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“What’s your favourite flower?” Denki asks thoughtfully, leaning against the backrest of Katsuki’s loveseat.
Bakugou is propped upright, leaning over his notebook and math textbook. He’s writing out equations with ease, and Denki’s wondering, like always, how he does it.
He doesn’t look up from his notebook. “Why.”
“Just answer.”
Katsuki thinks for a moment, exhaling through his nose. Then, gruffly. “Violets.”
Denki blinks. “Seriously?”
“They bloom in February,” Bakugou states like it’s a simple fact that he should already know as if it’s common knowledge. “When it’s still cold. They don’t wait for perfect weather.”
Denki goes quiet at that.
“What?” Katsuki finally glances up, scowling faintly. But he can never hold it very long around him.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. He smiles softly.
“I just didn’t peg you as a flower guy.” Denki pauses. “I thought you’d just say something like roses and be done with it. Not that you’d know all about violets.” He grins fondly. “It’s cute.”
Katsuki glares, before fixing his attention back on his math homework.
“They’re resilient.” He mutters.
And maybe Denki swallows a little at that word. Resilience. Because last February almost took him under. Because resilience is something he’s still trying to believe about himself. He’s here as proof, though.
That’s something.
Last February, he was a naive fifteen-year-old. Now he’s almost seventeen, but he feels miles older.
And the February before that, fourteen, pre-U.A., when he’d never even known any of his friends. That didn’t even feel like his life. It felt like somebody else’s memories that had been stored in his mind.
“Purple or white ones?” Denki asks curiously, running his fingers along the ribbed pattern of the loveseat. “They mean different things.”
Katsuki’s brows furrowed. “Hell? Purple. They’re violets, not daisies.”
Denki has to school his expression again. “You know when they bloom, but not that they come in different colours?”
“Violet means purple in French,” Katsuki grumbles, as his pencil continues to scratch against his notebook.
“No— well, yes, but that’s not the point.” Denki retorts, looking at the back of Bakugou’s head. He has to fight the urge to cross his arms and pout like a child.
“The purple ones symbolize love, loyalty, and wisdom,” Denki says with confidence, pausing to prove his point. “Whereas the white ones stand for purity, innocence, and modesty.”
Katsuki pauses, just barely. “Tch.”
He doesn’t correct himself. Doesn’t take it back.
“Why do you know so damn much about flowers?” Katsuki grunts, turning back to look at Denki.
Denki grins, leaning back further.
“My mom likes them.” He says through a laugh. “Flowers, I mean. She grows them in her garden.”
Katsuki watches him for a second longer than necessary. “Didn’t know that.”
Denki shrugs, picking at a loose thread along the seam of the gray loveseat. “Yeah, well. You don’t exactly ask about my mom. Or her hobbies.”
“I don’t ask about anyone’s mom, especially not their hobbies.”
Katsuki goes back to his notebook, pencil moving again. The scratching sound fills the room for a moment. It’s comfortable. Familiar. Late afternoon light bleeds thin and gold through the curtains, catching in Katsuki’s hair and turning the edges almost soft.
“My mom planted violets once,” Denki adds, his voice quieter now. “She always said they were stubborn.”
Katsuki huffs. “Good.”
“They kept coming back every year,” Denki continues. “Even if the frost hit them before she dug them up. The first time she forgot, she thought they were dead. But they weren’t.”
The pencil slows.
Denki swallows, but he keeps smiling like he hasn’t said anything strange at all. “They’re always there when I come back. Little purple bits sticking out of the ground.”
Katsuki sets his pencil down.
Not loud, not dramatic.
“I didn’t ask.” Katsuki groans, pulling at his hair. He glares at Kaminari. His eyes drift over his smug expression and the faint smile. “You’re distracting me.”
Denki laughs lightly. Smooth like cream. “To be fair, I’ve never asked about your mom either.”
Katsuki’s eye twitches. “Good.”
Denki grins wider. “Wow. Harsh.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” Denki insists, lifting his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying. Fair’s fair.” Katsuki narrows his eyes at him like he’s trying to determine whether this is a trap.
It probably is. It usually is.
Denki lets his hands fall back against the couch. His foot nudges lightly against Katsuki’s thigh again— absent, easy. Not testing. Just there.
“Your mom probably likes something intense,” Denki muses. “Like— I don’t know. Those big red spider lilies. Or something that explodes when you look at it wrong. Like a Venus flytrap.”
Katsuki snorts before he can stop himself. “You’re an idiot.”
“True.”
Silence settles again, softer this time. The pencil doesn’t start back up. Denki tilts his head. “Does she?”
Katsuki’s jaw shifts. “She likes hydrangeas,” he mutters finally, like he’s confessing to a crime.
Denki blinks. “Hydrangeas?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s.. not what I expected.”
“I don’t care what you expected.”
Denki hums thoughtfully. “They change colour depending on the soil, right?”
Katsuki glances at him sharply. “You know that too?”
Denki shrugs. “I told you. Multifaceted.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it.
Hydrangeas change based on what they’re rooted in. Acidic soil, alkaline soil. Blue or pink or somewhere in between. Denki doesn’t say that part out loud. He just lets the thought sit there between them.
“Your mom must be patient,” he says instead.
Katsuki’s expression shifts— subtle, but there. Less defensive. “She is. Sometimes.”
Denki smiles, smaller now. “That’s nice.”
Another quiet beat.
Outside, the wind rattles faintly against the windowpane. February is still clinging to everything it can.
Katsuki reaches for his pencil again, but this time his shoulder bumps against Denki’s knee on purpose
“Violets are still better,” he mutters.
Denki’s grin comes back, slow and warm. “Of course they are. You’re stubborn.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
“You always make it weird.”
Denki leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes for a second, just feeling the warmth beside him. The steady presence. The fact that he’s here. That they’re here.
“Hey, Kats?”
“What.”
“Thanks.”
Katsuki doesn’t ask for what.
He just huffs quietly and nudges him again.
“Shut up.”
Denki shifts. He positions his legs over one armrest and lays his head against the other. His golden eyes trace over every detail in the popcorn, every little chunk and shape.
“Maybe I’ll meet your mom one day.” Denki suddenly smiles, looking at the ceiling.
Katsuki doesn’t answer immediately.
The pencil pauses between his fingers.
“Why would you do that,” he mutters after a moment.
Denki shrugs, still staring at the ceiling like it holds something interesting.
“I dunno. Just sounds like something people do eventually.”
“‘People’ are idiots.”
Denki laughs under his breath.
“Your mom might like me,” he says lightly. “I’m charming.”
“You are not charming.”
“I am extremely charming.”
Katsuki snorts. “You eat cereal like it personally insulted you.”
Denki gives a grim look. “It does insult me. It's weak food.”
“You’re an idiot,” Katsuki repeats, but softer this time.
Silence settles again.
The kind that doesn’t feel empty.
Denki shifts slightly, folding one arm behind his head. “Do you think she’d like me?” he asks after a while. Katsuki exhales slowly.
“She likes kind people,” he says. “Probably.”
Denki hums.
“That’s good,” he says. “I think I’m nice too.”
“You are nice.”
Denki smiles.
The late afternoon light has turned warmer now, less gold and more amber, touching the edges of the room like it’s tired of being winter.
“Hey, Katsuki.”
“What.”
“Do you think I’m resilient?”
The question hangs there.
Katsuki doesn’t answer right away.
Denki doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t move.
Finally, Katsuki speaks, voice rougher than before. “You’re still here.”
Denki closes his eyes. “Yeah.”
A long pause. “Then yeah,” Katsuki says. “You are.”
It isn’t said like praise.
It isn’t said like reassurance either.
It’s said like a fact.
Denki smiles. Outside, February wind presses softly against the window, but inside, something stubbornly purple keeps pushing upward anyway.
Messy crying can be heard through Heights Alliance’s paper-thin walls. It’s loud in the quiet way— choked, uneven, trying desperately to be swallowed down and failing anyway.
Bakugou knows who it is immediately.
He’s been at UA more than long enough to decipher between Kaminari’s laugh and Kirishima’s, between Sero’s late-night music and Mina’s cackling. He knows the exact rhythm of everyone’s footsteps in the hall.
And he knows Denki’s crying.
It’s not graceful. It’s not the silent, stoic kind. It’s messy— hiccupping breaths, a sharp inhale like he forgot how to breathe, the faint thud of something hitting a mattress.
Bakugou stares at the ceiling of his dorm room in Heights Alliance, jaw tight.
He tells himself to ignore it.
Denki cries over stupid things all the time, right? Bad test scores. Teasing. Dumb romantic drama. He’s dramatic. He’ll be fine.
Another broken sound cracks through the wall— quieter this time. Smaller. Like it’s trying to disappear.
Bakugou’s teeth grit.
It’s different.
There’s no whining. No muttering “this sucks” between sobs. Just raw, wounded noise. The kind you make when there’s no one around to perform for.
He’s already sitting up before he realizes it.
“Tch.”
He swings his legs off the bed, palms sparking faintly out of reflex. He doesn’t knock when he reaches Denki’s door. He barely even pauses.
The handle turns under his grip.
Denki’s room is dark except for the desk lamp still on. He’s on the floor, back against the side of his bed, knees pulled to his chest like he’s trying to make himself smaller. His shoulders shake. His face is buried in his arms.
For a second, Bakugou just stands there.
He’s seen Denki loud. Grinning. Flirting. Stupid.
He’s never seen him like this.
“Oi,” Bakugou says roughly.
Denki flinches.
That makes something twist in Bakugou’s stomach.
“Shut up,” Denki croaks automatically, not even looking up. It’s weak. Automatic defense.
Bakugou clicks his tongue and steps inside anyway, shutting the door behind him. “You’re loud as hell.”
Denki lets out a broken laugh that collapses into another sob. “Sorry.”
Bakugou hates that word coming out of him like that.
He crouches down instead of towering over him. Close enough that their knees almost touch. Not touching. Just.. there.
Denki wipes at his face desperately, like he’s trying to hide that he had just been crying his heart out. As if Bakugou couldn’t tell anyway.
“What happened?” he demands.
Denki shakes his head. Hard. Like if he moves enough, it’ll shake the feelings loose. He sniffles.
Bakugou exhales through his nose, sharp and irritated— at the situation, at himself, at how useless he suddenly feels.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Don’t talk.”
He reaches forward, hesitates for half a second— then grabs the front of Denki’s hoodie and tugs him forward.
Not gentle.
Not careful.
Just enough to pull him into his chest. Denki stiffens. Completely. Then he breaks.
His hands clutch into Bakugou’s shirt like he’s drowning. His crying turns ugly and loud again, face pressed against Bakugou’s shoulder. His breath is hot and uneven through the fabric.
Bakugou’s arms come up automatically. One around his back. One firm against the back of his head.
“Idiot,” he mutters, but it’s not sharp. Not really.
Denki presses his lips into a thin line. He lets Bakugou touch him and he sobs. Katsuki feels his spine through the fabric, rubbing along the small of his back.
It’s not comforting to Katsuki, he does it for Denki.
“Talk about it.” He says once, patting Denki’s shoulders. He kind of just lets the boy rest against his chest, letting his shirt soak up all the mucus.
Mucus he’d normally get all freaked out over, but he couldn’t push himself to leave Denki. The growing wet patch across his chest makes him grimace. He keeps his palm firm on Denki’s rear.
He’d deal with it later.
“Talk about it,” he repeats, lower this time. Not a demand. Even though he wanted Denki to listen. Not quite.
Denki’s breath stutters. He shakes his head against Bakugou’s shoulder, then nods, then shakes it again like he can’t decide which one hurts less.
“It’s just—” His voice cracks. He swallows hard. “It’s stupid.”
“Yeah?” Bakugou replies flatly. “Then it’ll be easy to say.”
Denki lets out a weak, almost offended huff that dissolves into another sniffle. He wipes his nose against the sleeve of his hoodie before remembering he’s pressed against Bakugou and awkwardly turning his face away.
Katsuki notices. Pretends he doesn’t.
“It’s not stupid,” Denki whispers finally. “I just.. I thought I was past it.”
Bakugou’s fingers still for half a second at the small of his back. “Past what?”
Denki’s shoulders tense under his hands. His voice drops like he’s afraid the walls will hear him.
“Feeling like that,” he says. “Like I’m back there. Like I’m not here.”
Katsuki’s jaw tightens.
He doesn’t need details. He doesn’t push for them.
Denki curls in closer without thinking, like his body decided before his brain did. “I was fine all day,” he continues shakily. “Training was fine. Dinner was fine. And then I was just alone and—” His breath catches again.
“I wish that it had been you,” Denki admits.
For a second, Katsuki doesn’t react.
Denki pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, cheeks streaked and swollen. There’s no flirting in it. No teasing grin. Just something raw and ashamed and vulnerable.
He notices the damp patch on Katsuki’s shirt and immediately winces.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, already scrambling to fix something he doesn’t need to fix. He pushes up off the floor and crosses to his dresser, movements unsteady. He yanks open a drawer, grabs the first clean T-shirt he finds, and holds it out.
“Here.”
Katsuki looks at it as if it personally offended him.
“Seriously?” he says flatly.
Denki’s fingers twitch around the fabric. “It’s gross.”
“So?”
Denki blinks at him.
Katsuki stands slowly, peeling his soaked shirt over his head in one sharp motion. He doesn’t bother turning away. He wipes at his chest with the dry part of the old shirt, grimacing, then tosses it toward Denki’s laundry basket without looking.
He takes the clean T-shirt.
But he doesn’t put it on yet.
Instead, he steps back into Denki’s space— close enough that Denki instinctively stills.
“What did you mean?” Katsuki asks.
Denki’s throat bobs. “I just—” He looks down at the floor. “I didn’t mean it like.. weird.”
“Didn’t say you did.”
Silence stretches.
Denki presses his palms into his eyes like he can push the confession back inside. “I just meant if it had been someone I—” He exhales shakily. “If it had been someone I trusted. Someone who actually cared.”
The air in the room shifts.
Katsuki feels something hot and volatile rise in his chest— not at Denki. Never at Denki.
At the implication.
At whoever.
Denki keeps going, because once it starts spilling out, it won’t stop.
“I wouldn’t feel like this,” he says hoarsely. “I wouldn’t feel dirty every time I think about it. Or stupid. Or like I should’ve known better.”
Katsuki moves before he consciously decides to.
He grabs Denki’s wrist— firm, not rough— pulling his hands away from his face.
“Stop,” he says.
Denki freezes.
“You don’t get to talk about yourself like that.”
Denki’s breath stutters. “But—”
“No.” Katsuki’s voice is low and unyielding. “You trusted someone. That’s not stupid. That’s normal.”
Denki’s eyes shine again, but this time it’s quieter.
“If it had been me,” Katsuki continues, jaw tight, “you wouldn’t be feeling like this because I wouldn’t have let you feel like this.”
Denki’s lips part.
Katsuki releases his wrist, but his hand doesn’t go far. It settles at Denki’s waist instead— grounding. Steady.
“You think I’d touch you without making sure you were okay?” he asks, almost offended.
Denki shakes his head quickly.
“You think I’d leave you alone after?”
Another shake.
“Then stop wishing it was me like it would’ve fixed what someone else did.” His voice softens, just a fraction. “It wouldn’t change that it wasn’t your fault.”
Denki swallows hard. “I just.. I wanted it to mean something.”
Katsuki’s expression shifts.
He understands that.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifts the clean T-shirt Denki handed him and pulls it on. The fabric settles between them now, dry and warm.
Then he steps forward again and pulls Denki back into his chest.
This time it’s not abrupt.
It’s intentional.
“You don’t owe your first anything to anybody,” Katsuki mutters into his hair. “Not meaning. Not perfection. Not some stupid fantasy version.”
Denki’s hands hesitate— then settle against Katsuki’s sides, gentler now.
“And if you ever decide you want it to mean something,” Katsuki adds, quieter, “you make sure it’s with someone who treats you like you matter. Not like an opportunity.”
Denki’s grip tightens slightly.
They stand there in the dim light, the earlier sobbing reduced to soft, uneven breaths.
“You still here?” Denki whispers after a moment.
Katsuki huffs.
“Unfortunately.”
Denki lets out a weak, watery laugh.
Katsuki rests his chin on the top of his head again. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
“Thankfully..” He smiles into Bakugou’s chest, his voice muffled by the fabric. He pulls away before a second round of tears can fall.
For a split second, Katsuki just stares at him.
“I don’t want to ruin the second time,” Denki says as if it’s a joke. Like it’s light. Like it doesn’t cost him anything to admit.
But his eyes won’t quite meet Katsuki’s.
Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters.
Denki huffs faintly, rubbing at his face again. “What? I’m serious. I already messed up the first one. I don’t want the second to be—” He gestures vaguely, helplessly. “Pathetic.”
Katsuki’s gaze sharpens. “Who told you it was messed up?”
Denki shrugs, shoulders curling inward. “It just is.”
“No.” Katsuki steps forward again, closing the space Denki tried to create. “It was taken. That’s not the same thing.”
Denki goes quiet.
The desk lamp throws soft shadows across the room, catching on the tear tracks still drying on his cheeks. Katsuki reaches up before he overthinks it and wipes one away with his thumb. It’s awkward. Not graceful.
But deliberate.
“You don’t ruin things just because someone else screwed up,” Katsuki says, voice steady. “And you don’t get to decide your future based on that either.”
Denki’s breath catches— not sharp this time. Just surprised.
“I don’t know how to not think about it,” he admits quietly. “Every time I think about.. next time.. I just hear my own head telling me I’ll mess it up. Or freeze. Or—”
“You won’t,” Katsuki cuts in.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
The confidence in his tone makes Denki blink.
Katsuki’s hands settle at Denki’s hips now— firm, grounding pressure. Not possessive. Just anchoring.
“You froze because someone ignored you,” he says bluntly. “That’s not a weakness. That’s shock.”
Denki swallows.
“If there’s a second time,” Katsuki continues, eyes locked on his, “it’s supposed to be slow. Clear. Stupidly obvious. You get to change your mind whenever you want. You get to say stop. You get to not know what you’re doing.”
Denki’s fingers twitch at his sides.
“And if whoever you’re with doesn’t like that,” Katsuki adds, voice dropping lower, “they don’t get you.”
Silence settles again— but it’s different now. Less sharp. Less frantic.
Denki studies him like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to believe him. “And what if I panic?” Denki asks softly.
“Then you panic,” Katsuki replies immediately. “And whoever’s there deals with it. They don’t make you feel small about it.”
Denki swallows.
“And if it’s you?” he asks before he can stop himself.
The question hangs there.
Katsuki doesn’t look away.
“Then I’d make sure you felt safe,” he says simply.
No teasing. No bravado.
Just a fact.
Denki’s expression crumples for a second— not into tears, but into something fragile and relieved. He steps forward without thinking this time, resting his forehead lightly against Katsuki’s collarbone.
“You’re really bad at being comforting,” he mumbles.
“Shut up.”
“But you’re good at it anyway.”
Katsuki clicks his tongue, but his hand comes back up to cradle the back of Denki’s head. Steady. Protective.
“You’re not ruined,” he mutters into his hair. “And you don’t have to rush into proving you’re not.”
Denki nods against him.
They stand there a little longer— no urgency now. No spiralling. Just breathing.
After a moment, Denki pulls back just enough to look up at him. There’s still redness in his eyes, but the panic has dulled into something softer. “Stay?” he asks quietly
Katsuki rolls his eyes like it’s a burden.
“Idiot,” he says. “Move over.”
And this time, when he sits down on the edge of Denki’s bed and pulls him down beside him, it doesn’t feel like damage control.
It feels like something is being rebuilt.
The common room of Heights Alliance is louder than usual.
Someone— probably Mina— has dragged the sectional into a more “theatre appropriate configuration,” which really just means it’s crooked and too close to the TV. Sero’s stringing fairy lights along the ceiling like it’s a festival.
Trust, he would’ve hung up LED lights if Iida hadn’t lectured him about ‘ripping the paint off the walls’. Which he was probably right about.. and Kirishima is arguing with Kaminari over what counts as a “classic.”
“Explosions,” Kaminari insists.
“You mean action?” Kirishima offers, turning his head in confusion.
“No. I mean explosions. Boom, boom, you know!”
“That’s not a genre, bro!”
Bakugou doesn’t care about the movie. He’s here because Kirishima physically hauled him out of his room with something about ‘team bonding’ and ‘don’t be a grinch, man.’
He drops onto the far end of the couch with a scowl, arms crossed. There’s an open space beside him. He does not look at it. He does not think about who might sit there.
Denki does.
Denki somehow manages to do everything that Bakugou hopes he would do.
He lingers near the snack table a second too long, laughing at something Mina says, even though he doesn’t process the joke. His eyes flick toward the couch. Toward Bakugou. Toward the empty spot. His stomach flips.
They’ve been.. better, lately. Softer. Closer. Training together more. Studying together sometimes. Talking about things that aren’t just dumb jokes or yelling.
Still.
Sitting next to him in front of everyone feels different. It feels intentional. Like he’s okay with everyone seeing them like that.
The lights dim.
“Okay, pick a seat or you’re sitting on the floor!” Sero calls. Denki inhales, quick and shallow, and before he can overthink it—
He walks over.
He drops down beside Bakugou. Close. Not touching.
Just.. close.
Bakugou doesn’t look at him. But he shifts. Just barely. Making more room.
The movie starts— some ridiculous action film with overdramatic music and too much slow-motion. Mina and Kirishima immediately start live-commentating. Someone throws popcorn. It’s chaos.
Denki tries to focus on the screen.
He can’t.
Even though it’s the exact type of movie that he wanted.
He’s acutely aware of the heat radiating off Bakugou’s arm. Of how their thighs are maybe half an inch apart. Of how if he moved just a little—
He shifts. Their legs touch. It’s accidental.
Probably.
Bakugou goes still.
Denki freezes.
“Sorry,” he whispers automatically, starting to pull away.
Bakugou’s hand shoots out— not grabbing, just.. pressing against Denki’s knee for a split second. “Quit fidgeting,” he mutters.
His hand lingers a second too long before retreating. Denki’s heart is in his throat. Onscreen, something explodes. Everyone cheers. Neither of them flinch.
Minutes pass.
The room settles. Mina curls up against Uraraka. Kirishima leans against Sero. Even Todoroki looks vaguely invested in the plot.
Denki’s hand is resting on the couch cushion between them.
Palm down. Open. He doesn’t mean to leave it there. He just.. does. Bakugou notices.
Of course he does.
He stares at the screen like it personally insulted him. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are rigid. He tells himself not to look. He looks anyway.
Denki’s fingers twitch slightly every time there’s a loud sound. He’s not scared of the movie. He’s nervous.
Bakugou swallows.
He shifts his hand from his own knee. Lets it rest beside Denki’s. Not touching. Close enough that Denki can feel the warmth. Denki’s breath hitches.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t joke.
Doesn’t ruin it.
The space between their pinkies is microscopic now. It’s stupid. It’s nothing. It’s everything.
Onscreen, the main character delivers a dramatic line about trust.
Bakugou exhales through his nose, irritated at the universe for the timing. Then. He hooks his pinky. Just barely. It’s not even a real hold. Just a light curl around Denki’s finger.
Testing.
Denki’s brain short-circuits.
He looks down. Bakugou refuses to. For half a second, Denki thinks it’s an accident. Then Bakugou tightens his grip. Just a fraction. That’s all the confirmation he needs.
Denki slowly turns his hand. Careful. Giving him time to pull away. Bakugou doesn’t. Their fingers slide together.
Interlock.
It’s awkward at first— palms a little sweaty, grip uncertain— but then it settles. Fits.
Bakugou’s thumb presses once against the side of Denki’s hand. Grounding. Denki’s eyes burn unexpectedly.
He squeezes back.
Onscreen, another explosion.
In the dim light, no one notices the way Denki’s smile goes soft. Or the way Bakugou’s scowl eases just a little.
They don’t look at each other.
They don’t need to.
They sit there, hands tangled between them, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And for once, It is.
Because there is nothing more for them to do, to think about, to consider, than each other. To keep their love on the same level, the main horizon.
The movie is maybe halfway through.
Something dramatic is happening onscreen— betrayal, shouting, slow-motion rain. The room is dim except for the blue glow of the TV and Mina’s obnoxiously pink fairy lights that Sero hung up.
Denki and Bakugou are still holding hands.
Still pretending they’re not.
Denki hasn’t stopped smiling at the screen like an idiot for the last ten minutes. Bakugou hasn’t moved an inch, except for the subtle way his thumb occasionally strokes over Denki’s knuckles like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
Mina notices.
Of course she does.
She’s wedged between Kirishima and Uraraka, halfway through a handful of popcorn when her eyes flick toward the couch. She freezes.
Her gaze drops. Locks on the pair across the room, illuminated by a dim orange glow.
Her entire body goes rigid.
Her eyes widen so dramatically that it’s a miracle they don’t make a sound. She slowly lifts a single finger and taps Kirishima’s arm.
He leans over. “What?”
She doesn’t look at him. She just tilts her chin toward the end of the couch.
Kirishima squints.
Then blinks. Then squints harder. His mouth opens. Mina slaps a hand over it before he can make a noise. Onscreen, thunder crashes.
Perfect cover.
Kirishima vibrates silently with the effort of not reacting. Mina, however, is not built for silence. She waits approximately six seconds before she can’t take it anymore.
In a stage whisper that is absolutely not subtle, she gushes. “Aww.”
Denki chokes.
Actually chokes.
Bakugou’s entire body snaps toward her like a triggered landmine. “The hell was that for, Pinky?” he hisses.
Mina grins, wicked and delighted and completely unafraid. “Oh, nothing,” she says sweetly. “Just appreciating the movie.” Her eyes flick very obviously down to their hands.
Denki follows her gaze on instinct. Realizes. His soul leaves his body. Bakugou does not let go.
That’s the important part.
He doesn’t drop Denki’s hand. If anything, his grip tightens. Kirishima, red-faced and trying not to explode with excitement, leans forward. “Wait— are you guys—?”
“Shut up,” Bakugou growls.
Uraraka gasps softly. “Oh, my god.”
Sero cranes his neck from the floor. “No way.”
Denki is visibly overheating. He stumbles for any reason to explain why he’s propped up with Bakugou’s hand like this. “It’s not— we’re not— I mean, we are— I mean—”
Mina clutches her chest like she’s witnessing the final scene of a romance movie.
“You’re holding hands,” she says, unnecessarily.
“We know what we’re doing,” Bakugou snaps.
Mina gasps louder. “So you admit it!” Bakugou’s eye twitches. Denki makes the mistake of looking at him. Their hands are still intertwined. Bakugou is flushed up to his ears. He looks furious.
He looks embarrassed.
He does not look like someone about to let go.
And that does something warm and dangerous to Denki’s chest.
Kirishima beams. “That’s so manly, bro.”
“Shut. Up.”
Mina leans over the back of the couch now, peering at them upside down. “Since when?? How long has this been happening?? Do I need to make a ship name??”
“You already have one,” Sero mutters.
“I have several,” Mina corrects proudly.
“You have a ship name? Mina!” Denki’s eyes were wide and petrified.
She nods with a proud grin on her face.
“Bakukami.” She announces, overjoyed to share her expertise with the whole class.
Uraraka makes a pointed gesture at Ashido and shifts her own attention to Denki and Katsuki. “I thought flashbang had a better ring to it.”
Denki groans into his free hand. “Can we not do this right now?”
“Oh, we are absolutely doing this right now,” Mina says. “You think I suffered through fifty-eight thousand words of emotional tension for nothing?”
Bakugou blinks. “What.”
“Nothing!” Mina coughs.
Onscreen, the protagonist kisses someone in the rain.
The entire room goes quiet for half a second. Mina slowly turns back to them. “.. Subtle foreshadowing,” she whispers.
Bakugou launches a pillow at her head.
She shrieks with laughter.
The spell breaks. Everyone starts talking over each other. The movie is completely forgotten for a solid minute. Through all of it, Bakugou doesn’t let go.
Denki slowly lowers his hand from his face. Looks down at where their fingers are still linked. Then looks at Bakugou.
Bakugou refuses to meet his eyes. But he shifts closer.
Just slightly.
Denki’s smile softens.
Mina watches this with sparkling, unrepentant joy. “Oh,” she says quietly this time, softer, fond. “Okay. It’s like that.”
Bakugou shoots her a warning glare. She just blows him a kiss and turns back to the screen. The movie resumes.
The teasing dies down.
And in the glow of the TV light, with the whole class pretending not to watch them, Denki squeezes Bakugou’s hand. Bakugou squeezes back.
No hesitation.
No hiding.
Just there.
The credits roll to dramatic orchestral music. Literally nobody is still watching.
Half the class is mid-conversation, arguing about whether the ending made sense. Sero is dramatically reenacting the final explosion. Kirishima is still defending ‘emotional payoff.’ Mina is pretending she’s not glancing at the couch every thirty seconds.
Denki and Bakugou are still holding hands.
They haven’t moved.
At some point during the chaos, their fingers shifted from tentative to sure. Palms fully pressed together now. Thumbs lazily brushing. Comfortable.
Like they forgot it was ever supposed to be secret. Then, the screen goes black. And the overhead lights flick on.
Bright. Unforgiving. Real.
Denki blinks against the sudden change. And for the first time, he sees it clearly. Their hands. Intertwined. Resting openly on the couch cushion between them. Not tucked away. Not hidden behind a leg or a pillow.
Just there. In plain sight.
The room quiets in stages as everyone adjusts to the light. Uraraka notices first. Her eyes drop.
Then widen.
She very deliberately does not say anything.
Mina notices the second. She makes a small, strangled noise that sounds like a tea kettle trying not to scream. Kirishima follows her line of sight.
He slaps both hands over his own mouth preemptively. Sero just mutters, “No way,” under his breath.
Denki goes rigid.
Oh.
Oh, they are still—
He instinctively starts to pull back. Bakugou’s grip tightens immediately. Not aggressive. Not panicked. Just firm. “Don’t let go.” He mutters barely audible enough for Denki to hear, but not loud enough for anyone else.
Denki looks at him. Really looks at him.
Bakugou’s jaw is tight. His ears are pink. There’s a faint crease between his brows like he’s bracing for impact.
But he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t even try.
He stares straight ahead at the blank TV screen like it personally challenged him. “Problem?” he says flatly to the room at large.
Silence.
Mina bursts into tears.
Not actual sobbing— dramatic, over-the-top sniffling as she throws herself backward onto the couch. “They’re not even hiding it,” she wails. “I raised them so well.”
“You did not raise anybody,” Bakugou snaps.
Denki’s laugh slips out before he can stop it. Soft. Breathless. Relieved. Then he slides an easy compliment. “You’re too funny, Mina.”
The two of them let go, and maybe, if there had been any sweat— Denki would’ve wiped off his hand. Smeared the dampness over his thigh.
But no. This was something he wanted to keep. Preserve the contact for as long as he could. Even if it means avoiding touching the couch to pull himself up or a door handle to enter his room.
He just grins at his hand, barely managing to shimmy himself to his feet.
He shoots a happy glance back at Bakugou and walks off to the elevators.
For half a second, Bakugou doesn’t move. Denki’s hand is gone. The space beside him is cold.
The room is still buzzing— Mina dramatically blowing her nose into a throw pillow, Kirishima clapping Bakugou on the back hard enough to jostle him forward, Sero making kissy noises— but it all feels distant.
Denki is walking toward the elevators. Grinning to himself. Like he just won something. Bakugou’s chest tightens.
He stands abruptly. “Oi.”
Denki pauses mid-step. The entire room goes silent again like someone hit mute. Denki turns. Bakugou is already halfway across the common room.
Not scowling. Not exploding. Just.. determined.
He stops a step too close.
Denki’s grin falters into something softer. “Yeah?”
Bakugou glances at the elevators. Then back at him. His jaw flexes. “You’re just leaving?”
Denki blinks. “I mean… yeah? It’s late.”
A beat.
Bakugou reaches out. Not for Denki’s hand this time. For his wrist. Gentle. Firm. Thumb warm against his pulse. “You forgot something.”
Denki’s breath catches. “I did?”
Bakugou doesn’t answer. He just slides his hand down. Finds Denki’s fingers again. Laces them together like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
There’s a collective, unholy noise from the couch area. Mina actually collapses sideways into Uraraka. Bakugou ignores them.
He looks at Denki.
Really looks at him this time, out in the open, fluorescent lights and all. “You don’t get to act all brave and then run off,” he mutters.
Denki’s face is glowing. “I wasn’t running.”
“Yeah, you were.”
A small smile tugs at Denki’s mouth. “Were you gonna let me?”
Bakugou tightens his grip. “No.”
The word is immediate. Certain. The elevators ding softly in the background. Neither of them moves. Across the room, Kirishima whispers, “This is better than the movie.”
Sero nods. “Way better.”
Mina sits up just enough to clutch her chest again. “They’re communicating.”
Bakugou shoots them a look that promises violence.
They are quiet immediately.
Denki shifts closer, their joined hands swinging slightly between them. “So what now?”
Bakugou huffs. Then, quieter, just for him. “Walk you to your room.”
Denki’s mouth absolutely betrays him. “It’s in the same hallway, Kat.”
“I know.”
It’s not about the hallway.
It’s about not letting go first.
Denki nods once. “Okay.”
And this time, when they start toward the elevators together, they don’t drop their hands. They don’t loosen their grip. They don’t pretend.
The doors slide open with a soft chime.
Bakugou steps in first, tugging Denki in after him without thinking. The doors close. The common room erupts. Mina’s shriek echoes down the hallway.
Inside the elevator, it’s quiet. Small. Close. Bakugou can still faintly make out each of their friends' voices.
Denki looks down at their hands again. Then up at Bakugou. “You said don’t let go,” he murmurs.
Bakugou doesn’t look away this time.
“Yeah.”
The elevator hums upward. Neither of them even considers separating. And when the doors open onto their floor.. They walk out still connected.
Not because they forgot. Not because they’re flustered. But because now?
They’re choosing it.
“Hey,” Denki says, chin digging into his hands, elbows held up by Katsuki’s firm mattress. His sheets are plain black, and Denki notices that his room is pretty much empty save for the All Might figurine sitting on his desk.
Katsuki keeps his eyes closed, lying on his back on the opposite end from where Denki is positioned. “Hm?”
“Why don’t you tell me something about your life?” Denki asks with a soft grin. “I feel like we always talk about me and whatever. I wanna hear about you.”
Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose like Denki’s just asked him to defuse a bomb.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Denki rolls his eyes, flopping onto his stomach so his chin presses harder into his palms. “That is objectively untrue. You’ve had a whole entire life before I showed up and started being annoying in your room.”
A pause.
Katsuki’s jaw shifts. His eyes stay closed.
“What do you want to know?” He shakes his head, teetering on his hands, neatly folded together, tucked underneath.
Denki grins.
“So, you’ll tell me?”
“Not if you keep talking.” He warns.
Denki quickly shuts up, playfully slapping a hand over his mouth to stop the giggles. He slumps over, his neck getting sore from the position.
He leans on his side and focuses on Katsuki again. “Alright, tell me about.. your head. What goes on in there?”
Katsuki shifts. “You don’t want to know what goes on in there.”
Denki hums. “Okay. Try me.”
He tosses Katsuki a nod of his head and a wave of his hand, before realizing that his eyes were still closed. Instead, he pulls up his shirt and traces little pictures on his stomach.
For a long moment, Katsuki doesn’t answer. The room is quiet except for the low buzz of the building’s electricity and the faint hum of the mini fridge down the hall. The All Might figurine on his desk catches the dim light from his lamp— bright grin, cape frozen mid-swish. A relic from a kid who used to believe in things louder.
“I think,” Katsuki starts slowly, like the words are being dragged out of him, “about what I need to fix.”
Denki blinks. That’s not at all what he expected.
“Fix?”
“Yeah.” Katsuki opens one eye, staring at the ceiling instead of at Denki. “What I did wrong in training. What I could’ve done faster. Smarter. Stronger. Who I need to beat next time. Where I’m falling behind.”
Denki frowns faintly. “Behind who?”
“Everyone.”
There’s no hesitation in it. No ego. Just as a fact. Denki’s chest tightens a little at that. He drops the sun he’d been phantom-tracing on Katsuki, his fingers pausing.
“I think about how to not be useless,” Katsuki adds flatly.
“You’re not—”
“I know,” Katsuki cuts in sharply, jaw flexing. “Logically. I know. Doesn’t mean my brain shuts up about it.”
Silence stretches again, softer this time.
Denki shifts closer without really thinking about it, the mattress dipping under his weight. He doesn’t touch him, other than the faint touch on his belly, just closes the distance enough that the space doesn’t feel so wide.
“What else?” Denki asks gently.
Katsuki’s throat bobs. “..I think about when I was a kid.”
That surprises Denki more than anything else tonight. “Yeah?”
Katsuki nods once, barely.
“I was loud,” he says. “All the time. Teachers loved me. Adults loved me. I was good at everything and everyone told me that.” A humourless huff. “I thought that meant I was already at the top.”
Denki watches him carefully. The way his hands are clasped tightly over his stomach. The way his shoulders are stiff even while lying down.
“And then?”
“And then I realized being ‘naturally good’ doesn’t mean shit if you don’t work harder than everyone else.” His mouth presses thin. “And I realized I wasn’t as ahead as I thought.”
There’s more there. Denki can feel it. Something heavier. Katsuki’s voice drops. Denki picks his fingers up, this time drawing hearts around his bellybutton.
“I think about the things I said to people when I was younger.” A beat. “Things I can’t take back.”
Denki’s stomach twists. He knows who that’s about. He doesn’t say the name.
“I think about whether I’m actually becoming someone better,” Katsuki finishes. “Or if I just tell myself I am.”
The room feels smaller now. Thicker.
Denki swallows.
“That’s.. a lot,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” Katsuki’s eyes finally slid open. They flick sideways, just enough to catch Denki’s expression. “Told you you didn’t wanna know.”
Denki shakes his head immediately. “No. I do.”
Katsuki studies him, like he’s trying to decide if that’s pity. Or curiosity. Or something worse. Denki’s voice softens.
“My head’s loud too, you know.”
Katsuki’s brow twitches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Just.. different kind of loud.”
A small pause.
Katsuki shifts his hand slightly. It’s not quite reaching. Not quite inviting. But it’s not closed off, either. “What goes on in yours?” he asks quietly.
And this time, he sounds like he actually wants to know.
“We’ve talked about it before,” Denki giggles, staring down the barrel of Katsuki’s half-lidded eyes. He’s propped up on his elbow, fingers still playing with the skin of his stomach.
He chews the same spot of his cheek. “As I said, we always talk about me. Never you.”
Katsuki watches Denki’s fingers. “I’m fine with that.”
“I’m not. I want to know about you.”
Katsuki slumps down again, grumbling. He lets his eyes fall shut. “It’s complicated.” He offers, as if that would ever get Denki to shut up. If anything, it interests him more.
“What, like your childhood?” Denki pulls his hands away from his chest, pushing himself up to get a good look at Katsuki’s face. “You know I wouldn’t judge you or anything.”
Katsuki huffs.
The silence that follows is softer than before.
Not uncomfortable.
Just thoughtful.
Denki watches the slow rise and fall of Bakugou’s chest, the way his fingers twitch slightly where they’re folded against his stomach like he’s trying to hold something in.
“I didn’t mean that anything happened.” Denki offers lightly. “I just mean, the stuff that makes you, you.”
Katsuki doesn’t open his eyes. He just lies on his back. “That’s the same thing.”
Denki smiles faintly. Not really happy. “Maybe.”
Katsuki exhales, longer this time. The same pause that he takes when he’s thinking long and hard about something. Being careful with his answer.
“My mom means well.” He starts.
“I didn’t say she doesn’t.” Denki breathes, he scoots closer. He wants to scream at Katsuki to tell him more. “I mean, I haven’t met her.”
There’s a pause. Bakugou squints his red eyes at Denki.
“Sorry— continue!”
“Like the flowers. You said you expected her to like Spider Lillies or Venus Fly Traps, but no, she likes hydrangeas.” He states, breathing almost like a suppressed laugh. “She likes things that are nothing like her.”
Katsuki doesn’t have to spell it out for him, he isn’t completely stupid. “Because you're like her?”
“Yeah.”
Denki nods. He drops to the mattress and rolls over to lie against Katsuki’s side. He breathes in his scent. Faintly sweet and fresh.
“She doesn’t.. does she do— to you?”
Denki barely even mumbles, chewing on his lower lip as he speaks. He presses one cheek against Bakugou’s shoulder.
Katsuki doesn’t answer immediately.
The silence stretches just long enough that Denki starts worrying he shouldn’t have asked. His thumb brushes once against the fabric of Katsuki’s shirt, absent and nervous.
Then, very quietly. “No,” Katsuki says.
The word is low. Careful. Final, but not sharp. Denki exhales, slow and shaky, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.
“Okay,” he says.
But Katsuki doesn’t stop there.
“She gets angry,” he adds after a moment. “Really angry sometimes. When I was little, I didn’t always understand why.”
Denki’s fingers curl slightly into the fabric near Katsuki’s ribs. “Did she hurt you?” Denki asks, voice very small.
Another pause.
Katsuki’s jaw tightens once, muscles shifting under Denki’s cheek like he’s thinking about how to answer without lying but also without saying more than he wants.
“No,” Katsuki says again. Softer this time. “Not like that.”
Denki nods even though Katsuki can’t see it. “Just loud?” Denki guesses.
“Yeah.”
The word carries something complicated inside it.
“Like,” Katsuki continues slowly, “if I did something wrong, she made sure I knew it. Not always by saying it directly. Sometimes just… being disappointed. Or yelling. Or slamming things.”
Denki’s stomach twists.
He thinks about a child trying to be good enough to keep the noise away. “Did you feel like you had to be perfect?” Denki asks.
Silence.
Then, almost reluctantly, “Yeah.”
The admission is quiet enough that Denki might have missed it if he weren’t pressed against him.
“I thought,” Katsuki says, voice rougher now, like something inside him is being dragged open, “if I was strong enough, smart enough, if I won enough, she wouldn’t be mad.”
Denki closes his eyes. “And when you weren’t?”
“Then I tried harder.”
Denki’s hand moves before he really decides to do it. He rests it flat against Katsuki’s chest, right where he can feel the slow, steady heartbeat.
Not grabbing.
Just grounding.
“I’m always proud of you,” Denki whispers. He hopes his words are enough to put a patch on Katsuki’s heart and stop the bleeding.
Katsuki smiles fondly. Small. “Thanks, Sparky.”
He rubs his shoulder gently, holding his other arm upward from his forehead as he squints at the ceiling. Denki nuzzles into it.
Katsuki’s hand settles eventually on Denki’s arm, not pulling him closer, just resting there like he’s making sure Denki is still there.
Denki listens to the rhythm under his palm— steady, stubborn, alive. “I don’t want you thinking,” Denki says quietly, “that you only matter if you’re improving.”
Katsuki doesn’t respond right away.
The ceiling light hums faintly overhead.
“…I know that too,” Katsuki says. But it doesn’t sound like an argument. Or defensiveness. It sounds tired.
Denki sighs softly against his shoulder. “You don’t have to earn people being okay with you.”
Katsuki’s fingers flex once against Denki’s arm. “That’s what people say,” Katsuki mutters.
Denki snorts, very gently. “Yeah, because it’s true.”
Silence again. Not empty. More like something fragile sitting between them. Denki traces small, lazy shapes on Katsuki’s chest through the fabric— not hearts this time, just aimless comfort. Circles.
“Do you ever..,” Denki starts, then stops.
“Hm?”
“Do you ever feel like you’re still that kid trying to be loud and good so people don’t get angry?” The question hangs there.
Katsuki’s breathing slows. “..Sometimes,” he admits.
Denki nods even though Katsuki can’t see it. Because he feels that way too. All the time.
“I think,” Katsuki says after a long while, voice low like he’s talking to the ceiling instead of Denki, “that I get scared I’ll end up just being someone who is angry and trying to be stronger than everyone else forever.”
Denki’s chest aches. “You’re more than that,” Denki says immediately.
Katsuki huffs faintly. Not dismissive. Just skeptical.
“You are,” Denki insists. “You’re.. really stubborn and kind of terrifying and also very secretly soft and you overthink training strategies at three in the morning.”
Katsuki makes a noise that might almost be a laugh.
Denki presses his cheek harder into his shoulder, suddenly shy.
“And you try,” Denki adds. “Even when your brain is yelling at you.”
That makes Katsuki go quiet.
Long enough that Denki wonders if he said too much.
Then Katsuki shifts slightly, turning his head just enough that his hair brushes Denki’s temple. “…You make it easier to be quiet in my head sometimes,” Katsuki says.
The admission is so soft that Denki almost doesn’t hear it.
His throat tightens.
“That’s.. really nice,” Denki whispers.
“Don’t get weird about it.”
Denki smiles anyway.
Denki is quiet for a while, tracing absent shapes on Katsuki’s chest.
Then, very carefully, “Hey,” Denki says.
“Hm?”
“If I ever meet your mom.. what should I expect?”
Katsuki doesn’t answer immediately. Not because he’s hiding anything. More like he’s organizing the truth into words.
“She’ll talk a lot,” Katsuki says finally. “Probably ask you if you’re eating enough. Or if you’re strong in a fight. She might yell if she thinks you’re not taking care of yourself.”
Denki blinks. “That sounds kind of intense.”
“It is.”
“Does she mind you bringing people home?”
Silence.
Then, after a moment, Katsuki says, “I’ve never brought anyone home. So, she’d probably be glad to finally meet someone. The damn hag will watch you the whole time.”
Denki huffs a soft laugh. “Is that good or bad?”
“For you?” Katsuki says. “Ehh, probably good. She likes polite people. That don’t act scared of her.”
Denki grins. He has to push his words out through a laugh. “You know that I don’t scare easily.”
“Yeah,” He mutters. “I know.”