#kmbk

It wasn’t surprising that a room built only to house lectures and silent, reluctant learning provided little to no focal points for Denki to attach his attention to—only four white walls with fading purple accents and rows of vacant chairs. A chalkboard behind the exhausted eyes staring at him. Yes, the room was empty enough to allow even his thoughts to echo, but Denki was going to make damn sure to do anything in his power to avoid another speech berating and warning against the overuse of his ability. The seemingly never-ending chorus of how he needed a better grip on his control.

Denki knew differently though. Was proud of the progress he had made over the past two years. Would pat himself on the back for his win-lose ratio against his own wattage if not for the suffocating atmosphere. The numbers weren’t important—the only necessary information was that winning was higher than losing and that winning was a trend on the rise. He wasn’t too proud to admit that loss still happened… enough.

Enough that Aizawa had felt it necessary to end Denki’s sparring match early.

Denki had been unaware of the energy shift until the air was suddenly punched out of his lungs and his view of Midoriya was replaced with cracked concrete. Air attempted to rush in, replenish and revive his dignity but failed when his body was forcibly tugged, lodging it in his throat. In retelling this story later in life, he would choose to omit the small yelp he let out. It wasn’t until he began struggling that he realized he was cocooned in that stupid, all too familiar scarf. Again.

“Oh, come on,” he whined. It was petulant, he knew that, but it felt justified as the small wave Midoriya was giving him began to fade into the distance.

Denki bit his tongue for the entire humiliation parade. Not a single complaint about the rubble scratching at the back of his head. No protests in his ability to walk on his own as he heard Jirou’s snickering. Only a mumbled thank you was given as he was yanked to his feet and released to make his way to his desk.

That was progress. Growth.

Aizawa’s sudden sigh was enough to pull Denki’s attention away from the scorch mark on the desk two rows over.

“Thought we’d be over this by now, kid.”

“We are!” Denki’s voice absolutely did not crack before he continued, “I’m freaking awesome out there. I was one zap away from finally taking Midoriya down. I wasn’t gonna lose it. I had it under control.” The dark stare had him tacking on, “Respectfully, sir.”

“You lack patience. I tell you every time, and yet here we are.” The sigh that followed pushed an apology on Denki’s tongue, the one he knew he needed to say. He was cut off before he even opened his mouth. “I’m passing you off. If you won’t listen to me after this long, then maybe it’s time for someone who can meet you head-on.”

Confusion was not an unfamiliar feeling for Denki. Not really. It was one feeling he was rather comfortable in. Now, though, it sent him reeling, felt too heavy in his mind. This wasn’t how things normally went. He would apologize, promise that he’d take care of himself, and acknowledge his mistakes. Aizawa would send him off with a grunt and a nod of his head. He didn’t—he had never really put his foot down. Not like this.

He’d never just… given up.

Denki moved to protest, confront. The sticky note slapped on his forehead stopped him in his tracks.

“Don’t be late,” Aizawa said as he moved past Denki and out the door.

Denki peeled the paper off and lightly rubbed the slight sting with his other hand.

Greenhouse. Thursdays - Sundays after classes.

He studied it for a moment before letting his head fall back to stare at the ceiling. A silent and resentful goodbye to his freedom was given as he languished over the fact that he’d never even come across a green building at school.

Jirou’s laughter echoed through Denki’s head as he made his way to his new life sentence. She had barely made it through telling him that the note was in reference to the weirdly shaped glass structure he’d occasionally pass during his runs with Kirishima.

He ambled his way across campus, dragging his feet once he hit a gravel path. He scoffed to himself, disbelieving that Aizawa really thought some dirt and petals were going to teach him a lesson.

By the time he reached the impending doom, he had a realization that he could possibly get out of this if no one saw him. He could ditch. There wasn’t a chance in hell anyone was actually there. He couldn’t imagine who would waste their time hidden away, surrounded by the humid air now rushing in his face. He didn’t believe that a soul would want to use their strength to carry around stacks of plastic seed trays.

But there someone was. Standing right before his eyes which had begun to trail further up to take in littered scars and wide shoulders. Denki tilted his head to the side and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. This could prove to not be as bad as he thought. Golden eyes continued on their path, up, up, up to the red ones now staring back at him and—oh.

A thud softly resounded as the black trays hit the ground and sent soil scattering.

“You gotta be fucking me.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely, Kacchan.” It was instinctual, nothing new, but Denki’s previous thoughts left him fighting off a wince.

“Do not start that shit,” Bakugou said, taking a step forward. It would have been menacing if he hadn’t faltered, expression shifting from anger to realization to puzzled. “Why ‘ya here, dunce? Fry yourself out and get lost even after Aizawa stopped—Aizawa. That bastard.”

A nervous chuckle escaped Denki before he could reel it in. The look Bakugou was giving left him torn between explaining and hightailing it out of the blast zone. He settled for somewhere in between and raised his hands in surrender as he slowly stepped back.

“You know what? You little shithead I… I don’t care. Just clean this shit up.”

And then Bakugou was gone.

The slammed-shut door now entrapping Denki alone with his rising anxieties. He swallowed hard, trying to force them down. This was just typical Bakugou. Things would be better next time. He tried not to dwell on the impending doom swelling in his chest, the sweat he swore was from the humidity, and the fear that things might actually be worse than he imagined.

And they were. At first.

Wrath was something Denki had prepared himself for—the swearing, explosions, snide comments, the snarls that threatened to prove there was bite behind the bark. Indifference, however, was not an energy he had expected to be greeted with throughout the next few weeks. Bakugou never greeted him when he strolled in, snack in hand, but he never yelled at him either. He merely glared, occasionally clicked his tongue, and gave Denki his task for the day. Therein laid the largest problem, the main source of Denki’s disdain. Bakugou seemed hellbent on boring Denki to death. He never allowed him to do any more than small, menial tasks. Sweeping, countless seed packets dumped before him to count, cleaning tools, grabbing things for the first-years, sweeping, and more sweeping filled each of Denki’s nights in the greenhouse.

Night after night he tried to get Bakugou to at least talk with him, did his best to get a small smirk in return for his jokes, and fished for homework answers he knew he wouldn’t get.

Night after night he was met with silence. An occasional grunt if he was lucky. A scolding to pick up the pace if he really pushed his luck.

Denki couldn’t understand why. Why wouldn’t Bakugou at least try to make things more bearable? They were in the same boat all things considered. It only made sense for them to at least try and make the best of this punishment until Aizawa deemed them reformed.

“Ka-Bakugou,” Denki said one night during the third week. Enough was enough, and he had found himself in a position he never thought was possible—craving work. “I’ve been watching you mess with those plants for hours now. Let me help out. Please? If I have to hold this broom for five more seconds, I think I’m going to stab it through my eye.”

He saw Bakugou’s shoulders tense and waited with bated breath as they slowly relaxed back.

“Fine.”

Fine.

Fine was the greenest light he’d ever gotten.

Denki let the wooden handle slip from his grasp and land with a clatter. He raced to grab the stool he had previously claimed for the times he would sneak off to be on his phone. No time was given for takebacks. He wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip through his fingers.

“Ready whenever you are, boss!”

It was still quiet after that. Bakugou had only given him the instructions to watch, copy, repeat. Denki fell into the rhythm easier than he thought, watching as Bakugou filled the larger trays with new soil and gently pressed up on the bottom of the old trays to remove each seedling. His mind began to wander after a while. He found himself becoming fixated on how Bakugou’s hands made the plants look even smaller. The way his fingers were barely exerting any pressure at all. Gentle. Pretty.

Denki felt a blush creep up his neck as he shook his head, forcing himself to look away and get back to the task at hand. Quiet was fine. Everything was fine.

So, of course, he had to open his mouth.

“Y’know I’m surprised Aizawa thinks taking care of some plants is going to somehow teach me skills to win a fight,” he said, picking up the spade next to him and swinging it around to make his point.

Bakugou scoffed, “Of course, you’d think it’s about that. Listen, dunce, he put you in here because you never fucking listen. You just race ahead with that annoying, cocky attitude—”

“As if you’re one to talk.”

“You’re an eager dipshit who’s ready to shove my seedlings into the soil without checking the roots,” Bakugou continued, ignoring his comment, “You think you can take one swing, get your glory with one big action. Like. An. Idiot.”

“That’s not fair I only messed up two of them!”

Bakugou closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Look,” his tone shifted into something soft, “it ain’t about your skill. Hell, you got more of that than half the dumb fucks we train with. You take yourself too seriously on the field. Don’t check in on your limits. Your infuriating confidence is your best quality, you do what you have to in order to win, but that’s the worst thing about you too.”

Denki blinked. Then, blinked again for good measure. They were staring at each other now, plants abandoned. That…

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. I think? Careful, though, people may start to think you actually like me.”

The grunt he received in response was gruff, blunt as Bakugou turned away.

“Yeah, well, no one’ll believe you if you tell ‘em.”

Things turned around from that night. It was as if Denki was finally able to break down some invisible wall between the two of them. Bakugou began to let him handle more difficult tasks. Didn’t seem to mind teaching him or answering the infinite amount of questions he had, said it was better than hearing ‘ya bitching and whining. Denki figured he actually just liked the company.

It was how they ended up side by side once again, Denki asking how much longer Bakugou was sentenced to greenhouse duty while doing his best to keep up with the basics of pruning being thrown at him.

“I don’t. Time was up a while ago. Didn’t mind the work, so,” Bakugou shrugged.

“What? How—how long have you been… working here, I guess?”

“Mistakenly told the hag they forced me to see during first year that my hands were made for destroying. She thought this would be good for me. Show me that they could create. Beats the damn breathing exercises.”

“Oh. I had no idea,” he trailed off for a moment. “I think it’s pretty rad. Y’know, havin’ something outside of hero-life. Balance. Makes sense you picked up on it, though. You’re like the most smart and capable person I know!”

A beaming smile crossed his face as he turned in his seat.

Bakugou’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened. Closed, abandoning whatever he was going to say in favor of grumbling to himself.

The tips of his ears turning pink hadn’t gone unnoticed, though, and Denki was hit with the realization that Bakugou was actually kind of… cute. With each passing day, he’d catch the other doing something that had his chest tightening. The meticulous way he kept track of everything from humidity to water levels. The way he let the first-year girls get by with just about anything. How he spoke to the flowers, threatening them to bloom faster, when he thought no one could hear him. How he lightly pressed his hand into Denki’s back every time he passed behind him.

How he looked, Denki would dare say, pretty when he was relaxed discussing mundane things with Denki a few weeks later.

It was past nightfall, beyond their usual departure time as they sat across from each other. Neither making a move to leave. Denki reveled in the fact that Bakugou had opened up to him enough to have time like this. He did his best to ignore the way everything seemed to melt inside as he watched red eyes light up as Bakugou began to break down his most recent fight with Midoriya. It was something along the lines of passion.

It was what stayed there as he trailed off, seemingly thinking of something.

“C’mere.”

And who was Denki to not follow?

They moved toward the back of the greenhouse. Weaved their way through until Bakugou was moving carts and soil bags to the side and pushing a flap aside to reveal a room Denki had somehow failed to notice.

It was small but filled to the brim with leafy plants. A whiteboard and desk were seemingly shoved into one corner, both littered with sticky notes.

“Close your eyes.”

For some reason, he listened.

“Open up.”

For some reason, he listened.

“Bite.”

The fingers grazing his bottom lip nearly distracted him from the thing being pressed between his teeth.

For that reason, he listened.

It was a brief moment of bliss, of ignorance, before Denki’s eyes shot open and the burn settled in. The tears springing to his eyes blurred his view of Bakugou doubled over in laughter, and if he had been able to think of anything other than hot, burning, death, he may have had a chance to realize he’d never heard the other laugh like that before.

“What the hell, Bakugou! What, hah, what was that?”

“King of Fire, Lord of Heat.”

“Hah?” Words had become difficult.

“My pride and joy,” Bakugou said before making a sweeping gesture behind him. Pepper plants. Rows and rows of reds and yellows.

He looked back over, electricity dancing at his fingertips, ready to light up the entire room, but he stopped short.

The way Bakugou was looking at him—near tears in his eyes, his soft smile, the mirth in his voice as he choked out an apology—paralyzed him for a moment. He found himself wanting to bottle the moment up, save it for his worst days on the field.

He stayed put as the distance between them shrank, Bakugou reaching up to ruffle Denki’s hair.

“C’mon, Sparks. Let’s get you somethin’ so that pretty mouth doesn’t completely melt off.”

And Denki—

Denki knew then that he was completely, utterly, undoubtedly fucked.

He tried to not let it show the next day. The entire walk home, the restless night tossing and turning in bed, throughout all of his class—every moment had been spent coming up with a plan.

Keep his distance. Make sure one of the first-years was always near and ready to be roped into conversation. Don’t think about how Bakugou’s fingers felt against his lips.

He was confident as he strode up, swinging the door open with a dramatic, “Good afternoon, everyone!”

Silence.

Only the slight sway of leaves waving a welcome.

“Only us today, Denks.” Bakugou’s voice called out as he rounded the corner. His arms were loaded with a stack of soil bags, and Denki tried to look anywhere other than his arms. Avoid the way they flexed when they tossed the bags to the ground.

“Where—Where are the girls?”

“Said some shit about making chocolates for tomorrow.”

All traces of his internal panic were forgotten as his shoulders slumped. His feet finally moved him further into the building before he threw himself onto the stool nearest to where Bakugou was inspecting the tomatoes.

“It’s Valentine’s already?” His voice pitched upward, “Actually, no, don’t answer that. I don’t know if I can stomach another year of watching Todoroki get fawned over by the entire school.”

“Yeah, like you’re not gonna be the most insufferable motherfucker showing off whatever sad little gifts you get.”

It didn’t have a bite, not really, but Denki couldn’t help but feel like there was something unsaid that he was missing.

“Well,” he started, “I mean, no? I don’t really get treats. Not from people who like me because Mina’s sympathy chocolate definitely does not count.”

“Huh.”

There it was again. It was in his tone. Denki tracked Bakugou as he moved to the other side of the table, mulling over what exactly it was.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’. Just surprised is all. Figured there’d be someone you’d be expecting them from.”

“Like who? You?”

The temperature dropped. He knew it from the goosebumps rising on his arms. Knew it from the frigid feeling of stillness in the room.

“I—Hah, sorry, not a funny joke. Not that it’s a joke. I didn’t mean that meanly. It’s not like I wouldn’t want them. From you. Y’know. You’re… well, you’re you. Anyone would be lucky to get them from you, but it’s not like you like me. Like… like that.

I’ve gotta go.”

And then Denki was gone.

Didn’t allow himself the opportunity to say anything else, embarrass himself more than he already had.

He avoided the red stare he felt throughout the entire next day. Hid from it within the circle of Midoriya’s group and listened to them count Todoroki’s gifts. Kept his head down as everyone filed out of the classroom. Peered around every corner as he made his way to swap out his shoes, double-checking over his shoulder before reaching into the small locker and—oh.

A small black bag was placed atop his sneakers.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there staring at the orange ribbon tying it closed, working up the courage to pull it out with shaking hands. To open and peer inside. To find the chocolate spheres. To slowly place in his mouth. To discover that they—

They were hot.

Gravel cut up into his socked feet before he realized he had moved.

Denki stopped in the entryway of the greenhouse. Gasping breaths heaved as he looked around before spotting the carts in the back out of place. He beelined to the backroom, an accusatory finger pointed in Bakugou’s face when he stopped mere steps away.

“You!”

The table rattled as Bakugou stepped back, hands moving back to catch himself.

“Look if you're gonna yell or laugh—”

“You like me! Too. You like me too. These,” he held out the bag still clutched in his other hand, “these are so good, and you like me too. Back. I like you.”

“Really?” Bakugou had the nerve to look unsure.

“What do you mean—Forget it.”

Hands were on Denki’s waist as fast as he himself had moved in, pressed his lips to Bakugou’s. Again, again, again.

Until Bakugou pulled away with a hum, eyebrows drawing together as he looked down.