The Day Of The Opening, You Text Izuku Thirteen Times.

the day of the opening, you text izuku thirteen times.

most of which are met exactly how you'd hoped, in a way that should settle the nerves steadily brewing in your gut:

izuku: i will be there @ 7pm sharp!! ( =＾ω＾)

izuku: did you finish your speech yet?? we can go over it in the car otw!!

izuku: i'm going to grab flowers??? (///∇///) idk if that's okay?? but it's a big night!!! i think you deserve them!!!!

you should be relieved at his excitement, appeased enough to know that he has plans, that he's looking forward to this, too. genuine promise threads his words—and yet you only feel the pinpricks of doubt.

when he doesn't show, you try not to take it to heart. it's not his fault, you tell yourself, angry that you're angry. the life of a pro-hero is a whirlwind, and after knowing izuku for so long, one would think you'd become accustomed to the sound of his voice-mail and the rain check any and all events are given.

maybe it hurts so much worse this time because he didn't show up and he didn't call. didn't answer, either.

maybe it hurts because you're standing in front of the vision of all might in acrylics, your painting style soaking through the canvas; alive in his creases and curves. despite the fact that this is your first time in a gallery opening, ever, you think you were more looking forward to izuku's enthusiasm, than having your face in the local paper.

your smile feels tight across your mouth, as thick and forced as all might's. you hope it doesn't show through either of you on camera.

what would you say your biggest motivator is?

you take a long pause before answering, reminding yourself to rid your speech of any unplanned uh's and um's, and when what you've recited slips off your tongue, you can hear the words crashing into the hardwood below. shattering.

"the truth is that i wouldn't be here without the support of my best friend—"

(in the movies, this is when izuku would come bursting through the gallery doors, sweaty and disheveled in a suit jacket too large for his shoulders despite how broad they've become. people would be awed by the sight of him, glittering in the remnants of his emerald lightning, and he would turn to find you across the floor and he'd smile sheepishly, apologetically, and say—)

"the parking y've got here is shit."

but it's not izuku. it's bakugou.

it's impossible to have grown up with one and not the other, but—where izuku was quirkless—you were a girl, and that made you even more detestable. you weren't invited to any of his sleepovers or birthday parties at the arcade, and his nose always wrinkled at the sight of you and your pink butterfly clips, the dresses your mother loved to doll you up in.

even now, you see him and a strike of fear jolts your heart, instinctive, after watching the beat-down your best friend endured for so long. the only thing that softens him in this moment, for the first time, is the black, mock turtleneck he's wearing, and the bouquet of pale red carnations in his hand.

immediately, the interested party in front of your exhibition is stolen by him, dynamight, though his face twists hideously as they make to crowd him. you know that look, all too well, and you steel yourself for the bite of his words as he snaps at them.

"alright, alright, get the fuck outta my face before i blast all this frilly art shit to hell."

your anger spikes, fed by his own, though you can feel yourself shrinking behind the red-hot look he gives you, snuffed out as quickly as you'd caught ablaze. why, you wonder, why of all people would it have to be him? if this is izuku's way of apologizing, you'd rather have struggled through the event alone.

he stomps when he walks, like an overgrown child, and when he comes to stand in front of you and your small display, he doesn't even offer the flowers he's holding. instead he considers your work with a frown, eyes darting to and fro without so much as an inkling of enthusiasm. and then he takes in you, too—the soft cotton sweater you're wearing, the way you cup the sleeves with your fingers—with just as much disinterest.

and then he says, "thought you were s'pposed to have five pieces."

you were, but you and your nerves pushed your final painting to the last minute, and then you couldn't get any of the colors right, nor the movement. it was choppy and ugly and you hated it—and so you'd just gone without.

but you're not going to tell him that.

"what are you doing here?"

again, his face twists, as if he's sucking on a lemon. "doesn't exactly sound like a 'thank you', for showing up to your—whatever the hell it is."

"it's an art show, don't act dumb," you frown as he sucks his teeth and turn your stare to the flowers, how they're already wilting. petals drooping. your eyes sting as you look back up at him. "where's—"

"the hell do you think?"

it's not his fault, you tell yourself—but your anger has gone, blown out with the wind. the loneliness that always comes after letdowns like these joins you, faithful in its ache. you wrap your arms around yourself and step back further from him, forcing yourself to look away, at the other artists, so that maybe he won't see the gloss in your eyes.

it surprises you, what he says next: "...shitty nerd would be here if he could."

"i know," you say, defensive suddenly, like you always are with him when it comes to izuku. the bite in your tone deepens his frown and he, too, eyes the flowers. he holds them up wordlessly, handing them off to you with more care than you could have ever expected from him. "thank you for bringing these," you murmur.

bakugou shrugs, shoulders hiking up in a way that is as foreign to you as the light pink dust settling over his cheekbones. "don't know shit about flowers, so. whatever. congrats, i guess."

you frown again, brow crinkling. "but—izuku knows, doesn't he? he told you what to get, right?"

"what?" bakugou's nose twists, suddenly seven years old and offended by your proximity. "ain't talked to the fucker all night, just heard the call over the radio 'fore i left."

"wait, what?" you blink and take a step towards him, without thinking, and the action has him rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. cheeks darker, you think, in the low ambient light. "how—did you know to come then?"

and when he looks back at you, eyes molten and metallic, you think it's maybe not offense in his stare, but something else you've never seen on him. "nerd's been talkin' about it all week." he shrugs, and what he says next feels like an answer to more than just this question, here. "came on my own."