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Waking up to a phone call is never pleasant for Hitoshi. Waking up to a phone call from Izuku, Hitoshi learns, is his own personal hell.
He can't get a word in edgewise, especially not while he's still blinking blearily at his ceiling and struggling to get his brain back online. Izuku hasn't paused for breath since Hitoshi picked up the call, his mouth like a runaway train, but Hitoshi likes Izuku too much to bark something as rude as "shut up," so he's dealing.
Yes, he's dealing fine. He just needs to set the phone a little bit away from his ear to have a reprieve from the frayed edges of Izuku's nervous laughter and his fiftieth "Kacchan" mention. And then he just needs to set his aching head down and rest his stinging eyes.
Hitoshi jumps out of his skin when his phone vibrates ferociously and answers Izuku's second call. "Sorry," Hitoshi rasps. "Fell asleep."
Izuku sounds almost suspiciously sunny when he waves off Hitoshi's apologies. "I know. That's why I called again. Um."
Hitoshi positions himself upright slowly but surely like he's a car crash survivor rather than a guy who scored a cat nap. Whatever Izuku said during that first phone call swam in one ear and poured out the other. All Hitoshi remembers is an awful lot of "Kacchan" in the mix.
"What's up?" he asks Izuku as he rolls out of bed, wincing at the stabbing pain that accosts his arches as he takes his first few steps of the day. Medical professionals like to tell Hitoshi his sleep schedule's gonna send him to the grave fifteen years too early, but Hitoshi's convinced it's gonna be plantar fasciitis that does him in. Fucking ow. "Something wrong?"
"Not exactly," Izuku says with an awkward laugh. "I was wondering if you'd be willing to help me out with something."
Hitoshi doesn't hesitate. "Of course. Name it."
Twenty minutes later, Hitoshi's standing in a dentist office's lobby like there's a rod jammed up his spine because he, much like everyone else, is utterly incapable of saying no to Izuku. Hitoshi resists the urge to fidget. He shouldn't be here. More than that, he doesn't want to be here.
His guts are in fucking knots as the nurse scans his ID and places a call that ends with, "Of course, Mr. Deku!"
"You're all set," she tells Hitoshi as she passes his ID across the counter top. Hitoshi takes a moment to pocket it then folds his arms over his chest once more. "Someone'll bring him out in a few minutes. Have a seat."
Hitoshi's teeth clench against his will. He really shouldn't be here. "Thanks."
Here just so happens to be an oral and maxillofacial surgeon's office a hop, skip, and a jump away from Hitoshi's apartment. His task: get Bakugou back to his apartment without anyone dying and medicate him the second this doctor's Quirk wears off.
"It should be easy," Izuku told Hitoshi earlier, sounding very much like a lying liar who lies. "He won't even be coming off anesthesia; he'll just be shaking off the effects of the doctor's Quirk."
Hitoshi narrowed his eyes as he fumbled a canned coffee out of his fridge and shook it vigorously. "Which is?"
Izuku's response was smooth-sailing as ever. "Just a pain inhibition Quirk. It's less risky for Kacchan's heart."
The breezy answer without a hint of rambles on how the doctor's Quirk worked did not inspire confidence in Hitoshi. Sure, Izuku's a sweet guy, a great teacher, and a wonderful friend by all reports, but he never pledged fealty to the honest truth. He lies through his teeth about as often as Hitoshi does, and that's saying something. It takes one prolific liar to recognize another one, Hitoshi supposes.
There aren't many people scattered around the waiting room, but every one of them damn near breaks their necks in their haste to get eyes on the hot fucking mess that stumbles through the waiting room door and snaps, "The big one. He's tall."
Okay, that wasn't really a snap, it was more of a sloppy slur, but Hitoshi could spot that scowl from a mile away. Bakugou definitely meant to say that in a pissy tone.
Cursing Izuku within the confines of his head takes a hundred percent of Hitoshi's brain power. That, and he's kind of worried Bakugou's gonna scream and blow the room up once he realizes Izuku didn't show up to collect him.
Bakugou and Hitoshi agreed they'd like to get to know each other more exactly two weeks ago over twin mugs of drip coffee at a local cafe. Bakugou got decaf and drank it black — double self-punishment in Hitoshi's book — but they stumbled and grumbled their way through an honest conversation. It basically boiled down to "I think you're hot and you think I'm hot, so do you wanna get dinner sometime or fucking what?"
Hitoshi's answer was yes, Bakugou's answer was a not distinctly pissed off grunt, and that was about enough socializing for the day for both of them. They haven't talked since.
And now Hitoshi's here to shepherd a now wisdom-toothless Bakugou to his apartment while Bakugou's loopy from the doctor's pain-inhibiting Quirk. Oh, and if anything bad happens to Bakugou, Hitoshi's ass is on the line. Izuku didn't say so, but no one knew how to slip disarming thinly-veiled threats into conversation like Izuku, especially not when it came to Bakugou and his health.
Hitoshi's self preservation skills kick in. He remains seated like the nurse's vision is based on movement. If she can't clock him, she can't saddle him with this particularly loud and graceless version of Bakugou.
Unfortunately, the nurse seems very dedicated to the idea of washing her hands of Bakugou. "Tall?" the nurse prompts as she scans the waiting room. Her eyes linger on Hitoshi for a second, but by the time he thinks to wave, her attention's swung back to Bakugou. "Can you be more specific?"
To his dismay, Hitoshi's hesitant wave seems to catch Bakugou's attention. Even worse, Bakugou grins, wide and dopey and foreign, and clumsily stuffs his hands into his pockets while Hitoshi scrambles over to. . .help Bakugou. Or whatever the fuck he's supposed to be doing.
"See?" Bakugou says to the nurse once Hitoshi's joined the party by the door. "Told you he was pretty. And tall. Fuckin' huge." While Hitoshi's still trying to process the fact that Bakugou's talking about him — pretty!?!?!?! Hitoshi's mind screeches — Bakugou kicks Hitoshi's foot in greeting, nearly turns turtle, and only just manages to clutch Hitoshi's arm before he hits the ground like a sack of potatoes.
"Big guy," notes Bakugou. Approval coats his tone.
"Just a pain inhibition Quirk," Izuku claimed. What a fucking liar.
Attempting to discreetly wrestle his arm out of Bakugou's grasp just makes Bakugou squeeze him like a vise. He sways closer to Hitoshi, peering up at Hitoshi with stars in his hazy eyes. A warm, horrendously tender smile tugs at his mouth. Hitoshi didn't know Bakugou's face could even do something like that.
"Hey, Eyebags," Bakugou says softly, lingering so long on the vowels he's practically sing-songing his age-old nickname for Hitoshi. "It's good to fuckin' see you."
If Hitoshi opens his mouth, he fears all that'll come out is a humiliating mouse-like squeak. He decides to nod hello instead.
The nurse pays no attention to Bakugou's crooning. She rattles off a dozen instructions to Hitoshi, things about gauze, cotton, stitches, blood, and swelling. Hitoshi didn't go into the care-taking industry for a reason, so he nods along numbly and prays every damn word she's saying is written somewhere on the hefty stack of paper she passes him. He's not hearing a fucking word of it because Bakugou keeps squeezing his bicep almost as if in contemplation.
Three weeks ago, they were still feigning indifference about one another. Talk about whiplash.
"And how long will the, uh. . ." Hitoshi side-eyes Bakugou. He's still gawking at Hitoshi with a faint smile on his face, but at least he stuffed his hands back in his pockets for now. ". . .behavior last?"
"Anywhere from one to four more hours," the nurse says, quite pleasantly for someone who just delivered the worst fucking news of Hitoshi's life. "Our doctor's Quirk inhibits pain, but she can't always narrow it down to just pain. In general, he'll have a little less self-control than usual."
What a living nightmare. Bakugou with "a little less" self-control sounds like a freight train on fire to Hitoshi, and this freight train is officially his responsibility for the foreseeable future. Great. He thanks the nurse, shares his number so the doctor can call to check on Bakugou in a few hours, and tucks the book's worth of papers under his arm for later perusal.
"Izuku?" Bakugou asks the moment they're alone. For a moment, he appears entirely sober. "Is he okay?"
A prickle of discomfort zips up Hitoshi's spine. He's not a fan of the intensity on Bakugou's face, and he's not a fan of those very lethal palms sneaking out of Bakugou's pockets, like he has half a mind to blast himself to Izuku's side, wherever that might be.
"He's fine," Hitoshi reassures Bakugou before all hell breaks loose. "You wanna call him?"
Bakugou snorts rudely and loudly. "Fuck no. Forget the fucking nerd. He cheats at Monopoly. Stole my fuckin' railroads."
If Bakugou's trying to grumble under his breath, he's failing miserably. Nearly everyone in the waiting room seems aghast at his choice language. Hitoshi's sure as shit not getting in the middle of the latest Bakugou-Midoriya cold war, so he just says, "Ah. Gotcha."
Corralling Bakugou into a taxi in one piece is a deeply unpleasant and humiliating experience for Hitoshi, mostly because Bakugou keeps pawing at him and calling Hitoshi's sweater "so fuckin' silky." By the time he's buckled in, their taxi driver looks faintly scandalized, Hitoshi kind of wants to scream, and Bakugou's. . .sniffling?
"What's wrong?" Hitoshi says, at once on high alert. Sniffling from Bakugou can only mean anguish, and Bakugou's discomfort can only spell Hitoshi's death via Izuku's beefy fucking hands. The driver taps his fingers on the steering wheel, clearly ready to get a move on, but Bakugou's too busy crying to latch his seatbelt.
Bakugou clumsily wipes his eyes with his shirt sleeve, still sniffling. "They took 'em."
Hitoshi boggles at him. "What? Do we need to go back inside?"
"Nooo. They stole 'em. My fucking teeth," rasps Bakugou with all the misery of a child torn from the playground. "My wisdom teeth. I'm not gonna be smart anymore."
With that off his chest, Bakugou proceeds to yank every inch of his seatbelt from its anchor point until some plastic part creaks ominously. Hitoshi springs into action.
A few minutes later, Hitoshi sits back in his seat with sweat beads on his forehead. It's his day off, and he still had to fight for his fucking life.
"He's buckled in," Hitoshi grimly reports to the driver.
As they set off on the short journey to Hitoshi's apartment, Bakugou smashes his fists against his face and snivels. His voice wobbles like an overloaded dam bound to burst when he finds it in himself to speak again. "I don't wanna be stupid like Dunceface."
Damn. That's cold, but there's no use defending Denki's honor while Bakugou's crying his eyes out in the back of a taxi cab. All Hitoshi can do is pat Bakugou on the shoulder and pray the driver doesn't recognize the very grown, very weepy pro-hero in the backseat of his car.
"They just took some teeth, not your brain," Hitoshi tells him. "You're plenty smart."
Bakugou flips him off with both hands. "I don't trust your shitty opinion, stupid. I miss my teeth." He slumps in his seat until the seatbelt is practically choking him and runs his tongue across his teeth very, very slowly like he's trying to get a headcount. Or a toothcount, as it were. "My mouth feels so empty and sad and. . .oh, my God. They're gonna clone me."
Bakugou's mutinous mumbles linger on the topic of unauthorized cloning for far too long. Hitoshi decides to ignore it and shuffles through the paperwork. With any luck, Bakugou'll wear himself out.
"Hey, fuckface," Bakugou says conversationally and rather loudly, paying no attention to Hitoshi's shushing, "when are we going on a date? I thought you liked me."
All thoughts of Bakugou's medication schedule and sudden dietary restrictions fly out the window. Hitoshi jams a finger at the front seat where their driver sits and hisses, "Can we talk about this later?"
Bakugou's attempt to narrow his eyes turns into a slow blink. Presumably on accident. "That's what you said last time. 'Later.' When the fuck's later, huh?"
"It's been two weeks," Hitoshi says in defense of himself. What's more, he was on an undercover mission for five of those fourteen days. Bakugou can get over himself. "You know how to text, too. What was stopping you?"
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." Bakugou shoots Hitoshi a hilariously incredulous, though glassy-eyed, look. "I'm not chasing you, dumbass. You gotta chase me. I'm me."
Lucky for their taxi driver, they pull up outside of Hitoshi's apartment, stalling Bakugou's attempts to argue over his unspoken expectations when it comes to dating. That's just as well, because Hitoshi did not wanna fucking talk about it.
Asking Bakugou to get coffee with him shaved at least twenty years off Hitoshi's lifespan, especially because Bakugou's initial response was Sounds lame before he said Where and what time? an hour or so later. Hitoshi never knew he could have so many meltdowns in the space of sixty minutes, but Denki and Jirou paid witness to all thirty-seven of them while Hitoshi choked down enough M&Ms to hospitalize a lesser man. Needless to say, the brave man who texted Bakugou to say hey would you wanna get coffee, just us? is no longer manning the ship that is Shinsou Hitoshi.
The trip up to Hitoshi's third-floor apartment is pretty smooth thanks to the invention of elevators. The chill outdoors seems to sober Bakugou up a little, too, so Hitoshi lets them into his apartment with a sigh of relief, snatches his beanie off his head, and starts to say, "Alright, let me text Izuku."
Instead, Bakugou's hands crackle and he squawks, "Where the fuck is your hair?"
Hitoshi blanches at Bakugou's version of an inside voice before he absently reaches up to touch his hair — or lack thereof. Right, yeah, Hitoshi got his hair buzzed last week for the sake of work. He looks in the mirror so rarely he almost forgot with the beanie keeping his scalp nice and toasty.
"I got a haircut." He tries to bury the embarrassment that wells up in his chest, but it's probably there to stay. This thing with Bakugou's so fucking new, Hitoshi never even considered a haircut might be a deal breaker. The look on Bakugou's face does not inspire hope. That sucks. "You wanna stop sparking? There's flammable shit in here."
Bakugou's palms carry on popping, but the noise level's barely above that of a kitten's sneeze. A sullen frown tugs at Bakugou's mouth. "I liked your hair."
"Congratulations," Hitoshi says flatly. He jerks his chin at his couch. "Sit down."
Bakugou obeys, but he doesn't look happy about it. "I taste blood."
Hitoshi scrambles for the bag of cotton pads and damn near sprints to Bakugou's side. Sure, he's a pro-hero and he's seen more blood than a lot of people, but it's different when friends and family lie there pouring out vital fluids. The nurse said Bakugou might be able to get away with just tiny pads of gauze staunching the blood flow if he took it easy. If he's tasting blood, that means one thing and one thing only: "You're talking too much."
"Am not," Bakugou says petulantly before he stuffs his fingers in his mouth and extracts a blood-soaked cotton ball. Hitoshi grimaces in sympathy when Bakugou pulls a face and winces in the process. "That hurt."
Hitoshi almost rolls his eyes and passes Bakugou a napkin he's willing to sacrifice for Bakugou's extremely nasty cause. "Yeah, 'cause you're just shoving your hand back there and yanking shit," mutters Hitoshi with a flicker of concern. Not so much concern for Bakugou, though, as it is concern for himself. Izuku's going to beat his fucking ass. He can feel it. Every time Bakugou hurts, even a little, Izuku's freaky little Kacchan safety meter is probably going off. The end is nigh for Hitoshi. "Why don't you let me do it?"
Bakugou grunts his dissent and plucks the other cotton pad out of his mouth. He tucks it into the napkin and crumples it up in his hand. "This ain't sexy," comments Bakugou.
Well, he's not wrong. "It's fine. We need to replace them with fresh ones, though."
The size of the gauze rolls the nurse saddled Hitoshi with do not seem to spark joy for Bakugou. "Those are fuckin' huge."
"Yeah, well, it's either that or bleeding out. You really should just let me — "
"It ain't sexy," Bakugou barks as he snatches the plastic bag full of gauze out of Hitoshi's hand. He jams two rolls in his mouth with twin flinches, grumbles "ow," and slumps on Hitoshi's couch like he's trying to make one with the fabric.
Hitoshi burns a hole in the stubborn bastard's head. "Are you sure they're in the right spot?"
Bakugou starts to say something, seems to realize his voice is utterly garbled by the addition of the cotton pads, and instead signs yes. Rather petulantly, Hitoshi might add.
He thinks back to the moment Bakugou first saw him, that wide, sunny smile that would have looked right at home on someone like Izuku's face. None of that soft gratitude remains to be seen. Apparently Bakugou's got enough of his wits about him now to readopt his scowl-and-bitch-and-moan routine. Lovely.
Cheeks bulging with the addition of gauze between his remaining molars, Bakugou pats the couch beside him and scowls harder.
With a noisy sigh, Hitoshi plops onto the couch next to Bakugou and tugs his phone out to text Izuku. He's baffled when Bakugou's palm covers his phone screen. When he glances at Bakugou's face, that scowl's gotten even deeper.
Hitoshi doesn't know a ton of sign language, but he's pretty good at context clues. He has no trouble puzzling the furious, questioning look Bakugou shoots at Hitoshi's phone paired with an unfamiliar gesture.
"Izuku told me to text him," Hitoshi explains, batting Bakugou's stupid, warm hand away. He pointedly ignores Bakugou's huff, though he's sure the full picture's pretty damn hilarious with Bakugou's cheeks puffed out like they are, and lobs the TV remote into Bakugou's lap. "Feel free to watch something."
At that, Bakugou huffs twice as loud and flings the remote on the coffee table so carelessly the battery cover pops off.
Hitoshi whips his head to the side to give Bakugou a long, hard look, just to come face to face with Bakugou's half-curled fist. It's no sweat to dodge the clumsy swing that comes a beat later, though Hitoshi has his doubts about whether or not it would have landed in the first place.
"The fuck is your problem?" Hitoshi demands to know. It seems Bakugou's pissy expression is aimed at Hitoshi's head. For fuck's sake. "You can't fight a bad haircut, dumbass."
It's fucking hair. It'll grow back, and that's exactly why Hitoshi agreed when his agency asked him to buzz it off to help him blend in with a crowd of fresh recruits for some nasty criminals. He didn't feel weird about it at all until Bakugou complained. Now his stomach's squirming.
Hitoshi doesn't usually give a shit about his appearance, but then again, he doesn't usually give a shit about dates either. Bakugou sure is special.
And Bakugou seems to know he's special, too. That is to say, he seems to know Hitoshi won't break his arm for reaching out again. He plunks his hand on Hitoshi's head and sands his palm over the short spiky hairs that remain while Hitoshi fields Izuku's over-punctuated inquiries into Katsuki's health. Resigned to his fate, Hitoshi lets the delirious idiot fidget, snaps a blurry picture of Katsuki's semi-befuddled, semi-disgruntled expression, and shoots it off to Izuku so he'll stop whining for proof of life.
With middling success, Bakugou strains to speak clearly past the rolls of gauze in his mouth. Whatever he tries to say sounds suspiciously like, "It ain't that bad."
Hitoshi resists the urge to roll his eyes as he tucks his phone into his pants pocket now that Izuku's worries are assuaged. Bakugou's face softens the longer he sits there massaging what's left of Hitoshi's hair, pinching strands every so often and tugging fruitlessly. There's not nearly enough real estate there to get a real grip.
A lot of people don't know it, but Bakugou's a tactile guy, especially when it comes to his classmates from UA. He starts out shoving you, sure, but stick with Bakugou through thick and thin and those shoves meld into warm shoulder claps or attentive hands cupping your elbow when you stumble over a curb.
This isn't the first time Bakugou's laid hands on Hitoshi, but it's the first time he's played with Hitoshi's hair. It feels nice. Really nice, actually, even if Bakugou's affections are clumsy and his eyes are lidded like he's about to fall asleep. Hitoshi gently clasps Bakugou's wrist and lowers his arm, just because it feels weird to do something new and nice with Bakugou while he's loopy.
Bakugou pouts the best that he can with giant wads of gauze stuffed between his jaws. It's a pretty ugly expression, but of course, Bakugou kind of pulls it off. He kind of pulls off every expression. That's why Hitoshi kept flirting with him at every class outing for the past three years, and that's why Hitoshi finally buckled the fuck up, popped a handful of M&Ms in his mouth for a little confectionary confidence, and sent the damn text to the guy he'd had a thing for since he was sixteen.
Denki and Jirou baked him a fucking cake after he set a date and time for coffee with Bakugou. Izuku texted within twenty-four hours to say i heard the good news!!!!!!!! :D :D :D. Bakugou said Whatever loser when Hitoshi texted him to double-check that their date was still on, and Hitoshi twiddled his thumbs for ages trying to riddle what that meant — was that a yes from Bakugou or a no? Even worse, Hitoshi feared it might have meant something like try a little harder to impress me.
Based on what Bakugou griped about in the taxi, that's exactly what's going on here, which means Hitoshi's shit out of luck. He was never going to floor anyone with his social skills, least of all Bakugou.
I like the hair, Bakugou signs after he flaps his hand to get Hitoshi's attention. Well, Hitoshi doubts gesturing at his practically bald head is the true sign for hair, but Hitoshi gets the point. Bakugou's hands flutter above his knees for a beat before he adds, It surprised me, plus a string of signs Hitoshi can't make heads nor tails of.
Finally, Bakugou groans at Hitoshi's incapability and simply signs, Cute. He pulls a face afterwards like he's disgusted by his own thoughts.
The sight makes Hitoshi want to smile, but he's too nervous to manage it. A weird mix of shame and pride simmers in Hitoshi's chest at the puny fucking compliment. He dusts a hand over his head and shrugs for lack of a better response.
Bakugou's hands dance in the air for a few seconds, but Hitoshi didn't recognize anything about that sentence, so he just follows Bakugou's gaze instead and traces the shell of his own ear. "Oh," Hitoshi says once it dawns on him. "I took them out for work."
Bakugou blinks at him. Hitoshi blinks back.
Bakugou huffs through his nose, smacks Hitoshi on the shoulder — quite a bit of heat behind that hit, too, so maybe the Quirk's wearing off sooner rather than later — and jerks his chin in the direction of Hitoshi's bedroom. He arches his eyebrows.
That's. . .sudden. Well, not that sudden considering Hitoshi's been trying to bag Bakugou for nearly a decade now, but Bakugou's in no shape to be visiting anyone's bedroom. The nurse did say Bakugou would suffer from lowered inhibitions for the time being. "You're kind of recovering from surgery, so I don't think that's a good idea," Hitoshi says delicately. He pats Bakugou's knee to console him. "Maybe later."
The force of Bakugou's surprise renders him motionless for a split second. Then he drives his fist into Hitoshi's shoulder like they're in the middle of a training session, full fucking Dynamight power for no goddamn reason, and releases a wordless, infuriated shout.
Hitoshi recoils and cradles his now bruised shoulder. "The fuck was that for?"
Like an enraged bull, Bakugou puffs air out of his nose. He reaches up, yanks on his own earlobe, and signs Where?
Ah. That makes more sense. Hitoshi locks down his expression and tells Bakugou where his earrings are. The moment Bakugou's out of the room, Hitoshi takes a solemn moment to pinch the bridge of his nose and wallow in his own stupidity.
Bakugou comes back with the small ceramic dish that holds Hitoshi's medley of ear piercings. When Hitoshi reaches for it, Bakugou levels Hitoshi's hand with a red-hot glare, carelessly shoves his arm aside, and perches on the couch arm. Without further ado, Bakugou picks one of the earrings out of the dish, nudges Hitoshi's jaw until he faces forward, and pinches the site of Hitoshi's snug piercing.
A beat later, he shows Hitoshi the black curved bar in his palm.
"Uh," Hitoshi says intelligently. It takes him a moment to process Bakugou's proximity and the piece of jewelry in his hand. "Yeah, that one works."
Bakugou fiddles with the jewelry for a moment more and slips it into Hitoshi's cartilage. Hitoshi's not really sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't Bakugou's sure but gentle fingertips adding Hitoshi's piercings back to his ear one at a time.
Maybe it's a bad idea to let someone with lowered inhibitions stab pointy items into his ear again and again. Honestly, that aside, it's just inefficient. The process would have gone ten times faster if Hitoshi put himself in front of a mirror and done it on his own, familiar with the piercings as he is, but at least Bakugou's not huffing and puffing and being an active nuisance. Besides, Hitoshi likes the attention. Un-fucking-fortunately, he likes the attention so much, he can feel a flush creeping up his chest and spreading to the back of his neck. He doesn't even have enough hair to hide the damage anymore.
By the time Katsuki's done decorating Hitoshi's ear like a Christmas tree, Hitoshi's so flustered he's scared to speak. Bakugou shuffles to adorn Hitoshi's other ear, which happens to be far more pierced than the other, and yep, that's about enough of that for Hitoshi. He springs off the couch, clears his throat, clutches the back of his burning neck, begs the floor to swallow him whole, and blurts the first thing that pops into his head. "You hungry?"
In response, he gets a pair of keen narrowed eyes on him. Notably, they do not accidentally slip into a slow blink.
It takes Hitoshi a second to remember Bakugou's not exactly in a state to eat right now. He fumbles the remote off the floor and snaps the battery cover into place. "Let's watch something," Hitoshi suggests. "I've been on a reality TV kick lately, but that's probably not your thing. I can just turn on the news. Actually, no, that'll probably make you gnash your teeth. Bad idea. Well, there's always cartoons. I think the old All Might animated series is on Hulu."
He gnashes his own teeth to stall his nervous rambles and brings his tongue to heel. Calling up that stupid All Might cartoon takes an awful lot of scrolling because Hitoshi can barely process what he's seeing on the screen, but finally, he presses play, sets the remote on the coffee table, and mutters something about making some coffee.
In the kitchen, he clutches the edge of the countertop. Izuku will be here within a few hours to take Bakugou off his hands. How bad can Hitoshi embarrass himself in the space of a few hours? All he has to do is sit there in silence, deadpan as ever, and watch a cartoon with Bakugou. He can handle that much.
;;
Two hours later, Hitoshi shoves Bakugou out of his apartment, drops a bag with Katsuki's paperwork and pills at Izuku's feet, and slams the door shut. He locks it for good measure. Someone aims a kick at the base of the door. Bakugou, surely.
Both of Hitoshi's ears are peppered with jewelry now. The insides of his cheeks are bitten raw thanks to some combination of nerves and suppressed sighs. Hitoshi suffered a boner while sitting with Bakugou in a relatively platonic context, stuttered not once, but twice, all because Bakugou stroked his hairline, and spent the better of two hours trying to work up the courage to ask Bakugou to come back over sometime for a home-cooked meal, just the two of them. He got the words out in the end, but just barely, and he had to face Bakugou's infuriating smirk and chipmunk cheeks all the while. Hitoshi couldn't even clock the smug motherfucker in the jaw because he's still recovering from surgery.
That, and he looked kind of fucking adorable silently crowing over Hitoshi chasing him down for a real date. Hitoshi groans into his palms just remembering how Bakugou signed the word cute. His face feels hot to the touch.
It turns out Hitoshi can embarrass himself a whole hell of a lot in two hours when the person's as goddamn special as Bakugou. Duly noted.