Chapter Text
Kirishima had promised to himself that he wouldn’t think about his ex during the first week of classes.
He thought it was a solid, mature goal. Something a well-adjusted, emotionally intelligent person might do. Summer had already chewed him up and spit him out, so it felt only fair to start autumn with a clean slate, a few new pens, and a big stupid smile. But by the third night of their radio show, he was already doing that thing where he said “My ex used to love this song” and then laughed way too hard to cover the awkward silence.
Bakugo didn’t laugh.
“Cool,” he said flatly, pressing a button so the next track could save them both from whatever sentimental monologue Kirishima was about to launch into.
Kirishima spun slowly in his chair and whispered something about how at least he wasn’t still texting them.
Classes had started the week before, right at that strange edge between summer and autumn. The air was still warm in the afternoon but colder by night, so everyone walked around campus pretending they weren’t sweating through their hoodies at noon. Kirishima loved that time of year. He liked seeing leaves start to change, the way the sky got darker a little earlier, and having something to do again.
And he loved being back in the studio.
The university radio station wasn’t glamorous. It was barely soundproof, the chairs squeaked, and their mic had to be reset every night with a little smack on the side. But it was theirs for two nights a week, just him and Bakugo and a whole inbox of strangers spilling their guts about love, finals, friendship, breakups, and panic attacks in library bathrooms.
They’d started the advice segment as a joke during their first semester working together, but somehow it stuck. People loved it. Loved them. Kirishima was the emotional one, the optimist, the type to find poetic meaning in a crusty coffee mug. Bakugo was the realist with no patience and zero sympathy for people who texted their exes at 2 a.m.
They argued constantly. Bakugo interrupted him. Kirishima teased him. It was part of the rhythm.
They weren’t as close as Kirishima sometimes wished they were, but after three years of sharing booth space, shifts, and dead air between songs, Bakugo had become a good friend, the kind who didn’t text first or stick around after class, who never showed up to parties and dodged every group hang with a roll of his eyes, but he was always at the station. Always on time. Always focused.
And there were other small things.
Bakugo brought him food more often than anyone else. Not in any big way, but he'd show up to their 10 p.m. shift with a konbini sandwich if Kirishima looked tired, or shove a canned coffee into his hand with a short, “you looked dead last week.” When Kirishima needed help with that cursed stats class last year, Bakugo didn’t complain once, he just showed up to the café near campus with his notes already color-coded.
They didn’t make plans, but habits grew anyway.
Every Thursday and Sunday, once the show ended at two, they walked together to the 7-Eleven a few blocks away. No one ever said, “let’s go.” It just happened. They zipped their jackets, locked up the studio, and went.
Bakugo always got the same drink. Kirishima spent way too long pacing in front of the coolers, changed his mind three times, then ended up with something disappointing and swore he’d choose better next time. The lights inside the store were always too bright. The snack aisle was always empty. Sometimes they walked in silence. Sometimes they argued about whether chips were a real meal. It didn’t matter.
They called it early breakfast.
Once in a while, they’d sit on the curb outside. Other nights they kept walking until they reached the bench near the quad, the sky lightening just enough to blur the stars. Most of the time, Kirishima did the talking. He’d ramble about his day, his assignments, the weird dream he had, whatever. And Bakugo didn’t say much, but when he did, it counted. He didn’t fake it. Didn’t pretend to care when he didn’t. He never said “that sucks” unless he meant it.
Kirishima appreciated that. He appreciated all of it, honestly. The routines, the consistency, the strange rhythm they’d carved into their weeks without really talking about it. Bakugo wasn’t easy or warm, but he showed up, and he stayed, and he noticed things. That meant more than Kirishima could say out loud. It meant everything, sometimes, especially on the days when everything else felt like too much.
He just wished it meant the same thing to Bakugo. Or that he knew if it did.
Because sometimes, on those nights when their steps fell in sync and their shoulders brushed as they walked, Kirishima let himself imagine what it would be like if they were something more. If Bakugo leaned a little closer. If he said, “you’re the only person I like being around.” If he made the silence mean something instead of just filling it.
But Bakugo didn’t say things like that. He showed up. He brought food. He made Kirishima laugh even when the day had sucked. That had to count for something.
Even if Kirishima still wished for more.
But here, with two cans of iced coffee and half a bag of wasabi chips between them, Kirishima could pretend they were at least best friends. Friends who laughed. Friends who shared food. Friends who knew each other a little better than the rest of the world did.
And as Bakugo’s closest friend (technically his only real friend, depending on how you measured these things), Kirishima figured it was kind of his duty to help him fix his love life. Or at least get one.
But Bakugo didn’t date.
Not in the way Kirishima understood it. When listeners sent in messages like “How do I tell my crush I like them?” or “Should I ask them out or wait?”, Bakugo always scoffed and said things like “Why bother?” or “Sounds like a waste of time.” He’d even said, very clearly, once on air, “I don’t do dates.”
So, for a while, Kirishima, being the romantic sap that he was, assumed that maybe Bakugo was a late bloomer. Or even a virgin. Or maybe just not into anyone at all. Which would’ve been fine, obviously. He respected all types of experiences, and if Bakugo didn’t want to date or sleep with people, that was valid.
But then came That Night last year.
It was after a casual football match with some friends. They’d gone out for beer and barbecue, and Kirishima had stayed late, the air still clinging to the last heat of summer. He was walking back toward campus, just passing one of the quieter residential blocks, when he spotted Bakugo.
Bakugo, looking rushed. Shirt wrinkled. Neck blotched with a giant, unmistakably fresh hickey that even the streetlight seemed to highlight for dramatic effect.
Kirishima almost called out to him, with a hand halfway raised, and a smile already there, but then he saw the other guy leaning against the building with that smug, post-hookup smile that said yeah, I just had a great time and I’m not even gonna pretend I didn’t.
He dropped his hand.
Bakugo didn’t see him. He walked right past, stuffing his hands in his pockets, face unreadable, but definitely not embarrassed.
So that was a thing.
Bakugo wasn’t a virgin. He wasn’t “not into people.” He was into something, and at least one very pleased guy. Kirishima didn’t know if Bakugo liked guys, girls, both, neither, or anyone who could make him forget the world for a few hours. But he did know now that even if Bakugo didn’t do relationships, he did sex.
Which was fine. Obviously. Kirishima would never slutshame someone. That wasn’t his vibe at all. He’d just grown up a certain way, watching romantic comedies, slow dances, love letters in lockers. He liked knowing the people he kissed. He liked staying.
But that was him. Not Bakugo.
And Kirishima respected the difference.
(he just didn’t understand it.)
So, as Bakugo’s self-proclaimed best friend, a title Kirishima had awarded himself because no one else was claiming it, he decided to do something very dumb.
It happened on a Sunday night, halfway through their show, while they were bickering over a listener’s love life. The email was long, something about falling for their roommate’s sibling, lying about it, and now being stuck in a mess of feelings and denial. Bakugo was ripping it apart in real time.
“If you’re lying to yourself and your roommate, then yeah, dumbass, maybe you deserve to be miserable,” Bakugo said, deadpan.
“Okay, wow,” Kirishima cut in, nearly laughing. “We’re supposed to help them, not emotionally assassinate them.”
“I am helping. I’m being honest.”
“You’re being heartless,” he teased. “You don’t believe in love at all, huh?”
“I believe in logic,” Bakugo snapped. “Which no one in this inbox seems to have.”
And that was when Kirishima made his mistake. A single idea, tripping out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to intercept.
“I could change your mind.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Bakugo snorted so violently it made the mic crackle.
“Sorry,” he told the listeners, deadpan. “Not dying. Just choking on the bullshit.”
Kirishima laughed nervously, trying not to panic. He could still back out, say he was joking, but Bakugo was already turning toward him with the unmistakable glint of a challenge in his eyes.
“How will you do that?”
And for exactly five seconds, Kirishima’s brain went blank. Completely clean. Fresh snow. Not a single idea in sight.
Then he sat up straighter and said, with way too much confidence, “A new segment. Here. On the show. We drop the astrology segment and add a new one.”
Bakugo blinked. “You love the astrology segment.”
“I do,” Kirishima agreed quickly. “But I care about your well-being even more.”
The other guy rolled his eyes so hard Kirishima genuinely worried something in his head might get stuck. But then, to his horror, Bakugo smiled. Not a nice smile. Not a friend smile. A slow, sadistic thing that promised weeks of suffering.
“Fine,” he said.
Kirishima blinked. “Fine?”
“Create your segment. Change my mind. If you manage it, you can pick the songs for an entire month, and I won’t complain.”
“Oh,” Kirishima said, suspiciously hopeful.
“And I’ll even let you play ‘Manchild’ on repeat since you’re still grieving your stupid ex.”
He gasped. “You swore you’d never bring that up on air!”
“I lied,” Bakugo said, turning back to the mic. “Welcome to Radio Romance, I guess.”
Kirishima had until Thursday to come up with the new segment. That gave him four full days to brainstorm, plot, and avoid all human thoughts about his ex, which was honestly the biggest win of the semester so far.
For once, he wasn’t rewatching old romcoms and crying into a pint of ice cream while whispering “they just needed better communication” at the screen. Instead, he was busy obsessing over someone else’s love life.
Specifically, Bakugo’s.
Which was way more fun, and, okay, maybe a little emotionally dangerous. But it was fine. It was under control. Probably.
By Thursday night, he was vibrating with excitement. He barely let Bakugo sit down in the studio chair before launching into his grand reveal.
"Okay!" He said, headset already on, cheeks flushed. "So, you're going on five dates."
"Three."
"Five."
"Three."
"Four?" Kirishima offered, tilting his head.
Bakugo groaned. “Okay. Fine. Four.”
Kirishima beamed, slamming a hand on the desk triumphantly. "You're going on four dates with four candidates. They’ll send their emails to me, and me only. I’ll read through their profiles, analyze their entire lives, and try to find your perfect match."
"This is stupid."
"This is brilliant," Kirishima said, clapping like a kid who just saw a dog in sunglasses. “So, four dates. Four guys. And by the end of the month, you’re going to pick one...”
“Or none.”
“Pick one,” the redhead continued loudly, ignoring him completely, “to go on a second date.”
Bakugo leaned back in his chair with the weariness of someone who knew he was seconds away from hating every moment of his life.
“I hate you,” he said.
“You love me,” Kirishima shot back, grinning at him across the desk.
And for a fraction of a second, Bakugo smiled.
He told himself not to read into it, because he had a project now. A mission. An entire inbox to filter.
No time for distractions, especially not those.
He leaned into the mic like he was hosting a game show, and said, “So! If you’re interested in dating our very own relationship skeptic, Katsuki Bakugo, send your profile to [email protected], that’s [email protected]. Include a bit about yourself, your music taste, and what you’d do on a perfect date.”
Bakugo groaned so loudly the mic picked it up. “This is a mistake.”
“This is destiny,” Kirishima said proudly, still grinning like a man who’d just solved world peace.
The other guy reached for the soundboard with the resigned energy of someone who knew exactly what kind of circus he’d just been shoved into.
He cleared his throat, voice dripping with sarcasm, “This one,” he said, “goes out to all the lovebirds out there.”
And then Bakugo hit play on “Love Stinks” by The J. Geils Band.
Kirishima threw his head back and laughed so hard he nearly knocked over his chair.
Oh boy.
He was definitely going to change Bakugo’s mind.
Kirishima started checking the email the moment he got back to his dorm that night.
It was a little embarrassing how often he refreshed it, like he was waiting for concert tickets to drop or something. But this was important. This was for Bakugo. His mission. His dumb and wonderful mission to prove that Bakugo could fall in love, that maybe he just hadn’t met the right guy yet.
That maybe, if he tried hard enough, looked deep enough, cared enough, he could find someone who’d see what he saw.
The problem was... There weren’t many emails.
He blinked at the screen. Refreshed it. Closed the tab. Opened it again. Still nothing new. A total of four emails in the last 24 hours, all with varying levels of effort. One of them was definitely a joke. One was just a shirtless selfie with no words attached. The other two? Fine. Maybe. Kind of.
But not good enough.
Not for Bakugo.
It didn’t make sense. Bakugo was hot. Like, objectively hot. Unfair jawline, unfair hair, unfair everything. Golden and angular in ways that made Kirishima’s brain short-circuit sometimes. He was funny, too, in this totally unintentional way, like when he insulted a listener’s playlist and then immediately offered three better songs with such passion that Kirishima couldn’t stop laughing. Or when he described his ideal breakfast as “something that punches me in the mouth and tells me to get over myself.”
He was smart. Not just academically, though yeah, he was a physics major who could solve terrifying equations like it was nothing, but observant, too. He noticed things. Always caught when Kirishima was fidgeting too much, or when he was spacing out, or when he was a little too quiet for no reason. He’d slide over a drink or make a dumb comment to shake him out of it, never asking directly but always knowing.
He was reliable. Showed up early every week. Carried their equipment when no one asked him to. Took notes during meetings with the station manager that Kirishima forgot five minutes later. Kept track of the playlist file so meticulously that Kirishima was lowkey afraid of messing it up.
And okay, yeah, he was prickly, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care, because he did, but just in ways that weren’t obvious unless you were really looking.
Kirishima remembered once, in winter, when he showed up to the studio coughing and sniffling like a plague rat. Bakugo didn’t say anything, he just dropped a lemon honey cough drop on the desk and told him to shut up and drink water. Kirishima still had the wrapper tucked in his notebook for no good reason.
There was the time Kirishima twisted his ankle playing futsal and Bakugo walked him all the way back to his dorm without complaining once. He even carried his backpack. Didn’t say a single nice thing, of course, but that was the whole point.
The silence was the nice thing.
There was also the time Kirishima got a really bad grade on a test he swore he studied for. He’d come into the studio trying to laugh it off, but Bakugo hadn’t laughed. He just slid over a half-eaten protein bar and said, “Next time, I’ll quiz you.”
That was who Bakugo was.
So why weren’t the emails flooding in?
Kirishima refreshed the inbox again. Two new entries. One was, well, fine. The guy was cute. Basic bio major, into hiking, said he liked “deep conversations” and “mutual growth.” Whatever that meant. He used a lot of emojis, which Bakugo might find endearing or might physically combust over. The second guy liked metal music and ramen, which was a start, but his email was weirdly aggressive about hating cats.
Bakugo didn’t own a cat, but still, that felt like a red flag.
He groaned, dragged his hands down his face, and closed the laptop.
He wasn’t giving up because he’d made a promise, but damn, if this was the dating pool, Bakugo might’ve had a point all along.
Still, Kirishima kept trying.
The next day, he printed out the best profiles and highlighted a few, and he even set up a stupid spreadsheet to track names and interests.
And through all of it, a quiet truth kept sneaking in through the cracks.
None of these guys were good enough.
Kirishima leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. Maybe he was being too picky and taking this whole thing too seriously. But it was serious, wasn’t it? It was Bakugo. This wasn’t a prank anymore or radio content.
This was about finding someone worthy of the most secretly golden person he knew.
And if he was being honest, he didn’t actually know much about Bakugo’s love life, because Bakugo didn’t talk about his past. He dropped hints here and there, a few stray comments if the conversation veered too close, but most of the time, they were said in passing, almost like a joke.
Once, when they were arguing about clingy partners on air, Bakugo had said, “I had an ex who used to call me six times in a row if I didn’t text back fast enough. Once showed up at my work shift to make sure I wasn’t cheating.”
Kirishima had laughed nervously, trying to play it off like he had been exaggerating, but the way he said it didn’t sound like a joke. It sounded like a memory that still burned a little.
Another time, while scrolling through song requests, Bakugo had offhandedly said, “This guy I was seeing my last year of high school used to love this song. Played it so many times I started to hate it.”
And that was it.
That was all Kirishima had.
Little crumbs, small enough to make him wonder what the rest of the story looked like.
Because Bakugo did date. Or at least, he had dated. But whatever he had gone through before, it clearly wasn’t the romantic comedy kind of experience. It had left him guarded. Bitter. The kind of person who winced when people said soulmate or rolled his eyes at meet-cute stories.
Kirishima didn’t blame him.
He didn’t need every detail to know Bakugo had been hurt before, and the last thing he wanted was to add to that, so he kept scrolling, hoping the next profile might finally feel right.
One guy had kind eyes, probably. An engineering major who said he liked “strong personalities” and was “looking for a challenge.”
That didn’t sit well with him.
Bakugo wasn’t some obstacle to be conquered. He wasn’t a puzzle or a mountain or a dare. He was a person. You didn’t date someone just because they seemed hard to win over. You dated them because you wanted to know them. Because you cared. Because they made your chest ache in a weird, stupid, kind of wonderful way.
Another one said, “I like the way he sounds on the radio. He seems mean, but I like mean guys.”
Kirishima closed the tab.
He wanted to scream. Or throw something. Or both.
These people weren’t seeing Bakugo the way Kirishima did.
They didn’t know how Bakugo went quiet when he was overwhelmed, or how he never asked for help but always offered it in weird, practical ways. They didn’t know that when Kirishima once lost a family member and didn’t talk about it for three weeks, Bakugo left a mango smoothie outside his door every morning without saying a word.
They didn’t know how he always checked the sound levels twice, even though Kirishima always said he would.
Or how he carried extra batteries in his bag, “just in case.”
Or how he made fun of Kirishima’s playlist but still hummed along when he thought no one was listening.
Or how he somehow knew when Kirishima needed a distraction, and would start ranting about stupid movie plots just to get him laughing.
They didn’t know him, and he hated the thought of someone sitting across from Bakugo on a date, not understanding what they had in front of them.
Not realizing how lucky they were.
He sighed and scrolled through the inbox again. The same names. The same faces. All starting to blur.
Maybe he was projecting. Maybe this whole thing had gotten too personal, but wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t love supposed to be personal?
He tapped his fingers against the desk.
He had to pick someone.
The show was coming up again on Sunday, and they’d already hyped the segment. He couldn’t tell Bakugo that no one was good enough and admit that he might have been wrong.
So he picked the least terrible options.
The metalhead guy who hated cats got deleted. The shirtless selfie guy never stood a chance. He picked the hiking bio major, because at least he seemed sincere. And he picked the one with the sweet email who wrote too much and tried too hard, because at least he cared.
He still needed two more.
There was a quiet art student who didn’t say much, but mentioned listening to the show every week with a friend. There was a guy who’d included his star chart and said Bakugo’s moon placement meant he needed someone “gentle but firm,” which made Kirishima laugh out loud.
Fine.
That was four.
He sent out the replies, set up the schedule, and leaned back again.
Still didn’t feel right, but he’d made a deal, and if this was how he had to prove to Bakugo that love was still worth it, then he’d do it.
Even if none of them deserved him.
Bakugo sat on the studio floor with his back against the wall, one knee up, the other leg stretched out, a book balanced in his lap. It looked too serious for leisure reading. Probably something for one of his electives, though he’d never admit he cared that much about schoolwork unless pressed.
When the door creaked open, he glanced up.
Kirishima walked in juggling a water bottle, his headphones, and what looked suspiciously like a half-eaten chocolate croissant.
“You’re late,” Bakugo said, slipping the book into his bag before standing.
“Time is an illusion,” Kirishima answered with his mouth full. “Also the bakery was closing and I had to fight for this. Do you want a bite or do you want to insult me again first?”
Bakugo took the last two steps toward the couch and dropped onto the weirdly lumpy cushion with a grunt. The thing smelled faintly like cat pee and incense, but it was better than standing.
“I’ll insult you after. Gimme.”
Kirishima tossed him the last chunk and flopped beside him, unwrapping his cords.
“You good?” Bakugo asked. He didn't look up, just peeled a piece of flaky pastry into his mouth. “Did you finish that history paper for Tuesday?”
“Almost,” Kirishima said. “Might need to add a little razzle-dazzle tomorrow morning. You?”
“Finished it yesterday.”
“Of course you did. Let me guess, ten pages, cited properly, and you didn’t even use spellcheck.”
“Twelve. And I always use spellcheck, dumbass.”
Kirishima leaned back, letting his legs sprawl in front of him.
“Did you go out with Mina?” Bakugo asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Went to that sushi place near the library. The one with the weird crab mural. She talked for three hours about this girl in her theatre class who keeps doing monologues in different accents. Honestly, it was impressive.”
“You’re both freaks,” Bakugo said.
“Thank you.”
Bakugo pulled the studio laptop onto his knees and started flipping through the music files. Kirishima watched him work, the way his fingers moved quickly over the keys, scrolling through their shared folder without needing to check twice.
“You added those tracks I sent?” Kirishima asked.
“Yeah. But if you try to play that acoustic cover of Sk8er Boi again, I’m quitting live on mic.”
Kirishima grinned. “But it’s so emotional. So raw.”
“It’s an insult to the original.”
“Some people evolve.”
“You’re not ‘some people.’ You’re emotionally compromised.”
“Thank you again.”
The clock blinked at them from the corner. Five minutes until airtime. Kirishima’s knee bounced without rhythm.
Bakugo didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did and chose not to mention it. He adjusted his mic, opened the mail tab, and started sorting requests with the same ease he always had.
Kirishima reached for his own headset, trying not to sweat through the fabric of his hoodie. They hadn’t even mentioned the new segment yet. He told himself there was no reason to be nervous since Bakugo had agreed.
The date thing was happening.
Still, his hands felt weird.
“You hear about that thing at the bio lab?” Bakugo asked.
“The frog thing?”
“Yeah. Some idiot left the tank open and now there’s a missing poison dart frog on campus. One. Bright blue. Deadly.”
“Damn,” Kirishima said. “Think I should update my Tinder bio?”
Bakugo snorted.
Kirishima tried not to smile too hard.
“Jirou said they canceled rehearsal today,” Bakugo added. “Apparently one of the band kids passed out because someone dared him to lick the table where the frog was.”
Kirishima cackled. “That cannot be true.”
“It was Kaminari, so yes. Absolutely true.”
“God. I love this school.”
“You’re the only one.”
Their theme jingle started playing, the prerecorded one Jirou had mixed for them last semester. It crackled a bit near the end, but they kept it because it had charm, or at least that’s what Kirishima said every time Bakugo threatened to re-record it.
He leaned in. “We’re live in one.”
Bakugo gave a half-nod.
The red light flicked on. Kirishima cleared his throat.
“Good evening, you beautiful, deeply confused souls,” he said, smiling into the mic. “You’re listening to 81.7 FM, your late-night dose of unsolicited opinions and very good music. I’m Eijirou Kirishima.”
“And I’m regretting my life choices,” Bakugo said smoothly. “Welcome back.”
The comments started trickling in within seconds.
“Okay,” Kirishima said, scanning the inbox. “We’ve got one about whether it’s okay to date your best friend’s ex...”
“No.”
“Wait, you didn’t even...”
“No.”
“But what if...”
“Still no.”
Kirishima sighed dramatically. “What if the ex was the one who broke it off and they said it was cool?”
“That’s a trap.”
“So what would you do?”
“I’d mind my own business and keep my dignity.”
“That is the least fun advice you’ve ever given.”
“Then don’t ask me.”
Kirishima turned back to the mic. “Anyway, we’ll come back to that. Let’s play something dramatic in honor of all our listeners who didn’t listen to Bakugo’s advice.”
“That’s half the campus.”
The music started. They took off their headphones, both settling back again, this time in a quieter rhythm. Kirishima’s hands still twitched. He wiped one on his jeans, then glanced sideways.
Bakugo was watching the track timer, brows relaxed, mouth in a neutral line.
“You doing okay?” Kirishima asked.
Bakugo shrugged. “Fine. Why?”
“You seem chill.”
“I’m not always angry, you know.”
Kirishima raised both eyebrows. “You glared at the vending machine last week because it gave you Diet Coke.”
“Because Diet Coke is fake and evil.”
“Okay, but you glared with your whole body.”
“I don’t do anything halfway.”
Kirishima smiled, tugging a loose thread on his sleeve. It curled tighter under his finger as he avoided looking at the other guy, aware of how warm his face felt despite the studio being slightly too cold.
The next track played through the monitors, soft guitar picking layered over a pulsing synth beat. They had about four minutes until they were live again.
Bakugo shifted in his seat, and his ankle brushed Kirishima’s knee, not enough to be intentional, but enough to make him sit up straighter.
“So,” Bakugo said, eyes on the mixer like he wasn’t asking anything unusual. “The segment.”
Kirishima blinked. “Which one?”
“The dating thing. Radio Romance. You never brought it up.”
He nearly choked on air.
“You’re asking me about it?”
Bakugo gave a small shrug. “Supposed to start this week, right?”
“Well, yeah, but...” Kirishima sat up, adjusting his mic reflexively even though it wasn’t on. “I figured you’d be too cranky to mention it first.”
“You figured wrong.”
He looked at Bakugo, who looked completely calm, the way he always did right before launching into some very dry takedown of whatever artist Kirishima had picked for the mid-show set. There wasn’t a trace of dread on his face. No mockery, either.
Kirishima cleared his throat, rubbed his hands against his jeans.
“It’s going great,” he said with fake cheer and way too much brightness. “I mean, the inbox is flooded. People are head over heels. Can’t stop writing in. It’s like Bakugo-mania in there.”
Bakugo raised a brow. “Right.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted, tapping his notebook for effect. “You’re very in demand. You’re mysterious and have good hair. It’s irresistible.”
That got him a snort, at least. “People have terrible taste.”
“They don’t,” Kirishima said. “They’re just paying attention.”
Bakugo didn’t reply to that. His fingers tapped along the volume dial for a few seconds before stilling. He leaned back in the chair, not looking at Kirishima, and said nothing more about the segment.
They had about forty seconds left in the song. Kirishima checked the clock, exhaled once, and adjusted his mic again out of habit. His hands were still warm. He wiped them on his jeans once more, then put them against the desk.
The track ended on a long instrumental fade, and Bakugo flipped the mic switch on without looking over.
“Welcome back to Nocturnal Frequency. I’m Bakugo.”
“And I’m Kirishima,” he followed, trying to sound smoother than he felt. “And this is your Sunday midnight slot for all things heartbreak, brain fog, and crying about your thesis at three a.m.”
“I’ve never cried about my thesis.”
“That’s because you’re a robot.”
“Robots don’t get A-minuses.”
“Exactly. Case in point.”
Bakugo gave a noncommittal grunt and pulled up the shared tab with the weather widget.
“This week’s forecast,” he said, monotone, “is disappointing.”
Kirishima leaned closer to his mic. “A little colder than last week. Good news for people who like layers. Bad news for people who forgot how jackets work.”
Bakugo clicked the screen again. “Cafeteria’s posted the updated menu for Monday. Katsu curry is back.”
“Finally. My only source of joy.”
“There’s also lentil soup.”
“Never mind.”
The banter drifted for a moment, orbiting small campus gossip. Someone had decorated the quad statue with Halloween cobwebs already, even though it was barely October. A professor was rumored to have been spotted at the student bar, singing 80s karaoke. Someone had submitted a poetry project in the shape of a sneaker.
They didn’t say anything about the dating segment yet.
The next track rolled in, and Bakugo hit the switch. “Mimosa” by Ayumi Hamasaki flooded the studio, and he didn’t glance over this time.
Kirishima didn’t say anything either. He watched the levels on the screen, followed the beat with his fingertips on the edge of the desk, and let himself enjoy the quiet even if he didn’t have long.
The next segment would be the big one.
He just needed to breathe for a moment before he threw Bakugo Katsuki into the dating pool on live radio, but the song barely made it past the first chorus before fading out. Bakugo glanced at the screen, then at Kirishima, who was already leaning into his mic with a little too much enthusiasm.
“Okay, so,” the redhead said, grinning. “Before we get to what you've all been waiting for, I need to know, did anyone else finish Second to Last Love this week? Season three? I binge-watched it instead of writing my paper, so now I’m emotionally compromised and academically behind.”
Bakugo snorted, “You’re always academically behind.”
“That’s not true! I submitted my film analysis paper on time.”
“You thought Fight Club was about friendship.”
“It is about friendship if you squint.”
Bakugo leaned forward to flick one of the monitor knobs. “Please don’t squint at anything ever again.”
Kirishima ignored him. “Anyway,” he said, turning back to the mic, “no spoilers, I promise. I just want to say that when Takashi decided to leave the letter in the piano bench instead of giving it to Yui directly, I cried. That scene...”
The blond groaned once again, sitting back in his chair. “That’s a spoiler.”
“It’s not.”
“You just gave away a major plot point.”
“I didn’t say what the letter said!”
“You didn’t have to.”
Kirishima blinked, looking at the mic for a second. “Okay. Apologies to the fanbase. Moving on.”
He cleared his throat, and reached across the desk to press a glowing green button. A short jingle played, some romantic piano melody he’d found in the royalty-free folder, with an echoey synth pad that made it sound like a dating show from the early 2000s. He clapped once.
“Welcome,” he said with mock grandeur, “to Radio Romance, season one: Finding Bakugo Katsuki, also known as my co-host, sound technician, and the most emotionally elusive man on campus, a new boyfriend.”
Bakugo didn’t look at him. “I regret this already.”
Kirishima grinned wider. “We had so many emails. So many people are absolutely tripping over themselves to get a chance to spend one awkward hour across a café table from you. It was honestly inspiring. You’ve got fans.”
“Terrifying.”
“I had to read through thirty profiles. Thirty. I made a spreadsheet. I color-coded it.”
“You always color-code things.”
“Because I have standards.”
Bakugo glanced at him. “And this is your best candidate?”
“I stand by him,” Kirishima said. “I believe in love.”
“Of course you do.”
He pulled out a printout and cleared his throat again. “Alright, our first contestant. A bio major, junior year. Very into environmental science and clean energy tech. He enjoys hiking, especially early mornings on misty trails, which I assume means he’s either deeply spiritual or just has an incredible sleep schedule.”
“Sounds exhausting,” Bakugo said.
“He also enjoys baking,” Kirishima went on. “Specializes in sourdough and vegan chocolate chip cookies. His roommates call him ‘Dad’ because he’s always reminding people to drink water and check deadlines.”
Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need a second dad.”
“He’s also into experimental jazz, is a Virgo sun with a Pisces moon, make of that what you will, and once spent three weeks volunteering in Costa Rica building sustainable housing.”
“That last part sounds fake.”
“It’s real. I checked his Instagram.”
Bakugo rubbed his eyes. “You went that deep?”
“I take my job seriously.”
The studio light reflected off the stack of notes Kirishima had beside him. Bakugo stared at it for a second, then gave up.
“What’s his name?”
“Yuki.”
“No chance.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t trust guys named Yuki.”
“That’s a crime.”
Bakugo leaned forward, adjusting his mic. “He sounds too well-adjusted. I can’t deal with someone who functions that efficiently.”
“He also said he likes challenging people to grow emotionally.”
“That explains it.”
Kirishima stifled a laugh. “I knew you’d love him.”
“Love is a strong word.”
“You’ll meet him Wednesday,” Kirishima said, shuffling the paper back into the folder. “I already booked the table at that coffee place you like.”
“You mean the one with the lemon pastries?”
“I knew you had a favorite.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Kirishima said, mocking his tone from earlier.
Bakugo looked away, but the redhead knew he was only trying to hide a smile.
“Alright,” he said, stretching his back before hitting the button to cue the next track. “That’s contestant number one. Three more to go, and if none of them steal Bakugo’s heart, I will accept the failure as my own and take a vow of silence for one week.”
Bakugo perked up. “One full week?”
“Okay, maybe just twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll take it.”
"Pain Give Form" by ZUTOMAYO started playing, and Kirishima sat back, tapping the pen against the desk, smiling like he’d won something.
Bakugo stayed quiet through the first few bars of the song, and his fingers moved in time with the rhythm, not enough to call it dancing, but enough to show he was paying attention.
“Why did you pick this guy?” He asked, not looking away from the screen.
Kirishima shrugged. “He seemed genuine.”
“Did you tell him I hate small talk?”
“No,” Kirishima said, then added, “I figured he’d find out naturally.”
Bakugo rolled his eyes. “You’re setting me up to fail.”
“I’m setting you up for potential growth,” Kirishima replied, grinning now. “Huge difference.”
Bakugo leaned his head back against the chair. The ceiling fan spun above them, slow and loud in the quiet between tracks. “I’m not talking about my feelings on the first date.”
“Good,” Kirishima said, eyes still on his notes. “I think he’s a feelings-on-the-fourth-date kind of guy.”
Bakugo made a sound that could’ve meant anything.
Kirishima didn’t push it. He just stayed in his seat, smiling like a kid who got away with stealing candy. He hummed along to the chorus, a little off-key, tapping the beat against the side of the desk.
None of this was perfect. Not the segment, not the candidates, not the setup or the execution. But Bakugo was still here. He hadn’t stormed out or shut the whole thing down. He was sitting there, still showing up for this weird, messy experiment Kirishima had dragged him into.
That had to mean something.
The song faded out before Kirishima was ready, but he straightened anyway. The board lights blinked once, signaling the next cue, and he reached for the mic.
They still had work to do.
Wednesday came in dragging its feet, and Kirishima hated it for being so slow. It felt like the entire day had its hands in its pockets, strolling past while he sat on the edge of his nerves, doing everything but screaming.
He hadn’t slept, but he tried, he swore he tried.
He’d laid there in the dark, staring at his ceiling, headphones in, some ambient playlist doing its best to lull him into unconsciousness. It didn’t work, clearly. Every time he shut his eyes, he started replaying the same thoughts over and over. What if he’d picked the wrong guy? What if Bakugo hated the whole experience? What if he never spoke to him again? What if Kirishima lost one of the only good things in his life over a dumb radio segment he thought would be fun?
His alarm went off at seven. He’d been awake since five.
Classes blurred together. Philosophy in the morning passed without him retaining a single idea. Statistics felt like torture. Even his electives, usually the highlight of his week, didn’t hold his attention. His professor asked him a direct question during a group discussion and Kirishima responded with a noise that vaguely resembled a word before giving up and pretending to check his notes.
Lunch didn’t help either. He got in line early, filled his plate with katsu and rice, but barely took two bites. The rice was undercooked. Or maybe it wasn’t. He couldn’t tell. Nothing tasted right. His knee bounced through the entire meal.
He pulled out his phone more times than he could count.
No new notifications.
He typed the same message twice and deleted it before sending a version that just read: excited?
Bakugo didn’t answer, which made sense, because he usually didn’t check messages until the end of the day. Kirishima knew that. It was fine.
Except it wasn’t.
He tried to imagine the guy, Yuki, sitting across from Bakugo in that café he liked, wearing a clean jacket, talking about hiking and sustainable housing. He tried to imagine it going well. Maybe Bakugo wouldn’t smile, not fully, but he’d engage. He’d be curious. He’d find Yuki decent enough to tolerate for forty-five minutes.
That would be a win. Right?
But what if the guy was condescending? Or worse, boring? What if he had that fake laugh Kirishima hadn’t noticed in the voice memo he’d sent with his profile? What if he made a weird comment about Bakugo’s major or music taste or hair?
He stared blankly at his half-eaten katsu and felt a pit open in his stomach.
He got through his last class by sheer force of habit. Took notes he didn’t remember writing. Answered one question correctly and three with such little confidence that his professor didn’t even push back. When the final bell rang, he sat in his seat, still chewing on the end of his pen, not sure what to do with himself.
That’s when Mina appeared swinging her bag onto the desk beside him.
“You’re vibrating,” she said.
He blinked at her. “Huh?”
“Your leg,” she clarified, pointing. “It’s doing that thing again.”
“Oh.” He stilled it. “Sorry.”
She tilted her head, watching him closely. “You okay?”
Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck. “I think I accidentally ruined Bakugo’s life.”
Mina didn’t even blink. “Oh. Is this about the date?”
He nodded.
She smiled, too calm for how fast his heart was beating. “Well, the solution is simple.”
“What is it?”
“You come to my dorm. We eat ice cream and watch the trashiest TV show I can find. That’s the rule.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to pay attention to anything.”
“Exactly why you need to try.”
“I feel like I set him up with a jerk.”
“Did you vet him?”
“I read everything. I checked his socials. I even listened to his playlist.”
“Then you didn’t set him up with a jerk,” Mina said, pulling him to his feet. “And if you did, it’s not like you sent him into the woods alone. He’s meeting the guy in a coffee shop two blocks from his dorm.”
“He’s gonna hate me.”
“He already hates everything.”
Kirishima opened his mouth to argue, but he knew Mina had a point.
She bumped his arm with her shoulder. “You’re just anxious because it matters. That’s not a bad thing.”
“It was supposed to be fun.”
“It is fun. And it’ll still be fun even if the date sucks. Worst case scenario, he complains for twenty minutes and calls you an idiot.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
She grinned. “Come on. You can pick what we're gonna watch.”
He didn’t have it in him to say no, so he followed, because he could worry about Bakugo after he drowned himself in half a tub of mint chocolate chip.
But unfortunately, not even the ice cream helped.
They were halfway through the second episode of some dating reality show set in the Maldives, and Kirishima hadn’t registered a single word of dialogue. His spoon sat limp in his hand, half-melted ice cream dripping onto the paper napkin in his lap.
He was somewhere else entirely.
His knee bounced. Then both knees. He sighed, loudly. He picked at the stitching on Mina’s blanket. He adjusted his hoodie. Unadjusted it. Leaned back. Sat forward again.
“Eiji,” Mina said, still facing the screen, “you’re doing the thing.”
“What thing.”
“The panic thing.”
He glanced at her, guilty. “Sorry.”
She didn’t move, just raised her spoon. “Do you want to just go there?”
He blinked. “Go where?”
“To see how things are going.”
He straightened up. “Mina. No. That’s insane.”
“I’m just saying,” she said calmly, licking her spoon, “you’ve been sighing for forty minutes and that’s without even finishing your ice cream. I think we’re past the point of denial.”
“We need a reservation.”
She shrugged. “I know someone who works there.”
Kirishima stared at her.
She shrugged again. “And if he notices us, just say you really wanted to try their brown sugar cinnamon cold brew. That place has three drink menus. No one questions anything.”
“I would literally be invading his privacy.”
“Only if you stare.”
“I’m not gonna stare.”
Mina turned her head toward him now. “Then stop whining and come spy on your date experiment.”
“I’m not spying.”
“You’re not not.”
He groaned and pressed the heels of his palms to his face, dragging them down until he looked mildly haunted.
She stood and grabbed her phone. “Let’s go.”
Ten minutes later, they were walking toward the café, a few blocks off campus, wedged between a plant shop and a barbershop with a spinning red-and-blue pole that never actually stopped. The café was always a little too clean, a little too curated. Every mug was ceramic, every table looked hand-painted, and the playlist always hovered somewhere between cool and pretentious.
Kirishima couldn’t feel his hands.
Mina greeted the barista by name, exchanged a few words Kirishima barely caught, then turned to him and gestured.
“Come on. Back corner’s open.”
He hesitated by the door, scanning the tables.
No Bakugo in sight.
He took two steps in, eyes shifting again, and then caught a flash of ash-blond hair toward the middle of the room. Not close. Not far. Facing away from them. Sitting upright, elbows off the table, fingers wrapped around a drink he wasn’t sipping. The guy across from him looked more relaxed. Shorter, dark-haired, neat posture, glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. He laughed at something, mouth wide, head tilted back just slightly.
Kirishima turned away fast enough to make Mina snort.
“Okay. We’re safe. Come on.”
They sat in the corner, mostly obscured by one of the planters with trailing ivy spilling down a wooden frame. Mina set her phone on the table and flipped the menu open like they hadn’t just come here on a secret mission.
Kirishima looked once more, this time through the reflection in the window, and tried to keep his expression neutral. Bakugo still hadn’t moved much. Yuki, though, he talked with his hands, smiling between sentences.
He looked comfortable.
And everything... Well, everything looked normal.
Kirishima hated how that bothered him.
“You gonna order or just stare at him through the glass like a raccoon at a vending machine?” Mina asked without looking up.
“I’m thinking.”
“About what.”
“If I’ve ruined his life.”
“You haven’t.”
“I could’ve. What if the guy’s boring?”
“Then Bakugo will leave. Problem solved.”
“What if he’s too interesting?”
Mina blinked. “That’s a new flavor of panic.”
Kirishima shook his head. “I mean, what if they hit it off. What if I actually did it? And now I have to see that.”
She folded her menu and rested her chin on one hand.
“Eiji.”
“Yeah.”
“Why would that be a bad thing?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Picked up the menu.
“Try the cold brew,” she said, pretending not to watch him flinch. “Sell the lie.”
He didn’t order it. He got a plain iced coffee, mostly so he’d have something to hold.
At the other table, Bakugo was speaking now. His hands moved in short gestures, and Yuki listened with his head tilted. He nodded once, then smiled again, more reserved this time. He was easy to read, expressive without being obnoxious, the kind of guy who probably remembered everyone’s coffee order by the second hangout.
Kirishima turned his eyes back to his drink.
He couldn’t hear anything, but it was clear enough that the date wasn’t a disaster.
Yuki didn’t seem fake. He sat comfortably, met Bakugo’s eyes when he spoke, and laughed in all the right places without overdoing it. Everything about him felt polished, like he’d practiced being good company and somehow succeeded. Nothing about him was off.
But the table between them stayed untouched. No empty mugs, no half-eaten pastries, no ripped napkins or crumpled straw wrappers. Bakugo hadn’t shifted once. He sat the way he always did when he was waiting for something to end, posture too perfect, hands still, expression unreadable if you didn’t know what to look for.
Kirishima knew that kind of stillness.
It wasn’t peace.
“Do you think he’s bored?”
Mina took a sip of her drink. “Bakugo or the guy?”
“Both.”
Mina tilted her head and checked, subtly. “Guy’s fine. Bakugo’s... Tolerating it.”
Kirishima didn’t know what to do with that.
He thought back to the spreadsheet. The hours he’d spent looking through bios, trying to match interests, balancing personalities in his head like he was solving a logic puzzle. He thought of how nervous he’d been, how careful. He thought about Yuki’s line about emotional growth, the sourdough starter, the playlist full of soft guitar.
The text Bakugo’d never answered.
𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝?
Kirishima stirred his drink with the end of his straw.
He’d wanted this to work.
He really had.
Mina bumped her foot against his under the table.
He didn’t say anything, he just stirred his drink with the end of his straw, not really paying attention to the melting ice or the coffee flavor that had already gone watery. He stared at the swirl for a while, watching the surface shift and settle in lazy circles, trying to slow down his brain by focusing on something completely boring and completely in his control.
It didn’t work.
He glanced up again, just for a second, just to check if the date had somehow imploded in the last minute. It hadn’t. Yuki was still talking, still smiling, and Bakugo hadn’t moved much.
Kirishima pulled his eyes away and tried to focus on Mina instead. She was scrolling through something on her phone, one leg crossed under her, her drink halfway gone. She looked relaxed, and he hated that he was making this weird for her.
“So,” he said, and cleared his throat. “You still working on that Halloween costume for Jirou?”
Mina didn’t look up. “She changed her mind. Again.”
“What is it now?”
“She wants to go as Wednesday Addams. I already made her a Lydia Deetz cape. I’m filing a complaint.”
He smiled, kind of. “You’ll still help her though.”
“Obviously. I just want her to suffer a little first.”
Kirishima nodded, took another sip. The coffee was bad, or maybe his mouth was just off.
“You think Shinso and Denki are a thing?”
Mina raised her eyes, eyebrow already arched. “Wow.”
“What.”
“Grasping for gossip. That’s new.”
“I’m making conversation.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m trying not to spiral.”
“You’re doing great,” she said flatly, then nudged his foot under the table. “You don’t have to talk to me like I’m gonna break.”
“I’m not...”
“Eiji.”
He looked at her. She wasn’t smiling, she just looked like someone who’d been waiting all day for him to catch up to the conversation she was already having in her head.
“Is this about your ex?”
The question hit hard, so fast and direct that he nearly choked on his drink.
“What?”
She rested her arms on the table. “Is all this about your ex, Eiji?”
He blinked. “No. I mean, what do you mean?”
“You’ve been weird since the semester started. Not just nervous. Not just anxious. Like you’ve got too many tabs open. And it started before you even came up with this Bakugo dating plan. So I’m asking, again. Is this about your ex?”
Kirishima looked down at his drink. The ice had all but disappeared. The straw stuck out at an angle.
“I don’t know.”
Mina didn’t press him.
He sank further into his seat, hating how the booth felt too small and too exposed all at once.
“I guess,” he said. “Maybe.”
“You guess?”
“It’s hard to tell. Everything feels weird.”
“Breakups do that.”
“It wasn’t even that serious. I mean, it was, but it wasn’t. I kept saying it wasn’t.”
Mina stayed quiet.
He exhaled, finally, and ran a hand through his hair. “I dated him for five months. Thought I was happy. Thought we were on the same page. I liked him. I wanted to like him. But he never really saw me, I guess. Not fully. He said I was too much, sometimes. That I talked too fast, thought too big. That I always wanted to make jokes out of serious things. That I romanticized everything.”
“You do.”
“I know, but I want to be with someone who thinks that’s not a bad thing.”
Mina nodded once, slowly.
“And when it ended,” Kirishima went on, “I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, relationships end. Whatever. We grow. We move on. But it sucked. It really sucked. And I didn’t want to admit that, so I didn’t.”
“Until now.”
He didn’t answer.
Mina leaned back and wrapped both hands around her cup. “So now you’re overcorrecting. Trying to prove that love is still real by forcing Bakugo to fall for some stranger.”
“It’s not...”
“I’m not saying it’s fake. I think you do want him to be happy, but you also want to win. You want this to work because then it means you’re not broken. That your instincts still mean something.”
Kirishima pressed his fingertips to his forehead.
“That’s not a bad thing,” Mina said. “But it is something.”
He nodded, slowly.
“I thought I was done caring about that relationship,” he said, eyes still on his own drink. “But I think I just buried it.”
“You always try to skip the ugly part. You want to turn everything into a story with a neat ending, but sometimes it’s just bad. And that’s okay too.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I thought setting Bakugo up would be fun. I thought if I could fix his love life, maybe it would fix something in mine.”
“You’re not broken,” she said. “You’re just hurting.”
He swallowed, leaned back and crossed his arms.
And that’s when he saw it.
Yuki picked something up from the table, probably his phone. He tilted it toward Bakugo with a quiet smile and said something Kirishima couldn’t hear.
Bakugo looked at the screen, didn’t say anything back, but he smiled. It was nothing dramatic, but it was everything.
Kirishima stared too long, and something cold twisted deep in his gut.
Across the café, Yuki was putting his phone back into his jacket pocket. The conversation had settled again, just a low rhythm of words that didn’t reach Kirishima’s ears. Bakugo nodded once. Then both of them shifted. The date was over.
Yuki stood first, pulling his coat on, and sliding his bag across his shoulder with one hand. Bakugo followed, and they walked together toward the front.
Mina didn’t move until the bell over the door chimed. She stretched once, reached for her purse, and stood without comment.
“I’ve got to hit the gym,” she said. “Jirou’s meeting me at six. You gonna be okay?”
He nodded, even though he didn’t feel okay.
Mina leaned down and wrapped him in a hug before he could stop her. It wasn’t quick. She held him there, one hand pressed to his shoulder like she wanted him to believe her when she said she cared.
“Text me if you need to talk,” she said into his hair, then stepped back and smiled at him before disappearing through the same door the others had used.
Kirishima stayed in the booth a little longer, but eventually he stood and paid the bill, waved goodbye to the barista, and pushed out into the cold.
The wind had picked up, so he shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and started walking. Not toward anywhere specific, just back in the general direction of the dorms, head low, hood half-up, thoughts a blur.
His phone vibrated against his leg.
He pulled it out with no urgency, thumbed across the screen.
𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮?
Bakugo.
Kirishima stopped walking. His breath fogged up the screen for a second before he replied.
𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐚. 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐧𝐨𝐰!
He started moving again, halfway expecting the cold to wake him up, to shake him out of the restlessness that had been buzzing under his skin all day. His feet scraped against the sidewalk with more purpose than direction. One block. Then another.
His phone buzzed again.
𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐩. 𝐀𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.
He stopped walking for the second time in five minutes, then turned on his heel and started heading toward the store.
It wasn’t unusual for them to meet there, but it was never planned. The old music store wasn’t their hangout, not exactly. They didn’t go there to spend hours or to talk, but sometimes, before long studio nights or failed cram sessions, they ended up flipping through the stacks, reading the faded backs of vinyl covers or sitting on the floor with a notebook and borrowed headphones.
The owner, a gray-haired man who wore the same denim apron year-round, never asked questions. He liked them well enough, called them “the radio boys,” and let them touch the victrola in the back if no one else was around.
By the time Kirishima arrived, the sky had gone a pale blue-gray, the color it got when the day was too tired to fight off the night.
The store’s windows glowed amber behind glass smudged by years of weather. A little bell rang when he pushed open the door. The warmth hit him right away, together with the smell of old wood, dust, and paper sleeves that had soaked in sound for decades.
Bakugo stood near the back, flipping through the Japanese vinyl section. His backpack was half-zipped on the floor beside him.
He didn’t look up. “Come here.”
Kirishima made his way through the aisles, stepping over a coiled cable and dodging a leaning crate of cassettes. He crouched down beside him.
Bakugo pulled a record from its sleeve, checked both sides, then walked over to the vitrola. The room crackled into silence. He set it down with more care than Kirishima had expected and dropped the needle.
“Put these on,” Bakugo said, holding out a pair of heavy, over-ear headphones.
Kirishima took them and slid them on, adjusting the fit just as the vinyl started spinning.
A moment later, music filled the space between his ears.
【 大貫妙子 (𝚃𝚊𝚎𝚔𝚘 Ō𝚗𝚞𝚔𝚒) - 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚕 】
The opening chords were layered with soft piano and a guitar that drifted through like a thought you almost forgot to say out loud. Then the vocals came in in an easy, like the singer wasn’t performing but remembering something.
Kirishima smiled without realizing it.
Bakugo leaned on the counter across from him, watching the record spin.
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s really good.”
He took the headphones off and passed them back. Bakugo didn’t take them right away, so Kirishima set them down on the velvet-covered stand beside the player.
The track kept playing.
The redhead rocked on his heels, then crouched again to look through another crate. “Have you played this on the show before?”
Bakugo shook his head. “Didn’t think it’d fit the late-night slot.”
“We should make it fit,” he said, flipping through the stack. “It’s too good to ignore. I bet our Tuesday crowd would love it.”
Bakugo grunted in vague agreement and crouched beside him to thumb through another row. His fingers skimmed past faded covers, some with English titles, some with weathered liner notes in curling handwriting.
Kirishima tilted one of the covers toward him. “What’s this?”
“Nakashima Mika. That album’s half rock, half jazz. Strange balance.”
“I want to try it,” Kirishima said.
“You’ll hate it.”
Kirishima laughed. “Let me hate it on my own time.”
“Fine. But I’m not putting it on until you finish the one I gave you.”
They swapped records, slid sleeves back into place, moved through the stacks like they had hundreds of times before.
The shop stayed quiet except for the crackle of the victrola and the faint ticking of the old clock by the front.
Kirishima didn’t mention the date, and Bakugo didn’t bring it up either. Instead, they talked about their Tuesday playlist and maybe opening with a live track, or swapping out that one American folk song that always got cut off at the outro.
Bakugo mentioned a cover of a Tatsuro Yamashita song that Kirishima had never heard, something obscure from an old compilation vinyl the store didn’t even shelve anymore, and he promised right away that he’d try to find it before their next show.
He even pulled out his phone and wrote a reminder down, just to make it clear he wasn’t bluffing.
They stayed there, sitting across from each other on the floor between crates, a stack of forgotten jazz albums between them. The clock behind the register kept ticking toward closing, but the old man behind the counter didn’t say anything. He liked them. Maybe he thought they were good for business, or maybe he just liked the way they always put everything back in the right place.
Kirishima leaned back against one of the shelves, head tipped toward the ceiling, one headphone still hooked over his ear. Another song drifted from the record player, something instrumental, full of grainy saxophone and too much echo.
He didn’t mind it.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the thing they hadn’t talked about, even though it was sitting right there between them.
He waited through half a song before giving in.
“So,” he said, twisting the headphone cord around his finger. “How was the date?”
Bakugo glanced at him, red meeting red, and then looked down again.
“It was okay.”
Kirishima frowned. “Come on, I need more than that.”
A long sigh came next, like Bakugo had been bracing for the question all along. He rubbed the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, then shifted to sit cross-legged.
“The guy was fine,” he said. “He wasn’t annoying. Tried his best to make it comfortable. Showed me photos of some hiking trips. We talked about trail routes for, I don’t know, maybe forty minutes.”
“That’s something,” Kirishima said. “You like hiking. I knew you’d get along with that.”
Bakugo shrugged. “Yeah, we had that. He’s been to some cool places. Mount Aso. Did half the Shikoku trail solo. Said he journals after every climb. Showed me his gear setup.”
“That’s actually kind of cool,” Kirishima said, sitting up straighter.
“Yeah,” Bakugo repeated, but flatter now. “But he’s not my type.”
Kirishima blinked. His lips parted a little, surprised without knowing why.
A song kept playing in only one of his ears, just a bass line now, muted under the buzz in his head.
“What do you mean he’s not your type?” He asked. “He’s pretty handsome. And his Instagram has, like, hundreds of likes per post.”
Bakugo rolled his eyes. “It’s not because he has a good face to look at that he’s my type.”
He squinted, twisting the cord around his finger again. “So what is your type? Because there are three other dates, and if they’re all wrong, I still have time to replace them.”
Bakugo snorted, barely holding back the laugh, and leaned back against the crate behind him. He looked at Kirishima for a long second, the kind of look that didn’t blink or shift away.
“My type,” he said, “is someone who laughs at their own jokes before they finish them. Talks with their hands too much. Gets embarrassed when their order’s too complicated, and doesn’t know how to stop trying, even when no one’s asked them to fix anything.”
Kirishima stared at him, trying to process the list.
“That’s pretty specific,” he said, brow furrowed. “Where am I gonna find a guy like that?”
Bakugo grinned then, just barely.
“Well, look around,” he said, getting to his feet. “It’s your job, right?”
He offered his hand without a word, palm turned up, fingers loose. Kirishima looked at it for a second before reaching out, letting himself be pulled to his feet with ease.
“Wanna go grab ice cream?” The other guy asked, brushing imaginary dust from the back of his jeans.
Kirishima blinked. “It’s cold outside.”
“So?”
A beat passed, then Kirishima’s face broke into a grin, “Do you think they still have mango flavor?”
Bakugo was already halfway to the door. “They better.”
The sky had turned a dull gray, and the streetlights gave everything a kind of faded movie tint, their halos stretching over the cracked sidewalk. Wind came in waves that pulled at their sleeves and caught the ends of Bakugo’s scarf, dragging it to the side. His cheeks were pink from the sting of the breeze, and the tip of his nose matched. Still, he didn’t tuck his hands in his pockets. His fingers stayed loose by his sides, the one nearest to Kirishima brushing every now and then against his own as they walked side by side.
They hadn’t said anything in a while, but Bakugo started talking first, “Forum thinks the album’s coming before November.”
Kirishima looked at his direction. “Frank Ocean?”
Bakugo nodded, then pulled out his phone to show the post he had bookmarked. “Someone posted a clip. Said it played during some private party in LA. People say it’s new.”
He leaned closer to look. “That’s a stretch.”
“Maybe,” Bakugo agreed. “But you’d listen to it anyway.”
“I’d cry to it anyway,” Kirishima corrected, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “I’ve been waiting for years. I think my Spotify algorithm thinks I broke up with someone in 2019 and never got over it.”
Bakugo smiled before he turned back to the road ahead, and Kirishima glanced sideways, unable to help himself.
His steps matched Kirishima’s without effort, like they always fell into rhythm without thinking, and even though they weren’t talking, even though there were still a hundred things they weren’t saying, there was comfort in the silence.
It felt good to walk beside him.
They reached the intersection in front of their dorm building. The lamps buzzed and flickered once overhead, and there was a guy on a skateboard passing behind them, barely slowing down. Bakugo glanced toward the dorm entrance, then down the street. His place was farther, in the older building past the dining hall.
Kirishima shifted from foot to foot, unsure if he should say goodnight or wait, or maybe ask what time they’d meet tomorrow for the radio.
Bakugo looked back before he stepped off the curb, “See you tomorrow?”
He blinked at the question, caught off guard for a second, “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Definitely.”
He lifted a hand in a wave, the kind that barely counted, more instinct than intention. Bakugo caught it and gave a small nod, not quite a goodbye, more a flicker of recognition before turning away. His scarf caught another gust of wind and trailed behind him, tangled with a few dry leaves.
Kirishima stayed where he was, eyes tracing the path until the street turned and Bakugo disappeared.
Only then did he finally move, shoulders rising once as he pulled his keys from his pocket and turned toward the dorm, the door groaning as it opened to let him in.