Chapter 7: Collision Course
The bell above the takoyaki shop door jingled again, too loud in the sudden silence. Bakugou kept his eyes on the plastic menu, the words swimming in front of him. Octopus Special. Cheese Mix. Negi. He could feel the weight of their stares on his back—Uraraka’s shock, Iida’s concern, Kirishima’s silent support from the doorway.
And him. He didn’t need to turn to know Izuku was looking. He could feel it, a prickle on the nape of his neck, a current in the greasy air.
“That’ll be five minutes,” the elderly cook behind the counter said, not looking up from his griddle.
Bakugou grunted in acknowledgment. He moved to the side, leaning against a wall adorned with faded beer posters, crossing his arms. A fortress of one. He stared at the floor, at a crack in the linoleum that had been filled with grime. Pay attention to the space between action and reaction. Right now, the action was standing still. The reaction was the frantic hammering of his heart. He focused on his breathing. Out. No sparks.
From the booth, he heard the murmur of resumed conversation, deliberately hushed. A chair scraped. Light footsteps approached.
He didn’t look up.
“Kacchan.”
The old childhood name, here in this cramped, smelling shop, was a direct hit to a fresh wound. Bakugou’s jaw tightened. He lifted his gaze, but not all the way to Izuku’s face. He stared at the collar of his stupid green jacket, at the edge of a white bandage peeking out. The bite mark. His mark.
“What.” It wasn’t a question.
“Your order’s to go,” Izuku said. His voice was quiet, but there was a thread of something new in it. Not fear. Not admiration. A terrible, gentle firmness.
“No shit.”
“You could sit with us.”
“I’m fine here.”
The cook called out a number. Not his. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid: the rooftop, the bite, the crying in the bathroom he was certain Izuku could somehow sense.
“You can’t just…” Izuku trailed off, then tried again. “You don’t have to stand by yourself.”
That did it. Bakugou’s eyes snapped up, meeting Izuku’s. The concern there, the open, messy care, was like a physical blow. It made him want to scream. Or shatter. “Stop,” he growled, the sound low and dangerous. “Stop acting like you know what I need.”
“I know you’re hurting,” Izuku said, and he took one small step closer. The scent of him, fabric softener and ozone from his quirk, cut through the smell of fried food. “I saw you. After your session. You looked…”
“I looked what?” Bakugou pushed off the wall, crowding into Izuku’s space, using his height, his presence, as a weapon. The old script. “Say it. Go on.”
Izuku didn’t flinch. His green eyes, wide and earnest, searched Bakugou’s face, tracing the evidence the cold water in the bathroom hadn’t been able to erase. The faint redness. The pallor. The absolute exhaustion in the set of his mouth.
“You looked lost,” Izuku whispered.
The therapist’s word. His own word, thrown back at him with devastating accuracy. The air left Bakugou’s lungs. The fight drained out of him, leaving a hollow, shaky feeling. He looked away, towards the door. The alley. Escape.
He moved. Not towards the counter, not towards the booth. He shouldered past Izuku, ignoring Uraraka’s soft “Bakugou?”, and pushed back out into the cool spring afternoon. The bell jangled, mocking.
He didn’t go far. The alley beside the shop was a tight canyon of brick and stacked crates, smelling of garbage and damp concrete. He got about ten feet in before he stopped, bracing a hand against the cold wall, head bowed. Running. Always running. Pathetic.
The door opened again. Light footsteps. He didn’t have to turn.
“Go away, Deku.”
“No.”
Izuku followed him into the alley, cornering him against the brick wall. The air was cooler here, thick with the scent of sweet batter and soy sauce from the shop’s vent. A stray cat watched from atop a crate, eyes glowing in the dim light.
Izuku’s hands came up, trembling slightly, not to grab or to fight, but to hover near Bakugou’s face. His fingertips were close enough for Bakugou to feel their warmth. “You were crying,” Izuku whispered, his voice breaking on the word.
Bakugou shuddered. A full-body recoil that had nowhere to go. The wall was at his back. Izuku was in front of him. Trapped. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” Izuku’s thumb brushed, just once, a feather-light touch beneath Bakugou’s red-rimmed eye, catching a residual dampness he’d missed. “It’s just me.”
That was the whole fucking problem. It was just him. It had always been just him, seeing past the bluster and the explosions to the raw, ugly wiring underneath. The one person whose perception he couldn’t control, couldn’t bully into seeing only what he wanted to show.
Bakugou growled, a low, animal sound of pure frustration, but he didn’t pull away. He was so tired. The crumbling in the bathroom, the therapist’s surgical words, the effort of walking in and ordering food—it had all scraped him down to the nerve.
Izuku took the lack of violent rejection as permission. He stepped in closer, eliminating the last inches of space between them. He didn’t kiss him. He pressed their foreheads together, a simple, devastating point of contact. His curls were soft against Bakugou’s skin. His breathing was uneven.
Bakugou’s eyes slid shut. The warmth was an agony. A relief.
“Just tell me,” Izuku murmured, the words a vibration between them. “Tell me what to do. Do you want me to leave you alone? Do you want me to pretend nothing’s happening? I will. If that’s what you need, I’ll do it. But you have to say it.”
The choice. It lived here, in the dark behind his eyelids, with the scent of Izuku filling his senses. The old action was to shove, to insult, to burn the bridge. The reaction he wanted… he didn’t know what the reaction he wanted was.
“I can’t,” Bakugou ground out, the admission torn from him. “I can’t do this. The talking. The… feeling shit. I don’t know how.”
“So let me help.”
“You can’t fix me.” It came out as a snarl.
“I’m not trying to fix you!” Izuku’s own frustration bubbled up, his hands fisting in the fabric of Bakugou’s shirt at his sides, not to hold him down, but to anchor himself. “I’m trying to know you. The real you. The one that’s under all the… the Dynamight. The one who’s scared.”
“I’m not scared of anything.”
“You’re scared of this.” Izuku shifted, his nose brushing against Bakugou’s. “Of me knowing you. That’s the only thing that’s ever really scared you.”
Bakugou’s control, the last thin wire holding him together, snapped. Not into anger, but into a raw, unfiltered honesty that felt like freefall. “Of course I’m scared!” he exploded, his voice cracking, echoing off the alley walls. The cat fled. “You see everything! And you’re still here! Why are you still here? After everything I’ve done. After what I did to you.” His eyes flicked to the bandage. “I hurt you. I keep hurting you. That’s what I do.”
Izuku was silent for a long moment, just breathing against him. Then, quietly: “You also came to the same lunch place. You walked in. You’re standing here letting me touch you. That’s not nothing, Kacchan.”
“It’s not enough,” Bakugou whispered, defeated.
“It’s a start.” Izuku pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were bright, wet. “You start where you are. You don’t have to have all the answers. You just have to… not run.”
“I want to run.”
“I know.” A faint, sad smile touched Izuku’s lips. “So the fact that you haven’t is pretty amazing.”
Bakugou looked at him—really looked. At the freckles, at the determined set of his mouth, at the unwavering trust in his gaze that felt like a lifeline and a condemnation all at once. This was the dangerous game. Letting someone in meant giving them the map to all your weak points. Letting Izuku in was like handing him a detonator and praying he had kinder fingers than you did.
He moved. It wasn’t a decision; it was a gravitational pull. He closed the small distance Izuku had created, his mouth finding Izuku’s in a clash that was more desperation than passion. It wasn’t gentle. It was a confirmation, a messy, teeth-clacking statement. I’m here. I’m still here.
Izuku gasped into the kiss, his hands sliding up to cup Bakugou’s jaw, his thumbs stroking the high, tense bones of his cheeks. He didn’t try to soften the kiss, just met its frantic energy with his own, accepting the storm.
When they broke apart, both were breathing heavily, foreheads resting together again.
“Your food’s probably ready,” Izuku mumbled, his lips swollen.
“Screw the food.”
A real, small laugh escaped Izuku. “Kirishima paid for it. He’ll be pissed.”
“Let him be.”
They stood like that for another minute, in the dim alley, hidden from the street. The world narrowed to the point where their skin met. Bakugou’s mind, for once, was quiet. No strategy, no self-loathing, no future-tripping fear. Just the solid feel of Izuku against him, the faint taste of soy sauce on his lips, the hum of the city beyond the bricks.
Finally, Izuku sighed. “We have to go back in.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
Bakugou considered the question. He wasn’t okay. He was a long way from okay. He felt scraped raw, fragile as a cracked egg. But he wasn’t running. And the person who saw all the broken parts was holding him together with his bare hands.
“Yeah,” he said, and it wasn’t quite a lie. “For now.”
Izuku nodded. He took a step back, his hand sliding down to capture Bakugou’s. His grip was firm, calloused from years of fighting. He didn’t let go. “Okay then. Come on. One step at a time.”
He led him back towards the light and the noise of the shop. Bakugou followed, his hand in Izuku’s, the anchor point both a tether and a lifeline. The bell jingled as they re-entered, together.
Three faces looked up from the booth. Kirishima’s expression shifted from worry to a wide, relieved grin. Uraraka’s eyes went comically wide again, darting to their joined hands. Iida adjusted his glasses, a slow, approving nod in Bakugou’s direction.
On the counter, a warm paper boat of takoyaki sat steaming, waiting.
“Took you long enough,” Kirishima said, his voice deliberately light. “Your food’s getting cold, man.”
Bakugou didn’t let go of Izuku’s hand. He walked to the counter, picked up the food with his free hand, and turned to face the room. The space between action and reaction. He could let go, sit alone, revert. Or.
He looked at Izuku, who gave his hand a small, encouraging squeeze.
Bakugou walked to the booth and slid in next to Kirishima, pulling Izuku in after him to sit at his side, their shoulders pressed together from hip to shoulder. He put the takoyaki in the middle of the table.
“Anyone want some?” he muttered, not looking at anyone, staring fixedly at the steaming balls of dough.
The silence at the table was profound, then shattered by Kirishima’s booming laugh. “Hell yeah I do! You owe me for that bathroom door, by the way.”
Uraraka giggled, her tension melting. Iida began a lecture on the importance of communal sharing of resources.
Izuku, still holding Bakugou’s hand under the table, leaned his head briefly against his shoulder. The weight was slight, but it was everything.
Bakugou didn’t smile. But the rigid line of his shoulders dropped, just a fraction. He was in the room. He was staying. For now, it was the most terrifying and real victory he’d ever known.