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Asking Yaoyorozu to make it is easy. All it takes is a couple of google-searches, intense scrolling, pursed lips and timid nods before Shoji turns around and warm yellow light encases his shadow. He offers no real explanation for it - a bit of mumbling, face flushed and eyes darted to the side like a liar - but she takes it with a promise of bought lunches and side favours, eyes glittering with unexpected glee. That, at least, is better than Ashido’s catlike curiosity and Shoji takes what he can get.
“You won’t need much to install it,” Yaoyorozu smiles, handing over the device between delicate fingers. “Back’s sticky. Careful with that.”
“Thanks.” He turns over the little switch in his hands, smaller than anticipated. It’s enough to do the trick. “So the buzzer will just sound when I press this, right?”
She blinks, smiling. “Yeah.”
He bins the plastic wrap that comes with it and thumbs the buzzer till it gleams dully with oil.
\
It’s a bit extra, really, and Kirishima points out the unnecessary complexities of their arrangement once Shoji shows up at his dorm door, switch and buzzer in hand.
“He could just knock.” He says.
“I could be sleeping. Working,” Shoji points out. “Listening to music. The music stops, and I’ll regret not heading down to the common room.”
“Right.” Kirishima smiles a little sheepishly. A wolffish fang peeks out at his bitten lip, and Shoji tries not to delve too deep into that thought before it ruins him.
“-could text you?”
“I don’t always see texts,” Shoji says. “Why are you making this out to be a bigger deal than it is?”
Kirishima’s hands shoot up: a defence, albeit a weak one. “Right. Sorry. Wow, it’s just weird. I’m so grateful that you’re okay with this. Honestly, I could just- we could tone it down. Or something.”
Shoji pauses. “Toning Bakugo down is highly unlikely,” - Kirishima makes a halfhearted grimace in agreement - “And this is better than a bad mood on a Monday morning, so I’m all for it.”
“Can’t argue with you there.”
“You’re a good guy, Kirishima.” He says with an air of finality. Even the shadows and highlights that envelope their figures - painted on by the single swaying bulb amidst Shoji’s minimalist decor - suggest drama that isn’t there. “I like you a lot, so don’t worry.” Kirishima’s eyes just about well into pools of tears - manly, Shoji notes, before he breaks into the sweetest smile.
“I owe you so much, man,” and when Kirishima wraps his arms around him, he catches the faintest whiff of caramel. “Thank you. I am so sorry. This is so awkward. How are you okay with this?”
“Relax.” Shoji smiles, hidden under a blue mask. “This is good for me too.”
\
The first time it happens, the noise of a palm slamming down on the switch is so loud that Shoji is up before the buzzer even beeps. It’s a midday Saturday- his phone tells him as much right before it falls flat on his face and nearly blinds him in the process. In an instant he can hear incredulous muttering, Kirishima’s voice a soft retaliation that soothes Bakugo’s temper until they’re both in quiet, muffled harmony. There’s laughing too, which Shoji hangs around for as he slowly collects a maths and English textbook into his arms, then yelps and the thumps of an impromptu grappling contest sprinkled in gasps and light protest. Shoji lets himself smile a little - it’s cute, he admits, but he’ll leave before those gasps turn heavy, and the words turn to whispers, and the fingers interlace. The walls are thin around here; the intimate silence is nobody’s business.
Down in the common room Midoriya waves a bleary hello.
“Studying on a Saturday?” Uraraka says beside him. “You’re a good, good student, Shoji.”
“I’m a little behind.” He lies.
\
The next time the buzzer sounds, Shoji’s working late into the night. He’ll count himself lucky for that, at least - binomial expansion is no joke and he’s been scoring consistently poor 50s out of full practice papers. He pulls off his earphones, laptop sliding to a close just as a soft thump sounds right across from him - accompanied by a second and a loud sigh, and then a groan.
Did you hit the thing? Kirishima’s voice is soft but just barely audible, no thanks to his Quirk and guilty curiosity. Crap, I feel awful. It’s like, eleven.
That means s’not twelve yet. Bakugo grunts. Shoji hears the shifting of blankets and takes a large step towards the door. We got an hour and I want to fucking cuddle.
Okay, Kirishima laughs, chimes-in-the-wind laughs, and Shoji swears the room is a little brighter. We’ll do that.
He rolls his eyes and goes downstairs, forty minutes of TV and soda in hand before the buzzer sounds again.
\
Sometime during the week after, Shoji bumps into Bakugo in the middle of the night. They’re down at the common room kitchen when Shoji appears from the dim, nodding absentmindedly as he reaches for the pitcher of water to refill his flask. There’s an unspoken awkwardness that settles in their bones as the water fills, Shoji taking a drink as Bakugo’s hands tap lightly against a glowing oven.
“What’re you making?” Shoji says to break the ice.
“None of your business.” comes Bakugo’s sharp but fatigued reply. Somehow Shoji doubts anyone else could pull off such juxtaposition. As he shrugs, Bakugo’s initial hostility deflates and he nods towards a long, empty container.
“Sweet shit. Pastry stuff.” He grunts. “For Kirishima.”
“Nice,” Shoji says.
“Yeah.” Bakugo shifts in his socks.
Shoji watches the time tick by, refilling what he’d gulped down. Bakugo’s hand is in his hair, miniature blasts fluffing up damp strands into his signature style as he lets out a restrained yawn. Across from them, pink light spills onto the couches, a languid sprawl of sun rays looking to pretty up the living room.
“Allergic to nuts?”
“Huh?” Shoji blinks.
“It’s pie,” Bakugo repeats. “You allergic to nuts?”
“Uh,” Shoji says. “No.”
“D’you- fuck.” Bakugo’s hands interlace at his neck, tugging forward, teeth grinding, eyes bleary but narrowed like he’s waging war between his eyebrows and neither side is backing down. Shoji would laugh but doesn’t want to risk death, so he keeps silent for a while longer.
It takes him a minute to realize that Bakugo‘s muttering, face flushed and knuckle-white muttering, is him trying to ask a question.
“Do I want... pie?” Shoji asks for him. Bakugo gives him a glare with a blush across his neck the appropriate colour-equivalent to Kirishima’s hair.
“Well?”
“Yeah sure,” Shoji says, mostly to fill the awkward silence. “I like pie.”
“‘Cus-“ Bakugo seethes. “Cus of the. For the. Thing.”
“Switch.” Shoji corrects gently.
“And the noise and shit.”
“It’s okay, -”
“It’s not.” Bakugo’s hands find his pockets aggressively, right as the oven beeps, and Shoji mentally engrains the picture of Bakugo in an apron and oven mittens into his brain as some striking reminder that he’s more than just a trouble-child. “It’s not okay.”
“But I’m okay with it.” Shoji folds his arms. “Just follow curfew and nothing before seven. You’re all good in between.”
“Curfew.” Bakugo barks a laugh, popping open the container lid. “Thanks.”
It’s kind of a triumph, hearing that.
“You’re welcome.” Shoji smiles, and deep-sleeps after.
\
It becomes a little too obvious that Bakugo’s compensating for the sound when Shoji finds that he’s being constantly called upon to taste test. It’s not just a random assortment of foods either- all Shoji’s favourites: be it western cuisine, eastern, breakfast foods and midnight snacks. He didn’t even know he liked cold soba until Bakugo whipped it up at some random interval during the day and called his phone just to get Shoji trundling downstairs to try it. The tsuyu is amazing too - Shoji takes a minute to thank the blonde, who all but responds, before diving into his latest taste-testing endeavour. Heaven in a bowl and clouds in his eyes - he leans back in the high stool as Bakugo whips up a dessert. For him.
Shoji’s workout routine might need some tweaking.
Anyways, the favours are enough to get the rest of 2-A suspicious - Ashido is on his case in an instant, Kaminari by her side and Sero like the conjoined twin at his elbow. He’s not surprised they’re the first to point the sceptical finger - after all, they seem closer to Bakugo than most - but that just means they’ve not been receiving equal treatment and that may just make him a little smug.
“Shoji.” Kaminari gapes. “Of all people, Bakubro.”
“Don’t fucking call me that!” Bakugo snaps, slamming down chocolate fondue beside a webbed arm. Shoji takes a moment to admire his craft - there’s strawberry in the middle, honey sweeping the glass sides, a whisper of a gold flake that seems to whisper thanks before he takes his first bite.
“But, Shoji.” Kaminari waves his hands frantically like he can’t believe his eyes, deceived, betrayed. “I’ve got your back all day every day, Blasty. Where’s this blatant favouritism coming from?”
“My business does not concern you, fuckface.” Bakugo seethes, wiping the kitchen table in broad strokes as his apron slips down a shoulder. “Get out of here before I explode you into hell.”
“That was weak.” Sero turns to Kaminari with a shrug. “I’d rate that a five.”
“Antsy afternoon insults are always a five, Sero.” Ashido rolls her eyes. “He’s probably tired. Of cooking.” Her eyes gleam with gossip. “For his favourite boy.”
It doesn’t help that Shoji blushes, just a little, and Bakugo’s scream is so red and raw that Jirou doubts her amps could do much more to amplify them.
\
When Tokoyami catches wind of the now-dubbed ‘food-favouritism’, he makes sure to slide past a comment on his favourite dish, which Shoji offhandedly relays to Bakugo as he’s cooking tonkotsu ramen with his back turned and hair damp from a workout.
“Breakfast food?” He grunts.
“Yeah, elderberry jam is cool,” Shoji says. It doesn’t roll off the tongue well. Neither does the sentence, the adjective, and his overall inflexion slipping into panic mode for some inexplicable fear that Bakugo will find out he’s lying.
“I thought you liked Nutella on your toast,” Bakugo recalls. Shoji, while impressed, is also a tad concerned. “But don’t buy that 7/11 store shit for the jam. There’s a better store in Musutafu, somewhere past the JUMP shop. I can’t make it myself yet.”
“Yeah.” Shoji nods, and thanks him for the meal.
He doesn’t need to buzz afterwards. Bakugo puts a stiff arm on his shoulder as they loiter in the corridor, nodding sharply to Kirishima’s room without a word.
“Two hours.” He says.
“Okay.” Shoji says, and after a moment, “have a good time.”
If Bakugo burns red at the statement, Shoji doesn’t comment. Only soft coughing escapes his mouth, mumbled “thanks” before he makes a beeline for the door and slams it shut.
Bakubro!
Kirishima’s smile transcends all visual boundaries-
Hey.
and so does Bakugo’s.
\
(There is one night, Shoji remembers, that isn’t punctuated by the sound of a buzzer. He hears doors creak, angry slamming, hands at chests and arms over shoulders, feet dangling off a bed covered in thick flames too cheery for a dampened mood. Bakugo’s harsh whispering is a blatant shout through the paper-thin walls, and Kirishima’s voice is all the sweeter for him.
He doesn’t mean to hear the crying. But there’s singing too - soft, restrained, hands pushing through hair and bodies rocking back and forth until explosions simmer into pops and fireworks, until the quiet sobbing lulls to gasping breaths, until a lullaby floats through the walls to Shoji’s futon, until it rocks them all to sleep.)
\
Midoriya’s always held his suspicions. Shoji knows because he’d begun to hang around the kitchen since Shoji’s first taste of cooking paradise and, to put it crassly, hovering like a fly looking for food.
“Kacchan made this, huh.” He comments.
“Yeah. Katsudon.” Shoji nods, absentminded as he picks up his chopsticks before diving in. The rice is fluffy and soft, the meat crispy and filling- he reckons, at this point, that food blogger shouldn’t be far off his list of secondary occupations. Chowing down on Bakugo’s daily offerings is now a favorite pastime of his; sometimes after the buzzer sounds, he’ll walk down to the kitchen where a box with his name on it will be waiting - a snack, usually cookies, and a number to dictate the minutes he’ll spend rolling around the couches before making his way to the 4th floor again.
“You must make him very happy.” Midoriya smiles.
“Oh definitely.” Shoji snorts without much thought, and the green-haired boy relaxes in his seat with a soft laugh.
“I’m glad he’s found someone he cherishes so much.”
An extension of Shoji’s mouth, once diving into a glass of water, heaves it out with the force of a tidal wave.
“Excuse me?” He splutters.
“You and Kacchan are dating, right?” Midoriya blinks. Shoji would’ve never guessed those suspicions were wrong.
“Wow, no.” He says, eyes burning holes into his unfinished meal. “But uh, it’s... complicated.”
At the risk of spilling the biggest secret 2-A doesn’t even know they have, Shoji inevitably makes an even bigger blunder.
“Wow.” Midoriya’s face reddens. “Okay, totally. It’s complicated.”
“Wait- no,“ Shoji’s voice is a mere strangle for air.
“It’s okay!” Hands shoot up, meant to be calming, now all but disastrous symbols of possible death and no more free food. “I never thought- he’s a hard thinker. Kacchan.”
“Yep,” Shoji says weakly into his rice.
They sit a while longer. Midoriya isn’t even eating, and he tries to will himself out of existence before the boy can make any more assumptions - before he can accidentally fuel them.
“I’m gonna go.” Midoriya coughs.
“Bye.” Shoji blurts out.
\
Lucky for him, Midoriya doesn't say a word.
“Bakugo, toothpaste,” Kirishima says the next morning, toothbrush stuck halfway into his mouth with a hand extended. Bakugo grunts a nod, dropping said item in his hand, and he’s about to reach for his comb when fingers interlace in his and pull him into a light kiss.
“G’morning.” Kirishima murmurs.
“Shoji is right there.” Bakugo tears away in an instant, fiery red and twitching at every seam, before Shoji nods his consent and slaps on his mask.
“Sorry, man,” Kirishima says sheepishly. “Didn’t- not focused. S'too early.”
“It’s okay.” Shoji laughs.
\
“Hey, you know how I got a C last time?”
“Why are you reminding me of my failures?” Bakugo stares down the elevator doors, irritation seeping past the slit as they close. Kirishima leaves his fingers in blonde hair, head nudging at Bakugo’s shoulder until he groans and shoves his free hand into a bright red back pocket.
“Cus you’re a great teacher and I need incentives,” Kirishima whines. “Like food. Shoji loves food.”
Bakugo glares at him; he’s learnt to differentiate hostility from curiosity - it’s dependent on the brows, Kirishima had told him once - and now it’s plainly obvious that Bakugo is asking for a confirmation to make lunch and dinner.
“I do now.” Shoji nods. Soufflé, he telepathically sends to Bakugo’s head.
“Or, other, things.” Kirishima’s voice quiets with every pause. Bakugo makes a noncommittal grunt. A quick look at his eyebrows, Shoji thinks, and you’d be able to see the longing hidden in the depths of Bakugo’s left brow tilted just over the 45-degree angle. There’s a bit of lust, consideration, mostly love.
“What do you want?” Bakugo mutters back. Shoji reaches into his pockets, pulling out nothing but air, and remembers that he left his earphones plugged into his laptop before heading out.
“I’ll tell you later.” Kirishima coughs, and they break apart right as the elevator dings open.
\
Shoji experiences lots of things.
There’s also the window incident, the broken headboard, the shattered nightlight Bakugo just casually tossed into the corridor one night that Shoji had been walking up to his room, making severe eye-contact all the way until their doors closed. However sweet it was that they were unapologetic in their affection, Shoji has to admit that it’s a little weird, but ultimately high-schoolish.
He looks down at Hizashi’s homework essay, midway complete, and suddenly feels like he’s 60 years old.
\
Eventually, when everyone finds out, mass hysteria follows the clamouring of voices piled against each other in the "spiciest theory" (Ashido's own words) of all time.
"So, Blasty," Kaminari sidles up to the weathered down desk like a cat. "Lemme ask you a simple question."
"No." Bakugo glowers.
"-What does his mouth look like?"
The pin drops, the weight of it a sledgehammer on Shoji's bones, a reverberated echo through his entire body as he visibly shudders into embarrassment. He hears the creak of Bakugo's neck, the eyes, the eyebrows that indicate a 60-degree angle of unadulterated fury, before Kirishima leaps into class like a martyr.
"Bakugo, you forgot your noteboo- you okay?" he stops, curiousity inlaid with concern. 2-A stares a silent response, breaths hitched, eyes wide, ecstatically waiting on the cusp of an explosion.
"Ah," Shoji waves quickly, "You've all made a big mistake."
"Food-favouritism is not a mistake." Hagakure points out in a jealous hiss. "It's a blatant choice for an obvious reason."
"... I do his laundry?" Shoji tries.
Bakugo, for the most part, is silent, almost pondering as his eyebrows retreat to a safe 45-degrees upon hearing Kirishima's voice. His back arches a little, head turned to meet the red-head's eye like a secret - and it is a secret, that they've kept for so long.
"Whoops." Kirishima says, eyes wide.
"Yes." Bakugo's voice is stiff, betrays a touch of anger, a hint of fear.
And -oh, is Kirishima kind.
Shoji would know from every passing glance, from the moment they agreed on this arrangement, to the morning routines he finds himself unintentionally third-wheeling but ultimately enjoying. Shoji would know by the way Kirishima calls Bakugo's name in the dark, when he sings like no one else is there to listen and when he laughs, like there is an octave of that laugh reserved just for Bakugo, like no one else could possibly contend.
He takes a slow step towards him, gazes still lingering between them like hesitant breaths as 2-A's anticipation morphs into a scatter of whispers and furrowed brows. Kirishima takes Bakugo's head in his hands, cups his cheeks, and kisses him softly.
"It's okay." he whispers, smiling shyly, and the class erupts into chaos.