Chapter 8: Burning Bridges
The takoyaki was gone, reduced to a greasy paper boat and a scattering of picked-at ginger. The air in the booth, once charged with a fragile, new understanding, had begun to curdle into something else. The initial relief had worn off, leaving behind the unaddressed reality of the past hour—the shattered door, the tears, the explosive history that sat at their table like a fifth, unwelcome guest.
Bakugou had managed to eat one piece, the warmth doing little to settle the cold knot in his stomach. Izuku’s knee was pressed against his under the table, a steady, silent point of contact. Kirishima kept up a stream of chatter about his latest agency’s rock-climbing wall, a deliberate lifeline of normalcy. Iida was quiet, methodically wiping his fingers on a napkin, his glasses hiding his eyes. And Uraraka…
Uraraka hadn’t said a word since they’d sat back down. She’d been staring at her phone, then out the window, then at her hands. The cheerful concern from earlier had hardened into a tense, silent observation. She watched Izuku’s slight lean toward Bakugou. She saw the way Bakugou’s thumb, hidden below the table, was moving in a slow, unconscious arc over Izuku’s knuckles. Her own best friend, the one who’d cried to her about confusing feelings and bitten shoulders and heartache, was now tethered to the source of that pain.
Kirishima’s story trailed off. The silence that followed was different. It was heavy, expectant. The kind that demanded to be filled.
Uraraka looked up, her brown eyes sharp. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quiet but clear, cutting through the last pretense. “I can’t keep doing this.” She focused squarely on Bakugou. “Am I supposed to just sit here with you, the one who’s caused my best friend so much pain? Without an explanation? We hear a door break, we find you… like that, and then you come back holding hands and everything’s just supposed to be okay?”
Bakugou went very still. The point of contact with Izuku’s knee became a bar of iron. He could feel it, the old fury, a welcome and familiar fuel, starting to pump in response to the accusation. It was easier than the vulnerability. It was a trapdoor he knew how to fall through.
Iida removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” he began, his tone gravely serious. “But she’s right. There’s a serious talk we need to have. This volatility, Bakugou… it impacts the team. It impacts Izuku. We’ve all seen the pattern for years, but what happened today felt different. More damaging. As your friends, we can’t ignore it.”
Every word was a match tossed onto kindling. Bakugou’s body tensed, a coil winding tighter with each syllable. His shoulders squared, his free hand curling into a fist on the tabletop. He could hear the small, warning pops in his palm, smell the sharp tang of nitroglycerin beginning to seep from his skin. He was a breath away from detonation, from blowing the fragile peace of the last thirty minutes into splinters. His vision narrowed to Iida’s stern face, to Uraraka’s hurt-filled eyes. Defenses slammed into place, armed and ready to launch a scorched-earth counterattack.
Izuku saw it happen. He saw the shutters fall behind Bakugou’s eyes, the red irises glazing over with militant fury. He felt the tremor in the hand he held, not of fear, but of impending, catastrophic release. The words were forming in Bakugou’s throat—ugly, brutal words that would sever every tie in this booth.
He couldn’t let it happen. Not after the alley. Not after the “I’m still here.”
Before Bakugou could speak, before the first syllable of destruction could leave his lips, Izuku moved.
He let go of Bakugou’s hand only to twist in the tight booth space. He reached up, his fingers sliding into the spiky, ash-blond hair at the nape of Bakugou’s neck. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled Bakugou’s face toward his own and kissed him.
It wasn’t like the alley. That had been a desperate, private collision. This was public, declarative. A firm, closed-mouth press of lips that was less about passion and more about a radical, unmistakable intervention. A circuit breaker.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute.
Bakugou’s building explosion snuffed out. His body, wound tight as a spring, froze. His eyes, wide open, stared into Izuku’s, which were shut in fierce concentration. The scent of ozone and caramelized sugar filled the space between them.
At the table, the world stopped.
Kirishima’s jaw went slack. Iida’s glasses slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the formica table. Uraraka’s hand flew to her mouth, a stifled gasp the only sound.
Izuku held the kiss for three full seconds—a lifetime in the silent booth—before pulling back just an inch. He kept his hand on Bakugou’s neck, his own breath coming fast. He didn’t look at the others. He looked only at Bakugou, whose expression was one of pure, uncomprehending shock.
“There’s your explanation,” Izuku said, his voice low but unwavering, meant for everyone and no one but the man in front of him.
Bakugou blinked, the world swimming back into a focus that felt alien and too-bright. The heat that had been gathering in his palms rushed north, flooding his neck, his ears, his entire face with a scalding, unmistakable crimson. He could feel it, a prickle of fire across his skin. His mouth, still tingling from the contact, worked soundlessly for a second.
“Wh— you— what the hell—” he stammered, the words tripping over his tongue, devoid of their usual force. He was visibly flustered, a spectacle of red-faced, wide-eyed disarray that none of them, in their entire lives, had ever witnessed.
Izuku finally turned to face the others, his hand still resting on Bakugou’s neck, a grounding weight. He met Uraraka’s stunned gaze, then Iida’s, then Kirishima’s raised eyebrows. He took a shaky breath, the bravado of the kiss melting into something more vulnerable, but no less firm.
“Yeah,” Izuku said, answering the dozen questions hanging in the air. “Yeah, he hurt me. A lot. For a long time.” He felt Bakugou flinch beneath his touch but didn’t pull away. “You all saw it. You lived it. That’s the truth.”
He squeezed the back of Bakugou’s neck, not hard, but enough to feel the tense muscles there. “This is also the truth. He’s trying to change. He’s in therapy. He’s…” Izuku searched for the word, his eyes softening as he glanced at the profile of Bakugou’s still-flushed face. “He’s fighting a different kind of fight now. And it’s ugly, and it’s messy, and sometimes it explodes bathroom doors.”
A faint, almost imperceptible snort came from Bakugou. Izuku’s lips twitched.
“He’s trying to be a better person,” Izuku continued, his voice gaining strength, filling the quiet shop. The elderly cook had stopped scraping his griddle, listening unabashedly. “And I want to be a part of that. I am a part of that. So the biting, the crying, the broken door… that’s us right now. It’s not okay. But we’re working on it. Together.”
The silence that followed was thick, but it was no longer accusatory. It was processing.
Kirishima was the first to break it. He let out a long, slow whistle, scratching the back of his head. “Man,” he said, a huge, relieved grin spreading across his face. “When you go for it, you really go for it, huh? A public service announcement with a kiss. Bold.”
“It was highly irregular!” Iida sputtered, finally retrieving his glasses. He pointed a choppy hand at them. “And a severe breach of public decorum! However…” He put his glasses on, adjusting them precisely. “The… intent behind the disruption appears to be communicative rather than destructive. For once.”
Uraraka was still staring at Izuku. Her eyes were shiny. “Izuku…” she started, her voice small. “Are you sure? After everything?”
Izuku nodded, a definitive dip of his chin. “I’m sure. It’s not easy. But it’s what I want.” He finally looked at Bakugou fully. “If he still wants it.”
All eyes turned to Bakugou. He was still red, but the stunned paralysis had receded. He glared at the table, at his own faintly smoking palm, anywhere but at them. The vulnerability was a live wire, exposed and humming. To admit this, here, was to strip bare in front of a tribunal.
He grunted. Swallowed. “Tch.” It was a weak sound. He lifted his head, his crimson eyes finding Izuku’s, and in them was a storm of embarrassment, defiance, and a raw, terrifying honesty. “Yeah. Whatever. You already know I do, you damn nerd.”
Kirishima whooped, slamming a hand on the table. “Alright! Now that’s settled, someone help me explain the door bill to my agency’s accountant!”
The spell was broken. The tension bled out, replaced by a bewildered, tentative normalcy. Uraraka wiped her eyes quickly, a wobbly smile appearing. “You’re both a mess,” she said, but the heat was gone from her words. “A huge, complicated mess.”
Iida began gathering the trash onto the tray with efficient movements. “The first step toward order is acknowledging the chaos. We have acknowledged. Now, we should vacate the premises before we further inconvenience this establishment.”
They slid out of the booth, a group again, but fundamentally rearranged. Bakugou stood, stiff-backed, but when Izuku’s hand found his again, he didn’t shake it off. He laced their fingers together, his grip tight, almost painful.
As they filed out, the cook called after them. “Hey! Good luck, heroes!”
On the sunny street, they paused. The afternoon stretched before them, ordinary and strange.
“So,” Kirishima said, slinging an arm around Bakugou’s shoulders, ignoring his immediate growl. “Since you’re all emotionally evolved now, does this mean you’re buying dinner to make up for my door?”
Bakugou shoved him off, but there was no real malice in it. “In your dreams, Shitty Hair.”
Izuku laughed, the sound light and real, and squeezed Bakugou’s hand. The future was a minefield of difficult talks and healing wounds. But for now, walking down the street with their hands linked and their friends bickering beside them, the path forward felt, for the first time, willingly chosen.