Chapter Text
“Mandatory Halloween Bash!!!”
🎃👻 Come as your biological gender! 🎃👻
Costumes required. No exceptions.
The flyer was taped to the wall just outside the common room — obnoxiously orange, with flickering bat-shaped holograms and a little pumpkin that laughed when you walked past it.
Kirishima stared at it too long.
“Gross,” Bakugou muttered behind him. “What, the 1800s called and wanted their stupid fucking rules back?”
Kirishima gave a weak laugh.
“It’s just a theme,” he said, too casually. “Tradition or whatever.”
“Sounds like bullshit.”
Kirishima didn’t respond. His fingers clenched in the pocket of his hoodie.
Bakugou narrowed his eyes. “You okay?”
Kirishima nodded too quickly. “Yeah! Just, uh, thinking of costume ideas. That’s all.”
Bakugou didn’t push. But he didn’t walk away, either.
Kirishima waited until everyone was asleep before pulling out the old box from under his bed.
He hadn’t touched it since moving into the dorms, where he could finally be — messy, in progress, but himself. No more hiding clothes in the back of his closet. No more pretending.
But now…
He pulled out the costume his mom had mailed him over the summer. A traditional miko outfit — red hakama pants, white kimono top. The kind of thing shrine maidens wore during festivals.
It wasn’t just that it was feminine. It was that it was before. A version of him soaked in discomfort. A mask he’d burned, only for U.A. to try and tape it back on.
All because he hadn’t updated the school system.
All because his file still said female.
He sat on the floor, holding the fabric like it might bite.
At breakfast, Kirishima barely touched his food. He wasn’t sad, exactly — just… not here.
Bakugou noticed. Of course he did.
“You get that costume idea yet?” he asked, stabbing his rice.
Kirishima tensed. “Sort of.”
Bakugou watched him, sharp and quiet. Then: “You’re not going.”
Kirishima didn’t answer.
“You’re not going because of that rule, aren’t you?”
Still, silence.
Bakugou’s voice lowered. “You’re trans.”
Kirishima flinched — not at the word, but how it was said.
Like a truth.
Like it was okay.
He nodded, just once.
Bakugou leaned back, jaw tight. “You haven’t changed your records yet?”
“Didn’t get it all sorted in time,” Kirishima muttered. “Too much red tape. Too many questions I’m not ready to answer.”
Bakugou’s fists clenched. “So because some crusty-ass policy wants to mislabel you, you’re stuck choosing between lying or outing yourself?”
Kirishima looked away.
Then, softly: “I thought I’d just wear it. The costume. Blend in. Get it over with.”
“The hell you will.”
Kirishima blinked.
“You’re going,” Bakugou said. “But not like that. Not as someone you’re not.”
Kirishima frowned. “But what else—”
“I’ll help you put something together,” Bakugou said. “Something that’s you. We’ll make it a costume they won’t know what to do with.”
“Bakugou…”
He crossed his arms. “I’ll go over the top. Full glam. Make so much noise no one even looks at you weird. Hell, I’ll wear heels if I have to.”
Kirishima stared. Then, quietly, he smiled.
The party was chaos.
Students swirled around the gym in polyester, glitter, and bad wigs. Some leaned into the theme. Others mocked it. The air smelled like sugar and dry ice.
Kirishima stood just outside the doors, heart hammering.
He tugged self-consciously at the hem of his outfit — black fitted pants tucked into tall combat boots, a red mesh top under an open black robe-sleeved jacket that flowed when he walked. His makeup was subtle but sharp — liner like warpaint, glitter at his temples. His hair was gelled just enough to look intentional, swept up like a manga protagonist.
He looked in the mirror before he left and didn’t see a girl.
Didn’t see a boy either.
He just saw himself.
People turned when he entered. They looked. But no one laughed. They just… stared.
And then—
“Outta my way, extras!”
Bakugou stormed in after him — strutting in full Gothic Victorian widow drag. Corset, lace gloves, dramatic train. His lipstick was smudged on purpose. His heels clicked with every step like he owned the place.
“Holy shit,” someone whispered.
Kirishima stared. “You actually—”
“I committed,” Bakugou said, planting himself next to him. “Gotta make a statement, right?”
Kirishima tried not to grin. Failed.
“You’re ridiculous.”
Bakugou shrugged. “And you’re not alone.”
Something twisted in Kirishima’s chest — not shame, but relief. Solid and grounding.
Later, under fake cobwebs and floating candles, Bakugou held out a hand.
Kirishima stared at it.
Then took it.
They danced — awkward, swaying, half-laughing.
Two monsters in a room full of masks.
But together.
“You gonna fix the records?” Bakugou asked, voice low.
“Yeah,” Kirishima said. “Soon.”
“You better. ‘Cause next time, I’m going full Sailor Moon.”
Kirishima snorted. “You’d kill in a miniskirt.”
“Damn right I would.”
Kirishima smiled — the kind that stuck.