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Bakugou was not new to the idea of ambiguity. He could tango with the concept across the sparse conditionality of a ballroom, and still find a way to lay down his head by 8 pm. It was daring as it was exquisite.
The bottom of Midoriya’s drink spilled on the floor in a series of wet dribbles, like he couldn’t hold it and Bakugou at the same time.
Of course, he couldn’t last in the song and dance forever. He had to draw the line some time, but he found himself reaching for the chalk of a zipper instead, penning the lines with something far less permanent, and far more ignored.
No, Bakugou could not be trusted with permanence. In the end, he knew it. Which is why he consented to this treatment of his body, putting an erotic twist on the afternoon to save face.
Lips of another person were hot. The sensation they send through you is molten. This isn’t new information, really, it’s the reason people still exist in the first place. Provocative touch and sex. alcohol came later, but is still a key ingredient of the fucked up maneuver called “reproduction.”
Of course, one plus one doesn’t always equal three, getting frisky in the sheets is subjective and an art. He wasn’t new to this. He frequently finger-painted hues into Midoriya’s skin with his nails. Chalking it up to their old routines to hurt and kill each other.
Old habits bruise hard.
Bakugou adjusted his waistband futilely.
Midoriya, as much as it pained Bakugou to admit, did not deserve a title so low as ‘average lover,’ nor an inexperienced one. He worked him like Bakugou would work himself.
How did he know?
Bakugou deposited his bottle to the floor with a heavy hand — it’s not broken. Good. That would’ve been the second one tonight, and Bakugou isn’t too keen on making the scene any wetter.
How could he know?
Midoriya’s eyes are a verdant fire when he pulls from him, panting; and they carry a confidence Bakugou’s never quite sure is feigned.
‘I love you’ he wants to say.
He looks at his lips, memorizing them by sight instead of feel. Tracing one hand across his freckled cheek.
“Izuku.” He murmurs, instead.
One beat. Two. His mouth is molten and mortal.
so he allows Midoriya to kiss him. Need him. Respect him. He accepted his fingers with grace, although they were utterly uncoordinated and tacky with sweat.
Bakugou let himself to open his mouth to steal more of him. Like Midoriya was a two-step sweet disaster of a mistake. Hopscotching his way across his heart in a series of heated pops and fizzles. An elusive victory.
Every muscle in Bakugou’s fiber told him to win. He was not one to be rational, and he sure as hell wouldn’t start now.
Midoriya laid his hands on him like he meant it. Suddenly confident although he really shouldn’t be. Bakugou’s minefield of a quirk reflected its theme across his being. In short, he was not easy to please. Still, Midoriya was here. Placing little red flags with precise jerks of his hips.
They both moved before they could think, tonight.
Bakugou was well known for his selfishness. He knit words into tongue twisters, a manipulative manifesto of “this, that, and the other” all at the same time. His sentences all double entendres that he hoped conveyed his internal war.
Bakugou frequently lied. Liquor did not.
It was always a warm comfort in the bottom of an empty stomach. Disgusting, rancid bottled love. It felt like claws in his groin, a heavy weight and impossibly dangerous.
Or, maybe that was just his belt he was struggling to shuck with the person pressing against it. He couldn’t quite control his hands. Forgive him if he touched a nerve.
Midoriya.
He pressed on the skin underneath an elastic band, feeling a frantic pulse underneath his fingertips.
Bakugou entertained the selfish thought of wanting to see him unravel. Disheveled and sweaty and satiated.
Screw him, everyone knew he was awful anyway, how would it hurt to lean into it? All he got that might’ve been positive was alcohol on swollen lips and a heart rubbed raw. He got no gratification from this. Just shame, disgust, and some momentary pleasure.
He couldn’t kick the dick from his mouth for shit, the desperate needy asshole he was.
The weight on his chest receded.
“You’re too drunk.” Midoriya slurred, equally shitfaced.
“The fuck?!” Bakugou asked, incredulous, sitting up on the soft loveseat they had found themselves on. It was an irritating shade of red. “Asshole. I was just starting to think poetically.”
“What? The fuck?” Midoriya reared, sliding down onto the floor, drunkenly, avoiding any spilled alcohol by sheer luck. He was leaning back against the loveseat Bakugou was now sprawled on. The aforementioned eyed his zipped-down pants, the fucker just having been excited as he was. Why the hell did he stop? “You think poetically when we-?”
“Yes, fuckass twerp. I’ll kill you.” Bakugou wiped at his lips with the back of his hand, flushed from either the drinks or embarrassment. Neither of them were sure.
Midoriya barked a fit of laughter.
“Damn it, stop laughing!”
“Kacchan, where are we?” Midoriya grinned like he wasn’t asking a question. Tripping on the shoelace that was his tongue.
Bakugou searched his memory anyway, drawing blank after blank.
“On a loveseat, dipshit.”
“You’re on a loveseat. I’m on the floor.” Midoriya said, like he was proud of being fundamentally lower. It disgusted Bakugou.
“Well you chose to be there.” He fumbled while reclipping his belt, the mood officially tarnished. Whatever. He could work the frustration off later, not totally oblivious to the fact he had a right hand.
“Or be square.” Midoriya tapped at his temple, or, at least tried to; proprioception failed and made his finger glide right on by his eye and connect with his nose bridge. Over and over.
“That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You hear your own voice daily Kacchan.”
“What!?”
“I think you just love to hear yourself talk.” He dug further, grinning. Midoriya brought Bakugou’s bottle of something to his lips, and Bakugou knew well enough to snatch it from him. Lord knows he would probably end up hospitalized if he had one more drink. “No one else does, though.”
“Damn it Izuku, I’ll fucking strangle you right here and now.” He held up the bottle threateningly for show.
Midoriya laughed and hicced, not even showing a smidgen of fear. Bakugou hand dropped, and placed the alcohol out of his arm's reach. “You aren’t any fun.”
“Me!? I-!? You just-!” Bakugou threw his hands up, cursing the world.
He grahhed, and Midoriya gazed at a wall with a small smile, knees hiked against his chest.
Bakugou thought he was beautiful, still.
Flushed and neck red.
Hesitant.
Bakugou made to move to card his fingers through Midoriya’s hair from where he could reach. Gentle in his strategic advance across his scalp. He knew he won when he subconsciously leaned into his fingertips.
“Kacchan.” He said, intimately. Drunk. Sad. Tired.
“Yeah.” He stated. “Don’t wear it out.”
“Kacchan.” He felt his own lips betrayingly curl into a smile. Soft.
“Izuku.”
At this, he got a funny little exhale. A shaky thing. Like it couldn’t quite decide what it wanted to be yet. But it was too old, now, already having left the confines of Midoriya’s trembling lips. Too little too late.
It seems the emotions leaked too much too fast. Midoriya couldn’t handle the toll long enough to take it out on Bakugou.
The drunkenness didn’t help.
“Izuku.” He said, like he could pierce through the layers of his repressed traumas.
“I’m fine.”
Bakugou swallowed roughly.
“I know.” He stated, instead of saying the obvious. What was he to do? Midoriya would only deny it.
Midoriya denied everything, hiding from himself. Just as Bakugou did to hoards of people.
After a few excruciating moments, Midoriya blabbered. “I didn’t mean it.”
“What?”
“I like your voice.”
He snorted. Perplexed. Knowing that wasn’t what Midoriya was crying about. He had to be apologizing for something else.
But what?
“I know.” Bakugou took a strand of his hair from the root, gently running his fingers up and along it until it reached the tips. Then, he let go and repeat.
He felt Midoriya’s head turn to look at him. The ceiling suddenly really really interesting.
Midoriya shifted again. Looking back at the wall.
“Do you think it will always be like this?”
“Like what?” Bakugou said, because he couldn’t read minds, although he could get pretty damn close with Izuku; he’s made it a point to stare skywards. Probably to dissuade something from leaking out of his tear ducts, knowing it had no use, but all the reason.
“Like an itch I can’t scratch.”
“That’s just how it works.” The cookie was crumbling. Both of them would just have to deal with it, like they always had.
“Does it have to be?” Midoriya answered vaguely.
They were a sinking ship, and what it meant to not abandon it.
Bakugou thought. He thought long and hard.
Yes. It does.
“Izuku.” He says, instead. Like a coward.
“Why?” Midoriya responds, meekly
“What is this about?” Bakugou focused on the hair underneath his hand, blinking at the ceiling with tired eyes.
“Everything was fine.” Midoriya shook his head. “I was happy. I, well.. I am happy, really.” He spoke like if he said it enough times it would become true. Spitting words like they weren’t fundamentally confusing. Bakugou somehow understood, though.
“Yeah?” Bakugou said, to encourage him to talk. Gently prying Midoriya open.
“Then it all just..” Midoriya softly softly clapped. “I’m twenty six, now. It’s all hitting me again.”
Bakugou stared, wide eyed at the ceiling.
“I mean, you died. I was targeted by a world ending threat. I had people in my head.” Midoriya smiled darkly, even if Bakugou couldn’t see it he sure as hell heard it. “And I thought I got over it. I thought it was all..” he gestured widely. “Done. I moved on. I was fine.”
He wasn’t ever, really. Bakugou knew he just suppressed everything. But what was he to say then? It’s not like he could’ve forced Midoriya to drink.
Now shit was hitting the fan, and Bakugou regret not forcing his head into the goddamn water.
“I can’t get over it. You’re alive but.. sometimes you're not.”
Bakugou frowned at the reminder.
“I’m not dead, Izuku.” He remembered how Midoriya barely smiled for an entire year, and his frown deepened.
“It’s been 10 years, today.” Midoriya stated, dryly laughing at the absurdity of it. “I’ve had 10 fucking years. Why am I not over it?”
Oh. Right.
It’s like their bodies knew the date better than their brains.
“8 people, Kacchan. Gone. I talked to them for months.” He met Midoriya’s hand when he tried to shift his own fingers through his hair.
“Shigaraki died. He died and I couldn’t do a thing about it.”
Bakugou killed someone that day.
A horrible, deplorable person. He killed him like he had the right to play executioner. But Midoriya was different. Shigaraki was someone who was caught up in something and groomed to advocate for the wrong side.
Midoriya had really wanted to help him.
Instead, 9 people ceased to exist
Bakugou interlocked their fingers, then brought them from his head. Instead, resting their hands on one of Midoriya’s shoulders.
“And I was sixteen.” He shook his head. “I was sixteen Kacchan. I should’ve been doing my Trigonometry homework.”
God, they had both been so young.
Bakugou felt something warm slide down his cheeks. He ignored it.
He didn’t talk in fear it might reflect in his voice. Blamed it on the alcohol. Remembering. Yearning for the highschool experience they didn’t have.
It shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did, but he found himself wanting to be a kid more than anything. When shoes could possibly be too big. When he actually believed he was a good person. And fuck. He was disillusioned. He knew that. But you’d never expect being uneducated to feel so goddamn good.
Now he has a kick drum pounding in his chest. Achy, raw, and tired.
He's 26.
Midoriya is here beside him, crying enough for the both of them for something they would never have.
He wouldn’t allow himself to burn his thighs with regrets. Nor would he pretend to forget the things haunting him through shallow sex. It wasn’t realistic. He was closer to 30 than 20, and couldn’t do this forever.
So, he said something he hadn’t vocalized ever. Period. Memento mori.
“I’m sorry, Izuku.” He said, like he meant it — god, it felt like he had. The phrase was oozing with something thick, and wet with his tears.
Midoriya exhaled another shaky breath. Like he couldn’t believe it. Bakugou couldn’t believe it himself. He didn’t know what he was even apologizing for.
“Kacchan.” Don’t.
“I love you.” He said, unafraid. Finishing it.
Finally..
…
Midoriya squeezed his hand, bowing his head into his knees. Bakugou felt his shoulders jerk underneath his arm, but somehow heard no sound. He wondered how experienced Midoriya was in that.
He sat up, like he was brave. 22 years since he said it, 22 years too long. “Izuku, I love you.”
“Don’t.” Because despite how Midoriya was one to challenge the narrative, he felt no qualms letting this one go without a fight. They had their lives pre-carved in ambiguity.
What if Bakugou just wanted a moment of clarity?
He looked at the back of his head, fingers still intertwined. “Izuku, I love you.”
“Damn it, shut the hell up.” Midoriya sobbed into the fingers of his free hand. Bakugou could tell he was biting into them to try and mute himself. “Don’t say stupid crap you don’t mean.”
Bakugou tried to ignore the lance of hurt the words shot through him.
Midoriya pulled from his knees, looking up at Bakugou with teary, angry eyes.
And shit. He was beautiful.
Cheeks tinted pink and lips swollen and wet, hair caressing his forehead. Tears falling down his face like they were racing to meet the floor.
“Izuku.” He said, softly. Voice wavering. Shifting forward. He felt something light and warm drip down his nose bridge. “I mean it.”
Midoriya’s anger broke, lip wobbling, releasing his hold on Bakugou’s hand to try and hide it.
“I mean it.” He repeated as he put the back of his fingers against Midoriya’s cheek, thumbing away tears. Softly pressuring him to keep looking.
Please.
“Why?” Midoriya whispered, voice nasally.
Bakugou sighed in an admiring way, eyebrows pinching into something soft.
“Because I..” his teeth clicked together as he hesitated. Looking away.
What was he doing?
“I..I’m sorry.”
Midoriya looked at him with a sudden doubt.
He broke from his gaze.
“I’m calling you an uber”
“Izuku-“ he said, voice watery and catching.
“You're not in your right mind.” Midoriya took his hand back, using his palms to smooth out his forehead.
“I’d say the same damn thing sober.” Bakugou stood up. Wanting to make him feel small. Wanting to make a point. “And you fucking know it.”
“Please, Kacchan. Not tonight.” Midoriya slid one leg from underneath himself, wobbly standing up.
Bakugou sighed tersely. All teeth. Fighting his own lips to straighten.
“Fine.” He shook his head, hands slapping on his thighs after he made an aggressive, carefree gesture. “Fine.”
Midoriya, realizing his wine-stain mistake, shifted. “You know that’s not-“
“I’m walking.” He blundered past him, grabbing a discarded zip up jacket he recognized was a gift from Midoriya a while back. He shouldered it over his bare skin, only now realizing how cold he was.
“Kacchan, your apartment is miles away.”
“Fuck off.“
“Let me get you a ride-“
“I said leave me alone, okay!?” Bakugou sent a look he knew was murderous over his shoulder.
Midoriya took a small step backwards, and Bakugou scoffed.
Coward.
He stumbled past the door of a private room. Feeling more sober than he’s ever been before.
And he regret.