Chapter Text
It was the last week of their time at UA, the weather soft and the air crisp. The days had been unusually still, the kind of calm that only came when everything was about to change. Some of the flowers were starting to bloom again, and the scent of fresh earth hung in the air—spring was just around the corner. The dorms, usually filled with energy, felt quieter now. Everyone was packing up, preparing for the next chapter of their lives. The chatter, the tearful goodbyes, the final exchanges of promises… It all weighed down on Bakugo, gnawing at his nerves. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was wrong.
He hadn’t seen much of Kirishima in the past week. The guy had been distant, quieter than usual. And with Bakugo being Bakugo, he noticed everything—the slight falter in Kirishima’s voice whenever the topic of internships came up, the way his eyes would drop, like he was holding something back.
It wasn’t like Kirishima to shy away from things. Hell, he was always the one who rushed in headfirst, his bright smile and unbreakable attitude never faltering. But lately… it was different.
Bakugo stepped into his nearly empty room, the familiar space now feeling hollow. The mattress was the only thing left, the rest of his belongings packed away in boxes. It was too quiet here now. The silence felt suffocating, pressing in on him.
For the first time in ages, Bakugo felt the absence of someone. He hadn’t noticed how much he relied on Kirishima’s presence until it wasn’t there anymore.
A soft knock on the door broke through the quiet, pulling Bakugo from his thoughts. His eyes flicked toward it, the sound somehow louder than it should’ve been.
“Hey, Bakugo? Can I come in?” Kirishima’s voice was softer than usual, almost uncertain.
The hesitation in it made Bakugo’s chest tighten, though he tried to ignore it. He’d learned by now that if he overthought things, he’d make them worse.
“Yeah,” Bakugo replied, his voice steady but flat. His gaze lingered on the door, watching Kirishima walk in, his usual bright expression still there—but it was somehow dimmer than Bakugo remembered.
“Hey...” Kirishima’s voice faltered for a moment, the words hanging in the air before he spoke again. “Can we talk?”
Bakugo felt a knot form in his stomach. Something about the way Kirishima said it—the weight of his words—told him this wasn’t just a casual conversation.
He could feel the tension before Kirishima even sat down on the bed. Bakugo stood still for a moment, his heart pounding. He tried to keep his cool, to keep the anger and confusion buried deep where it wouldn’t spill out.
He forced a grin, masking his nerves. “What’s up, dumbass?” But even as he said it, he could feel the sharpness in his tone, a bite that wasn’t meant to be there.
Kirishima didn’t seem to mind, though. He just sat, his eyes scanning the now empty room before settling back on Bakugo.
He let out a deep breath, and when he finally spoke, it was quieter than usual.
“I’m leaving… for America.”
Bakugo’s heart skipped a beat at the words. He froze, not knowing what to say. His face remained impassive, but inside, everything felt like it was crumbling. He barely heard Kirishima continue, the words a blur as his mind raced.
“It’s a good internship… with Knight Forge. They asked me about a month ago, and I decided to take the offer.”
Bakugo stared at him, his mind still spinning. Kirishima’s hands fidgeted nervously, a small crack in his usual confidence.
Bakugo wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come.
The weight of the situation was too much, pressing down on him harder than any villain ever could. He had to fight to keep his breath even, to force himself to hold it together.
Not now. Not like this.
Finally, Bakugo cleared his throat, pushing the emotions down. He forced himself to speak, his words coming out sharper than intended. “Well, it’s not like I can stop ya, right?” His heart raced in his chest, but he kept his cool, trying to hide the depth of what he was feeling.
The silence that followed was almost too much to bear. They’d always been together, side by side. Whether it was training, small missions, or hanging out with the other idiots, Kirishima had kept up with him. He was the guy who never backed down, not once. The one who saw him, the one who kept him grounded. The one who reached out to him in Kamino—and Bakugo had taken his hand, no hesitation.
Even then, Kirishima had been there in ways Bakugo couldn’t quite explain. More than just a friend, more than just a teammate. He was an equal.
The person Bakugo considered his unbreakable force—the one who saw the worst of him, the nightmares that left him drenched in sweat, the moments when he burned through sheets, tears stinging his eyes. And now… he was leaving.
“I’m going to America,” Kirishima repeated, the words landing in the room with a heavy thud. “It’s a big deal. I can learn to be more agile, maybe figure out what more my Hardening can do… maybe I can learn to—”
“To stand on my own,” he finished, almost whispering the last part as if it would somehow make it easier.
The air between them was thick, like it was too heavy for either of them to breathe. Bakugo stood still, trying to keep his expression locked down, but inside, his thoughts were in turmoil.
Why now?
“I didn’t want to leave you hanging,” Kirishima added, his voice softer, like he was trying to explain himself. “But I need to do this… for myself.”
The words hit Bakugo harder than he expected. It was suffocating, and no matter how much he tried to bury it, the emotions kept clawing their way to the surface.
He couldn’t let it show. Not when Kirishima was looking at him with those eyes—searching, hoping, waiting for some sign that Bakugo understood, that he was okay with this.
always keep it together, Bakugo thought. I always do. But this? This was different.
“Right.” His voice came out steady, too steady. The words felt wrong, but they were the only ones he could find. “Do what you have to do.”
Kirishima studied him for a moment, his eyes scanning Bakugo’s face like he was trying to find some crack in his armor. A falter. Anything that would tell him something was wrong.
“I’m gonna miss you, man.” The words were a punch to Bakugo’s chest.
Kirishima wasn’t just leaving—he was taking a part of Bakugo with him. And for the first time, Bakugo couldn’t fight the feeling that was creeping in, threatening to swallow him whole.
The ground beneath him felt like it was shifting, his balance slipping. Kirishima was the one who kept him steady, the one who made him feel like he could breathe.
He forced a smile—sharp, calculated, the way he always did when he needed to hide what he was really feeling.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all soft on me now.” Bakugo turned away quickly, avoiding the look in Kirishima’s eyes, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. “Go do your thing. You’ll be amazing at it.”
Kirishima got up from the bed, his hand now steady as he placed it on Bakugo’s shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. He turned toward the door, glancing over his shoulder.
“My train leaves next Thursday at 4,” he said quietly, his words softer than usual. “The rest of the class will be there to see me off… I hope I’ll see you there.”
Silence was Bakugo’s only response, a silent message not to push any further. With that, the door closed behind Kirishima, leaving Bakugo alone in the stillness of the room.
The silence felt too loud, too heavy. And in that moment, Bakugo found himself questioning everything.
Why wasn’t he happy for him?
His unbreakable horse was leaving.
When the day came for Kirishima to leave for America, everyone showed up to see him off… except for one person.
Bakugo.
—---------------
Five years passed quicker than anyone expected. The world didn’t stop. It never did. The seasons changed. New heroes rose. Cities were rebuilt and torn apart again. And through it all, Bakugo kept moving, kept climbing, kept fighting. He didn’t give himself the space to look back.
His name rocketed through the charts. Headlines read like worship: Dynamight Ends Crisis in Record Time, No. 2 Hero Shakes Up the Industry. The crowd loved the rage and brilliance of him.
He was everywhere—on TV, in magazines, in interviews that he barely tolerated. He became somewhat of a symbol. Explosive. Relentless. Untouchable. But none of that filled the silence that waited for him at night.
Bakugo threw himself into the grind, the noise, the battlefield. He went harder than anyone else—first to show up, last to leave. He trained until his body screamed, took missions no one else would, stared down threats that made even seasoned pros pause. Because quiet left room for thought. And thought always led back to him.
Kirishima’s absence wasn’t loud. It wasn’t some thunderous goodbye that echoed for years. It was quiet. Subtle. Like a drawer left slightly open, a sentence never finished. Like a presence that should be in the room, but wasn’t.
In the early months, Bakugo tried to pretend it didn’t matter. That nothing had changed. He kept telling himself that Kirishima was still close, still in the same country, still just one call away if he really needed him.
But reality settled in like dust—slow, constant, inescapable.
The redhead’s name came up here and there, casually mentioned by others. He’s doing good work in the States. Knight Forge is really putting him through it. That guy’s become a beast. And each time, Bakugo just nodded, gave some sarcastic grunt, or changed the subject entirely. He never asked for more.
Never once reached out. Because it was easier that way.
Safer.
Pride, maybe. Or something deeper—something fragile beneath all that fire. He knew if he reached out, if he heard Kirishima’s voice, all the walls he’d built might start to crack. And Bakugo didn’t know what he’d find underneath.
He didn’t want to know.
So he filled every second. He cut himself off from anything that slowed him down. Izuku noticed it, even if he didn’t say much.
The others did too—those looks, the way they stopped bringing up certain names. But no one pressed.
They all knew Bakugo well enough by now. He kept going. Kept winning. But the victories felt thin. Hollow.
Bakugo remembered the first time he stood in front of a destroyed building after a successful mission, the crowd cheering, his name echoing around him—and all he could think about was the sound of Kirishima’s laugh, the way he’d clap him on the back, grin wide, call him bro like it meant something sacred.
Now there was just the echo.
There were nights he’d climb to the highest roof after patrol and sit in silence, wind biting at his skin. He’d look up at the stars, like they held some kind of answer. Like if he stared long enough, he could figure out why it still hurt. He’d think of those late nights at the dorms, two shadows against the sky, the world asleep below them. And Kirishima—always there. Solid. Unshakable. His horse.
no matter how high Bakugo climbed, that empty space never got filled. Not by fame. Not by rankings. Not even by the title of Number Two Hero.
When the headlines came and the cameras flashed, he played the part. Let them talk about his power, his victories, his growth. But he knew. Deep down. There was one thing missing. The only thing that ever grounded him. He used to think Kamino was the worst it could get. That being kidnapped, watching others bleed because of him, was the peak of helplessness.
Then came Shigaraki.
The war shattered everything. It wasn't just the city that crumbled beneath Shigaraki’s decay—it was everything Bakugo thought he knew about strength, control, survival. He remembered the chaos, remembered launching himself into battle because that was what he did, what he had to do. But for the first time, it wasn’t enough. He still felt the phantom sting of Shigaraki’s blow in his gut—still woke up sometimes with the memory of that pain and the weightlessness of his body crashing through the air.
The world had gone black too fast that day. The coldness he felt wasn’t just from the blow.
It was fear.
He never said it aloud. Not to his friends. Not to his mother. Not even to the hospital staff who patched him up. But he was terrified. And even now, years later, in the silence of his apartment with only the hum of the city outside his window, the fear came back in waves.
The nightmares weren’t frequent, but when they came, they hit hard.
The same sequence on loop—sickening laughter, Izuku screaming, hands reaching for him, a sharp pain in his body and a gut-wrenching silence as the world slipped away.
These days, he deals with them alone. But five years ago... it wasn’t like that.
He remembered one night clearly, maybe a week after he'd been cleared to return to the dorms. Everyone else had been sleeping, still half-shaken from the war, walking on eggshells around him like he might explode. He probably would have, if not for Kirishima.
That night, the nightmare had gripped him so hard he woke up drenched in sweat, heart racing, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. He didn’t scream—but the way he sat up, clutching his chest, trembling without meaning to—he knew someone had heard. And of course, it was him.
The knock was soft. "Hey, bro… you good?" Bakugo didn’t answer. Didn’t trust his voice.
Kirishima didn’t wait. He opened the door, took one look at him, and crossed the room like he’d been waiting for this. He didn’t press. Didn’t ask him to talk. Just sat on the edge of the bed and said,
“You’re here. We’re here. It’s not happening.” And Bakugo had just stared at the floor, fists clenched, jaw tight, trying to swallow whatever the hell was choking him. But Kirishima had stayed. Quiet and warm and steady. Like always.
Eventually, he spoke. “You don’t have to be so strong all the time, Katsuki.”
It had cracked something open in him. They didn’t talk much that night. But when Bakugo finally laid back down, Kirishima stayed there.
Close enough that the silence didn’t feel so suffocating. And somehow, the nightmare didn’t come back. He hadn’t thought about that night in a long time. But now, five years later, lying in a penthouse apartment paid for by accolades and hero commissions, surrounded by trophies and top hero rankings, Bakugo had never felt so goddamn alone. He still had nightmares. But now he just woke up, stared at the ceiling, waited for his breathing to steady... and went back to work. Because there was always work. And if he stayed busy enough, maybe he wouldn’t notice how badly he missed the idiot who used to sit at the edge of his bed and remind him he wasn’t just a weapon.
He missed Kirishima more than he let himself admit. But again, he still wouldn’t reach out.
It had been a long day of patrol.
The sun hung low in the distance, drenching Bakugo’s apartment in warm, lazy hues against the furniture. His muscles ached as he trudged through the door, the weight of the day pressing heavy on his spine.
The agency had been brutal — pointless meetings that dragged on, villain takedowns that felt less like victories and more like chores.
Bakugo kicked his boots off by the door, tossing his jacket onto the back of a chair before wandering into the kitchen. He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, leaning against the counter.
His hearing aids — small and nearly invisible behind his ears — picked up the faint hum of the city outside, the soft whir of the fridge, the creak of the apartment settling around him.
So quiet.
Too quiet.
No laughter spilling from the next room. No soft bickering between friends. No loud, red-haired idiot dragging him into late-night movie marathons or pestering him for extra training sessions he pretended to hate.
Bakugo squeezed his eyes shut, breathing slow and steady against the sudden, awful ache curling up his chest.
The buzz of his phone shattered the silence, the screen lighting up the dim kitchen.
Nerd: still on for tonight? :)
Right. He made plans with Izuku. After relentless, annoying begging and pleading.
Bakugo stared at the message a second longer than he needed to — typical Izuku, always checking in, always... showing up.
Bakugo: yeah, be ready in 10.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket, jaw tightening.
When the ten minutes had passed, Bakugo pulled on his jacket and locked up, stepping into the cooling evening air where Izuku’s car was already parked and waiting.
Bakugo opened the passenger door with a grunt and slid into the seat, the familiar smell of coffee and cheap air freshener hitting him immediately.
“You look awful,” Izuku said without hesitation, hands steady on the wheel.
Bakugo clicked his seatbelt a little too aggressively. “Wow. Thanks,nerd.”
Izuku just smiled, that small, knowing smile that didn’t need words.
The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the flow of city traffic under the glowing skyline. They drove in silence for a minute, the hum of the engine filling the space between them — comfortable now, in the way that years of scars, shared battles, and shattered pride could make it. Their relationship had changed after the war. After Shigaraki.
Bakugo had apologized once — really apologized — and something between them had cracked open, raw and real.
They weren’t just rivals anymore. They weren’t just former classmates. They were something closer to brothers — rough-edged, brutally honest, but loyal to the bone. Izuku didn’t pry like others did. He just... showed up.
A text after a hard mission,
A knock on the door with coffee on anniversaries they didn’t talk about.
Silent company when Bakugo didn’t have the words.
That was their language now. Simple. Solid. No bullshit.
“Where we goin’?” Bakugo muttered, breaking the quiet.
“That ramen place you hate,” Izuku said, flashing him a stupid grin.
Bakugo snorted. “Figures. You’re buyin’, nerd.”
“I always buy,” Izuku laughed, easy and light in a way that twisted something warm and reluctant in Bakugo’s chest.
The bell above the ramen shop door jingled as they stepped inside. The place was small, tucked between bigger, newer buildings. It smelled like broth and spices, wrapping them in a weighted blanket. A few citizens glanced up — some waving shyly, others whispering — but Izuku just smiled and led the way to a booth in the back, where they could be left alone.
Bakugo slumped into his seat with his usual scowl, arms crossed tight across his chest like armor.
Izuku, meanwhile, looked like he was right at home, waving at the old man behind the counter who seemed almost blessed by their presence.
“You always pick the most crowded dumps,” Bakugo muttered under his breath.
"You love it," Izuku said with a shit-eating grin. Sometimes, Izuku’s dumb grins made Bakugo slip back into old habits, making him want to bristle and snap like he used to. But now... it felt different. Familiar. Needed.
Midoriya had grown in ways Bakugo hadn’t expected. Bakugo caught it without meaning to — the way Izuku leaned back casually in the booth, one arm stretched out, jacket slipping to reveal the thick line of muscle at his forearm.
Strong. Solid.
The kind of strength that didn’t come easy, didn’t come without bleeding for it.
Tch. When the hell did the nerd get that ripped?
Bakugo stabbed harder at his food than necessary, scowling.
It wasn’t just the arms, either. Izuku's shoulders had broadened, his posture looser but somehow heavier — like he wasn’t carrying the weight of the world so tightly in his chest anymore. Like he’d finally learned to breathe. The realization left a strange, reluctant pride twisting in Bakugo’s gut.
“You good, Kacchan?” Midoriya asked, glancing over with that same easy smile.
Bakugo just grunted, shoving another mouthful of food in before he said something stupid like yeah, just remembering you're not a useless twig anymore, thanks.
The silence stretched between them again — natural, lived-in. Then Izuku, fiddling with the rim of his water glass, gave Bakugo a sideways glance — the kind that said I’m about to dig into your shit whether you like it or not.
“Have you been keeping up with the press lately?” Izuku asked casually.
Bakugo grunted. Tilted his head. Signed low and sharp.
No. Waste of time.
Izuku smiled, soft, almost sad. “There’s news about Kirishima,” he said.
Bakugo’s entire body stiffened. Not noticeably, maybe — but Izuku caught it. Of course he did.
Bakugo didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Instead, he signed, short and sharp:
So?
Izuku sighed. He leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s coming back. Officially. Might even... be joining an agency.”
The air between them shifted, thick and heavy. Bakugo sat perfectly still, expression blank, face in shadow. Only his hands moved — deliberate and low.
Tch. Don't care. He left. His choice.
The lie tasted bitter on his tongue even in sign.
Izuku’s mouth pulled into a thin line. He didn’t call him out — not directly. Instead, he tapped the table once, leaned forward, voice soft. “You told me,” Izuku said gently. “That night before he left… you told me what happened.”
Bakugo swallowed hard, throat dry.
“You told me he confessed,” Izuku continued, keeping his voice low, private between them. “And you pushed him away because you were scared. Because you thought you didn’t deserve that, and that you didn’t want to ruin the chance of his internship in America”
Bakugo’s hands twitched — the beginnings of another sign — before he clenched them into fists under the table.
Izuku didn't press — not yet. But he leaned in a little closer, voice softer still. “You never looked more terrified in your life, Kacchan. Not even fighting Shigaraki.”
Bakugo exhaled slowly through his nose, body tight with a thousand things he couldn't say. His fingers tapped against the table, twitchy and frantic.
Shut up, nerd.
Izuku smiled — sad and fond all at once. "I'm not saying you have to do anything," he said. "But you’re not alone this time. You don't have to be."
For a long moment, Bakugo just sat there, breathing slow, furious breaths, head tipped forward so his hair fell into his eyes. When he finally moved, it was small — barely more than a twitch of his hand..
Don’t know if I can fix it.
Izuku didn’t hesitate. He signed back, slow and steady:
You don't have to. Just show up.
They made it back to Izuku’s car without saying much. The cool night air buzzed around them, full of distant sirens and the hum of traffic.
Bakugo yanked open the passenger door a little harder than necessary, sliding into the seat and slamming it shut with a grunt. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, head tipped back against the headrest, eyes squeezed shut like he could will himself into non-existence.
Izuku took his time getting into the driver's seat. He didn’t rush. Didn’t say anything. Just let the engine turn over, soft and steady, headlights spilling gold across the quiet street.
Bakugo breathed out through his nose, long and slow. Then, without looking, he moved his hand — low and fast — signing just once, almost too quick to catch:
Didn’t think he’d leave after saying that.
Izuku’s heart twisted. He didn’t answer right away.
He didn’t want to scare him off — didn’t want Bakugo to pull back into himself the way he always did when he felt too exposed.
Instead, Izuku shifted into drive, pulling away from the curb with a steady hand. Just as they melted back into the city traffic, he lifted his hand from the steering wheel, casual, loose, before he spoke, “he didn’t leave you, i don't think he'd say how he felt without a reasoning.”
Bakugo didn’t respond. Didn’t even move. But his jaw clenched, and for the first time all night, the anger in his posture sagged into something softer, something almost fragile.
They drove the rest of the way back in silence, the city lights flashing across Bakugo’s set face and Izuku kept his hand loose between the seats, close enough to grab if Bakugo ever needed it.