Work Text:
The spell begins as soon as Bakugou opens the door to their apartment.
It’s evening. Already quiet. Most people have gotten home from work already.
Shouto patrolled early in the morning and he’s been home most of the day.
He hears a string of expletives and he identifies that as the correlative sound to Bakugou removing the straps off his boots. Bakugou swears some more. There’s the cling sound of him jamming his keys down on the key holder. The unzipping of his hero costume. Zip. Zip. Zip.
Shouto’s heart beats just a bit faster.
Then Bakugou’s voice gets steadily softer instead of louder as he approaches. The steady thrum of anger normally present is gone. By the time he’s near he’s gone quiet.
His hand drops into Shouto’s hair. Does a ruffling kind of motion.
Shouto turns into his touch. Looking back at him. “Yes?”
“You want yesterday’s leftovers?” Bakugou asks.
“Please,” Shouto says.
“Good,” Bakugou comes around to join him on the couch, sits down next to him with absolutely no space between them.
His costume is partially unzipped. No boots. No gloves. Shouto glances at his bare hands.
Their knees bump.
Bakugou flashes him a smile…or maybe a smirk?
“Warm it up for us both,” Bakugou says. “The proper way. In a pan. None of that microwave stuff.”
“Alright,” Shouto says.
Then he gets up and goes.
*
Sometimes, Bakugou will linger in the entryway when Shouto leaves for work.
He’ll shove an extra snack in Shouto’s carry bag, or get the water bottle Shouto was looking for. His keys.
“You’re useless,” he’ll say, but the words will settle warm like the fire under Shouto’s skin.
Today he grabs a scarf from the hall closet, winds it around Shouto’s neck and then one end under the other so it sticks tight. Lifts it slightly to cover Shouto’s lower face.
Is this what roommates do for each other?
“Don’t even—fucking start with your—quirk…bullshit—’fucking freezing out there,” he huffs. “Fucking moron.”
“Thank you,” Shouto says.
Bakugou shoves him out the door. “Get lost.”
*
At noon Bakugou texts him that there are no eggs in the apartment.
Shouto asks if he should bring some. The response comes surprisingly fast. Three little dings.
>> lay em for all i care.
>> u want omelettes or not.
>> fuckass
He makes a note to drop by the local market on the way home.
*
On Thursdays Shouto will wait until Bakugou is home and then put on what he thinks of as their show.
It’s more of what Momo told him qualifies as a ‘hate watch,’ though Shouto disagrees. The show is poorly made but he does not hate watching it with Bakugou.
“They’re padding time just cutting to every single fucker’s reaction. Yeah—go on. Show the mailman’s reaction to the cheating—god. No content whackass nutjobs.”
“She was cheating with the mailman,” Shouto says. “He probably already knows.”
“You’ve got such shitty taste,” Bakugou says. “There’s no—for fuck’s sake. No plot. Not even—if it’s a romance then sell me the damn thing.”
“You could be sold on romance?” Shouto wonders.
“Hah? Fuck no.”
Shouto frowns. Without even meaning to.
“I’m just—” Bakugou continues. “Fuck. Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that. Like I peed in your cup.”
“Um. Gross?”
“I’m just sayin’ I ain’t sold on the instalove these things are peddling,” Bakugou says. “That’s not—it doesn’t work like that.”
“There must be some people who feel instant attraction and romantic feelings upon meeting each other,” Shouto says.
“There’s a name for people like that, you know.”
“Oh. There is?”
“Yeah. Dumbass extras.”
*
Bumping into Bakugou at work almost never happens. Shouto’s patrol route runs on a long diagonal street.
Bakugou is posted most often at a center square several blocks to the south. There are floral shops there and bakeries. Shouto picked out a singular pink petal from Bakugou’s hair once when he was sleeping on the sofa.
Strawberry tartlets often show up in the apartment. Shouto doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth but he likes the fantasy of Bakugou buying it, not in a hurry or because he can, but deliberately, waiting in some kind of a line, for something he wants Shouto to have.
*
The day he does bump into Bakugou he’s booking a small-time villain.
No recorded quirk on the database. But known for gaining access to his victims and playing back their alleged deepest desires. The method of access wasn’t documented from the earlier reports. It could be a spoken mechanism. Prolonged eye contact. Or some kind of touch.
The quirk is useful for blackmail. No longer.
Shouto chased him all the way down to Bakugou’s square. Which has a real documented name he doesn’t use anymore.
There’s some cross traffic on the street. He’s binding the villain’s hands with white cord to prevent him from trying to use his quirk.
“You shouldn’t use people’s secrets against them,” Shouto says. “You got people into a lot of trouble they didn’t deserve.”
After this, Shouto will make sure he gets them help. The girls that were made to shop lift. The old lady who signed over her lease under duress.
Bakugou runs up to him. Well, more like a half run, two quick blasts of his quirk.
He’s scowling.
“Oh. Hi,” Shouto says.
It’s different running into him now…when they’re not at home.
“Oi. You’re encroaching on my turf, asshole,” Bakugou says. “What’s wrong? Not enough fucked up shit on your side of the tracks?”
“There’s no railway around here,” Shouto says. “I’m also allowed to enter your jurisdiction. The only reason I shouldn’t patrol it is so that resources aren’t wasted.”
“Yeah? Who’s this extra?” Bakugou gestures to the man standing with his back to the wall, his wrists held out, cord wrapped.
“The blackmailer,” Shouto says.
“No. No. I’m the Blackmail Bandit,” the man spits at the ground. “And you’ll let me go or else.”
“That isn’t up to me, Blackmail Bandit,” Shouto says. “We still need to get a record of who you’ve blackmailed.”
He spots Kirishima and Kaminari at the other end of the square. Bakugou catches him looking.
“Those little shits demanded to have their lunch break with me,” Bakugou explains.
“Yes,” Shouto says. “We could…also—sometime.”
It might be a lot to ask, given that they do have dinner together frequently.
“Too tight,” the Blackmail Bandit says. “Cord’s cutting into my wrist.”
Shouto always ties loose. Never tight. Just secure enough to prevent any quirk activation.
“Fine. I’ll check it,” he says, but the moment he goes to touch the white cord the man stretches his fingers out and curls them around Shouto’s wrist.
A cold sensation passes down his spine. The man locks eyes with him, scanning, calculating, and then he smiles.
A projection goes up into place. Bright like a billboard against the brick wall of the neighboring building. The visual is clean and crisp. Down to the evening light in the—it’s their living room. Shouto is there.
No.
“Stop what you’re doing,” Shouto says. “Even if you show this, I won’t give you what you want.”
“Then I’ll do it anyway,” the man says. “Got nothing to lose right?”
Bakugou takes a step toward the man too, the anger plain on his face, but he stops when he hears his own voice. Then turns to watch the fantasy.
“The hell is that?” real Bakugou asks. “That’s his fucking quirk? He shows your—your memories?”
“No,” Shouto says.
Both to Bakugou and to himself.
In the fantasy Bakugou’s hand drops into his hair. Even now, Shouto remembers how good it felt, the aching familiarity of it. No one in his own family even touches him like that.
Shouto hears himself say yes. Does he really look so…obvious?
He gulps.
Other people are looking now. The display is too big. It’s attracting attention.
“Bakugou—” Shouto starts to say. “You should…”
What? Should he leave? Would that help?
Bakugou seems to have clocked that he wants it turned off.
“Stop the dog and pony show or I’ll blow your head off,” Bakugou says, snarling down at the man. “You like your head right where it is I bet.”
But that’s not going to stop it.
“You want yesterday’s leftovers?” fantasy Bakugou asks.
It’s still the same as the memory. Good. Maybe it’ll stay like that.
“Please,” fantasy Shouto says.
Shouto echoes the plea in real life.
In the fantasy Bakugou does exactly as he did the other day. He comes around and sits next to Shouto on the sofa. So close.
Good.
Warm it up for us both.
In a pan. The proper way. None of that microwave stuff.
“Alright,” Shouto says in the fantasy.
In real life he can barely breathe. He stares at the illusion. He glances at Bakugou and sees that Bakugou isn’t looking at it so intently, but at him.
Then…Shouto knows. This is the moment. He gets up to go. To warm up the stir fry. Like he did that night.
Except this time, in the illusory world, Bakugou grabs his wrist and pulls him down. “Wait. Never get to fucking see you anymore. It’s pissin’ me off.”
“It doesn’t take a lot to piss you off,” fantasy Shouto says. “To be fair.”
It’s the exact pitch and cadence of his voice. Exactly what he might say. But Bakugou smiles at that, warm like the sun. Close to what he does sometimes, the moment after he’s reached the top of a mountain, when he’s happiest. That part is real. Shouto’s taken it from memory.
Then the fantasy blurs, slightly, and takes shape again as Bakugou cups his face. “C’mere.”
Shouto’s heart sinks in his chest as he watches them kiss. Rough but sure. More of a welcome home than anything else. Watches himself sink into Bakugou’s arms, kiss him back, so eager every place they touch, everywhere they meet.
It doesn’t stop, and dream Shouto reaches for Bakugou. Tugs him even closer by his sleeve. In the illusion Bakugou caresses the pink skin of his scar.
Shouto feels ice cold, clammy hands. No. No please.
But dream Shouto’s so happy. He looks so happy.
The clip ends. Like a remote clicked.
It’s too quiet. People are staring. He should speak. He opens his mouth but words don’t come out. He can’t look at Bakugou.
Bakugou saw. He—
There’s a bit of a commotion. Bakugou is holding the guy up against the wall.
“Who gives you the fucking right, huh? HUH?” Bakugou says. “I SHOULD END YOU RIGHT HERE. FUCKASS CREEP.”
“Let him go,” Shouto finds his voice again, still not looking at Bakugou, but at the man. “He still needs to give his report.”
A phone is shoved in his face. He’s not sure where it came from. His head is spinning.
Bakugou saw.
A woman holds out the phone, eyes bright. Press?
“Any comment?” she asks.
“I…” he blanks.
It’s not the kind of thing he can speak about. He only ever—he thought about it. At night once. Alone.
“Um,” he tries again. “I can’t comment right now.”
Kirishima steps in front of him. “We’re going to need a perimeter. Okay? Dangerous villain. It’s a public safety thing.”
That’s true.
“I’ll take him in,” Kaminari says. “To get the report on who else he’s used his quirk on. I’ll still file it under your name, Todoroki. So you get the credit.”
Credit? What?
“I’ll—the agency,” Shouto says. “I’m going back. Make sure…make sure you don’t touch him.”
*
Shouto’s not sure how he gets to the agency but once he leaves the square he doesn’t look back. He stays in the shower stall so long the hot water runs out and he has to get out, not liking the rush of cold down his back and chest.
Bakugou saw.
He gets dressed in the same kind of frozen autopilot he’d used when he was a lot younger. The one that he never imagined using again after Bakugou asked him to live together. More so…demanded it. But still.
The thing…with touching his hair. He can’t imagine Bakugou doing it now. He wouldn’t want to sit close to Shouto on the sofa knowing Shouto imagines them kissing, even if it was meant to be a private fantasy—secret, hopeful. The casual touches in the hallway. Moving around him in the kitchen.
All of those moments that Shouto takes, and keeps, and sometimes, sometimes thinks of as Bakugou’s love.
Would he be disgusted? Knowing Shouto took all that and thought—maybe.
It was supposed to be…only a dream, really. For him to have.
His eyes sting. He paces back and forth. Could he even go back to the apartment like this?
Midoriya might let him stay over tonight. He might already know. Though…strangely, people knowing doesn’t seem nearly as terrible as Bakugou knowing.
Bakugou seemed so angry. He must have hated it. He might hate…no.
Shouto still has the scarf Bakugou wrapped around his neck this morning. He pushes his face into it. Lets it swallow the sound of his one broken sob.
*
Shouto comes home as late as he can. Hoping it would ensure Bakugou is already asleep in his own room when he arrives.
The moment he enters the living room though, Bakugou is there. It’s two in the morning.
He still can’t look Bakugou in the eye.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bakugou demands.
“I’m sorry,” Shouto says.
“You’re—fuck—you’re sorry?!” Bakugou says, he crowds into Shouto’s space, grasps the collar of his shirt. “You—you stood there. You stupid fuck. You shoulda…denied it. Said you didn’t know where that came from. You’d never touch me. You don’t fucking want me. It’s—god—it’s me. Say it was some pervy fantasy from that fuckass creep. Nothing to do with you.”
“That’s not—”
“Fucking…lie. Say I’m the last person you could possibly—protect yourself. Idiot. You—” Bakugou seems to have exhausted himself, he rests his forehead against Shouto’s shoulder.
“I couldn’t,” Shouto says.
“Couldn’t what?” Bakugou asks, sounding strained.
“I couldn’t say that…you’re the last person I could want.”
“...why?”
“It isn’t true,” Shouto says.
“We’re not—we’re not in fucking school. In detention with sensei, you fucking freak. You don’t have to tell the truth.”
A few moments pass like this. Bakugou’s head is heavy on Shouto’s shoulder. Then he asks. Maybe he can ask—since it seems like Bakugou doesn’t hate him.
“Do you want me to move out?”
“What?” Bakugou raises his head off Shouto’s shoulder.
“Because of what you saw. Do you want me to go?”
Shouto’s breath catches as he says it, his chest aches thinking of those strawberry tarts.
“No,” Bakugou says. “Stay here. Stay here and drive me fucking crazy.”
He meets Shouto’s eyes and for a moment it looks like he’s about to lean in. He does. Just slightly…and then he pulls back. “Shit.”
He walks away. And in a few minutes Shouto hears the whir of Bakugou’s electrical toothbrush from their shared bathroom.
Shouto stands rooted to the spot.
*
Tomorrow is Thursday. Shouto doesn’t know if he can expect to watch their show. He doesn’t put it on himself that evening. There are a few missed calls from friends on his phone.
Bakugou comes home earlier than expected.
Shouto’s nervous. Not in the way he normally is around Bakugou, but—he wonders if he should leave. Bakugou didn’t ask him to leave the apartment. But he could go sit in his room. Give Bakugou space.
“Put on our crap TV,” Bakugou says. “Stop sulking.”
“I’m not sulking,” Shouto says. “You want to watch with me?”
“You—you put me through two fucking seasons—goddamn torture device. Gotta see the stupid end.”
“Okay,” Shouto says.
They watch their show. Bakugou doesn’t act any differently than he normally does.
Shouto wonders if this is him being kind.
*
Friday night Bakugou makes soba for him. He was going to do so anyway, they had a bet going based on what was going to happen on their show, from before the…before. The plot is so arbitrary on the show that the bets are more like coin flips.
But Shouto won this one. So he eats Bakugou’s soba, and things are almost okay. He’s still…he can’t stop thinking about what Bakugou must think of him.
If he’s taking advantage of their closeness.
“HEY. Stop. Stop it already,” Bakugou says. “I told you. It doesn’t—I don’t want you to get lost. I don’t care what some creep broadcasts about your private shit.”
He drops all the pans he’s washing in the sink as he does it. Punctuating his rant with a loud clang.
“How can it not bother you?” Shouto wonders.
“It wasn’t—it wasn’t mine to fucking know, was it?” Bakugou says.
“Oh.”
Bakugou serves himself soba, and sits down with Shouto. They eat in silence, which is normal for them, for the most part.
Things feel…better again. The knot in Shouto’s chest loosens, just enough.
“If he had grabbed your wrist…” Shouto wonders. “What would have happened?”
“What would have happened?” Bakugou scoffs. “I’d have kicked his ass all the way to hell. Damn creep.”
“I see.”
They’re both finished eating by the time Bakugou addresses him again. “I don’t even fantasize about the things I don’t think I can have. That’s the difference between you and me.”
Shouto doesn’t know what that means.
*
He thinks about it all week. He wonders if it’s Bakugou’s way of saying that he’s weak. Because Bakugou has the self control to not even fantasize about what he wants, whatever that is.
And Shouto doesn’t—he can imagine. But then…if Bakugou wanted to call him weak. He would have just said that. Straight.
Bakugou doesn’t give insults that need to be thought about. They’re clear. Then the only other thing is…was it a compliment?
Nobody brings up the dynashou love scene, as the media like to call it, after a few days. Shouto suspects Bakugou has something to do with it. Every time someone reaches out to Shouto, Bakugou somehow shows up there. He doesn’t let anyone get a word in, if it seems like they’re about to broach the subject.
Kind of jumps down their throat.
“Thank you,” Shouto says, once, after work.
Bakugou glares at him. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
He keeps thinking about it.
“What does Bakugou want more than anything?” he asks Midoriya. “Something he thinks he can’t have.”
“Kacchan would never limit himself like that,” Midoriya says. “If he wants something…for as long as I’ve known him…he chases it. He fights for it. That’s Kacchan.”
Shouto agrees with him.
*
He questions Bakugou when they’re at home. He’s helping Bakugou unscrew the lightbulbs and put new ones in. It’s something the landlord is supposed to do.
But Bakugou won’t let them wait for ‘that old geezer.’ So they’re doing it.
“If there’s something you don’t think you can have…why wouldn’t you fight for it?”
Bakugou fumbles his grip on the bulb. Standing there on the ladder Shouto’s holding down, secure.
“Hah?”
“You said you don’t fantasize about what you don’t think you can have. Why wouldn’t you fight for it?” Shouto asks. “You fight about…nearly everything else.”
“Maybe your head is full of horseshit,” Bakugou says. “But I know—fuck—go in already—”
He turns the bulb and it doesn’t screw in right. Maybe they’re not using the right model.
“I know…” Bakugou continues, slowing the way he turns, until something clicks right and Shouto sees the bulb fit into place. “Some things need to be given. Not taken.”
“Some things?”
“Yeah. Gimme another one,” Bakugou lowers his hand down to reach, still looking at the three missing places where bulbs should be.
While not looking down, his hand brushes against Shouto’s as he hands up another bulb from the set.
“Here.”
*
Shouto’s eyes hurt, sometimes, from reading reports. The screen glare is bright on his tablet. He sets it down.
He lies back on the sofa and closes his eyes. If he rests then he could get back to it. In a few minutes.
“What’s wrong?” Bakugou says. “You wanna nap, then go to bed.”
“I’m resting my eyes,” Shouto says.
“Gimme that,” Bakugou says.
He takes the tablet and Shouto’s hand, and uses Shouto’s thumb to unlock it.
“Don’t freak out, dipshit, my classification’s the same as yours,” Bakugou says. “I could pull up all of these reports on my own if I wanted to.”
“I know,” Shouto says.
The security issue is not what he’s concerned about. More the fact that Bakugou has shifted him so that his head is resting in Bakugou’s lap. And Bakugou is now reading from the top. He has a different…reading voice.
Shouto’s never heard it before. It’s less…loud.
Midway through the first paragraph, Bakugou puts his hand in Shouto’s hair, runs his fingers through it as he reads.
“Jesus Christ. This—this is backdated two weeks. Real fucking behind, aren’t you?”
“I guess so,” Shouto says.
He loves the feeling of resting in Bakugou’s lap. He hopes it never ends. Secretly happy that he did manage to get this far behind. So Bakugou will have to keep reading.
*
After the incident with Bakugou’s lap, Shouto tries harder to find the thing that Bakugou wants, the one which needs to be given and not taken.
Something given needs to be given by someone else. It’s not clear who could have something he wants, and why he wouldn’t at least ask for it. If he wants it.
It could be pride, or maybe he doesn’t think the answer would be yes. Or…maybe, there’s something about the action of giving itself.
Shouto remembers the first time his mother wrote to him without him writing first. How happy it made him.
Maybe Bakugou wants something like that. Not…forced. Not coming out of burden.
*
It’s a few weeks later when Shouto is back in Bakugou’s square. Off duty.
He looks around for Bakugou and it takes a while to find him, when he does he sees him at the end of a long line, almost half a block, leading up to the bakery. It has the same name as the paper packaging the strawberry tarts come in.
Bakugou’s lunch break started ten minutes ago. It’ll last only another fifteen.
Is he?
Shouto runs to him.
“Hey,” Shouto says.
Someone in the back of the line behind Bakugou glares. “Line’s back there. Don’t care if you’re a big hero.”
“Oi, can it,” Bakugou glares back. “He’s with me.”
Oh.
With him in the sense—what?
“It’s okay,” Shouto says. “I’m not ordering anything.”
“Fucking extras,” Bakugou says. “Annoyed about every goddamn thing.”
“And nothing bothers you,” Shouto says.
“Just your dumb ass,” Bakugou says, there’s color rising in his cheeks. “But I’m used to that by now.”
“Bakugou, I…” Shouto scrambles for what to say. “I’m not partial to strawberry tarts.”
Bakugou stops. Stares at him for a moment. His mouth opens. Then closes again.
“What—sit on my ass in line every other day to get you these—you thought it was funny?” Bakugou asks. “You—you don’t like ‘em. I’ll fucking kill you.”
He stalks out of line. Shouto follows.
“I liked that you brought them, that’s why I ate them,” Shouto continues. “Because I like you. I think you know…but you were waiting for me to say it to you. Because you didn’t want it to be forced. Because maybe you even…didn’t know how real it was. It was real.”
“It was real to me,” Shouto says again. “So if that’s the thing you want…I’m saying it’s yours.”
“Come,” Bakugou says, with a blazing look in his eyes.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m sayin’ I’m not giving these bastards another show.”
*
Bakugou ducks them into a little alley. More private but not completely so. It feels that way, with his arms bracketing Shouto like that.
“Shit. Took you this long to crack it, huh?” Bakugou asks.
“You’re hard to read,” Shouto says. “I didn’t know if…what you dreamed about.”
“This face,” Bakugou says, cupping his cheeks. “Your stupid mouth.”
Then he kisses Shouto, pushing the fantasy so far back into the recesses of Shouto’s mind, because Bakugou is warm and real.
He deepens the kiss, his other hand firm at Shouto’s side. “Fucking. Stupid idiot.”
He kisses Shouto until Shouto feels his brain turning into mush, his insides going all soft.
“Bakugou,” he whines.
“Shut up. You’re unreal,” Bakugou says, pressing his mouth on Shouto’s again, tugging gently at his lower lip.
“People could…see us?”
Maybe.
“You give a shit?”
“No,” Shouto says.
“Good,” Bakugou says, whispering it in Shouto’s ear, pressing a kiss right at his neck. “S’my fantasy now.”