Absolutely not–” Hitoshi uses a finger to tilt Bakugou’s head up and then leans down to kiss him gently on the lips “–I would much rather have your lips here.” 

Bakugou slips his hands under Hitoshi's t-shirt, sending chills up Hitoshi’s spine and frying his brain. He removes his lips from Hitoshi’s and kisses his way back down Hitoshi’s neck as he speaks so that his lips move ever so lightly against Hitoshi’s skin. “We have lots of time, Toshi, my lips can be in as many places as you want them to be.” 

Toshi . 

The nickname goes straight to Hitoshi’s dick, and he has to fight back yet another moan. Hitoshi doesn’t want to think about all the places he wants Bakugou’s mouth, can’t help but think of all the places he wants Bakugou’s mouth–all of which are very unholy by the way. 

Hitoshi takes Bakugou’s head in both hands and kisses the nickname off his lips. It tastes like whisky and spices. He curls his fingers into Bakugou’s hair, tightens his grip and deepens his kiss. Bakugou tilts his head and licks up into Hitoshi’s mouth. And Hitoshi loves it, loves the feeling of Bakugou all over. 

He had never realized the extent of their height difference before. Hitoshi’s lanky thin body is a solid few inches taller than Bakugou, and all this realization does is make Hitoshi want to slip a hand under each of Bakugou’s thighs and carry him around–though something in Hitoshi tells him that Bakugou might never kiss him again after that. 

“Oi,” Bakugou says with a bite of Hitoshi’s lip, and Hitoshi’s eyes flutter open, “take this off.” Bakugou tugs on Hitoshi’s t-shirt and Hitoshi obeys, though hesitantly. Aside from the hodge-podge of tattoos, Hitoshi doesn’t think he has a whole lot going on that someone would find “impressive”. 

“What about you?” Hitoshi asks as he pulls the t-shirt forward over his head. Bakugou smirks and tugs at the back of his collar so that the shirt slides forward over his biceps.  

Hitoshi’s eyes follow the trails of flowers that cascade down both of Bakugou’s arms. All different types, inked in black and white, many of which he recognizes from the flower shop. There is only one colorful flower, though. A magenta foxglove wrapped around his forearm. 

Another fucking foxglove. Hitoshi considers–for the briefest moment–putting his shirt back on and making Bakugou tell him what the hell is up with all the foxgloves. Though, Hitoshi is sure all that would do is get him kicked out of Bakugou’s apartment. And Hitoshi isn’t done with Bakugou yet. Not even close. 

With both their shirts now shed, Hitoshi grabs Bakugou’s jaw in both hands and pulls him in for a kiss, immediately deep and hungry, and Bakugou moans as he is caught off guard. Hitoshi feels the vibration of Bakugou’s moan against his tongue, against the back of his throat. 

He moves one hand to the back of Bakugou’s head and the other traces down the line of Bakugou’s spine, eliciting a satisfying shiver from the man. Once at the small of Bakugou’s back, Hitoshi pulls his hand in, pressing their bodies against each other. And he swears the heat of Bakugou’s skin might be enough to burn him.

This time when Bakugou’s lips slip away, Hitoshi doesn’t chase them. He closes his eyes, feels the press of lips against his neck, his collarbone, his chest. He feels the lovely sting of Bakugou’s teeth on his skin, eagerly anticipates all the shades of purple that his body will be painted in the morning. 

The path of Bakugou’s mouth continues down his stomach, and he watches in amazement as Bakugou lowers to his knees and kisses at the waistband of his jeans. Bakugou lifts his hands, runs them up the back of Hitoshi’s legs, squeezes his ass, and comes around to the button and zipper on his pants. 

“This cool?” Bakugou asks and Hitoshi’s voice catches in his throat as he attempts a weak Yeah . Bakugou grins, pleased with the obvious effect that he has on Hitoshi, and continues to unzip and pull down Hitoshi’s jeans. 

Hitoshi had been entirely too focused on Bakugou to realize how hard he was. But then Bakugou’s hands are wrapped around him, and the feeling jolts him into dizzying awareness. He looks down to see Bakugou waiting expectantly for his attention. He’s got his tongue out and one hand holding Hitoshi’s cock right over it. 

Hitoshi’s chest fills with an overwhelming adoration and fondness. Bakugou on his knees is a fucking work of art. The kind that belongs in museums and chapels and shit. But no, here he is in front of Hitoshi. “Well, hey there–” 

The veneration is cut short. As soon as Bakugou decides he has Hitoshi’s undivided attention, he lowers the head of Hitoshi’s cock onto his tongue. An involuntary strangled sound escapes from his chest, breaks midway out of his throat. But Hitoshi doesn’t have time to think or be embarrassed by the noises he makes. Because Bakugou’s tongue paints a stripe down the length of his cock before taking the entire thing in his mouth. 

“Fuck, baby–Baby, I–” Hitoshi throws his head back against the wall with a moan, tightens his grip in Bakugou’s hair and thrusts hazily into Bakugou’s mouth. “Shit, shit, you feel so fucking good, baby.” 

Bakugou responds to the roughness in turn, taking Hitoshi deeper, testing his gag reflex against Hitoshi’s dick. Hitoshi’s mouth opens but no sound comes out this time. Bakugou’s throat is soft and warm and tight . Bakugou bobs his head a bit before lifting his mouth almost completely off. His hands find purchase on Hitoshi’s ass and balls while he swirls his tongue around the tip. 

When Hitoshi is finally able to catch his breath, Bakugou takes him in again, as deep as he can take it, and swallows. The sudden squeeze around his cock undoes him. Hitoshi gasps as if he had the wind knocked out of him, as if the floor had suddenly fallen out. His fingers, laced through blonde locks, curl and dig into Bakugou’s scalp. He holds Bakugou firmly in place as he comes down the man’s throat and when he finally is able to look down, Bakugou’s vermillion eyes are dilated and teary. 

Hitoshi chest rises and falls with heavy, exasperated breaths and he releases his death grip on Bakugou’s hair. He drops his hand down to Bakugou’s cheek, wipes off either cum or spit with his thumb. 

“Wow,” Hitoshi says between breaths–you know, like a dumbass. 

“Wow?” Bakugou chuckles. “I just sucked your soul outta your dick, and your response is Wow ?” 

“Well, consider me speechless,” Hitoshi snaps, “how about that?” 

Bakugou grins victoriously and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, okay.” 

He stands, palms of his hands pressed against Hitoshi’s pelvis, then stomach, then chest. He leans in and kisses Hitoshi–all salty and sweet and soft–and the butterflies he gets are almost more overwhelming than his orgasm. 

“I think I really like you,” Hitoshi whispers against Bakugou’s lips. 

“You just figuring that out, eh?” Bakugou feigns annoyance, but Hitoshi can feel the smile against his mouth. 

He loves it. He loves it so goddamn much. He wants to stay there forever and plant little kisses on Bakugou’s lips and cheeks and nose. He wants all of his words from here on out to be said close enough that Bakugou can taste them. 

“Now, let me take care of you,” Hitoshi says, nuzzling into the crook of Bakugou’s neck. 

Bakugou turns and kisses Hitoshi’s temple. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

a magenta foxglove

Flowers. 

All Hitoshi could fucking think about lately were flowers. 

It wasn’t entirely his fault, though. He is surrounded by them every day at work. Still. He wanted every excuse that he could get to see Bakugou, and one of those excuses was to go get another tattoo. Another flower, he decided. Unfortunately that means once again trying to decide what flower to get. ( Since when does he actually get tattoos with meanings?! ) 

To Hitoshi’s disappointment, he didn’t talk to Bakugou much in the week following their sleeping together. An occasional text here or there, but that was really it. And Hitoshi had a burning feeling that he knew the reason why.
And of course it was because of another fucking flower. 

Like clockwork, Bakugou arrives on a Wednesday right before they are about to close. It had been raining hard throughout the day, so Hitoshi thinks maybe Bakugou might not come that day. But then through the front windows, Hitoshi sees his car pull into the parking lot, and he watches Bakugou all the way to the front door. 

“Hey,” Hitoshi says as Bakugou steps up to the register, hair wet and pressed against his forehead. The counter feels like an ocean between them, but even if they were inches apart, Hitoshi knows he would be too big of a coward to reach out. 

“Hey.” Bakugou’s voice is rough, more strained than usual, like he might be sick. That would explain why Bakugou hasn’t been reaching out as much, Hitoshi thinks. He is about to ask about it when he notices Bakugou’s eyes. They’re red and puffy from crying. 

Hitoshi begins to extend his hand out. “Baku–” 

“Just get the foxgloves,” Bakugou snaps, and then quieter, adds, “Please.” 

Hitoshi hurries back to the fridge, collects the flowers, and then rings them up in silence. And Bakugou takes them and turns with a mumbled Thanks . Hitoshi watches him leave just as he had arrived moments earlier, head down and gripping the stems of the flowers so hard they might snap. 

Hitoshi curses under his breath. It feels wrong. Everything about letting Bakugou just walk out of the flower shop like this feels wrong. 

Hitoshi is in the middle of untying his apron when he catches Uraraka’s eye, points towards the door and mouths, I need to go . She looks at him, a mix of confusion and concern, but he is already out the door, his absence punctuated by the chime of the door bell. 

Hitoshi covers his face from the rain as he runs to his car and starts it frantically, worried about losing sight of Bakugou. The old thing barely grumbles to life before he’s swinging it out of the parking space and into traffic a few cars behind Bakugou. 

The streets and stores and neighborhoods become unfamiliar in the downpour as Hitoshi continues to follow Bakugou. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, what he’s expecting to find. Worst case scenario, he pulls up to the scene of Bakugou’s lips against a man with bright red hair. 

But, gods, they need to at least fucking talk . 

Bakugou’s car makes a turn into a parking lot and Hitoshi follows automatically. It is only after he has killed the engine that Hitoshi realizes where they are. 

Rows of headstones line the field in front of him, shiny and wet. Any flowers that have been placed at a grave are being tossed around by the wind. 

Hitoshi watches as Bakugou steps out of his car, the wind rising to meet him, tousling his hair and rumpling his already wet shirt. One hand braces itself on the top of the car door while the other still grips the poor stems of the foxgloves. Hitoshi doesn’t get a good look at Bakugou’s face, knows he’s not getting the full picture. But he does know one thing: whatever he thought was going on, isn’t. 

A wave of nausea surges through Hitoshi and his gut clenches around nothing. He stumbles out of the car, following his tunnel vision until he is only a few steps behind Bakugou, wet gravel crunching desperately beneath his sneakers.  

But Bakugou stops suddenly, almost causing Hitoshi to topple into him. He begins to reach out to tap Bakugou on the shoulder, make him aware of his presence, when Bakugou growls, “What are you doing here?” The man’s voice is low and hoarse. Hitoshi’s hand still hovers inches away from Bakugou’s back. 

“I–” Hitoshi doesn’t have a good answer. He knows he doesn’t. “I, uh, wanted to check on you.” 

“Check on me,” Bakugou repeats, not as a question, but almost as if he might be mocking him. It makes Hitoshi defensive.

“You seemed upset at the store and I–” 

Bakugou spins around and Hitoshi gets a good look at his state. It’s not good. Bakugou’s crimson eyes look even more red when all puffy and pink from crying, and there are dried streaks down his cheeks from tears. His hair and clothes are mostly soaked through, and Hitoshi starts to feel the chill of rain on his own skin.

“You what? You thought following me would help? You thought interrupting this visit would be what I want ?” 

Bakugou’s voice breaks on the beginnings of a sob, and Hitoshi feels like he’s being ripped down the middle. He likes–maybe even fucking loves –this man, but Bakugou’s right. Who was this really for? Bakugou? Or Hitoshi’s peace of mind? 

“Bakugou–” Hitoshi reaches his hand out, but then curls his fingers back against his palm. “You’re right…I’m sorry. I really am.” 

He waits a breath, but Bakugou stares at the ground, jaw clenched around his grief. So Hitoshi takes his leave, stepping straight into a puddle as he makes his way back to his car. 

“Wait! Hitoshi!” Bakugou’s voice breaks through the rain in a way that sounds like it might be coming from inside Hitoshi’s head. But a hand roughly grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around. 

He’s suddenly face to face with Bakugou again, the man looking at him expectantly. But the words won’t come. Every step feels like a misstep, and Hitoshi is tired of taking missteps. Tired of thinking this person cares, tired of loving someone only to realize they never gave a single shit. 

“Toshi,” Bakugou says, softer this time. Toshi, Toshi, Toshi. He had been clawing at an opportunity to hear Bakugou call him that again. But, fuck, not like this. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, you don’t need to be. Whatever it is, it’s fine.” The words leave like a script, rehearsed and spoken time and time again. There would never be an apology that Hitoshi felt deserving of. 

“No–Stop.” Bakugou's eyebrows are furrowed and his voice is firm. He points the wilting foxgloves at Hitoshi’s chest and Hitoshi watches the rain beat down on them even more. “You–You are so fucking infuriating .” 

Well. There it was. Hitoshi wishes he could dissolve with the rain into a puddle. Then Bakugou could just step on him, and everyone would be happy, right? 

“Look, I’m just gonna–” Hitoshi turns to leave again, but Bakugou grabs him by the arm, pulls him in, and kisses him. Kisses him so hard that it almost feels like he’s biting him, consuming him. 

Teeth hit teeth and wet lips slide against each other as they struggle for purchase on one another’s wet shirts. Hitoshi could drown in the rain, in Bakugou’s kiss. He wouldn’t even care. This is all he has wanted for days. 

“What about your flowers?” Hitoshi asks against Bakugou’s mouth. The foxgloves are pressed up against Hitoshi’s back, and he steps back when Bakugou releases him to bring the flowers between them. Bakugou just stares at them, like he forgot he had been holding them. “Who are they for? Someone here?” 

Bakugou nods, still staring at the foxgloves, and his eyes start to become glossy. Hitoshi opens his mouth to apologize for asking but stops himself. Whatever Bakugou has to say, Hitoshi wants to hear it.  

“They’re for Eijiro.” 

“Eijiro.” 

Bakugou nods again. “He, uh–We, uh, were engaged.” 

Were.  

The red-headed man in the pictures is somewhere here. One of the many faceless stones lodged in soft dirt. 

Hitoshi’s heart drops into his stomach as he thinks through this new piece of information. Memories of Bakugou rushing into the flower shop right before close–and Hitoshi’s stupid pavlovian response to the chime of the door as he enters. Hitoshi thinks of Uraraka’s pretty cursive handwriting on the foxglove order and how they never actually carried foxgloves in the shop. 

“Every Wednesday?” Hitoshi says, heartbreak making his voice breathy and hoarse. Bakugou swallows and nods. The fucking dedication this man has, Hitoshi thinks. “What do they mean, foxgloves?”

For the first time that day, Bakugou smiles softly. Hitoshi can see the way his chest swells like he might overflow with adoration. 

“Manliness and youth. Which honestly is everything he is–uh, was. When Ei found out I knew a lot of flower meanings, he would ask what they were. And when he found out there was one that was associated with manliness, he flipped. Even though they’re so ugly, he was so fucking excited.” 

Bakugou laughs, low and self-conscious, but Hitoshi offers what he hopes is an encouraging smile. 

“When given as a gift, they literally mean, ‘I am ambitious for you, rather than for myself’. Which–” Bakugou inhales sharply “–is kind of how I’ve been living since he died. Getting up every day simply because he would have wanted me to, not because I actually want it for myself.” 

At this point, Hitoshi is so soaked, he barely notices that the rain has mostly stopped. He looks past Bakugou at the rows of wet headstones, glinting in the unmasked sun, and then down at the sad bunch of foxgloves. 

“Can I meet him?” Bakugou’s eyes shoot up to meet Hitoshi’s, searching him for any sign of a joke. But he won’t find any. 

Before Musutafu, before the flower shop, before Aizawa and Hizashi, Hitoshi would have looked at this and seen nothing but an inconvenience. Because that’s what he always was, right? Unless he was useful, Hitoshi was a burden to everyone around him. But not to Uraraka and Aizawa who had basically taken him in, given Hitoshi a chance only for him to find out that they did not require anything in return for love. 

There were people in the world that were worth loving, and someone had decided that Hitoshi was one of them. 

Hitoshi wants to love someone like that, too. And if it’s going to be anyone, it’s going to be Bakugou. 

Bakugou leads him to a headstone that says Kirishima . He picks up the dead foxgloves lying on the grave and replaces them with the new ones. 

Even the air stills around them as they stand in silence. Despite the desire to stay and be supportive, Hitoshi’s whole body fights the urge to run back to his car and drive away. But he doesn’t. He roots his feet to the dirt so that he himself could possibly pass as a headstone–albeit, an uncomfortable headstone. 

He is wrestling with discomfort and fear when a hand reaches out for his, fingers lacing between his own. Warm, and kind of clammy, Bakugou’s hand squeezes Hitoshi’s, and the sound of Bakugou’s voice fills the entire cemetery. 

“It scared me when I realized how much I like you,” Bakugou admits. Hitoshi looks at Bakugou, but he is still looking down at Eijiro’s grave. “I feel guilty moving on from Ei, onto someone new.” 

Hitoshi hums–half because he doesn’t know what to say and half because Bakugou just said he likes him. 

“It was…It was supposed to be us, you know?” Bakugou’s voice breaks and Hitoshi watches the formation of a tear at the corner of his eye. 

“Yeah.” 

Bakugou turns to look at Hitoshi and, despite the tears, he smiles. Hitoshi doesn’t know if he has ever seen a smile so happy and so devastating at the same time. “I’ve decided that I want to be ambitious for myself now.” 

“Yeah?” Hitoshi burns under Bakugou’s gaze. He wants to ignite, be everything that Bakugou needs and more. 

“Yeah.” Bakugou looks back at the grave. “I think it’s time for a new beginning, dontcha’ think Eijiro?” 

a white rose – the epilogue

They take it slow. 

Bakugou is Hitoshi’s first text in the morning and his last at night. They get coffee and dinner and drinks, and Bakugou exchanges some awkward words with an overly protective Aizawa. Sometimes, he even stops by the flower shop on his way to work just to say hi. Uraraka acts grossed out but it’s obvious she loves seeing both of them happy. 

When the next Wednesday rolls around, Bakugou strolls in right as Uraraka is beginning to clean up. 

“Your flowers are in the back,” she calls out with a mischievous grin and Bakugou thanks her with a small salute. Hitoshi narrows his eyes, looking suspiciously between the two, but Bakugou just walks nonchalantly up to the counter. 

Butterflies fill Hitoshi’s insides as he lets his mind strip back Bakugou’s dark wash jacket to reveal lovely floral sleeves of tattoos. They haven’t fucked since Bakugou made him dinner that first time, but Hitoshi can wait. He can wait as long as he needs to; he knows there will be a tomorrow and then a tomorrow after that. 

“Hey you,” Bakugou says with a smirk and Hitoshi melts at the dimple forming on Bakugou’s left cheek. “I’m here to pick up some flowers. If you weren’t aware, I’m somewhat of a regular customer here.” 

Hitoshi rolls his eyes and heads back to the cooler to sift through flowers for a very recognizable bunch. Only this time, mixed in with the foxgloves, are a few large white roses. Hitoshi grabs the flowers and brings them out to Bakugou. 

“White roses?” Hitoshi asks as Bakugou takes the bunch from him. “I’ve only ever seen you get foxgloves.” 

“I can’t believe you’ve made it this far without knowing what white roses mean.” Hitoshi blushes, and Bakugou grins widely. “New beginnings.” 

Oh. Oh. 

“You still want to go with me?” Bakugou tilts his head expectantly, and Hitoshi nods, walking around the counter to take the hand of his own new beginning.