Archive of Our Own ^beta

The lights were already pulsing when Kaminari stepped into the club, though the night hadn’t really started yet.

The place was dim and violet, soaked in the haze of early fog machines and LED strobes that hadn’t been dialed up to full intensity. Music thudded somewhere beneath his ribs, a slow, sensual beat not quite fast enough to be danceable. He tugged his jacket off as he walked in, his blond hair messy from the wind, his expression unreadable.

Ashido was already there, leaning against the bar with two drinks in hand, her curls backlit pink by the shifting lights. She spotted him instantly, waving one arm high.

“There he is,” she called, voice cutting through the low hum of bass. “Looking like he hasn’t slept in a week. Come here.”

Kaminari managed a grin, one that didn’t reach his eyes, and slung his jacket over a nearby stool before making his way to her. He took the glass from her outstretched hand without asking what it was. It didn’t matter.

Ashido looked him over. “Okay, so. We’re not sad tonight. That’s the rule. Sad boys get booted from the playlist.”

“I’m not sad,” Kaminari said, knocking back half the drink in one go. It burned, sharp and sweet. “I’m...trying to have fun. Isn’t that the point?”

She squinted at him. “The point is to remind yourself you’re hot and single and surrounded by friends who care about you. Even if you have awful taste in emotionally unavailable assholes.”

Kaminari laughed under his breath, and it came out brittle. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

Behind them, someone turned up the lights over the dance floor. Purple shifted to blue, and a mirrored wall across the room reflected the small gathering starting to build. Heroes, mostly. Off-duty and flushed, half in uniform and half in leather. He recognized a few; Sero already sliding into a booth with Jirou and Yaoyorozu, all three of them dressed like they were here to forget the week. There were others he knew in passing. Tokoyami, perched at a high-top near the speakers, staring at nothing. Uraraka walking in with Hagakure, both already laughing.

Kaminari drained the rest of the drink and flagged the bartender for another.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Ashido asked, leaning beside him now, watching the growing crowd over the rim of her own drink. “I mean...he might show up.”

“That's the point of tonight.”

Ashido didn’t answer right away. She swirled her glass, the ice clinking. “I don’t think it’s the only point. But... yeah. I guess it is.”

Kaminari set his glass down a little too hard, already warm in the chest. “He’s not gonna come anyway.”

“You don’t know that.”

He did. Or he thought he did.

It had been weeks since they last saw each other, really saw each other. Since Kaminari yelled that he couldn’t watch him die again, and Bakugo said he didn’t need protecting. Since Kaminari packed a bag and told himself it was temporary. That Bakugo would call. That he would apologize. That something would give.

Nothing gave.

Ashido rested a hand on his shoulder. “If he doesn’t come, we get drunk and you dance with someone hotter. If he does—”

Kaminari looked away. “If he does come, I’m not saying anything.”

“Good. You’ll look better if you don’t.”

He huffed, and she smiled, and then someone called her name from across the room and she melted away into the crowd.

Kaminari stayed at the bar, ordered another drink. His fingers tapped against the marble top in rhythm with the beat, restless. The alcohol was making everything slow and soft, the edges blurring, the lights too pretty to look away from. He turned around, leaning against the bar, watching the dance floor start to bloom.

Bodies moved like water. Smoke curled above their heads. The music shifted, a new bassline building under a high synth, dreamy and bright.

Kaminari took another drink and didn’t look toward the door. 

It hit harder than he expected. It crept up slow, blooming warmth in his stomach, fuzzing out the edge of every thought. Kaminari blinked against the lights overhead, which seemed softer now, less like a headache waiting to happen and more like stars smeared across a nightclub ceiling. He let his shoulders drop, the weight of the week seeping out of him inch by inch. His jaw unclenched. His hands stopped shaking.

By the time he finished his third drink, the club was full enough to feel alive. The crowd pulsed with music, hips swaying under flashing strobes, familiar and unfamiliar faces blending in a blur of black mesh, slick jackets, and gleaming skin. Kaminari’s mind was quieter than it had been in months.

Someone clapped him on the back. Sero, looking too casual in ripped denim and an oversized shirt, his grin wide.

“You’re actually here,” Sero said. “Thought you were gonna flake.”

“I almost did.” Kaminari tilted his glass toward him. “Then I remembered I’m super fun at parties.”

“Yeah, when you’re not sulking like some tragic ex-boyfriend.”

Kaminari barked out a laugh and nearly spilled his drink. “Oh my God. Shut up.”

“You’re halfway to glitter tears and a monologue.”

“Shut up,” Kaminari said again, grinning now.

Sero just laughed and dragged him off the barstool, toward the center of the club where the lights cut more jagged and the floor pulsed under their shoes. The music had shifted again, faster this time, the kind that hit the spine first and begged the body to follow. Kaminari hesitated for half a second, then let himself get pulled in.

Ashido was already dancing, cheeks flushed and curls bouncing, surrounded by a loose circle of friends. Jirou was bobbing her head beside her, drink in hand. Uraraka had kicked off her heels and was dancing barefoot. Kaminari slid in next to them and raised his arms, letting the music take over.

It felt stupid. It felt good.

He started to laugh again, an actual laugh this time, messy and bright and carried by the bass. He moved like he meant it, careless and rhythmic, sweat already starting to bead at his temples. Ashido caught his eye and winked. Someone handed him another drink, he didn’t catch who, just took it and downed half without thinking.

The edges of the night softened even more.

He lost track of time. Minutes blurring into songs, songs bleeding into light, into voices, into touch. Someone brushed past him, hand on his shoulder, and he turned instinctively, but it wasn’t him. Kaminari blinked and turned back to the music.

At some point, he let Sero spin him in a lazy circle, arms in the air, laughing too hard to breathe. He leaned into Ashido’s side, their sweaty shoulders pressed together. He could barely feel the ache in his chest anymore.

“See?” she said, yelling over the music. “You’re glowing.”

“Probably just drunk,” Kaminari muttered, still smiling.

“Both!”

He twirled away from her with a half-dizzy stumble and caught himself against a column wrapped in LED vines. The floor shimmered. The lights overhead bled pink and violet. He laughed to himself and took another sip.

It didn’t feel like heartbreak. Not right now. It felt like heat and too much glitter in the air.

He hadn’t looked at the door in over an hour. He told himself he wasn’t going to.

Not unless something in his chest told him to.

Not unless he felt it.

And he didn’t. Not at all.

So he let the music carry him. Let the warmth in his veins blur everything sharp. Let the smile stretch wide again.

He was drunk, yeah. But more than that, he was bright.

Even if it wouldn’t last.

Bakugo stood outside the club for a full minute before going in.

The throb of bass shook the pavement beneath his boots, muffled through layers of walls and people, but it wasn’t the noise keeping him still. His grip tightened around the strap of the small black bag slung across his shoulder, and he exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the glowing club sign that painted everything in shifting hues of blue and pink. He looked like he belonged here. Dressed sharp in black, hair unruly as ever, eyes smudged with fatigue. But this wasn’t his kind of scene. Not anymore. Not for a long time.

He hadn't planned on coming. Not until Sero messaged him earlier with something half-joking and half-loaded: Not too late to swing by. You know who’s hoping you will.

Bakugo didn’t reply. He had stared at that text too long, jaw clenched, thumb hovering over the screen before he locked it and stuffed his phone in his pocket. But somehow, without telling anyone, he found himself standing outside the club an hour later, bag in hand like he always used to carry for Kaminari on nights like these.

He didn’t step in for Kaminari. That’s what he told himself. It was just that old instincts didn’t die fast. Kaminari could hold his liquor most nights, but sometimes it got ahead of him, fast and bright and wild. Bakugo had cleaned up the aftermath too many times to forget it.

Once, in their second year, Kaminari had slipped in the alley behind a club and split his lip open on the pavement. Bakugo spent the whole night in the emergency room with blood on his shirt. After that, he never let Kaminari go out alone, even if he never said it out loud.

He pulled the bag tighter on his shoulder and finally stepped through the door.

The heat hit him first. Then the lights. Then the noise.

It was overwhelming in a way he hated. Bodies pressed close, laughter rose above the beat, and the air smelled like liquor and sweat and something too sweet. He kept to the shadows, slipping along the outer rim of the club toward the bar, scanning the dance floor from the edges.

He saw him almost immediately.

Kaminari.

Right in the middle, under the lights. Laughing, shining, half-drunk and swaying. His hair was damp at the temples. His cheeks flushed. He was wearing something loose and low-cut, gold around his throat glinting in time with the music. He looked unreachable.

Bakugo didn’t move. Just stood and watched, bag slung across his body, arms crossed tight against his chest.

Kaminari looked good. He looked better than he had any right to.

But Bakugo knew that look. Knew what came after it. The crash. The spinning. The way Kaminari’s smile always stayed a few seconds longer than it should, like he was trying to convince himself it was real.

He’d been watching him unravel since high school. He had held him together too many nights to count. And yet here they were. Months apart. A dozen nights wasted. Half-finished fights and unopened messages sitting between them like glass.

Bakugo’s jaw twitched.

He had told himself he wouldn't get involved. That he wouldn’t come here tonight. That it wasn’t his place anymore. Kaminari was the one who left. Who said he couldn’t take it. Who walked out that night after yelling something about Bakugo treating his body like it was disposable.

The memory hit hard. Kaminari’s voice shaking. His eyes red. The front door slamming behind him. Bakugo sitting alone with blood on his knuckles from a patrol gone wrong, wondering if that had been the last time they would speak.

And now he was here. At a party. With half the hero world around him.

Bakugo reached into the side pocket of the bag and felt the edge of the water bottle, the faint crinkle of the wipes he always kept for Kaminari when his eyeliner ran or his hands got too sticky with spilled drinks. He hadn’t packed it for tonight, specifically. He kept it packed, always. Just in case.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and silent. Didn’t move towards Kaminari.

He wasn’t sure what he would say if he did.

So he stayed in the dark part of the room, watching, waiting, feeling the bass roll through him like thunder in his chest. Every time Kaminari tipped back his head to laugh, every time his balance faltered, every time someone got too close, Bakugo’s grip tightened on the strap of the bag.

The lights kept shifting, cutting across the floor like waves, blue into pink into gold. Bakugo stood near a side pillar, close enough to watch but just far enough to stay in the dark. His eyes never left Kaminari.

He couldn’t tear them away.

Every part of him itched. Every throb of the bass in his ribs made it harder to breathe. Kaminari moved like he was made for this. Loose, bright, surrounded by people who adored him, laughing like his chest didn’t still carry the last fight between them. Like he hadn’t cried when he left.

Bakugo remembered that night in too much detail.

The way Kaminari had hovered in the doorway, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, backpack slung lazy over one arm like he didn’t want to go but couldn’t bear to stay. He had looked exhausted. Voice rough. Said something like I can’t keep watching you hurt yourself just to prove you’re fine.

Bakugo didn’t answer then. He hadn’t known how.

And now here he was, months later, stuck in the shadows of a club, still with no idea what he was supposed to say. No idea how to cross the space between them. He had faced death more times than he could count, but walking into that glow felt like the one thing he couldn’t do.

Kaminari stumbled a little when he tried to spin too fast, his hand catching Ashido’s shoulder to stay upright. She was laughing, steadying him, brushing something from his cheek. Bakugo’s stomach twisted. He looked flushed and happy, a little too loose around the edges, but still Kaminari. Still golden, still careless. Still something Bakugo wanted like oxygen.

Wanted him enough that it hurt.

Someone approached from the side, and Bakugo tensed until he caught a glimpse of red.

Kirishima.

He looked the same as ever. Broad shoulders, jacket half unzipped, bright smile trained toward the dance floor. Midoriya trailed just behind him, eyes already darting around like he was cataloging every hero in the room.

Kirishima spotted Bakugo first. His face lit up like always, relief in his expression before he jogged the last few steps and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come, man,” he said, voice raised over the beat.

Bakugo didn’t look at him. Just gave a quiet grunt.

“I think he’s had a few already,” Kirishima added, nodding toward the dance floor.

Bakugo’s eyes flicked back. Kaminari was moving slower now, more fluid. His hand was in the air, head tilted back, neck glowing under the lights. Sweat beaded at his temples. His lips were parted, breathless even when he wasn’t dancing hard.

Midoriya stepped up beside Kirishima, green eyes squinting into the crowd. “He looks better,” he said carefully, voice unsure. “He’s smiling.”

Bakugo let out a short laugh, low in his throat, like his smile meant everything was fucking fine.

Kirishima looked at him for a second too long. “You want to talk to him?”

Bakugo shook his head.

“Come on,” he pressed. “It’s not like he’d push you away.”

“He’s drunk,” Bakugo muttered. “He doesn’t need me fucking this up again.”

Midoriya exchanged a look with Kirishima but didn’t say anything. Instead, he leaned on the railing behind them, watching the room like it was all happening through glass. Kirishima shifted closer, dropping his voice low.

“You didn’t fuck anything up. He just he wanted you to slow down. Everyone does.”

Bakugo’s jaw flexed. “I don’t know how.”

He didn’t say it like a confession. He said it like a fact.

He wasn’t made to be soft. Wasn’t made to stop when he could keep going. Kaminari had always hated that about him, loved it too, maybe, but hated how much it cost. How Bakugo would show up bleeding and smirking like it didn’t mean anything.

The last mission before the fight had nearly killed him. Kaminari had been the one to patch him up. Screaming his name to make sure Bakugo was still conscious. Hands shaking.

Bakugo hadn’t said thank you. He hadn’t said anything at all.

And now here he was.

Just watching.

The music shifted again. Slowed. A dreamy rhythm took over, pulling the tempo down into something warmer, sweeter. Kaminari was still on the floor, spinning lazy in the light, arms above his head like he was reaching for something Bakugo couldn’t give.

Bakugo stared so hard it burned.

“I brought water,” he said suddenly.

Kirishima blinked. “What?”

He tugged the strap of the bag higher on his shoulder. “Water. Wipes. His headache meds. They’re in here.”

Kirishima didn’t laugh. Just looked at him like he understood completely.

“Go to him,” he said softly. “He won't push you away.”

Bakugo stayed rooted. Watching.

Watching Kaminari laugh too hard at something Ashido said. Watching the way he leaned against the pillar when the song ended, chest heaving, hair damp. Watching his smile falter just for a second when he thought no one was looking.

He was always looking.

And it was killing him.

Kirishima looked like he was about to say something else, maybe try to nudge Bakugo a little closer to the edge, but Midoriya tugged at his sleeve. He was flushed already, cheeks pink under the strobe lights, and he leaned close enough for Bakugo to hear his voice even over the music.

"Sorry, Kacchan," Midoriya said, and his hand had already slipped down to grip Kirishima’s wrist, pulling him a step back. "I need him for a bit."

Bakugo didn’t answer. Just nodded once, eyes still locked on the crowd.

Kirishima opened his mouth, hesitated, then let himself be led away. Bakugo watched Midoriya press up against him as they moved off toward a darker corner near the lounge seats. Midoriya was already laughing, already burying his hands under the hem of Kirishima’s jacket, touching him like they hadn’t seen each other in weeks. Kirishima’s arm circled his waist quick, familiar. The two of them half-disappeared into the shadows, bodies close, lips almost touching before they vanished into the next moment.

Bakugo looked away.

He hated this part. The lingering. The waiting. Like his own body was betraying him by keeping him still. His fingers curled tighter around the strap of the bag.

He was still in the same spot. Still watching Kaminari laugh with someone else, shoulder pressed to Sero’s, eyes glazed with something sweet and slow. A few people moved between them. Bakugo let them.

He should've left.

Drop off the water, say nothing, get out before he made a mess of things. Before his voice cracked the way it did when he was too tired to hold it back. Before Kaminari looked at him and smiled like everything was fine, when it wasn’t. Not really.

Before he had to face what it meant to want him this badly and still not reach for him.

He took one step to the left, thinking maybe he’d at least circle the room. Get closer. Drop the bag off behind the bar if he had to.

But before he could move again, a voice snapped him out of it.

"Yo, Dynamight," Camie said, her glossy mouth curled into something catlike. "You’re gonna burn a hole in his shirt if you stare harder."

He turned, startled, and saw her standing beside him, her black lace top clinging tight, golden streaks painted under her eyes. She looked amused, arms crossed, leaning her hip into the wall. Todoroki stood beside her, a drink in one hand, the other tucked in the pocket of a slate-grey jacket. His two-tone hair was tucked behind one ear, his expression neutral as usual.

"Didn’t think this place was your vibe," Camie added. She stepped closer and tipped her chin up to look at him, lashes fluttering. "But I guess everyone’s out here trying not to think too hard lately."

Bakugo snorted. "Didn’t come to party."

Todoroki raised an eyebrow. "What's with the bag?."

Bakugo ignored that. His eyes drifted back to the dance floor once, then snapped back when Camie looped her arm through his.

"Alright, hero of the year," she said. "You’ve officially hit your brooding quota for the night. We’re kidnapping you."

"Let go."

"Nope."

She tugged him with surprising strength toward the bar. Todoroki followed behind, unfazed, sipping from his glass like this was routine. Bakugo dug in his heels for a second, but the grip on his arm was firm, and Camie had that look she always wore when she was seconds away from pulling off something stupid but fun.

"One drink," she said, voice sing-song. "One drink and you can go back to frowning in the corner and pining like a loser."

Bakugo rolled his eyes. "I’m not pining."

Camie tilted her head. "You brought him a whole hungover bag, babe."

He didn’t answer. Just let her drag him the rest of the way.

They reached the bar. It was crowded now, the air sticky with the heat of too many bodies and the scent of citrus and sweat. The bartender raised an eyebrow when they waved him down.

"Something strong," Camie ordered. 

Todoroki pointed to his own drink. "This one has shiso in it. It’s weird. Try it."

Bakugo muttered under his breath, but he took the glass when it was shoved into his hand. He didn’t ask what it was. Just sipped. It was cold and bitter, tasted vaguely herbal, and hit his empty stomach harder than he wanted to admit.

Camie raised her own glass, clinked it against his. "To getting out of your own head for a second."

Bakugo didn’t clink back. But he drank anyway.

For now, it was enough not to look at the dance floor. Just for a little while.

Kaminari didn’t notice him at first. He was too far gone for that.

The music had dipped into something slick and steady, a velvet synth rolling through the air like a heartbeat. It soaked into his skin, hot and slow, a lull that made it easier to move even as his limbs got heavier. He was drunk, really drunk now. The kind where the floor stopped feeling like it was under you, and your smile hung on a half-second delay behind your thoughts.

He was leaning against the pillar again, eyes closed, chest rising with uneven breaths. Someone passed him a bottle of water but he barely touched it, too dizzy to care. The laughter around him grew louder, more unhinged, and Ashido was somewhere nearby talking to Sero, her voice bright and fast. Kaminari didn’t hear the words. He was floating.

Then, something shifted.

He opened his eyes for no reason in particular, just to blink the blur out, and looked up through the haze. The bar shimmered in the distance, bright behind the crowd. It took a second for his eyes to focus. He blinked once, then again.

And he saw him.

Bakugo.

His whole body stilled.

The heat in his veins froze and flared at once, a spark that jumped too high, too fast, right into his throat. He stared, breath caught, heartbeat crawling up the inside of his ribs like it wanted out.

Bakugo was at the bar, a glass in his hand, surrounded by people Kaminari recognized in pieces. Camie talking too close, Todoroki standing like a stone beside him, sipping his drink like nothing in the world was complicated. But Bakugo…

Bakugo was real.

He looked the same. Hair a mess, jaw sharp, the black of his shirt clinging to his arms. He didn’t look like he belonged here either. Even now, even relaxed, there was something guarded in his stance. Something taut. His eyes were heavy-lidded and unreadable.

Kaminari swallowed, hard. His mouth had gone dry.

He couldn’t look away.

The last time he’d seen Bakugo had been through a slammed door and the echo of his own voice screaming. That night had never left him. He had dreamt about it. Not the fight, but the moment right before it. When Bakugo came home bleeding again, barely able to stand. When Kaminari touched his face and said please, just once, let someone else take the hit.

Bakugo hadn’t answered. He had sat on the couch in silence, clutching the ragged edge of a towel, blood dripping down his wrist. Kaminari had packed a bag in tears.

And now he was here.

Kaminari’s fingers curled against the edge of the pillar. He wanted to move. His body itched with the need to get closer. But he stayed frozen, caught between two beats of a song he didn’t recognize.

He was too drunk to trust his legs. Too drunk to know what he’d say if he got close.

Would Bakugo even want him there?

He didn’t look over. Not once. He just stood there, drink in hand, eyes on something Kaminari couldn’t see. It stung. It burned. Kaminari had imagined this moment too many times. And in every one of them, Bakugo looked up first.

He looked now like he wasn’t even thinking about him. Like he was fine.

Kaminari turned away slowly, one shoulder pressing against the pillar. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, trying to think through the buzz.

He had gotten what he asked for. Bakugo was alive. He was here. He had come.

But he hadn’t come for him.

Kaminari closed his eyes. His pulse rang in his ears. The alcohol blurred everything sharp, softened every nerve, but not enough. Not where it counted.

He stayed where he was. Let the music roll over him. Let the crowd shift and breathe and surge around his body like waves.

He didn’t move toward the bar.

But his heart already had.

The second drink hit harder than the first.

Bakugo didn’t realize how long he’d been standing at the bar until Camie started tracing idle shapes into the condensation on his glass with her nail. Todoroki had wandered off somewhere, probably in pursuit of a quieter place to think. Or maybe to find someone who wasn’t silently unraveling over a blond idiot on the dance floor.

He had lost sight of Kaminari again. That made him worse. The moment he couldn’t see him, it was like everything tightened under his skin. Like maybe he’d disappeared again. Maybe he’d left the club, maybe he was already gone.

He told himself it didn’t matter. It wasn’t his problem anymore.

Then Camie leaned over and whispered something about regrets tasting worse in the morning, and Bakugo barked a dry laugh, surprising even himself. His body felt warm. Loose. The room was spinning just a little too much to ignore, and the music was too loud, and his mouth was buzzing like his lips wanted to move before his brain could keep up.

"Need another?" she asked, already tipping her empty glass toward the bartender.

He should have said no.

Instead, he nodded.

She slid the next one into his hand without fanfare. Something peach-colored and too sweet. He didn’t care. He drank half of it without tasting anything.

The lights looked different now. Everything was softer. He leaned back against the bar, the strap of his bag digging into his shoulder, but he didn’t move to fix it. His head tilted slightly, and he let his eyes drift across the room again.

Bodies packed into the floor. A blur of heat and color and motion. No faces sharp enough to matter.

Then, in the corner of his vision, he caught it again.

Gold hair. Loose shirt. Fingers wrapped around a half-empty bottle of water.

Kaminari.

Leaning against a column like he was trying to melt into it. Eyes glassy. Expression unreadable from this distance.

He was still here.

Bakugo’s fingers clenched around the rim of his glass. His drink sloshed too close to the edge, and he didn’t notice until Camie reached out and tilted it back upright for him.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice teasing but quieter now.

He didn’t answer.

Camie followed his gaze, then sighed.

"You’re getting pathetic," she said, though her voice was surprisingly gentle. "Tragic, even. I love it. Very third act of a messy romance film."

Bakugo shook his head.

He was too warm. Too full of nothing. The drinks made everything feel like it was underwater, every breath like it had to be pulled from the depths.

He blinked, and Kaminari was still standing there.

They hadn’t locked eyes. Not once.

But he felt it. That thread.

It was always there.

Bakugo let his head drop forward, eyes closed for a second, just listening to the muffled bass. Trying not to fall into the memory of Kaminari’s voice. The way he used to say his name when they were alone. The way he’d laugh when Bakugo pretended not to care. The way he used to sit cross-legged on their couch and reach out without asking, pressing his cold fingertips to Bakugo’s wrist just to feel the pulse under his skin.

The ache rose again, unsteady in his chest.

He drank the rest of whatever was in the glass. Too fast.

Camie raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

The club was too bright now. Too loud. The air was sticky and heavy and everything he didn’t want it to be.

Still, he didn’t leave.

He stayed. Fingers loose around the empty glass. Vision still drifting to the far side of the room.

Where Kaminari was beginning to move again.

He had made it halfway through another drink before he realized it was a mistake.

It tasted like syrup and citrus and something fizzy that made his tongue buzz. He didn’t even remember who handed it to him like the earlier ones. Maybe Ashido. Maybe someone else. He didn’t ask. He just tipped it back and let it wash over him, let it press into the edges of everything until the club was soft again, warm and spinning and full of stars.

The floor pulsed under his feet. Someone shouted beside him. The lights blinked red, then violet, then gold.

And suddenly, he saw Bakugo again.

He was still at the bar. Still dressed like the apocalypse. Still standing like he hadn’t moved an inch in an hour.

Kaminari’s chest clenched, then released.

He didn’t think. He just walked.

He weaved through the crowd, shoulder bumping into someone, head tipping a little too far to one side. His limbs felt like they were made of something looser than muscle. His body moved on instinct, legs carrying him closer, closer, until the music folded away and there was nothing between them except air and half-finished sentences from months ago.

Bakugo hadn’t seen him yet. Or maybe he had. He didn’t look up. His eyes were half-lidded, focused on the drink in front of him, jaw tight.

Kaminari stopped at his side. Wobbled slightly. Smiled.

"Hey, pretty boy," he said, voice sticky with alcohol and warmth, grin spreading across his flushed face. "You come here often?"

Bakugo turned to look at him.

His expression didn’t change at first. Just a slow blink. A flick of the eyes down Kaminari’s body, then back up to his face.

Kaminari leaned against the bar beside him, shoulder brushing close but not quite touching.

Bakugo stared at him. "You’re drunk."

"Am not," Kaminari said, lips curled around the words like they tasted good. "It's rude to make assumptions about strangers."

He lifted his hand and pointed loosely at Bakugo’s chest. "You got a name, or should I just call you mine?"

Bakugo’s face twitched. Barely. The faintest crack of something unreadable at the edge of his mouth.

"You’re an idiot," he said.

Kaminari laughed. Bright and breathless.

He leaned in slightly, just enough for Bakugo to catch the scent of his cologne, sharp and sweet, laced with sweat and smoke. His hair was messier than usual, strands falling into his eyes. His cheeks were pink, lips parted, and his gaze was unfocused but locked in place, like nothing else in the club existed.

"You’re really hot, you know that?" he said, voice low now. "Like, unfairly hot. It’s messed up."

Bakugo didn’t answer.

Kaminari swayed closer. "I should take you home. Or let you take me home. Your call. I’m easy."

Bakugo blinked. His jaw clenched once.

"You don’t know what you’re saying."

Kaminari smiled wider. "I do. You’re the one who looks like he’s waiting for something to hurt."

The silence between them stretched. The lights flickered gold across Kaminari’s skin. He was swaying slightly, not quite able to stand still, fingers tapping against the edge of the bar like they were searching for something to hold on to.

Bakugo didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looked at him. Really looked.

Kaminari was flushed down to his throat, the tips of his ears red, sweat glinting along his hairline under the flicker of club lights. His pupils were blown wide. His grin was crooked and dizzy, his body swaying even while standing still.

He was beautiful, and Bakugo hated how easily that fact crushed the air out of his lungs.

He reached for the bag without a word. His fingers moved with quiet purpose, the same way they had the first time Kaminari got too drunk in a place like this. That time Bakugo had found him in a stairwell, sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up and his voice slurring through a joke no one had stayed long enough to hear.

He pulled out the water bottle, the same kind Kaminari always liked. Cold. No fancy branding. Just simple. Reliable.

Kaminari was still smiling, confused but soft now, his weight resting more fully against the bar. He watched as Bakugo twisted the cap open and held it out, arm steady.

"Here," Bakugo said, voice low.

Kaminari blinked at it, head tilted. "Is this a trick?"

"Drink it."

Kaminari didn’t move. He just looked at the bottle, then up at Bakugo’s face. There was something fragile in his eyes now, like the heat was fading. Like the joke was over.

Bakugo sighed through his nose. He raised the bottle a little and, with his other hand, reached forward and tilted Kaminari’s chin up with two fingers.

"Open your mouth, dumbass."

The touch was gentle. The tone wasn’t. But something in it made Kaminari go very still.

He opened his mouth obediently, eyes wide now, lips parted. Bakugo brought the bottle to his lips and poured, slowly. His hand under Kaminari’s chin kept the angle steady, his thumb pressing just barely against the soft skin there.

The water touched his tongue and Kaminari drank like he had been starved for it.

A little trickled down the corner of his mouth, and Bakugo caught it with his thumb before it could trail down his neck. His eyes didn’t leave Kaminari’s face. Not for a second.

Kaminari’s lashes fluttered. His breath caught. He swallowed hard, mouth closing around the last sip.

Bakugo lowered the bottle, screwed the cap back on with one hand, and returned it to the bag. His other hand lingered a moment longer at Kaminari’s chin before he pulled away.

"You’re a mess," he muttered.

Kaminari didn’t respond right away. His grin was gone. In its place was something quieter. Softer.

"You always do that," he said. His voice was thick with sleep and drink, but the words were clear.

"Do what."

"Take care of me but act like you’re mad about it."

Bakugo looked away. The lights had shifted again. Blue now. Blue and dim and flickering across the side of Kaminari’s face. His hair stuck to his forehead, and he looked smaller, somehow.

"You don’t remember what you said to me five minutes ago."

Kaminari laughed, but there was no brightness in it.

"I remember that you’re here."

Bakugo’s mouth pressed into a line.

"Let me sit down with you," Kaminari whispered.

Bakugo didn’t nod. He didn’t offer his hand. But he turned, slowly, away from the bar. Started walking toward the shadowed edge of the lounge without looking back.

And Kaminari followed.

They found a seat tucked into a low corner of the lounge, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain and a row of half-empty glasses. The light didn’t reach here fully. Just a soft shimmer from the dance floor that pooled at their feet and left the rest of the booth in gentle shadow. The kind of place people disappeared into when they didn’t want to be seen, or when they wanted to be seen by the right person only.

Bakugo sat first. He slid in with slow, steady movements, leaning back against the leather cushions like his limbs were too heavy to fight anymore. His knees spread apart lazily, one arm draped along the back of the seat. The warmth from the drinks still pulsed low in his chest, numbing his thoughts just enough to let him breathe.

Kaminari dropped into the booth beside him without hesitation. He slumped toward Bakugo immediately, his shoulder brushing his, head tilted back against the cushion. His eyes were half-lidded, his breath uneven, but there was something calmer in him now. The fight had drained out of his muscles. The false brightness, the flirty jokes, all stripped away. What was left looked tired, soft, and familiar.

They didn’t speak for a while.

The noise from the club buzzed just beyond the curtain. Laughter spilled through in waves. Glasses clinked. The bassline shifted to something slower, humming low through the walls like a second heartbeat.

Kaminari let his head fall sideways, forehead nearly touching Bakugo’s shoulder.

"I missed this," he said softly, voice scratchy and tired.

Bakugo stared straight ahead. He didn’t answer.

Kaminari shifted closer, knees drawn up slightly on the cushion. His thigh pressed into Bakugo’s, warm through the fabric of his pants. His fingers curled in the fabric of his own sleeve, pulling at a loose thread.

"I missed you."

Bakugo’s jaw tensed. He took in a slow breath and let it out through his nose. The air felt thick between them, like it didn’t want to move unless one of them did something about it.

"You left," he said, eyes fixed on the opposite wall.

"I know."

"You said you couldn’t take it anymore."

"I couldn’t," Kaminari whispered. "I thought if I stayed I’d have to watch you die. I couldn’t... I couldn’t see it again."

Bakugo finally turned his head. His gaze landed on Kaminari’s face, and what he saw made something inside him twist. His eyes were glassy, lips parted like he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. His body leaned close without meaning to. It wasn’t a performance anymore.

"I didn’t die," Bakugo said, voice quiet but heavy.

"You did."

"That’s not the same."

"It is to me."

Bakugo looked away again, pressing the heel of his hand to his brow for a moment. The alcohol throbbed behind his eyes. Kaminari was too close. Or maybe not close enough.

"Why were you flirting with me like we don’t know each other?" he muttered, voice thick.

Kaminari gave a small, uneven laugh.

"Because I didn’t know how else to look at you."

Bakugo didn’t move.

"You looked so good over there," Kaminari said. His voice wobbled, soft with drunken honesty. "Like you belonged to someone else. Like I had to earn you again just to speak."

Bakugo dropped his hand and turned toward him slowly. Kaminari was still watching him, eyes rimmed in gold light, cheeks flushed from drink and heat and whatever had been building between them for months.

"You don’t have to earn shit," Bakugo said. "You already had me."

Silence pressed around them again, but this time it was different. Heavy with something warm. Something real.

Kaminari shifted closer. One hand reached up, fingertips brushing Bakugo’s jaw. It was a clumsy, uncertain touch, but Bakugo didn’t flinch away. He let it happen. Let Kaminari trace the edge of his cheekbone like he couldn’t believe he was allowed.

Bakugo’s eyes closed. Just for a moment.

"You’re still too drunk," he murmured.

"Just enough to be honest."

Bakugo swallowed hard.

"I never stopped wanting you," Kaminari whispered. "Even when I left."

Bakugo’s fingers curled into the seat. He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. He felt like he was being held over a cliff and handed the choice to jump or let go.

He turned his head, just slightly, and let Kaminari’s hand slide against his cheek.

The quiet stretched between them, thick and almost sacred. It wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It sat like smoke in their lungs, like something fragile and suspended in air that neither of them wanted to disturb. Bakugo’s heart was beating louder than the music outside. He could feel the thrum of it in his chest, in his throat, in his wrists where his pulse jumped each time Kaminari shifted beside him.

Kaminari’s fingers drifted down, brushing his jaw one last time before falling back into his lap. He slouched further into Bakugo’s side, like he had no strength left to hold himself up, like he was surrendering to gravity and the warmth he’d been aching for all night. His breath came slow and warm against Bakugo’s collarbone.

Bakugo didn’t move.

The booth around them blurred. The lights softened. He could still hear someone laughing out on the floor, high and shrill and distant. A glass shattered somewhere near the bar. Camie’s voice floated in and out like a breeze, singing along to something off-key. All of it faded into the background as Kaminari leaned in, pressing his face gently into Bakugo’s shoulder.

His hair was damp. His skin too warm. He melted against Bakugo like he’d finally given up pretending not to miss him.

“Take me home,” he murmured.

Bakugo froze.

The words hit him square in the chest. Not because they were slurred and clumsy, not because they were whispered in that voice he hadn’t heard in weeks outside of static-filled memories, but because of what they meant. What they still meant.

Take me home.

Home.

The apartment had not felt like that in months. Not since Kaminari packed up half the bathroom and left the lights on in the kitchen because he forgot it was his last night there. Not since the bed got too big, and the silence in the living room made Bakugo feel like he was walking into a graveyard every time he opened the door. Not since the second toothbrush sat untouched, and Bakugo stopped checking if Kaminari had maybe forgotten something in the drawers just to have a reason to open them.

And now he was here. Warm and drunk and clinging to him like the word still held weight. Like it still meant their place. Like it still meant him.

Bakugo closed his eyes, just for a second.

“Denki,” he said quietly.

Kaminari hummed into his shoulder. His breathing had slowed even more. The kind of quiet that made it hard to tell if he was dozing or waiting for a reply.

“You sure?” Bakugo asked. His voice cracked around the edge.

Kaminari gave a soft laugh, barely more than a breath. “I’ve been waiting all night for you to look at me like that again.”

Bakugo didn’t know what he looked like. He didn’t care. He didn’t trust his face to hide any of it.

“You’ll feel it in the morning,” he said.

“I know.”

“You might take it back.”

Kaminari leaned in closer. His lips brushed the fabric of Bakugo’s shirt as he spoke.

“I won’t.”

Bakugo looked down at him. The pink in his cheeks, the way his lashes had stuck together, the faint smile at the corner of his mouth. He looked like a mess. Like something wrecked and exhausted and radiant in a way that twisted everything in Bakugo’s chest into knots.

He reached for the bag without looking. Pulled out a second bottle of water, held it between them.

“Drink more before we go.”

Kaminari blinked up at him, dazed, but took it. He drank slowly this time. Bakugo watched his throat work as he swallowed. Watched the curve of his mouth, the slight tremble in his fingers.

When he was done, Bakugo capped the bottle and shoved it back in the bag. He slid out of the booth and straightened his back with a sharp breath. The dizziness hadn’t fully left him, but the weight of the moment cleared his mind enough to stand.

He held out his hand.

Kaminari stared at it for a moment, like he didn’t expect it. Then he smiled -crooked, tired, but real- and took it.

Bakugo held on tight.

They walked out together, past the lights, the noise, the blur of other people laughing and dancing and drowning out the ache inside them. Kaminari leaned into him as they moved, too warm and heavy on his side, but Bakugo didn’t let go. Not even when the air outside hit their skin and made Kaminari shiver.

He was taking him home. Not to a place, not to a bed. To a building full of memories waiting to collapse under their weight.

He was taking him home because home had always been him.

The door clicked shut behind them with a sound that echoed louder than it should have. Like the place had been holding its breath for months and finally let it out. The hallway light flickered to life when Bakugo moved, casting a dull amber glow across the apartment's familiar bones. It was the same as he had left it hours ago, but something had already started to shift in the air. Like it could feel the gravity of what Bakugo had brought back through the door.

Kaminari toed off his boots, wobbling slightly until Bakugo reached out and steadied him with a hand to the small of his back. He grinned at him, cheeks still pink, and his lashes heavy over glazed eyes.

“Good?” Bakugo asked, voice quiet, low enough that it didn’t break whatever new, fragile peace had crept in with them.

Kaminari nodded, then stumbled a little to the left. “Yeah. Floor’s just extra wobbly tonight.”

Bakugo huffed. He didn’t laugh, not really, but something gentler passed over his face before he turned to flick the lights on properly. Warm yellow filled the space, and for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel harsh. The apartment felt smaller somehow, but not in the suffocating way it had felt since Kaminari left. It felt full now. With breath, with warmth, with something that felt like color even though nothing had changed.

He helped Kaminari toward the couch, careful with his steps even though Kaminari’s body moved like it had half-forgotten how to balance. They collapsed together onto the cushions, Kaminari with a sigh and Bakugo with a grunt as he reached to undo the buttons of Kaminari’s jacket. The collar was too tight, the sleeves bunched from the way Kaminari had tugged at them all night without realizing.

“You’re a mess,” Bakugo muttered as he pulled the jacket off his shoulders and tossed it aside.

Kaminari smiled again, lopsided. “Missed hearing you say that.”

Bakugo didn’t answer. He slipped away only for a moment, heading into the kitchen to grab another bottle of water from the fridge and a clean cloth from the drawer near the sink. The place had stayed clean out of habit, but untouched in ways that stung. His cup sat alone on the drying rack. The blanket on the couch hadn’t been unfolded in weeks. He still made enough coffee for two and poured the second one down the drain before work.

When he returned, Kaminari had slumped sideways, one arm draped along the back of the couch, his head leaning into the cushion. Bakugo handed him the water and watched him drink, slow and quiet this time, until there was only a third of the bottle left.

“Don’t throw up,” Bakugo warned.

Kaminari nodded solemnly. “No promises.”

He was half-asleep when Bakugo wiped the sweat from his forehead and the sides of his face, gentle movements that betrayed how often he had done this before. The club’s heat had followed them home, clinging to Kaminari’s skin, making his cheeks red and his hair stick to his temples. But as Bakugo dabbed the cloth along his jaw and down his neck, Kaminari leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering open and shut like he didn’t want to miss it.

“This place feels different,” Kaminari whispered after a while.

Bakugo paused. His hand stilled just at the dip of Kaminari’s throat.

“You changed something?” Kaminari asked, blinking up at him. “Smells the same. But I don’t know. It feels... warmer.”

Bakugo swallowed around the lump that had risen in his throat. He pulled the cloth away and folded it neatly in his lap. “I didn’t change anything.”

Kaminari smiled. “Then it’s us.”

Bakugo didn’t respond. He looked at the apartment around them instead.

The shoes by the door no longer looked like they were waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back. The crooked picture frame that had once driven him insane sat a little easier on the wall now, like maybe it didn’t have to be perfect to be right. The shadows didn’t crowd him the way they had before. The couch didn’t feel too big anymore.

He realized then how much still belonged to Kaminari in this space. His charger was still stuffed into the wall by the side table. One of his hair clips laid forgotten beside the television remote. His jacket from last winter still hung behind the door, even though Bakugo had told himself more than once he should pack it away. Maybe he never really believed Kaminari wouldn’t come back. Maybe some part of him had been waiting.

Bakugo looked down and found Kaminari watching him.

He shifted closer, if that was even possible, curling himself into Bakugo’s chest like he was chasing the sound of his heartbeat. His arms looped around Bakugo’s middle in a loose, sleepy hold that still somehow managed to feel desperate.

Bakugo didn’t move. He let himself be held, let Kaminari bury his nose into the space between his collarbones like it was familiar territory. Because it was. All of it was. The shape of their bodies together, the heat they shared. The way Kaminari clung when he was drunk. The way he talked when his thoughts were unspooling faster than he could catch them.

“You remember that ramen place,” Kaminari mumbled against his shirt, voice sticky with sleep and liquor. “The one down by the station with the crooked sign and the grumpy old guy who always told us to stop touching each other in line.”

Bakugo hummed. “Yeah.”

“He gave me extra egg once. Think it was because I fixed the power line outside.”

“You got electrocuted?”

“Still counts,” Kaminari said, and Bakugo could feel the smile in his voice. “That egg was amazing.”

He fell quiet for a beat, and Bakugo thought maybe he was falling asleep. But then Kaminari stirred again, arms tightening.

“And remember when we fought that slime villain in winter? You were so mad because it ruined your gloves. I think that’s the angriest I’ve ever seen you. Not the villain. Just the gloves.”

“They were leather,” Bakugo muttered.

“You said something about them being imported from a specialty shop in Kyoto.”

“Because they were.”

Kaminari laughed, soft and loose, breath hitching as it spilled against Bakugo’s skin. “You didn’t even care you got hit in the ribs. Just yelled at me for slipping in the snow and not grabbing the guy faster.”

“You did slip, dumbass.”

“You grabbed me by the collar and told me my center of gravity was shit.”

Bakugo sighed. “Your center of gravity is shit.”

“Still think about that sometimes. The cold, the snow, how you kept complaining about it.”

Kaminari rambled on, voice low and rough, threading one memory into the next. He talked about the time they got locked on a rooftop during patrol because the door jammed and Bakugo had to blast it open. He talked about the summer heatwave and how they used to sleep on the floor in front of the fan with ice packs under their shirts. He talked about little things, mundane things, like Bakugo’s grocery list and the dumb names they gave their plants, the coffee that always burned his tongue because he never waited for it to cool.

He didn’t stop. Not for a long while.

Bakugo just listened. One hand moved slowly up and down Kaminari’s spine. He let the words wash over him, thick with exhaustion and longing and something tender that had been missing from his life for too long.

“You smell the same,” Kaminari murmured finally, voice getting sleepier with each word. “I used to think it was just the house. But it’s you.”

Bakugo’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say to that. He never had the right words when it came to this. To them. So he didn’t say anything. He held him closer instead.

Kaminari yawned, a sound that felt too soft for a person who could crack buildings in half with his quirk.

“I missed you every day,” he whispered.

Bakugo shut his eyes.

He didn’t say it back. But he held Kaminari tighter, pressed a kiss to his temple, and let himself breathe in that familiar scent of static and sweat and hairspray that had never really faded from the apartment.

He shifted carefully beneath Kaminari’s weight, the quiet creak of the couch nearly lost beneath the hum of the city outside. Kaminari had gone quiet again, but he was still awake, still nestled tight against him, fingers curled into the fabric of Bakugo’s shirt like letting go would drop him into open air.

“You’re not sleeping out here,” Bakugo muttered. He moved slowly, nudging Kaminari upright with a hand at his back. “Come on. You’ll regret it in the morning if you pass out on the damn cushions.”

Kaminari groaned softly but didn’t argue, eyes bleary and half-lidded as Bakugo stood, then helped him to his feet. He was warm and pliant, leaning heavily against Bakugo’s side as they stumbled down the short hallway. Each step brought them closer to the bedroom that hadn’t been touched by two in too long. The bed was still made. Sheets crisp, pillow untouched. Bakugo hadn’t been able to sleep there most nights, choosing the couch instead like a coward. Like avoiding the space might keep the ache from creeping in.

But with Kaminari beside him again, head nodding forward, breath warm against his shoulder, the room looked less like a mausoleum and more like a place where something good might happen again.

Bakugo sat him on the edge of the bed and flicked on the bedside lamp. A soft amber glow bloomed across the room, catching against Kaminari’s pale lashes and the curve of his flushed cheeks. He was swaying slightly, fingers idly rubbing at his temple like he was trying to ground himself.

“You smell like shit,” Bakugo said, tugging gently at the hem of Kaminari’s shirt. “Arms up.”

Kaminari lifted his arms without question, shirt peeled off with a lazy, content hum. Bakugo reached into the top drawer and grabbed one of his own sleep shirts, something oversized and soft from wear, then slipped it down over Kaminari’s head. He made quick work of the pants too, coaxing him out of his belt and helping him into a pair of flannel shorts that hung loose on his hips.

“You’re really good at this,” Kaminari murmured, voice thick and sleepy. “Should’ve let you play nurse more often.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. He turned away to strip out of his own shirt and change into sweatpants, then pulled back the comforter. The bed didn’t creak when they crawled into it. It had been too empty for that. But the moment Kaminari settled against him, head tucked under Bakugo’s chin, the whole room exhaled. Like it had been waiting, too.

They laid together in silence for a while. Kaminari’s breath slowed, settling into something deep and steady, but Bakugo knew he wasn’t asleep. His fingers were still moving, tracing small, absent circles over Bakugo’s chest, catching on the ridges of old scars and the thump of his heartbeat.

Bakugo stared at the ceiling. The light was still on, casting a soft halo over them. His hand moved to Kaminari’s back, sliding up under the shirt to rest against bare skin. He felt the heat of him, the realness of him. This wasn’t a memory. This wasn’t a dream.

Kaminari tilted his face up slowly. His eyes were soft and unfocused, lips parted slightly. Bakugo leaned down without thinking, cupping his cheek in one hand and brushing their mouths together.

It was a quiet kiss. Not sharp or rushed like their fights. Not desperate like the nights after long missions. This was something quieter. Slower. His lips barely grazed Kaminari’s, but the contact pulled a breath from both of them, and then Bakugo pressed in again, more certain this time.

Kaminari kissed back like he had been waiting. Like it was the first drink of water after days in the sun. His mouth was warm, still tasting faintly of alcohol and exhaustion, but it was him. It was still him.

Bakugo kissed him again. Then again. Slower each time, but deeper too, like the rhythm was shifting into something more certain, something that lived in muscle memory. Kaminari responded with that same soft urgency, a need wrapped in affection, a quiet hum in the back of his throat that only made Bakugo press in closer.

The bed was warm around them, the sheets a soft cocoon, but neither seemed to care much for comfort when their mouths were finding each other again and again. Kaminari tilted his head just enough to guide the kiss deeper, parted his lips and let Bakugo taste the sweetness at the back of his throat. His hands moved, lazy but sure, one sliding down the slope of Bakugo’s ribs while the other stayed curled in his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp.

Bakugo shifted his weight without breaking the kiss, pulling Kaminari beneath him slowly, deliberately, as though grounding both of them in the here and now. Their bodies fit together with that same impossible familiarity, like no time had passed at all. His knee nudged between Kaminari’s thighs, just enough to anchor him, and Kaminari let out a breathless laugh against his lips, one that shivered into a moan before it was swallowed whole.

“You kiss like you’re gonna fix everything with your mouth.” Kaminari mumbled, voice thick with sleep and affection. 

Bakugo paused just long enough to look at him, eyes dark, lips parted. “I might.”

Then he kissed him again, slower this time, taking his time, tracing the corners of Kaminari’s mouth with his own like a promise. His hand found Kaminari’s waist, fingers splaying across skin that felt too warm to be anything but real. Kaminari arched into the touch without thinking, body instinctively following the map they had written together so long ago.

He tasted like memories. Like the bite of lemon liquor and cheap mints. Like the years they had grown up beside each other, not knowing what would bloom between them, only that it always felt like more.

Bakugo’s mouth moved from his lips to his jaw, then to the spot just below his ear that always made Kaminari twitch. He kissed down his neck, slow and unhurried, letting his teeth graze just enough to make Kaminari gasp, fingers tightening in his shirt.

Their legs tangled again beneath the sheets, Kaminari pulling him in with a soft tug until there was no space left between them. Bakugo let his hand drift along Kaminari’s side, tracing the shape of his ribs, the dip of his waist, the familiar line of muscle that had once been mapped nightly beneath these very blankets.

Kaminari caught his face again, thumb brushing over Bakugo’s cheek. Their eyes met, hazy and heavy-lidded, and the kiss that followed was quiet, less heat than heart, slow and deep and full of everything they had never been able to say when it mattered most.

He touched his face like he couldn’t believe he was real. Bakugo kissed him like he never wanted him to disappear again. The room around them was silent except for the soft rustle of sheets and the small sounds of breath and closeness and mouths brushing, again and again, as if relearning how to love someone took time, and both of them were finally willing to take it.

Bakugo shifted again, easing his weight just enough so that Kaminari could breathe while staying pressed close. The mattress dipped underneath them, soft and warm, gathering the heat from their bodies like it had been waiting for it all this time. He brushed a few messy strands of blond hair away from Kaminari’s forehead and lowered his mouth to kiss the bridge of his nose.

Kaminari blinked up at him through heavy lashes. His eyes were soft, glassy around the edges from too much alcohol and too much emotion, but his mouth curved into that quietly familiar smile. The one that only appeared when he was tired, when he was wrapped up in comfort and feeling safe.

He lifted his chin and met Bakugo halfway, lips brushing in a slow glide. It was barely a kiss. More a touch, a question answered with another soft kiss, then another. Barely any pressure behind it, just lips meeting again and again. Like they could keep breathing through it. Like they had no need to hurry.

Kaminari hummed against his mouth, a sleepy sound that warmed the whole length of Bakugo’s spine. His hand reached up and curled behind Bakugo’s neck, urging him closer with a gentle pull. Bakugo followed, letting their foreheads touch, letting their noses bump, kisses soft and sticky from the slight buzz still twisting inside Kaminari’s veins.

“Feels nice,” Kaminari whispered.

Bakugo didn’t respond with words. He pressed another kiss to Kaminari’s mouth, slow and steady. Then another against the corner of his lips. Down to the little dip in the center of his chin. Kaminari sighed and tipped his head back a fraction, throat stretching as Bakugo’s lips moved along the underside of his jaw.

For a few breaths, they just stayed there. Kaminari’s hands rested against Bakugo’s shoulders, fingers making small circles over his skin. Bakugo kissed along the curve of his jaw, over the soft patch of skin beneath his ear. His lips lingered. Warm. Gentle. Like he needed to taste every inch just to make sure he had really gotten him back.

Kaminari’s breath caught. His body arched slightly beneath the touch. His fingers pushed up into Bakugo’s hair, combing through it lazily.

He let out a soft laugh. “Your hair’s longer.”

Bakugo murmured something noncommittal against his skin but kept kissing him. He made his way down Kaminari’s neck, kissing over the thrum of his pulse until Kaminari’s head tipped forward in blissful surrender.

The kisses slowed again when Bakugo pulled back. Not far. Just enough to hover above him, eyes tracing the soft outline of Kaminari’s face. His thumb brushed along his bottom lip once. Then twice. Kaminari’s lips parted slightly under the touch.

“You okay?” Bakugo asked under his breath.

Kaminari nodded. His eyelids fluttered. “M’fine. Just… warm.”

Bakugo bent and pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. Kaminari kissed back lazily, like he was too tired to put effort into anything, but still wanted to taste every second. He let his fingers slide down Bakugo’s arm, twining their hands together. Their fingers locked. Bakugo squeezed gently, steady and grounding.

Kaminari’s chest rose and fell with a deeper kind of breath now. His lips chased Bakugo’s like he didn’t want him to move away even for a second.

And Bakugo stayed. He kept kissing him softly, mouth pressing against Kaminari’s with a slow, comforting rhythm. Some kisses were quick, just a swipe of lips. Others lingered. Lingering breath shared between them, soft curse words murmured against skin in-between.

Kaminari made a quiet noise every time Bakugo kissed the corner of his mouth. Like it sparked something gentle and aching inside him. His voice was sleepy, slurred with affection each time he tried to speak. “Missed your mouth,” he mumbled. “Missed everything.”

Bakugo shut him up with another kiss.

Time loosened its grip around them. Minutes passing in slow drifts, marked only by the slide of mouth on mouth, the gentle rustle of blankets, the small sighs Kaminari made when Bakugo kissed especially slowly.

Kaminari’s eyelids kept drooping. He would kiss back, then let his lips fall open against Bakugo’s, lazy and pliant. Then come back with another soft press as if he remembered again where he was and didn’t want to waste a single heartbeat.

Bakugo kissed the top of his cheek. His temple. The space just beneath his eye. Kaminari let out another sleepy laugh, whispering something half-formed. He nuzzled Bakugo’s cheek with his nose and brushed their lips together.

His hand loosened where it still held Bakugo’s. The other slipped down to rest lightly over his chest, fingers barely curling in the soft fabric of Bakugo’s shirt.

His breathing finally evened out.

Kaminari’s eyes slid closed completely. His mouth still smiled a little, lips parted from the last kiss. His body softened under Bakugo’s weight, surrendering fully. He let out one last quiet sigh as if all the tension from the past months was finally exhaling from his bones.

Bakugo brushed one more kiss over his forehead. Then one to the tip of his nose. Then a final kiss to his mouth, gentle and careful.

Kaminari didn’t kiss back this time. His body stayed still, his breathing slow and deep.

Bakugo laid beside him, one arm tucked under Kaminari’s head, the other still resting over his waist. He watched him for a while. Memorizing every peaceful line of his face. The tiny flicker of his lashes. The slight parting of his lips. He pressed one more whisper of a kiss to Kaminari’s temple and let himself settle beside him fully.

Kaminari snuggled closer instinctively, fitting his face against Bakugo’s chest, lips brushing the fabric of his shirt in a barely-there motion even in sleep. His arm tucked over Bakugo’s stomach, fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt like he needed to feel skin to stay grounded.

Bakugo pulled the blanket over them both and let his eyes drift shut.

After so long, the apartment did not feel silent or empty.

It pulsed with their shared breath, slow and warm, wrapped in the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the steady rhythm of two hearts that had finally found their way back.

Bakugo pressed one last silent kiss to Kaminari’s hair and let himself fall asleep with him, the taste of him still lingering on his lips and the weight of him finally back in his arms.

Where he was supposed to be from the start.