Chapter Text
It’s a perfectly normal sunny day when disaster strikes, ruining Eijirou’s life for probably forever.
He’d been spotting Bakugou on his bench presses. Bakugou works out with earbuds in and blasts his music so loud Eijirou can kinda hear it standing right next to him.
From what he can tell, it’s mostly just a wall of screaming noise with a heavy beat. Jirou once described Bakugou’s playlist as, A war crime. According to Shoji, it’s, Not that bad if you ignore the shrieking. It’s generally agreed that Bakugou’s taste in music is garbage. Except for Tokoyami, who firmly believes that Bakugou actually has the most avant garde taste of their entire peer group. He and Jirou have an ongoing feud about it.
Anyway, Eijirou’s spotting Bakugou and kinda sorta listening to Bakugou’s apparently awful music. Bakugou hisses out a breath and grinds out the last rep of this set. Eijirou grabs the bar to help him rack it, then steps back as Bakugou sits up. His shirt’s stuck to his back, and he leaves a large patch of moisture on the bench padding.
His face’s gotten all blotchy red from the exertion. Sweat drips down his forehead. Well, sweat drips down his everything. Because Bakugou sweats like a water hose. It comes down his shoulders. It pools on every bench or machine he works on. It drops to the floor. Bakugou has to keep like three towels—one for wiping the equipment down, one for himself, and one for mopping the actual freaking floor. Basically, Eijirou thinks as he watches Bakugou gulp down a bunch of water, Bakugou’s kind of a gross human being.
He’s literally gonna be the best Hero of their generation because he’s a rank sweaty bastard.
Eijirou snorts.
Bakugou frowns at him, taking his earbuds out.
Eijirou shakes his head. “Just thought of something funny.”
Bakugou grunts. Because the guy would communicate almost exclusively in grunts and one-word sentences if he could get away with it. Sucks at communicating, that’s another one.
“The vending machine’s out of Red Bull,” Eijirou says.
“Good,” Bakugou says. “Shit’s bad for you.”
Something about his heart exploding or his internal organs dissolving. “Yeah, but I still need caffeine.”
“Drink coffee.”
Eijirou channels all the sadness and disgust he’s feeling into his face. “It’s not the same.”
Bakugou doesn’t budge a single inch. “Then drink Monster.”
“Ugh.”
“It’s also an energy drink.”
Eijirou can’t even begin to explain how not interchangeable the two are. He settles for, “Dude, no.”
Bakugou eyes him for a long time. “Is it because it doesn’t have red in the name.”
“No.” That never once factored into Eijirou’s thought process. Red Bull is superior for loads of other reasons. It tastes better. The caffeine spike is smoother. It’s—Eijirou thinks hard about it. And other stuff. Really good reasons for why Red Bull is the objectively better drink. Yeah.
“They’ve got red Monster, y’know.”
Eijirou hadn’t known that. “I don’t only drink Red Bull because of the name.”
Bakugou looks at him. He raises an eyebrow. He flicks his eyes up pointedly at Eijirou’s hair.
“That’s different.”
Bakugou’s phone chimes. It’s the end of his break. Bakugou smirks at him and slides back under the bar to start the next set.
Eijirou scowls but gets ready anyway. He adds Aggravating to the list he hadn’t even realized he’d started making until just now. The Reasons Why Bakugou Sucks list. Bakugou’s also bad at classic literature. There.
Honestly, Bakugou’s lucky to have such an awesome gym buddy in him. Eijirou’s great. Bakugou sucks.
Well, mostly. He doesn’t suck at training. Or weight lifting.
Eijirou watches Bakugou push through the reps. His chest works, his pectorals shifting under his skin. It’s kinda cool actually. He can see how tension runs through every part of Bakugou’s body, from his feet planted on the floor all the way to his firm grip on the bar. He’s in control at every point in the smooth push and return of his movements.
Just watching him, Eijirou notices a bunch of stuff he could probably be doing better with his own form. He should engage his scapula more for stability. Maybe a wider grip would work better for him. He should drive more from his legs. He learns a ton every time he watches Bakugou do anything because the guy’s kind of an insane perfectionist. Sometimes it’s a lot to deal with, but it’s undeniable that he gets results.
He adds that to the list too, but it’s kinda cheating. It doesn’t really count. Eijirou includes it anyway. Bad taste in music. Sweaty. Sucks at talking. Unnecessarily aggravating. Bad at classic literature. Psychotic about training.
Bakugou finishes the set. Eijirou helps him rack and watches him sit up. The guy doesn’t take out his earbuds for a while, letting the song finish. Then he turns to Eijirou.
“You’re in a good mood,” Bakugou says. Then he points at his own face as if to indicate there’s something on Eijirou’s face.
Eijirou touches his own cheek. There’s nothing on his face. “I’m not,” he says. “I’m annoyed.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m annoyed at you,” Eijirou tells him. Because he is.
Bakugou grunts.
“Seriously.” Eijirou pulls a frown. “Look. I’m annoyed.”
Bakugou considers him for a while. His brow furrows with thought, then his expression clears. “Do you wanna punch me in the face?”
“What, no.”
“You’re annoyed. I’m punchable. But well,” Bakugou shrugs, “you’d have to work for it.”
Eijirou shoves Bakugou’s shoulder. “I’m not sparring with you.”
“It doesn’t have to be a spar. You just have to make it so I don’t stop you.”
“Dude, I’m not gonna punch you.”
“Hm.” Bakugou looks kinda disappointed about that. He probably took it as a personal challenge. Needlessly competitive goes on the list.
His phone chimes again. Next set. Bakugou gets back under the bar.
This is around the time when Eijirou has to watch more closely for signs that Bakugou may be getting close to the point of failure. If his movements start slowing down. If he starts gritting his teeth. If his breathing changes. Then Eijirou would have to be ready to step in, get his hands under the bar, and help ease the load.
Spots are pretty chill. Everyone needs them at some point. Even Bakugou needs them. It doesn’t matter that he’d rather chew off his own hand before asking for help. Because working up to the point of failure means that you need someone to step in the moment you hit that point. And if Eijirou doesn’t step in, well, Bakugou’s kinda screwed. He’d be trapped under the bar with no way to get out. It’d be pretty embarrassing, just being stuck there, floundering. He’d be helpless.
The most recent rep was kinda quivery. Eijirou can see the muscles in Bakugou’s arms jump a little. He brings his hands up under the bar, following Bakugou’s movements as he pushes through the rest of his reps. The guy doesn’t end up needing it, but seeing Eijirou’s hands in his line of sight as he ground through, it probably helped a lot. It’s peace of mind. It’s knowing you wouldn’t actually be screwed if you pushed a little too far.
Bakugou finishes and hunches over a little after he sits up to catch his breath. The sets are getting harder even with the rests Bakugou’s getting in. But they’re almost done. The next set’s the last one.
“What’s the problem with punching me in the face?” Bakugou eventually says.
“Do you want me to punch you in the face?”
Bakugou sends him a look, like Eijirou’s the one who’s saying absolutely whack stuff. “Why the fuck would you think that.”
Eijirou scowls. “You literally keep suggesting it.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Bakugous says, “and hey, if you get a good one in, then fair play.”
Eijirou scowls harder and throws up his hands and makes it generally known how stupid he thinks this is. “That doesn’t even count. It’d be like if I said you could kick me in the nuts, and let you break your foot on my hardened balls.”
Bakugou doesn’t even seem put off by Eijirou’s eviscerating logic. He just looks contemplative. Dangerously so. “I bet I could get one in. Full contact. Unhardened.” He shakes his head as if a thought just occurred to him. “Shit, you don’t even know what it’d be like. You’d be on the floor. Instantly.”
Eijirou would really like to go his entire life without knowing what getting kicked in the balls feels like. “You are not making this a challenge.”
“I’m making this a challenge,” Bakugou says.
“No.”
“It’d be training. You don’t wanna get caught off guard by a nut shot in the field.”
“Hell no.”
Eijirou refuses to be convinced. Bakugou can’t just get away with everything by saying, It’s for training. That’s not how it works. And Eijirou really doesn’t want to get kicked in the balls.
“It could be a contest,” Bakugou muses. “Who gets it first, you punching me in the face, or me nailing you in the nuts.”
“Dude, that’s what I keep saying. I don’t wanna punch you in the face.”
Bakugou grins sharply at him. “Well then you’re gonna lose.”
Eijirou groans. “You’re so—”
“Hey, first shot. I’m wide open.” Bakugou thumps his chest and contorts his face into something he probably thinks makes it look punchable. Which is actually pretty compelling. The guy’s got an absolute talent for making you want to pummel his face in. He had a blast capitalizing on it during the sports festival.
“Quit it, man.”
To Eijirou’s huge relief, Bakugou’s alarm goes off before he can try again to convince him to punch him. Bakugou makes hard eye contact with him for a long moment before getting started on his next set.
Eijirou grumbles and gets ready for a spot.
The rest of his week is gonna suck. Now that the idea’s in Bakugou’s head, he’s super going to have a shot at slamming his foot top-speed into Eijirou’s poor nutsack. Which means Eijirou’s gonna have to spend the entire time completely paranoid, so he can harden up in time. Bakugou’s weird training ideas are the absolute worst.
He eyes Bakugou pushing smoothly through the first rep of his last set. The guy takes lifting pretty seriously, so it’s unlikely he’d screw up a set just because he wants to get one in on Eijirou. But still. He studies Bakugou’s movements suspiciously. He could rack the bar at the top of one of his reps and then swing around to jab his elbow into Eijirou’s balls. He’d probably be able to pull it off pretty fast.
There’s a moment where something spasms in Eijirou’s brain. Like someone whacked his internal machinery with a wrench.
He frowns.
He’s standing right next to Bakugou’s head. Which obviously? That’s what you do when you spot a bench press. You stand behind the other guy while they’re lying on the bench doing their sets.
But that means Eijirou’s crotch is like, weirdly close to Bakugou’s head. As in his dick is kinda sorta hovering above Bakugou’s nose. Bakugou could crane his neck back and get an up close and personal look at Eijirou’s nutsack. Which doesn’t even matter because they’re in the gym, and they’re wearing clothes, so nutsack viewing isn’t an option, and Bakugou’s doing bench presses, so he doesn’t even give a shit about the proximity of Eijirou’s dick. Or other stuff.
But Eijirou knows now.
His dick is the closest it’s ever been to Bakugou’s direct line of sight. The closest it’ll probably ever be until the next time Eijirou spots Bakugou on bench presses.
Eijirou scowls and shakes his head. Who even gives a crap about that. He sure as hell doesn’t. He’s just giving his good bro a spot because he’s a good gym buddy. A spot that if he decided not to do would leave his good bro stranded under the bar. And also trapped in proximity to his dick. His brain needs to shut up. He needs to stop thinking about his dick and Bakugou. But also Bakugou’s dick? Holy fuck, he’s stopping now.
Bakugou lets out a long groan, which really doesn’t help matters. Except oh shit, Bakugou’s getting louder because he is actually pretty close to the point of failure. Eijirou hurriedly brings his hands up under the bar, following Bakugou through the next rep. Bakugou manages to get all the way through it, but that’s it. He’s stuck at the bottom of the motion, the bar touching his chest, exertion shivers running through his muscles. His face is almost entirely red from the strain. His neck’s red too.
Eijirou grabs the bar and pushes up with Bakugou, watches him hiss out a breath on the last drive, then drag another one in after they rack the bar together.
Bakugou sits up and swipes a hand down his face, wicking sweat off. He’s pouring buckets of it. He did the last few sets with his back in the puddle of sweat collecting on the bench. Eijirou doesn’t really care about that stuff, but even he has to admit it’s pretty damn gross.
Bakugou clenches his teeth together to grin up at him.
“Good shit,” he grunts. “Really fucking good.”
Eijirou tries his very best to suppress all thoughts happening in his brain and steps around the bench. He returns the smile. “Yeah, man.”
Bakugou gets to his feet. He sways slightly from the headrush before he turns to Eijirou. There’s a moment where it’s clear he’s getting his head back together from that last set. Then he’s collected himself. Bakugou’s grin takes on a different edge, and he drives forward and up with his knee, like he’s going for Eijirou’s crotch.
Eijirou blinks.
Bakugou stops just short of actually landing the hit. He just lets his foot land into a hard stomp between Eijirou’s legs.
Eijirou stares at him and belatedly realizes Bakugou was about to murder the shit out of him via nutshot, and he was too messed up in the head to notice. Or y’know, actually defend himself.
Bakugou’s grin widens. “Nice,” he says. “You don’t flinch.”
Because he’s too much of a dumbass, apparently.
Bakugou thumps Eijirou once on the shoulder before walking off to grab a towel to wipe down.
He groans and scrubs a hand down his face.
The worst part is, he still can’t stop freaking thinking about his own dick and Bakugou, and also Bakugou’s dick. Even when they’re not in proximity anymore. Even when Bakugou is the grossest sweatiest human being to walk the planet. Even when Bakugou is on a one-man campaign to demolish the shit out of his testicles just to win an imaginary contest.
Oh god, he’s actually going to die.
Eijirou doesn’t have a nervous breakdown over it. His brain tries its very best to freak the fuck out, but he’s cool. He’s got his shit locked down tight. He’s holding it together.
He still can’t stop thinking about his dick and Bakugou and Bakugou’s dick, but well, you can’t win everything.
“Hide me,” Eijirou says the moment he sees Bakugou walk into class.
Sero, because he’s an absolute bro, immediately steps in front of Eijirou and holds his arms out. It doesn’t actually do anything to hide Eijirou from view. If anything, it draws more attention to their corner of the room. But it’s the thought that counts. Sero’s ride or die without even questioning. Eijirou thinks manly friendship thoughts about Sero, the best dude in the world.
Kaminari is not ride or die. Kaminari would sell Eijirou out for a stale ham-and-mayo roll in a heartbeat. So instead of throwing himself in the line of fire, Kaminari says, “Dude, why?”
Ashido loses the friendship battle because she’s too busy taking a nap, but Eijirou doesn’t hold it against her.
Eijirou hunches over in his seat a little, trying to cover himself as much as possible using Sero’s admittedly pretty lanky torso. He’d have full coverage if he were friends with Sato. The dude’s a tank. For a moment, Eijirou considers dumping Confirmed Terrible Friend Kaminari for Baking God Sato.
Kaminari pulls down one of Sero’s arms, worsening Eijirou’s protection. “What’re you hiding from, man?”
Eijirou pushes Sero’s arm back up.
“Bakugou, I think,” Sero says. Then he frowns down at Eijirou. “Actually, yeah, why?”
Eijirou can trust no one, actually.
“Training exercise,” Bakugou’s voice says because Bakugou is standing right behind Sero. Eijirou hadn’t seen him because Sero was standing in the way. He really didn’t think about the fact that this tactical maneuver works both ways.
Oh god, he almost forgot about the stupid testicle demolishing campaign, which is the worst thing. He can’t be too busy thinking about Bakugou’s whatever, when Bakugou’s the one trying to destroy him. He can’t even be grateful that it’s providing a plausible cover for why he’d be hiding from Bakugou.
Kaminari nods sagely. “Oh, so Kirishima’s going to die.”
It really is so unfortunate how true that is.
Sero doesn’t move out of the way, despite now knowing he’s in the direct line of fire. Eijirou reinstates Best Bro status to him. “So what’s the exercise?” Sero asks.
“Kirishima’s never been kicked in the balls before,” Bakugou says.
Sero claps Eijirou on the shoulder. “It was really nice knowing you, man.”
“Stop,” Eijirou groans.
Kaminari frowns and crosses his arms. “What, that’s it?”
“Dude, shut up,” Eijirou hisses at him.
The last training exercise ended with Kaminari hogtied upside down with Sero’s tape, and Ashido talking ominously about pinatas. Eijirou doesn’t actually know why. He wasn’t involved in that one. But he sure as hell isn’t going to let Kaminari try to make this situation worse just because he lost badly one time.
Kaminari pushes Eijirou’s forehead away before rounding on Bakugou. “That seems pretty one-sided.”
“It’s not. Kirishima’s also gonna try punch me in the face.” Bakugou’s voice has taken on an edge.
Kaminari crosses his arms. “Yeah, but you’ve gotten punched in the face loads of times,” he points out. “You’ve really set this up in your favor.”
Sero seems to be catching Kaminari’s drift. He’s holding back a smile. “Yeah, that’s pretty shameless of you, huh?”
Oh, Bakugou hates it when people call him a cheater.
Eijirou risks looking around Sero’s torso at the guy. As expected, he’s gotten all bristly and indignant. His face is turning a little red, and his hands are clenched into fists.
“Fucking fine,” Bakugou grits out. “What would make it even.”
Kaminari strokes his chin. He nods to Sero, who’s just openly grinning at this point. “Simple,” Kaminari says. “Have you ever gotten kicked in the balls?”
Bakugou scowls and doesn’t answer for a long time. He crosses his arms. Uncrosses them. He paces a step forward and then back. Finally, he responds. “I’ve taken hits.”
“No, no,” Sero says. “Answer the question. Has anyone ever gone full Recipro Burst massacre on your nutsack?”
“I resent my Quirk being referred to in such a manner!” Iida shouts from the other side of the room.
Bakugou’s jaw sets. “No.”
Kaminari pumps his fist once before he swaps back to his referee's face. “Well, there you go. Fair’s fair.”
“Guys,” Eijirou says. “I don’t want to kick him in the balls.”
Kaminari reaches back to dig his fingers into Eijirou’s shoulder. He turns his head around and stares dead-eyed at him. “You will do it to avenge your forebears,” he intones.
“Dude, no.” Eijirou peels Kaminari’s hand off.
Kaminari leans in closer. “Suck it up,” he hisses. “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to kick Bakugou in the balls. I would kill for that chance.”
“Offer’s open,” Bakugou says.
Kaminari whips around. “What. Wait. What, really?”
Bakugou nods once before a grin spreads over his face. “But it goes both ways.”
“Oh,” Kaminari squeaks. “Pass then.”
“Coward,” Sero says.
“I don’t see you stepping up to the plate.”
“We’re all cowards in the end,” Sero replies sagely. He pats Eijirou on the back. “Good luck, Kirishima.”
“You’re the worst,” Eijirou tells them both. Mostly because they’ve spent the past ten minutes openly talking about Bakugou’s balls, which is really not helping him forget the existence of the guy’s crotch.
Nevermind, Bakugou’s actually the worst person to exist on the planet.
“Your cardio sucks,” Bakugou tells him.
“You’re the worst,” Eijirou wheezes.
He’s on the ground. Flat on his back in the grass of the quad outside their dorms. They’d started in the morning to avoid the heat. The problem is that Eijirou sucks so much at cardio that Bakugou’s agility drills took twice as long as they probably normally would.
Now it’s almost noon. The sun is beating down on their heads. It’s humid from the recent rains evaporating out of the grass, and Eijirou really truly hates everything, especially and including Bakugou.
Bakugou doesn’t look all that bummed about being hated by his super cool gym buddy. He’s got a bunch of cones stacked in his hands because he’s midway through resetting for the next drill. Eijirou’s probably in the way. Bakugou stands next to him, looking down at him with an expression on his face like he finds Eijirou’s suffering funny.
Eijirou summons his Reasons Why Bakugou Sucks list to the front of his mind. He adds Evil Sadistic Bastard.
Bakugou lifts his leg, hovering his foot above Eijirou.
“I will demolish your ankles,” Eijirou tells him.
Bakugou shrugs and lowers his foot back to the ground. “Would’ve been too easy.” He sticks the cones under his arm and walks away to set the next drill up.
Eijirou sits up, then slouches forward. He digs his hands into the grass, squeezing them between his fingers, feeling them stick to his palms. The back of Bakugou’s neck is red. His shoulders and forearms aren’t as red because they’ve gotten tan from sun exposure over time. Eijirou wonders if Bakugou gets sunburnt on his scalp under his blond hair. Does he put sunscreen on it? How would that even work?
He realizes he’s staring at Bakugou like a moron. Thinking about the top of the guy’s head for who the hell knows what reason. Eijirou moans and tips forward until his head presses into the ground. He grinds his forehead into the grass.
“What the hell are you doing,” Bakugou says from somewhere above him.
“Suffering,” Eijirou mutters.
“Well, stop.”
Eijirou groans, but hauls himself to his feet. He glowers at Bakugou and at the cones and at the goddamn sun.
Bakugou snorts. “You’ve got—” he waves a hand at his own forehead.
Eijirou rubs his forehead.
“No, to the left.”
Eijirou rubs to the left.
“Your other left.”
Eijirou rubs his other left.
“Look, just—” Bakugou moves forward and raises his hand up. Eijirou lurches back a step, staring at him wide-eyed, because what the fuck, he can’t be normal about anything anymore. Bakugou snorts. “I’m not going to kick you in the balls.”
Eijirou laughs weakly. “Yeah, sure, man.” He totally freaked out just then because of their stupid nut kicking contest. It didn’t have to do with anything else. He’s fine. His brain’s fine. Everything’s fine.
Bakugou steps closer again and swipes at the piece of grass stuck to Eijirou’s forehead. Well, ‘swipe’ is putting it nicely. It’s more like he smacks Eijirou on the head, and the piece of grass just so happened to come off. The spot Bakugou hit stings. The skin around it starts to warm up a little. His entire face feels hot. Eijirou strongly considers shoving his head back onto the ground.
He makes a face at Bakugou. “Thanks.”
Bakugou smirks. “Any time.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the cones set up behind him. “Ever done lateral box drills?”
“No,” Eijirou says and sighs.
This has gotta be some bizarre form of torture. He’s doing cardio. He’s doing cardio in the sun, and his good bro just hit him in the face. His skin buzzes. He feels jittery. His heart rate is all over the place. It’s like he put a quadruple scoop of pre-workout in his water bottle by accident. Except even working his ass off doesn’t take the edge off. It just makes him more keyed up. Because whenever he works out, Bakugou’s there. And Bakugou makes it worse.
Bakugou starts explaining the drill like nothing’s wrong. Because nothing’s wrong to him. It’s all in Eijirou’s head. “You start to the left of the square. Over there, see.” He points at one of the cones. “You shuffle sideways to the center, then back to the starting point. Then you shuffle to the center again, and through to—” Bakugou’s leg snaps up, driving his foot between Eijirou’s legs.
Eijirou stumbles back.
Bakugou’s face screws up with pain. “Fuck.” He drops to the ground, then brings his leg up to touch his bruised shin. “You’re good.”
Eijirou stares at him. He looks down at his hardened crotch. He concentrates and unhardens. He almost wishes he hadn’t responded in time.
Bakugou had timed it pretty well. He was midway through explaining the drill, and he normally doesn’t mess with legitimate training exercises with his weird competitive crap. The cones were set up a little ways away from them, so Bakugou would expect Eijirou to be looking at them as he described the movements. A perfectly reasonable person would do that to visualize what they’re supposed to do.
What Bakugou hadn’t taken into account was the fact that Eijirou is one hundred percent not a reasonable person right now. Because instead of looking at the cones and thinking about the training drill, Eijirou was looking at Bakugou and thinking about Bakugou.
So Eijirou was able to see the minute shifts in Bakugou’s muscles and realize what was about to happen. If he hadn’t been staring at Bakugou like an absolute lunatic, he wouldn’t have been able to react in time.
Eijirou leans over and looks down at Bakugou. The guy’s still gingerly poking at his shin. “You okay?”
Bakugou grunts. “Not sure if I should put weight on it.” Jeez, he must’ve messed up his ankle. He’d gone all out with that kick. Eijirou felt it rattle all the way up to his teeth.
“I told you I’d demolish your ankle,” Eijirou says sheepishly.
He gets down on one knee and lets Bakugou sling an arm around his shoulder. They push back to standing together. Bakugou balances on one leg for a moment before slowly putting his foot on the ground and leaning some weight onto it. His face tightens before he raises his foot again.
Eijirou takes a step forward. Bakugou hops on his good leg, bracing himself on Eijirou’s shoulder. He nods. Then they set off for Recovery Girl’s office.
They’ve done this loads of times before. Bakugou doesn’t really hold back much—not in class, not in training, and not for fun. So every so often, one of them eats shit and has to get patched up. One time, Eijirou took a hit to the head that knocked him out, and Bakugou apparently carried him to Recovery Girl slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. This is nothing.
Except it’s not nothing. Except Eijirou’s freaking the fuck out. Bakugou runs at a higher temperature, and they’d been out in the sun all day. Sometimes when they have to adjust position, Eijirou can feel Bakugou’s sweat-tacky skin pulling at him a little. Yeah, this is the worst thing to ever happen to him.
Bakugou eventually says, “It’s working.”
“What?”
“You’ve gotten sharper. Your awareness is better.” Bakugou grins for a brief smug moment. “Your reactions weren’t even close to this fast a week ago.”
“Because I don’t want to get kicked in the balls,” Eijirou says, which is true. And also an absolute goddamn lie. His bizarre new Bakugou hyperawareness is giving him an edge in their stupid competition.
“Exactly.”
They hop-hobble the rest of the way to Recovery Girl’s office.
Eijirou sits on a spinny stool in the corner, listening to her lecture them about not being self-destructive morons. Bakugou is making grumbling noises about being more careful in the future. His ankle goes from swollen and red to purple to yellow to normal. Then it’s just his ankle, and his ankle bone, and his achilles tendon, and the lower part of his calf.
Eijirou’s face is overheated, even though it’s cool inside the air-conditioned office. He kicks his feet. He rotates like a planet on its axis. He feels kinda dizzy.