Chapter Text
Kirishima didn’t really want to wake up.
Honestly, he wanted to cancel the whole day and stay in bed—a thought that crossed his mind more often than he’d admit. His eyes cracked open, still puffy from sleep, as he fumbled for his phone.
6:24 AM.
Right. Time to get up, squeeze in a quick workout, and—more importantly—check on Bakugou. Maybe convince him to train together.
Or better yet, make breakfast together.
That thought alone was enough to shove all laziness aside and yank him right out of bed.
He scrolled for another minute before finally dragging himself down the hall.
Usually by now, the common room had its regular early risers.
Iida—punctual as ever—already stretching, muttering about schedules and efficiency.
Todoroki—calm and collected—waking up with zero drama, like his whole life was set to a quiet, disciplined rhythm.
And finally, Bakugou.
Yeah, he was loud, rough around the edges, all teeth and scowls—but his sleep schedule? Impeccable.
Either Kirishima would catch him mid-run or find him already back, towel slung around his neck, all fire and focus.
Today looked like the second.
“Good morning,” Kirishima said as he stepped off the last stair.
“Morning,” Todoroki whispered with his dry tone.
“Good morning, Kirishima!” Iida said, chopping the air with enthusiasm as usual.
“Hey, Bakugou, what’s up?” Kirishima asked, walking toward him. Bakugou was sitting on the couch, arms crossed, already done with his morning workout apparently.
“Looks like you’ve already exercised.”
“What do you think, dipshit?”
Ah. So today’s a bad mood day.
Bakugou’s mood was unpredictable—Kaminari had been trying for months to crack the code. First, he thought if Bakugou went to bed late, he’d wake up pissed. But that was wrong; during test season, Bakugou stayed up late and still woke up sharp, even-tempered—well, as much as Bakugou could be.
Then Denki guessed it was the shirt he wore in the morning. Wrong again.
Now, Denki was trying a new theory: figuring out which day of the week Bakugou was most likely to wake up on the wrong side of the bed. So far, Tuesday was in the lead.
Kirishima double-tapped the screen of his phone while brushing his teeth.
And yep. It was Tuesday.
Now he was starting to believe Denki might be onto something.
When Kirishima got back to the common room, there were more people now—the reasonably early ones. The ones he considered himself part of.
There was Midoriya, already scribbling furiously into his hero notebook. Of course. He always woke up early to prep and plan.
Tokoyami sat quietly in the corner, as usual. Calm, self-disciplined. Kirishima figured he probably woke up early for meditation or just to be alone in the quiet.
Then there was Yaoyorozu—studious and thorough. No doubt she was up early to review notes or rehearse something important.
Lida was already making breakfast like clockwork. Bakugou had left the common room by the time Kirishima returned. He half-expected to hear him grumbling at Iida, yelling about eggs or something, but nah — just a short appearance today. Since it seemed like one of those off days, he didn’t think of it too much.
Kirishima made his way to the counter, just as Midoriya rushed in with that usual muttering storm following him.
“Morning,” Kirishima said casually, grabbing a protein bar off the counter.
Midoriya flinched like he hadn’t even noticed someone else was there. “Oh! Good morning, Kirishima.”
He looked a bit more rattled than usual. Kirishima raised an eyebrow.
“You okay?” he asked. “You seem kinda… uneasy?”
Midoriya hesitated. “I’m not sure…”
Then he lowered his voice. “Did you see Kacchan? I didn’t see him on the way down. He’s usually up by now. I was just a little worried.”
Kirishima gave a small smile, trying to keep things light. “Yeah, he was here a few minutes ago. Didn’t say much, just sat on the couch and then maybe went back to his room. It’s just one of those bad mood days, y’know?”
As they were talking, Sero appeared from the hallway, stretching and yawning.
“Morning, guys,” he mumbled, still a bit sleepy.
“Good morning,” Midoriya said quickly, turning his head toward Sero — like he was glad for the interruption.
Kirishima didn’t push it either. If Midoriya wasn’t going to press the topic, neither would he.
_____________________________________
The morning was pleasant for a Tuesday. Not dramatic or cinematic—just the kind of quiet, clear-skied day that made everything feel a little easier. The sun hung low and warm, casting soft light through the trees without blinding anyone. A faint breeze drifted lazily through campus.
Bakugou took longer than usual to get ready, which was strange. Normally he’d be out the door before most of them. That delay let Kaminari, freshly dragged out of bed by Iida, catch up much earlier than usual—rather than scrambling after them halfway to the gate, he’d managed to meet them just outside the dorms.
“Bakugou’s got the Tuesday death-glare again,” Denki said, hopping with a proud smirk. “Told you I’m onto something. Tuesday’s cursed.”
Bakugou didn’t miss a step. He turned his head slowly, eyes sharp as a blade.
“Say one more word, and I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it down your throat”
He walked ahead of them toward class, voice still low and venomous.
“And then I’ll ram your molars straight up your fucking nose.”
Sero groaned. “Dude, it’s too early for death threats.”
Kaminari let out a low whistle. “That’s definitely harsher than last Tuesday. I mean, last week he just threatened to detonate my lungs. This time it’s full mouth obliteration—very on-brand.”
He tapped rapidly on his phone. “That’s gotta be two points. Two and a half, if we count how creative the insult was.”
“You’re seriously making a chart for this?” Sero asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Duh. This is peak scientific research. I’m building a psychological profile. If I crack the Bakugou Code, I get full rights to write a book and call it Explodokills: A Study in Rage.”
Kirishima laughed under his breath. “You’re gonna get sued just for the title.”
“Worth it,” Kaminari said, proudly pocketing his phone.
Joking about Kaminari’s “Explodokills” book, they kept walking behind Bakugou—who hadn’t looked back once.
Bakugou hadn’t called Kaminari a useless extra. He hadn’t elbowed Kirishima in the ribs or told Iida to shut the hell up when he started reciting the entire day’s lesson plan like a walking planner. Just barked one over-the-top threat and kept going.
He was angry, yeah—but not in the usual, wild-spark, shout-first-explode-later way. Today’s Bakugou was quieter. Sharper. His insults hit harder. Less heat, more blade.
Kirishima glanced at him again, then gave a small shrug and smiled to himself.
Maybe he was just overthinking it.
Besides—it was Tuesday.
And honestly? At this point, even he was starting to believe Kaminari’s theory might be right.
They reached the classroom, already almost full. Kirishima dropped his bag onto his seat and glanced at the clock.
8:35 AM.
Five minutes until first period—Science.
He mentally ran through the rest of the day’s schedule—P.E, English, Math, Hero Training, and Japanese Language. Not bad, actually. A pretty decent lineup. At least there was no Modern Literature today, no long dramatic readings, no digging through metaphors until his brain melted. He preferred the hands-on classes, the ones that kept his brain and body moving.
The first two periods passed without much trouble—except for Midoriya, who kept glancing at Bakugou and whispering, “Are you okay?” every ten minutes like a broken record.
Bakugou, however, made it clear he wanted none of it, shooting sharp looks and stepping just out of Midoriya’s reach whenever he got too close. Oddly, Bakugou didn’t unleash his usual barrage of curses about Midoriya’s bloodline today. Instead, he just avoided midoriya. Which was somehow weirder than if he’d set his desk on fire.
Kirishima, sitting a few seats away, caught none of the subtleties.
A tap on Kirishima’s left arm made him glance sideways. Sero, leaning in slightly, spoke under his breath so Present Mic wouldn’t hear from the front.
“Hey. What’s wrong with Bakugou?”
Kirishima kept his eyes on his notes, pretending to be engaged. “What do you mean? We’ve already had this conversation, like, three times this morning.”
“No, I mean look at him,” Sero said, nudging his chin subtly toward the left side of the room.
Kirishima glanced over but still didn’t see it clearly.
“I don’t get it.” He said with a shrug.
Sero gave him a sideways look. “Bro. Look at how dazed he is. Is that normal to you? And you know him better than me.”
Kirishima frowned a little, eyes flicking to Bakugou, then back to sero.
“Maybe it’s just because you’re sitting next to Midoriya and catching all his muttering paranoia. That stuff’s contagious.”
Sero wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t argue. After that, Kirishima found himself glancing at Bakugou every chance he got.
Through out the next two periods, Bakugou was there, but not really there. His eyes would drift just a little too long to the side during lessons, missing details that usually had him sharp and on edge.
When the teacher asked questions, Bakugou’s answers came slower than usual, like his mind was tangled somewhere else, not the usual sharp retorts or confident explanations. He tapped his pen against his desk with a restless rhythm, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to shake off a fog.
Kirishima tried not to stare too obviously, but now it was hard not to notice.
It was 12:30—lunch time.
Kirishima headed toward Bakugou, who was packing up his stuff. As he walked, Kirishima’s eyes flicked to Bakugou’s notebook resting on the desk—completely blank.
That wasn’t like Bakugou at all. Everyone knows how hard-working he is—no need to explain it
“Hey, wanna grab lunch?” Kirishima asked, trying to keep it casual.
Bakugou responded with an annoyed groan.
Kirishima hesitated before continuing, “Bakugou, are you—”
Before he could finish, Bakugou cut him off, voice sharp and threatening. “I swear to god, if you fucking extras keep breathing anywhere near me, I’ll decorate the hallway with your spinal cords.”
He shot Kirishima a look so uncomfortable it made him take a small step back.
“I’m already fucking sick of dealing with the nerd, acting like clown all morning. So don’t make me fucking repeat myself”
Kirishima didn’t add anything. He could tell—if he pushed, it’d be like tossing gasoline on a lit fuse.
Bakugou stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading for the door.
“Is that your normal volume,” Todoroki said dryly, “or should we be concerned about a malfunction in your vocal cords?”
Bakugou froze mid-step.
His head snapped toward Todoroki like a loaded weapon. The glare hit so hard Kirishima felt it in his spine—he was already moving instinctively, ready to step between them before Bakugou went full detonation mode. That was really not the time for Todoroki’s brutally dry sarcasm—if it even was sarcasm.
But then…
Bakugou just hissed, low and venomous, and walked out of the classroom.
Just like that.
No explosions.
He left.
Kirishima blinked.
Sero stared.
“I mean…” Kaminari muttered, “That was almost more terrifying.”
Last week, Kaminari cracked a joke about his loud voice, and Bakugou launched a textbook across the room—and that was on a good mood day. There’s no way he’d let Todoroki slide with a comment like that.
Kirishima didn’t say anything. He just stared at the door Bakugou had walked through. like it might swing back open and explode in his face any second.
So Why didn’t he even yell?
Yeah—Kirishima was glad there wasn’t a fight. He really was.
But something about that silence—It felt way worse.
Lunch was over, but Kirishima hardly touched his food. Half the time had gone into scanning the cafeteria, pacing rows of tables and checking every corner twice, half-expecting Bakugou to be hunched behind a pillar or glaring out a window with a tray untouched. No dice.
“Dude,” Sero had groaned, tugging on Kirishima’s sleeve as the last five minutes ticked down. “I don’t think he’s here. And if we’re late, Aizawa’s gonna train us into the pavement.”
Kirishima gave one last glance before turning away and heading to the training grounds, backpacks slung, gear already halfway on. The familiar layout of Ground Gamma rose in the distance, pipes and platforms stacked like a metal jungle gym.
Turns out—Bakugou was already in the training grounds. He just… didn’t come to eat. Kirishima took a deep breath, trying to shake off the unease. Focus. Hero Training required full attention. Especially with Aizawa in charge.
He will make sure to check on him again—once they’re done.
At the field, Aizawa stood waiting—arms crossed, scarf loose, clipboard in one hand, his usual sleep-deprived scowl in place.
“Line up,” he said. “And pay attention. I’m only saying this once.”
The class shuffled into a loose line. Silence fell fast.
“You’re doing a two-part training exercise today,” he continued. “Part one: building infiltration. Part two: hostage rescue. Your teams have already been assigned.”
Kaminari leaned toward Kirishima, whispering, “Did he just say hostage rescue? That’s like… advanced-level field ops stuff.”
Aizawa didn’t pause. “You’ll be timed. You’ll be monitored. And yes—before you ask—we will be watching from the control room. There are live cameras inside and around the training building. If you fall on your face, everyone’s gonna see it.”
He swept his eyes across the class.
“Oh, and Construction Department B says if any of you blow a hole in the ceiling again, you’re writing formal apology letters.”
Kaminari raised his hands defensively. “It was one time!”
“Once too many,” Aizawa said flatly, not missing a beat.
“Also, bounce points will be marked inside the building. Use them wisely. Reckless jumps or landings will cost you valuable time.”
The class exchanged glances, some nodding, others already calculating moves in their heads.
“First team up: Bakugou and Todoroki,” he announced, eyes flicking to his clipboard.
Bakugou, muttered “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
“You’re running point. Scenario One is already loaded. Get inside the gate. Your timer starts the second you breach.”
He didn’t wait for a nod, didn’t glance at Todoroki, just grabbed his gloves tighter and stalked off toward the gated entrance of Ground Gamma.
Todoroki followed at a slower pace, his gait calm, almost lazy by comparison. The contrast between them—explosive and composed—felt more jarring than usual today.
Even with his back turned, Kirishima could tell—his shoulders were coiled tight, hands flexing in restless bursts.
Todoroki, for his part, didn’t seem fazed. Then again, Todoroki rarely seemed fazed by anything.
The two disappeared into the maze of metal and shadow as the training gate clanked shut behind them.
A low buzz kicked on—the timer had started.
The rest of the class gathered closer around the monitors on the side wall. A series of camera feeds flickered to life: hallways, stairwells, pressure-triggered doors, even an overhead thermal cam.
“There they are,” Midoriya muttered, leaning forward.
Onscreen, Bakugou led with cautious aggression—every step sharp, movements tight like he was resisting the urge to blow through every wall in his path.
Todoroki followed silently, eyes scanning corners Bakugou ignored.
“They’re not talking at all,” Sero whispered.
“Do they need to?” Jirou murmured. “They’re kinda… weirdly synced.”
Kaminari leaned forward, already grinning. “Place your bets, guys. I give them five minutes before Bakugou tries to blow a hole through the floor.”
“That’s generous,” Sero added, propping his elbows on the rail of the observation deck. “I say three.”
“Ten,” Kirishima muttered, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen even as the others chuckled. “He’ll hold out longer than that.”
Mina raised an eyebrow. “You sure? He already looks like he wants to strangle Todoroki with his gauntlet.”
Down in the simulated cityscape of Ground Gamma, the training scenario was underway. Todoroki and Bakugou had split up to scout the exterior—supposedly. In reality, Bakugou had launched himself to the second floor using one of the bounce pads with an explosion-assisted leap that had rattled the scaffolding.
“Subtle,” Todoroki’s voice came over the comms, dry as dust.
“Shut it,” Bakugou growled back, already moving. “I’m getting a vantage point.”
The control room cameras tracked him weaving through the skeletal structure of the building, each movement sharp and efficient, but twitchier than usual. Too twitchy.
Aizawa narrowed his eyes slightly.
“He’s fast,” Yaoyorozu commented. “But… doesn’t it feel like he’s rushing more than usual?”
“Mm.” Aizawa didn’t respond directly, but he did mark something quietly on his clipboard.
Todoroki entered from the opposite side, taking his time with methodical precision. Ice coated his path in brief flashes as he muted floor creaks and checked for traps.
“They’re not syncing at all,” Mina said, watching the two screens side by side. “If this were real, a hostage would’ve been dead already.”
“Wait for it,” Kirishima muttered, unconsciously leaning forward. Something was off. He could feel it like static in his spine. Bakugou’s movements were just a little too jerky, his aim a hair off, the precision replaced with brute speed.
Inside the training building, Bakugou stormed through the second floor like a guided missile. His boots clanged against metal grates, palm warmers glowing faintly at the ready.
He didn’t wait for Todoroki. Of course he didn’t. He blasted a side door clean off its hinges with a controlled but sharp explosion. The shockwave echoed through the simulated corridor, stirring dust and setting off one of the motion sensors Aizawa had warned them about.
In the control room, a red “Penalty: Alerted Hostile Forces” notification flashed across the screen.
“Boom. There goes the stealth score,” Kaminari snorted.
On screen, Todoroki’s voice crackled through the comms, flat and unimpressed.
“Want to set the building on fire before we rescue people, or after?”
Bakugou growled, turning his mic back on just to shout, “Maybe I will if you don’t start moving your frozen ass!”
Kirishima winced. “And there it is.”
“I win,” Sero said smugly.
Back in the field, Todoroki didn’t rise to the bait. He rounded a corner and calmly iced a tripwire into uselessness. “Hostages tend to prefer not being exploded. Just saying.”
“I’m not exploding the damn hostages!” Bakugou snapped. “I’m clearing the fucking building before someone else walks into a trap.”
“You could also try… walking around them,” Todoroki offered. “You know. Like a normal person.”
“Do I look fucking normal to you?!”
Todoroki picked his way over a fallen beam. “You ever heard of subtlety, or did you skip that class?”
Bakugou barked a laugh, low and sharp. “Subtlety doesn’t win fights.”
“No, but it does keep buildings standing.”
“Wouldn’t be my fault if it collapsed,” Bakugou shot back. “Shitty construction.”
“Right. And your explosions are just helping the architecture express itself?”
Bakugou grunted and kicked open the next door. “You’re lucky I haven’t expressed my foot up your—”
A staticy voice crackled through the intercom overhead. Aizawa. “Bakugou. Todoroki. Less commentary. More rescuing.”
Then Aizawa sighed and jotted another note. “Two points deducted for environmental damage,” he muttered. “And one for aggressive communication.”
Mina grinned. “You keep a tally for that?”
“I do when it’s Bakugou.”
Meanwhile, Bakugou had located the first “hostage” — a crash-test dummy rigged with sensors — trapped under a beam. He scanned it, scowling at the setup, then without waiting for backup, used a quick burst of his quirk to lift and hurl the debris aside.
The dummy flopped limply. A green light blinked above it.
“Hostage one secured,” came Aizawa’s dry update. “At the cost of half the wall.”
Something still wasn’t right. Bakugou was fast, aggressive, competent — but it all felt off-balance. Rushed. Like he was pushing himself to end the mission faster than necessary.
His aim was solid. His instincts were sharp. But he wasn’t pacing himself. And that… wasn’t like him.
Not really.
They pressed deeper into the training building.
The next hallway was darker, narrower, rigged with low visibility and ambient sound meant to simulate chaos. A pipe hissed steam overhead. Somewhere in the fake walls, a recording of a civilian sobbing played in a loop.
Bakugou’s scowl deepened. He raised a palm, and a small controlled blast lit up the hall for a split second.
“You ever rescued a hostage before?” Todoroki asked, stepping over a smoldering chunk of wall. Tone flat—more a check-in than a joke.
Bakugou didn’t even glance back. “You ever heard of moving faster?”
“You blew up a hallway.”
“You’re welcome.”
Bakugou spun on his heel with a sharp grunt, raising his hand again—but the blast sputtered. He paused. His gauntlet’s light blinked—once, then again.
That delay.
It was half a second. Maybe less.
Watching from the control room, arms crossed, Kirishima felt something cold settle in his chest.
“Did his gauntlet just—?” Jirou started.
“No,” Midoriya said too fast.
Bakugou powered through the rest of the corridor, ignoring the brief flicker in his quirk. When a second dummy was located on a dangling platform above a trap floor, he barked at Todoroki to freeze the supports while he leapt up to grab it.
And he did. Sort of.
He overshot the landing slightly, stumbling on the narrow beam with a grunt before catching himself. He snatched the dummy, but not without landing hard enough to make the whole scaffold groan.
“You good?” Todoroki asked, voice low, casual—but there was a flicker of something behind it.
“Shut up,” Bakugou growled. He wasn’t limping, not exactly—but there was a tension in his posture, a twitch in his jaw.
Aizawa’s voice crackled through the overhead speakers. “Team Bakugou-Todoroki: one hostage remaining. Training time: seven minutes. Penalties: four. Proceed.”
Kirishima couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.
Something’s wrong. seriously wrong. He never fumbles landings. He never needs more than one blast. His timing’s always perfect.
And Todoroki—doesn’t talk much usually. Blunt, sure. Quiet, mostly. But even he kept sneaking glances Bakugou’s way. Not obvious. Just subtle checks, like he noticed it too.
Inside the training building, Bakugou shoved open the next door with a blast, bits of plaster raining down. The hallway beyond was dark, lit only by flickering emergency strips along the floor.
Todoroki stepped through the smoke behind him, brushing ash from his sleeve. “That door wasn’t even locked.”
“It looked locked.”
“Sure.”
Back in the control room, the rest of the class crowded around the monitors, watching the chaos unfold in real time. One feed zoomed in on Bakugou charging ahead, the other on Todoroki moving at a calm, glacial pace behind him.
“I swear,” Sero said, arms folded and completely unfazed, “at this point, I’m just here for the chaos. Forget the lesson—this is better than a movie.”
Kaminari snorted. “I give them two more rooms before Bakugou tries to ‘rescue’ a hostage by blowing out a support beam.”
“Who puts those two on rescue detail anyway?” Mina muttered.
Inside the next room, the air was heavier—stale, hot, and laced with smoke from Bakugou’s earlier blast. The simulated layout mimicked a collapsed stairwell, beams angled like a jagged maze.
Bakugou paused.
Only for a second. But it was there.
A flicker of hesitation as he caught himself on the wall, blinking hard, jaw clenched like he’d bitten a live wire.
Todoroki glanced back but said nothing. Just kept moving.
“Target,” Todoroki confirmed after a minute.
A dummy lay partially pinned under debris—clearly the hostage.
Bakugou crouched beside it, maybe too quickly. His shoulder jerked slightly before he steadied, and for a breath, he didn’t move.
Todoroki stepped in beside him. “Want me to take point?”
Bakugou’s reply was instant, sharp. “Get the legs. I’ve got it.”
Todoroki grabbed the dummy’s legs while Bakugou heaved the torso free, jaw tight, movements just a touch less sharp than usual. Not slow. Not sloppy. Just… not quite right.
They maneuvered the hostage toward the exit. Rubble shifted underfoot. Bakugou stumbled—barely. A flick of his hand, another small explosion to clear the way, and they moved forward again.
The siren blared a second later—training cleared.
The control room broke into half-hearted applause and cheers, mostly sarcastic.
“Wow, no fatalities,” Kaminari said, clapping once. “That’s gotta be a record.”
“I’m honestly shocked nothing exploded after the hostage was saved,” Mina added.
“They made it out,” Aizawa said, not looking up from his clipboard. “Barely.” He added, without a pause: “Next team. Move.”
Kirishima eyes stayed on the screen as Bakugou stepped out of the building, chest rising too fast, shoulders uneven, smoke cleared behind him. Like he was barely holding something together.
He didn’t look at anyone. Just ripped his gauntlets loose with twitchy fingers and kept walking like it was nothing.
From across the field, Todoroki paused.
Mid-step. Silent.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there for a moment, watching Bakugou’s retreating back with a faint crease between his brows—subtle, but there. Not concern, exactly. Not surprise either. Just… something careful. Measured.
Then his gaze shifted. Through the haze, through the glass, Todoroki glanced up—right at Kirishima.
It wasn’t dramatic. Barely even a second.
But in that quiet look, something passed between them.
A silent agreement.
You saw it too.
Todoroki didn’t speak. Didn’t raise an eyebrow or call it out.
He just looked away again and followed Bakugou, his steps quiet and deliberate.
After the training session, the rest of Class 1-A began to filter out, voices low with exhaustion, feet dragging toward the locker rooms.
Kirishima lingered near the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed half on the training field—half on the doors Bakugou had disappeared through.
“You’re not leaving?”
Kirishima flinched slightly and turned. Aizawa stood a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, gaze unreadable.
“Uh… no. Just… thinking.”
Aizawa walked over, quiet steps and quieter voice. “You noticed it too.”
Kirishima hesitated, then gave a quiet nod. “…Yeah.”
Aizawa didn’t look surprised. “I’ve been watching him all week. He’s pushing harder than usual. Sloppier in places he normally isn’t.”
He sighed, eyes narrowing a bit. “And today was a mess.”
Kirishima looked down, jaw tightening. “He won’t talk about it. I’ve tried. I didn’t wanna… press him.”
“I’m not saying force it out of him,” Aizawa said, calm but firm. “Just don’t ignore it.”
“If something’s wrong, I need to know. Before it becomes a problem on the field.”
Kirishima nodded, slower this time.
“Don’t wait too long.”
Aizawa started to walk away, then paused without turning back, just long enough to add:
“You’re close to him. Closer than most. If something’s going on with Bakugou… you’ll probably be the first to know.”
Kirishima watched him go, still rooted in place.
The last class came and went in a blur of scribbled notes and half-heard lecture. Kirishima’s pen moved, but he couldn’t have said what he was writing. Every time someone said “training review” or “performance breakdown,” his mind flicked back to Bakugou—staggering mid-blast, slower than usual, just off.
His stomach twisted when they replayed the footage in Analysis. Most people didn’t notice the hitch in Bakugou’s gait, or how his hand lingered over his ribs when he thought no one was watching. But Kirishima did. And so did Midoriya and Todoroki, probably. Aizawa, definitely.
Still, no one said anything.
By the time classes ended, Kirishima had a pounding headache and a growing knot in his chest. He wanted to shake the day off—like a bad dream—but the heaviness followed him all the way to the common room.
The common room buzzed with the usual post-training energy—Sero and Kaminari halfway through a game, Mina sprawled upside down on the couch with her phone, someone clattering around in the kitchen. Normal stuff. Loud, familiar, comforting.
But Kirishima felt like he was underwater.
He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, pretending to watch the screen. He laughed when Kaminari said something dumb. Nodded when Mina waved her phone at him.
But he wasn’t there.
His eyes kept drifting toward the hallway. The stairs. The path to Bakugou’s room.
He had come down for dinner. But with no explosion, no muttered insults, no refusal to sit next to anyone. Just… silence. The kind that didn’t feel like peace.
Kirishima picked at the hem of his hoodie. He should’ve said something earlier. Or followed him. Or at least checked in.
But what if Bakugou just needed space? He hated being hovered over.
Still…
Kirishima stood quietly and slipped out of the common room.
The hallway felt colder at night. Quieter, too.
Kirishima padded down it slowly, socked feet barely making a sound. His hand brushed the wall once—habit, maybe. Something to steady him.
He stopped in front of Bakugou’s door.
It looked like it always did. Closed. Unassuming. Except tonight it felt heavier.
He lifted his hand to knock.
Paused.
What would he even say?
Hey, you looked off today.
You’re scaring me a little.
Are you okay?
Bakugou would probably bite his head off. Or worse—brush him off with that damn fake glare and a muttered “Mind your business.”
Kirishima let his hand fall.
Not yet.
Maybe tomorrow.
He lingered one more second—just one—then turned and walked back down the hall.
The shift from that heavy silence into the noise of the common room hit harder than expected. It wasn’t loud, not really—just the usual end-of-day mess: Sero half-sprawled over the couch with his phone, Kaminari noisily digging through the snack cabinet, Iida fussing about crumbs near the kitchen. The TV was on, low volume, playing some weird commercial that made zero sense. Mina was draped across a beanbag, chattering away to Jirou about something they’d seen on the training field.
Normal. Loud. Distracting.
And completely out of sync with the weight Kirishima was still carrying in his chest.
He stood in the doorway for a second, just watching them—his friends. Their laughs weren’t fake. Their tiredness was real. But they hadn’t seen it the way he had. Or maybe they had… and they were just better at hiding it.
Jirou noticed him first. She gave a small nod—acknowledging, not questioning.
He appreciated that.
Kirishima walked in, grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and sat down on the floor near the wall instead of the couch.
He took a sip, leaning his head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
That tension hadn’t gone away. The one he felt all throughout training. The tight, wrong feeling in his gut when he watched Bakugou struggle with things that should’ve come easy.
So why the hell wouldn’t Bakugou just say something?
Kirishima stayed low by the wall, eyes unfocused on the ceiling, but his mind was racing.
A soft thump caught his attention.
Kaminari plopped down next to him, a bright grin stretched across his face.
“Yo, Red Riot,” he said, nudging Kirishima’s shoulder lightly. “You’ve been kinda quiet today. What’s up?”
Kirishima blinked, forced a small smile.
“Nothin’ much. Just tired, I guess.”
Kaminari didn’t buy it, but didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head.
“You sure? You look like you’ve been carrying the weight of the world or somethin’.”
Before Kirishima could answer, Mina slid in on the other side, her expression softer than usual.
“Hey, Kiri,” she said quietly, voice almost a whisper. “We’re here if you wanna talk. You don’t have to keep everything bottled up.”
Kirishima swallowed hard.
He looked at them — their faces open, genuine.
Maybe he didn’t have to say anything now. But maybe, just maybe, having them here helped a little.
“Thanks, guys,” he said finally.
Kaminari gave him a thumbs-up. “Anytime.”
Mina smiled and settled in quietly, like a calming presence.
_____________________________________
His room was dim, only the soft glow of Kirishima’s phone screen cutting through the darkness.
He stared at the message box, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Hey. You okay?
Simple enough. He blinked, then erased it.
If you wanna talk, I’m here.
He paused. Try again.
Need anything?
Deleted that too.
He put the phone down, staring at the ceiling.
The silence pressed in.
He closed his eyes and tried to push the worry away.
But Bakugou’s face—the way he moved awkwardly today, the way Todoroki looked at him—it all stayed.
After a while, exhaustion won.
His phone slipped from his hand as sleep pulled him under.
A knock.
Pulled Kirishima out of sleep.
He barely cracked his eyes open, groaning as he groped around for his phone on the nightstand.
3:56 AM.
What the hell?
He blinked blearily at the door, still half tangled in his blanket. Another knock.
Dragging himself upright with a grunt, he shuffled over and cracked the door open.
Yellow hair.
“…Kaminari?”
“Hey—sorry, sorry, I know, it’s late,” Denki whispered quickly, eyes darting down the hall. “But—wait.” He blinked past Kirishima, pointing vaguely inside. “Did you move the table?”
Kirishima blinked, still half-asleep. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Couldn’t use my punching bag with it in the way.”
“Dude, this is so much better,” Kaminari said, like Kirishima had done a full renovation and not just shoved a table to the side.
Kirishima blinked at him. “You think so?”
“Totally. Feng shui or whatever.”
Kirishima gave a sleepy huff of a laugh, leaning his head against the doorframe.
“You good?” Kaminari asked after a second, softer now. Less joking.
Kirishima blinked. “Huh? Yeah. Just tired.”
“I, uh…” His joking tone faded. He rubbed his arms. “Went to get some water. And, like… I heard something.”
Kirishima’s brow furrowed.
“A thud. From Bakugou’s room.”
That woke him up a little more. “A thud?”
Kaminari nodded, face tightening. “I went to check, I swear. I knocked, no answer. Tried again, waited for too long, and then—”
He stopped.
“What?” Kirishima asked quietly.
Kaminari looked at him, voice low. “I opened the door,” Kaminari said quietly, “he was standing by his bed, sweating like crazy. Maybe freaked out? I couldn’t really tell—it was dark. And just when I was about to say something, he shoved me out”
Kirishima didn’t need any more explanation. Without a word, he stepped past Kaminari toward Bakugou’s room.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Kirishima muttered as he walked.
“The thud?” Kaminari said, following him. “Dude, you act like you’d wake up if an explosion went off right next to you. You wouldn’t even flinch.”
“I didn’t say I’d wake up,” Kirishima said, trying to sound casual. “Maybe you were still half asleep and just imagined it.”
Kaminari didn’t respond. Maybe he didn’t have one.
Now in front of Bakugou’s door, Kirishima glanced at the handle. Locked.
He knocked
once,
twice.
No answer.
Minutes dragged like hours. Kirishima glanced at Kaminari.
Something’s wrong. I should’ve checked earlier. Why the hell did I wait?
“Should I break the door?”
I honestly think I have to.
“No, bro—why would you do that?” Kaminari’s voice was sharp, as if Kirishima’s idea was crazy.
What else am I supposed to do? He’s not answering. What more do you need?
“What do you mean? He’s not answering.” Panic was creeping into Kirishima’s voice despite his effort to stay calm.
“That doesn’t mean we have to break it,” Denki said, motioning toward the door.
“We’re just checking on him—not staging a rescue mission.”
Denki sounded steady while Kirishima felt like he was about to explode.
Kirishima ignored Kaminari’s words. Kaminari said something—Kirishima didn’t hear. The next thing he knew, Denki was in front of the door, blocking it with both arms like a human barricade.
Why is he stopping me? That door’s stopping me from checking on Bakugou. I have to get in. I have to.
“Just chill, okay? I’ll call Aizawa.” Kaminari’s tone was firm but calm, trying to hold Kirishima back.
Kirishima’s fists were already clenched. His body was ready to move. Every instinct screamed at him to break the damn door. But he froze.
Not yet. Hold it together.
Denki’s fingers twitched at his sides as he pulled out his phone.
He tried to joke—something about Aizawa probably being awake anyway—but his voice wavered, just a little.
He looked calm.
But Kirishima had seen that look before.
He’s scared too.
Aizawa picked up on the first ring.
“Unless someone’s dying or blowing up the dorms, this call can wait.”
Kirishima could hear Aizawa’s muffled voice even without speakerphone. The hallway was dead quiet—every word carried.
“Uh…,” Kaminari hesitated, caught off guard. His mouth opened, closed again, searching for words.
“What’s wrong?”
The shift in Aizawa’s tone was instant—flat, then razor-sharp.
“I don’t know if something’s actually wrong,” Kaminari said, voice tight. “We’ve been knocking on Bakugou’s door, and he’s not answering. Like—not a sound. Kirishima was about to—”
“Break it.”
The word cut clean through the hallway—Aizawa’s voice, firm and final.
Before Kaminari could even react, Kirishima’s hand was already hardened into stone.
With one clean punch, he knocked the door inward—then caught it before it slammed to the ground.
Kirishima’s body tensed when he raised his head.
There was Bakugou—lying on the bed, face buried into the mattress. His upper half was sprawled across the mattress, while the rest of him hung off the side, legs bent awkwardly, his arm dangled uselessly.
His chest was rising too fast. Too shallow.
“Hey, man…” Kirishima called out, his voice low and careful, like Bakugou might be sleeping and he didn’t want to startle him.
He took a step forward. Then another.
No response.
“Bakugou?”
Still nothing.
He was close now. Close enough to see how pale Bakugou looked in the dim light. Close enough to see the sweat beading along his hairline. His breathing was ragged, too quick—like every inhale hurt.
“Shit,” he whispered.
He gripped Bakugou’s shoulder, gave him a small shake—not rough, just enough. Enough to wake him.
But Bakugou didn’t move. Not even a groan.
Shit.
Fuck.
Kirishima swallowed hard and moved instinctively, lowering himself further and easing his arms beneath Bakugou’s torso. His movements were careful, too careful—like any wrong move might break something he couldn’t fix.
He slid one arm beneath Bakugou’s back, the other under his knees, and shifted him gently. With a soft grunt, he eased him off the bed and onto the floor, laying him flat on his back.
His hand caught the back of Bakugou’s head, just barely, fingers cradling it to keep it from hitting the ground.
“Man… wake up,” Kirishima said. Pleading. He tried not to sound panicked—but it cracked anyway.
No response.
Then he noticed his hand.
Red.
Kirishima blinked, his breath hitching. He stared down at his fingers—streaked dark, glistening under the overhead light.
Where…?
Where did this come from?
It hadn’t been there before.
“Did you cut yourself on the door?” Kaminari asked from behind him.
Kirishima flinched at the sound. He’d forgotten Kaminari was even there. His voice felt like it was coming from somewhere far away—muffled.
There’s no way, Kirishima thought numbly.
He hadn’t cut himself. He used his quirk—his arms were solid when he broke the door. There was no pain. No sting.
“What is that…” Kaminari’s voice shifted, tighter now. “Under his head?”
A beat of silence.
“Kirishima… is that blood under his head?”
No.
There’s no fu—
Kirishima dared to lift his eyes.
Blood.
A dark, spreading pool beneath Bakugou’s head. Thick. Vivid. Still slowly blooming soaking the carpet.
He moved without thinking—instinct taking over. Gently, he slid a hand beneath Bakugou’s neck and lifted his head.
Shit.
It was worse than he thought.
The back of Bakugou’s head was soaked, dark red seeping through his hair and down his neck, still warm and sticky against Kirishima’s palm. His fingers met something wet and uneven—
A jagged swelling near the base of Bakugou’s skull. Split open skin. A dented edge.
It wasn’t clean. It looked like he’d struck something hard—an edge, sharp and unforgiving.
Head injuries.
They’re dangerous. Unpredictable. One bad hit and—
He could’ve fractured something. His skull, his neck—what if it was bleeding inside? What if—
Kirishima forced himself to blink, to breathe, but his chest felt tight. The blood on his hands refusing to be ignored.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
What the hell is he supposed to do?
Kirishima’s breath trembled in his chest as he looked up at Kaminari, hoping—begging—for something. Some idea, some guidance, anything.
But Kaminari just stood there, frozen, wide-eyed and pale.
Confused. Scared.
Just like him.
“Okay.” Kirishima took a deep breath, voice shaking despite himself. “We have to act.”
His brain was spinning, but one thing was clear—he had to stop the bleeding.
He pressed a hand gently around the injury again, fingers trembling.
“Kaminari—bring a towel. Or anything you can find to stop the bleeding. And a blanket.”
He didn’t even know if the blanket would help. But Bakugou’s skin was cold—too cold. Kirishima didn’t know if it was a real medical thing, but his gut told him to keep him warm. It felt right.
For a second, Kaminari didn’t move—like he hadn’t heard, or his brain hadn’t caught up to the words yet. Kirishima turned his head, already opening his mouth to shout—
—but Kaminari was gone.
Don’t move him too much.
Especially his neck and head—in case of a spinal injury.
Kirishima’s jaw clenched as the thought surfaced. He froze for a second, hands hovering. Then, carefully, he eased the blanket over Bakugou’s body. His hands worked on their own.
The fabric brushed over his arms, his shoulders, his chest—still rising and falling too fast, too shallow. Kirishima hated how cold his skin felt under it.
In the distance, drawers yanked open. Cabinets slammed.
Then—footsteps. Kaminari rushed back in, clutching a rolled-up towel in both hands like it was made of gold.
He took the towel and pressed it gently but firmly against the wound.
Bakugou flinched.
Kirishima’s heart jumped. “Hey, man—you’re with us?”
A low hiss escaped Bakugou’s lips. It wasn’t a word, but it was something. Right now, it was enough.
Kirishima leaned closer, his voice soft but urgent, like he was trying to coax him back from somewhere far away. He applied a little more pressure to the towel—not enough to cause more damage, just enough to bring Bakugou back through the pain.
“Can you hear me?”
Please. Please.
“Bakugou, if you’re awake—open your eyes. Just a little.”
Come on. Come on. Come on.
“Come on,” Kirishima whispered, like a prayer.
Then—there. A flicker.
His eyes cracked open, unfocused at first, just slivers of crimson under heavy lids. Bloodshot, glassy, slow to track—but they were open. They were there.
Red. Deep and burning, even dulled by pain. Not as sharp as usual, but unmistakably his.
Kirishima loved his eyes.
Even now—half-lidded, bloodshot, and swimming in pain—they were still Bakugou’s. Fierce. Unyielding. That sharp, molten red, like embers refusing to go out, even under the weight of blood loss and confusion. Like they were fighting to stay open just to spite the darkness.
He leaned in closer, voice going soft without meaning to.
“Hey,” kirishima whispered, like the sound might hurt him if it was too loud.
Those eyes dragged toward him—slow, unfocused—but they found him.
“Hey, man…” kiriahima sounded like he was flirting.
Idiot, focus.
“I mean—sorry, just… stay awake, alright? Don’t close your eyes.”
He gently adjusted Bakugou’s position, lowering him flat on his back—but tilted his head carefully to the side, just in case.
If he’s going to throw up or fall unconscious again… he can’t choke.
Bakugou jerked suddenly, his body trying to sit up—more reflex than reason.
Kirishima moved fast, pressing a hand to his shoulder, the other bracing his chest.
Don’t let him stand or sit up suddenly. Not after a head injury.
“No—hey, hey, don’t move yet,” Kirishima said quickly, firm but gentle, like he was trying to calm a wild animal. “Just stay still, okay? You hit your head, man.”
He didn’t know if Bakugou even understood, but saying it—naming the injury—felt like something. Something that might keep him from pushing up again.
“What the fuck—” Bakugou whispered, his voice rough and ragged, barely more than a breath.
Kirishima was wrong—Bakugou was trying to sit up again.
Maybe he wasn’t fully aware of what was happening. Maybe the pain and dizziness had scrambled his senses. Or maybe he was just being stubborn as hell.
Either way, Kirishima couldn’t let him move—
“Bakugou, stop,” Kirishima commanded, voice firm but steady, trying to keep calm even though his chest felt like it was about to burst.
He gently but firmly pressed Bakugou back down, locking eyes with him.
Bakugou’s breathing calmed but became shallow and uneven. His eyes, once flickering with a spark of awareness, now glazed over and lost focus again. He was slipping away.
“Hey, hey—don’t do that,” Kirishima urged, moving his face closer to Bakugou’s line of sight, voice low but urgent. “Stay with us, yeah? Stay here.”
Footsteps echoed softly from the hallway, growing louder and steadier.
Kirishima snapped his head toward the sound and saw Aizawa stepping into the room.
Aizawa’s tired, unkempt hair framed his worn but sharp face, eyes dark with concern beneath his signature goggles. His expression was calm, yet his whole presence carried a weight of quiet authority—a shield against chaos.
Kirishima’s throat tightened. He nearly felt tears sting his eyes. Seeing Aizawa felt like finding solid ground after being adrift in a storm.
As Aizawa drew closer, Kirishima instinctively stepped aside, clearing space. Kaminari did the same.
Aizawa crouched near Bakugou, quickly assessing the situation with a sharp glance.
“What happened?” Aizawa asked reaching to check Bakugou’s vitals.
Kirishima swallowed hard. “His head’s bleeding… and he’s fading in and out. He’s cold, barely responsive.”
Aizawa’s eyes narrowed, sharp and focused. “Did he vomit? Any seizures or convulsions?”
“No,”
“He did vomit,” Denki interjected from behind. “I saw it—in the bathroom. There was blood too.”
Kirishima snapped his head toward Denki, surprised. When did that happen?
Without a word, Aizawa moved to lift Bakugou. Kirishima’s heart jumped as Bakugou let out a low, ragged groan, his breath shallow and uneven. The sudden movement made him flinch, his eyes fluttering with confusion.
Aizawa held him close to his chest, steady and careful.
“I’m taking him to Recovery Girl,” Aizawa said, voice firm but calm. “You both did good.”
No—don’t take him away.
“I’m coming with you,” Kirishima blurted, stepping forward.
“Kirishima, it’s not the time to argue,” Aizawa said, “He’ll be fine. Go get some rest.”
Kirishima’s heart clenched. He had to go.
He stood frozen in place, staring after Aizawa’s retreating figure—more accurately, at Bakugou, cradled against his teacher’s chest like something breakable.
Bakugou’s head shifted slightly with the motion, and a soft, low groan slipped from his throat. His breathing was thin, ragged, each inhale a struggle. His face stayed pale. His hair, usually wild and full of fire, was damp and matted. One arm hung limply at his side, the other slightly curled in toward his chest, trembling faintly even in unconsciousness.
He looked small.
Kirishima’s throat tightened painfully.
Should I just follow him?
Would Aizawa be mad? Would Bakugou even want him there?
His fingers curled into fists, and he took one shaky breath.
Then another.
Even Kaminari stood frozen beside him, silent.
It wasn’t until the soft pad of Aizawa’s footsteps finally faded into silence that Kirishima exhaled. The kind of breath that hurt coming out, like it had been trapped behind his ribs for too long.
Kirishima stared down at his hands—still stained with blood.
Bakugou’s blood.
Still warm.