Archive of Our Own

Shouto doesn’t exactly mean to get into fights.

They happen often enough that it’s become a bit of a pattern though. Unfortunately.

It’s not like he’s actively trying to provoke people. He doesn’t go around waiting to exchange blows, wanting to knock people to the ground, to show them what a decade’s worth of childhood martial arts lessons and a lifetime of untapped, deep as the bottom of the ocean rage looks like.

It just sort of happens.

He thinks it’s something about the monotone way he speaks that agitates people. The way he doesn’t posture or rise to challenges, the way he remains calm up until the point he doesn’t. The way he doesn’t engage until he’s pushed and pushed and pushed.

People don’t like it. Hyper masculine tough guys especially.

And so Shouto navigates the world fully aware that his lack of inflection and fairly righteous sense of justice combined with fifteen hours of martial arts lessons a week from the time he was six until he was eighteen are enough to get him into at least one altercation with a random man on the street every few months.

Like he said, a pattern. Not one he’s fond of, but a pattern all the same.

He means to get in this one though.

Most weekends, Shouto spends his evenings in a specific coffee shop downtown. He likes coming here particularly because it’s far enough off campus that he doesn’t see anyone he knows. And the baristas give him free pastries sometimes.

Tonight, he’s sitting at the long bar right up against the street, looking out into the dark through the floor to ceiling window. It’s the perfect level of outside input in terms of distractions—he can look up occasionally to see people coming and going from the businesses near the cafe, he can look down if he needs to focus on work.

He’s tapping his pen against his mouth and staring off into space when movement across the darkened street catches his eye.

Shouto watches, body stilling, as two people come into view—shadows solidifying as they grow closer. Watches as a man, clearly drunk, pushes his girlfriend. Sees her skid across the asphalt, hands spread to catch herself.

He’s out the door before he even thinks twice, the bell chiming jovially behind him.

Shouto walks away from the interaction with a busted nose and the girl with her skinned knees tucked under his arm. The man who pushed her doesn’t walk away at all.

Before said man collapses in an undignified, drunken heap, he gets one punch in. A clean one, direct to the face. A punch that snaps Shouto’s head back but doesn’t stop him from doing what he came out here to do regardless.

Shuffling farther down the street and away from the drunken, pained groans of Shouto’s unqualified sparring partner, he quietly helps her organize a ride home as her knees drip blood all over the light denim of her pants.

He desperately wishes he had his first aid kit, but it’s still in his backpack, tucked into the seat next to the one he was sitting in in the cafe. And he doesn’t want to leave her out here alone.

It takes only a few minutes, but Shouto stands sentinel on the curbside until she gets picked up by a friend, not speaking to her or even standing all that close to her. Just waiting until she’s safely in the passenger seat and whisked off into the night.

She waves goodbye to him, her fingertips smeared with red, and calls a shaky, meek, “Thank you.” out of the open window.

He nods, trying to ignore the way the motion makes him even more aware of the wet blood covering the bottom half of his face.

The second her friend’s car turns the corner, he releases the breath that he’d been holding for almost ten minutes and edges backwards until his calves hit cement.

Dropping down to sit on the steps, he nurses his bloody nose and rapidly swelling eye. His knuckles hurt, bruised and scraped from fighting without gloves or hand wraps, but that’s the least of his problems right now.

All of his stuff is still on the countertop bar of the cafe, unwatched and unattended. The warm light of the shop looks mockingly inviting as he tries to stop his bloody nose in the cold dark.

No one’s stolen his computer yet, so he’s going to chalk up this interaction as a win for him. On multiple levels.

Cutting a glance over to where the man from earlier was lying, he’s pleased to see there’s no one there. Ran off into the night, Shouto hopes, with a lesson learned.

Swiping at the blood still dripping from his nose, he leans back farther on the stoop. The concrete is rough and thoroughly chilled this far past sundown, scratchy through his jeans.

It’s cold out. Not cold enough that he feels it, yet. But he will. As soon as the adrenaline tapers off and the warmth of the blood on his face cools.

It’s not going to be pleasant, but it is what it is.

Shouto can’t go back inside yet, not with his nose still actively bleeding. He doesn’t want to cause a scene, not at his favorite coffee shop. He’ll wait until the blood stops, until there’s no one at the counter ordering, then he’ll head back to the bathrooms.

Maybe he’ll ask for a cup of ice from the baristas once his face is cleaned, if they let him back in.

He’s debating the merits of apologizing for his profusely bloody nose before or after cleaning it when a door opens to his left, the sounds of music spilling out from the club or the bar or whatever it is. Shouto’s never thought to investigate further even though he walks past it a few times a week.

Footsteps scuff next to him, loud on the cement, and when he glances over, a pair of beat up black high tops are the only thing he sees.

Shouto attempts to tilt his head back without getting blood all over his face or down his throat, but he assumes by the loud scoff he isn’t very successful.

Haloed by the streetlights, a blonde man stands next to him, facial expression wry and eyes amused, visible even in the dark. Shouto spends a second looking up at him blankly, his brain doing mental gymnastics to figure out where he recognizes him from.

He’s familiar in a “Do we go to school together?” kind of way. A face in the crowd. Maybe a student in one of Shouto’s larger classes that he sees a few times a week, or someone in a class near his that he walks past routinely.

A quiet sort of knowing of someone, tertiary characters in the periphery. The person you see on your commute every morning, the regulars at your coffee shop. Folks you don’t speak to but are present in your life all the same. Acknowledgement in its faintest form.

“Saw you fuck that guy up,” the blonde guy says, casual. His voice is deep, deeper than Shouto was expecting. Gravely, almost.

Shouto hums, noncommittal.

He’s heard his voice before, he thinks, but he can’t place it right away. Shuffling through his memories, Shouto tries to pinpoint where and when and how, when the guy speaks again.

“Looks like it hurts.”

Oh. He remembers.

This guy is friends with Midoriya, Shouto’s unintentional but most long-lasting school friend. The type of friendship where they gravitate toward each other in whatever classes they share and nod at each other when passing by on campus, or in Midoriya’s case bound over and say three hundred words per second before bounding away.

Shouto likes him, a bright green smiling constant in his collegiate career, but they aren’t much more than class friends out of convenience.

Three days ago, Midoriya waved goodbye to Shouto as they left their morning class and scurried over to loop his arm through this guy’s, who snarled and ripped his arm away but stuck close to him anyway as they walked out of the building.

Shouto is pleased to have placed him, to have followed the tiny, flickering trail of his memory back to that specific instance.

“I’ll live,” he replies, eventually. The warm drip of blood is still wet on his face, a stark difference to the cold air.

He doesn’t particularly want to be talking to anyone right now, let alone this random guy he barely knows through another guy he only sort of knows.

Above him, the blonde guy says nothing. What he does do though, is shrug off the jean jacket he’s wearing. The slide of the denim down his arms reveals a dark t-shirt to match his dark jeans. Aside from the brightness of his hair, he more or less melts into the shadows of the evening.

Without a word, he holds the jacket out to Shouto.

Who makes no move to take it.

He doesn’t move at all, actually. Instead, he stares at the jacket for a beat, then quirks an eyebrow up at the blonde guy looming over him.

The guy does nothing aside from hold the jacket out farther, swinging it closer to Shouto’s bloody face.

Taking a closer look at the jacket from where it dangles in his hand is Shouto’s only option.

There are pins attached to the collar and pockets sporadically, glinting softly in the light. Patches too, hand stitched on, Shouto can tell by his cursory glance. A little gay pride ribbon is pinned to the front pocket with an honest to god safety pin.

The jacket looks well-loved—clearly worn frequently and decorated with intention. Speaks of a long term attachment that only someone dedicated to a specific item achieves.

Shouto looks back up at the guy, who is still standing above him, all dark t-shirt and big arms and hand not holding the jacket stuffed into his pocket.

“I don’t need this,” he says, quiet and point-blank into the darkness between them.

He really doesn’t.

His own jacket—a plain black windbreaker that he’s had since high school, the characters of his name carefully written in teal marker on the tag—is draped across the high backed seat of the coffee shop bar. He can see it from here when he glances over at the warmly lit windows of the shop.

Blonde guy rolls his eyes, scoffing way more derisively than is necessary. He holds the jacket out farther, shaking it a little until the cuffs of the sleeves whap Shouto in the forehead. It’s aggravating in a very distinct way.

“Fuck off and take it,” he mutters, sounding very much like he isn’t going to take no for an answer.

Well. Fine.

If this random man on the sidewalk wants to give Shouto his jacket for no clear reason, he doesn’t have enough social battery energy left over to deny him.

Shouto takes the jacket, careful of his bloody palms. Wiping them on the thighs of his jeans, he stuffs his arms into the sleeves. He spares a moment to relish in the phantom warmth of another person’s body, looking down at the way the jacket fits on him before looking up to say thank you.

Within the five seconds it takes Shouto to put on the jacket, the guy is gone. Halfway down the street with absolutely zero intention of looking back, that much is clear.

Shouto calls out a delayed thanks after him, thoroughly confused. A gust of wind forces him to wrap the jacket tighter around himself, the extra layer admittedly helpful in the night air.

The blonde guy doesn’t turn around, the line of his shoulders relaxed as he meanders away without his jacket.

All Shouto gets is a two fingered salute in response. Which is both effortlessly cool and mildly annoying.

Whatever.

At least he’ll be warm until he heads back into the cafe.

Post-spontaneous fist fight on the street, Shouto sneaks back into his cafe and washes his face off in the sink, then packs up all his belongings, scores a cup of ice for the road, and goes home to lick his metaphorical and physical wounds.

He keeps the jacket on, inexplicably comforted by its presence.

Once finally in the safety of his own apartment, he sets about inspecting all of the various patches and pins affixed to it with a single minded determination. The rest of the evening is spent pressing an ice pack wrapped in one of their good kitchen towels to his eye and googling all of the bands he discovers via jacket research.

Shinsou finds him somewhere around 2 a.m., hunched over his laptop and compiling a playlist of the most popular songs from each subsequent band in the quiet of their kitchen.

He only makes fun of him a little bit, which Shouto appreciates, seeing as he is also awake, likely doing something equally as inane. Shinsou is a truly perfect roommate. Quiet, fond of parallel play, clean in shared spaces. Only lightly judgmental.

When asked where he acquired said jacket, all Shouto can offer in response is “Some guy on the street.” which Shinsou accepts neatly with nothing more than a nod and a quiet hum. See? Perfect.

And it’s Shinsou, leaning over his shoulder with his chin tucked into the curve of Shouto’s neck, who points out the pin that apparently belongs to the club slash bar that’s across the way from the cafe he likes so dearly.

They look it up together, squinting at Shouto’s laptop screen in the darkness of their kitchen.

Jacket guy must work there, Shouto assumes. Or frequents the establishment enough to have a pin from it on his jacket. The more you know.

It’s an odd sort of scavenger hunt. Collecting the pieces and examining the interests of someone he knows in the lightest definition of the word. But it’s kinda fun all the same, especially with Shinsou to keep a running commentary on the tastes of the jacket owner himself.

When Shouto runs out of stuff to aimlessly google, he notices that one of the buttons on the right hand cuff is missing, replaced with a smiley face with Xs for eyes. It has him huffing a laugh, running the pad of his thumb over the yellow and black enamel.

Shouto doesn’t know the guy who owns this jacket in any sort of real way, even surrounded by all the bits and pieces of his life and personality and interests that he likes enough to make sure the world sees, but he’d like to.

He wears the jacket everywhere for almost two weeks straight.

To all of his classes, to the cafe he likes, to dinner with Momo and Kyouka, to drinks with Fumikage and Mezou.

A new staple item in his wardrobe, the jacket is well worn. Soft in all the right places but made of thick enough denim that he’s never chilly when he wears it.

Smells good, too. At least for the first few days. Like spicy cologne and something sweet, with a faint hint of laundry detergent underneath. Clean, like freshly washed sheets.

It’s not something he’d pick for himself, if he’s being honest—he’s much more apt to choose a corduroy jacket or a long line wool coat. Both of which he ignores and leaves in his closet as the weather stays brisk and chilly.

The jean jacket looks nice over t-shirts and layered with button ups. He particularly likes how cool he feels when he wears it with a sweatshirt underneath, the hood pulled over top. It’s especially stylish with his favorite black turtleneck, in his own relatively unknowledgeable opinion.

He’s a strong proponent of comfort—wearing what feels good and isn’t actively stupid looking. No actual understanding of the ins and outs of fashion, simply hoping for the best. But the jean jacket feels innately cool as well as comfortable.

Shouto has a few pairs of jeans he likes, but he’s much more of a chinos kind of guy. Which works well for avoiding a full suit of denim, like that one professor in the fashion school he sees sometimes and avoids direct eye contact with when he and Kyouka go to retrieve Momo.

If his entire standard wardrobe is shifted to the left a bit for almost the entirety of the time the jacket is in his possession, that’s nobody’s business but his own. And Momo’s. Who notices almost immediately but only raises a delicate eyebrow and compliments him on his fashion as of late.

Without particularly meaning for it to, the jacket becomes a bit of a comfort item for Shouto. Like his water bottle that he carries everywhere with him, or the journal that lives in his backpack.

A touch point, something to keep his hands busy. Something his brain can gently press back against, solidified by its presence and the way it simmers any less than pleasant feelings down to a low boil.

He’s is grateful to have it, no matter how he ended up getting it.

Shouto sees Blonde Jacket Guy about two weeks after their initial conversation in the dark, on a day that’s surprisingly chilly. Damp with a steady drizzle, autumn is quickly sliding into winter as they watch, all the colorful leaves swirling down the drain.

It took a bit for Shouto to remember the name Midoriya called out that afternoon that he saw the two of them together, but he eventually did. Kacchan.

He scoured his memory, spent a few seconds stalking Midoriya’s colorful and extremely extensive instagram feed and found him within a few pictures.

Tagged too, for Shouto’s convenience. Bakugou Katsuki.

Bakugou has four pictures on his own account. One of him suplexing Midoriya in a field. Another of him with three other guys with various shades of bright and dark colored hair, wearing the very same jacket that Shouto himself left the house in this morning.

The third picture is of a woman that looks exactly like him scowling down at something in a box, likely her birthday present if the context clues are anything to go on.

The last picture is a candid that he thinks Shinsou might laugh at if he saw it. Just Bakugou, face surprisingly neutral, leaned up against a brick wall in an alleyway. Maybe the one across the street from the cafe he likes, near where they exchanged the jacket after Shouto kicked the shit out of a guy for pushing a girl.

Now, he’s standing ten feet away from Shouto in a long sleeve black shirt with a skull on the front, loitering under an awning. He looks particularly cranky, but Shouto can’t blame him.

Already damp, his hair is nowhere nearly as spikey as it was the other few times Shouto’s seen him. The aura of wet cat is too prominent for Shouto not to consider the similarities, even though he knows he probably shouldn’t.

The fabled jean jacket is hooked through one of the straps of Shouto’s backpack for safe keeping during class.

He’s been wearing it like it’s his since it was given to him.

Perhaps now is the perfect time to return it. See a need, fill a need or whatever.

Shouto approaches slowly, swinging his backpack to one arm to retrieve the jacket from its delicate perch.

He doesn’t say hello, just sidles right up. If Bakugou did it to him last time, Shouto’s pretty sure he’s allowed to do it this time.

“Here.”

Bakugou startles minutely, shoulders rising then relaxing once he realizes who it is talking to him.

“Oh,” he says, voice just as deep as last time. His eyes are surprisingly bright even in his water logged state. “It’s you.”

There’s no ferocious growl or agitated squawk, nothing like he’s heard each time Midoriya leaves with him from class.

Just a quiet observation. A neutral statement and nothing more.

“Mhm,” Shouto hums.

He offers the jacket to him again without explanation, holding it out in the space between them.

Bakugou makes no move to take it. In fact, he sneers, sliding out of Shouto’s range as if offended by the mere presence of his own belongings.

“Don’t need that,” he grumbles, flicking a stray droplet of water dripping from his hair out of his eyes. “I can wait out a li’l damn rain.”

“Fuck off,” Shouto says in reply, the words awkward on his tongue, his mouth unfamiliar around the shape of them. Bakugou’s eyes widen then narrow in quick succession. “And take it.”

Recognizing an echo of their first and only interaction, Bakugou’s face goes slack and then his mouth curves into a surprisingly pleasant smile. It softens his entire face, smoothing out the frown lines between his eyebrows. Watching it spread across his mouth makes Shouto’s fingertips tingle with the urge to touch it. He tightens his hold on the jacket and his backpack instead.

He pushes the jacket against Bakugou’s side again, edging even closer. They’re almost out from under the cover of the building, the rain still steadily coming down. He waits until Bakugou grabs it, shaking it out and shrugging it on.

It looks nice on him. Very nice.

He didn’t get to see Bakugou in it last time, too busy with his bloody nose and his aching knuckles. It fits him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and the muscle of his arms, where on Shouto it hangs just a bit, cutting off a touch awkwardly just above his waist due to his height.

Once the jacket is back with its rightful owner, Shouto opens his umbrella and steps backwards out from under the awning. Twiddling his fingers in a halfhearted wave goodbye, he starts the trek back to his apartment.

Bakugou says nothing and Shouto doesn’t look back once he’s turned around, but he can feel his eyes on him, warm on the back of his neck.

It makes him smile softly to himself the entire way home, even when the holes in his sneakers let in the rain and get his socks soaking wet.

Shouto falls asleep in the library a few days later.

Slumped on the desk near the windows he likes best, all of his belongings spread around him in a circle, he spends too long reviewing for an upcoming midterm and ends up conked out with his face cradled in his textbook.

He never means to fall asleep here, but it happens a lot. The librarians typically leave him to it, which he appreciates.

This time, he wakes up well past the time he should have gone home, jean jacket draped over his shoulders.

For the first few seconds, he doesn’t remember that he returned it to Bakugou not even a week ago, the two of them standing next to each other, hidden from the rain.

When his mental faculties finally come back online, he jolts straight up and pulls it tighter around his shoulders, staring at the denim in disbelief.

Before he can stop himself, he tucks his face into the collar of it, breathing deep.

When he previously had it, the jacket lost its smell after the first week. Probably due to Shouto wearing it at every conceivable opportunity, but still. He missed it, after a while.

But now he’s smiling to himself like an idiot, alone in the library with the jean jacket tossed around his shoulders like a cape.

The Bakugou-smell is back and the jacket has returned to him.

All is right with the world.

On his way to his favorite off campus cafe a few days later, Shouto catches sight of a meticulously done up display in the bay window of a storefront he’s passed by countless times and never had the need to enter.

He ducks inside, enchanted by a little enamel pin of a cat with a knife in its mouth.

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, the pin is in a tiny little bag in his pocket and money has decidedly changed hands.

While he buys it without thinking, Shouto spends about five minutes deciding where to attach the pin to the jacket. Somewhere not immediately obvious, in case Bakugou notices it right away when Shouto returns the jacket to him next, but not completely hidden either.

With careful fingers, he pokes it through the denim on the lower left hand side, near the pocket. A spot he hopes isn’t completely hidden but also not instantly noticeable.

The next day, he ducks out of the class he shares with Midoriya a few minutes before class is to end. Peeking around the corners like he’s about to commit a crime, Shouto gently folds the jacket and leaves it on the bench he’s seen Bakugou sitting at as he waits for Midoriya to come pouring out of the auditorium.

Feeling a little like a creep but not concerned about it enough to stop, Shouto loiters a good bit away from the bench in order to make sure nobody steals the jacket before Bakugou can get to it.

He plays on his phone, glancing up here and there until he’s finally blessed with the moment he’s been waiting for. Shouto watches, breath held, as Bakugou comes up, flings his backpack onto the bench, sits down with a huff, and notices the jacket.

Squinting down at it, Bakugou looks around, craning his neck to look down both sides of the hallway. Shouto slips behind the wall he’s been hovering next to and leaves before he’s spotted, a skip in his step.

Stealth mission complete.

He forgets about the pin and the jacket itself until the next time he gets it back—Bakugou dropping it over his shoulders while he’s sitting in the courtyard enjoying a rare sunny afternoon and walking away without any words exchanged.

As he slips the now familiar denim over the sweater he’s wearing, he’s pleasantly surprised to see the knife mouth cat pin still attached to the jacket.

Inspecting farther, he realizes the cheap rubber pin backing that the pin came with has been replaced with one of the special, fancy locking pin backs. One that will prevent it from falling off.

Sitting outside, the sun shining onto him and his little cat pin, Shouto glows.

Shouto finds that if he brings up Bakugou in any sort of roundabout way, Midoriya will talk about him without stopping for breath for up to fifteen minutes at a time.

He’s able to learn a lot about him via this method with very minimal effort. And without looking too eager.

It’s how he’s able to figure out which building Bakugou’s research assistantship is in, which then allows him to do some minor sleuthing to figure out which mailbox is his. Neatly folding the jacket, he shoves it inside before anyone can catch him and leaves the building with its occupants none the wiser.

They pass the jacket back and forth in increasingly creative and odd ways as the weeks pass.

Bakugou must have seen him walking with Momo at some point over the last month, because she comes up to him one afternoon—delightfully confused but willing all the same—and hands him a plastic bag, knotted at the top. Inside the bag is the ever present jacket. Complete with a torn piece of notebook paper with a middle finger drawn scrawled on it on top.

He keeps it for two days before discreetly slipping the jacket into Midoriya’s open backpack during their lecture without saying a word.

Shouto is sure Bakugou will receive it one way or another. Likely as soon as Midoriya himself notices.

They utilize their friends, their jobs, their regular haunts. It’s fun, in an odd sort of way.

There’s a level of mystery to it, of intrigue. Of suspense, one could say.

He likes the jean jacket itself, likes wearing it and having it in his possession, but he likes this odd game of tag they’ve started without ever vocalizing it just as much.

It spices up his life, brightening the days he spends at school that grow colder and darker with each passing one.

This isn’t Shouto’s normal cafe. It’s not even a cafe he particularly likes.

But it’s the one closest to his last class, and he thinks he might die if he doesn’t get some sort of pastry item in the next five minutes.

He needs a chocolate croissant posthaste.

Thankfully there are only a few people ahead of him, the two guys behind the counter spinning in tandem with each other to get all the orders completed in what appears to be record time.

When Shouto finally makes it to the front, a noodle-y blonde is behind the register, tapping the screen with a proficiency that even Shouto is relatively impressed by, long thin fingers blurring. A bigger, smilier redhead is making sandwiches behind him.

They both look quietly familiar, but Shouto can’t place them. Maybe it’s the hideous purple visors they’re wearing?

Unclear.

The riddle is solved when Shouto steps up to toss a wad of cash at the nearest willing employee to get his croissant and both of the guys immediately stop what they’re doing and start shouting.

The blonde is crowing, waving his arms above his head and pointing at Shouto while the redhead drops his sandwich making supplies, shucks his gloves off, and leans over the plastic divider to see him better.

Naturally, Shouto just stands there. He’s got no idea what’s going on. But then again, he rarely does. As long as he gets his fucking chocolate pastry.

“Kacchan’s jacket,” breathes the register guy, elbowing the redhead as if they’re not both already staring at Shouto with the widest eyes he’s ever seen. “Woah.”

“You know he doesn’t like when you call him that,” Redhead points out, the apparent transgression instantly breaking him out of his Shouto-induced stupor.

“He’s not even here,” the blonde guy—who’s name tag says Kami in highlighter yellow bubble letters—whines. His eyes get even bigger as he thinks about what he just said. “But he can probably sense me saying it even across campus…”

The redhead—Kiri, according to his own name tag, complete with stickers of various wild animals—laughs, bumping his coworker with his hip and shifting him across the counter.

No one’s even asked Shouto what he wants yet.

“Is that really Bakugou’s jacket?” Kiri asks, a hint of awe in his voice.

Mmm, Shouto remembers where he’s seen these two from now. The one singular picture of Bakugou and all his multi-color haired friends from when he stalked the bare-minimum of his instagram account. These two make up two thirds of the primary colors.

He wonders if Bakugou has a blue haired friend. Not that Shouto can really speak to anything on the weird hair colors front, but still.

He shrugs, nodding. Putting his money down on the little plastic tray, he makes very pointed eye contact with it in hopes that someone behind the counter actually does something with it. He would like to exchange his money for goods now, thank you very much.

“Damn,” Kiri breathes. “He doesn’t let anybody wear it usually. He’s real particular about his stuff.”

Thinking about that makes heat bloom on Shouto’s cheeks.

Kami cuts in before Shouto can ask any clarifying questions about what that might mean particularly, drizzling caramel sauce in a plastic cup with utmost concentration. “I spilled fruit punch all over my white shirt at dinner a few weeks ago and he put me in a headlock when I asked if I could wear it over top to hide it.”

“He put you in a headlock because you teased him relentlessly for fifteen minutes, dude,” Kiri justifiably counters, finally scooping up Shouto’s money.

Shouto shrugs off his backpack and rests it on the floor against the counter, shuffling it forward with his foot. There’s no one else in line behind him or else he wouldn’t be holding up the ordering process like this. Although he hasn’t even placed his order yet, croissant needs going tragically unfulfilled. But whatever.

Taking off the jean jacket, he carefully passes it over the counter and into Kirishima’s confused but receptive hands.

“Will you give it back to him? I’ve had it for a while and it’s probably about time for his turn now.”

“His turn?”

Kami looks like Christmas has come early, forgoing his perfectly drizzled caramel cup to whip out his phone from his apron pocket. He’s typing frantically while Kiri eyes Shouto, concern making his little red eyebrows meet in the middle.

“You sure? He’s probably cool with you keeping it, ‘specially if you had it in the first place.”

“Tell him I’m sure I’ll get it back at some point,” Shouto replies. And he is sure. There’s no doubt in his mind that the jacket will find its way back to him over the course of the next week or so.

Kami is still standing behind Kiri and doing nothing, tapping at his phone so intensely Shouto’s concerned for the state of his screen. Especially when Kiri’s phone starts continuously vibrating where it’s apparently been resting behind the counter, a group chat suddenly sparking to life.

There’s a moment of silence where the three of them don’t speak.

“Can I please order now?”

“Oh shit, yes, sorry. What can I get for ya?”

At least he gets a free croissant out of the exchange, because any friend of Bakugou’s is a friend of theirs, apparently.

And who is he to deny that?

As predicted, Shouto gets the jacket back not even a few days later.

It’s hanging on the back of the seat he sits at every day in his morning lecture, lonely and purposefully left behind until he comes to retrieve it.

Midoriya isn’t even here yet, so he can only assume Bakugou made a quick pit stop after the last lecture let out.

He tosses his backpack into the seat next to him and slides it on, unashamed of how happy he is to have it back with him. He’s pretty sure he can still feel the warmth of Bakugou’s body, even though that can’t be true.

As people file into the auditorium, Shouto pulls out his pencil bag and rifles through it to find his collection of sticky notes. The pad he finds first is in the shape of a cartoon polar bear, naturally.

He carefully writes his phone number down, folding the sticky note once before drawing a little cat face doodle on the front. Next to it, he draws a little jacket doodle for good measure.

Tucking it in the pocket, he doesn’t leave his name, but he hopes Bakugou knows anyway.

He’s walking across campus, eyes on the ground and his head in the clouds, when he’s startled out of his daydreams by something thudding none too gently into his chest.

Shouto instantly assumes he’s about to get into yet another fight, as this is typically how interactions like that play out, but there’s no follow up push or shove, no unexpected punch.

Just something in his arms.

Reaching out to grab it on reflex alone so it doesn’t fall, he’s delighted to see it’s the jean jacket. Bakugou’s had it for almost two weeks now, much longer than they usually go without exchanging it.

Looking down at his hands, he starts to smile before he can really help it. Looking back behind him, he spots Bakugou almost twenty feet in the other direction, blonde hair ruffling in the cold breeze. He must’ve seen Shouto before Shouto saw him.

Easily done, if you paid any attention to your surroundings at all, but that’s neither here nor there.

Shrugging off his corduroy jacket, Shouto thanks his lucky stars that his pants are black today as he slips the jean jacket on. As always, it smells delicious and is warm with body heat, Bakugou likely taking it off as he saw Shouto coming, judging by his orange t-shirt growing smaller in the distance.

There’s something plastic and rustling in the left hand pocket. Poking his hand inside, he comes out with three packs of his favorite gummy candy.

He can’t help but smile to himself, immediately tearing open a pack and popping the fruity candy into his mouth.

His entire day shifts after that, delight threaded through everything.

bakugou: I’m cold

Shouto stares down at his phone, unsure what that has to do with him.

These aren’t the first texts they’ve ever exchanged, but they don’t talk via this method much.

Theirs is more of a happenstance type of fledgling relationship, passing a jacket back and forth on the off chance they see each other randomly out and about. Or with nefarious and devious planning and purpose, orchestrated to the high heavens by their apparently mutual quest of one upping each other.

Sometimes Shouto will wave when he sees Bakugou and Midoriya walking out of the building of the class he and Midoriya share. Sometimes Bakugou nods back, other times he flips him off.

Occasionally he’ll walk out with them, Shouto sandwiched between them as Midoriya talks a mile a minute. Both of them offer their Midoriya-related thoughts in notably different ways as they walk together. Shouto swears a lot less, is all he’s saying.

bakugou: Bring me my jacket fucker

Indisputable proof, plain as day.

Thankfully, or perhaps predictably, Shouto is wearing the jacket right now. This is a delivery he can successfully make.

He taps out a querying text, asking Bakugou where he is while he balances the stack of books he’s holding, his water bottle, and the muffin he brought from home that Shinsou baked at what Shouto is fairly certain was 3 a.m. last night.

If he’s nice, he might split it with Bakugou. Shouto hopes he likes cinnamon.

bakugou: That table by the windows you like in the library

It’s easy enough to head there, to hoof up the two floors and weave through the chairs and tables to the only place he ever sits in this building.

Shouto sees Bakugou before Bakugou sees him, this time.

He’s hunched over the table with a thousand pens and highlighters spread about, wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled up and tightened around his face. It makes his shock of white blonde hair poke out the front, making him look like one of those funny little cacti with the fuzz on top.

Seeing him makes Shouto’s stomach swoop not unlike being on a rollercoaster or going over a particularly big bump while on the bus. It feels good in a terrifying sort of way.

Approaching the table, he takes off the jacket to reveal the t-shirt he’s wearing underneath. As he comes into view, Bakugou gives him an impressively unimpressed look. With the eyebrows and everything.

He doesn’t say hello, which severely diminishes his likelihood of getting any muffin, but he does gesture to the jacket and say, “Keep it, clown.” with a scoff of displeasure, which surprisingly brings his odds right back up.

Shouto must make a questioning sort of face, because Bakugou scoffs again, louder this time, while kicking out the chair across from the one he’s in so Shouto can sit down.

“Maybe dress for the weather next time. S’fucking winter.”

The jacket gets to stay in his possession for that much longer and he gets an invitation to spend an evening working in the library with Bakugou.

A curl of happiness rises in his chest, swirling and bright.

The jacket changes hands again when Bakugou comes over to Shouto’s apartment for the first time.

He invites himself, which Shouto doesn’t mind in the least bit, saying that the apartment he shares with Midoriya is going to be the “hotspot for dickhead dweebs” tonight, which Shouto interprets as Midoriya having friends over.

Shouto makes his way off campus and up the flights of stairs to his place with Bakugou trundling behind him, the two of them quietly bantering back and forth when the situation calls for it.

The second their shoes are kicked off, Bakugou shrugs off the jacket and slings it onto the back of the couch, casually jumping over the back of it as if he’s some sort of novice parkourer.

Dinner is made and shared, TV shows are watched, and they sit together on Shouto’s soft yet suddenly tiny-feeling couch, their knees bumping.

With an arm over the couch back and Shouto tucked up next to him, Bakugou shows him hyper specific video essays about random topics while they joint text Midoriya from one phone.

If he tilts closer in order to see what Midoriya is saying, Bakugou doesn’t seem to mind.

When he leaves much, much later, the jacket stays and Shouto, like the clown he is, brings it to his bedroom to spread across the back of his desk chair. He’s able to see it when he lies down, comforted by its presence in his room as he falls asleep.

Two weeks later, he’s invited to a house party with Bakugou and Midoriya. And by invited, he means bullied and cajoled in turns.

He breaks within two days of big green puppy dog eyes combined with snarky comments about how he’ll be sitting on his couch like a nerd by himself if he doesn’t hang out with them.

It’s at one of their mutual friend’s places, nothing big, Midoriya assures, coupled with the demand that he’s “fuckin’ coming if it’s the last thing he does” from Bakugou, as per.

Shouto drags Shinsou along, much to his chagrin and Midoriya’s surprisingly quiet delight.

At the party, Shouto meets Kami and Kiri from the cafe and Bakugou’s solitary instagram picture in a far more real, actually introductory way. The door swings open the second they arrive, the two of them pouring out and talking a mile a minute.

Shouto steps back unconsciously, shoulders bumping with Bakugou, who grows low in his throat. The noise and his facial expression alone are enough to get Kirishima and Kaminari to back off, scurrying back into the house and allowing the rest of them to slip inside.

With a hand pressed to the lower back, Bakugou pushes him bodily inside after them. He catches Shinsou rolling his eyes and pokes his tongue out at him, which is returned in kind as if they’re six year olds instead of college students.

He also catches Kirishima and Kaminari gesturing vaguely at Shouto, exchanging an extremely pointed glance coupled with waggling eyebrows the second Bakugou’s back is turned.

It probably has something to do with the fact that Shouto is still wearing Bakugou’s jacket, but that’s none of his business.

The night continues in a way that’s both exactly on target with his expectations of a house party but also simultaneously much better, likely due to the company. Not much of a big drinker, Shouto paces himself as best as he’s able, ending up perfectly tipsy and crammed next to Bakugou on the couch.

Their thighs touching from knee to hip, the warmth of Bakugou next to him lulls Shouto into a sleepy, pleased sort of drunkenness. Happy to be here and with a mouth just loose enough to say that, his words earn him cooing and hair ruffling and big, green tear filled eyes from Midoriya.

Dumb drinking games begin, with rules Shouto can’t even begin to follow, all of Bakugou and Midoriya’s friends talking over each other. Shinsou looks laughably out of his depth, but he returns a thumbs up when Shouto tilts his head at him questioningly.

Bakugou holds him hostage, a big, warm palm gently cupping his knee as they lean back and watch their combined friends make fools of themselves.

By the time the party starts to quiet down, they end up sprawled on their floor next to each other, flat on their backs. Bakugou is saying something about mechanical engineering, halfway through a bitingly intense rant about one of his professors.

He keeps gesturing with the neck of his beer bottle, one arm folded behind his neck for his head to rest on. Shouto can’t stop looking at his hands.

He rolls towards him, the need to be closer making his body move without conscious direction from his brain. The rustle and clink of the pins and patches on the floor is an ever present reminder of the fact that he’s here, right now, because Bakugou saw him get punched in the face and dropped the jacket more or less into his lap.

There’s a pause in Bakugou’s rant, likely a space left for Shouto to reply, one which he completely misses, too distracted by jacket thoughts and the wide breadth of Bakugou’s palm wrapped around his beer.

The sound of shuffling next to him draws his attention up to Bakugou’s face, just in time to watch him turn on his side. The motion puts their faces close together, close enough for Shouto to be able to see the little flecks of darker red around Bakugou’s irises, the blonde of his eyelashes.

With a small huff of a laugh, Bakugou shifts to rest more fully on his pillowed arm. His typically analytic eyes are soft, relaxed. A little sleepy seeming. “What’re you looking at, you bastard?”

Shouto smiles, big and toothy in a way he knows is probably too much, too revelatory. Maybe even a touch dorky. But he can’t help it. It feels nice, being here.

“Nothin’.” Oh, he’s definitely on the far edge of tipsy now, closer to drunk than anything else.

Bakugou smiles back after a second, warm and just as silly and wholeheartedly pleased. Then he pushes Shouto’s face away from him with his entire hand. The maneuver makes them both laugh, hilarious to the point of tears in their eyes for no reason at all.

He ends the night close to falling asleep on the floor, his head on Bakugou’s lap as he talks shop with his friends and runs his surprisingly gentle fingers through Shouto’s hair, the jacket tucked around him.

The semester continues, the slow march of time dropping yet another fight off at Shouto’s feet, unwilling or not.

There’s no chance for chivalry this time, just some bastard on the street clipping his shoulder as Shouto walked past and then acting like it was his fault. It devolved from there, as it always does.

He’s fine, after. Mostly. Just a split lip from a sloppy punch he wasn’t quick enough to dodge and knuckles that’ll hurt tomorrow morning.

The worst part of it all is the blood dripped down the front of Bakugou’s jacket, bright red and lurid against the denim.

Shouto’s been staring at it morosely the entire walk, guilt settling low in his chest and making a home there.

He shows up at Bakugou’s apartment in poor form, with a bloody mouth and cracked knuckles and distress making him vibrate out of his skin.

Knocking on the door hurts, so he settles for soft tapping with the toes of his shoes and hopes like hell that Bakugou will hear them. He does, thankfully, judging by the displeased grumbling Shouto can hear growing closer as his thumping footsteps head toward the door.

When he swings it open, it’s clear he’s geared up to start yelling, mouth open and everything. It clicks shut as he takes stock of Shouto, pitiful in his doorway.

“The fuck happened to you?” he demands, startled into immediate action, reaching out to grab Shouto’s hand and pull him inside.

He lets himself be tugged, wanting nothing more than to collapse into a self-deprecating heap in Bakugou’s genkan. At least Midoriya has class right now, so he won’t see Shouto like this. Small victories.

Bakugou pulls him into his arms, careful of his mouth. It’s so gentle that Shouto has to bite back the sob that rises in his throat.

Forehead pressed against a strong shoulder, Shouto slurs, fat lip unwieldy, “I got blood on it.”

Making a dismissive sound into his hair, Bakugou pulls back to see him better.

“Blood on what? Your entire fucking face? Jesus Christ, hold on.” Without another word, he steers Shouto to the bathroom down the hall, pushing him to sit on top of the closed toilet seat. Dropping like a puppet with his strings cut, he goes to press his torn up knuckles to his eyes but stops himself at the last second.

He doesn’t want to show Bakugou the blood, the guilt choking him. But he does anyway, plucking the bottom of one side and holding it taught to show the stain all down the front.

“On the jacket.” He can hear how upset he sounds in his own voice, hideously ashamed and embarrassed by how emotional he is.

Shouto doesn’t get weepy very often, but he feels awful and his face hurts and it’s cold and he’s tired of people assuming his lack of intonation is an invitation to fight.

“Todoroki, you fucking asshole,” Bakugou says viciously, his entire face pulled into a frown. “Who gives a shit about the jacket?”

“I do.” Tears are welling up in his eyes, which is impeccably stupid. It’s been a very long week, that much is clear. “So much.”

Squeezing the sides of his face with his hand, Bakugou leans in close to sweep back the hair falling into his eyes with the other.

“Listen up, dickhead,” Bakugou demands, eyes so incredibly serious. “I can get blood out of denim, I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you.”

The emotions that sets off in Shouto’s chest leave him sickeningly bashful, ducking his head down into the collar and forgetting his busted mouth until the pain sends his head right back up again.

Bakugou blows air out of his nose, unimpressed. Using his pointer finger, he forcefully tips Shouto’s face back, dabbing at the cut on his lower lip with disinfectant. It stings, but it brings his consciousness back into his body a bit.

“What happened?”

“Some guy bumped into me on the street and acted like I pissed on his shoes.” Shouto can admit he sounds grumpy, but the ointment Bakugou swipes on his lip with the pad of his finger hurts quite a fucking bit.

“Motherfuckers across the city have it out for you, huh? Got a “Fight Me” sign stuck on you somewhere I don’t know about?”

Shouto shrugs, the energy sapped out of him.

Bakugou finishes cleaning him up quietly. He’s not gentle about the way he wipes the blood from Shouto’s face, but he is efficient. When he’s done, he snaps his first aid kit shut and frisbees it back under the sink. Then he tugs the jacket from Shouto’s shoulders and disappears down the hallway.

Shouto doesn’t move. He sits there, able to feel his heartbeat in his mouth, and tries to reconcile how much better he feels now that he’s here with how shitty he felt not even five minutes ago.

He’s able to tell when Bakugou starts back up the hallway, his steady footfalls like a metronome on the floor, sending tiny vibrations back to where Shouto sits. With impressively little fanfare, he elbows the bathroom door open and tosses a hoodie—a plain one, dark green—onto Shouto’s lap.

When Shouto does absolutely nothing, he stalks over and shoves it over his head, mindful of his lip. Tugging the strings tight, he ties them in a bow under Shouto’s chin.

Hands on his hips, he surveys his work. Shouto feels sickeningly relieved at the mere sight of him.

“C’mon, fight club. Deku went grocery shopping this week so I’m making the good shit.”

He follows, a moth to flame.

They’re standing outside in the dark, loitering in front of the engineering building as they wait for Midoriya to finish his advising session so they can go to dinner when Shouto finally asks the question he’s had ping ponging in his brain since the first real interaction they shared.

Shouto is wearing the jean jacket with a sweater underneath, perfectly content in the frigid air. Bakugou is standing next to him, shoulder pressed tight to his. He’s wearing an actual real winter coat, a big black puffer, complete with a cowl that Shouto is pretty sure Midoriya’s mom made. He looks cold and pissed off about it, even with all the layers.

The first time it snowed, he told Shouto that he could keep the jacket through the winter seeing as he wasn’t affected by the cold much. But he wants it back come spring. Or else.

Shouto isn’t sure what “or else” means, but he’s fairly certain he can comfortably rely on jean jacket tag as the weather warms back up. The thought alone fills him with enough warmth to ward off the chill.

Grumbling, Bakugou blows hot air into his hands while Shouto watches passively.

“Did you know that you’d get it back when you gave it to me the first time?”

Cutting him a sideways glance, Bakugou grunts out a “Huh?”

His cheeks are very, very pink. It’s adorable. His ears probably are too, but he stole Shouto’s beanie when they met up fifteen minutes ago. So he can only assume.

“Your jacket. Did you know it’d come back to you?”

“Are you asking me if I knew we would do some Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants shit for the better part of an entire semester?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shouto really doesn’t.

“It’s a book ser—No, you know what. Never mind.” Bakugou tilts his head back to stare up at the dark sky, then looks back at Shouto. “No. I didn’t know I’d get it back.”

He kicks his feet at the ground, wearing the same pair of scuffed up high tops he’s been wearing almost every day since they met. Occasionally he wears big heavy combat boots, which Shouto likes particularly well. They make him look even cooler than normal, and give him a few inches of height to where they can almost look each other in the eyes.

“Oh,” Shouto says, his favorite tactic to get Bakugou to keep talking, to steer the conversation wherever he wants it to go.

“I mean, I knew you. Seen you around before. I’d hoped.” Bakugou hunches his shoulders and takes a deep breath before releasing it. “Gave it to you that first time ‘cause you were cold and pathetic and you kicked the shit out of that guy.”

Shouto nods. That is indeed what happened.

“Gave it to you every other time ‘cause I like how you looked in it. How you look,” he self corrects.

At that, Shouto can feel his own cheeks go pink. Very decidedly not from the cold.

Bakugou makes eye contact again, purposeful and intent. His shoulders are squared now like he’s about to start a fight. As someone who fights routinely, Shouto is pretty familiar with the look.

He likes him so much he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I like seeing you wear somethin’ that’s mine.”

“You like that?” Shouto repeats, like an absolute fool.

“Yeah, dipshit. I do. You like wearin’ it?”

Yes, he does, very much. So he says that.

“‘Cause it’s cool or ‘cause it’s mine?”

“Both, I think.” Shouto considers the options, unsure where one starts and the other begins. “It’s cool because it’s yours. I like wearing it because it belongs to you.”

“Figures,” Bakugou says with a smile, his perfect teeth glinting in the dark. “You want me so bad.”

“I do,” Shouto admits, pleased by the way Bakugou whips his head toward him, as if he didn’t expect the answer. “I have, from the beginning. From you smacking me in the face with the jacket on the sidewalk, even.”

“Yeah?

“Yeah,” he confirms, heart racing.

Bakugou turns toward him, the tufts of his hair sticking out of Shouto’s beanie making him look like a particularly beautiful porcupine.

Shouto doesn’t lean away when Bakugou gets extremely close to him very quickly, in fact he leans closer, pulled into his orbit from the start. He goes willingly when Bakugou pulls him close by the collar of his jacket and kisses him soundly, right there in front of the engineering building.

It’s soft, sweet. Antithetical to both of their outward dispositions, but extremely in line with the way that they quietly care for one another. Bakugou’s hands are warm on his face, a touch dry, but gentle with how they cradle his cheekbones.

Kissing him feels good. Right.

Naturally, he wants to do it at every conceivable opportunity for the foreseeable future. It might be nice if it wasn’t in the freezing cold darkness, but even that can’t make Shouto want to stop.

Somehow sensing his wandering thoughts, Bakugou purposefully bites down on his still-healing split lip, like a jackass. The jolt of pain makes Shouto gasp, fisting a hand in the collar of his puffer coat, mouth opening.

Bakugou takes that as an opportunity to haul him closer and slip his tongue into Shouto’s mouth. Shouto does nothing to protest this turn of events and in fact loops both arms around Bakugou’s neck to press closer.

Midoriya comes out of the building eventually, shouting their names to find them in some halfhearted Marco Polo game which quickly morphs into loud, unfettered cheering when he spots them more or less making out on the front steps.

Bakugou pulls away to flip him off, but comes right back like he’s magnetized to drop another kiss on Shouto’s mouth.

“You can keep the jacket, even when it gets warm again,” he mumbles, quiet so Midoriya can’t hear as he jogs over to them. “Looks better on you anyway.”

Shouto can’t help the smile that spreads across his face at that. Slipping his hand into Bakugou’s and tucking them both into his puffer coat pocket, he watches Midoriya race toward them, heart in his throat and jacket warm as anything.