#everlong

Kinda ass I know but still

"Breathe out, so I can breathe you in"

Happy New Year!🎇🍾

With a side of Snupin, of course.

A WIPs to add to the endless of WIPs. Secret: I didn't listen to everlong while drawing this, I in fact was listening to The Greatest by Billie Eilish but damn that's for The Long Game.

“And I wonder, when I sing along with you…”

It’s late — the kind of late that makes time feel suspended. The dorm lights are out except for the dim glow slipping under Bakugou’s door. You knock once, and his familiar, irritated voice growls, “It’s open.”

He’s sitting at his desk, earbuds in, head tilted back, eyes closed. You recognize the song immediately — the same one you’ve heard leaking from his room for weeks now. Everlong.

You hesitate by the door, but he cracks one eye open and motions for you to come in. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice rough, low.

You shake your head. “You neither.”

He snorts, pulling one earbud out. “Didn’t wanna.”

The room smells faintly of burnt sugar and smoke — something that’s just him. His notebook is open, half a page of messy scrawls and doodles, little lines you can’t quite read. You take a seat on the floor, cross-legged, leaning against his bedframe.

“Why this song?” you ask after a long silence. “You’ve been playing it nonstop.”

He shrugs, the motion tight in his shoulders. “It’s loud. Real.” He pauses, searching for words that don’t come easily. “Makes me think about… when things actually feel right. Y’know?”

You do. You nod. Because that’s what Everlong sounds like — messy, desperate, beautiful. Like reaching for something you’re afraid to lose.

Bakugou stands suddenly, stretching before sitting on the floor beside you. His knee bumps yours. He doesn’t move it. The quiet between you isn’t awkward — it hums, alive, filled with unsaid things.

“You’re weird,” he mutters, glancing at you.

“You say that a lot,” you tease.

“’Cause it’s true.” He looks away, ears turning pink. “But… you’re the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I gotta explode every damn second.”

You blink, startled. For Bakugou, that’s practically a confession.

He scratches the back of his neck, grumbling, “Forget it. It’s stupid.”

You smile softly. “It’s not.”

The song hits that part — “If everything could ever feel this real forever…” — and your heart clenches. You wonder if he hears it the same way you do. If he feels that ache, that fear of something too perfect to last.

He glances at you again, eyes softer now, golden even in the dim light. “You ever think about that?” he asks quietly. “About things not lasting?”

You nod, almost whispering, “Yeah. All the time.”

He huffs, a sound somewhere between frustration and surrender. Then, before you can say anything else, he reaches out — hesitant, careful — and takes your hand. His fingers are rough, calloused, warm.

“Then don’t disappear,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Not yet.”

You squeeze his hand, smile breaking through the ache in your chest. “I won’t. Not if you don’t.”

For a while, neither of you moves. The song plays on, the guitars crashing and fading like waves, and in that moment, everything — the music, the warmth, the unspoken feelings — feels endless.

“And I wonder…”

When the song ends, the world doesn’t feel quite the same.