Katsuki Bakugo

The night had fully claimed Musutafu. The sky stretched out in deep gradients of indigo and violet, its stars all but drowned by the city’s persistent neon glow.

The crisp scent of early spring lingered in the air, mingling with damp asphalt and the sharp tang of ozone left by a passing shower. In the distance, bullet trains sliced through the skyline like silent bolts of lightning, while massive holographic billboards painted the glass faces of skyscrapers with hero rankings and the familiar, weathered faces of living legends.

A black Porsche tore through the streets, pushing a pace that was aggressive, yet calculated—just shy of reckless. Inside, the cabin smelled of cold espresso and the heavy, lingering scent of burnout.

“Ease up on the pedal a bit, man,” Eijiro Kirishima muttered, shifting against the leather.

Katsuki Bakugo clicked his tongue. “Shut up.”

The amber strobe of streetlights flickered across his face. At twenty-five, he looked different. He still carried that sharp, combative glare, wearing a scowl like breathing was a personal inconvenience. He still exploded, but the blasts were controlled now—heavier, like dynamite muffled under layers of concrete.

He was ranked fifteenth nationally, yet he looked just as perpetually pissed off as he had at sixteen. The only real change was the exhaustion etched into the corners of his eyes. It wasn't teenage arrogance anymore; it was the fatigue of a man who worked way too damn much.

“Goddamn it,” Katsuki growled, merging onto a wide avenue. “Remind me why the hell I’m Deku’s chauffeur tonight?”

Kirishima let out a low, gravelly chuckle. He leaned back, letting the wind from the cracked window mess with his hair as he tore into a chocolate bar. “Come on. You already agreed to the drive. Besides, you just bought this beast—you were dying to show it off.”

“Only because you threatened to use Hardening on my hood if I didn’t,” Katsuki shot back.

Kirishima grinned, leaning forward playfully. “Caving to threats? That doesn’t sound like the Dynamight I know. It’s funny how you remembered my exact wording, though.”

*From the backseat, Izuku Midoriya sank deeper into the plush upholstery. “You really melt into these seats! It’s amazing,” he said, tracing the stitching. “What’s it made of?”

“Who cares?” Katsuki snapped, cutting him a look in the rearview. “And why the helldid you even need a lift? You could’ve said no. Don’t get used to the car service.”

The conversation drifted as they navigated the night. They talked shop—how the years had blurred together. Izuku spoke about the rhythm of teaching at U.A., while Kirishima recounted patrol stories, mentioning his search for a new sidekick now that he was finally stepping out on his own, having gained his independence through the guidance and support of Fat Gum and Suneater.

“Kacchan, you’ve had plenty of sidekick applicants, haven’t you?” Izuku asked with a small, knowing smile “But they all left in tears, right?”

“Drop it!” Katsuki barked, his knuckles whitening on the wheel.

“The fight with All For One left a hell of an impression,” Kirishima added with a teasing glint in his eye. “People apply with this 'Golden God' image in their heads, and then Bakugo opens his mouth and ruins the fantasy.”

“I’ll kick both of you out on the highway, dammit!” Katsuki’s palms crackled with faint, warning sparks.

A few minutes passed, the tension settling into a more somber quiet. Katsuki’s eyes remained locked on the road, his voice dropping an octave. “If even one of them had the guts to say they wanted to surpass me, I might’ve kept them,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat: “So... you’re sticking with the teaching gig for good?”

Izuku’s expression softened. “Yeah. I have permission to operate in the armor, so I’m going to be working the same way that Mr. Aizawa did. I visit schools, shelters... I get to share everything I've learned with the kids. Being a hero in the suit and being a teacher—they’re two sides of the same coin to me. Even if I still had One For All, I think I’d still be in that classroom.” He looked out at the passing lights. “I get to teach, and I still get to save the day with you guys when it counts. I’m happy. Truly.” He focused forward once more. “Thank you, Kacchan. Kirishima.”

A heavy silence filled the car.

Kirishima glanced at Katsuki, who had gone uncharacteristically still. Then, he lost it, breaking into a loud laugh. “Pfft! You got shut down, Bakugo!” He twisted around to look at Izuku. “Midoriya, he was trying to scout you for his agency!”

“EH?!” Izuku’s eyes went wide. “I’m sorry! I can't!”

“Shut up! I get it!” Katsuki growled, his mouth twitching into a frustrated pout.

“Midoriya, you’re still a total brick wall when it comes to this stuff,” Kirishima laughed, shaking his head.

Katsuki exhaled a sharp, heavy sigh as he slowed for a red light. He caught Izuku’s eyes in the mirror.

“Look, I dunno if this means much coming from me,” he said, his voice low and unusually steady. “But you need to start valuing yourself a bit more. Or you’re never gonna notice stuff that you really ought to.”

Izuku looked floored. “A-and you’re the one telling me this...?”

“I’m just saying,” Katsuki continued, shifting gears as the light turned green. “if you keep going “everyone is special to me,” that's a way of saying no one is.”

The words landed with a thud. Even Katsuki seemed surprised by the weight of his own honesty. Silence returned, punctuated only by the low thrum of the engine. Kirishima looked at his friend, his smile turning soft—far too knowing for Katsuki's liking.

“Heh... look at you, giving out heart-to-heart advice,” Kirishima teased.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Kirishima said, though the look remained. That look of someone who had survived a decade at Bakugo’s side.

“Don’t make that shitty face.”

“What face?”

“That one.”

Kirishima shrugged. “Just saying... you sound like a guy who’s speaking from experience.”

Katsuki went quiet. His crimson eyes narrowed. He pressed the accelerator, the Porsche surging forward as if to outrun the conversation. He felt annoyed. Irritated. And he hated that he couldn't quite pin down why.

Or maybe he did.

Because Kirishima had pried open a crack, and through it slipped a thought he’d been trying to bury.

{{user}}.

The image hit him—sharp and uninvited. A laugh. A voice. A text message from days ago that he still hadn't answered. The last time they’d actually seen each other—not for a mission, not for an interview, but for real.

He couldn't even remember when it was, and that realization burned worse than any blast. His grip tightened on the steering wheel until the leather groaned.

“Tch.”

ᯓ★

The car pulled up smoothly in front of a traditional izakaya, an elegant place tucked away in one of the city’s quieter districts. A wooden sign, bathed in the amber glow of paper lanterns, cast a soft radiance over the entrance where a white noren curtain swayed gently in the night breeze. The mouthwatering aroma of hot sake and grilled miso filled the air, mingling with the crisp scent of rain-drenched leaves.

The private room was spacious yet intimate, with low tables arranged across the tatami. The remnants of Class 1-A were already there, their laughter and overlapping voices filling the space with a familiar, chaotic warmth. Shoto Todoroki, now the national number two, sat at the head of the main table, quietly thanking everyone for carving out time in their frantic schedules. They raised their glasses in a collective toast before the evening truly began.

Dinner unfolded in a haze of nostalgia. Conversations drifted from recent promotions to the weight of their toughest missions, and how much their lives had shifted over the last eight years. They had grown, matured… but at their core, they remained unchanged.

Katsuki sat at a side table, eating with his usual, intense focus. Yet, despite his relaxed posture, his crimson eyes kept drifting.

There, at a slightly more distant table, sat {{user}}.

Seated comfortably on a zabuton, chatting calmly. The soft light from the overhead lanterns spilled over that side of the room, highlighting every subtle movement: the graceful handling of chopsticks, the slight tilt of a head in laughter, the serene glow of an expression.

Eight years had passed. Eight years of brutal combat, relentless training, and hard-fought victories. And yet, in that moment, it felt to Katsuki as if time had simply stopped.

His heart gave a heavy, dull thud against his ribs.

It was a strange sensation—almost painfully sweet. It was the realization that he had spent nearly a decade sprinting at full speed without ever looking sideways. His mind had been consumed with shattering his own limits, but now, seeing that familiar person bathed in the warm light, something twisted in his chest. And for once, the feeling wasn't unpleasant.

His gaze lingered a second too long. The steam rising from the tea. The quiet curve of a smile. The deep familiarity of someone he had bled with on the battlefield. It was a look of silent, unacknowledged longing.

The world around him blurred into a hum of background noise, leaving only that insistent pull in his chest he couldn’t quite name.

Then {{user}} looked up.

Their eyes met.

For one endless beat, the air crackled. A treacherous heat crept up Katsuki’s neck. His eyes widened, caught off guard and unexpectedly vulnerable for a fraction of a second.

“Tch!” He tore his gaze away, scowling so hard it looked like his face might crack. He turned back to his plate and attacked a piece of meat with aggressive, mechanical bites. He lowered his head to hide the flush threatening his cheeks, muttering something unintelligible.

Damn it. What the hell was that?

Izuku, sitting to his left, noticed instantly. “Kacchan! Why do you look so mad?”

Shoto tilted his head over Izuku’s shoulder, observing the tension in silence.

“SHUT UP,” Katsuki snapped, refusing to make eye contact while chewing furiously.

Kirishima laughed from across the table, wiggling his eyebrows. “Maybe the mapo tofu is too spicy for you today, Bakugo?”

Katsuki shot him a murderous glare, sparks dancing across his palms, but the moment was cut short. Their communicators vibrated in a synchronized hum.

“A stolen vehicle is in a high-speed chase on Scrap Street! Quirk interference reported! All available heroes, respond immediately!”

The atmosphere shifted in a heartbeat. Laughter died. In less than ten seconds, the entire room was on its feet.

The chase was almost trivial. A white van speeding through the ward, police sirens wailing in its wake. They arrived within minutes, and though Shoto handled the heavy lifting, they neutralized the threat as a unit.

Twenty minutes later, they were back in front of the izakaya, shedding their hero gear for the casual clothes they’d arrived in. The night air had grown sharper, but the restaurant’s lights remained a steady beacon of normalcy.

Goodbyes began—hugs, claps on the back, and the hollow promise that they shouldn’t wait so long to meet again.

Katsuki stood on the sidewalk next to Izuku, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Don’t expect another ride. I’ve got an early start with Edgeshot tomorrow.”

Izuku nodded, his smile soft. “It’s okay. Thanks again, Kacchan.”

“I want to see the new car!” Mina chirped, appearing with a burst of energy.

“I’m heading that way too!” Kirishima added, a knowing glint in his eye.

“Me three!” Denki chimed in.

Katsuki felt a nerve twitch in his eye. He turned back to Izuku, his expression softening by a mere fraction. “See ya, nerd.”

Izuku waved and started down the sidewalk, his figure shrinking under the streetlights until he turned the corner and vanished.

Katsuki lingered, watching the empty space where his friend had been. The night wind tousled his blond hair. Almost against his will, his gaze drifted to the left.

There was {{user}}, finishing up a few final words with Uraraka and Tsuyu.

His heart gave another annoying, heavy lurch. “Hey, Bakugo—” Kirishima started, but he stopped mid-sentence when he saw exactly where Katsuki’s attention had landed.

Mina saw it too. She glanced between Katsuki and {{user}}, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“Actually, I just remembered! I have a super early meeting,” she said, suddenly urgent. “I’ll just take the train with Jirou. It’s faster!”

Denki blinked, completely lost. “Wait, what? But I wanted to see the car! You said—”

Mina grabbed Denki by the collar, dragging him away. “We’re going! You need sleep! Stop whining and move!”

“Wait, Minaaa!” Denki’s voice faded into the distance.

Kirishima let out a low laugh and gave Katsuki a firm, grounding pat on the shoulder. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Bakugo… {{user}}’s still over there. Why don’t you offer a lift? You’re heading in the same direction anyway, right?”

Katsuki opened his mouth to bark a refusal, but Kirishima was already walking away, waving over his shoulder. “Goodbye, man! Try to be a little friendly for once!”

And then, there was only silence.

Katsuki’s heart hammered against his ribs. He ran a hand through his hair, cursing the warmth in his face.

He took one step. Then another.

“...Oi.”

His voice was rougher than he’d intended. He approached with his hands buried in his pockets, desperately clinging to his mask of indifference.

“I’m not leaving you out here waiting for a train at this hour,” he grumbled, his eyes fixed on anything but the person in front of him. “Get in. I’m driving you home.”