Archive of Our Own

“Where the hell is your boutonnière?”

The demand was restrained, tension coiled in his jaw as his eyes flicked over the scattered groomsmen. He counted - one, two, three... then paused at a fourth by the window, arms folded too easily, conspicuously missing a boutonnière. No sign of the elusive fifth man.

Denki blinked at him, wide-eyed and oblivious. "My what now?"

Bakugo pinched the bridge of his nose. "The flower, Kaminari. The little flower thing you were supposed to pin to your jacket. The one I specifically handed to you less than ten minutes ago and told you not to lose because you’ll look a mess without it."

Denki looked down at his lapels, as if expecting the boutonnière to materialise out of sheer willpower. "Ohhh. That was for me? I thought it was, like, part of the table decorations or something. Looked like the flowers on the tables."

Katsuki takes a deep breath, contemplating every decision that led him to this very moment, “The boutonnières are roses. The centrepieces are orchids,” he somehow manages to grit through his teeth.

“Huh,” the established idiot in the room shrugs mid yawn, “good choice. Orchids are cute.”

Sero snorted from his spot on the couch, already halfway into his suit but with his tie looped around his head like a sweatband. "You can’t take Denki anywhere, man."

The best man shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Don’t encourage him, Sero. I hope none of you ever get married."

Somewhere behind him, the groom let out a nervous laugh that sounded suspiciously like he was about to faint. Katsuki ignored it, though mentally making a note to remind Izuku to breathe in for four seconds and out for six within the next half an hour. For now, he had a mission: get everyone dressed, get everyone lined up, and get through this wedding without any fatalities - emotional or otherwise.

He turned back to Kaminari, hoping he looked intimidating enough to get the point across. "Find the flower. Pin it. If you can’t find it, I’m personally asking your parents where the fuck it went wrong with you."

Denki saluted, entirely too cheerful. "Aye, aye, Captain!" He happily skips out of the room as if the blond isn’t milliseconds from a breakdown.

The murmured chaos in the room barely had time to settle before the door creaked open and Shinso wandered in, hands in his pockets, posture as relaxed as if he’d just come back from a walk in the park.

Katsuki let himself hope - just for a second - that at least one of the groomsmen would have their act together. “Shinso,” he said, “please tell me you’re—”

He stopped, squinting. There was something off. Shinso’s shirt looked... patterned. Except it wasn’t patterned. It was white. And now it was white with what looked suspiciously like a splatter of red just below the collar. So, either he has been drinking before the ceremony, or the stars have aligned to give Katsuki Bakugo another disaster to deal with. Drunk Hitoshi, he can handle; bleeding is another question.

His red eye twitched. “What the fuck happened to your shirt?”

Shinso glanced down, as if noticing the blood for the first time. He poked at it, then shrugged. “Eri was very specific about her hair, got too enthusiastic. She packs a mean left hook for a kid.”

“She’s a teenager,” Eijiro smiles through the mirror while fixing his hair for what was probably the tenth time in the hour. And it was quarter past. “Still a kid,” Hitoshi shrugs, wiping the blood on the back of his hand.

Sero laughed. “Dude, did a teenager give you a nosebleed?”

He shrugged again, remarkably unfazed. “Not like she did it on purpose. She was nervous. I told her I would help. Apparently, I just made it worse, so Mirio took over after my nose caught the back of the hairbrush.”

Iida, fumbling with his tie with precision that Katsuki couldn’t be more thankful for right now, piped up, “Well, it could’ve been worse; you still appear composed.”

Katsuki groaned, scanning the room for anything that resembled a stain remover or, even better, maybe a time machine so he could go back and postpone the proposal entirely to give the idiots around him some time to mature before being a part of a legally binding ceremony. “Does anyone here know how to use a washing machine? Or maybe some first fucking aid would be helpful?”

Shinso offered a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry. I already stopped the bleeding. But if you want me to bleed on Izuku’s jacket too, I can make that happen.”

“You’re not bleeding on anything else. Especially not the groom.” Katsuki scoffs, jabbing a finger at his chest.

From somewhere outside, someone screamed, “Where’s the ring?” and Katsuki quite literally felt himself age two decades within seconds. He needs a fucking salary.

“Are you sure you have everything?”

Momo’s voice carried from the hallway, sounding both soft and mildly exasperated at the same time.

Shoto checked his reflection one last time, smoothing a hand over his suit jacket. “I think so,” he said, frowning momentarily as he went to fix his hair. “Do we have to get there so early?”

Already flawless in her own dress, Momo appeared in the doorway. “Yes, we absolutely do. Ochaco is already freaking out.” A playful grin painted her face. “Why? Are you nervous?”

“A little,” he admitted with a shrug, eyes flicking back to the mirror. “I hardly know anyone.”

She smiled with a lighthearted eyeroll. “You’re being dramatic. You know Midoriya and Ochaco.”

“They’re the ones getting married.”

“Sero isn’t, neither is Iida. You know more people than you think. Just wait until we get there.”

“...Fair point,” Shoto tried to brush it off, but his pulse quickened anyway.

Momo lightly squeezed his shoulder. “Stop overthinking. They’ll love you, just start talking about your travels. Plus, you look great, and you’re not even the one getting married.”

“Thanks,” Shoto muttered, earning a soft laugh from her.

He glanced down, fidgeting restlessly with the edge of the gift bag, fingers drumming against the ribbon, the card jostling between anxious hands. He’d gone back and forth three times over gifts; too impersonal, too intimate, not festive enough. He finally chose something practical, but now his throat tightened with doubt - again.

He wasn’t sure why he was so on edge. Weddings were supposed to be joyful, right? But he always felt strangely exposed at these things, like everyone else had gotten a manual on how to act - the right way to laugh, the right time to clap, the right answer when someone asked what he did for a living. It reminded him of family gatherings when he was younger, where everyone seemed to know their role except him, and he’d end up sitting at the edge of the room, wondering whether he was doing something wrong just by being quiet. He’d spent years learning how to handle interviews and ceremonies, to be perfectly composed in front of flashing cameras and formal expectations, but weddings were a different kind of performance. Here, it felt personal. Here, he had to be himself, and it was hard to remember who that actually was, around people so effortlessly at ease.

His nerves prickled just thinking about Bakugo, the best man he’d glimpsed just once or twice - always surrounded by friends and command. Shoto barely knew him, yet his composure felt thinner, recalling Bakugo’s confidence. Part of him wished he could just walk up, maybe even make him laugh. Even the idea made his hands go clammy. Why did this stranger affect him more than a press conference? Still, the thought of being seen was both terrifying and tempting.

The sunlight spilt in through the window, catching in the dust motes. Shoto let himself get lost in the shifting patterns, just for a second, until Momo’s voice brought him back.

“Ready?”

He nodded, even though he wasn’t sure he was. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

They made their way to the door, Momo triple-checking the address and the gift. Shoto lingered, glancing out the window at the sunny afternoon. The city felt unusually bright, humming with the promise of celebration.

He shrugged on his jacket and followed Momo into the hall, letting the front door close behind him. The day, for better or worse, was already in motion.

The ride to the venue was a blur of city traffic and Momo’s gentle attempts at conversation. Shoto watched the world slide past his window, trying not to fidget with the cuff of his shirt or check his phone for the hundredth time. He’d mapped the route twice the night before, but the city always felt a little unfamiliar from the backseat of a taxi.

When they finally arrived, he stepped out onto the curb and took in the building: ribbons on the railings, flowers everywhere, a small crowd milling around in bursts of colour and laughter. Someone was chasing a runaway flower girl who was messing with her hair; someone else was trying to herd relatives in the right direction.

Shoto trailed after Momo, clutching the gift. He nodded politely at a passing guest - a man with bright blue glasses who seemed to be reciting a checklist under his breath. He does a double-take. Iida, if he remembered correctly. It was oddly reassuring to see a familiar face, even if only in passing.

“Todoroki? Pleasure to see you again,” the man proudly beamed, “How have you been these last few years? Yaoyorozu tells me you’ve been travelling?”

A breath of relief escapes the two-toned man. Finally, common ground, something that doesn’t make him want to bury himself under concrete, “Yeah, I have. Work and...everything else. How has it been back here?”

“Chaotic, is one word for it. But that's a story for later. We’re glad to have you ba—”

“HOW DO YOU LOSE THE CAKE?!”

As the thundered voice echoed from upstairs, Iida simply rubbed his temples, muttering something about how he’ll be right back. Shoto simply watched him step into the back before turning back to his friend.

“I didn’t think Izuku could be a bridezilla...” Shoto raises an eyebrow, genuinely curious now.

Momo holds back a laugh, the slight strain in her voice making her attempt weak, “I don't think that was Midoriya.”

“I’ll ask again: How the fuck do you lose a cake?”

Bakugo barked, voice ricocheting off marble floors and floral centrepieces. He glared down at the trembling catering assistant as if sheer force of will could conjure up three tiers of buttercream and fondant from thin air. His phone buzzed in his pocket - again - and somewhere in the background, he heard Denki asking if anyone had seen his shoes.

If there was a god, Katsuki was certain he’d been personally abandoned. Scratch that. He was abandoned and was now in the seventh circle of hell. He would rather have simply been abandoned by god at this point.

“I called the baker. I think there's an issue with traffic or, um—signal. So we can't exactly find him.”

“I don’t CARE about him, I care about the cake.”

Katsuki mumbles as he paces up and down the kitchen. Out of all the things that could happen, now his baker has gone ghost. Why not just burn the entire building down while we're at it? He shoves that thought aside with rapid speed, part of him convinced that if he ‘joked’ about it, it would happen. Especially with his luck today.

“Right. Okay. Just...keep calling. Don’t stop until the guy picks up and tell him if he ditches this, I'm keying his truck.”

Katsuki’s phone buzzed again. He yanked it out, thumb hovering over the screen - only to see three missed calls from Izuku. He jabbed out a quick text:
Cake’s being tracked down. No, you can’t help. Yes, I’ve got it.

He tossed the phone back in his pocket and turned on his heel, only to nearly collide with Sero, who was inexplicably carrying a stack of folded napkins and a box of mismatched cutlery. “If you tell me the napkins are missing now, I swear—”

“Nah, man, just, uh, the caterers brought the wrong colour and the bride’s mom is threatening to ‘make a scene.’” Sero’s air quotes were almost as dramatic as his expression. “Should I tell her you’re handling it?”

“I’m ‘handling’ everything,” Katsuki gave him a look that could curdle milk. “Tell her the colour is ‘wedding chic’ and that it’s very popular on Pinterest since it looks great in photos. Also, keep her the hell out of the kitchen.”

Sero gave an exaggerated salute and disappeared, nearly tripping over Kaminari, who’d reappeared with only one shoe and a triumphant grin. “Found it! Was in the freezer! Dunno how.”

Katsuki didn’t want to know. He didn’t have the energy to know. He never wanted to know stress like this ever again.

He checked his watch - twenty minutes until the ceremony. The urge to scream into a pillow was strong, but he could already picture Iida bursting in with a stopwatch and a lecture on timeliness.

He turned, catching sight of the guests funnelling into the main hall. The two-toned guy was still there, talking to Yaoyorozu, looking like he’d rather sink into the floor than make conversation. Bakugo squinted, trying to place him - he had no clue what his name was, probably Deku’s friend, though Deku never mentioned the random attractive guy he seemed surprisingly close with. Not bad-looking, Bakugo found himself noting before he could help it, and there was something oddly familiar about the way he held himself, stiff and just a bit wary. 

For a moment, Bakugo wondered if the guy knew anyone else here, and the thought of actually stepping over and introducing himself sparked an unexpected flicker of curiosity in his chest. Maybe he should check whether the guy knew where to sit, or even if he was supposed to be here. But a sharp “Bakugo!” from the kitchen snapped his attention away, and the opportunity slipped by.

Before he could be drawn further into the crowd, a staff member flagged him down. “Excuse me, Mr Bakugo? The florist is asking about the archway; do you want the hydrangeas on the left or the right?”

Bakugo blinked. “The left. No - wait. The side that’ll be in the pictures. I don’t care, just make it look good.” He was already moving again, barking orders to Sero about the napkins, to Kaminari about his shoes, and to Shinso, who had somehow already acquired a pack of ice for his nose, about corralling the ring bearer and making sure Eri didn’t start swinging hairbrushes again.

For one blessed minute, things almost seemed under control.

Then: “Bakugo, the cake!” yelled a harried voice from the back hallway, holding up a phone. “The baker’s here, but he’s at the wrong entrance. He says he’s by the side gate?”

“There is no fucking—” Again, he didn’t care. If the baker is at the side gate that doesn’t even exist, then he's at the side gate. As long as the cake gets through these doors, it’s fine. He can’t bring himself to care for further details.

Bakugo’s relief was so intense that it almost knocked him off balance. “Go, someone. Shinso, get the cake. If it’s not in the reception room in five minutes, I’m— I don't know, but I'm doing something.”

“Someone call the Avengers.” Shinso sarcastically mumbles, hiding a grin as he steps out to find this alleged ‘side gate’.

He turned, catching sight of the guests funnelling into the main hall. The two-toned guy was still there, talking to Yaoyorozu, looking like he’d rather sink into the floor than make conversation. He has no clue what his name is, probably Deku’s friend. Deku never mentioned the random attractive guy he was apparently close with. For a second, Bakugo thought about introducing himself, maybe making sure the guy knew where to sit, but a sharp “Bakugo!” from the kitchen snapped his attention away.

He strode off, mind already moving to the next crisis - table settings, the missing playlist, the possibility that Denki might have replaced the seating cards with Pokemon stickers. No time for distractions. Not today.

“How’s mr husband-to-be?” Kirishima beams, leaning against the kitchen doorframe as Katsuki scurried past, sorting through the shades of napkins.

“Hyperventilating, probably. Didn’t realise he had so many fucking friends.”

“He’s friends with everyone, that's why the venue is so big.”

“Yeah, well, go figure. Weirdo could talk to the elderly about Kendrick Lamar.”

He let out a breath through gritted teeth, mentally running through the rest of the checklist. Cake (in progress), flowers (left or right, whatever), napkins (chic, apparently), playlist (missing, probably Denki’s fault), and - most importantly - making sure Izuku didn’t decide to elope with the cake baker out of stress.

His watch beeped. Fifteen minutes to go. He pinched the bridge of his nose, steadying himself as the noise from the lobby rose: a burst of laughter, the squeal of a child, the scrape of chairs. Bakugo squared his shoulders, rolling them back, forcing himself into motion. “Not my problem,” he muttered. “If any of these idiots ask me about the playlist again, I’m setting the speakers on fire.”

For a man who’d faced down villains, the most awkward of family dinners, and the occasional existential crisis, Shoto hadn’t expected a wedding lobby to be so… daunting.

He was still gripping the gift bag a little too tightly, nodding along as Momo made polite conversation with an old friend, then the air in the room seemed to shift. The doors to the kitchen swung open, and in strode a man who looked as though he’d been conjured directly from the phrase “force of nature.” Blond hair, sharp suit, stormcloud scowl; Shoto might as well have been struck by lightning.

Time did something strange. The laughter and bustle faded away, replaced by the thudding of his own heart. He watched as the man, whose name he didn’t even know, scanned the lobby with eyes that missed nothing, dismissed everyone, and landed on Shoto for exactly one second before moving on.

It was only a glance, but Todoroki felt it like a punch. His mind spun out a dozen half-baked scenarios: introductions, witty banter, a first dance that wasn’t entirely hypothetical. He was, he realised with a strange sort of awe, completely and utterly doomed.

Momo nudged him. “Todoroki? I was just telling Hagakure about...”

Shoto swallowed, gaze still fixed on the spot where the suited, stressed individual had vanished. Momo’s words went in one ear and out the other. He was more interested in how he could create an opening for himself once the angelic choir in his mind had quietened down. He was contemplating asking Izuku his name. No - he was probably breathing in and out through a brown bag as it was. He’d figure it out soon.

“Who’s the blond guy?” He blurts out before his mind can catch up, and the two women next to him look thoughtful for a few passing seconds.

“There are a few blonds,” Hagakure giggles, glancing around the room, “There's Aoyama...Kaminari...Bakugo...Mirio...Monoma—”

“Monoma is coming?” Momo raises an eyebrow.

“I was surprised too!” the partially translucent girl leans in slightly, “Apparently, he cried. Eri told me.”

“Him? You mean Monoma? Are you sure Eri isn't being dramatic?”

“Honest! That’s what she told me. She SWEARS she saw his lip quiver!”

Shoto tried, valiantly, to pull himself together. Surely he could handle a wedding crush. But the image of the blond man - hopefully, one of Hagakure’s listed names, if her rapid-fire list could be trusted - lingered like a sunspot in his vision.

He cleared his throat, attempting nonchalance. He knows it's not Aoyama. Yaoyorozu has spoken enough about him. He didn't fit. so maybe... “Kaminari?” he echoed, testing the name out in his mind.

“Kaminari is one of the groomsmen. I think you might've run into each other before,” Momo supplied. “He’s lost about fourteen accessories since preparation started, according to Kyoka.”

Shoto nods. The man he saw looked put together. Too put together to be missing half his outfit. Not Kaminari, then. What was the next name? Oh, right—

“Kacchan?!”

The blond man comes rushing out of the kitchen again before sprinting upstairs, following the screech of Midoriya’s voice. This time, he makes an attempt to memorise what he looks like. He fails, but it was worth the longer glance.

He realised belatedly that Momo and Hagakure were both watching him expectantly, as if he’d said something out loud. “Sorry,” he murmured, “just… wondering if the cake survived.”

Hagakure snorted. “Apparently, it’s a disaster back there. Midoriya’s on the verge of tears, and Kaminari just tried to use a hair dryer on his socks. Bakugo is barely holding it together”

Bakugo? Bakugo. Got it.

Shoto was only half-listening, eyes darting toward the stairs, hoping for another glimpse. He imagined sidling up to Bakugo, offering a witty line about wedding chaos, maybe helping save the day. In reality, he’d probably just stand there and stare until Momo dragged him away to mingle with the aunts that were, in fact, not aunts at all.

He fidgeted with the handle of the gift bag, trying to look casual. “So… is he always like that?” He nodded in the direction Bakugo had gone.

Momo grinned. “He takes things seriously, but he’s good at it. Izuku says they’ve been friends since childhood. If anyone can keep this wedding from falling apart, it’s him.”

Shoto let that sink in. Reliable. Intense. Loud. He wondered what it would be like to speak to someone like that. He wondered, somewhat desperately, how he could arrange to talk to him before dinner - before dessert, at the very least. The best-case scenario would be to at least introduce himself before the ceremony, but he knows himself better than that. That's not happening.

A sudden flurry at the bottom of the staircase caught his eye; Bakugo again, moving at the speed of a thunderstorm, barking orders to a small army of servers. He didn’t look Shoto’s way. Why would he? Shoto barely managed not to trip over his own feet as he stepped aside, heart hammering.

Beside him, Momo whispered, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Shoto said, voice a little too high. “Just… taking it all in.”

Momo’s smile was knowing. “If you want an introduction, I can arrange it. You’re not the only one asking, you know. Sero’s cousin has already called dibs.”

Shoto’s stomach dropped. Competition. Why had he never considered that? He squared his shoulders, trying to muster some of the confidence he usually reserved for press conferences. He could do this. He just had to... what? Compliment his tie? Ask about the seating chart? Rescue a cake? His mind started conjuring up all the things that could go wrong.
Maybe he'd get Bakugo’s name wrong in front of everyone and become 'the guy who called the best man Yuki' for years. Or maybe he'd end up tripping and splashing punch down the front of his own suit, right as the bouquet was thrown. He could already picture it: Momo with her head in her hands, Sero narrating the disaster, Bakugo staring on in utter bewilderment.

He tried to give himself a pep talk. Come on, you’ve survived top ten lists and overseas emergencies, you can survive one introduction. But the more he tried, the more ridiculous the words in his head sounded. Just be normal. Or be just strange enough to be memorable. Unless you say something so strange, he thinks you’re trying to start a fight. Was he supposed to make a joke? Would Bakugo even laugh?
Shoto searched his brain frantically for a single example of Bakugo laughing at anything besides another person’s misery. No luck. Maybe he could pretend to be searching for the restroom and 'accidentally' bump into him. Or spill something nearby and help clean it up - though statistically, that was more likely to get him tackled by Iida.

He realised with a jolt that he was now overthinking overthinking itself. This had to stop. He closed his eyes. Just breathe.

He’d figure it out. He had to.

For now, he watched as Bakugo disappeared again into the crowd and tried not to look too much like a lovesick extra in a romantic comedy, “It’s fine.”

“NOTHING is fine!”

“Deku, you’re overreacti—”

“No, I’m NOT. My palms won’t stop sweating, I’m embarrassingly red, and my mom wants to speak before. I can’t talk to my mom like this!”

Katsuki watched Izuku pace up and down the room, his steps uneven and desperate, similar to what he himself had been doing only minutes before. Did he look this insane? Surely not. Probably. He stifled a sigh, resisting the urge to physically plant Izuku in a chair.

“If you think about it, it’s a good sign. You probably should be a little nervous.”

“Well, I don't want to be nervous.”

“Tough shit, either run for the hills or marry the girl you fucking proposed to.”

Izuku paused, perched on the edge of the couch with his fingers prodding the side of his head as he tried to regulate his breathing. “I can do this. It’s fine.”

Katsuki pressed his thumb and forefinger to his brow, resisting the urge to grab Izuku by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. “Listen. You’re a goddamn hero. You’ve faced way worse than your own wedding.”

Izuku’s eyes went wide. “Exactly! I’m not supposed to be scared of this. But what if I mess up the vows, or trip over my words, or—”

“—or burst into tears like a baby?” Katsuki finished for him, deadpan.

Izuku sputtered, “I’m not going to—well, maybe, but—”

Another noise from the hallway: the muffled sound of Denki’s voice, something about losing his boutonnière again, followed by a crash and a panicked “It’s okay, it’s just confetti!” Sero’s laughter filtered through, then a warning from Iida, “No running! You’ll wrinkle your jackets!”

You couldn’t pay him to help organise this again.

A knock on the door interrupted, followed by Iida’s voice - clipped, determined, and a little too loud for Katsuki’s liking. But he can't really be talking about that, “Five minutes! Are you both presentable? The seating is nearly complete, and Sero has, ah, resolved the napkin situation.”

“Tell him to buzz off,” Katsuki muttered, but Izuku just nodded, face going pale as he stared at his hands.

Bakugo glanced at his friend, then at the mirror across the room. His own tie was crooked; when had that happened? He fixed it, running a hand over his suit jacket to smooth out a wrinkle. A bead of sweat threatened to form at his temple, and he scowled at his reflection, daring himself to let anyone see even a hint of nerves.

“Breathe, Deku. Four in, six out, remember?”

Izuku did, shakily. “Thanks, Kacchan.” He managed to get through a cycle or two of breathing before his hands started fidgeting again, tugging at the lapels of his jacket.

Katsuki grunted. “You’re gonna be fine. You’re marrying someone who actually likes you, so don’t fuck it up.”

“Well, I’d hope she does,” Izuku managed a watery laugh, then looked up with wide, grateful eyes. “You’re a good friend, you know.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “Yeah, I know. Save the dramatics for the vows.”

Silence fell for a beat, broken only by the distant sound of a string quartet trying to tune up in the next room and someone in the hallway loudly asking if it was “too late to back out now.” Katsuki’s lips twitched. He’d bet money that was Kaminari. It’s always fucking Kaminari.

He glanced down at the checklist on his phone - cake, found; rings, accounted for; groomsmen, mostly dressed and only minorly injured; bride, not his responsibility but, by all accounts, beautiful and only mildly homicidal.

From the hallway, the faint sound of a chair scraping and a burst of unfamiliar laughter filtered through. Katsuki’s mind flicked, for just a second, to the crowd gathering outside - strangers, friends, and that one mystery guest with a sharp suit and freakish eyes that had caught his for only a moment. He remembered the way the guy had looked at him, like he was witnessing something dramatic, or maybe just staring at a train wreck. Not that Katsuki had the time to care.

Another knock, this time softer. Momo’s voice. “Izuku? Your mom’s asking for you. And, Bakugo, Sero says the flower girl is calling the shoes ugly.”

Katsuki groaned. “Great. Just what I needed. I’ll handle Eri, you handle your mom. And don’t throw up before the ceremony, or I’m making you mop it up yourself.”

Izuku nodded, a shaky smile breaking through. “Deal.”

Katsuki stood, rolling his shoulders, running through the mental checklist one more time. He glanced at his best friend, who was finally starting to look like he might make it to the altar without spontaneous combustion. Maybe.

“Alright, nerd. Let’s get you married,” he said, shoving open the door and squinting into the hallway’s chaos.

He didn’t have time to wonder about the mystery guest or worry about the next disaster. There were too many things left to do, and he’d be damned if this wedding went off the rails on his watch.

Shoto’s attempt at conversation #1

Shoto had never understood why people cried at weddings, until now.

The music began - a gentle swell of strings that seemed to hush the entire room. Guests leaned in, phones and cameras poised, as Ochaco appeared at the end of the aisle, her arm tucked through her father’s. Even Shoto had to admit she looked radiant, beaming so brightly he wondered if Izuku would faint on the spot.

Next to him, Momo squeezed his arm, whispering, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
Shoto nodded, though his gaze drifted forward, past Ochaco, to the front of the room just for a few seconds.

The groomsmen stood in a (semi?) formal line; Kaminari shifting from foot to foot, Sero glancing around as if he'd never seen the setting before, Iida standing with military posture, Shinso looking faintly bored. And Bakugo... Bakugo looked like he was single-handedly holding up the entire building with his tension alone. His jaw was set, his shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the couple with laser intensity. Almost daring Midoriya to pass out or something else entirely ridiculous. Something he would yet again have to handle. The sunlight caught the edge of his hair, turning it gold.

Shoto tried to focus on the ceremony. He really did. But every time his eyes wandered, they found Bakugo - straightening a lapel that didn’t need it, glancing at the rings with the air of someone prepared to intercept a meteor if it came down to it.

The officiant spoke, voice warm and practised. There was laughter as Izuku fumbled with his lines, a collective ‘aww’ as Ochaco dabbed at her eyes. Shoto caught himself smiling faintly, then saw Bakugo’s lips twitch at the same moment, like they were sharing a secret joke from across the room.

Momo nudged him again. “You know, I think Sero’s about to pass out. He’s sweating through his shirt.”

Shoto blinked. “Is that what that is?”
He tried to look away from Bakugo, focusing instead on the flower girl - Eri - who was making faces at the ring bearer every time she thought the adults weren’t looking. The guests behind them muffled giggles, and Nejire shook her head at Eri. As expected, she never listened.

The vows were next. Ochaco’s voice was steady, sweet, eyes shining as she told Izuku how he made her brave, how she’d choose him every day. Izuku’s vow was a barely-controlled ramble, earnest and tearful, about how Ochaco was his person. Momo sniffled quietly beside him.

Shoto absorbed their words, but in the back of his mind, he wondered what it would sound like to hear Bakugo speak so softly, to see that fierce expression gentled by love. For a split second, his imagination took off before he could restrain it. He let himself picture Bakugo in a quiet kitchen, sleeves pushed up, murmuring something tender as he handed over a mug of coffee. Or maybe that rare, private smile Bakugo gave to friends would be turned toward him someday, a look that said he belonged in that hard-won circle of care.

Ridiculous, he thought, a little embarrassed by himself. He had met this man not even an hour ago. They haven't had one conversation. Still, the thought lingered, warm and reckless, daring him to believe in the possibility of some future where it was Bakugo's hand in his; steady and sure as the vows being shared today. But it doesn't hurt to be a little optimistic, does it? Though there's a fine line between optimism and delusion.

“And now, the rings,” the officiant prompted.

Bakugo stepped forward, producing the rings with a flourish that was all business. For a split second, his gaze swept the crowd - Shoto’s heart stuttered like he’d been caught. But Bakugo was already focused on the task, hands steady and sure, passing the rings to the bride and groom with a nod.

The rest blurred: the kiss, the cheers, petals tossed into the air. Shoto clapped politely, still half in his daydream. Momo beamed at him, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

“You didn’t see a thing, did you?” she teased, voice low.

Shoto shrugged, allowing himself a small smile, although slightly defensive. “I did. I paid attention.”

She bumped his shoulder. “To the best man, maybe.”

Shoto’s gaze drifted forward one last time, catching Bakugo’s profile in the crowd; a storm in a suit, looking for the next crisis. For just a moment, Shoto let himself imagine being the next thing Bakugo noticed. “I didn’t. The dress was nice. I liked the floral sleeves,” He mumbles, still side eyeing the best man.

“The dress was sleeveless, Todoroki.”

“Oh.”

Shoto let the applause fade around him, the echoes of the ceremony still humming in his chest. Guests began to stand, a gentle tide of movement as people leaned across the aisles to congratulate each other or snap more photos before the crowd surged toward the reception hall.

Momo was already gathering her things, dabbing the corners of her eyes one last time and smoothing her dress. “Come on, let’s go before Sero starts a sorry excuse for a philosophical debate with the caterers,” she teased, nodding toward the exit where Hanta was already gesturing animatedly at a waiter.

Shoto followed, weaving through the joyful chaos. Around him, snippets of conversation floated by; compliments on Ochaco’s bouquet, someone debating the odds of Denki surviving the open bar, an argument over who had the best table assignment.

As they stepped into the corridor, Shoto’s attention was drawn by a sudden burst of laughter from the groomsmen - Kaminari had apparently tripped over his own feet trying to high-five Sero, and Iida was attempting to restore order with a stern lecture about “dignity befitting such an occasion.” Shinso, meanwhile, looked ready to fall asleep standing up, despite the lazy grin plastered across his face.

Shoto’s gaze, inevitably, found Bakugo again. He was standing a little apart from the others, checking his phone, thumb flying over the screen as if he were orchestrating the whole next phase of the day with sheer willpower. Even from here, Shoto could see the tension in his shoulders, the determination in the set of his jaw.

He wondered, with a sudden, reckless curiosity, what Bakugo would do if someone just walked up and asked him to dance. The thought made Shoto’s ears burn. He barely knew the man’s name, and here he was, imagining waltzes and slow songs.

Momo caught his expression and grinned. “You’re making that face again.”

“What face?”

“The one where you look like you’re planning a heist instead of a conversation.”

Shoto huffed, but couldn’t quite keep the smile off his lips. “I’m just thinking.”

He let himself be swept along with the crowd, but his eyes kept flicking backwards, tracking Bakugo as he moved with purpose through the shifting sea of guests. There was something magnetic about him, something that made Shoto want to be a little reckless, just this once.

As they reached the doors to the reception hall, he made himself a promise: before the night was over, he’d find a way to talk to Bakugo - even if he had to survive a dozen more wedding disasters to do it.

The reception hall buzzed with the energy of a hundred conversations, clinking glasses, and the distant promise of dessert. Shoto lingered by the edge of the crowd, scanning for a familiar head of blond hair. There, Bakugo, standing at the far end of the room, his back impossibly straight as he conferred with a harried-looking waiter.

Shoto rehearsed his line in his head for the twentieth time. Just say something normal. “Hello, congratulations, you did a great job.” Something like that. Easy. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and began to weave through the tables.

Bakugo was distracted, gesturing at a seating chart, his brow furrowed. Shoto’s heart thudded in his ears. He could feel his palms getting clammy. Just walk up to him. Just do it. Now is the time.

He was three steps away, close enough to hear Bakugo mutter, “If you put Sero at the kids’ table again, I swear—”
Shoto’s mouth went dry. The words caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. Bakugo turned, just for a second, and Shoto’s feet kept moving...right past him.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even look back. He kept walking, as if his body had decided, entirely without his permission, that he was on his way to the bathroom, or the dessert table, or possibly out of the country.

He heard Bakugo’s voice behind him, sharp and impatient, but it wasn’t for him. It never even flickered in his direction.

Shoto ended up at the punch bowl, staring down at the floating slices of orange as if they held the secrets of the universe. Momo found him there a moment later, brow raised, lips twitching.

“Did you talk to him?”

Shoto shook his head, mortified. “I think I blacked out.”

She patted his shoulder. “You’ll get him next time.”

Shoto wasn’t convinced. This was going to be a long night.

“Roki, wait up!!”

Sero zoomed past Bakugo at alarming speed, nearly knocking over a centrepiece as he weaved through the crowded reception hall. Bakugo blinked, tracking him for half a second - just long enough to catch a flash of a tall guy ahead, two-tone hair and an easy stride, barely glancing back as Sero called after him.

Who ran like that at a wedding? Maybe Sero really did deserve to be at the kids’ table. Bakugo shook his head, exhaling hard. There were more pressing things to worry about.

The place was a riot of movement and noise: servers gliding between tables, music swelling and fading, a couple of kids chasing each other around the cake table. He wove through the crowd, nodding at a few familiar faces, until he spotted Izuku perched at the edge of a chair, posture tense, still scanning the room as if waiting for someone to pull the fire alarm.

“Hey Kacchan,” Izuku beamed, cheeks blotchy and eyes still glassy from happy tears.

“Hey. You survived.”

“Barely,” Izuku admitted, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I thought I was going to pass out during the vows. And then Ochaco looked at me like...well, you saw. I almost lost it.”

“Everyone saw it. You owe me for keeping your head on straight,” Bakugo grumbled, but there was a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Izuku ducked his head, grinning. “Yeah, yeah. You were a lifesaver. Or at least a ‘don’t panic’ sign in human form.”

Ochaco joined them, a soft smile on her face as she slipped her arm around Izuku’s shoulders. She was radiant, cheeks flushed with happiness and the last of the adrenaline. “This is all Izuku’s fault, you know. He insisted on inviting literally everyone he’s ever spoken to in his life.”

“Hey!” Izuku protested, elbowing her gently. “It’s not like I could just leave people out. And besides, you agreed. You were the one who said the more the merrier.”

She grinned, nudging him back. “I did. But seriously, Bakugo, I think we've reached our limit for extroverts. I’ve seen people here I haven’t seen since middle school.”

Bakugo crossed his arms, scanning the packed hall. “I’m just saying, I don’t even recognise half these people. Are you sure none of them are wedding crashers?”

Izuku shrugged, following Bakugo’s gaze across the room. “Nah, most are old classmates or agency friends. Or Ochaco’s relatives, I haven’t met yet. Or - oh, Sero’s friends. He’s got a weirdly big social circle. I’m still not sure how.”

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed, lingering for a moment on the tall guy with two-tone hair, now standing near the punch bowl, back straight and expression unreadable. That reminds me - who’s the guy Sero was chasing earlier? Tall, two-tone hair, looks like he could actually afford to buy this venue?”

“Oh!” Izuku snapped his fingers. “That’s Todoroki. He’s been travelling for a while. We met on a few missions, then he and Sero hit it off. Iida knows him pretty well, too. Momo’s known him since middle school, I think.”

Bakugo snorted, arms still crossed. “Apparently, everyone knows this guy except me.”

Izuku rolled his eyes, a little sass creeping in. “Sero, Iida and Momo are not everyone, Kacchan.”

Ochaco brightened, glancing over her shoulder. “Well, technically, Hagakure knows him too. And Shinso… oh, and Kyoka. If Shinso is friends with him, then Kaminari might recognise him too... And Kirishima trained with him for a bit—”

Izuku coughed, cutting her off with a gentle nudge. “Okay, okay. That’s enough. You’re not helping.”

Bakugo shook his head, a wry smile slipping through. “Feels like I’m the only one who missed the memo.”

Ochaco laughed, squeezing Izuku’s hand. “He’s nice, really. Quiet, but he’s got great stories. Sero says he’s the best travel companion he’s ever had.”

Bakugo shrugged, unconvinced. “We’ll see.”

A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the punch table; Todoroki, Sero, and Iida, apparently. Bakugo watched for a second, taking in the way Todoroki barely smiled but seemed somehow at ease. Then he turned his attention back to the newlyweds, determined not to care - he had enough to manage without trying to figure out the guest list.

Izuku grinned, bumping Bakugo’s shoulder. “You should say hi later. You might actually like him. You’d get along!”

Bakugo scoffed, but part of him wondered, just a little, what he’d missed out on.

Shoto’s attempt at conversation #2

An hour had trickled by in a blur of clinking glasses, hugs from distant relatives, and a relentless stream of speeches. Shoto had nodded along to Momo’s commentary about the cake (“It’s a little much, isn’t it? I heard it’s seven layers.”), endured two different “You’ve grown so much!” lectures from old friends, and politely declined a dance with someone's tiny cousin who insisted he’d be “good practice.”

But the whole time, his gaze kept drifting back toward the edge of the reception hall, where Bakugo seemed to orbit the chaos like a storm with a clipboard. Even when Shoto tried to focus on conversation, he found himself tracking Bakugo’s progress: first by the bar, then double-checking the seating chart, now deep in conversation with the DJ about the playlist. Shoto was almost impressed by how the man never seemed to stand still, and was almost envious of the way he commanded every inch of the room.

The band was finishing a jazzy rendition of “Yellow” by Coldplay when Shoto finally decided to try again. He took a steadying breath, smoothing his jacket as he moved through clusters of guests. He rehearsed his opening line for the hundredth time in his head - something casual, like, “Great job wrangling everyone today.” Or maybe, “Do you ever get to sit down at these things?” He would improvise, he told himself. He was a hero, after all. He could improvise. Most likely.

Bakugo was standing by the dance floor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, scowling down at a clipboard as if it had personally offended him. The light caught in his hair, making him look both impossibly serious and, Shoto hesitated to admit, even more striking. He was close now, close enough to see the faint crease of irritation on Bakugo’s brow, the tense set of his broad shoulders.

Shoto hovered for a moment, waiting for an opening, before finally clearing his throat. “Excuse me—”

Bakugo’s head snapped up, eyes sharp as they met Shoto’s. For a split second, Shoto thought he saw something soften in Bakugo’s expression, a flicker of curiosity. Shoto’s mouth went dry. Every possible phrase he’d prepared vanished instantly.

Before he could force out a word, a sudden commotion approached - fast footsteps and a higher voice.

Eri barreled into Bakugo’s side, clutching her flower crown in one hand and looking up at him with wide, urgent eyes. “Bakugo! Sero and Kaminari were trying to see who could chug their drinks quicker, and they had like five rematches and...I think Kaminari lost? Shinso is trying to get him to drink water. Oh, also, the cake is—um, I think the cake is falling over a little? Maybe?”

Bakugo’s jaw clenched. He shot Shoto a look - apologetic, if such a thing was possible with that much stress - and ran a hand through his hair. “Not now - wait, what do you mean, the cake is falling over?”

Eri groaned as if she had the pressure of the world on her shoulders, “You have to come see yourself! Sero said you’d fix it. And Denki is... ugh, I don’t even know what he’s doing.”

“Do I look like a god damn baker? Or an architect?” Bakugo’s attention was already gone, swept away by the next crisis. “Alright, let’s go. And if Denki’s done anything to the cake, I’m putting him in the freezer.”

He strode off, Eri in tow, barking over his shoulder at a nearby server about “finding a mop and maybe a tranquilliser dart.” Within seconds, he was swallowed by the crowd, his clipboard abandoned on the table.

Shoto stood frozen, feeling the words he’d practised crumble to dust. He looked down and realised he was still holding his fork, a bite of cake suspended midair. He set it down, deflated, and tried to remind himself that patience was a virtue.

Momo appeared at his elbow, eyes kind and a little too knowing. “No luck?”

Shoto shook his head, managing a self-deprecating smile. “He’s… busy.”

She squeezed his arm. “He’ll slow down eventually...I hope. This can’t be good for his blood pressure.”

Shoto wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat, but he nodded anyway, already scanning the room for Bakugo’s familiar outline - hoping, for the third time, that the next chance would be the one.

Bakugo followed Eri through the maze of tables, braced for disaster. The way they’d been shouting about the cake, you’d think someone had set it on fire. (Which, with this group, was never entirely impossible.)

He skidded to a stop at the dessert table, eyes scanning for toppled tiers or a frosting massacre. Instead, he found the cake standing tall and majestic, a little lopsided maybe, but nothing that wasn’t already there when it arrived. Eri was pointing at a barely perceptible tilt, face scrunched in dire concern.

“See? It’s leaning,” she whispered, as if the cake could hear.

Bakugo squatted down to her level, giving the cake a long, critical look. “It’s fine. That’s just… artistic. Modern. You know how expensive that is?”

Sero grinned, hands on his hips. “Told you, Eri. Cakes are supposed to defy gravity these days.”

“You were literally the one who told me it was going to fall,” Eri scoffs.

Bakugo shot him a glare. “If you two call me over for another false alarm, I swear to God.”

Crisis averted. He let out a tense breath. But before he could even start to relax, Sero jerked his thumb toward the bathrooms, where muffled voices and a thump echoed through the door.

“Uh, but Denki’s still in there with Shinso. I think he’s… uh, explaining the difference between fruits and vegetables. Loudly.”

Bakugo groaned and stalked across the hall. He pushed open the door to find Denki draped over Shinso’s shoulder, looking like a man three drinks past his limit, gesturing wildly with one hand while Shinso stared at his reflection, eyes glazed with resignation.

“—so tomatoes are fruit, but they’re not sweet, so who even decided that, right?” Denki slurred, nearly slipping off Shinso as he pointed at the bathroom mirror. “We should get a petition going. Fruit salads are a scam.”

“Tomatoes could be kinda sweet depending on who you’re asking. Plus, they have seeds. Technically, fruit.” Shinso shrugs, shifting Kaminari’s head on his shoulder before he readjusts it.

“But you put them in a SALAD with other vegetables!”

“With that logic, then apples could also be classed as a vegetable. Apples in salads are really common.”

That comment sends Denki off on a whole new spiral about food classification.

Shinso shot Bakugo a look in the mirror, silently pleading for rescue. “He’s been at this for fifteen minutes. I can’t feel my arm.”

Bakugo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Denki, let go of Shinso. If you’re gonna debate produce classifications, do it sitting down.”

Denki blinked, then grinned, swaying dangerously. “Bakugo! Did you know eggplants are berries? Berries, man. It changes everything.”

Bakugo reached out and pried Denki’s hand off Shinso’s shoulder, steering him toward the sink. “What you need is water. And maybe a lecture about moderation.”

“Wait, are eggplants actually berries?” Sero asks, wide-eyed and curious.

Denki nodded solemnly, then started giggling as he tried to fill a cup at the faucet, missing twice before Shinso took pity and helped him.

Bakugo glanced at both of them, shaking his head. “You idiots are gonna be the death of me.”

Outside, the music changed. Someone called out for the newlyweds, and the hum of the crowd rose in excitement. Bakugo checked his watch - still hours left before he could even think about relaxing.

He paused, catching a glimpse of the reception through the cracked door. For a second, he saw Todoroki by the cake table, standing perfectly still, watching the room with that same unreadable expression. Bakugo frowned, a tiny itch of curiosity surfacing before he turned away.

There were more pressing disasters to manage. With Denki and Shinso under control (for now), Bakugo straightened his jacket and headed back into the fray, ready for whatever came next.

Shotos attempt at conversation #3

Shoto spotted Bakugo near the head table at last, alone for the first time all evening, fiddling with the edge of a napkin and surveying the room with the weary vigilance of a battlefield medic. For a moment, Shoto let himself believe the universe was finally giving him a break.

This is it, he told himself. One more attempt. Just walk over and say something normal. “Great job tonight.” “Did you ever get to eat?” “Want to…” — something. Anything. He squared his shoulders, smoothing his tie, and started across the floor, weaving between tables and swaying dancers.

He was almost there; close enough to see the tiny crease of exhaustion between Bakugo’s brows, the way his hair was starting to fall out of its careful style. Shoto opened his mouth—

A shriek of microphone feedback sliced through the air. Every head in the room turned as Kaminari, cheeks pink, grinned from ear to ear, clutching the mic in both hands like a prize.

“Midoriya!” Kaminari shouted, voice booming and slightly slurred, “You’re my best friend, man. Like, the best. And Ochaco, you’re… you’re so sparkly. Like a disco ball, but nice. You’re both nice! Aww, it’s so cute you guys are engaged now!”

A ripple of laughter rolled through the guests. Shoto froze, caught mid-step, as Kaminari launched into a rambling monologue about friendship, true love, and the tragic injustice of the shrimp cocktail running out before he could get seconds. Izuku, at the head table, dissolved into silent laughter, face in his hands. Ochaco giggled behind her bouquet.

“Honestly, can we do this again, guys? Weddings are like...so fun when you don’t have Bakugo up your ass. Love you though, man! Give it up for Mr Kacchan guys!”

As the crowd genuinely starts applauding, Izuku can't contain himself now as he dissolves into a fit of laughter while clutching his stomach.

Bakugo’s eyes went wide with horror. Even Todoroki can't help the slight smile that ghosts his face at the scene. It’s utterly absurd, but at least Midoriya is enjoying himself. Eventually, Mina appeared, snatching the mic from Kaminari.

“THIS IS MY SONG!” she crowed, immediately launching into a shrieking, off-key version of “Backwards’ by the Jonas Brothers (who on earth requested this song at a wedding?). Kaminari, ever the loyal hype-man, joined in for the chorus, waving his arms and nearly toppling into the dessert table. Guests howled. Sero leapt onto a chair, air-guitaring with a breadstick.

Bakugo, jaw clenched, muttered something under his breath and plunged into the fray, muscling past a group of drunken relatives to seize the microphone before Mina could attempt a second verse. The crowd whooped, egging them on.

Shoto stood frozen, halfway between the tables and the dance floor, watching his last chance dissolve into pure wedding chaos. He couldn’t help it - he laughed, quietly, shaking his head.

The universe, apparently, had a wicked sense of humour.

Kirishima, ever the hero, ran to the DJ booth and practically begged for help. “Play something LOUD! Anything!” he shouted. The DJ, cackling, slammed the controls and unleashed the opening chords of “Uptown Funk.” The speakers shook. Immediately, the dance floor erupted as guests poured on, swept up in the irresistible beat.

Shoto tried to keep his bearings, but a wave of dancers surged between him and Bakugo, spinning, singing along, hands in the air. He caught one last glimpse of Bakugo, exhausted but victorious, holding the mic aloft like a trophy before being swallowed by the crowd.

Resigned, Shoto let the music and laughter wash over him. He retreated to the edge of the room, then slipped out a side door to the balcony, savouring the sudden quiet and cool air. The city stretched out below, lights glittering. He leaned on the railing, closing his eyes, letting the ridiculousness of the whole night settle in. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

He let his head drop forward, closing his eyes, ready to disappear into the night. Three times he’d been unsuccessful. Three. Okay, reevaluate. He’s always on his feet, so maybe he'll be at the scene of whatever's happening before he gets there? Or maybe Bakugo would think he caused it?

No, try again. Maybe he could stay extra late. Help clean everything up? Or is that creepy? Probably. But if he made it seem like—

But then, behind him, the door creaked open. Footsteps, hesitant. And a familiar voice, softer than he’d expected:

“Todoroki, right?”

Shoto turned, startled.

Katsuki’s attempt at conversation #1

“You’re Deku’s friend. And everyone else's, by the sound of it.”

Katsuki leaned against the door, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, waiting for Todoroki to respond. If he was being honest with himself, the dim lighting didn’t do the guy justice. Out here, under the string lights and city glow, Todoroki looked - well, (for lack of better words) weirdly perfect. Like he’d stepped out of a magazine shoot and into Katsuki’s half-chaotic life.

Todoroki blinked once, then cleared his throat. “Yeah, I—” He extended his hand, steady and deliberate. “Shoto. You’re Bakugo, right? Izuku’s best man?”

“The one and only. Wouldn’t do this shit again, though.”

“How come?”

A scoff escaped Katsuki as he walked over to lean on the balcony railing, close enough to catch a whiff of Todoroki’s cologne, something crisp and expensive. “You seen what I’m working with? Bunch of pig-brained—”

“You like them, though. Momo says you’ve... always been like this.”

That stopped him for a second. Had the guy been asking about him? Katsuki raised a stubborn eyebrow. “You were asking about me?”

Todoroki looked startled, just for a split second, like he hadn’t expected Bakugo to notice, or maybe care. “Hard not to ask when you’re running this wedding like the Marines.”

That pulled a laugh out of Bakugo, unexpected and genuine. Maybe he’d misjudged this guy. “Fair play. I was just serious about this. Even though it’s brutal, when Deku asked me to be his best man, I didn’t wanna fuck it up. He deserves that much from me.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It’s the bare minimum. Gave him a rough time when we were kids. I owe him a lot more.”

Bakugo’s voice, so often edged with irritation, had gone soft for a moment. There was a quiet between them - comfortable, not awkward. Shoto let himself laugh, low and genuine, and Bakugo surprised himself by smiling back. In the hush, their eyes met, a flicker of something new catching in the space between annoyance and understanding. Katsuki noticed the way Todoroki’s gaze lingered, steady and a little too intense, like he was trying to memorise Bakugo’s face.

He found he didn’t mind.

Bakugo nudged his shoulder lightly against Shoto’s; a barely-there touch, but intentional, a question more than a statement. “Come on. I sound like a narcissist just talking about myself. What’s your deal?” His voice was gruff, but there was an edge of curiosity there, an invitation, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

For the first time all night, Katsuki wasn’t thinking about disasters, speeches, or catering catastrophes. He was just here, on a balcony, with a guy he suddenly wanted to know a hell of a lot more about.

Shoto leaned against the railing, the evening air cool on his skin, the city stretching out in a sprawl of twinkling lights. He felt lighter than he had all night - nerves humming, but in a good way this time.

He glanced sideways at Bakugo, who was watching him with a kind of wary amusement. “You know,” Shoto said, “for a while I thought the universe was actively trying to stop me from talking to you.”

Bakugo gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Yeah? I figured you were just really into cake. Or punch. Or group choreography.”

Shoto let his lips quirk in a sheepish smile. “The universe and my own lack of social skills. Terrible combination.”

Bakugo shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re better at it than half these idiots. At least you didn’t end up singing ‘Backwards’ with Kaminari and Mina.”

“I think if I’d gotten one more interruption, I might have,” Shoto deadpanned. “That or started throwing chairs.”

Bakugo barked out a genuine laugh, head tipped back. The sound was warm, unguarded, and something in Shoto relaxed further. He found it… Oddly nice, making Bakugo laugh like that.

“Seriously,” Shoto went on, a little braver now, “I’ve been to a lot of weddings. This one is the most… eventful.”

Bakugo snorted. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting much less with these guys. That’s what you get when Sero and Kaminari help with...Anything. Last year, Tape Face tried to put wasabi in the cupcakes at Kirishima’s birthday.”

Shoto’s eyes widened. “Did he succeed?”

“Yeah, and Denki ate four of them before anyone noticed. Still says it was ‘an awakening.’ Idiot.”

A brief silence passed between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The noise from inside - the music, the shouts, the off-key singing - seemed to fade, leaving just the two of them and the city below. Out here, under the glow of string lights, Bakugo looked different: less like a force of nature and more like someone Shoto wanted to get lost with for a while.

“So, travel guy, huh?” Bakugo asked, nudging him with his elbow. “What’s the weirdest place you’ve been?”

Shoto considered. “Once, I spent a night in a train station in Poland because I missed the last train. There was a dog there who kept bringing me someone else’s shoe. After the third time, I gave up and just wore it. I still have no idea whose it was.” He paused, then added, “I guess I’m not as put together as I look.”

A grin plastered Katsuki’s face, eyes bright. “You’re funny. In a totally deadpan, sneaky way. I almost didn’t catch it at first.”

“That’s what Momo says,” the two-toned man replied. “She says it’s like a test. If someone laughs, I know they’re paying attention.”

The blonds’ laughter softened, and he looked at Shoto with something new in his expression; not just amusement, but a kind of interest, curiosity, the start of a spark. “Guess I passed, then.”

He let the silence hang for a moment, his heart steady and quiet. “Yeah.”

Bakugo cleared his throat, suddenly a little more serious. “You know… I don’t usually do this. Like, the ‘let’s see each other again’ thing. Not really my style.”

Shoto met his gaze, honest and open. “I haven’t asked to see you again yet,” he hesitated.

Bakugo regarded him, eyes sharp and assessing, but there was a softness to his mouth that hadn’t been there earlier. “I’m asking you now.”

“Oh,” Shoto’s lips curled into a real smile, relief and hope mixing in his chest. “I mean, yeah. I’d like to do this again. If you would.”

Bakugo nudged him again, a little more deliberately this time. “Course I would, idiot. I asked.”

Inside, the party had reached new heights of chaos - someone had started a limbo contest, and Mina was directing people to hold up a broom. Shoto glanced through the window, then back to Bakugo. “Should we rejoin the madness?”

Bakugo shook his head, leaning on the rail beside him. “Let ‘em have their fun. I like it out here. Good company.”

They stood side by side, quiet but content, the world inside fading away.

Shoto spoke, voice soft. “Next time, no wedding, no conga line, no microphone emergencies?”

Bakugo chuckled, voice low. “Next time, just us.”

The city lights stretched out around them, and for the first time all night, the universe seemed to finally, finally be on their side.

As they continued their casual back and forth outside, Shoto was mid-sentence, telling Katsuki about a time he’d accidentally boarded the wrong train and ended up in a town famous for its haunted cheese museum, when a sharp thwack sounded from behind the balcony curtain.

Bakugo’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “What the—?”

From beneath the edge of the curtain, a single black dress shoe poked out, twitching in panic before someone hastily yanked it back. There was a hurried, muffled whisper—“Shhh!”—followed by a stifled giggle that sounded suspiciously like Momo, and the unmistakable hiss of Izuku’s frantic whispering.

A shadow moved behind the curtain, and then: “Ow! Sero, that was my head—” “You’re the one who started humming the wedding march, man—shut up—” “Guys, shhh!”

Bakugo pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a smirk. “Unbelievable. I should have known they’d pull this crap.”

Shoto gave him a sidelong glance, amusement dancing in his eyes. “At least you know they care.”

Bakugo’s mouth twitched upward. “They’re lucky I don’t have Denki’s mic right now.”

From behind the curtain came a suspiciously loud cough and a clatter that could only be Iida’s knee connecting with a flowerpot.

Shoto leaned a little closer, voice low. “Should we pretend we didn’t notice?”

He grinned in response, eyes bright. “Nah. Let ’em squirm.”

He turned toward the curtain and, in his best best-man bark, called out, “You all better have a good reason for spying, or I’m making you clean up the cake disaster!”

The curtain rippled, and one by one, the heads of their friends popped out - Momo flushed but smiling, Izuku sheepishly waving, Sero giving a double thumbs-up, and even Kirishima, who looked genuinely proud of their stealth (despite the shoe debacle).

“Sorry!” Izuku called, not sorry at all. “We just—uh—wanted to make sure you two were… having fun?” His left eyebrow playfully lifts a few centimetres, enough for Katsuki to notice and know exactly what he's getting at. He actively chooses to ignore it.

“Yeah, man! The whole night you looked like you were about to burst a blood vessel.” The still drunken Kaminari chimed in.

He rolled his crimson eyes, but there was no real heat behind them. Shoto just shook his head, laughing softly.

The whole group retreated, whispering and nudging each other as they disappeared back into the party, leaving the two of them alone again on the balcony.

Katsuki looked at Shoto, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m never living this down.”

Shoto smiled, eyes warm. “Probably not.”