Chapter Text
Bakugou hits the ground hard. He rolls with the momentum, wheezing, the impact forcing the air out of his aching lungs. His eyes blink open, cheek pressed against the cold concrete. The world spins dizzyingly before settling to grey.
Get up.
Fucking get up!
He tries to push off the ground but pain shoots through his left arm and he collapses with a shout. He glances down, panic quickening his heartbeat. The sin around his bicep has disintegrated. Flesh peels away in thick flakes until he can see the white of his bone. Bile rises in his throat but he swallows it down, blinking hard against the tears welling in his eyes. A foot collides with his gut. Bakugou's mouth slams shut against the cry desperate to claw out of him. He rolls over, fighting the urge to curl in on himself, and spits. Blood and mucus spatter onto the ground.
Shigaraki looms over him. His piercing red eye quivers behind a pale, disembodied hand.
"I'm done playing nice."
Something hard slams into the side of Bakugou's head. A sickening crack echoes through the stale air and he blacks out.
**
A mountain of ice rockets up from the ground. Blurs of green, blue and red shoot across the night sky. There's an outstretched hand and a voice so familiar it bleeds through to his very core.
"Come!"
But, Bakugou can't move. Sweat pours down his forehead in rivulets but his palms cough up nothing but smoke. He squeezes his eyes shut.
Move, you idiot! They're right there. He's right fucking there!
Bony fingers clamp around his arm. Pain tears through him, searing his nerve-ends, and he opens his eyes just long enough to watch the darkness swallow him whole.
**
Someone slaps Bakugou across the face. His eyes fly open. He lurches forward, his injured arm screaming against the sudden movement. His chest heaves around each shuddering breath he draws into his lungs. Something is pinning his hands above his head. The stinging bite of metal rubs his wrists raw. He tries to kick out but a similar weight shackles his ankles to the stone wall behind him.
"Shit—"
Tiny explosions ignite against his palms, crackling along his curled fingers, which are cramped together in restraints.
Out. You have to get out—
"I wouldn't do that if I were you... unless you're tired of having hands."
The explosions die out.
Shigaraki grasps Bakugou's chin between a thumb and forefinger, tilting his head to the side, "Tsk, looks like I hit you too hard. Your skin's coming off."
Bakugou spits, blood and saliva spraying Shigaraki's face.
"Not hard enough, asshole."
Shigaraki leans back, his mouth splitting in an eerie smile.
"You should put that creepy hand back on. You're fucking hideous," Bakugou snarls.
Shigaraki steps away, clucking his tongue, "So vulgar." He paces across the empty room, his footsteps echoing in stillness. "You know why you're here, don't you?" He stops, turning to face Bakugou once more, "Because I want you here. And I always get what I want."
Bakugou glares at him, jaw clenched.
Shigaraki drags a hand through his dishevelled pale-blue locks, "What? Nothing to say?"
"Fuck you," Bakugou hisses.
Shigaraki sighs, rolling his shoulders in a lazy shrug, "Nothing original to say then."
The door creaks open, rusted metal grating against Bakugou's ears. A girl slips into the room. She looks out of place — her messy blonde hair tied on bunches, pink blush dusting her round cheeks, beige cardigan sleeves pulled over her hands. Her mouth stretches in a toothy grin.
"Toga," Shigaraki beckons. The girl twirls to face him. "Keep our new friend company. Let me know if he changes his mind about my gracious offer."
Her smile brightens. She withdraws a small knife from he sleeve. Steel glints under the solitary lightbulb dangling from the ceiling.
Shigaraki leaves the room. The metal doors screeches shut behind him.
Toga advances. She spins the knife expertly between her slender fingers, tawny eyes pinning Bakugou to the wall. She points the tip of the blade against his throat and tilts her head to the side.
"You're not my type..." Her hand glides downwards, cutting through the material of Bakugou's shirt like scissors through paper. "But, I'll still let you bleed for me."
When the knife pierces his skin, Bakugou sees white.
**
The sun is low in the sky. Orange light seeps through the clouds like honey.
Bakugou plugs his earphone jack into his phone and stuffs the buds into his ears. He puts one of his study playlists on shuffle. He's hardly one foot out of the security gate when he hears someone calling his name.
"Oi! Bakugou!"
The voice is muffled beneath drifting piano chords and gentle guitar melodies, but he recognizes it immediately. He rolls his eyes and keeps walking.
Bakugou doesn't do friends — and that's a good thing. Friends are distractions. They were only good for passing the everyday monotony of middle school. But, now, Bakugou has no use for killing time. For a moment, he wonders if he actually managed to escape. It's only when he hears a rapid patter of footsteps and feels a hand grab his bicep that he finally stops.
Kirishima's bright red head of hair pops into view, barely an inch from Bakugou's face.
"'Sup, Explosion Boy."
Bakugou huffs. He doesn't have enough patience for this. He's tired from hero training and he just wants to go home. "What d'you want, Shitty Hair?"
Kirishima buffs him on the arm, "Aw, c'mon, don't pretend you don't know what my name is." He pauses, raising his hands in mock apology. "Or do you prefer Lord Explosion Murder?" He dips into a dramatic courtesy. It's irritatingly cute.
"Shut up, bastard," Bakugou grunts, shoving past him. His hands are sweating so much that he has to stamp down the urge to wipe them on his trousers. Barely a second passes before Kirishima is jogging to catch up with him. Bakugou doesn't slow down.
"Hey! Aizawa-sensei said we shouldn't walk home by ourselves."
Bakugou keeps his eyes fixed ahead of him, glaring at the horizon, "So?"
Maybe if he looks at the sun for long enough he'll go blind and never have to look at Kirishima's stupid, handsome, idiot face ever again. He feels a weight against his collarbone as Kirishima slings an arm around his shoulder.
"So, unless you're hiding Midoriya in your pocket—"
Bakugou shrugs him off. Kirishima takes a step back so that their shoulders are no longer touching. Bakugou doesn't know why he feels the loss of contact so strongly; it pisses him off nonetheless.
"Alright," Kirishima says, placating. "I'm just offering to walk you home, dude."
Something about Kirishima's casual tone strikes a nerve. Bakugou whirls around, his sparking hands balled into fists.
"Fuck off, Kirishima! We're not fucking friends."
His shallow breaths pierce the sudden silence between them. An unfamiliar weight sinks in his stomach as Kirishima stares at him, wide-eyed.
Bakugou doesn't do friends. Sure, sometimes he'll sit quietly with Tokoyami and Shouji because they don't annoy the shit out of him. But this? Clammy palms, stomach churning, pulse racing beneath his skin. He wants to break something but not Kirishima. Never Kirishima. Except, maybe he already has because Kirishima's expression flickers like a light switch. His mouth twists into a grimace, crimson brows furrowing with an emotion Bakugou can't place.
"Whatever, man." Kirishima saunters away, his shoulders hunched, hands shoved into his trouser pockets.
Bakugou turns to once more face the setting sun and shoves his earphones back into his ears, trying not to think about how much he hates himself as he starts to walk again, alone.