Work Text:
BUSH THEORY
The door swung open to the biggest house Bakugou had ever seen—clean lines, glass everywhere, the kind of rich-people minimalism that made him nervous to breathe too hard. The front door alone weighed a ton, some matte black slab of reinforced oak and steel that took real strength to pull open. It swung with a low, expensive-sounding click, like the kind of noise that made you instinctively check if your shoes were clean. The air inside was cold in that deliberate, curated way—like the house had never known humidity or fingerprints. The ceilings were high enough to make his voice echo when he muttered, “What the fuck.”
Everything gleamed: marble floors, white walls, art that didn’t look like anything except money. The kind of furniture that wasn’t meant to be sat on, just looked at. Even the air smelled expensive—salt and lemon and something faintly floral that made him think of designer cleaning products. Bakugou grew up fine. His parents had money—enough that he never went without, never felt the scrape of anything essential. But this was different. This was old money. Generational wealth. The kind of money that came with second homes and property managers and staff that only showed up when you called. The kind that built houses that didn’t creak.
“Holy shit,” Kaminari whispered beside him, his voice bouncing off the high walls. Bakugou didn’t answer. He was too busy recalculating every life choice that led him to this moment. He felt out of place, like someone had dropped him into a museum exhibit labeled The Poor. Even his boots sounded too loud on the tile. Mina was already halfway up the staircase, yelling about picking rooms as if they were even staying there. Sero had vanished toward the back deck, muttering about “testing the grill,” and Jirou was standing by a floor-to-ceiling window just… staring.
Kirishima brushed past him, grinning, all sunlight and ease. “Insane, right?”
Bakugou snorted. “It’s fuckin’ stupid.” Bakugou couldn't help the edge of awe in his voice anyway. The place was ridiculous. Outside, the pool stretched toward the tree line, lit from underneath so it glowed like liquid glass. Beyond it, there was a guest house—a whole other house, smaller but still big enough to make their apartment look like a closet.
Mina’s voice carried from upstairs, already echoing through the hall. “OKAY, RULE NUMBER ONE: NO SHOES IN THE HOUSE!”
Bakugou groaned, toeing his boots off by the door. “This is gonna be hell.” Bakugou stood in the doorway, hand still on the heavy slab of a door, and tried not to imagine the property taxes. The air that drifted out felt filtered, too clean, like it had never known dust. Momo’s family didn’t live here full-time—he could tell. Everything was perfectly arranged, untouched. The kind of space that looked lived in on a brochure, but dead quiet in person.
Still, Mina had made one good call. They weren’t staying inside. The moment she’d gotten the keys, she’d announced—hands on her hips, sunglasses still on indoors—that they were not fucking up the main house. No spilled drinks, no glitter, no Denki incidents. The backyard was fair game; everything else was off-limits, so the party moved outside. The sliding glass doors opened onto a deck that looked like it belonged in a magazine—dark wood, outdoor kitchen, perfectly trimmed hedges framing the pool like a mirror catching the sky. Beyond it sat the guest house, if you could even call it that. It looked like an actual home—two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room with a couch Bakugou immediately clocked it as expensive. It was the kind of place he could picture himself growing up in, except even that felt too polished. The ceilings were high, the floors a little too shiny, and the furniture had that show-home stiffness that screamed nobody actually lives here.
Mina made the executive decision that the guest house was “the party zone,” complete with her own set of rules:
- No red drinks near the couch.
- Shoes off inside.
- No setting anything on fire (aimed directly at Bakugou).
Kirishima and Jirou dutifully followed orders, shuffling out back and setting their shoes by the steps. Bakugou was muttering something about “stupid rules for stupid rich people” before leaving them in a messy pile. Then there was Kaminari—soaking wet, laughing his head off, somehow already in the pool before anyone had finished unloading the bags. Sero doubled over laughing from the grill. “Not even five minutes in and he’s already soaked!”
It started with noise.
Not the good kind—the kind that fills a space with warmth and chatter—but the shrill, ear-splitting chaos of Kaminari and Jirou at full volume. Kaminari was already soaked, dripping across the deck like some half-drowned golden retriever, hair plastered to his forehead, laughter echoing through the yard. Jirou was shrieking, clutching her phone and headphones to her chest like he’d threatened her life. “Denki, don’t you dare!” she yelled, voice cracking somewhere between fury and disbelief.
Bakugou’s jaw twitched. The sound drilled into his skull. He stood at the edge of the pool, towel slung around his shoulders, watching as Kaminari darted forward and snatched the headphones clean out of Jirou’s hands. She screamed again—high, sharp, full of mock outrage—and for a second, it was all flashing limbs and sloshing water, orange shorts and eyeliner and noise. Mina’s laughter cut through it like static. Sero was already wheezing.
Then Bakugou looked at Kaminari. It wasn’t planned. It didn’t need to be. Just one glance—Kaminari frozen halfway through a laugh, eyes glinting, that familiar you thinking what I’m thinking? kind of look—and Bakugou knew exactly what to do. Jirou was still yelling, still reaching for the headphones, still making that sound that hit Bakugou’s nerves like sandpaper. He sighed, low and dramatic, muttering something under his breath about “fucking idiots.” Then he started walking.
Kaminari saw it first, a grin stretching slow and feral.
“Bakugou, NO—” Jirou started, stepping back on instinct, but she never finished. Bakugou moved quickly—snatching her phone from her hand and tossing it to the deck chair, catching the headphones Kaminari lobbed his way without looking. He tossed those too, a quick, practiced motion, neat as hell for someone about to commit a crime. Then, before Jirou could blink, his arm was around her waist.
“Bakugou, don’t you dare—”
He dared.
He threw her straight into the pool. The splash was enormous, a wave of gold-lit water crashing over the deck, soaking Mina’s legs and hitting Kirishima square in the face. The air filled with shouts and laughter and the dull slap of water against tile. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Jirou surfaced, sputtering, eyeliner streaked halfway down her face, hair slicked against her cheeks, expression murderous. “WHAT THE HELL?!”
Bakugou smirked, wiping a bit of water off his face where the splash caught him. “You were loud.”
Kaminari lost it. He was gone, doubled over on the deck, practically crying with laughter, wheezing so hard no sound came out. “Oh my god, dude—oh my god!”
Sero stumbled backward, laughing so hard he nearly fell into the grill. “The teamwork! Holy shit!”
Kirishima, drenched from the splash zone, just stood there blinking, then broke into a wide grin that made the whole scene feel softer somehow. “You guys are terrible.”
Mina had both hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking, trying and failing not to laugh in Jirou’s defense. Jirou slapped the surface of the pool, sending another spray their way, water sparkling in the orange-pink light of the setting sun. Mina finally cracked, laughter bursting out of her like she couldn’t hold it anymore. The sound carried over the music and the hum of the pool lights, warm and electric in the fading daylight.
Jirou came up gasping, blinking through a curtain of dark hair, eyeliner bleeding down her cheeks in perfect black tracks. She looked like she’d been through a war. “Fuck, it stings!” she snapped, rubbing at the corners of her eyes with the heel of her hand, blinking against the chlorine.
Bakugou exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp but resigned. He could’ve walked away—should’ve walked away—but the sight of her scowling through the sting did something to his better judgment. With a muttered curse, he crouched by the pool’s edge, towel draped over his forearm like he was about to perform last rites. “Here,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “Before you start bitching about it.”
Jirou looked up, water dripping from her chin, glare defiant. “You’re such an ass—”
She didn’t get to finish.
There was a brief rustle of movement behind him, the scrape of bare feet on wet tile, a quick shift in the air that barely registered before it was too late. A palm pressed flat between his shoulder blades, firm, sure, deliberate. For one suspended second, he felt the weight leave his heels—the world tilting forward, breath catching—before gravity took over. The impact hit like a gunshot. Time fractured into snapshots: the rush of water rushing up to meet him, the white-blue flash of the pool lights, the surreal stillness of his own reflection staring back just before he broke the surface—eyes wide, expression flat, like even he couldn’t believe this was happening. Then the noise returned all at once. The slap of the water, the collective ‘oh my god’ from the deck, Mina’s scream dissolving into laughter again. He went under hard, bubbles roaring past his ears, then burst up a second later, coughing and swearing, hair plastered to his forehead. “WHO THE FUCK—”
Kaminari was doubled over near the railing, clutching his stomach, laughing so hard he could barely stand. “Oh my god, oh my god—holy shit!”
Sero had abandoned the grill entirely, pointing and howling. Mina was gone, absolutely gone, tears in her eyes, one hand over her mouth as if she was physically holding the laughter in. Then there was Kirishima—standing a few feet back, hands on his hips, still wet from the earlier splash, grin splitting his face like the sun. Bakugou froze, realization hitting like a second wave. “It was you.”
Kirishima’s grin widened, bright and unrepentant. “You looked like you needed to cool off.”
“You—” Bakugou sputtered, shoving wet hair out of his eyes, voice cracking between fury and disbelief. “You kicked me!”
Kirishima was laughing again, that big, unfiltered laugh that always managed to pull everyone else with him. Sero leaned on the deck rail, wheezing. Jirou had drifted to the pool’s edge, smirking like revenge was already loading in her brain. Mina was choking out something that sounded like ‘no more violence near the pool!’ between bursts of giggles. Bakugou pushed himself toward the edge, water streaming down his arms, every movement deliberate. He set his palms on the slick tile, glared up at Kirishima’s still-grinning face, and said evenly, “You’re a dead man.”
Kirishima didn’t move, just bent slightly at the knees, smiling down at him like he was daring him to try. “Then come get me.”
Kirishima didn’t even get the sentence out before Bakugou moved. One second he was still in the pool, hair dripping into his eyes, shoulders rising and falling with the kind of stillness that meant run. The next, he exploded out of the water in one sharp motion—palms slapping the edge, muscles flexing, body lifting like he’d been fired from a cannon. "Oh shit—oh shit, oh shit!” Kirishima yelped, stumbling backward so fast he nearly slipped. The grin was still plastered on his face, but it broke instantly into something wild and panicked, all wide eyes and flailing limbs as Bakugou launched himself across the deck.
“Come here, Eijrou!” Bakugou roared, voice half-laugh, half-war cry. Kirishima screamed—an actual, genuine scream of terror that cracked halfway through—and bolted, water spraying from his shorts as his bare feet slapped against the deck. He darted behind Mina like she was a human shield, grabbing her shoulders, his laugh breaking into breathless gasps. “Mina, HELP ME!”
Mina froze mid-laugh, eyes going wide. “Wait, me?! Why me?!”
Bakugou was already on them, water still streaming down his arms, eyes locked like a predator who’d picked his target. “You think she’s gonna save you?” he barked, teeth flashing. “Bad choice.”
Mina screamed when he lunged. It all happened in a blur—Kirishima shoving her forward, her shriek of betrayal cutting through the air, Bakugou catching her around the waist like it was nothing. She kicked and flailed dramatically, one arm reaching back toward Kirishima like she was in a tragedy. “TRAITOR! YOU TRAITOR!”
“Sorry, Mina!” Kirishima yelled, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.
Bakugou barely slowed, hauling Mina to the pool’s edge like a man possessed. “You’re goin’ down with him,” he said flatly, and tossed her in.
The splash was massive, a shockwave of water that drenched the entire deck. Mina’s scream cut off halfway into a gasp before dissolving into laughter. Jirou was clinging to the side of the pool, hair a wet curtain over her face, eyeliner somehow not fully gone, shouting, “OH MY GOD, STOP THROWING PEOPLE!” between fits of laughter.
Kaminari was gone, flat on his back on a deck chair, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes as he wheezed. Sero had completely lost it—doubled over, hand on his stomach, laughing so hard he was gasping for air. “I—I can’t—holy shit—” He broke off mid-sentence, wheezing, “I’m gonna pee my pants—” and took off for the house, slipping once on the wet deck as he went.
Kirishima was still laughing, leaning against the railing for support, his whole body shaking with it. Bakugou stood dripping at the edge of the pool, chest heaving, hair plastered flat, the faintest, traitorous grin tugging at his mouth as he looked down at the chaos he’d created. Mina surfaced, coughing out water, hair slicked back, still laughing. “You’re the WORST, Bakugou!” she shouted, splashing water at him.
He snorted, rolling his shoulders, still catching his breath. “Shoulda run faster.”
Kirishima’s voice came from behind him, still breathless and bright. “You’re outta your mind!”
Somewhere between Mina climbing out of the pool to scream “CHICKEN FIGHT!” and Kaminari almost concussing himself, Bakugou realized he was actually—god forbid—having a good time.
The deck was soaked, the sky bleeding orange into violet, music thumping low through the outdoor speakers. No one was paying attention to the cooler or the grill anymore; all plans of food had been abandoned the second the first splash war broke out. Mina was perched on Sero’s shoulders, laughing so hard she could barely stay upright, one hand raised like a champion as Jirou shouted advice from the steps. Across from them, Kaminari and Kirishima were a disaster in motion—uncoordinated, unbalanced, laughing too hard to function. “Don’t you dare—” Mina started, just before Kaminari’s heel slipped against Sero’s shoulder. The whole tower collapsed in a glorious explosion of limbs and water, splashing everyone within ten feet.
“I ALMOST HIT MY HEAD!” Kaminari groaned, floating belly-up like a crime scene.
“Serves you right,” Jirou cackled, splashing water at him.
Sero resurfaced a second later, hair plastered flat, gasping between laughter. “I swear to god, you people are gonna kill me before we even eat.”
“Fine by me,” Bakugou called back, voice rough but light, the words carried by the echo of laughter. Then somehow it devolved into a competition—Sero and Kirishima arguing over who could do the better flip off the side of the pool. Mina officiated, of course, arms crossed, referee whistle in her tone. It wasn’t either of them.
Mina’s flip was flawless—clean arc, perfect splash—and when she came up, she raised both arms over her head like an Olympian. “That’s how it’s done, boys!”
Bakugou realized his idiot was swimming straight toward him. He’d been hanging near the edge of the deep end, one hand braced against the tile, content to stay out of the way while everyone else tried to one-up each other with flips and cannonballs. The water was calmer here, the laughter a little more distant, and for a second, he thought maybe—just maybe—he could breathe. Then he saw the red blur cutting through the water like a torpedo.
“Eijirou, don’t you—”
Too late, he didn’t even get to finish before the idiot reached him, breaking the surface in a flash of white teeth and wet hair. Kirishima grinned up at him like this was a normal thing to do—like swimming laps for an hour straight and then using your boyfriend as a flotation device was a perfectly reasonable decision. “Katsuki,” he laughed, voice warm, breathless, droplets running down his face, “you’ve been hiding over here all night.”
“I’m not—” Bakugou started, but Kirishima was already closing the distance, one hand landing on his shoulder before the other wrapped around his middle.
It was like being hit by a very affectionate, very heavy wave. Bakugou swore he was part shark—he hadn’t stopped swimming since they got in, circling the pool like it was his natural habitat, all muscle and movement and zero concern for personal space. In the water, he was damn near weightless, but it was still enough to throw Bakugou off balance. His grip on the edge slipped, the slick tile offering nothing, and suddenly they were both going under.
“Shit—Eijirou—!” The world turned into bubbles and sound, warm water rushing past his ears, sunlight breaking apart above him. He fought his way back up, gasping when he hit air, one hand slapping against the wall for leverage. “Are you being fucking serious, Ei? Get off of me!”
Kirishima just laughed, that big, bright sound that always hit like sunlight, still holding on like this was a group hug and not a near-death experience. “But I wanna be next to you!”
“Then get next to me on land!” Bakugou snapped, kicking at him under the water.
Kirishima dodged easily, grin widening, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re so dramatic, bro.”
“I’m drowning!”
“You’re fine!”
“I swear to god—”
Mina’s laughter carried across the pool, sharp and gleeful. “Oh my god, he’s gonna drown you!"
Bakugou was trying to glare, trying to shove Kirishima off, but it was impossible to do either when he was choking on his own laughter. The sound broke out of him sharp and unguarded, rolling right into the others, blending into the warm hum of chaos that filled the backyard. By the time they finally hauled themselves out of the pool, the sun had dropped below the treeline, leaving streaks of violet fading into indigo. The air was thick with chlorine and that sharp scent of warm stone; laughter still clung to everything like humidity. Towels were thrown over chairs, onto railings, across shoulders—no one knew whose was whose anymore.
“I’m starving,” Mina groaned, wringing water from her hair.
That was all it took.
“Wait—me too!” Sero said, already halfway to the outdoor kitchen, towel draped over his head like a hood. Jirou nodded behind him, muttering something about dehydration, and Kaminari—predictably—was the loudest of all. “I’m dying,” he whined, clutching his stomach like he’d been personally wronged by the universe. “Kiri, I’m seeing lights, bro. I think I’m actually gonna pass out.”
Before Bakugou could even grab his towel, someone shoved a pair of tongs into his hand. “You’re on food duty,” Mina announced, already rifling through a bag of snacks like she hadn’t just volunteered him. “You’re the only one who can cook without setting something on fire.”
Bakugou blinked at the tongs, then at her. “You literally just said that so you don’t have to do it.” He groaned but went anyway, towel hanging off his neck, muttering curses under his breath as he flipped on the outdoor stove. The air filled quickly with the rich scent of soy and smoke—skewers of chicken crackling, vegetables blistering on the heat, the faint sweetness of miso drifting through the air. The sound of oil hissing hit the air like applause. Kaminari leaned on the counter immediately, dripping onto the tile. “Hey, hey—can mine be extra sauce? Like so much sauce? I’m so hungry, man—”
Bakugou didn’t even look up. “You’re gonna be so dead if you don’t shut up.”
Kaminari blinked at him, still smiling, water dripping down his temple. “You say the meanest things when you cook, bro.”
Kirishima laughed, the sound bright and easy, the kind that made people believe he actually found Kaminari’s nonsense endearing. “You’re not dying, man, you’re just dramatic,” he said, slinging an arm around Kaminari’s shoulders and steering him away from the grill before Bakugou could throw something. “We literally just got out of the pool. You’re like seventy percent water right now, you’ll survive.”
“But I can feel myself fading,” Kaminari groaned, leaning his full weight against him. “Tell my story, bro. Tell them I went out hungry.”
“I’ll tell ‘em you went out annoying,” Kirishima said with a grin, ruffling his hair before gently pushing him toward the table. “Go help Mina with the chopsticks or something. Keep your hands busy.”
“Can’t—too weak—”
“Then at least stay quiet,” Kirishima teased, laughing under his breath.
Bakugou watched it all from the grill, shaking his head. “You spoil him,” he muttered, flipping a skewer, voice low enough that only Kirishima could hear. Kirishima turned, hair still damp and sticking up in wild red spikes, towel hanging loose around his shoulders. His grin was easy, soft in a way that disarmed him every time. “Nah,” he said, stepping close enough that Bakugou could feel the warmth radiating off him. “I just like keeping the peace.”
Bakugou snorted, rolling his eyes. “You mean you like babying him?”
Kirishima hummed, leaning in until his breath brushed Bakugou’s jaw. “Maybe,” he said, voice dropping just a little. Then, quieter, teasing, “Be nice to Kami—he’s on his last legs.” Before Bakugou could tell him to back off, Kirishima pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. It wasn’t much—barely there, quick enough to almost pass for a joke—but it still hit like a spark, the warmth lingering long after Kirishima had stepped back.
Kirishima peeled away with that stupid bright grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth, heading straight for Kaminari like he couldn’t help himself. Kaminari barely had time to squeak before Kirishima threw an arm around his shoulders, dragging him into a half-wrestle that turned instantly violent in the dumbest way—an elbow to the ribs, a shriek that echoed across the yard, both of them slipping on wet tile as they tried to get the other in the pool. Kaminari’s swim shorts didn’t help—neon orange with sickly green palm trees, the ugliest things Bakugou had ever been subjected to. He couldn’t believe he had to witness that fucking pattern. It was a visual assault, loud and stupid enough to knock the kiss clean out of his immediate focus as he watched Kirishima and Kaminari flail dangerously close to the water.
That was when Sero slipped past them, dodging their chaos with a quick, practiced sidestep like he’d been waiting for the exact second Kirishima was distracted. He shot Jirou a look over his shoulder—sharp, quick, the kind that meant now—and she answered with the slightest tilt of her head, already reaching for something behind her. By the time Sero turned his attention toward Bakugou, grin stretching slow and deliberate across his face, Bakugou knew—without a single word exchanged—that the idiots were up to something.
Sero came sliding up like he’d been launched from the deep end, hair plastered to his head in a shape that should’ve been illegal, shaking it out so violently it spiked into hard angles against his neck. He did it on purpose, too, droplets flicking off the ends and hitting Bakugou’s arm. Bakugou shoved him back without looking, just enough to keep him from slipping again on the already soaked deck. Sero had eaten shit at least twice tonight. Momo made them swear—out loud—that no one was getting injured, but Sero was determined to prove that promises meant nothing to him. His knee was scraped raw, a thin line of blood trickling down his shin. Bakugou’s eyes flicked to it, irritation immediate.
“At least put a fucking bandaid on it,” he muttered, flipping the vegetables like he wasn’t paying attention to the two idiots giggling behind him.
“I’m still swimming, though,” Sero protested, turning just in time for whatever mystery drink he was holding to slosh dangerously close to Bakugou’s foot. Jirou took it out of his hand with a soft laugh, already amused by whatever concoction they’d made.
“They make waterproof ones,” Bakugou said, the words short, clipped, not glancing at them once.
Sero sighed dramatically, dragging a hand down his soaked face. “Yeah, but that means I have to go inside, and Mina said no going inside wet, and I’m not getting yelled at today.” He slid up next to Bakugou, far too close, shoulder pressing into him like he was trying to merge their bodies together. Bakugou opened his mouth—ready to snarl something about personal space—but Jirou stepped in on his other side. They boxed him in perfectly.
Idiots.
He should’ve seen it coming. “So, Bakugou,” Sero drawled, dragging out the word like he had all the time in the world. Bakugou didn’t even bother hiding the eye roll. “You never ever wanna drink with little old me,” Sero continued, grin twitching wickedly at the edges. “Why not have a drink tonight?”
“Fuck no—”
“Come on!” Sero whined immediately. “It’s YOUR celebration! Just let loose, man, you always have a stick up your ass, or Kiri—”
“Okay, okay, LEAVE,” Jirou cut in, pushing Sero back with one hand as he cackled, stumbling dramatically into the slippery part of the deck. “Sero, you’re gonna piss him off.”
Sero didn’t even get the chance to brag about his escape before the deck betrayed him and he slipped again, landing directly on his already fucked-up knee. He hissed like a wounded cat, clutching it. Honestly? He deserved it. Jirou was still laughing to herself when she set the cup on the counter, nudging it forward the tiniest bit. She didn’t look pushy—just there, eyeliner smudged to hell, dripping down the bridge of her nose. Bakugou had the sudden, intrusive urge to wipe it off with his thumb, but kept his eyes fixed on the grill instead.
“It’s here if you want it,” she said easily. “No pressure—”
“YEAH MAN, NO PRESSURE!” Sero yelled from a few feet away, still on one knee, while Mina crouched beside him, inspecting the damage with a sigh before getting up to fetch something from the guest house.
“GO AWAY, Sero!” Jirou shouted back.
Bakugou clicked his tongue. “Don’t fucking shout over me—go over there if you two are gonna scream—”
“Yeah, okay, sorry,” Jirou said quickly, hands up in surrender, backing off without actually leaving. “Just—” she gestured lightly to the cup, as if clarifying directions to someone who didn’t ask for them, “here.”
Behind her, Sero yelled after Mina, “You’re breaking your own rule!”
Jirou groaned. Bakugou grunted. The drink sat between them, completely unthreatening.
Bakugou stared at the cup longer than he meant to, the heat from the grill soaking into his arms, the smoke curling in slow, lazy ribbons around his face. Behind him, Sero was still groaning dramatically on the ground about his knee, and Jirou was pretending not to watch even though he could feel her eyes drift over every few seconds, checking to see if he’d give in or tell them both to fuck off. The thing that stuck in his head wasn’t even their teasing or the fact that they were obviously trying to coax him into something—it was the quiet, stubborn truth that he hadn’t eaten a single thing all day.
Normally, that would’ve been enough for him to shut this shit down immediately, but he wasn’t thirteen anymore. He wasn’t some dumb kid sneaking sips behind a convenience store or pretending he could handle half a beer. He was a grown man, a pro hero, someone who could bench his own bodyweight twice over. One weak drink wasn’t going to knock him on his ass. It was almost pathetic to even think it. If anything, refusing it made him feel more juvenile than taking it would. One drink. Just one. He could be fine for once.
So he lifted the cup and drank.
Not a taste. Not a little testing sip. He tilted his head back and took half of it in one go, the cold sliding down his throat too fast for him to make sense of it until it was already warming his chest. The flavor registered late—after he swallowed, after the sweetness had already bloomed across his tongue like sunlight catching on something bright. He blinked once, confused. It didn’t taste like alcohol. It barely tasted like anything except juice—fresh, sharp, almost bright enough to make his jaw tense. The kind of sweetness that didn’t sit heavy or syrupy but hit clean and immediate, like it had just been squeezed straight out of the fruit and into the glass.
“What the fuck,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Jirou perked up behind him like she’d been waiting for that exact reaction.
“See? Not bad, right?” she said lightly, leaning one elbow on the counter as if she hadn’t been hovering in anticipation.
Bakugou frowned down into the cup and brought it back to his lips, tasting it again, slower this time. He couldn’t help it—it was good, like, genuinely good. And he didn’t even like sweet shit. Ever. He didn’t like candy, cake, or fruity drinks or anything with too much sugar. He liked things sharp and salty and spicy, shit that bit back. But there was something about this—something familiar tucked under the sweetness that slid in second, warm and bright and a little too easy.
“Pineapple,” he said, half under his breath, not even meaning to say it out loud.
“—yeah,” Jirou nodded, eyes flicking up to him. He must have cut her off from whatever else she had been naming in the drink. “Pineapple juice, and I think… tequila?”
He didn’t even hear the tequila part; he was still stuck on the pineapple, that stupid, sharp-sweet burn he would never admit he liked but always went back to anyway, even when it made the edges of his tongue sting. The drink tasted like summer and heat and something dangerously easy.
Bakugou stared into the cup like it was challenging him to a fight. He could already feel the thin line of anxiety inching up the back of his neck—stupid, annoying, familiar. The kind that said he hadn’t eaten all day, that the grill heat was making him sweat more than he realized, that the chlorine smell was a little too sharp in the air, that he was surrounded, that he was being watched, that this was a mistake, that being here was a mistake.
He blinked at the cup, his brain derailing with all the grace of a freight train, latching on to anything to keep his calm. That was definitely pineapple. The scent hit him first—bright and sweet and stupidly nostalgic in a way he couldn’t explain. He loved pineapple, like, way more than he’d ever admit out loud. Not in a normal way. In a dangerous way. In a “will eat an entire container and complain his mouth hurts” way. In a “once ate so much his gums hurt for two days and he still did it again the next week” way. He liked things that bit back.
It was ridiculous, how fast his brain latched onto it—one second spiraling about whether drinking on an empty stomach was going to embarrass him in front of Sero and Jirou of all people, and the next losing the plot entirely because pineapple had shown up uninvited like some old friend.
He hated how easily his thoughts scrambled like that. One spark of panic, one spark of comfort, slamming into each other like weather fronts and leaving him with mental static. This wasn’t normal. Normal people didn’t derail into fruit-based special interests while calculating whether their heart rate was too high for the amount of movement they’d done. Normal people didn’t need to talk themselves down from a drink by thinking about the pros and cons of pineapple fiber textures. But here he was—on the precipice of a minor meltdown and simultaneously thinking about how pineapple always got stuck in his teeth, stuck in that one annoying spot between his molar and his gum, and he still didn’t care. He’d floss it out later.
He liked pineapple; he trusted pineapple. If the drink tasted like pineapple, then… how bad could it be? The anxiety thinned. Not gone—never gone—but softened by the stupid, grounding thought of fruit. Once he realized how ridiculous that was, embarrassment punched him directly in the chest, clearing the last of the panic in a single hit. He exhaled sharply.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, and then he drank the rest of it. He set the cup down with more force than necessary, dragging his attention back to the grill like the heat and the hiss could pin him back into his own body. The noise made sense. The smoke made sense. The structure of cooking made sense. Jirou let out a low, smug whistle beside him, leaning over just enough to grab the empty cup.
“More?” she asked, light, teasing, like she was talking to a skittish animal she didn’t want to spook.
He didn’t even have time to answer.
Kaminari shrieked so loud the air vibrated, and Bakugou jerked his head up on instinct. Kirishima had him lifted clean off the ground—arms hooked under Kaminari’s legs, Kaminari dangling upside-down like a cat someone had picked up wrong. For a split second, Bakugou swore the world slowed. Kirishima’s muscles flexed, water dripping down his chest in thin, bright streaks, the sun catching on every sharp line of him; and Kaminari, in his wretched neon shorts, kicked helplessly like a beetle flipped on its back.
Then Kirishima tossed him. No hesitation, no warning, just pure abandonment. Kaminari hit the water hard enough to make the entire pool surge. Bakugou and Jirou watched in silence. Not shocked—just… observing. Like they were witnessing a natural disaster unfold from a safe distance.
And Kirishima walked away from the edge like nothing happened, rolling his shoulders as he rubbed water from his hair, the late light glancing off the definition in his arms, down his ribs, across his abs. Everything about him looked annoyingly, unfairly good—cut from marble, carved by hand, the kind of stupid beauty Bakugou refused to acknowledge on principle. He looked away immediately, jaw tight, heat crawling annoyingly up his neck. It felt like he’d stared a second too long, like he’d given something away, so he shook his head once, sharp, like he could dislodge the image and throw it into the pool too.
Unfortunately, looking away only landed his gaze on Kaminari emerging from the water like a drowned rat. His hideous neon shorts clung to him like a war crime—orange so bright it made Bakugou’s eyes hurt, green palm trees screaming for help. Bakugou stared at him, really stared, long enough to question the meaning of fashion, humanity, and the fragile nature of patience. Then he sighed, the sound heavy, resigned. “…I fucking hate those shorts on Kaminari,” he said finally. It was flat, genuinely contemplative, like he’d just made a scientific discovery he wished he hadn’t.
Jirou followed his gaze, tilting her head.. She studied the shorts like they were a crime scene photo. “…Yeah,” she said slowly, thoughtfully. “Yeah, me too.”
They stood there for a full, shared beat—united, solemn—like two people quietly acknowledging the existence of evil in the world.
Jirou just set another drink beside him like it was nothing and walked off toward Mina and Sero, who were now arguing loudly about bandaids. Mina waved the box at him like she was exorcising a demon, Sero yelling right back that she was using the wrong size. Bakugou ignored both of them, eyes drifting to the new cup like it had materialized on its own. Condensation slid down the side in a slow bead, catching the fading light. He turned back to the grill, flipping skewers, pretending he didn’t notice it sitting there within reach.
He felt fine. Completely fine. The first drink hadn’t done shit. No way his tolerance was still the same as when he was thirteen. He was a grown man now—bigger, stronger, with a metabolism that should’ve burned that thing up before it even hit his bloodstream. His mom could drink anyone under the table; genetics had to be doing SOMETHING for him. And maybe he did deserve to loosen up for once. It was his celebration. Maybe Sero was right. Maybe he really did have a stick up his ass when it came to drinking. It wasn’t like he was going to be stupid about it. He had self-control. Hell, he put up with Miyake every day without committing murder. He’d managed not to track down the kid who leaked his relationship, even though every atom in his body had screamed for him to do it. If that wasn’t restraint, nothing was.
Two drinks wouldn’t hurt him. He was a big boy. He’d be fine.
So he took a sip, then another. Little ones between flipping vegetables and checking the heat, but the drink went down easier than he expected. Too easy. Every swallow chased the last until half the cup was gone without him noticing, pineapple sticking sweet on his tongue. The sun kept dropping behind the trees, gold turning to pink, but the heat didn’t ease. The grill pumped warmth into his face, the air thick around him, voices loud, water slapping against tile somewhere behind him. He took another sip, and another. Until the second drink was more gone than not, and he couldn’t remember when he’d stopped pacing himself.
Grilling took longer than Bakugou expected. Everything was cooking slower than it should’ve—heat too low, heat too high, the wind hitting the flame wrong, something. The vegetables were a little crunchier than he liked. If Kaminari complained about being “so starving he was seeing God” one more fucking time, Bakugou was going to launch him into the pool again just on principle. The truth was, he was hungrier than he thought, too; the second the smell of char and miso hit him, his stomach twisted with it. So he started plating everything, working fast, setting skewers down in neat lines, adding vegetables, checking colors, pretending the buzz in his chest was just the grill heat and not the second drink settling warm in his ribs.
“Mina!” he called, not looking up.
She appeared at his side almost instantly, delivering plates and utensils like she’d been waiting for the cue, a bright smile on her face. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek—a soft thank you, sweet in a way Mina always managed without being overbearing—and he waved her off with a muttered sound, which only made her giggle as she walked away. He heard Kirishima’s voice trail after her, playful and low, teasing her about “stealing his man.” It wasn’t even a good joke. It wasn’t even delivered all that well, but Bakugou snorted—quiet and sharp, automatic—because the timing was stupid. He clamped his mouth shut immediately, heat crawling up the side of his face.
Of course, Sero saw it. He came up beside him like a big, wet, eavesdropping dog, eyes going straight to Bakugou’s mouth before drifting down to the plates. “What are you giggling about over here, hmm?” Sero asked, voice sly, almost sing-song.
Bakugou scowled at the skewers, arranging them like they’d personally offended him. “Mind your fucking business, Sero.”
The twist in his expression didn’t leave. His jaw was tight to hide the smile, the urge to laugh still sitting stupidly in his chest as he bit down on his lower lip and kept plating. Sero saw all of that—every microscopic detail—and the grin that spread across his face should’ve been illegal. “Hmmm,” Sero hummed, not buying a damn thing. He lifted another drink, tapped it lightly against Bakugou’s arm before Bakugou could protest, and took a sip. “Cheers.”
He didn’t wait for Bakugou to clink, didn’t wait for permission. He just walked off with the finished plate—at least being somewhat useful—and left Bakugou staring at the drink like it had crawled there on its own. Bakugou didn’t even think when he picked up the drink Sero left him. His hand just moved, natural, automatic. He took a swallow without looking at it, the sweetness hitting his tongue fast, warm sliding down his throat before he’d even finished plating the last of the skewers. The grill hissed behind him, fading as he grabbed two plates in each hand and started toward the table.
He didn’t get far.
Kirishima swept in from nowhere—arms still damp from the pool, smile bright enough to be illegal—and took the plates clean out of his hands before Bakugou could tell him to piss off. He carried them like it was nothing, like Bakugou hadn’t been juggling ten things at once for the last hour. The smile he threw him over his shoulder was soft and sunlit and stupidly sweet, the kind of smile Kirishima had no right directing at him in front of other people.
Bakugou scowled so hard at his back it almost hurt.
His chest tightened in a way he refused to acknowledge, heat rising in his face that he blamed entirely on the grill—even though the grill was behind him now. Kirishima walked away still smiling, talking with Mina about something, and Bakugou hated how easily the sight of him slotted into place in the evening—easy, warm, fucking relentless.
He set the last set of utensils on the table, muttering under his breath. The warmth in his chest wasn’t going away. Not from the alcohol, not from the grill. Something else entirely. Something he didn’t want to think about. Behind him, laughter drifted up again—Kirishima’s, loud and bright—thrown into the air like it weighed nothing. Bakugou didn’t turn around; he didn’t have to, he could picture it too well. He shook his head once, sharp, like he could rattle the thought loose. The drink didn’t help, or maybe it did. He wasn’t thinking clearly enough to tell the difference anymore.
Bakugou didn’t even remember when he picked up his third drink— or was it his forth? His hand just moved on its own, bringing it to his mouth while he stood at the table, the warmth sliding over his tongue without thought. He told himself he should eat something—he hadn’t had more than a bite since they got here—but the hunger that had been clawing at him earlier wasn’t really there anymore. It sat somewhere distant, easy to ignore, softened by the slow pulse of warmth spreading under his ribs. He wasn’t starving, he wasn’t dizzy, he wasn’t anything, really. Just… fine. Good, even.
He didn’t realize he was walking until he was already moving past the table, catching Kaminari mid-rant about how “protein is necessary for survival” before swiping a chunk of chicken straight off his plate. Kaminari yelped, horrified, but Bakugou just shot him a flat look as he popped the bite into his mouth. “Bite me,” he muttered, already turning away.
The flavor hit him a second later—deep, smoky, the miso bright against the char—and he paused, chewing slowly as it settled. It was stupid how good it was, unreasonably good. Enough that something loosened in his chest and let the thought slip in before he could stop it: he really could do this for real. He could run a kitchen. Not some greasy diner crap, but an actual place—clean, sharp, intentional. He could see it as he wandered across the deck, the drink in one hand and the taste still lingering on his tongue: warm lighting, good knives, the smell of seared meat and fire, a menu that changed whenever the hell he felt like it. Names started drifting through his mind—half-formed, too loud or too bland or too dramatic—and he discarded each one as quickly as it came. Nothing fit, but the ideas kept circling anyway, a slow whirl of heat and possibility that felt weirdly pleasant.
By the time he reached the pool, his head felt light, not floaty, just unburdened. He sat on the edge without thinking, the concrete warm against the backs of his thighs, his feet slipping into the water. The cool rush hit his skin, grounding him just enough to make everything else sharpen—the taste in his mouth, the warmth in his chest, the ridiculous stream of restaurant names running through his head like they were pitch meetings he hadn’t agreed to.
That was when it hit him, all at once.“Oh shit,” he said under his breath, laughing once at himself because he genuinely didn’t know how he got here. The ‘oh’ was drawn out so long it made him laugh through his words. “What the fuck am I doing? I’m fucked, I should eat.” The water was shimmering so brightly he leaned forward to look at it more, until he was heading headfirst into the water. Bakugou broke the surface with a gasp, hair plastered to his forehead, water running down his lashes—and instead of roaring, instead of exploding, instead of going thermonuclear like everyone probably expected, a sharp laugh punched out of him. Actual laughter, not the dry, irritated exhale he usually did. A real one, bubbling up from somewhere warm and stupid in his chest. He dragged a hand over his face, shaking his head as he kicked lightly to stay afloat.
Sero was leaning over the edge of the pool like he’d been waiting for this exact moment his entire life. His phone was up instantly, the flash going off as he snapped pictures like a paparazzi gremlin. He was laughing so hard his voice cracked, practically folding over the edge of the deck. “BRO—! Oh my god—look at your FACE—!”
Bakugou squinted up at him and snorted again, mostly because Sero was laughing so hard he nearly dropped the phone into the water, and the sight was objectively, annoyingly funny. Bakugou splashed a little water in his direction, just enough to shut him up, but it only made Sero wheeze louder. “I swear to fucking god,” Bakugou said, wiping his eyes, still grinning despite himself. “If you post those—”
“I WON’T POST THEM,” Sero yelled—lying so badly it wasn’t even worth responding to. “BUT OH MY GOD YOU’RE— YOU’RE SO—” He couldn’t even finish, doubling over again, phone wobbling dangerously in his hand.
Bakugou shook his head, lips still curved in a way he couldn’t control. Everything felt warm—his face, his chest, the water against his skin, the whole damn night. Maybe it was the alcohol or the fact that he’d barely eaten or the fact that the world felt one shade softer right now—but climbing out didn’t sound too urgent. Eating didn’t sound too urgent either. He floated there for another second, letting the cool water slide down his arms.
Bakugou stood there for a moment, water dripping off him in slow trails, his breath still catching a little from the shove and the laughter. The air hit his skin cooler than before, settling under the heat in his chest like two temperatures fighting for space. The thing was—he didn’t mind it. Not at all. The shift in his head wasn’t dramatic, not dizzy or sloppy or anything that would embarrass the hell out of him. It was just… softer. Easy in a way he wasn’t used to. He could feel the tipsiness humming low in his stomach, the same way he’d felt it while sitting at the edge of the pool, but he’d written it off. Now, standing, towel hanging uselessly around his neck, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t notice it anymore.
It felt good.
For once in his life, the noise around him didn’t feel like a threat. It felt warm, loud in a comforting way—Kaminari yelling something stupid, Mina cackling from the guest house, Sero still taking incriminating pictures. The world didn’t feel tight tonight, nothing felt sharp. Everything was… bright. Looser around the edges. And that looseness didn’t make him angry the way he always assumed it would. If anything, it pulled something in him open, tugged at him like an invitation.
He rolled his shoulders once, testing the feeling, waiting for the anxiety to creep in the way it always did. It didn’t; nothing twisted wrong in his chest. Nothing clawed up his throat. He just felt good. Really good. A kind of good he hadn’t allowed himself in years, maybe ever. The kind that made him understand why people drank for fun instead of drinking to forget—why they laughed too loud, why they got stupid, why they chased this exact warmth like it was something rare.
He looked at the yard again—the glow of the deck lights, the water shimmering, the sound of his friends echoing off the walls—and the thought slipped in before he could stop it: why not drink more? Why the hell shouldn’t he? It wasn’t like he was wrecked. He wasn’t stumbling or slurring or losing control. He was just… fine. Fine and warm and surrounded by the people he trusted most. The idea of walking back over and grabbing another drink didn’t feel reckless. It felt deserved, like something he’d earned.
God, he wanted to chase it, just for tonight, just to see how far feeling good could go. He ran a hand through his wet hair, exhaling through his teeth with a small, private huff of laughter. “Shit,” he muttered, not upset—almost amused. “Maybe I should.”
Bakugou made his way toward the drink table like he wasn’t doing anything wrong, shoulders squared, pace unhurried, face set in that stubborn, neutral glare he used whenever he definitely was doing something wrong. He reached for the pitcher Sero had made—some pineapple monstrosity that smelled too good—and tipped his cup to fill it, only to watch pool water slosh out the side. He cursed under his breath, dumping the chlorinated mix into the grass. Before he could refill it, Jirou appeared over his shoulder like a damn ghost, close enough that he could feel the subtle shake of her head against his upper arm. She reached past him and plucked a clean cup off the stack, handing it over without commentary, a breathy, punched-out laugh slipping from her like she was trying not to embarrass him.
“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered automatically.
Her laugh cracked again anyway. Bakugou turned to glare at her, only for Jirou to still be right there, too close, tilting forward until her forehead rested against his chest like she’d just given up on standing upright. “Oh fuck,” she sighed, sounding amused and exhausted all at once.
Bakugou snorted despite himself, something loose tugging at the corner of his mouth. Part of him registered she couldn’t be that wasted yet—Jirou held her alcohol better than most of them—but when she lifted her head, her eyes were just a little bloodshot. Not chlorine-bloodshot, something else, something familiar. He squinted at her, suspicion flickering for a moment before the warmth in his chest won out, his smile curling before he could stop it. “Where did you even get that shit?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the cup in her hand.
She nodded toward Sero across the yard, who was now rummaging through a bag with the grace of a raccoon in a trash can. “Yeah, I know Sero has it, Ji,” Bakugou said, narrowing his eyes, “I mean, how did he get it in this country?”
Jirou only shrugged, like Sero illegally smuggling weed across borders was normal, but then something shifted in her expression—her eyes sharpening for a brief second. “You can’t have any,” she said, and the firmness in her tone made Bakugou blink. “I’ve been watching you. Mr. Four Drinks In.”
“I don’t do that shit,” he said absentmindedly, eyes drifting instead to the bag Sero was shaking open—where gummy worms were poking out, and there was no way in hell they were only gummy worms.
“You said that about alcohol, too,” Jirou shot back.
“Nah,” Bakugou muttered, pouring his drink anyway, “I said I don’t do that shit around you fuckers.”
“Well, yeah,” she deadpanned. “Because we’re bad influences. Anyway, you need to eat something.” She said it like she remembered the mission she’d come over with, nodding to herself before turning and wandering back across the deck, her steps loose and light. Bakugou sighed, dropping ice into his drink with more force than necessary. His stomach growled in answer—silent, irritated, undeniable. He clicked his tongue.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”
Bakugou finally caved and grabbed a plate—something simple, a little of everything, nothing fancy. The second he started eating, though, something shifted in his brain in the stupidest possible way. Maybe it was the warmth in his stomach or the buzz behind his eyes, but for some goddamn reason, he felt like a scavenger, like some half-feral alley rat picking through scraps behind a restaurant. Every bite felt primal, like he was surviving off rotten meat and questionable cheese in a back alley somewhere, even though the food he made was perfectly normal and actually good. His plate sat balanced on his knees as he collapsed onto the outdoor couch Mina had explicitly said no one was allowed to eat on, her voice echoing faintly in the back of his mind. He wasn’t messy. He didn’t spill— normally—so it was fine, completely fine.
He shoveled another piece of chicken into his mouth with his fingers—because apparently, utensils were for sober people—and somewhere in the back of his mind, he acknowledged this was insane behavior, but eating with his hands made the feral rat fantasy stronger, and for a second, he was committed. His head was low over his food like he was defending it from predators.
He didn’t even register Kirishima walking over until the cushion dipped beside him. Bakugou exhaled, a long, tired sound, instinctively leaning into him, shoulder brushing Kirishima’s without him thinking about it. The warmth of him was immediate, a steady weight against the rush in Bakugou’s head, but it didn’t pull him fully out of his scavenging haze. He kept eating, fingers picking up another piece, chewing with a focus that was honestly concerning.
It wasn’t until he caught sight of himself—actually saw the way he was hunched forward, eating with both hands like he’d been lost in the woods for a month—that the realization hit him like a slap. What the fuck was he doing?
He froze mid-bite, slowly turning his head toward Kirishima like he’d been caught committing a crime. Kirishima was already looking at him, smiling so broadly and so warmly it made something twist in Bakugou’s chest. “You having fun?” Kirishima asked, amusement soft in his voice, like he’d walked right into this scene and accepted every part of it without questioning anything. Bakugou blinked at him, lowering the half-eaten piece of meat in his hand, feeling ridiculous and warm and uncomfortably seen all at once.
“…Shut up,” he muttered, but it came out soft, almost embarrassed, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the beginnings of a smile he couldn’t quite stop.
Kirishima’s laugh softened as he leaned in, eyes tracking the bit of sauce on Bakugou’s cheek with a kind of fond amusement that made Bakugou’s chest tighten. Before he could swat him away, Kirishima reached over and brushed his thumb along Bakugou’s jaw, slow and deliberate, wiping the smudge away. Then he smiled—warm, easy, unfair. “Aww,” he murmured, leaning closer, “My wet rat.”
Bakugou opened his mouth—ready to bite back, ready to say fuck off or don’t call me that—but the words never made it out. Kirishima kissed his cheek first, soft and quick, and then, before Bakugou could recover, he angled Bakugou’s face forward with a gentle hand along his chin and pressed another kiss to his lips. It wasn’t deep, wasn’t greedy, wasn’t anything except warm and sure, the kind of kiss that felt like Kirishima wasn’t even thinking about it—like it was reflex. Then he kissed him again. Just a light brush, a second pass, slow enough that Bakugou felt the shape of it bloom across his mouth before Kirishima leaned back and settled comfortably against the couch, completely satisfied with himself.
Bakugou didn’t move.
His stomach plunged so hard he forgot what he was chewing. His skin fizzled all the way down to his fingertips, like every nerve he had tripped over itself trying to figure out what to do. He stared at Kirishima—eyes wide, jaw slack, food still in his mouth like he’d literally forgotten how to exist. Suddenly, everything hit him how warm Kirishima looked tonight, how good he smelled, how the water dripping down his hair made his shoulders look broader, how he hadn’t noticed, how he SHOULD have noticed.
God, he was so hot today, ridiculously so. Bakugou swallowed—late, audible—and Kirishima caught it, his grin tilting as he let out a quiet laugh. “What, Katsuki?” he asked, amused and gentle all at once. “You okay?” Bakugou blinked at him, still frozen in place, still feeling the imprint of those soft, stupid kisses like they were carved there.
Bakugou set the plate down on the low table in front of them, pushing it aside with a carelessness that would’ve horrified sober him. He took a small sip from his drink just to clear his mouth—though it did nothing to settle the pounding in his chest—and then leaned in, closing the space between them without a second thought. Kirishima made a soft sound when their mouths met, a breathy hum that sharpened into something like surprise, then something far more thoughtful as he pressed back gently before pulling away.
“Strong drink, Katsuki,” he murmured, his voice warm against Bakugou’s lips. “I can taste it.”
“Hm?” Bakugou answered, barely listening. His eyes were locked on the shape of Kirishima’s mouth, following every small movement, every shift, too distracted to actually process the words. He leaned forward a fraction without realizing it, drawn in like a moth pulled stupidly toward a flame, and Kirishima caught it immediately—caught him.
Kirishima laughed, soft and delighted. “How many have you had, baby?”
“Hm?” Bakugou repeated, because Kirishima’s lips were moving again, and that was still the most important thing happening in his universe.
“Katsuki—” Kirishima ducked his head down until his forehead brushed his nose, forcing Bakugou’s gaze up, eyes meeting his directly. His smile was bright enough to snap Bakugou out of his trance for a heartbeat. “How many?”
Bakugou blinked once, like the question took a second to land. “Four,” he said, the answer delayed and a little too honest. Then a smugness crept in, slow and warm, tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Four….”
Kirishima huffed a quiet laugh, ridiculously fond. “Mmm, I’ve had five,” he said with a proud little tilt of his chin. “I’m winning.”
Bakugou remembered then—why he loved him. Why this man could unravel him with the simplest thing, the smallest line. Kirishima never made a spectacle of anything. He didn’t panic, didn’t lecture, didn’t treat him like he was fragile or out of control. He just existed beside him, bright and steady, a warmth Bakugou wanted to sink into.
Kirishima snorted softly and shook his head, amused at himself, and then he leaned in and kissed Bakugou again—harder this time, enough that the two of them sank deeper into the couch cushions. Bakugou shifted instinctively, one knee sliding up behind Kirishima while the other leg hung fully off the couch, bracing them both as Kirishima laughed into his mouth. He kissed Bakugou again, and again, slow and eager and too sweet, settling between his legs like it was the most natural thing in the world, their bodies fitting together like they’d done this a thousand times.
Bakugou only broke away when something in his instincts flickered. His eyes drifted open, scanning the yard, checking over his shoulder, making sure no one was watching. The dark had settled fully by now, soft shadows stretching across the deck, the pool lights reflecting off the water in blurred, gentle ribbons. Everyone else was scattered somewhere deeper in the backyard—voices distant, laughter far enough away that the world around him felt pocketed and private.
For the first time all night, Bakugou felt genuinely, completely safe, enough that he didn’t give a single fuck. He leaned back in, kissing Kirishima without hesitation.
Kirishima shifted closer before Bakugou had the chance to grab him, one knee sliding higher between Bakugou’s legs, the couch dipping as he settled more fully on top of him. The movement was instinctive on both their parts—easy, natural, like gravity had been pulling them toward this exact point all night. The humid summer air clung to their skin, warm and dense, fizzling around the edges of Bakugou’s awareness as Kirishima pressed in, chest against chest, his breath brushing Bakugou’s cheek before their mouths met again.
The kiss turned lazy, slow in a way that made every second stretch, like they had all the time in the world. Kirishima tasted faintly like whatever sweet drink he’d been nursing, the warmth on his tongue mixing with the warmth in Bakugou’s bloodstream until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Bakugou’s body lit up under the weight of him, nerves firing sharp and bright, every point of contact sending heat curling through his stomach. He couldn’t help it—he caught Kirishima’s bottom lip lightly between his teeth, a reckless, tipsy little scrape that tugged a quiet sound out of Kirishima before he kissed him again, deeper this time, smiling against his mouth like he couldn’t stop.
Bakugou’s thoughts tangled hopelessly. God, I am lucky, so fucking lucky Kirishima is mine. He was lucky he’d been the one to catch him, to keep him, to fit against him like this—like they were made for it, like his body had been carved to hold this exact warmth. He didn’t notice how far Kirishima had pushed him into the cushions until the world narrowed into heat and the steady weight of Kirishima’s hands at his jaw. His own breath hitched, a soft break in the rhythm, but he didn’t pull away—not even close. The slow drag of the kiss kept melting him deeper into the couch, making everything feel sunlit and underwater, hazy and heavy and soft all at once.
Then a sharp clearing of someone’s throat sliced clean through the moment.
Bakugou jerked back instinctively—it felt like breaking the surface after being underwater too long. His eyes refocused slowly, adjusting to the dark of the deck, the sudden interruption like cold water down his spine. Kirishima froze completely, then let out a tiny, mortified sound before dropping his forehead right onto Bakugou’s chest, hiding his whole face like that could undo what had just happened. Bakugou blinked toward the noise, heart pounding, warm breath still tangled with Kirishima’s hair. His throat felt tight, his skin hot, and the tipsiness didn’t help at all—if anything, it made it harder to school his expression into anything remotely neutral. Kirishima muttered something muffled into Bakugou’s shirt, his face red enough to glow.
It was Sero standing there, jaw unhinged so far it might’ve hit the deck if gravity had been a little meaner tonight. His eyes were huge, scandalized, delighted in the worst way. “YOU DIRTY DOGS,” he announced, loud enough to echo off the pool. “We’re gone for two minutes and this is how we find you?”
Bakugou barely had time to glare before Sero steamrolled on, gesturing wildly between them like he’d walked in on a crime scene. Jirou stood just behind him, hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter she was barely managing to hold in. She hadn’t said a word, which somehow made it worse—like she didn’t trust herself to speak without choking.
Kirishima made a strangled noise against Bakugou’s chest, the embarrassment clear in the way his breath hitched—but the alcohol in his system softened it, turning his mortification into breathy laughter that vibrated against Bakugou’s ribs. He didn’t even lift his head. Just laughed into Bakugou’s shirt like he was accepting his fate one giggle at a time.
“You two are sick,” Sero continued, pointing between them with both hands now. “NASTY! On Momo’s couch—on ONE of Momo’s couches? Are you kidding me?”
Bakugou should’ve cared. He really should’ve. Normally, he would’ve shot up, shoved Kirishima off, barked something loud enough to send crows flying from the treeline, but he sat there searching—actually searching—for that spark of embarrassment, that flare of defensiveness, that bite of irritation. He found nothing, not even a flicker. He must’ve left that part of himself at home, or dropped it in the pool. Or lost it somewhere between the third drink and Kirishima’s mouth.
Could anyone blame him? With Kirishima looking like that—warm and flushed and still half in his lap—who the hell was capable of shame?
Kirishima finally pushed himself upright, his face bright red and his laugh still stumbling out of him as he scrambled off the couch. He barely got to his feet before Mina appeared in the doorway of the guest house, taking one glance at the scene—Kirishima flustered, Bakugou dazed, Sero yelling, Jirou cracking up—and gasping so loudly she nearly fell back inside.
Kirishima bolted, escaping toward her like fleeing to higher ground, even as Mina pointed at Bakugou and started laughing immediately, too loud and too delighted. Sero and Jirou collapsed onto the opposite couch, sighing dramatically like they’d just witnessed something earth-shattering. Bakugou sat there alone now, heat still pulsing under his skin, the ghost of Kirishima’s mouth tingling at his own. He looked down at his cup out of instinct—only to realize it was empty, completely empty. His stomach dipped, his head buzzing with the warm aftermath of kissing and alcohol blending together in one dizzy, traitorous hum.
“…Shit,” he muttered.
Time slipped weirdly after that. Bakugou wasn’t sure how long he stayed sunk into the couch before someone pressed another drink into his hand—cold, sweet, smelling faintly of pineapple and bad decisions. He didn’t even look to see who gave it to him. He just took a sip, then another, and the warmth slipped under his skin faster than he expected. Soon everything was funny. Not regular funny—everything funny. The lights blurred softly around the edges, turning the deck into something warm and unfocused, and the couch felt like the safest, softest place he’d ever been. He tried to sit up once and immediately sank again, swallowed whole by the cushions.
His half-eaten plate rested on his knees like a lifeline he was supposed to reach for, but his arms were too heavy and his brain too slow to command anything. The thought flashed once—I should eat—and then drifted away again like a lazy balloon. The air wrapped around him, warm and syrupy, and he let himself float in it. The sky above him darkened into a deep navy—or maybe purple? Gods, who knew what was actually in these drinks. Thoughts came in fragments, sliding into each other without forming anything solid. The food was good. The air felt good. His friends’ laughter drifted across the deck like something soft. Then everything went quiet in his head. Then loud again. Then quiet.
Sero sat across from him now, slouched low in one of the patio chairs, phone glowing blue under his chin. A smirk tugged at his mouth every time he glanced at Bakugou—still unmoving, still staring into the distance—and every so often, Sero let out a quiet laugh like the sight was too much for him to handle. He even lifted his phone once and snapped a picture, muttering, “You’re never living this down,” but Bakugou barely processed it. The hum in his chest was too warm, the night too soft, his brain too unbothered to latch onto anything.
Footsteps echoed across the deck, voices bubbling closer. Mina’s laughter cut through first—bright, familiar—followed by Jirou’s amused murmur and the low rumble of Kirishima’s voice. Kaminari trailed behind them, mid-story, his words tangled and slurred into something almost unintelligible.
Bakugou didn’t move. He stayed slouched in the chair, the pool lights flickering gold across his skin, the world drifting pleasantly around him. His limbs felt heavy but comfortable, his thoughts still caught in that thick, quiet place where everything felt wide and slow. The others kept talking, their voices weaving around him, until Kaminari turned mid-story and grinned. “Right, Bakugou? You get what I’m saying, yeah?”
Bakugou didn’t answer, he was staring straight ahead, plate still balanced on his knee, eyes open but unfocused. The lights made everything shimmer, including the faint flush across his cheeks and the sheen of sweat at his temple. When he finally turned his head, it was delayed, slow, like someone nudging a puppet. He blinked hard at Kaminari. “…What’s the question?”
The conversation shattered instantly. Sero snorted so violently he nearly dropped his phone, clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle it. Mina doubled over, laughter crashing out of her in bright, chaotic bursts. Jirou pressed her fingers against her lips, shoulders shaking. Even Kirishima let out a startled, breathy laugh, eyes going wide. Bakugou froze for a second, realizing just how serious he must’ve sounded—and then the humor of it hit him too. A quiet, rough laugh escaped him, then another, his head tipping forward as he tried and failed to hold it in. Kaminari looked wounded. “What’s so funny?”
Bakugou lifted his head, grin breaking wide, eyes glassy and bright. “You look so fucking stupid, Kami,” he said, voice cracking halfway through the insult.
“Are you serious?” Mina gasped, leaning across the table, her eyes huge. “You’re actually drinking?”
Bakugou blinked at Mina, genuinely thrown, because she was acting like she’d just uncovered a scandal instead of something she literally watched happen. She was the one who’d cheers’d him. She saw the drinks. She saw him sip them. So why was she looking at him like he’d sprouted a second head? “Yeah? I told you that,” he muttered, brow furrowing in confusion. He wasn’t following. At all.
Mina leaned closer, eyes wide and glittering with that mix of excitement and disbelief she got whenever something chaotic clicked into place. “No, no—Bakubabe. You’re DRUNK.”
Bakugou scoffed so fast he nearly choked on air. Drunk? He wasn’t drunk. Tipsy, maybe. Warm, sure. Buzzed, definitely. But drunk? That implied he was out of control, slurring, stumbling, embarrassing himself. And he wasn’t doing any of that. He was sitting. Breathing. Fine. He’d only had what—five drinks? Four? Somewhere in there. And yeah, maybe they were strong, and maybe he hadn’t really eaten, and maybe the air felt a little too soft on his skin and the lights were starting to glow in ways lights usually didn’t—but drunk?
No, ridiculous.
“I’m not drunk,” he said, shaking his head hard enough that droplets flicked off the ends of his hair. His voice came out stubborn, offended, like she’d accused him of a crime he didn’t commit.
Kirishima laughed quietly beside him, that soft, warm sound that always landed somewhere deep in Bakugou’s chest. “Maybe just a little bit, baby,” he murmured, and the nickname slipped under Bakugou’s skin like a warm hand. “That’s okay—”
“I’m not drunk,” Bakugou repeated, louder this time, because apparently no one was hearing him. “I could do the lines right now.”
It came out with so much confidence, so much conviction, that for a split second, he believed they should all applaud him. Instead, there was silence. Kaminari blinked, his jaw dropping. “COCAINE??” he shrieked, voice cracking straight up the scale.
Jirou’s reaction was immediate—she grabbed Kaminari’s arm and shoved him so hard he nearly fell off the deck chair. “NO, Kami,” she hissed, laughing through her teeth. “He means the police lines. The walking ones. Oh my god.”
“Oh,” Kaminari breathed, as if this explained everything.
Bakugou stared at all of them, incredulous, because they were completely missing the point. He could do it. He could walk a straight line right now. He absolutely could. He wasn’t even swaying. He barely felt anything besides warmth and maybe a slight heaviness in his limbs, but that didn’t count. That was comfort. That was… relaxation.
“I could,” he muttered again, nodding to himself like he needed to reaffirm it. “The straight ones, you—” He traced something in the air with his finger, the gesture wobbling more than he realized. “I could walk ’em.”
Mina let out a noise halfway between a gasp and a laugh, clutching her stomach. “Bakugou, you can’t even SIT straight—”
Bakugou followed her gaze down, saw the angle he was slouched at, the way one leg dangled off the side of the chair, and the plate somehow still balanced on his knee, and felt irritation spark—not because she was wrong, but because he didn’t have anything clever to fire back. His head felt heavy against the cushion, his limbs loose and uncooperative, the warmth in his chest spreading wider with every breath.
He lifted his chin stubbornly and said the first thing that came to mind. “Well, I’m not straight, so I don’t need to sit straight.”
It came out quick, unbothered, with the same tone he used when he said he didn’t like mushrooms—casual, matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t the first time those words had ever escaped his mouth, but it was, he knew it was. A small, bright realization flickered through him—not panic, not fear, just the sudden awareness that he’d never said that out loud before. Not once, not to anyone. It didn’t hit like something heavy; it hit like something true. Kirishima didn’t even blink. He pointed at him immediately, smiling so wide it softened every edge of his face. “That’s right, baby. You tell them.”
Kaminari stared at him like he’d just dropped a riddle into the middle of the table, his drunk face pulled tight with concentration before he finally blurted, “So did you always know, or did Kirishima kiss you one day and you were just like… ‘yeah, I’d hit that’?”
Jirou slapped her hand over her mouth. Mina curled over the table, wheezing. Sero whispered “no fucking way” like he was witnessing a historical event. Kirishima froze beside him, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere in his throat.
Bakugou didn’t react fast. He didn’t snap or bark the way everyone expected. He just paused, his expression shifting, eyes narrowing not in anger but in something closer to thought. It would’ve been funny on anyone else, but on him, it was unbelievable. The question slid into his head and—rather than bouncing off the wall like it should have—actually landed. He sat there considering it, genuinely, brows drawn, mouth turning slightly to the side in a way that made Mina press both hands over her face to smother her scream-laugh. Jirou looked like she was about to fall out of her chair. Sero muttered something about “no way… no way he’s actually thinking about it,” already half doubled over from laughing.
Bakugou didn’t hear any of that. His mind had drifted somewhere else, somewhere quiet and unguarded. He’d never had crushes the way other people did. No childhood butterflies, no awkward teen obsessions, nothing that ever made sense to him. He assumed there was something wrong with him, or missing, or maybe just not built the way everyone else was. Then Kirishima kissed him, and the world rearranged itself in one violent, perfect snap. Everything slotted into place so suddenly that it made him dizzy. Even now, buzzed and warm and surrounded by noise, the memory flashed behind his eyelids with a clarity that startled him.
So when Bakugou finally spoke, his voice was slow, thoughtful, like someone trying to catch a thread that kept slipping between his fingers. “I mean… I didn’t—always—” he muttered, half to himself. “It was—”
Kirishima didn’t let him finish. He leaned forward fast, laughter pushing up his chest, face flushed and soft at the edges from his own drinks. “No, baby,” he cut in quickly, reaching out to touch Bakugou’s knee with a warm hand. “Don’t actually answer that.”
Bakugou blinked at him, thrown off track again, and the interruption only made the rest of the group spiral harder. Mina slapped the tabletop and let out a shriek that echoed off the pool. Kaminari fell backward in his chair, wheezing. Jirou was laughing silently, shoulders shaking so hard she had to grab Sero’s arm to stay upright. Even Sero, always the first to tease, looked absolutely devastated with joy. “You were really about to tell me, bro,” Kaminari gasped from the floor, tears in his eyes.
The noise around him blurred into this warm, hazy hum—Mina shrieking, Kaminari laughing too hard to breathe, Sero choking on his own spit—but Bakugou barely registered any of it. Something in his head clicked into place, sharp and quiet, like he’d suddenly caught up with himself. Oh, I might actually be drunk.
The realization didn’t hit like a slap; it rolled through him slowly, settling low in his stomach. He replayed the last few minutes—the way he’d answered Kaminari’s insane question like it was a pop quiz, the way he’d said he wasn’t straight without hesitation, the way his mouth had moved faster than his brain—and a soft, rough laugh slipped out of him before he could help it. He sounded… amused. At himself, at all of it. “What the fuck am I even saying?” he muttered under his breath, the words more exhale than sentence.
His hand drifted to the cup without thinking. The last of his drink sloshed against the rim, barely a swallow left, the ice melted down to a weak swirl of pineapple and liquor. He stared at it for a split second, a moment where he could’ve put it down, could’ve paced himself, could’ve reminded himself that maybe he should act like a normal person on a normal night.
He tipped it back and finished it in one easy swallow.
The warmth spread immediately—sweet, heavy, comforting—coiling through his chest like someone had lit a fuse inside him. His head felt a little lighter, his limbs a little looser, the world around him glowing at the edges like it had been dipped in gold. He set the empty cup down beside his leg, fingers lingering on it for a moment, almost surprised at how fast it disappeared. He didn’t feel reckless, didn’t feel out of control, just good.
Good in a way that made his shoulders drop, made his heartbeat settle lower, made something inside him unclench that he didn’t even know was tight. He was never someone who cared about labels or picking apart the pieces of himself. Never sat around wondering what box he fit into or what name to give anything. The only reason he avoided naming it was that naming things made them real, and real things were harder to lose, but even now, with the alcohol smoothing out all the sharp edges in him, the truth felt simple. Easy, even. It wasn’t about sexuality or identity or any of that bullshit. It was just him. Kirishima was it. No one before, probably no one after. That was enough, more than enough.
Bakugou leaned back in the chair, letting the warmth of the drink swell in his chest, letting the night tilt just slightly around him. The realization didn’t scare him. If anything, it made him want another drink—something cold and sweet and stupid that would keep him right here in this soft, fizzy haze where his guard didn’t fight him at every turn. He exhaled slowly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Yeah, definitely drunk.
He didn’t mind.
The laughter around him softened into a low, drifting hum, the kind that fills a space when everyone’s finally caught their breath. Bakugou didn’t know why his body chose that moment to move, but suddenly he straightened in his chair like someone had pulled a string tight inside him. The shift was abrupt enough to draw a few glances, his spine lifting out of the slump he’d melted into, his shoulders pulling back as if he had something to announce. His hand came up too, sweeping vaguely through the air as if it could conjure the thought his brain wasn’t forming fast enough.
“You guys—”
The words slipped out slowly, heavy, and absolutely useless. Nothing followed them. The unfinished sentence hung between them like it had forgotten where it was going. Jirou covered her face like witnessing a secondhand cringe, Mina let out a squeal that cracked into laughter, and Sero coughed out a wheeze that pitched upward at the end. Bakugou just blinked down at his own raised hand, frowning at it like the gesture had betrayed him by refusing to come with a point.
Before anyone could comment, Kaminari shot upright like he’d just been resurrected. “WAIT—WE SHOULD DO SHOTS.”
The deck erupted instantly. Mina cheered loud enough to wake the dead, Sero clapped once with the enthusiasm of a dog learning tricks, Jirou groaned in despair, and Kirishima leaned into Mina’s shoulder, laughing in that helpless, half-scolding way that meant he knew he should intervene but absolutely wouldn’t. Everyone scattered—voices rising, someone knocking into a chair, someone else yelling about salt they didn’t have.
Bakugou stayed where he was, warm and sinking, watching the chaos move around him like a tide he wasn’t part of.
Then Mina drifted back to him—soft footsteps on wood, bracelets chiming as she crouched beside his chair. She leaned in close enough that her perfume brushed against his cheek, something sweet that wrapped around him for a moment, and slipped a small glass into his hand like she was giving him insider information. “Here,” she murmured, her grin sharp and bright. “Don’t say I never take care of you.”
He looked down at the shot glass resting in his palm, the amber liquid catching the lights from the deck and breaking into warm ripples. It looked harmless, too tiny to matter. Too smooth to be dangerous. Something inside him insisted this was fine, that he could handle it, that nothing about this little thing should give him pause.
He didn’t pause; he waited until the group exploded into another cluster of noise and movement, until everyone’s attention was somewhere else, then lifted the glass to his mouth and tipped it back in one clean swallow. The burn hit instantly, a knife made of fire. It sliced down his throat so violently his jaw locked, his eyes stung, and his breath faltered in the middle of his chest. He swallowed anyway, refusing to let a drink beat him, even when the heat punched through him sharp enough to make his vision pulse.
“Fuck,” he rasped, low, like he didn’t want the night to hear him. The warmth came on fast after that. Too fast. It bloomed across his chest and climbed the back of his neck, spreading upward until it buzzed behind his eyes. The deck lights blurred into soft halos. The air shimmered with the heat coming off the pool. His pulse thudded deeper, slower, a beat that didn’t feel entirely synced with the rest of him.
Bakugou sank back into the chair, letting the warmth swallow the edges of the world. His thumb dragged absently across his lower lip, where the last of the burn still clung. Everything around him looked a little too alive, too bright, too soft at the corners. The shot settled heavily in his stomach, curling into the alcohol already there. The warmth settled so deep in him it felt like it had fused with his pulse, humming through every inch of him. He sat there for a moment, loose and heavy, waiting for the world to steady itself. It didn’t. If anything, the deck lights seemed to glow brighter, the air warmer, his friends louder. Everything pulsed with life. Everything felt slightly tilted.
He decided he needed to stand. It wasn’t a choice so much as an impulse—one second he was sinking into the chair, and the next he was pushing himself up like gravity didn’t apply to him anymore. His legs disagreed instantly. His weight pitched forward, knees dipping, the deck wobbling under him like a floating dock. “Oh shit—whoa there—” Jirou reached out at the same time Kaminari did.
Kaminari grabbed his arm with both hands, laughing so hard he couldn’t stand upright either. “Bro—BRO—you good?”
Bakugou braced one hand on the back of the chair, the movement clumsy but confident in that drunk, careless way. He blinked, trying to recenter the world, and when it didn’t cooperate, he laughed instead—short and rough and surprised at himself. “Oh fuck,” he muttered, grinning even as his feet recalibrated under him.
Kirishima was already halfway to him, his face bright with worry and amusement in equal measure. “Easy, Katsuki,” he said softly, hands hovering like he was ready to catch him if gravity decided to finish what it started.
Bakugou waved him off with a lazy flick of his fingers, turning his head toward the pool. The water caught the lights in wide, shifting bands of gold, rippling softly against the edges like it was calling him specifically. Something in his chest tugged toward it, or maybe his brain just slid toward the simplest, stupidest desire it could latch onto. “I wanna swim,” he said.
It came out low and honest, like a confession meant only for the water. Kaminari leaned closer, eyes wide with entertained disbelief. “Right now?”
Bakugou nodded like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, already angling his body toward the steps. “Yeah, I wanna swim.”
Jirou snorted. “He can barely stand—”
Bakugou threw her a look over his shoulder that was meant to be intimidating but landed somewhere between mischievous and adorable. “I can swim.”
“Can you walk?” she countered. Bakugou ignored the wobble in his legs and kept moving toward the pool, the water catching the deck lights in soft, shifting bands that made the whole thing look like it was breathing. He didn’t notice the way he swayed; he didn’t notice anything except the warm glow rising off the water and the quiet, magnetic pull in his chest that told him he wanted to be in it. Wanted to feel it around him. Wanted someone with him.
He turned, unsteady but certain, and found Kirishima halfway off the couch, watching him with that half-concerned, half-amused look he always wore when Bakugou was in danger of doing something stupid. Bakugou lifted both hands toward him. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a performance. It was simple—an instinct, pure and unfiltered. His palms were open, fingers curled slightly, inviting. The lights hit his face in a way that made every line soften, the alcohol smoothing out every sharp edge until all that remained was warmth and sincerity. “Come with me,” he said, voice quiet and thick, the words pulled straight from somewhere soft inside him.
Kirishima blinked, caught off guard by the softness of it. “Yeah?” he murmured, his voice shifting without him meaning to. Bakugou nodded—slow, earnest—and added the word that undid him completely.
“Please.” Kirishima didn’t even try to fight the way his chest tightened. He didn’t ask why, didn’t argue. He just moved toward him, letting Bakugou’s hands meet his halfway. Their fingers laced together like it was the easiest thing in the world, Bakugou’s grip warm and loose but sure.
Kirishima’s face warmed instantly, the kind of flush that had nothing to do with alcohol. “You’re killing me,” he whispered. Bakugou didn’t reply—he just tugged him gently toward the edge of the pool, shoulder brushing his, bodies close enough that the warmth between them hummed. They stepped down together, the water rising around their shins, the heat curling up their legs. Bakugou’s fingers stayed tangled with Kirishima’s the whole time, not loosening even once.
The second the water reached their waists, Kirishima turned toward him, ready to ask if he was okay—but Bakugou was already leaning in. There was no hesitation, no jittery pause, no glare or barked warning. Just the slow tilt of his head, the warm brush of breath against Kirishima’s lips, and the soft, slurred whisper of his name.
“Eijirou…”
Then he kissed him—lazy, warm, slow, the kind of kiss that felt like sinking into warm water. Kirishima kissed him back instantly, one hand coming up to slide around Bakugou’s waist under the water, pulling him closer until their chests touched and the ripples moved around them in soft waves. Bakugou made a small sound against his mouth, something content and drunken and honest, curling his fingers behind Kirishima’s neck to steady himself.
The kiss deepened almost without thought, slow and warm and unhurried, their mouths moving together with that lazy, sun-dazed rhythm that only came when the night had stretched soft around them. Bakugou’s hand slid up along the back of Kirishima’s neck, fingers threading into the damp red spikes, the water rocking gently at their waists as they drifted closer. Then their teeth clacked, loud and hard. An unmistakable, stupid little tink that snapped them both out of it. Kirishima pulled back with a wince, eyes widening.
Bakugou blinked, stunned. Then they both cracked.
It started small—a puff of breath against Kirishima’s mouth, a huff of laughter caught in Bakugou’s chest. Then it broke open into real laughter, warm and breathless, their foreheads falling together as the giggles took over. Bakugou’s shoulders shook, and Kirishima made this helpless sound that was half-laugh, half-gasp, clinging to him like he needed him to stay afloat. “Fuck,” Bakugou snorted, voice rough and airy.
Kirishima laughed harder, looping his arms around Bakugou’s shoulders and clinging like a koala, his legs sliding easily around Bakugou’s waist under the water. Weightless, buoyed, warm all over—every piece of him pressed against Bakugou in that loose, trusting way that only ever happened in water or sleep. “You’re so drunk,” Kirishima managed between giggles, his face buried against Bakugou’s cheek.
Bakugou scoffed, but he didn’t push him away. His hands settled at the backs of Kirishima’s thighs to keep them anchored as they sank just a little deeper into the shallow end, his stance widening instinctively so he wouldn’t topple them both over. “You’re clingy,” he muttered, even as he held him tighter.
“I’m always clingy,” Kirishima said, laughing into his neck, breath warm and shaky. “You’re just too drunk to fight me on it, right now.”
Bakugou’s mouth twitched, betraying him. He tried to hide the smile, but it pushed through anyway, crooked and soft as he nuzzled briefly into Kirishima’s jaw before pulling him in for another kiss. This one wasn’t pretty either—more laughter than coordination, their mouths brushing wrong at first, teeth nearly hitting again, both of them laughing into it until they figured out a rhythm.
The water sloshed gently around them as they rocked together, kissing, laughing, kissing again like neither could stop long enough to breathe properly. It wasn’t heated, it wasn’t rushed. It was just… warm. The kind of affection Bakugou only ever let out when he was floating in alcohol and the safety of Kirishima’s arms. Kirishima clung tighter, legs snug around Bakugou’s waist, arms hooked around his shoulders, holding on like Bakugou was the last buoy in the ocean. Bakugou stayed rooted where the water barely reached his ribs, his feet planted so they wouldn’t drift into deeper water, his hands steady on Kirishima’s thighs to keep them balanced.
Their giggles softened into quiet hums, the kind that fizzled out into small, breathy sounds against each other’s lips. Bakugou rested his forehead against Kirishima’s, still smiling like he couldn’t help it, while Kirishima brushed his nose along Bakugou’s cheek as if trying to memorize the moment through touch alone. “Stop laughing,” Bakugou whispered, failing instantly because he was laughing too.
“You stop,” Kirishima whispered back, completely gone for him.
The pool lights rippled across the surface, dancing over their faces, catching the curve of Bakugou’s smile and the shine in Kirishima’s eyes. It felt like the world had pulled back, giving them this tiny, glowing pocket of night where nothing existed except warmth, water, and each other. They floated there together—kissing between breathless giggles, clinging like idiots, completely oblivious to how stupidly in love they looked.
Their giggles softened into breath against skin, the water rocking gently around them as Bakugou’s mouth wandered lazily along Kirishima’s jaw. He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t sloppy. He was deliberate in a drunken, unfiltered way — kissing wherever he felt heat, nudging into the crook of Kirishima’s neck, letting his lips linger just a second too long. Kirishima sucked in a breath he didn’t mean to make, fingers tightening on Bakugou’s shoulders. “Hey—wait—Katsuki—hold on—” he tried, but the sentence ended in a sound that wasn’t a word at all. The kind that made Bakugou smile against his throat.
“Stop,” Kirishima breathed again, more for himself than for Bakugou. He stilled with this warm, open patience, his hands settling at Kirishima’s hips, his mouth hovering but not touching anymore. For a moment, there was only the sound of water moving and their shared, uneven breathing.
Kirishima swallowed hard and pressed his forehead to Bakugou’s temple, all the while Bakugou trying to get control of whatever the hell just short-circuited inside him. “You can’t do that in a pool,” Kirishima whispered, voice rougher than he intended. “You’re gonna— fuck, you’re gonna make me—”
Bakugou tilted his head just enough that their noses brushed. The smile that pulled across his lips was slow, wicked, knowing exactly what he’d done to him. His voice came out low, warm, and entirely too dangerous for someone who could barely stand upright fifteen minutes ago.
“Take me home.”
Kirishima went still, like the words hit him somewhere he didn’t have armor for. Bakugou didn’t look away. He wanted to see it land, wanted to watch the shift happen behind Kirishima’s eyes—the way they darkened, widened, softened all at once. His pupils blew wide, his breath caught halfway up his throat, and his mouth parted like the night air had punched it open. “You… want me to take you home, Katsuki?” he asked, voice low and embarrassingly ready.
Bakugou didn’t need to say anything. He just nodded—slow and deliberate, like a promise he fully intended to collect on.
The effect was instant. Kirishima leaned in without realizing he’d moved, heat rolling off him in waves, his hands finding Bakugou’s waist under the water like he needed the contact to stay upright. Bakugou could feel him thinking—could feel the desire pushing up against restraint, could feel the way Kirishima wanted to obey the request more than he wanted to breathe. Kirishima dragged in a breath, slow and shaky, trying to catch the edge of responsibility before it slipped away completely. “We can’t just leave your party,” he murmured, almost laughing at himself. “We can’t just disappear.”
Bakugou shrugged, letting the smirk pull lazily across his mouth. “There are a lot of rooms.”
Kirishima’s jaw dropped so fast that Bakugou would’ve laughed if he weren’t so focused on how good his reaction felt. “We cannot have sex in Momo’s pool house, baby—what is WRONG with you?”
“Why not?” Bakugou muttered, already nosing along Kirishima’s throat again, unbothered, single-minded, drunk enough to forget inhibition but not drunk enough to stop being precise.
Kirishima’s head tipped back instantly. Kirishima made a noise—sharp, strangled, halfway between a gasp and a curse. He clamped a hand onto Bakugou’s shoulder like he needed something to hold onto, then a laugh burst out of him, bright and helpless. “Because—because as much as I want to—baby, we just—we can’t. That’s not right.”
“I don’t give a fuck…” Bakugou slurred, kissing just beneath his jaw, slow and deliberate, dragging his mouth down a line he absolutely should not have known would make Kirishima’s knees buckle. His hands slid up Kirishima’s sides under the water, steady and sure.
Kirishima’s breath broke into a laugh that sounded dangerously like a moan. He clung tighter, fingers digging into Bakugou’s shoulders as his head fell back, exposing his neck like he was offering it. “You’re crazy,” he breathed, voice shaking with how hard he was trying not to react. His whole damn spine arched. “Okay—okay—hey—” he sputtered, trying to sound firm while water rocked around them. “You can’t—fuck—Katsuki, you’re insane—”
“Mmhm,” Bakugou agreed without shame, smirking against his skin. “Yes.”
Bakugou didn’t push further. He wasn’t trying to cross lines or force something reckless; he was just drunk enough to let himself be hungry, honest, unfiltered. When Kirishima’s hand found the back of his neck, fingers sliding through damp hair, Bakugou leaned into it automatically, his smile brushing against Kirishima’s throat in a way that made him shudder. “Don’t agree with me right now,” Kirishima groaned, gripping Bakugou tighter, half-laughing, half-dying. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
His hands slid up Kirishima’s sides; Kirishima’s fingers dug into his shoulders like he’d drown without him. Their mouths met again—sloppy, warm, laughing between kisses that dragged heat down Bakugou’s spine. He felt weightless and wanted and stupidly happy all at once. He kissed Kirishima again, deeper, and Kirishima made a soft, helpless sound that shot straight through him. Bakugou’s head buzzed, his chest felt too full, his legs were barely holding them up, but he didn’t want to stop. He would have kissed Kirishima until they sank under the water.
Bakugou caught his breath and reached for him again, but before their mouths could meet, Mina’s voice shot across the deck, bright and oblivious to whatever they’d been doing under the water. “SHOTS! WHO WANTS MORE SHOTS?!”
Bakugou groaned, dropping his head onto Kirishima’s shoulder. Kirishima huffed a breathless laugh, his hand sliding down Bakugou’s back in a slow, grounding sweep. “Oh man…” he whispered, still flushed, still trying to get his heart to calm.
Kirishima glanced at him first — that tiny, silent question flicking across his face, half-laughing, half-are we doing this? — and Bakugou should’ve said no. He felt it, sharp and clear in the back of his mind, a single warning bell telling him one more shot would shove him straight off the cliff he’d been toeing all night. He could already feel the looseness in his limbs, that warm, floating edge that made every thought half a second behind. He should’ve listened. He didn’t. He just shrugged, careless and defiant, like there was anything in the world that could’ve made him back down with Kirishima looking at him like that.
Kirishima offered his hand, water dripping down his arm in slow, gleaming trails. Bakugou took it without thinking, the slide of their palms embarrassingly easy, embarrassingly natural. The steps out of the pool wobbled under him — or maybe he wobbled — but he started laughing before he could catch himself, a soft, loose sound that slipped out easier than it ever should’ve. Kirishima caught it immediately, and the smile he gave back wasn’t taunting or loud like everyone else’s; it was warm, stupidly fond, almost too open. It hit Bakugou harder than the alcohol, pulling his eyes back every time he tried to look away. Being near him felt like getting caught in a current he didn’t mind drowning in.
They walked across the deck dripping like they’d been dragged out of the ocean, water hitting the wood in loud, uneven splatters. Nobody cared, Sero was already yelling something over the music, Mina was bouncing in place with the bottle in hand, and Kaminari looked halfway to transcendence. Bakugou didn’t even stop; he just reached out, grabbed the shot someone shoved at him, and held it up with the others as the group erupted into a messy cheer. The smell hit him first — sharp, sugary, wrong. He tossed it back anyway.
It clawed down his throat like battery acid wrapped in fruit syrup, and Bakugou’s face twisted before he could stop it. He turned away, shaking his head hard, swallowing back the instinct to gag like it was a matter of pride. It burned, it burned so badly he almost laughed again because of how vile it was. Then the world tilted — not violently, just enough that sinking into the nearest couch felt like the only rational action left.
The cushions grabbed at his wet skin immediately, sticking to him in cold, annoying patches, but Bakugou barely registered it. He exhaled, heat settling behind his eyes, limbs melting into the seat like gravity had doubled just for him. Through the haze, he saw Kirishima following after him, still smiling, still watching him with that same soft, unbearably tender look that made Bakugou feel like everything from the pool to the shot to the stupid couch had been leading directly to this exact second. Even drunk, even messy, he couldn’t look away.
The couch caught him like a trap — soft, low, swallowing him whole. The moment he sank into it, the shot hit with full force, ripping through his bloodstream in a warm, obliterating wave that turned the entire room into a slow, buzzing smear. Bakugou exhaled hard, the sound dragging out of him before he could stop it, head lolling back against the cushions as the ceiling tilted sideways.
“Oh fuck—” It fell out of his mouth, not even whispered. Just… said. Loud enough that Sero cracked up somewhere to his left, loud enough that Mina yelled something from the kitchen, but Bakugou didn’t register any of it. He couldn’t move. Not because something physically stopped him, but because the idea of moving — of standing, of walking, of doing absolutely anything besides existing in this couch-shaped hole — felt impossible. His limbs were warm, loose, heavy in a way that made the world pulse around the edges. Voices blurred, music thumped, someone cannonballed into the pool again. None of it mattered.
“Katsuki?” Kirishima’s voice cut through the haze like a hand sliding into his chest and squeezing. When Bakugou dragged his eyes open, Kirishima was suddenly right in front of him, crouched down enough that his face filled Bakugou’s entire field of vision. He must’ve moved fast; Bakugou hadn’t seen him cross the deck at all. Just—there. Bright and flushed and stupidly beautiful.
“You okay, baby?” Kirishima asked, laughing like this was the funniest thing he’d seen all night.
Bakugou shifted, barely enough to tilt his body toward Kirishima, enough to see him better, to feel him closer, because suddenly that was all he wanted. He didn’t know what he was reaching for or why, but by the time his brain caught up, Kirishima was already standing in front of him, arms loose at his sides, eyes soft with quiet amusement. Bakugou blinked up at him, the couch pulling him deeper, his whole body humming, buzzing, floating.
He smirked. or tried to. It came out slow and crooked, lazy in a way he couldn’t hide. “Never better,” he murmured, voice low, thick with alcohol and something warmer.
His eyes dragged over Kirishima’s face like he had all the time in the world. The slope of his cheekbones, the wet strands of hair sticking to his temples, the flush at the tips of his ears — Bakugou’s gaze kept slipping, catching on his mouth longer than he meant to. Kirishima said something — another laugh, maybe a comment — but Bakugou barely heard it. He was too busy staring at the soft part of his lips before forcing his eyes back up, only to find Kirishima already looking at him like he’d caught him in the act.
The buzz deepened, the room faded. Bakugou couldn’t look away if he tried.
Mina and Sero appeared at Kirishima’s shoulder like amused ghosts who’d caught on to the show a second too late. Sero leaned in first, eyebrows climbing his forehead, voice stretched out like he was talking to an injured animal. “You okay?”
Bakugou groaned dramatically, his whole upper body sliding like someone had tilted the room. His hands clawed at the couch cushion because he genuinely couldn’t tell what direction gravity was pulling anymore. “I’m fucking fine, why do you keep asking me that—” His words tangled, slurring into each other, ending in a breath that wasn’t quite a sentence. Mina shrieked like she’d been shot. “Oh my GOD, BAKUGOU—he’s sliding off the couch, Sero, look at him—”
“I see him!” Sero hollered, doubled over in laughter, clutching Kirishima’s shoulder for balance. “Sit UP, dude, what are you—”
Bakugou barely managed to push himself upright before the room rolled under him like a slow wave, his body following it without permission. His legs folded, useless, and he pitched forward with all the grace of a dead appliance tumbling off a shelf. The glass table met him head-on. The impact was so loud that the entire thing skidded across the space into the couch with a violent rattle that sounded catastrophic enough to stun the party momentarily. For a second, Bakugou just lay there with his cheek flattened to the glass, the cold surface blooming a foggy print beneath his breath. The buzz in his head throbbed like a bassline, his thoughts sliding apart, rearranging themselves in lazy, drunken spirals he had no hope of catching.
Mina was the first to react, if you could call shrieking uncontrollably “reacting.” She sounded like someone had dropped her off a balcony. Sero wasn’t far behind; he staggered backward, clutching his stomach, wheezing so hard he had to walk away before he choked on it. Their laughter echoed across the deck, loud and bright, but Bakugou couldn’t be bothered to lift his head, not when the table was so wonderfully cold and he was so violently aware of how absolutely hammered he was. A small puff of laughter slipped out of him—barely anything, just a breath—but it cracked something open inside him. Another followed, and another, each one stronger, his shoulders shaking until tears pricked the corners of his eyes. His face stayed pressed to the glass as the laughter built, climbing out of him in soft, uncontrollable waves he couldn’t bite back.
Kirishima appeared at his side before Bakugou even realized he’d moved. He crouched down, hands already braced under Bakugou’s arms, trying desperately to keep a straight face. It wasn’t working—not with the way Bakugou was vibrating against the table like someone had plugged him into a faulty outlet. Kirishima’s mouth betrayed him first, the smallest laugh slipping out before he clamped his lips shut again, dimples threatening mutiny as he hauled Bakugou upright and settled him back onto the couch. Bakugou folded into the cushions immediately, still shaking, silent laughter pouring out of him until his eyes blurred.
Kirishima smoothed a hand over his shoulder, steadying him as the last tremors worked through his chest. “You—” he started, but his voice wavered, cracking on the word, and he had to swallow once before trying again. “You want some water, Katsuki?”
The laugh he’d been holding broke through on the last syllable, soft and helpless, and Bakugou didn’t even try to hold his own back. He just let the warmth roll through him, head tipping against the couch as if it were the only thing tethering him to the planet.
Bakugou nodded—slow, deliberate, the kind of nod that made Kirishima smile without meaning to. Mina was already fussing, muttering about food and electrolytes like she was his personal medic, her voice fading as she disappeared through the sliding door with Kirishima behind her. The moment they were gone, the quiet settled around him in a strange, lopsided way. The warmth behind his eyes didn’t fade; if anything, it concentrated, a thick, pleasant buzz sinking into his bones. The couch wasn’t holding him anymore—it was swallowing him whole, and the longer he sat there, the more he felt like he’d fuse with it permanently.
He pushed himself upright with a low grunt, not because it was hard, but because everything felt padded, softened, like someone had wrapped his whole body in warm cotton. Standing actually wasn’t the problem. Standing felt great. The ground was solid, steady, familiar, but the deck… the deck had apparently rearranged itself in the last thirty seconds. He took a step, and his shin knocked directly into a patio chair he swore hadn’t been there. The impact was loud, sharp enough to make him flinch, and he glared down at it like it had personally wronged him.
“Move,” he muttered under his breath, kicking the leg of it, then scoffing when it obviously didn’t. “Stupid ass chair.”
The deck lights pulled him forward in soft streaks, warm on his shoulders, and he moved in a straight enough line that no one stopped him. He wasn’t stumbling. He wasn’t wobbling. He was just… loose, drifting, his limbs a beat behind his intentions. He reached the sliding door and, thinking it was open, walked directly into the glass with a quiet thud. He blinked… the door did not blink back.
Why do I sway?
It wasn’t a joke, not rhetorical. Just an honest, dizzy question echoing inside his skull, full of simple, startled confusion. He could feel it, even now—the way his body had stopped obeying. His bones had felt detached, his balance unstitched. Every breath came in with a buzz, the air sharp and sweet, like he’d inhaled light. The edges of everything had shimmered faintly, vibrating with that dangerous kind of pleasure that made you forget it could turn on you.
His body had hummed with it. His legs wouldn’t stay still. The energy under his skin begged for motion, so he’d given in.
Then he slid it open and stepped inside like absolutely nothing had happened.
The light changed again—still gold, but muted, glossy on the floor and the framed photos that lined the hallway. The silence pressed in thick after the noise outside, almost humming in his ears. He didn’t make it far. Just a few steps, one hand brushing the wall for balance. The ground tilted. The hallway rippled. He laughed under his breath, soft and broken, because even the floor looked like it was breathing. Then, from somewhere behind him, Mina’s voice had cracked through the quiet—muffled, distant: “Where did he go?”
Sero’s laugh followed, faint and knowing. “Oh, no. No, no, no—don’t let him wander.”
He snorted under his breath at nothing in particular, a warm, heavy sound that vibrated in his chest as he reached absently for his pocket. His fingers closed around his phone, and he pulled it out without really knowing why — instinct, maybe, or that faint buzz of voices on the deck earlier asking where the hell he’d disappeared to. The screen lit up his face in a blinding wash of white that made him squint so hard his whole expression crumpled.
God, that was bright. Why was it so bright?
He blinked through it, eyes adjusting just enough to see the group chat blowing up with messages, notifications layering so fast it looked like the phone was vibrating in panic. He didn’t think about what he was doing — he just tapped into the chat and typed the first thing that came to mind, his thumb drifting across the keyboard with loose confidence.
Me: I’m in the house.
The reply hit instantly, Tape’s typing bubble appearing with the speed of a man watching a live crime.
Tape: What do you mean you’re in the house?
Pinky: GET OUT ??? 😭
Bakugou snorted again, louder this time, the laugh tugging at his mouth in a lazy, drunk curl as he stared at the screen — completely unbothered, deeply amused, and absolutely not planning to leave the house anytime soon.
Bakugou heard them before he saw them — the shuffle of feet on the deck, the sliding door opening, cold air rushing in like a gust that cut straight through the warm haze wrapped around him. He turned just as Kirishima stepped inside, skin flushed from the pool and the cold, eyes bright with the kind of barely-contained panic that only Bakugou could draw out of him. The air-conditioning hit Kirishima’s wet skin, and he shivered once, a quiet tremor running down his arms before he found him.
“Baby,” Kirishima laughed softly, breath fogging in the colder air as he crossed the room, “Please come outside, you can’t be in here. Mina's going to lose her shit”
Bakugou didn’t even get the chance to argue. Kirishima’s hands were already on him — sliding to his waist like magnets, warm and certain, anchoring him without force. God, he was warm. His swim shorts were cold and dripping, but his skin… Bakugou hummed at the contrast, leaning into him without hesitation, sliding closer until their bodies aligned like the most natural thing in the world. He let his arms drift upward — lazy, slow — looping around Kirishima’s neck and pulling him in until their noses were almost touching. Kirishima exhaled sharply, a breath that hit Bakugou’s mouth, and his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red that had nothing to do with the cold.
“I thought you were going to take me home, Ei,” Bakugou whispered, voice warm and dragging at the edges, his lips brushing Kirishima’s far too closely to be accidental. The look that flickered across Kirishima’s face was instant — surprise first, quick and startled — and then something deeper folded over it, something that sharpened and softened at the same time. Something hungry.
“Katsuki,” Kirishima breathed, a warning wrapped in affection, “Don’t start this again— fuck, you drive me crazy.” Bakugou only pulled closer, slotting himself into him like gravity had made the decision for him. His chest pressed against Kirishima’s, their mouths brushing with every breath, the world narrowing to the warmth between them, the sound of Kirishima’s pulse ticking fast beneath his skin. “And we’re insanely drunk—” Kirishima began, steady but strained. That pulled Bakugou up short. His face scrunched, offended in the laziest, drunkest way possible, and he shoved at Kirishima’s chest — not hard, just enough to make a point.
“No, I’m not,” he muttered, brows knitted in sloppy indignation.
Kirishima didn’t even try not to laugh. He nodded instantly, hands tightening at Bakugou’s waist with a resigned, fond exhale. “You’re right, baby. You’re sober.”
It was easier to agree than argue — and Kirishima would always take the path that kept Bakugou in his arms. Bakugou didn’t back down. If anything, Kirishima’s easy agreement — you’re sober, baby — made something hot and reckless slide right through him, straight down his spine. He leaned in closer, until their noses brushed, until Kirishima had to breathe him in just to keep them upright. The warmth in Bakugou’s voice thickened, deepened, dragging slowly like syrup.
“‘Cause if I’m sober…” he murmured, lips barely a breath from Kirishima’s, “Then you can take me home and fuck me like you wanted to earlier.”
Kirishima made a sound — not a gasp, not a laugh — something caught and strangled right in the middle, like his soul had tripped on its own feet. His hands tightened at Bakugou’s waist instantly, fingers digging in before he forced himself to loosen them, to breathe, to calm the hell down before he did something catastrophic. “Katsuki,” he whispered, horny, weak, already undone. “You can’t just— baby, you can’t say shit like that right now—”
“Why not?” Bakugou asked, voice dipping low, unbothered, drunk and dangerous in that soft, slow way he only ever got around Kirishima. He slid his hands up Kirishima’s chest, palms dragging slowly over warm skin, thumbs brushing the dip of his collarbones. “We could go now. You could take me now, I’d let you.”
Kirishima physically shuddered, eyes squeezing shut like he was trying to keep himself from collapsing right there on the marble floor. “Jesus—Katsuki—” he said, every word trembling with restraint, the laugh in his throat half-broken, half-panicked. “We cannot leave your own party to go home and have sex. We cannot. There are—there are people—”
Bakugou huffed a soft, sloppy laugh, leaning his whole weight into him, tilting his head to nip gently at the line of Kirishima’s jaw before dragging his mouth back up to his ear. “So stay here then,” he whispered, hot and low. “Do it here.”
Kirishima made a noise so strangled it nearly knocked him off-balance.
“Katsuki,” he hissed, gripping Bakugou’s hips so hard Bakugou felt it all the way through the haze. “Baby—no — you’re so fucking wasted, we’re not— we cannot—”
Bakugou pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. His pupils blown wide, his cheeks hot, his mouth still swollen from the pool kisses and the couch kisses and everything in between. He smiled — slow, lazy, wicked.
Kirishima’s breath stuttered.
He stared at him, dazed, completely undone, somewhere between panic and unholy desire — and for a second, just one, he actually looked like he was considering it, like he could physically feel himself tipping forward, losing the fight between want and morality, teetering dangerously close to kissing him right there in the hallway, dragging him out the door, damn the consequences. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he whispered, dropping his forehead to Bakugou’s shoulder, gripping his waist like he needed it to stay upright. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re saying this shit to me right now. You’re gonna kill me.”
Kirishima kept guiding him toward the sliding glass door, but Bakugou barely registered the movement; all he felt was the heat of Kirishima’s hands and the slow, steady drag of skin under his palms. Every step pulled Bakugou closer into the space beneath Kirishima’s chin, the warm part of his throat where his pulse jumped every time Bakugou so much as breathed. Bakugou pressed his forehead there again, not because he needed support — but because Kirishima made the entire world feel soft enough to sink into. And drunk as he was, he couldn’t stand the idea of distance. Not even a breath of it. His fingers curled into the back of Kirishima’s waistband, tugging him closer, pulling little sharp inhales out of him that Bakugou could feel directly against his cheek.
“You smell good,” Bakugou whispered, voice slow and sticky, the words slipping out without hesitation. “You always fuckin’ smell good, drives me insane.”
Kirishima’s laugh broke warm and nervous right above his head, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Katsuki… you’re— you’re really laying it on thick tonight, hmm?”
Bakugou didn’t bother answering the joke. He just dragged his mouth up along Kirishima’s throat, slow enough to feel the hitch in his breathing, slow enough to hear the “holy shit” escape under his breath before he could bite it back. That sound curled hot and low in Bakugou’s stomach. He wanted more of it, wanted to pull every version of that sound out of him.
“I want you,” Bakugou whispered, nearly slurred but direct as a blade. “Want you so bad I can’t think.”
He felt Kirishima’s entire body tense — not in rejection, but in something hotter, something barely-held-together. Kirishima’s hand on his waist tightened instinctively before he forced a laugh through it, shaky and absolutely giving him away. “Baby— you can’t… say that to me right now.”
Bakugou smiled against his skin, lazy and triumphant. “Why not?”
“Because,” Kirishima said, voice pitching higher as he tried to stay light, “You’re drunk, and I’m trying to get you outside, and if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna do something stupid.”
Bakugou lifted his head just enough to look at him, drunk eyes half-lidded, heavy with heat. “Do it.”
Kirishima nearly tripped. He caught himself on the wall with one hand, his face breaking into that stunned, half-laughing, half-ruined expression Bakugou adored. He looked at Bakugou like he couldn’t believe he was real, like hearing those words had hit him somewhere he wasn’t prepared to defend.
“Katsuki…” he breathed, the warning barely there, melting at the edges. “Baby, please.”
Bakugou leaned closer, their noses brushing. “If you took me home,” he murmured, voice sliding low and warm, “I’d let you have me however you wanted. Slow, hard, against the wall, in your bed…anywhere.”
Kirishima exhaled shakily, his grip at Bakugou’s waist tightening with a soft, involuntary groan he tried too late to swallow. His eyes fluttered shut for a second — one second too long — his lips parting like the heat had punched sound out of him. “Oh my god,” he whispered, laughing breathlessly, “You’re killing me. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
Bakugou dragged a hand up the back of Kirishima’s neck, feeling the tremor run through him. He leaned in close enough to feel Kirishima’s breath catch against his cheek. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Kirishima’s eyes snapped open at that, something dark and hungry flickering through them before he forced himself into motion again, guiding them another step closer to the door like he had to physically move or he’d break. He was smiling — flushed, breathless, overwhelmed — a smile that told Bakugou he was dangerously close to cracking.
The glow from outside got brighter as they reached the sliding glass door, streaks of silver-blue light breaking across Kirishima’s skin. It made him look unreal — sunlit and soaked, flushed and smiling, like someone carved him out of something warm and impossible. Bakugou couldn’t stop staring at him, couldn’t stop leaning into him. Kirishima kept nodding along, letting him, laughing under his breath every time Bakugou dragged a hand up his spine or whispered something too hot to ignore. “You’re impossible tonight,” Kirishima murmured, guiding him the final few steps. “Just… let me get you out onto the deck—”
Bakugou didn’t even hear the rest, or maybe he did, and his brain filtered it out, because when Kirishima reached past him to unlock the door, Bakugou followed the movement, watched the flex of his arm, the way the muscles in his back tightened under his skin, and he grabbed him, not roughly, not desperately. Just with this slow, decisive pull like gravity itself had chosen for him.
Kirishima turned right into him, breath catching against Bakugou’s cheek, their mouths suddenly too close for anything right to happen. The cold glass was at Bakugou’s back now, the chill seeping through his wet skin, but Kirishima’s warmth pressed against the front of his body, the shift of hips that sent sparks of pleasure up his stomach, made everything else vanish. “Baby—” Kirishima whispered, but his voice cracked in the middle, the laugh strangled into something breathless. “We’re supposed to— we’re literally supposed to go out there—”
Bakugou didn’t care; he kissed him. Harder than he meant to at first — drunken, hungry heat pushing him forward — but Kirishima’s hands flew to his waist instantly, gripping him like the ground had shifted. Kirishima kissed him back with a shocked little sound, a disbelieving laugh sliding between their mouths before it melted into something that wasn’t laughter at all.
Bakugou felt the glass vibrate under him, cold and slick, as Kirishima pressed them closer, like he’d forgotten how doors worked entirely. The outside light blurred behind them, but all Bakugou could see was Kirishima’s flushed face, his lips red and wet, the dazed look in his eyes that Bakugou wanted to drown in. “Katsuki—” Kirishima gasped when their mouths broke for air, forehead falling against Bakugou’s temple. He was smiling, ruined, barely holding himself together. “We’re— this is the door. Baby, this is— we can’t—”
Bakugou pulled him back in by the front of his swim trunks, voice low and warm against his mouth. “I don’t care.” Kirishima laughed again — breathless, shocked, helpless — and kissed him so hard Bakugou felt the door rattle behind him. They were absolutely not making it outside anytime soon.
Bakugou pulled him in by the front of his swim trunks, knuckles brushing hot skin, the tug sharp enough that Kirishima stumbled into him. Their mouths crashed together with a force that rattled the door behind them, the glass humming under Bakugou’s spine. Kirishima kissed him like he was trying to swallow the sound he made—deep, hungry, messy, their teeth almost clicking before Kirishima groaned and slid a hand up the side of Bakugou’s neck. That sound—low, guttural, dragged out from somewhere deep—made Bakugou’s knees go loose. He grabbed at Kirishima’s hips, nails digging into wet skin, pulling him closer until there wasn’t an inch between them except heat and breath and the soft, wet shock of Kirishima’s lips parting under his.
Kirishima kissed like he’d been holding back for hours—like Bakugou had been winding him up all damn night without knowing it. His tongue slid against Bakugou’s, slow at first, then desperate, chasing every sound Bakugou let slip. Bakugou broke the kiss only long enough to catch a breath, he immediately lost again when Kirishima’s mouth caught his jaw, open-mouthed and hot, teeth grazing skin in a way that made his whole body jolt. Bakugou’s back arched off the door as he gasped, fingers curling into Kirishima’s waistband like he was trying to anchor the world itself.
“Fuck,” Kirishima groaned into his neck, breath stuttering, “You’re killing me—”
Bakugou let out a drunk little laugh, the sound spilling warm against Kirishima’s cheek as he dragged him back up into another kiss, deeper, filthier, their mouths sliding together like they were trying to devour the taste of each other. He tugged Kirishima’s bottom lip between his teeth, sucking lightly, and the noise Kirishima made—half gasp, half moan—went straight to Bakugou’s head like gasoline.
He kissed him again, slower this time, lingering, deliberate. It was a different kind of heat—something rawer, lazier, hungry in a way that made both of them sway forward. Kirishima’s hand slid under Bakugou’s shorts, where they had ridden down during the chaos, fingertips tracing the cut of his hips like he didn’t even know he was doing it. Bakugou shivered, chest pulling tight, the world blurring behind Kirishima’s wet hair and flushed cheeks and heavy, blown-out stare. Bakugou leaned back against the door with a smug, breathless smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, lips red and wet and swollen. “Okay,” he murmured, voice low and slow like he was savoring the words, “We can go outside now.”
Kirishima just stared at him, lips parted, chest heaving, like Bakugou had said the most offensive, impossible thing he’d ever heard in his life. He pressed a hand to the wall beside Bakugou’s head, trying to steady himself, and shook his head with a disbelieving laugh that cracked in the middle.
“Baby,” he said, voice rough and wrecked, “You can go outside. I fucking can’t.”
Bakugou blinked lazily at him, still smirking. “Why not?”
Kirishima let out a full-body groan, tipping his head back against the wall like he needed divine intervention. “Because these swim shorts don’t hide shit,” he hissed, still laughing, still breathless, “You just damn near made me cum in a fucking hallway.”
Bakugou just hmm’d, going to open the sliding glass door, but he didn’t make it two full steps before Kirishima hauled him back inside, turning him and pushing him just far enough along the wall that the shadows swallowed them. The second Bakugou’s back hit the plaster, Kirishima’s mouth was on him—no warning, no hesitation, just the kind of kiss that came from pure instinct, pure need. Bakugou’s breath punched out of him. His body jerked up into it before he even understood he was moving. The kiss was hot and messy and immediate, and the sound he made—low, surprised, punched out from somewhere deep—only dragged Kirishima closer. Kirishima grabbed his hips, fingers digging in, pulling him flush, and Bakugou felt the heat of it—of all of it—hit him like a shockwave.
His knees actually buckled.
Bakugou’s hands shot up blindly, clutching at Kirishima’s shoulders, his nails scraping lightly down wet skin as his chest arched off the wall in a sharp, helpless reaction. Kirishima groaned into his mouth, a deep, bitten-off sound that vibrated through Bakugou’s ribs. Every movement against each other made them both gasp—short, shattered breaths, the kind that rose too fast to stifle. Kirishima slid a thigh between Bakugou’s legs without thinking, just trying to steady him, but the pressure of it dragged a ragged sound out of Bakugou—half gasp, half moan—and Kirishima’s whole body jolted in response, both of them grinding into each other's thighs. His hands clamped harder at Bakugou’s waist, dragging him in, pressing him up the wall until their bodies aligned in one burning line from chest to hips.
His stomach swooped, his skin buzzed, and heat shot through him so fast he actually trembled. His head tipped back against the wall with a dull thud, mouth opening around another startled sound as Kirishima chased him—kissing him deeper, harder, faster, breath coming out in hot, uneven bursts against Bakugou’s cheek each time they parted for half a second. Kirishima bit him hard, Bakugou let out a broken noise he didn’t mean to make—too loud, too unfiltered—and Kirishima froze just long enough to breathe, rough against Bakugou’s mouth, “Baby, shh—quiet.”
Bakugou tried, he really did, but the second Kirishima kissed him again—sharp, hungry, pulling a fistful of his shirt to drag him down—another sound slipped out, softer but just as desperate, and Kirishima groaned like the noise physically hit him. Bakugou shook his head, breath catching, the tiniest laugh tangled in it. “Can’t, I’m close,” he whispered back, barely getting the word out before Kirishima silenced him with another kiss that swallowed the noise entirely.
Kirishima kissed him like he’d been holding his breath for an hour, pushing Bakugou into the wall so hard the frame behind him creaked. Their mouths crashed together in sharp, stuttering bursts, breath tangled, heat climbing too fast. Bakugou felt the pressure coil tight under his ribs — too sudden, too strong — and his fingers dug hard into Kirishima’s back as his chest jerked in a short, helpless gasp. Kirishima tore his mouth away for half a second, panting against Bakugou’s cheek, voice low and shaking. “Katsuki—shit, I’m so fucking—mmph— I’m going to cum.”
Bakugou let out a breathless, broken laugh, forehead bumping Kirishima’s as he tried to get air. “Fuck—just, don’t stop—”
He crushed their mouths together again, hands gripping Bakugou’s hips hard enough to keep him upright as they lost the last of their control in a rush of heat that hit before either of them could breathe through it.
It all snapped through him in one bright, unbearable flash—heat rising too fast, breath ripping out of him, Kirishima pressed against him so tightly he couldn’t tell where he ended and Kirishima began. There was no time to brace, no time to think, barely time to breathe as he came. His whole body locked, his back arching against the wall, fingers digging into Kirishima’s shoulders as something sharp and overwhelming broke straight through his alcohol-softened control. His mind went white around the edges. His vision blurred. His breath hitched on a sound he didn’t recognize as his own. Kirishima groaned into his neck, his body going tight in one hard pull before everything snapped.
For a heartbeat afterward, neither of them moved. Bakugou felt Kirishima’s chest press against his like a second heartbeat, fast and uneven and shaking. He felt the wall cool against the back of his skull. He felt the thin pocket of air between their mouths where Kirishima had broken away just far enough to pant. Above all, he felt the shock—the lightning-crack realization of what they had just done in a hallway at his own party, with people literally yards away.
His brain tried to catch up and instantly failed. Everything inside him was too hot, too dizzy, too loose to hold onto a single thought. Then the laugh hit him. It punched up his throat without warning, soft at first—a single, breathless huff that escaped between his parted lips before he could shut it down. It sounded ridiculous, almost strangled, caught somewhere between disbelief and drunk surprise, and it must’ve been enough, because Kirishima’s entire body jolted like he’d been shocked.
Kirishima tried to hold composure for one microscopic second—Bakugou felt the effort in the tension of his arms, the way his breath paused—but it all collapsed instantly. A helpless snort fell out of him, too real to control, and Bakugou felt it vibrate into his collarbone. That was all it took.
Bakugou burst.
The laugh broke out of him in a full, stupid, warm rush—loud, breathy, absolutely unable to be contained. His knees wobbled. His head tipped forward, forehead knocking into Kirishima’s shoulder as he doubled over on the sound, his whole chest shaking. He felt drunk and airy and weightless, the hilarity of the moment expanding inside him until he couldn’t hold it. Holy shit, holy shit. We actually did that. HERE, LIKE THIS. What the fuck.
He couldn’t breathe; the laughter kept coming in waves, each one harder to swallow than the last. Kirishima folded into him, one arm wrapping around Bakugou’s waist as he half-collapsed, half-leaned, laughing so hard he could barely stay upright. The sound that came out of him was wrecked, breathless, half-wheeze and half-groan, like he was laughing against his will.
Bakugou’s mind spun wildly, not with embarrassment—not yet—but with the absurdity of how good it had felt, how fast it had hit, how absolutely idiotic it was to be doing any of this in a hallway he could barely stand still in. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He could feel the heat still lingering low in his stomach. He could feel Kirishima’s shaking breath against his neck, the warmth of him, the stunned joy radiating off him like a second sun.
“Oh shit,” Bakugou managed to gasp into Kirishima’s skin, not even meaning to speak, not even sure the words made it out properly. It didn’t matter. Kirishima laughed even harder, his face buried in Bakugou’s shoulder as he tried—and failed—to steady both of them.
They slid down the wall a couple of inches, not all the way, just enough for their knees to loosen and their bodies to sag together under the weight of hysterical, drunk disbelief. The laughter eventually softened into something breathy and broken, both of them slumped together in the dim hallway, chests still rising too fast. Bakugou leaned heavily against Kirishima, face pressed into the warm line of his neck, the last traces of laughter vibrating in his chest. He felt floaty, light, like he was made of warm water and soft edges. Kirishima’s arm around his waist was the only thing keeping gravity from tipping him over.
Kirishima let out one more quiet, disbelieving giggle against Bakugou’s cheek—and then, all at once, Bakugou felt the shift in him. A small, sudden stillness. His hands paused where they’d been gripping Bakugou’s sides. His breath hitched once, not in panic, but in the kind of startled realization that steals the end of a laugh.
Kirishima pulled back just enough to see him. His smile was still there, soft and crooked, but the edges were starting to fold into something else—something a little alarmed, a little bewildered, but still entirely amused. “Okay,” Kirishima breathed out on a half-laugh, glancing down at the two of them, then back up again, eyes wide and warm, “Holy shit… what do we do? Because we’re kinda—” He gestured vaguely at their bodies, at the wall, at everything. “—yeah.”
Bakugou blinked at him, slow and drunk and pink-cheeked, which did not help Kirishima at all. The laugh that escaped Bakugou—small, uncontrollably stupid—made Kirishima lean forward and bury his face briefly in Bakugou’s shoulder like he needed to hide from reality for a second.
“Don’t do that,” Kirishima said, voice muffled but laughing anyway. “You can’t laugh like that right now. We need to focus.” Bakugou laughed again because, of course, he did, and Kirishima’s shoulders shook as he laughed too—nervous, breathless, the kind of laugh people get when they know they shouldn’t be laughing at all.
He pulled his head back, cheeks flushed, trying to regain some kind of composure that simply did not exist anymore. “Seriously, though,” he said, still giggling quietly, “We are… not in any condition to walk out there, like, at all.”
Bakugou snorted into his shoulder, which only made Kirishima choke on another laugh.
“Oh my god,” Kirishima murmured, dragging a hand over his face even as he kept smiling through every breath, “I cannot believe we just did that.”
Bakugou didn’t even try to answer. He just collapsed more of his weight onto Kirishima, still laughing softly because he was too drunk and too warm and too blissed-out to process the catastrophe they were sitting in. Kirishima held him, laughing quietly into his hair, shaking his head like he was trying to piece together the last two minutes.
“We’re a mess,” he said finally, breath still a little unsteady, amusement still bubbling through it as he stood them both up, dragging Bakugou down the hall. “Like… an actual mess.”
The bathroom light felt too bright the moment they slipped inside, sharp around the edges, making everything look a little unreal—like Bakugou had stepped into a dream he wasn’t fully inside of. His back hit the counter, and he let himself sink there, palms braced behind him, head spinning in warm, syrupy waves. Every time he blinked, the hallway replayed in small flashes, and each one made his stomach swoop and his chest shake with quiet, drunk laughter he couldn’t hold back.
Kirishima was still laughing, too—low and breathless and shocked—as he ran water over a hand towel, shaking it out once before crouching in front of Bakugou. “God,” he murmured under his breath, smiling to himself, “No way… I can’t believe… holy shit.” His voice kept cracking with leftover giggles, the disbelief still settling into him.
Bakugou exhaled on a laugh that came out more like a sigh, his head tipping back against the cabinet as Kirishima’s warm hands tugged gently at his hips to get a better angle. The room felt suspended—the hum of the vent, the distant thump of music through the walls, the wet chill of the towel, Kirishima’s breath on his stomach as he worked. It was strange and soft and unreal, like everything had gone underwater.
Kirishima’s touch was careful, almost delicate, the towel sweeping across Bakugou’s swim shorts in slow, practiced motions. He was focused, but only barely—he kept stopping to laugh under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was doing, what had just happened.
“No way,” he whispered again, softer this time, smiling as he wrung out the towel. “I can’t believe we—” He cut himself off with another laugh, the sound echoing faintly off tile. He cleaned himself, tugging his own waistband straight and washing off any obvious evidence, still grinning like he was in shock. Then he straightened up and moved back to Bakugou, gently adjusting his suit, smoothing the fabric with both hands along his hips and thighs like he was trying to make him presentable again.
Bakugou felt every touch too vividly—warmth blooming under each place Kirishima’s hands paused, alcohol turning every sensation soft and amplified. He couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop laughing quietly every time Kirishima made a little sound of disbelief. It really did feel like one hazy, floating dream he’d wake up from if he moved too suddenly. Kirishima finally leaned back a little, hands sliding slowly off Bakugou’s hips. He let out a long breath, then blinked at Bakugou’s reflection in the mirror above the counter—wet hair, flushed face, the soft grin he couldn’t shake.
Stepping back outside felt like walking into a different world. The air hit Bakugou first—warm, heavy with chlorine and laughter, the thump of music vibrating through the deck. His legs swayed under him in a soft, lazy rhythm he couldn’t quite fight, but he kept moving anyway, drifting forward with a half-formed grin tugging at his mouth. Every few steps, the laughter caught in his chest again—small, helpless little huffs he couldn’t smother, like his body kept remembering the hallway all on its own.
Kirishima walked beside him, or tried to, head ducked slightly as if the lights were too bright. His cheeks were flushed, his hair still damp from the pool, and he refused—refused—to make eye contact with Bakugou for more than a second. Each time his gaze brushed over Bakugou’s face, his mouth twitched like he was either going to laugh or combust, and he had to immediately look away, jaw clenched, breathing uneven in a way he was trying so hard to hide, it was almost funny.
Bakugou couldn’t hide anything. He was swaying, his balance softened by alcohol and adrenaline, lips still sore where Kirishima’s teeth had caught them. His mouth tingled. His legs felt loose, weak in that warm, post-adrenaline way that made him want to lean on something—or someone—just to stay grounded. He didn’t bother, he didn’t care. The whole world felt soft and blurry around the edges, like he was walking through a dream he’d forget the details of but remember the heat of.
Sero spotted them first, glancing up from the couch with a half-hearted cheer dissolving into confusion. His brow lifted slowly. His mouth parted. He didn’t say a damn word, just stared as Bakugou and Kirishima came toward the deck lights like they'd been teleported in from another timeline.
Then Kaminari saw them. He popped up from where he’d been practically draped over the back of the couch, talking a mile a minute into Sero’s ear about god-knows-what. His voice was already loud and slurred, the kind of ramble only someone deep into the night could achieve. He pointed at Bakugou with a dramatic gasp that made his whole body tilt sideways.
“DUDE, YOUR LIP IS BLEEDING.”
“…Huh?” He ran his tongue over the corner of his mouth, and sure enough—there it was. The faint metallic tang blooming across his tongue, the sting settling in a second later. He didn’t remember biting it. He didn’t remember anything touching his mouth except Kirishima, and that thought alone made his stomach dip pleasantly.
The lie slipped out of him before he even had the chance to think about it, delivered with a loose half-smile as he sank deeper into the cushions. “I walked into a wall.” It sounded believable enough in his own head, mostly because his brain was too warm and fogged to sort through the details. There had been a wall involved, after all—just not in the way he was implying.
Kirishima let out a low little sound, stepping forward like he was backing the story up. He didn’t sit; he just hovered over Bakugou, leaning in as if he needed to check the damage himself. His hand cupped Bakugou’s jaw gently, steadying his face toward the light. The touch was warm and careful, soft enough that Bakugou’s eyes fluttered half-closed without him meaning to. Kirishima smiled under his breath when he got a good look at the cut, amusement flickering at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low as his thumb brushed just beside the injury, “It was bleeding worse, that’s why it took us so long.”
It was so casually said, so natural, that for a soft moment, Bakugou almost convinced himself it was true. Kirishima’s fingers stayed on his jaw a second longer than necessary, steady and warm, and the world felt a little unreal as Bakugou leaned into the touch—not obviously, just the slightest shift forward, like gravity tugged him in that direction.
Kaminari kept rambling nearby, loud and slurred and dramatic about how lip injuries were “serious business,” but none of it stuck. Bakugou barely heard him. Everything felt hazy and loose, the throbbing pulse at the corner of his mouth blending into the floaty warmth in his chest. Kirishima finally let go, though slowly, like he wasn’t entirely sure he should. Bakugou’s lips tugged into a small, dazed smile he couldn’t hide if he tried. Sure, I walked into a wall. Whatever made tonight easier to survive.
Kirishima walked away, and everything blurred for a moment. Bakugou felt himself sink deeper into the couch, his body melting into the cushions like he was being pulled under warm water. The music thumped somewhere far away, voices rising and falling around him in loose, looping arcs he couldn’t follow. He dragged his thumb along the corner of his mouth, then his tongue, wincing at the sting and rolling the taste of iron over his tongue just to make sure he was still awake. It didn’t ground him. If anything, it made him more aware of how heavy and warm his limbs felt, how unreal everything seemed.
People moved all around him—sitting, standing, swapping seats, laughing too loudly. Everything washed over him in waves. He let his head fall back, eyes half-lidded, a soft smile tugging at his mouth without him meaning to. His lip throbbed, his legs felt loose. His thoughts drifted lazily through the haze left behind in the bathroom. Somewhere to his right, Mina shrieked over something Kaminari said. To his left, Sero was explaining—slowly, with his hands—why someone needed to stop mixing seltzer with tequila. Bakugou didn’t care; the couch was soft, his body was heavy, his brain hummed. He could’ve fallen asleep there if the world didn’t keep tilting so gently beneath him.
Then Kirishima appeared again. He moved through the crowd with a grin that didn’t match how steady his feet were. His hair was still dripping from the pool, leaving dark trails down his neck and chest. In one hand, he carried a shot glass filled to the brim, in the other a wedge of lime pinched between his fingers. He looked like he was about to make the kind of decision people talked about for years. Bakugou’s head lifted just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re gonna be fucked up,” he muttered, his voice rough and dry, words sticking together like they weren’t fully formed.
Kirishima laughed—low, warm, loose—and knelt down right in front of him. “Yeah,” he said, shoulders shaking with it, “You wanna help me?”
Bakugou didn’t answer. He just smiled, slow and crooked, and shrugged, which was apparently all the permission anyone needed. Mina sucked in a massive, scandalized breath. Kaminari yelled, “WHAT IS HAPPENING?!” before he even knew what he was reacting to. Someone stumbled into the railing from laughing too hard already.
Sero showed up at Kirishima’s shoulder with the bottle, shaking his head like he was morally opposed but emotionally thrilled. “You’re already trashed, Kiri. This is a terrible idea.”
“Yeah,” Kirishima repeated, because recklessness sounded easier than thinking, and Sero poured anyway. The shot lit up gold under the deck lights, glowing like something dangerous. Kirishima steadied himself with one hand on Bakugou’s knee as he knelt lower, leaning in until the space between them pulled tight. Bakugou tilted his head back a little, eyes heavy, lips parted with that dazed little look he got when he was too drunk to hide anything. Kirishima cupped Bakugou’s jaw, turning his face toward the light, thumb brushing along the cheekbone just beside the cut.
“Hold still,” he murmured. The words were soft, but they hit Bakugou harder than the alcohol ever could. The crowd quieted, waiting, the air thick with heat and tequila. Kirishima tipped his hand, shaking salt gently over Bakugou’s tongue—each grain catching the light before disappearing. Mina made a strangled noise that nearly broke into a scream. Kaminari leaned so far forward that Sero had to grab him by the collar.
Bakugou’s chest rose once, slowly, the smirk ghosting back onto his lips. Then Kirishima moved. He leaned in, unhurried and deliberate, and dragged his tongue over Bakugou’s in one smooth, confident sweep. Bakugou’s breath hitched. Mina actually shrieked. Kaminari lost his balance. Sero doubled forward, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. Kirishima pulled back with a grin that was half triumph, half inability to believe he’d actually done that. He tossed the shot back in one motion, popped the lime between his teeth, grimaced, and started laughing just as hard as everyone else. His shoulders shook, his eyes watered. The light caught in his hair and made him look even more unreal.
The deck erupted. Pure chaos—screaming, laughing, people grabbing at each other in disbelief. Mina folded over the patio table. Kaminari slapped Sero’s back so hard it echoed. Jirou watched it all with a blank expression, raised her drink to her lips, and said, “That was hot.”
Bakugou was still half-sunk into the couch, blinking in slow motion, trying to remember how breathing worked. His tongue tingled. His lip hurt. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest. He wiped his thumb over his mouth, grimacing. “Tastes like a damn ocean,” he muttered, and even that came out warm and dazed and a little amused.
Mina pressed the lime and shot into his hands with that bright, reckless grin of hers. “Here—since you started it already.” She said it like a joke, laughing as she drifted back toward the group, already engaged in whatever conversation she’d been stirring up before.
No one paid attention when Bakugou leaned forward with the glass in hand. The party was too loud, too busy, everyone talking over each other, swapping seats, arguing about rules. He tossed the shot back the way he always did, but the tequila hit hard and wrong the second it reached his tongue. It burned sharper than it should have, so sharp his stomach clenched and he gagged into his own hand, eyes stinging. The music swallowed the sound instantly. No one turned. No one noticed. He forced it down anyway, feeling the heat drop heavily into his stomach, spreading in slow, dizzy waves.
He bit into the lime just to clear the taste, wincing when the sour hit the small cut on his lip. His tongue brushed over it automatically, checking, tasting salt and the faintest hint of iron. His lip throbbed, enough that he felt it pulse every time his heartbeat pushed up his throat. The deck around him felt softer than before, the cushions sinking beneath him as if trying to absorb him completely. His limbs loosened, his head fell back. The voices around him blended into one warm, drifting hum, every sound a little slower, a little further away.
Bakugou exhaled and felt the breath leave him in a warm, heavy sigh. His vision didn’t blur so much as melt around the edges, colors softening, lights haloing. That shot had been one too many, and his body told him immediately, settling into him like gravity had doubled. He rested deeper into the couch, fingers brushing unconsciously at his lip again, the sting grounding him just enough to stay upright. The night continued around him, bright and loud and chaotic, but it all washed past him like he wasn’t sitting in the middle of it anymore.
It hit fast after that. A slow roll at first, like the deck had tilted beneath him, then another, sharper, rippling under his ribs. Bakugou blinked hard, but the lights only smeared further, pulling long streaks across his vision. His stomach tightened, not painfully, but with the unmistakable warning he remembered too well from the concussion—dizziness first, then the slow, creeping twist of nausea following close behind. He let out a low, unintentional groan, elbow slipping slightly as he tried to brace himself. The sound barely left him before Kirishima turned, like he’d been listening for it the whole time.
“You okay, baby?” Kirishima asked with a small smile, bending toward him, his hand sliding instinctively into Bakugou’s hair. The smile faltered almost immediately when Bakugou didn’t answer. He only groaned again—quieter this time, but with that unmistakable edge of discomfort he never bothered hiding when he was drunk.
Bakugou blinked up at him, eyes unfocused, voice small and thick. “Eijirou… I’m dizzy.”
The panic hit Kirishima in a visible wave. His face went from amused to alert in a breath, his eyebrows lifting, his body shifting closer like he needed to anchor Bakugou with his own weight. “Okay,” he said quickly, his voice soft and calm but already tightening around the edges. “Okay, okay—hey, you’re fine. You’re okay, baby.”
Bakugou swallowed hard, but the motion didn’t settle anything. The world kept tugging sideways, warm and nauseating, his stomach rolling in slow, miserable loops. Kirishima cupped the back of his head gently, thumb rubbing small circles against his scalp. “You just need water,” he murmured, steadying him as Bakugou wavered. “That’s all, we’ll get you some water, and you’ll feel better. I’ve got you.”
Kirishima pressed a soft kiss to Bakugou’s jaw before pulling away, his hand lingering in Bakugou’s hair for one last second. “Don’t move, I’ll be right back,” he murmured, voice low with worry. Then he disappeared into the shifting glow of the deck lights, shoulders squared like he was on a mission. Bakugou tried to stay still, he really did, but the couch felt like it was swallowing him—too soft, too warm, sinking under him until he couldn’t tell where his body ended and the cushions began. His stomach rolled again, a slow, queasy tilt that made the room dip. Sitting made it worse. He needed to move, needed air, needed to feel his feet under him so he could pretend he had control.
He pushed himself upright, fingers slipping on the cushion as he stood too fast. The deck tilted sharply to one side, forcing him to plant his feet wider just to stay upright. A low sound left him—half groan, half breath—as the dizziness washed over him, warm and sour, like his stomach was trying to catch up to the rest of him and failing miserably. He took a step, then another. Everything around him blurred—the lights streaking in thin gold lines, voices rising and folding over each other in warm laughter, the wet gleam of the pool rippling across the boards. He couldn’t focus on a single thing. The nausea crawled higher in his chest, not sharp or dramatic, just a steady, miserable roll that made swallowing feel like work.
He didn’t see Mina until he ran straight into her. She bounced off his shoulder with a startled laugh, catching herself on his arm before he could drift past her. “Bakubabe, hello, where are you going?” she asked, her voice bright and teasing, her smile softening when she registered the unfocused look in his eyes.
Bakugou blinked at her, slow and glassy, trying to steady the sway beneath his feet. A faint groan slipped out of him—nothing articulate, just the sound of someone who got hit with too much too fast. He mumbled something almost unintelligible under his breath, a slurred attempt at reassurance or explanation that didn’t make it past his tongue.
Mina’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh no, you okay?” she asked, stepping back as if to give him room, one hand hovering near him in case he tipped again.
Bakugou was already moving—shoulder brushing past her, head down, trying to breathe through the spinning as the deck lights wavered in front of him. He didn’t know where he was going. He only knew he couldn’t sit, couldn’t stay still, couldn’t let the world tilt under him without doing something. The dizziness clung to him in warm, heavy waves, and the nausea tugged at the base of his throat. Kirishima was somewhere out there with a glass of water he suddenly needed desperately.
He didn’t make it far on the deck. The air felt too thick, too warm, pressing around him with every breath, and his stomach rolled again—slow at first, then sharper, pushing up into his throat. He swallowed hard and kept walking, eyes half-lidded, letting his feet carry him without much thought. The lights blurred. The laughter blurred. The pool shimmered in long gold streaks he couldn’t look at without feeling his balance slip.
The sliding door was open just enough for him to drift through.
Inside was cooler, quieter, dimmer. The change hit him like a shock—air against his skin, shadows stretching across the hardwood, faint music muffled through the walls. He blinked hard, trying to steady the tilt in his vision, but the shift from outside to inside made the dizziness surge. It felt like missing a step on the stairs and never hitting the ground. His hand caught the edge of a chair, then a table, then the wall. He didn’t know where he was going until he was already there—the guest house, the one with the too-soft couch and the huge windows overlooking the yard. The lights were off, the room washed in a faint bluish glow from the pool outside. Bakugou stepped inside, then immediately kneeled. The floor felt cool under his palms. He let himself lower the rest of the way, turning so his shoulder hit the carpet, then his cheek. The world spun for a long, nauseating second, and he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing through the tight heat crawling up his throat.
Don’t throw up, don’t fucking do it.
Breathe, just breathe, Katsuki.
He pressed his palm flat against the floorboards, grounding himself in the cold. His stomach rolled again—harder this time—and he groaned into his arm, swallowing against the burn rising in his throat. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. His mouth tasted sour from the lime and the last traces of tequila. He took another slow breath, then another, trying to ride the wave without letting it crest.
The silence of the guest house wrapped around him, broken only by the muffled pulse of music and the faint echo of laughter outside. He focused on the feel of the floor under him—the way the cool wood anchored his body, the way his heartbeat thumped against it with every breath. His head spun anyway. He curled one arm under his forehead, rubbing his thumb along his eyebrow like he could push the dizziness out. His chest tightened with another surge of nausea, sharper this time, and he bit back a groan, jaw locking hard as he fought the inevitable pull in his gut.
“Fuck,” he whispered to no one, the word soft and strained, breathy with effort. He stayed like that—on the floor, breathing shallowly, trying to keep his stomach from flipping completely—because standing felt impossible. If he threw up, he knew that meant the night was over. He wasn’t ready to give up yet.
The voices hit him in a rush — Mina’s bright chatter, Jirou’s deadpan replies, Sero’s laughter cracking like a firecracker. Each sound landed sharper than the last, cutting through the dull hum inside his head. Bakugou winced, squeezing his eyes shut, but the darkness made the spinning worse. The ceiling slid behind his eyelids, tipping sideways, then snapping back into place. When he opened them again, light spilled across the floor, and a new voice slipped through the doorway. “Hey, baby. You okay?”
Kirishima.
Relief hit Bakugou so fast he couldn’t hold it in. A sound left him — soft, slurred, barely a word at all — something like “Mmm… Ei…” as he clumsily rolled onto his back. The motion dragged the room with him, the ceiling turning in a slow, nauseating circle before settling above him in a trembling shimmer. He blinked up at the shape moving toward him — red and black catching the light, shoulders shaking in a contained laugh that kept threatening to escape.
Kirishima crouched beside him, amusement written all over his face even as concern softened the edges. His hand slid into Bakugou’s hair automatically, thumb brushing gently near his temple, and the smile he wore was the kind only Kirishima managed — worried, fond, and absolutely entertained. “You okay, baby?” he asked again, the grin tugging at his mouth, his voice so sweet it was nauseating.
Bakugou stared up at him, head heavy, stomach rolling, tongue thick enough that the words barely made it out. “I’m really drunk,” he mumbled, voice small and uneven, the syllables sticking together like they weren’t fully formed. Kirishima huffed out a laugh he clearly tried to swallow but failed, his shoulders shaking harder.
The words stuck together on his tongue, slurred at the edges, soft and muffled like his mouth had forgotten how to move. He didn’t even hear what came out — just felt the warm shape of it leave him, the sound slipping loose without his permission. His vision drifted, slow and syrupy, and he blinked up at Kirishima through the haze. Kirishima’s mouth curved immediately. That damn smile. He bit his lower lip like he was trying to keep it together, but his shoulders betrayed him — shaking with barely contained laughter. Behind him, Sero was already cracking up, his laughter bouncing off the walls. Jirou, leaning onto him for balance, snorted so hard she startled herself. Their noise filled the room in bright, echoing bursts, but Bakugou didn’t look at either of them, he only saw Kirishima.
Kirishima leaned closer, his voice dropping into something soft — soft enough that it cut through everything else, warm enough to settle against Bakugou’s skin like a hand. “What, baby?”
Bakugou blinked again, dazed, unaware he’d said anything at all. The world tilted under him, slow and syrupy, and the warmth in his face dragged a lazy smirk crooked across his mouth without him meaning to. He looked right at Kirishima — and only him — completely ignoring the chaos behind them. He said it with all the conviction his drunk brain had left in the tank.
“I’m really drunk.” He said it louder this time, clearer, like he was announcing the truth of the universe. It bounced off the walls in a ridiculous echo — bold, proud, unnecessary — and the reaction was immediate. Sero collapsed first, folding over on a wheeze so sharp it sounded painful, sliding down the cabinets until he hit the floor. Jirou tried to keep him upright, failed, and went down with him, both of them laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe. Their limbs tangled like drunk spaghetti as they tried to salvage dignity and failed miserably.
Mina burst into the doorway just in time to see the mess, her voice slicing through the room like a glitter bomb. She gasped, then shrieked with bright, delighted disbelief. “WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM?!”
“Jesus, baby…” Kirishima whispered, not bothering to hide the smile now, “You’re gone.” Bakugou groaned, eyes slipping shut as another wave of dizziness rolled over him, his hand sliding weakly across his stomach. Kirishima’s palm moved to the side of his face, grounding him, thumb brushing lightly along his jaw. Kirishima finally let out a soft sigh, half-exasperated and half in awe of whatever disaster Bakugou had turned into. He was still smiling though—wide and helpless and fond in a way Bakugou would never remember clearly in the morning. “Here,” Kirishima said, lifting a cold water bottle into view, “We got you water, but you have to sit up to drink it.”
Bakugou shook his head immediately, a tiny motion that made the entire ceiling sway above him. Words felt too heavy, too complicated. His tongue didn’t want to cooperate. He just pressed the back of his head deeper into the floor and closed one eye like that might steady the spinning.
“Katsuki,” Kirishima tried again, softer but firmer, “you have to sit up to drink it.”
Bakugou didn’t move, didn’t even try. He just opened his mouth, wide, expectant. An obvious, ridiculous invitation. Jirou broke first. She let out a strangled, high-pitched sound before dissolving into laughter so violent she had to clutch the wall. She staggered backward, still wheezing, and then sprinted off, calling for Kaminari like she’d just discovered the funniest moment of her life.
Bakugou heard Kaminari’s response from outside—something that sounded like a scream followed by a tremendous splash, as if he’d thrown himself into the pool with Olympic enthusiasm, more splashing followed. Then another scream. Then what truly did sound like someone narrating a whale show.
The mental image hit Bakugou’s drunk brain at the perfect angle, and he started laughing too—quietly at first, then harder, the sound bubbling up against his own nausea. The laugh made the floor sway worse, but he didn’t care. It was too stupid, too funny. Kirishima shook his head, smiling despite himself as he crouched closer. “God, you’re so gone,” he murmured, unscrewing the cap with one hand while the other hovered near Bakugou’s face like he was handling a baby bird with a head injury.
Bakugou kept his mouth open, the dumbest, happiest grin tugging at the corners of it. “Don’t choke,” Kirishima warned, leaning over him carefully, hand steady even though his shoulders were still shaking from suppressed laughter.
Kirishima gave him one more long, amused look — the kind that said he was fully aware of how ridiculous this was — before bringing the bottle down toward Bakugou’s waiting mouth. Bakugou braced himself as much as he could, which wasn’t much at all, but the moment the cold water touched his tongue, he latched onto it like a man crawling out of a desert.
He swallowed steadily, his throat working in slow pulls, the water spilling cleanly down with only the faintest wobble. Kirishima blinked in surprise, laughing under his breath as he tilted the bottle again, watching Bakugou take more without issue. For someone who looked like he couldn’t remember how to stand, he handled the water like a pro.
Not perfectly, of course.
A cool stream slipped from the corner of his mouth, trailing down the side of his cheek, catching on his jaw before dripping onto the floor. Bakugou didn’t even flinch. He just kept drinking, eyes half-lidded, expression soft and blank with concentration. Kirishima snorted. A real, sharp one — involuntary and delighted. Then he reached down, wiping the water off Bakugou’s cheek with the side of his thumb. Another drip escaped. He wiped that too, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the universe had delivered this exact moment to him.
Bakugou swallowed the last of the sip and let his head flop back on the floor with a heavy exhale, his lips parted, chest rising in uneven waves. The cold spread through him in a thin, welcome ribbon, cutting through the nausea just enough to make him breathe again. Kirishima leaned back on his heels, grinning at him in disbelief — fond disbelief, amused disbelief, the kind that warmed Bakugou’s skin even through the drunk haze.
“There you go,” Kirishima murmured, voice thick with laughter he couldn’t hide, “Look at you.”
Bakugou blinked up at him, eyes glassy, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth like he was proud of himself for the simple act of not dying. Kirishima laughed again, softer this time, wiping one more stray trickle from Bakugou’s jaw as if he couldn’t help himself.
Bakugou felt Kirishima’s arm slide behind his shoulders again, steady and warm, trying to guide him up off the floor. The moment the pressure started, Bakugou let his whole body slacken, leaning harder into the ground like he was rooted there. His head rolled to the side, cheek dragging against the cool boards, the dizziness spiking with the movement. He grunted, low and annoyed, and muttered something that sounded like “no,” the refusal thick and groggy as he let his body go deadweight.
Kirishima let out a short breath — a laugh at first, but tense underneath. “Baby, please,” he said, trying again, hand firm at Bakugou’s shoulder. “Sit up for me.”
Bakugou didn’t help, not even a little. He let his body go slack the second Kirishima pulled, the weight of him dragging back down until he hit the floor again with a controlled, intentional slump. Heat rolled up his throat with the movement, dizziness pulsing behind his eyes, but he still felt the flicker of satisfaction curl through him. He was doing it on purpose. Kirishima knew it, and the bastard in him liked that Kirishima knew.
Behind him, Sero’s laughter cracked across the walls, loud and uncontrollable, while Mina covered her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking as she tried to hold herself together. They weren’t helping. They weren’t even pretending to help. Kirishima pulled his hands back, looking away for a second like he needed air, scanning the room for any backup — and finding none. He dragged one more breath in, the annoyance settling into his shoulders, before turning back to Bakugou.
“Katsuki, c’mon…” he said, something fraying in the edges of it. Bakugou didn’t budge. Just smirked harder into the boards, eyes half-closed, enjoying the exact reaction he was pulling out of him. Kirishima sighed hotly, the sound sharp enough that Mina wheezed in the background. Then his tone shifted — not angry, but firm in a way that cut clean through the haze. “Sit. Up.”
The command hit Bakugou all at once, a warm twist low in his stomach, sharp enough to jolt something awake behind the drunken fog. His mouth slid wider, into a grin that would’ve pissed Kirishima off more if he weren’t already expecting it. Sero choked out a breathless “Uh oh—Kiri’s being serious—” but before he could finish the sentence, Bakugou was already pushing himself off the floor. Slow, deliberate, but undeniably capable. He lifted himself with more strength than he’d shown all night, blinking through the dizzy sway as he rose. His smirk never dropped.
Kirishima watched him, jaw tightening, trying — and failing — to look actually angry. His eyes narrowed just enough to show he knew exactly what Bakugou was doing.
“You’re such an asshole,” he muttered, breath leaving him in a mixture of irritation and reluctant amusement. Bakugou only smiled wider, finally upright, finally cooperating, leaning toward Kirishima like he expected a reward just for listening.
Bakugou blinked hard, rapid little flutters like he was trying to clear water from his eyes. Each blink made the room shift again — lights stretching, the ceiling tilting, the nausea curling back up his chest. Whatever smugness he’d been riding collapsed under the dizziness, and for a second, he just sat there, breathing shallowly, head swaying like it was too heavy for his neck. The smirk faded. His gaze unfocused. His whole body wobbled.
Kirishima’s irritation vanished instantly.
The second Bakugou’s shoulders sagged and his head tipped forward, Kirishima reached for him without thinking, hands at Bakugou’s biceps, steadying him. Bakugou slumped directly into him — not dramatically, not for attention, just genuinely losing the strength to stay upright. His forehead brushed Kirishima’s collarbone, the contact warm and unsteady, and a low breath slipped out of him, shaky and uneven.
Bakugou sagged into Kirishima’s chest, the weight of him going slack from shoulder to knee. His breaths dragged in uneven, warm pulls against Kirishima’s neck, each one tinged with that thick, dizzy edge that came right before nausea hit full force. He barely formed words now. Just a low sound, half a groan, half a helpless exhale that broke against Kirishima’s skin. His forehead pressed into Kirishima’s collarbone as his stomach rolled again, slow and deep, like something shifting far below the surface.
Kirishima kept a steady hand on him, fingers firm against the back of his neck, but Bakugou felt the tension in it. Kirishima was trying to act calm. Trying hard. But he could hear Sero laughing somewhere behind them, Mina whispering a shocked oh no under her breath, and none of it mattered as much as Bakugou’s body swaying like he couldn’t find the floor beneath him. Another wave of dizziness pushed through him, and he swallowed hard, a tight, hot swallow that didn’t settle anything. His mouth watered. His stomach pulled. He pressed his face further into Kirishima’s shoulder, groaning low and strained. Then it happened, a short, abrupt gag.
Sharp enough that his whole body jerked.
Kirishima reacted instantly. His hands clamped around Bakugou’s shoulders as he pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes wide with sudden horror, voice breaking into panic. “Are you about to? Right now?”
Bakugou shook his head quickly, eyes squeezed shut, breathing through his mouth as the floor swayed again. The motion made everything worse. He pulled away from Kirishima’s shoulder, just a few inches, trying to breathe through the rise in his throat. His stomach clenched once more before settling into an awful, shaky lull. Kirishima was in front of him again, the kitchen light catching the sharp angle of his jaw, turning it into something brighter than the room deserved. His voice cut through the fuzz in Bakugou’s ears—close, steady, soft in a way that made the edges of everything blur just a little less.
“Alright, let’s stand, yeah?”
Bakugou nodded before his brain caught up. The motion tilted the room immediately, a slow sideways drag that pulled his stomach with it. Then everything buckled. His knees folded without warning, his chest pitched forward, and for one terrifying moment, he thought he was going straight into the floor, but warmth caught him. Kirishima’s arm wrapped around his waist, solid and tight, hauling him up like it was nothing. Bakugou sagged into him, dead weight, unable to stop the way his head tipped forward against Kirishima’s shoulder.
“Whoa—okay, big guy,” Kirishima murmured, his voice low, rough from laughter and the hour. “There you go.”
Bakugou tried to laugh too, but it came out as nothing—just a puff of air leaving his lungs, his shoulders shaking with the effort. He couldn’t believe how badly the night had turned. Everything was ridiculous, off-kilter, spinning in the wrong direction. His face must’ve given that away because Kirishima was laughing harder now, that helpless, chest-deep laugh he only ever made when he was overwhelmed. Behind them, Sero barked out another wheeze. “Bro’s gone. He’s gone!”
Mina’s voice cut through from somewhere near the counter, high and bright. “Are you okay, Bakubabe?”
Bakugou nodded.
Another mistake.
The floor slid sideways like a trapdoor, and his whole body lurched with it. He stumbled forward with a breath that cracked into something like a laugh, teeth clenched against the nausea, and collided with Kirishima again. This time Kirishima caught him with both arms—one braced at his back, the other firm around his hip. The contact steadied him far more than it should have, his body falling into Kirishima’s hold like it belonged there.
His head dropped against Kirishima’s shoulder before he could stop it. The smell hit him immediately—soap and smoke, something warm and clean underneath it. Kirishima’s breathing was steady under his ear, that slow, grounded rhythm he could measure his own broken breaths against. His head spun violently, but the sound of Kirishima breathing—soft, even, real—held him still enough that he stopped caring the room was still moving.
When he finally looked up, the light hit Kirishima’s face in a way that didn’t seem fair. His smile was too soft for the chaos around them, too warm, too easy, like he didn’t mind supporting Bakugou’s entire weight at all. Bakugou blinked slowly, the edges of the world melting. For a second he genuinely couldn’t process how tall Kirishima looked, or why his hair seemed longer than usual. The thought drifted in and out of him before he could grab onto it.
Someone spoke again—Mina, probably—her voice too loud for the small kitchen. “You sure you’re okay?”
Bakugou nodded once, slower this time, his eyes still locked on Kirishima’s face. Everything else was blurred—the laughter, the clatter from the counter, the music thumping faintly through the wall. The only solid thing in the room was Kirishima’s hands still firm at his waist, thumbs anchoring him like they were supposed to be there.
“Yeah, no,” Sero called from somewhere out of sight. “He’s blackout, look at his face.”
Kirishima huffed a laugh, warm and rough, the sound brushing Bakugou’s cheek. “Don’t make fun of my boyfriend,” he said. The words echoed in his head, too clean, too sharp, cutting through the static in a way that made him blink again, slow and confused. His body lagged behind his thoughts, his gaze flicking up toward Kirishima’s mouth like he was chasing the sound instead of the meaning. Kirishima was still smiling, still saying something, still steadying him with both hands, but everything else blurred.
He blinked up at Kirishima, slow and heavy, vision swimming but locked in place. Everything else blurred into noise — Sero laughing somewhere behind them, Mina still chattering, the faint thrum of music through the wall. None of it mattered. Kirishima did. His face did. The line of his jaw, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked down, the faint crease at the bridge of his nose when he laughed, the damp ends of red hair brushing his cheeks.
How did one person look like that? How did someone look like that and look at him the way Kirishima did? Bakugou felt something low and warm twist through him — even drunk, even spinning, even at the edge of throwing up, he felt it. Felt the stupid, unbearable truth of how in love he was. How badly he wanted to be close, closer than this. How badly he wanted Kirishima everywhere, all the time, how even now he was clinging without meaning to, fingers curled in the fabric at Kirishima’s waist like letting go wasn’t an option.
Before Bakugou realized he was speaking, the words left him — quiet, thick, honest. “I love you.”
It wasn’t a dramatic confession or a slip he’d regret. It was the easiest thing he’d ever said. The only thing in his entire, drunk, spinning universe that felt straight and steady and true. He didn’t feel embarrassed — not even a little. Why would he? He was in love with him, completely. Of all the things he’d ever been terrified to admit, this wasn’t one of them. Not looking at Kirishima like that, not when Kirishima looked back like that.
Sero choked so hard he wheezed. “He’s gone,” he gasped, voice breaking with laughter. “Listen to him—‘I luhhhv yuhhh.’ I’m fucking crying!”
Mina swatted him, still laughing. “Shut up, he’s being sweet! Don’t ruin it!”
Bakugou didn’t even turn toward them, he didn’t give a single shit. Their voices felt miles away, drifting somewhere behind the warmth sitting right in front of him. Kirishima didn’t say anything at first. He just… smiled. Really smiled — the kind that softened his whole face, the one Bakugou always felt in his chest before he saw it. His eyes crinkled, his cheeks flushed from the room’s heat, and he ducked his head like he couldn’t hold the smile in all at once. When he looked back at Bakugou, it was like everything in the room quieted just so Bakugou could breathe him in.
His mouth curved first, a tiny smile tugging at the corner, then spreading slowly, like warmth blooming under his skin. It didn’t stop. It grew wider, softer, so open it made Kirishima’s chest tighten just looking at him. He leaned forward without thinking, forehead pressing clumsily into Kirishima’s shoulder. His balance was garbage, his aim worse, but the intent was clear. His arms lifted in slow, drifting movements, looping around Kirishima’s neck, hands fumbling before they found the back of his shirt and curled there — loose, deliberate, needing the contact.
Then something in him decided he needed to see him again. Bakugou pushed back gently, hands sliding up from Kirishima’s shirt to his jaw, then higher, palms cupping Kirishima’s face with surprising care. His touch was soft despite how drunk he was — thumbs brushing Kirishima’s cheekbones like he wanted to memorize the shape of him even in this blurry state. God, he couldn’t stop smiling. First a small one, then wider, then almost too wide, his balance swaying as he leaned back a little too far. Kirishima’s hands caught his waist instantly, steadying him, pulling him just close enough that their noses brushed when Bakugou leaned back in again.
He hovered there — too close, then too far, then right in the middle — his face inches from Kirishima’s, eyes glazed but focused entirely on him, like the whole room didn’t exist. When he spoke, the words came out thick, soft-edged, slurred at the corners even though the sentence itself was clear.
“I really love you.” Kirishima’s breath caught — not because he didn’t know, but because hearing it like this, seeing Bakugou smiling up at him like that, hit him square in the chest. He laughed, warm and helpless, the sound vibrating softly under Bakugou’s hands.
“I know,” he murmured, nodding as he brushed his thumbs gently along Bakugou’s hips, steadying him. “Yes, baby. I love you too.”
Bakugou’s smile somehow got even bigger — a ridiculous, glowing thing that made his eyes squint and his cheeks lift and every line of his face soften like it had been waiting years for this exact moment. He leaned their foreheads together, noses brushing again, a little clumsy, a little crooked, but perfect anyway. “Good…” he breathed, still smiling, eyes half-lidded with warmth. “Good…” Kirishima laughed again — that soft, chest-deep laugh Bakugou could feel more than hear — and held him there, letting him sway gently in his hands like Bakugou wasn’t drunk, but simply weightless with how in love he was.
Mina’s knees actually buckled. “STOP,” she cried. “This is so cute— I CAN’T— he's being so kind, I’m going to cry—”
Bakugou didn’t even process Sero’s voice, or Mina’s squeal, the music. It all drifted out to the edges of the room, blurred into nonsense, because the second his fingers sank into Kirishima’s hair, everything inside him pulled tight — like gravity had locked onto one point, singular and bright, right in front of him. God, he thought, palm sliding along the warm curve of Kirishima’s neck, he’s so beautiful. It hit him in waves — dizzy, slow, tender in a way he wasn’t equipped to handle sober, let alone now. Kirishima’s hair brushed the inside of his fingers, soft and warm and familiar.
He leaned forward again, forehead almost missing Kirishima’s shoulder before Kirishima caught him, fingers firm at his waist. Bakugou felt himself sway into the touch, like his whole body knew exactly where it wanted to land. Kirishima said, “Be careful, Katsuki,” soft and warm, so gentle it made Bakugou’s throat tighten. Careful, as if Bakugou could be hurt here, as if there was a safer place than Kirishima’s hands. Bakugou’s vision swam for a second, but when he forced his eyes to focus, they snapped straight to Kirishima’s face — bright, flushed, smiling at him like he hung the damn stars they were standing under.
Something in Bakugou just… opened, just the truth, rising warm from his chest like breath.
“I’m going to marry you.” He felt the words leave him — slow, intentional despite the drunken slur sitting under every syllable. For a heartbeat, time stalled. Kirishima’s eyes widened, reflecting the amber light of the room, and Bakugou swore he could see the exact second the words hit him, like something unreal and too good and theirs.
Bakugou’s fingers slid along Kirishima’s jaw, thumbs brushing skin like he was mapping constellations. Yeah, he thought, head tipping forward, smile pulling at his mouth again. I’m gonna marry you. Why wouldn’t I? Why the hell wouldn’t I? Nobody’s ever made me feel like this. Kirishima’s breath caught, soft and stunned. Bakugou felt it on his lips. Sero’s voice hit the air somewhere behind them, but it barely registered as sound, like someone coughing in another room. Bakugou only heard his own heartbeat, loud and steady, syncing with the warmth of Kirishima’s body against his.
Kirishima was looking at him like he could feel the heartbeat too, like the proposal hadn’t scared him, like it had cracked something open in him as well. Bakugou didn’t know what to do with that expression — soft, overwhelmed, so full of something Bakugou couldn’t name yet but instinctively leaned into. His hands made their way back into Kirishima’s hair, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing the roots like each touch proved something.
He didn’t understand how a person could look so good this close, didn’t understand why he’d waited so long to say it, didn’t understand how he ever lived a life where he didn’t touch Kirishima like this. God, he thought, chest thick with warmth, I’m so fucking in love with you. Kirishima blinked at him — stunned, almost laughing, eyes wide and warm in a way that made Bakugou’s stomach flip. “Okay, whoa,” he breathed, trying not to grin. “Maybe… try again in a couple of years? When we’re both sober?”
Bakugou shook his head immediately, frowning like Kirishima had missed the entire point. His grip gentled on Kirishima’s face, thumbs brushing over warm skin, his voice dropping into something low and earnest.b“I’ve waited years,” he mumbled, leaning in until their noses brushed again. “I want to marry you now.”
Sero didn’t even pause. He straightened up, eyebrows shooting into his hairline, grin vicious. “How many years, Bakugou?”
Bakugou didn’t hesitate. Not even a blink. “Twenty-two.”
Kirishima choked on a laugh, catching Bakugou’s waist again as he swayed. “You are twenty-two, baby,” he said, voice warm and breathless, the end of the sentence cracking because he was trying so hard not to laugh directly into Bakugou’s face.
Bakugou was completely unbothered. He lifted both hands again, palms sliding up Kirishima’s jaw, thumbs brushing lightly over his cheeks like he needed to feel the shape of him. “My whole life,” he insisted, slurred but steady in intent, eyes half-lidded and focused only on Kirishima’s lips. “My whole life I’ve waited for you.”
Kirishima lost it — laughter bursting out of him in a way that made his shoulders shake, his head falling forward, forehead bumping Bakugou’s as if he couldn’t hold himself upright under the weight of it. He was red from cheeks to ears, smiling so wide it almost hurt to look at him. “Oh my god,” Mina whispered loudly, pressing both hands to her face.
Sero threw his hands in the air. “How badly do you think he’s gonna regret EVER coming to this party tomorrow? Like, do we hear him? He’s flirting. He’s proposing. He’s— he’s—” He gestured weakly at Bakugou’s entire body, at the way he was dangling off Kirishima like a man in love with gravity itself. “He’s gone.”
Bakugou wasn’t listening anymore. Sero’s voice fizzled out, fading into nothing, swallowed by the warmth pressed against him. All the noise drifted to the corners of the room again, falling into a blur Bakugou had no interest in parsing. The only sound that mattered was Kirishima’s laugh — that soft, breathless, chest-deep sound he could feel through his palms where they cupped Kirishima’s face.
Kirishima looked at him again, eyes bright and watery from laughing so hard, lips trembling around a smile that wouldn’t go away. Bakugou, drunk and flushed and completely weightless with love, smiled right back like he had never been more certain of anything in his life. Kirishima was still laughing, still flushed, still holding Bakugou upright when Mina finally snapped out of her awe and waved her hands urgently. “Okay, okay— we need to get him outside, fresh air. Before he starts saying wedding vows.”
Sero barked another laugh. “He’s gonna start naming kids if we don’t move him.”
Bakugou didn’t care, didn’t even process it. He just blinked up at Kirishima, still touching his face, thumbs still brushing faintly over warm skin like he’d forgotten how to stop. Kirishima gently pried one of his hands down — not to break the moment, but to keep him from falling as he shifted his grip around Bakugou’s waist. “Come on,” Kirishima said softly, voice warm and steady. “Let’s get you outside for a second, okay?”
They eased him through the doorway, Bakugou still laughing into Kirishima’s shoulder like the world was warm and spinning in the fun way, not the dangerous one. His feet dragged, barely cooperating, but he didn’t fight them — he clung to Kirishima with both arms, cheek pressed against his collarbone, breath warm and uneven with leftover giggles. Sero grunted as he adjusted his grip under Bakugou’s other arm, muttering about how heavy it was,” but even he was laughing under his breath. Mina held the door wide open, bouncing on her toes with excitement, her voice light and giddy as she watched them shuffle toward the cool night.
For a few seconds — for a few warm, swaying steps — everything was fine. Bakugou was loose and heavy and laughing at nothing. Kirishima was smiling helplessly at him. Sero was cursing affectionately. Mina was already rehearsing the retelling she’d give tomorrow. Then the cold air hit his face. It didn’t drift over him gently; it slammed into him with the clean, sharp edge of a knife, slicing right through the warmth wrapped around his body. The smile on his face froze mid-curve. His breath caught halfway out of his chest. Something deep, low, and ugly rolled through his stomach with a force that could’ve knocked him backward.
His mind didn’t register it yet, but his body did, violently. His laughter died in an instant. Kirishima felt it first — the way Bakugou suddenly went rigid, not from stubbornness but from something internal, something sinking fast. He jerked slightly, arm tightening around Bakugou’s waist on instinct. “Katsuki?” he murmured, voice suddenly sharp with concern. Bakugou didn’t answer. His smile was gone, wiped away so quickly that Kirishima’s breath faltered. A second wave hit — harder, meaner — and Bakugou’s face twisted, eyes squeezing shut as his stomach clenched. His hand shot out, gripping Kirishima’s shirt like he needed to anchor himself or he’d collapse. “Katsuki?” Kirishima tried again, voice rising.
Sero saw the shift a fraction of a second later and yelped, jumping back just enough to almost drop his arm from under Bakugou. “Whoa— shit— are you okay? Are you—?”
He didn’t get to finish. Bakugou staggered forward, suddenly desperate to be on his own feet. He shoved off both of them, stumbling hard, boots scraping against the deck as he somehow—miraculously—managed to stand on his own for half a heartbeat. That heartbeat ended quickly. He hunched, breath buckling in his chest, a silent, awful gag tearing up his throat before another one hit right after it. No sound — just the violent jerk of someone who was seconds away from losing the battle entirely.
Kirishima recoiled so fast it was almost comical, skidding two steps back with both hands lifted like Bakugou had suddenly pulled a knife. His eyes were huge, panicked, torn between wanting to help and wanting to put as much distance between himself and the incoming danger as humanly possible. His breath hitched, his whole body tensing in a way that made it painfully clear: he was seconds away from fleeing.
Bakugou barely noticed. The nausea was rising too quickly, heavy and hot, rolling through his stomach in slow, awful waves. He leaned harder on the railing, knuckles whitening around the wood, breathing through clenched teeth. His vision blurred. His knees dipped. The laughter that had carried him outside evaporated like it had never existed. Behind him, Sero let out a noise that could only be described as a strangled scream-laugh, the kind that hit the air at a pitch that wasn’t helpful for anyone. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Dude, are you— are you about to fucking puke? Oh man, that sucks.”
He was laughing while he said it, of course, he was. Kirishima backed up another step, shaking his head hard, already covering his ears. “I’m sorry, Katsuki. I’m so sorry, I can’t do this. I can’t hear it—”
Bakugou had no strength left to roll his eyes. Another wave surged through him, violent enough that his body jerked with a silent gag. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard, trying to breathe through it, but the air outside made it worse. Mina understood immediately. She didn’t waste time asking questions; she dropped to her knees beside Momo’s outdoor storage bin and started digging through it like a rescue worker, tossing objects aside with frantic determination. A frisbee clattered across the deck. A watering can skidded into Sero’s ankle. A ceramic planter narrowly missed Kirishima’s retreat path. “Hold on,” she muttered, already rummaging deeper. “Just wait, give me two seconds. Not on the deck. Please, babe, just— I’m finding something.”
Bakugou gagged again, harsher this time, his whole body jolting. His arm shot out in Mina’s direction, waving sharply in a gesture that wasn’t even a signal anymore—just a plea. He didn’t trust his voice; he didn’t trust his lungs; he barely trusted his legs. Sero let out another useless, horrified laugh. “Oh man, he’s really going down. Mina, please, for the love of god. Hurry!”
“I know,” she hissed, shoving aside a stack of old pool towels and some gardening gloves. “Why does Momo have everything except a trash can? How is that possible?”
Bakugou leaned forward, another deep, silent gag tearing out of him. His stomach twisted so hard he thought the deck was tilting beneath his feet. Kirishima, eyes squeezed shut, turned halfway toward them again without opening them. “Is it happening? Someone just tell me if it’s happening.”
“It’s about to,” Sero said, breaking into helpless laughter even as he stepped back for safety. “Oh man, he’s fighting so hard, look at him go.”
Bakugou wasn’t fighting anymore. Not really. His body had given up before his pride did; his fingers dug into the railing like he was trying to anchor himself to something solid, chest seizing around another silent, wrenching gag that made his eyes water. His breath shook in shallow, uneven stutters, the cold air cutting sharply into the back of his throat. Mina must’ve sensed the real danger, because the frantic search ended abruptly—she reappeared beside him with a small black trashcan clutched triumphantly in both hands. “Here—here, babe, take it, please—”
Bakugou barely got his hands around it before it was over for him.
The second the rim touched his palms, everything he’d been holding back surged forward. His body folded over the trash can with an exhausted, unavoidable shudder, breath ripping out of him in a harsh, choked gasp as the first wave hit. Sero winced but didn’t run, shockingly. Instead, he stepped in closer—hesitant at first, then committed—and set a steady hand between Bakugou’s shoulder blades, rubbing slow circles into his back. “Damn, dude… oh, that’s pretty gross,” he muttered, half-laughing, half-wincing, but his hand never stopped moving. “You’re alright, man, just get it out.”
Bakugou groaned miserably, body shuddering with each wave as he tried—pathetically—to be quiet about it. Not because of pride, not even because of the party. Kirishima was somewhere behind them on the lawn, hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut, doing everything in his power not to hear a single second of this. Bakugou wasn’t going to make him suffer more than necessary.
He tried to angle himself away, tried to breathe through it, tried to swallow back the worst of the sound, but his body overrode every instinct he had left. Sero stayed right there the whole time, palm warm on his back in slow, steady circles, murmuring reassurance between winces.
Mina vanished again, calling out for Kaminari and Jirou inside the house—rounding people up, telling them the night was done, her voice drifting through the open door in a frantic mix of logistical orders and horrified sympathy. “You are a mess, Bakugou,” Sero muttered eventually, still rubbing his back in soft, absent motions. He sounded half amused, half genuinely concerned.
Bakugou’s breathing came harsh and ragged for a moment, then finally—finally—eased. The nausea ebbed enough for him to lift his head an inch, then another, until he could lower the trash can carefully beside him without spilling it. Sero didn’t move away.
If anything, he stepped closer, guiding Bakugou upright until his forehead found Sero’s chest—because standing on his own wasn’t an option yet and fighting it felt impossible. Bakugou let himself fold there, exhaustion melting through him, any last scrap of dignity dissolving with it. Sero snorted quietly but didn’t push him off. His hand shifted to the back of Bakugou’s head, fingertips brushing lightly through the hair at the base of his neck in a surprisingly gentle hold. “Your boyfriend ran away, you know,” Sero said, voice low and dry.
Bakugou nodded against him. A tiny motion, barely there. It was acknowledgment, agreement. Yes, Kirishima had sprinted off into the grass like a man fleeing a crime scene. Valid, understandable… still a little cowardly. “Alright,” Sero sighed, rubbing slow, comforting circles at the base of Bakugou’s skull. “I’ll be your boyfriend for now.”
Bakugou groaned, a soft, miserable sound, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. His body was too heavy, too wrung out, too grateful for the warmth and the touch and the solidity beneath him. Sero chuckled under his breath, sounding almost fond. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you drink on an empty stomach,” he murmured. “I don’t even know how you threw up that much when you haven’t eaten anything.”
Bakugou didn’t answer—just let out a low, exhausted hum, leaning more of his weight into Sero’s chest as the world steadied around him, slow breath by slow breath, until the peace shattered again.
He barely had enough breath to warn anyone. His body snapped forward in one sharp jolt, a violent twist low in his stomach that came out of nowhere. His hands flew to Sero’s chest, pushing hard—not out of disgust, just panic, instinct, anything to create distance, but his legs didn’t hold, and the movement only tipped him further off balance. His body lurched, his throat burned, and before he could choke out a word, the next wave ripped through him.
It hit the deck, and Sero’s shoes… mostly Sero’s shoes.
For a moment, nobody moved. The night hung still and breathless, like the universe was politely pausing to acknowledge the severity of what had just occurred. Sero stared down in stunned silence, shoulders frozen, eyes fixed on the destruction with the heavy, resigned stare of a man watching his last will and testament being written in real time. He didn’t even swear, he just blinked—slow, pained—like this was the kind of thing that changed a person.
Twenty feet away on the grass, Kirishima let out a muffled, horrified scream. “I heard that,” he called, voice breaking on the last syllable. Mina reacted like someone had shot her. Her hands clasped over her heart, her face crumpled in the kind of heartbreak usually reserved for tragic movie endings, and she stepped forward as if drawn in by the sheer gravity of the scene. Her eyes were wide and glassy, taking in the ruined shoes like she was witnessing the collapse of a civilization.
“Oh no,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Sero… your shoes…”
Sero swallowed hard, jaw tight, still staring down at his fate. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice faint and distant. “Yeah, those are… those are done.”
Bakugou, trembling and pale, wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. His breath shook violently, chest tight with the aftershocks. Mortification flared somewhere inside him, but it was drowned out by exhaustion. He sniffed once, throat raw, eyes half-shut as he managed a small, rasping, “Sorry…”
Sero finally lifted his gaze from his shoes. Shock softened into something gentler—tired, but understanding. He let out a long breath, as if releasing all the panic, the disgust, the comedy of the moment in one defeated exhale. Then, unbelievably, he stepped closer. “Hey,” he said quietly, setting a steady hand on the back of Bakugou’s neck. “It’s fine.”
Bakugou’s shoulders sagged at the words, too wrung out to pretend he was okay. He sagged sideways until his forehead found Sero’s chest again, the contact desperate and instinctive, seeking warmth in the middle of humiliation. Sero stiffened at first—understandable, given the state of things—but then his hand settled fully on Bakugou’s back, rubbing slow, grounded circles between his shoulder blades. “You’re fine, dude,” he murmured, voice low enough that only Bakugou could hear the softness in it. “Really, I got you.”
Behind them, Mina was still processing the tragedy, staring at Sero’s shoes with the expression of someone witnessing great art being destroyed. Kirishima, meanwhile, peeked from behind a tree trunk with his eyes squeezed shut, arms still glued over his ears like a man praying for deliverance. Sero hummed under his breath, almost soothing, as Bakugou leaned heavier into him. “Your boyfriend is hiding behind a tree,” he said quietly. Bakugou could only manage to hum. Behind them, Mina was still processing the tragedy, staring at Sero’s shoes with the expression of someone witnessing priceless art being destroyed in front of her. She slowly tore her eyes away only long enough to swallow hard, straighten her spine, and slip into crisis-management mode.
“The car’s on its way,” she said, voice high but controlled. “Kaminari is passed out on the couch, and Jirou said she was hiding from Bakugou, so… it’s just us. We have to get him out front.” She winced, glancing back toward the shoes, lowering her voice reverently. “I would… leave the shoes there. I think Momo would understand.”
Sero looked down at his ruined sneakers like he was paying his final respects, then nodded with the solemn resignation of a soldier going into battle. “Yeah, that tracks.”
Bakugou let out a soft snort—barely a sound, barely conscious—but the absurdity of the night bubbled up in him despite the nausea, the exhaustion, and the way the world kept tilting sideways without warning. His laugh turned into a faint groan as he leaned heavily against the railing, trying to find something stable to anchor himself to while Sero crouched to slip out of his shoes. “Alright,” Sero said more to himself than anyone, standing barefoot on the deck boards. “Okay, let’s get him moving.”
He adjusted Bakugou carefully, hands bracing his waist and shoulder, positioning him in a way that made guiding him possible without forcing him to stand fully on his own. Bakugou swayed immediately, blinking in slow, uneven intervals, the world blurry shapes and warm lights smearing around the edges. “Kirishima, get your ass over here and help him,” Mina snapped, pointing sharply toward the two of them.
Kirishima flinched like Mina had physically shoved him, but he nodded and stepped forward anyway, eyes still squeezed shut, one hand hovering over his ear as if he expected Bakugou to detonate again. He moved slowly, carefully, guilt tugging at every inch of him until he was close enough for Sero to shift Bakugou’s weight toward him. Bakugou sagged heavily between them, head hanging for a moment before he tried to lift it, lids fluttering, gaze unfocused. The second his eyes found Kirishima’s face, something in him sharpened through the fog. His mouth pulled into a lazy attempt at a scowl, and the words tumbled out of him in a low, exhausted mumble—thick at the edges, softened by the alcohol, but perfectly understandable.
“You’re a piece of shit.” It wasn’t shouted or snarled. It didn’t even have bite. It came out warm and flat and weirdly affectionate, the kind of insult only someone who loved you could pull off in this state. Sero let out a bark of laughter he immediately tried to smother, Mina’s hand flew to her chest, and Kirishima blinked like the air had been knocked out of him, but he took it. He took it with all the quiet shame he deserved for running earlier, slipping his arm more fully around Bakugou’s waist and pulling him upright before Bakugou’s knees gave out again.
“I know,” Kirishima said softly, guilt catching on the edges of his voice. “I know, baby. I’m sorry.”
Bakugou made a soft, tired sound in response—half annoyance, half forgiveness, mostly just worn-out—and dropped his forehead against Kirishima’s shoulder like he couldn’t hold himself up any longer. His body went loose again, heavy and pliant, letting Kirishima take his weight with no resistance. Sero adjusted his grip on Bakugou’s other side, steadying him as Mina blew out a frazzled breath and gestured toward the door.
The dizziness was so heavy it felt like he was underwater. He barely registered being lifted, barely processed Sero’s arm under his opposite shoulder, barely felt Mina hovering near them like a frantic air-traffic controller, checking the path ahead for obstacles only she could see. He just let them move him, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths, mind foggy and far away. Kirishima’s voice was there somewhere—warm, soft, guilty—but it was muffled by the thrum in Bakugou’s ears.
He didn’t remember crossing the threshold. One moment, the night air was clinging to his skin; the next, he was inside the main house, warmth and noise collapsing around him in a way that made the world tilt violently under the new sensory overload. The bright lights overhead felt punishing, too sharp against his eyes, and the clean, expensive smell of the place hit him like a slap, cutting through the lingering bitterness in his mouth. His stomach rolled once in protest, but not enough to bring anything up—just enough to warn him he was on thin ice. The floor felt uneven, too close when he blinked down at it, too far when he tried to take another step. His breath stuttered in his chest as voices echoed off tile and glass before his brain could catch up to who was speaking.
Kaminari was slouched against the nearest wall like a puppet that had given up on pretending to be alive, head tipped sideways, eyes barely open. Jirou stood next to him, one arm braced across his chest like she was holding him upright through sheer responsibility, her expression flat and unimpressed. Kaminari’s eyes snapped open the instant he saw Bakugou between Sero and Kirishima.
“Oh no,” he said—too loudly, way too loudly. The words ricocheted off the cabinets like a warning siren. “Bakugou down.”
Bakugou didn’t even lift his head fully. He just turned it an inch toward Kaminari, expression half-lidded and unimpressed, and muttered in the lowest, hoarsest slur imaginable, “Fuck you.”
It came out soft, barely pronounced, but absolutely clear in intent. Jirou took one look at Bakugou’s face—the pale, sluggish, glassy-eyed disaster trying to keep his head from falling forward again—and cringed back half a step, tightening her grip on Kaminari like Bakugou was carrying the plague.
“Oh god,” she muttered. “Don’t bring him near me. I’m not doing round two.”
Bakugou didn’t have the brainpower to answer her. His head dipped, his weight sagging harder into Kirishima’s hold, and the dizziness dragged at him again, heavy and warm and impossible to fight through. He didn’t know if he was standing or if Sero and Kirishima were just holding him up by sheer force of will. Kaminari’s laugh was still echoing off the cabinets when Bakugou’s knees gave out again, this time without warning. His eyes weren’t even open anymore—barely slits earlier, now fully shut, lashes pressed together as his head tipped forward like he’d simply powered down mid-step. Everything in him seemed to shut off except gravity, and gravity was winning.
Every step they tried to take only made him heavier, like his bones were dissolving. His legs dragged behind him, head tipping back and forth with no control, his mouth forming soft, incoherent sounds that weren’t words so much as exhausted vibrations.
Mina reappeared through the hallway, took one look at the three of them, and froze like she’d stumbled onto a war scene. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “You guys look like you’re carrying a corpse.”
“Bro, please,” Sero muttered, straining. “Just—activate your legs, you have them.”
Somehow, miraculously, Bakugou did. It happened in a small, sudden shift—his knees unlocking, his thighs tensing just enough to hold part of his own weight. His spine straightened a sliver, enough that Sero’s arm stopped shaking from pure effort. His head lifted slightly, not fully, just enough that his chin wasn’t dropping toward his chest, but the moment his balance returned, even slightly, his stomach rolled.
Bakugou made a low, unhappy noise at the back of his throat. Bakugou didn’t even get a warning this time—just a sudden, violent lurch deep in his gut, the kind that gave him half a second of clarity before everything in him revolted. He staggered, one hand slapping desperately at the back of the nearest stool, the other flying up toward his chest as his eyes widened in helpless horror. “Oh fuck,” he breathed, and it came out small and miserable, almost pleading.
Kirishima jumped like he’d been stabbed. His whole body flinched backward in this half-yelp, half-instinctive recoil, and his hands jerked away like Bakugou had just become a live explosive. The sudden movement severed his hold completely, and Bakugou’s weight tipped forward—straight into Sero’s arms.
“Kiri—what the fuck—?!” Sero yelped as he caught him fully, Bakugou’s forehead slumping against his shoulder with the impact.
Bakugou barely registered any of it. His eyes were glassy, his breath shaky, his stomach tightening like a fist inside him. His legs locked again, this time trying to keep him upright long enough to find something—anything—before it was too late. Jirou’s reaction was instantaneous and catastrophic. She shrieked, not a normal scream, not a startled yelp. A full-body, inhuman, primal noise that ripped out of her throat like she was witnessing the collapse of civilization. Her hands flew up in pure reflex—one to block her ears, the other grabbing whatever was closest.
Unfortunately, the closest object was Kirishima.
Kirishima shrieked too—not as loud, but higher, panicked, a startled animal response born from pure terror. He flinched so hard he nearly lost his footing, stumbling backward directly into Jirou’s arms. She latched onto him with the grip of a drowning victim. He latched right back.
They clung to each other like two people facing an apocalyptic event, both twisting away from Bakugou with synchronized, horrified precision. Jirou pressed her face to Kirishima’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, her earjacks practically vibrating with fear. Kirishima buried half his face into the side of her head, arms wrapped awkwardly around her torso like he hoped physical contact could shield him from the sound.
Their combined body language screamed trauma. Pure, undiluted trauma.
Bakugou was already stumbling toward the nearest trash can, driven by that tiny spark of survival instinct that kept him from destroying the kitchen floor. His hand slammed against the counter for leverage, his shoulder clipping the edge as he lurched forward. He made it three wobbling steps before everything hit him at once—the dizziness, the nausea, the inevitable drop of gravity pulling him forward. Mina, ever the functional one, dove to Bakugou’s side with a speed usually reserved for Olympic athletes, one hand bracing his shoulder. “Oh my god, okay—it's, you’re fine,” she babbled, trying to steady him even as she looked like she might faint herself.
Sero, having recovered from the shoe tragedy, crouched beside Bakugou on his other side, making soft, helpless “damn dude” noises while rubbing circles on Bakugou’s back with the resigned tenderness of a man who’d accepted his role in the universe. Somewhere behind them, Kaminari—slouched, swaying, eyes barely open—lifted his phone with eerie precision.
He grinned, wide, evil, delighted.
Then the shutter sound cracked through the kitchen air like destiny. The flash hit them all at once — bouncing off reflective tile, glinting off Mina’s horrified eyes, catching Sero mid-peace sign because of course he lifted a peace sign at the last second, illuminating Bakugou hunched shirtless over a trash can like a fallen soldier.
The moment the last wave passed through him, Bakugou’s whole body shuddered—and then everything inside him went quiet, too quiet. His stomach settled so fast it felt unreal, like someone flipped a switch, like his brain rebooted and immediately decided things were great again. His breath slowed, his shoulders loosened, and his vision steadied just enough for him to realize he wasn’t dying anymore.
That tiny, dangerous drunk clarity lit him up from the inside. He staggered back from the trash can with a startled grunt, stumbling two steps like someone had given him a shove. Sero jerked his hands up, ready to catch him, but Bakugou twisted away on instinct—grabbing the wall with one palm, pushing off it, spinning himself halfway down the hallway like he thought he could walk.
He could not walk. He took one lurching step, then another, momentum carrying him in the wrong direction entirely. His foot caught on the edge of a floorboard, his balance swung hard left, and before anyone could react, he went down like a fallen tree—flat on his back, arms flopping out uselessly as he hit the hardwood with a dull thud. Mina shrieked with laughter before she could stop herself, one hand flying to her face, her voice cracking as she doubled over. “BAKUGOU—OH MY GOD—”
Sero nearly dropped to his knees laughing, clutching his stomach, wheezing so hard he couldn’t form words. He pointed once, helplessly, at Bakugou on the floor, then slapped his hand over his mouth to breathe. Kirishima, still fused to Jirou like they were sharing one nervous system, winced but leaned just far enough forward to tap the trashcan lid closed with the side of his foot—never looking directly inside, not for a second. He kept one arm tight around Jirou’s back, her face still buried in his hoodie, her hands clamped over her ears like the world had betrayed her.
Kaminari—dear god—Kaminari staggered away from the wall like a man on stilts, using both hands to brace on the molding as he lurched after Bakugou. He was just as gone, maybe more. He leaned over Bakugou’s sprawled body, hair sticking in every direction, eyes glassy and unfocused, breath loud and uneven as he squinted.
“YOU OKAY?” he demanded, far too loudly, leaning so close he nearly toppled onto him. Bakugou blinked up at him, pupils huge, mouth slightly open, chest rising in slow, exaggerated breaths. He looked like he was trying to answer—trying very hard—but the only thing that came out was a soft, breathy noise.
Then he laughed, a hard laugh—loud and sudden, ripping out of him in a sharp burst that echoed off the hallway walls like it didn’t belong to someone who had been dying two seconds ago. His whole body jerked with it, shoulders shaking, breath catching between each cackle like he couldn’t control it even if he tried.
Bakugou’s laughter sputtered out in a sudden gasp, and he rolled onto his side like the floor had just jogged a memory loose inside him. A second later, he shoved himself onto his hands and knees with all the grace of a dying animal, breath unsteady, hair falling in his face. Then, with absolutely no warning or build-up, he blurted out, “Holy shit, I have to pee,” even though the sentence sounded mangled and nothing like what he meant to say. It was more like a string of warm, slurred vowels that only vaguely resembled human language.
He didn’t wait for anyone to react; he started crawling. Hands sliding, knees slipping, body weaving like a malfunctioning Roomba, determined to get to the bathroom regardless of how many obstacles existed between him and the doorway. The group watched him go in a stunned, quiet semicircle before the murmurs started.
Sero pointed weakly, still breathless from laughing. “Somebody go with him,”
Kirishima froze for a solid second, eyes wide, torn between residual trauma and sheer responsibility. Then he sighed, defeated, and jogged after Bakugou. Bakugou had already made it to the end of the hallway by the time Kirishima caught him—sloppily pushing himself upright, leaning one hand on the wall like the world had tilted sideways and he was adjusting to the new gravity.
He staggered into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door behind him, already rummaging through Momo’s cabinets with the intense focus of a man searching for treasure. His movements were clumsy but determined, bottles clattering, drawers sliding open too hard. The moment Kirishima stepped inside and quietly closed the door, Bakugou’s head popped up. His whole expression brightened in this loose, warm, unabashed way, like Kirishima had just walked into his field of vision for the first time in days. His smile stretched slowly and crooked, eyes soft even through the haze.
Bakugou finally located the bottle of mouthwash if it had been calling to him. He grabbed it triumphantly, knocking two other things over in the process, the plastic clatter echoing off the bathroom tile. Kirishima hovered by the door, still tense from the entire night, still wary, still trying to be useful in the one way he knew how. “Don’t drink it,” he blurted out automatically, hands raised instinctively like Bakugou might do the world’s dumbest thing at any moment.
Bakugou stopped mid-movement. Slowly—dramatically, exaggeratedly—he turned to glare at Kirishima over his shoulder. His expression was so exasperated, so done, so offended, it was almost sober for a split second. Eyebrows drawn, lips parted in disbelief, jaw slack with betrayal, like Kirishima had personally insulted his entire bloodline. Kirishima’s composure cracked. He snorted—hard—and covered his mouth with the back of his wrist as laughter slipped out anyway.
“I’m not stupid,” Bakugou said.
Well, he tried to say it. The tone carried: irritated, stubborn, prideful. The conviction was all there, but the delivery was a soft, slurred tangle of consonants that barely lined up with the intended words, everything guttural and warm around the edges. His hands moved with more confidence than his voice, flipping the cap off and lifting the bottle to his mouth like a man with a quest.
Kirishima nodded slowly, the smile he couldn’t hide spreading across his face. “That’s right, baby. You’re not stupid.”
He mimicked the slur just enough to tease, softening it with affection, and Bakugou’s entire face folded into the slightest pout. His brows dipped, lips pressing forward in this tiny, drunk, offended curve that lasted about half a second before the mouthwash hit him.
The mint burned hard. Bakugou didn’t react gracefully. The first swish was so aggressive it made him jerk slightly, cheeks puffed, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as the cold hit. The noise he made—loud, sloppy, half-gargle, half-cough—echoed embarrassingly loud in the small bathroom. Mouthwash slipped down his chin immediately, trailing in uneven streaks along the angle of his jaw before dripping onto the counter. He didn’t notice. He just braced his hand on the sink, swishing loudly, determinedly, like this was the most important task he’d ever undertaken.
Kirishima leaned against the door, one hand covering his mouth again, shaking his head with a helpless, lovesick smile he couldn’t hide even if he tried. He watched Bakugou swish and spill mouthwash like it required full body commitment, the sound echoing in the tiny bathroom, mint dripping down his chin in uneven trails.
When Bakugou spat into the sink—loudly, messily—Kirishima stepped forward automatically, reaching to wipe the lingering drip off his jaw, but Bakugou swatted his hand away with surprising accuracy, glaring at him through half-lidded eyes before wiping it himself with a sluggish swipe of his sleeve. Kirishima blinked, taken aback, and then laughed. “Okay—sorry. I was just trying to help.”
Bakugou stared at him with this heavy-lidded, wounded expression—full pout, full devastation, like Kirishima had personally betrayed him. “You made fun of me,” he muttered, voice thick, the words all sliding together but still clear enough to land.
Kirishima bit back another laugh and lost. “I’m so sorry, Katsuki.” He meant it, he did, but it was impossible to deliver the apology with the seriousness it deserved when Bakugou was already turning away from him, shoving his swim shorts down with pointed, dramatic avoidance like he was choosing to suffer in silence. Kirishima immediately slapped a hand over his own eyes. “Okay—okay, I’m not looking—just tell me if you fall over—”
Bakugou grumbled something incoherent that might’ve been agreement or insult, and the door mercifully shielded the rest from the outside world. A minute later, Bakugou was at the sink again, still pouting, shoulders tight, washing his hands with far too much intent and far too long under the running water. He wasn’t even really washing them—just standing there, palms under the stream, eyebrows pulled down like the universe had wronged him and this was the only control he had left.
Kirishima watched from where he leaned against the counter now, arms folded loosely, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You okay?” Bakugou didn’t look at him, didn’t answer either, just scrubbed at his hands like they’d personally offended him.
Kirishima didn’t even mean to say it with that much warmth; it just slipped out. “You know… you’re really cute when you’re upset, Katsuki. Your face—”
Bakugou’s eyes flicked up for half a second before darting away again. His mouth twitched, caught between a pout and something helplessly flustered. His shoulders tightened like the compliment physically hit him, and then—God help him—he actually tried to hide his face.
He lifted a hand but changed his mind halfway through, stumbling one step forward instead. His expression softened all at once, the pout collapsing into a shy, warm curl of his lips. Before Kirishima could blink, Bakugou leaned in, pressing his face directly into Kirishima’s chest like he was trying to burrow through him. Kirishima let out a surprised laugh, the sound bright and breathless, arms instinctively curling around him. “Aww—baby,” he murmured, his voice caught somewhere between amusement and pure affection.
He pushed his forehead harder into Kirishima’s sternum, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt like he needed something to hold onto before he dissolved on the spot. Kirishima couldn’t help it—he started laughing again, soft and sweet, tipping his head down to kiss Bakugou’s temple. Then his cheek. Then the side of his jaw. Small, playful kisses that made Bakugou’s breath stutter in his chest. The second they stepped out of the bathroom, Bakugou was still clinging to Kirishima like the world was too bright and too loud without him. His steps wobbled hard, his balance tilting every few feet, but the mint in his mouth and Kirishima’s arm under his were enough to keep him upright. He was still warm from laughing, chest loose, breath uneven but not panicked anymore.
“I love you,” he announced suddenly, nearly tripping over his own foot as they stepped into the hallway.
Kirishima barked out a laugh before he could help it. He wasn’t expecting it, not like that. Not so blunt or so loud. “Yeah, I know, baby,” he said, still laughing, still trying to steady him. “I love you too.”
Bakugou shook his head with this sloppy, determined motion, trying to push his hair out of his eyes and missing entirely. His grip tightened on Kirishima’s shirt like he had something important to say and the world was spinning too fast around it. “No,” he muttered. “You don’t—you don’t get it.”
Kirishima grinned, eyes crinkling as he tried not to burst out laughing again. “Okay, then tell me.”
Bakugou inhaled to do exactly that… and nothing came out. His mouth opened—twice—trying to catch the right words, but they scattered before he could pin them down. For a moment he just leaned harder into Kirishima, face warm, breath shaky, brows pulled together like thinking was physically painful. “I fuckin’—” He paused, blinking slowly. Then the emotion hit him.
Bakugou tried to speak again, the words catching somewhere in the middle of his chest. He blinked once, slow and heavy, and that tiny shift was all it took for the pressure behind his eyes to start building. Not a full breakdown — just the beginning of it, a warm tightening that made his vision blur at the edges. Kirishima noticed instantly.
“Oh god,” he said under his breath, half laughing, half horrified, because he could see it happening in real time — the wobble in Bakugou’s inhale, the faint gloss in his eyes, the way his mouth pulled tight like he was fighting something off and absolutely losing.
Bakugou sniffed once and attempted to speak again. “I just— I love you,” he said, but the words crumbled immediately, falling apart as they left his mouth. His voice dropped softer, and his lips trembled once, barely noticeable—except to Kirishima, who felt the shift against his shoulder.
They kept walking. Kirishima guided him carefully, one arm firm around his waist, steering him toward the kitchen without missing a step. Bakugou kept lifting his head like he planned to say something else, but every time he turned toward Kirishima, the feeling surged back up, stronger. His eyes glistened again, then again. Kirishima let out a helpless laugh, shaking his head. “Katsuki, come on,” he whispered—not to comfort him, not to tease him, just to keep him moving. He tugged Bakugou a little closer, trying to maneuver him around the corner without letting him fold in on himself.
Bakugou made a tiny sound—half breath, half emotion—and pressed his face into Kirishima’s shoulder for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, clinging with the same stubborn desperation he'd used earlier when he was drunk-pouting in the bathroom, but now the hold was softer, warmer, like the drunk part of him couldn’t keep the love inside his chest anymore.
They stepped into the kitchen light, and Bakugou blinked hard, trying to settle himself. The moment he looked up at Kirishima again—just a glance, barely a second—the warmth behind his eyes flared all over again, and a tear threatened to slip. Kirishima laughed under his breath, running his hand up Bakugou’s back, trying his best to keep them moving forward. He wasn’t treating it like a crisis; he wasn’t even treating it seriously. This was just another Bakugou Situation in a long night full of them.
They stepped into the kitchen light, and Bakugou blinked hard, trying to force his vision into one stable image. The brightness wasn’t helping, and neither was Kirishima’s face, all soft edges and half-laughs, hovering too close. Another warm pressure built behind Bakugou’s eyes. He tried to swallow it down, but a tear slipped anyway, falling right as he let out a sharp, breathless laugh. Kirishima wiped it immediately, still laughing under his breath. “Katsuki….” Bakugou didn’t even notice the tear was gone — he was already tipping forward with another burst of laughter he couldn’t control. It tore out of him loud and messy, his chest shaking, breath catching in uneven pulls. He felt light, stupid, floaty, and warm all over.
Mina nearly dropped her drink. “WHY is he crying?”
Sero blinked like Bakugou had just turned into a cryptid. “Bro, he’s glitching?”
Bakugou didn’t stay long enough to answer, didn’t even try. The first rush of humid air from the outside door brushed along the floor, and instinct took over. Before Kirishima could say a single word, Bakugou pushed off him and stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet. He caught the counter, then the wall, then nothing at all — stumbling blindly toward the sliding glass door like gravity was pulling him there. Kirishima choked on a laugh. “Katsuki—hang on—”
Too late, Bakugou collided chest-first into Kaminari who jolted like he’d been electrocuted, then instantly wrapped his arms around Bakugou like they’d rehearsed it. “BRO,” he gasped, eyes blown wide with delight. “WE’RE LEAVING, LET’S GO, LET’S GO RIGHT NOW.”
What startled him wasn’t the impact — it was the fact Kaminari didn’t immediately shove him away. Usually they both flinched off each other like touching was some kind of hazard. Physical contact wasn’t their thing, not when they were sober, not ever. They were two people who avoided casual closeness on reflex, built from the same awkward fabric when it came to warmth and proximity. But now? Kaminari’s hand closed around his arm without hesitation, steadying him. Bakugou didn’t recoil, didn’t snap. His fingers clung to Kaminari’s sleeve, using him for balance, for direction. They both leaned into each other out of necessity — but it felt strangely natural in the haze of alcohol, like the usual rules didn’t exist in this moment.
Bakugou laughed so hard he nearly folded over. “Yeah,” he slurred, grabbing a handful of Kaminari’s shirt to stay upright. “Outside. ’m going outside.”
Kaminari nodded violently, almost proud. “You and me, dude. We’re gonna WALK, straight line.” They absolutely did not walk in a straight line. They were two disasters glued together — leaning, stumbling, dragging each other, each one correcting the other’s balance only to ruin it worse. Kaminari’s laugh echoed off the walls. Bakugou’s laughter swallowed it whole. Their arms stayed hooked like they’d been doing this for years.
Sero let out a low whistle. “Look at them, that’s some real solidarity.”
They must’ve looked deranged crossing the driveway—two swaying silhouettes clinging to each other like they were tied at the hip, drifting toward the car with the kind of uncoordinated determination you only saw in toddlers and blackout drunks. The headlights washed over them, casting their shadows wide across the pavement, and all it did was highlight just how off-balance they were. Kaminari’s hand kept sliding down Bakugou’s sleeve because neither of them could walk straight, and Bakugou kept giggling against Kaminari’s shoulder like the night air itself was a punchline.
Sero stood leaning against the open car door, expression deadpan in the face of their wobbling approach. “You two look like actual alcoholics,” he said, loud and unimpressed, folding his arms in a way that screamed fatigue more than judgment. Kaminari whipped his head around at the insult like someone had just slapped him—but he turned too fast, and Bakugou’s weight followed that movement with drunken loyalty. He lost all equilibrium instantly. His foot hit the curb wrong, his knee gave out, and suddenly gravity decided the bush was the only logical destination.
There was no stumble, no frantic catch. Bakugou just disappeared into the greenery like the earth had opened and chosen him specifically. He went in face-first, chest-first, full-force, swallowed by leaves and branches in one solid thump. The bush shook under the impact like it was offended. For a second there was silence—one suspended, breathless moment with Bakugou buried so deep only the soles of his shoes were visible.
Then Kaminari absolutely detonated. The scream-laugh that ripped out of him was so loud it bounced off the quiet houses, sharp and wheezing and broken at the edges. He doubled over instantly, hands on his knees, tears streaming down his face as he tried to breathe. “BRO—BRO—” He couldn’t finish, voice slicing off into another shriek as he slapped his thigh like that might stabilize him.
Jirou stood rooted on the sidewalk, mouth wide open. Sero groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is unbelievable.”
Inside the bush, Bakugou tried to move—tried to push himself upright—but the second his hand slipped on a branch, he started laughing so hard his whole torso curled inward and his attempts at escape collapsed into more shaking. The leaves crinkled under him as he slid down another inch, practically swallowed whole, laughter breaking out of him in breathless bursts he couldn’t stop.
Kaminari stumbled forward, still laughing so violently he could barely stand, and reached in to help. He grabbed Bakugou’s wrist—missed. Tried again—missed. Their fingers grazed each other uselessly before Kaminari burst into breathless, hysterical laughter all over again, collapsing half onto the bush himself. “Bro—bro—stop, I can’t— I’m gonna die—”
Bakugou tried to grab him, their fingers slipping apart immediately in the tangle of leaves, and the failure only made him laugh harder. His body shook with it, pressed halfway into the shrub, face buried in greenery as his chest convulsed with another round of silent, airless laughter. He wasn’t even breathing properly anymore; the giggles came in violent waves he couldn’t control, turning every exhale into a wheezing noise that made Kaminari dissolve again beside him.
For a moment they were just… stuck. Two disasters caught between branches and gravity, clinging at each other’s hands and slipping every time, both too drunk to do more than lean into the hilarity and let themselves be swallowed.
Kirishima ran over at that point, breathless from laughing as he hurried across the yard. He didn’t even try to hide the smile pulling at his mouth as he crouched beside the bush. “Baby,” he managed between shaky breaths, reaching in as far as he could, “you have to give me something to grab—your shoulder—your arm—something—”
Bakugou was laughing too hard to be useful, and Kaminari was absolutely no help at all. The two of them were swallowed by the bush’s branches like idiots in a nature documentary, every attempt to pull free only sinking them deeper. Their laughter tangled together, echoing across the yard in broken, breathless bursts. Bakugou felt tears prick the corners of his eyes again—not emotional ones, just the kind that burned when your lungs couldn’t keep up with how hard you were laughing. His ribs hurt, his throat hurt, his cheeks hurt, but he couldn’t stop. Neither could Kaminari, who was folded over beside him, wheezing like he’d never recover.
Kirishima finally stepped in once it became clear neither of them were getting out alive. He didn’t bother trying to pry them apart branch by branch. Instead, he grabbed Bakugou around the waist with one arm—solid, confident, annoyingly strong—and braced his other hand against the side of Momo’s house. He hauled him out in one hard pull, the sound of snapping twigs following them like fireworks. Bakugou came out sideways, half dangling, still laughing breathlessly as Kirishima set him upright on the walkway.
Mina was already at the curb talking to the driver, hands flying as she tried to explain the situation without fully explaining the situation. Sero and Kaminari were both hooting and hollering like sports fans at a disaster game. Jirou had given up pretending to be disgusted and was now openly taking pictures, flash blinking across their faces. Bakugou wormed away from Kirishima the second he found his balance—or something pretending to be balance—and immediately gravitated back toward Kaminari like they were magnets doomed to ruin each other’s night. The two of them stumbled toward the car like overcooked noodles, limbs loose, shoulders colliding, leaning on each other every other step.
Then Bakugou saw who was in the front seats. He gasped so sharply it sounded like it hurt. “NO FUCKING WAY.” Uraraka startled, spinning around in the passenger seat with wide eyes—but the second she recognized him, she broke into a smile that was equal parts fond and horrified. Izuku looked up from his phone, and his eyes nearly doubled in size.
“Oh—wow,” Izuku breathed. “Hey, Kacchan, you—”
“I know,” Bakugou said, or tried to. What actually came out sounded like several vowels wrestling each other in his throat. “I’m VERY drunk right now—”
Kaminari interrupted him entirely, leaning into the open door with a sloppy grin. “URARAKA! MIDORIYA! WHAT’S UP!”
Uraraka and Izuku exchanged a look—one of those tiny startled laughs between two people who knew they’d been tricked into something far bigger than Mina described. “You having fun?” Uraraka called, bracing herself because the answer didn’t matter—Bakugou looked like he was three breaths away from falling over again. Bakugou nodded, a smirk crawling onto his face only to collapse into another burst of laughter as Kaminari missed the car door completely while trying to brace himself. His hand slid off the roof, and the two of them almost went straight to the pavement. Bakugou grabbed him around the waist—pure reflex, pure survival instinct—and somehow kept them both upright.
Barely.
Uraraka and Izuku were both still watching him like they couldn’t quite process the creature wobbling toward their car. Bakugou could feel their eyes on him—wide, stunned, unsure—and for a split second he wondered what he must look like to them. Not angry. Not guarded. Not prickly or sharp or ready to bite someone’s head off. Just warm and stupid and dizzy, laughing too hard to breathe, practically glued to Kaminari’s side.
He knew he didn’t act like this around them. Not ever. They’d seen pieces—tiny glimpses on better days—but nothing like this. Nothing close to this loose, this soft, this unfiltered.
He could feel their shock like a temperature shift.
Kirishima jogged up behind them, breath uneven from laughing earlier, and reached between the two blondes to try and peel Kaminari off long enough to shove him toward the back seat. Kaminari resisted, of course—half leaning, half sliding down the door, still talking at Uraraka like he had something important to say.
Bakugou didn’t resist. The second Kaminari’s weight left his side, his body drifted without thought—his balance, his gravity, his instinct all snapping in the same direction straight toward Kirishima. He turned his head to look at him, slow and heavy, and something warm surged up from his chest again. Not tears this time, just softness. That stupid, drunk, aching kind that made every line of Kirishima’s face feel important. Bakugou stared at him like Kirishima was the only stable thing in the entire spinning world.
Kirishima didn’t comment or tease or even blink at the weight suddenly on him. He just smiled—small and full and impossibly soft—like this was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers brushed through Bakugou’s hair, plucking a long green leaf stuck behind his ear, smoothing it away with a light drag of his thumb.
Sero and Jirou swooped in like exhausted EMTs the moment Kirishima freed Kaminari from Bakugou’s orbit. Kaminari immediately made the process hell, limbs flailing, insisting loudly and repeatedly that he was “FINE,” despite the fact that he kept sliding down the side of the car like he was melting. Jirou had one of his arms, Sero had the other, and the two of them were practically dragging him toward the open door as Kaminari howled protests that echoed down the street.
Kirishima stood close, one hand steady on Bakugou’s waist to keep him upright, the other brushing slowly through his hair, flicking out leaves and bits of crushed greenery from his fall. He worked with quiet focus and gentle touches, leaning in just enough that Bakugou could feel the warmth from his breath on his cheek.
Bakugou’s hands drifted upward without him telling them to, sliding around Kirishima’s neck with a loose, clumsy hold. The motion drew him closer—soft chest against firm chest, Bakugou swaying into him with the easy weight of someone who trusted the body he was leaning on more than the ground beneath his feet. He looked up at him—slow, heavy-lidded, drunker than hell—and the world blurred everywhere except Kirishima’s face.
His cheekbones were perfect. Sharp in a way that caught the porch light and softened it at the same time. His lips—God, Bakugou couldn’t stop staring—were red from laughing, full and warm-looking, the kind of red that made something low and quiet twist in Bakugou’s chest. His nose had this gentle curve to it, not quite straight, not imperfect either—just right. So right Bakugou couldn’t look away.
Kirishima kept brushing leaves from his hair, unaware of the study being conducted inches below him. Bakugou’s fingers tightened at the nape of his neck. Not rough, not demanding—just steady. Steady enough that Kirishima finally glanced down at him with a small, crooked smile.
“You’re a mess,” Kirishima murmured, voice soft enough that Bakugou felt it rather than heard it. Bakugou didn’t answer. He didn’t have words. Not when Kirishima looked like this—glowing under the streetlight, eyes warm, lips parted from breathless laughter, freckles faint across his cheekbones like someone had painted them there on purpose.
Before he could stop himself—before he could even realize he was speaking—Bakugou breathed, “You’re so beautiful.” The words were soft, slurred, but so painfully sincere that Izuku actually let out a startled little laugh from the front seat. Kirishima snorted, bright red at the ears, the sound sharp with surprise and affection.
“Thank you, baby,” he said quickly—so quickly it sounded like one long word, as if he was trying to outrun the moment before Bakugou could throw another emotional grenade. “You’re very handsome. Will you get in the car, please?”
He said it in a single breath, equal parts fond and desperately herding a drunk cat toward safety. His hand skimmed down Bakugou’s arm, guiding him closer to the open door. Then he tossed Uraraka and Izuku a look that screamed sorry, sorry, sorry as if the whole night hadn’t gone off the rails hours ago. They maneuvered Bakugou into the very back seat—partly because he was the drunkest, partly because Kaminari had latched onto him again like a barnacle. Bakugou sank into the seat between Kaminari and Mina, head lolling to one side, still watching Kirishima with that soft, heavy-lidded adoration that refused to fade.
Mina immediately threw an arm over Bakugou’s shoulder like she’d waited all night to trap him there, Kaminari leaning into his other side with the dead weight of someone whose legs had fully retired. The two of them sandwiched him so tightly he couldn’t even slump forward. Kirishima, Jirou, and Sero squeezed into the row in front of them, shoulders pressed together like sardines, all of them exhausted but still buzzing from the chaos. Someone—probably Uraraka—reached back blindly and passed a plastic bag over the seat. It hit Kirishima’s shoulder first, then Jirou’s elbow, then finally landed in Sero’s hand. He twisted around and offered it to Bakugou with grim seriousness. “Just in case,” he said.
Bakugou blinked at it, eyelashes heavy, mind warm and slow. He didn’t grab it, he grabbed Kirishima’s sleeve instead, fingers curling, tugging him back just far enough that Kirishima could see the tiny, soft smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re so beautiful,” Bakugou whispered again. Kirishima dropped his head forward, laughing helplessly into his hands, and the car finally pulled away from Momo’s house.
Bakugou barely lasted thirty seconds once the car started moving.
Mina shifted to get comfortable and his whole body followed the movement, melting sideways until his cheek found her shoulder like it was the softest thing he’d ever touched. His breath slowed almost instantly—heavy, warm exhales brushing her collarbone, his hand still half-curled in Kirishima’s sleeve until Kirishima gently pried it loose. Mina glanced down at him, eyes wide, then whispered toward the front, “Oh my god… we lost him.”
Kaminari giggled next to him, already half-asleep himself. “He’s—he’s gone, dude.”
Bakugou didn’t hear any of it, didn’t feel the car turning, didn’t notice Kirishima twisting in his seat to check on him one last time. His eyelids dropped, heavy and warm, the world tilting softly until everything slipped away.
He was out.
Completely.
Dead to the night.