Forced to Feel His Heart

Flashbulbs popped like tiny explosions across the line of cameras, and the makeshift stage smelled faintly of smoke and sweat. They had just wrapped an evacuation that should’ve gone sideways, but didn’t—because it never did when they were forced to work together. Deku and Dynamight. The crowd loved the pairing. The crowd didn’t have to stand between them in the narrow space where air and pride thinned.

Midoriya kept his smile soft. He kept his hands relaxed around the microphone. His heart was still beating too fast from the fight, but his voice didn’t wobble. “We coordinated with Ground Zero Squad at the west entrance,” he said, looking toward the swarm of press but picking out no one. “Priority was to clear civilians and neutralize the hazard before property damage escalated.” Practice, practice, practice. Facts. Numbers. Calm. “Dynamight secured the upper levels and created safe routes through the smoke pressure.”

Beside him, Bakugou stood with his arms folded over his chest, gauntlets slung off his belt, uniform half-unzipped, the black of his undershirt damp and clinging to muscle that still vibrated with residual adrenaline. He stared past the reporters—jaw set, mouth a hard line. His own mic sat at his feet in silent protest, like it didn’t deserve to be in his hand.

A reporter leaned in, voice bright. “Textbook teamwork as always. Considering your history, it’s impressive how far you two have come. Care to comment on how that… evolved?”

It was a crafty question. Soft words, sharp edges. Midoriya felt it like a hot prickle under his collar, the pointed invitation to make meaning out of things that didn’t want it. He breathed through his nose, counting two beats. Bakugou turned his head at last, eyes cutting toward the sound like a blade.

“Our history’s none of your damn business,” Bakugou said, every syllable clean and clipped. “We do the job. That’s it.”

A murmur rolled through the line of press, excited, hungry. Cameras clicked faster. Midoriya’s smile didn’t slip, but it took muscle to keep it there. He angled the mic closer to his mouth, and—without looking at Bakugou—stepped into the gap.

“What Dynamight means,” he said lightly, warm, “is that we’ve trained for years. We know each other’s tendencies in the field. It helps us anticipate and adjust. That’s why it works.” He lifted a hand, half-gesture, easy. “We had incredible support from the other heroes today. No one does this alone.”

Beside him, Bakugou exhaled like a fuse hissing down to nothing. The reporters pivoted, sensing the story shift. “Deku, you’ve cited Dynamight in past interviews as a crucial partner in high-risk scenarios. Given your… differences, what’s the key to making this dynamic function?”

Midoriya kept his eyes bright even as he felt the weight of the word differences land. “Respect,” he said. “And trust. Even when we don’t agree, I trust Dynamight in a fight. He’s one of the strongest heroes on the frontlines. We don’t always need the same approach to get the same result.”

“Then why does the footage always show you two arguing?” someone else called. “There were reports of you shouting after the first breach.”

Bakugou’s lip curled, a half-second from telling them exactly what they could do with their reports. Midoriya’s shoulder brushed his arm—just a fraction, just enough to remind him they were still visible. He didn’t move away. “High-stress environments call for quick decisions,” Midoriya said. “We communicate fast. It might look intense, but we’re aligning our strategies. And it worked, didn’t it?”

That got a laugh, a few nods. Bakugou finally stooped, picking up his mic like it offended him to touch it. “If you want cuddles,” he said, deadpan, “watch a different press conference. We got everyone out. Quit looking for drama where there isn’t any.”

A chorus of follow-ups erupted—How many civilians? What about the gas leak?—and they fielded them in practiced rhythm. Midoriya laid out numbers and timelines. Bakugou cut through noise with blunt details no one else noticed: the broken sprinkler system on the east corridor, the way the pressure door warped, the kid hiding under a service desk that he’d dragged out by the collar. It was lopsided but effective, their balance a thing no one else could hold steady for long.

“Last question,” a woman in a slate blazer called, pen poised. “About that history. Rumors say you knew each other before U.A. There’s a video of you two at the Sports Festival—rivals then, partners now. People want to know: is there a chance of… reconciliation? A friendship?”

The stage felt smaller. The afternoon heat pressed in. Midoriya glanced sideways, just once, catching the harsh angle of Bakugou’s cheek, the stubborn set of his mouth, the lingering soot smeared along his jaw. Then he looked back out and didn’t miss a beat.

“We’re heroes,” he said with a smile that cut no one. “We’re here to protect people. Whatever came before, whatever we’re still working through, the important thing is we show up. For each other, and for everyone who needs us.” He dipped his head, kindness without opening any doors. “Thanks for your concern. We appreciate the support.”

Bakugou’s fingers flexed around his mic. “Press is over,” he said, voice flat. “We got reports to file.”

The handlers swept in. The stage lights cooled. As they stepped off the riser, the applause was polite, the eyes still hungry. Midoriya kept pace with Bakugou down the back corridor, their strides matching out of habit born in smoke and sirens, not softness. When a staffer reached for Midoriya’s elbow, Bakugou’s glare made the hand drop before it touched him.

They walked in silence, the kind that wasn’t empty so much as full of unsaid things. Cameras couldn’t follow them here. That should have made it easier. It never did.

The locker room door shut behind them with a solid thud that made the fluorescent lights buzz louder. The hum of the building—the chatter of support staff, the distant drone of traffic—stayed outside. In here, there was just the smell of burnt propellant and sweat, wet fabric peeling off skin, metal clicking as gear hit tile.

Bakugou didn’t look at him. He never did in this room.

He tore off one gauntlet, the latch protesting before it gave, and dropped it on the bench with a clang that echoed. The second followed, rougher. He kicked his boots free and toed them into the corner. His gloves were next, peeled off finger by finger in quick, impatient jerks. The black undershirt came over his head in one movement, the fabric snagging on a shoulder pad before he yanked it harder, teeth set.

Midoriya hung back by the end of the row, fingers wrapped in the damp strap of his mask. He watched the tightness between Bakugou’s shoulder blades shift as he moved, the way tension slid under his skin like coiled wire. There was still soot smeared along his neck. A streak of dried blood that wasn’t his on the edge of his jaw. Midoriya’s mind cataloged details out of habit. It made him feel useful when he didn’t know where to put his hands.

He bent and set his mask gently on the bench, the soft click of plastic barely a sound compared to Bakugou’s deliberate noise. He unzipped his suit with slow fingers, the fabric sticking where sweat had cooled. The quiet in the room wasn’t empty; it pressed at his ribs. It carried unfinished sentences and the memory of his own voice smoothing edges onstage.

Bakugou shoved open his locker. The door banged the stop. He grabbed a towel and scrubbed at his face like he could erase everything that clung. Water at the sink ran hot, steam rising, and he splashed it over his hair, creating rivulets that tracked through soot and down his chest. He hissed when a line of water found a scrape on his shoulder, then ignored it.

Midoriya pulled his arms free of the suit and rolled it down to his waist. He watched the way Bakugou’s breathing stayed short and tight despite the fight being over. The adrenaline lived longer in him. “You should let Recovery Girl look at that,” Midoriya said softly, finally. He didn’t expect an answer. He said it because not saying it felt wrong.

Bakugou’s eyes flashed up in the mirror, a split second. Sharp, irritated, bright. Then he looked away and shut off the tap. “It’s nothing,” he said, clipped. He grabbed the towel again and rubbed his hair hard, the motion impatient.

Midoriya nodded like that settled it. He pulled the suit the rest of the way off and folded it over his arm. His own locker door opened without a sound. Inside was neat—spare clothes, a notebook with dog-eared pages, a water bottle he’d forgotten to refill. He took the water and drank anyway, the lukewarm swallow sitting heavy.

“I’ll add details on the east corridor door to the report,” he tried again, practical. “It might help engineering advocate for updated hardware in older buildings. The pressure—”

“I’ll write my report,” Bakugou snapped, not loud, not shouting—just hard. He sat on the bench, elbows braced on his knees, towel draped over his head like he needed a barrier. He didn’t look up. “You don’t need to cover my bases.”

Midoriya swallowed and set the bottle down with care. He rubbed a thumb over the edge of the cap and let it go. “Okay.”

Silence again. From the other room, a laugh. Somewhere down the hall, the whir of a dryer. Two normal sounds that underlined how far away the rest of the building was from this narrow aisle of metal and tile.

Bakugou finally shoved to his feet and reached for his spare shirt. He tugged it on and dragged it down over his stomach, fingers latching for a second at the hem like he needed to ground himself. “Press is done,” he muttered. “Work’s not. Don’t linger.”

Midoriya’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. He stepped into his jeans, pulled a worn hoodie over his head, and tucked the green of his curls back behind his ears. He took too long tying his shoes because it gave him something to do. There were a thousand words on his tongue. He picked none of them.

“Good work today,” he said, quiet, sincere. He met the side of Bakugou’s face and looked away before he could make it worse. “See you tomorrow.”

Bakugou didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He was already reaching for his phone, already constructing a wall out of tasks and anger.

Midoriya closed his locker and shouldered his bag. The strap caught on the hinge and he freed it gently, as if noise would tip something over. He paused at the door and glanced back once. Bakugou stood with his head bowed, thumbs moving over his screen, the line of his back stubborn and alone.

Midoriya let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and slipped out into the hallway. The air outside felt colder. He walked past the front desk with his hood up and his smile stored away, the quiet following him like a shadow all the way to the elevator.

Midoriya’s apartment greeted him with the soft creak of the door and the faint smell of detergent and old paper. He kicked off his shoes and set his bag down by habit, keys landing in the catch-all tray with a small clatter that sounded too loud in the quiet. He turned on a single lamp. The room warmed around the edges, shadows smoothing out but not disappearing.

He sank onto the couch and unlocked his phone, the screen lighting his face in white-blue. The home page was full of his and Bakugou’s names, headlines cropped with tight smiles and dramatic shots: Deku and Dynamight: Perfect Synergy Amid Crisis. A video auto-played with the sound off—Bakugou in frame for a second, jaw tight, then Midoriya gesturing at a map, calm and composed. He tapped through comment sections, familiar praise stacking like bricks. Best duo. Flawless evacuation. Their trust is unmatched.

His chest felt tight. Trust. His thumb lingered over a photo from the press conference. Bakugou’s mouth was a hard line, soot still smudged on his skin. Midoriya’s smile looked convincing even to himself, and that was maybe the worst part. He turned the volume on, just for a moment, listening to the way he’d answered, the way he kept his tone even. He heard himself say “We show up,” and it scraped inside.

He put the phone down face-first and leaned back, staring at the ceiling, counting the lines in the plaster out of old habit until his breathing steadied. The quiet pressed in again, heavier now that the day was over and there was no one to hold it back with small talk.

He stood, restless, and crossed to the small shelf by the window. The curtains were half-drawn; the city blurred through rain-streaked glass. On the second shelf, tucked behind a few well-thumbed notebooks, there was a small tin box, the metal dented at one corner from being dropped years ago. He pulled it out gently, like it might break, and carried it to the coffee table.

He didn’t open it right away. The dent fit under his thumb like a familiar notch. He breathed once, twice, and lifted the lid.

Inside was the small, old mess of a life he’d kept in pieces. Ticket stubs. A couple of Polaroids with too much flash. A tiny screw from a support gauntlet he’d changed himself. And under those, carefully wrapped in a folded scrap of tissue, the All Might trading card he’d kept since childhood. The edges had gone soft from being handled too much. One corner was frayed where it had once snagged in the lining of a backpack.

He unfolded the tissue and slid the card free. All Might grinned up at him in retro colors, his hair exaggerated, cape too bright. Midoriya traced the curve of the printed smile with a fingertip that trembled more than he wanted it to. The card had weight it didn’t earn. It wasn’t rare. It wasn’t worth anything to anyone else.

It pulled him back to a day on a sunlit street, to a boy with sharp eyes and a louder voice pressing a card into his hands like it was no big deal. It had felt like a miracle. Back then, things were complicated in ways he thought he understood. Respect and resentment, admiration and pain woven tight. But there had been access. There had been the false safety of childhood rules. They had spoken even when it hurt. Midoriya could tell himself he knew where he stood because there was a place to stand, even if it was three steps behind.

He exhaled and pressed the card flat against his chest for a second, right where the fabric of his hoodie was thinner from wear. His heart thudded against it, a steady, traitorous rhythm. He thought of the locker room—the scrape of metal, the sound of Bakugou’s breathing, the towel dragged hard over his hair. The way their silence had shape and temperature. How Midoriya could sense, even without quirks involved, the edge of something he wasn’t allowed to touch.

He set the card down beside the tin and rubbed his thumb over his palm to chase away the ghost of heat. He picked up his phone again and scrolled through another article, the words blurring. The comments said things like goals and brothers, and he wished they were either. He wished he could fold himself small and tuck away the day until morning so he could put the uniform back on and let it all make sense in motion.

Instead he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at All Might’s printed grin until the ache behind his ribs settled into something quiet. He thought about the bridge between then and now. About a boy who would have followed any path to stand where he could see Bakugou clearly, and a man who did and found that the view still hurt.

He slid the card back into its tissue, smoothing the fold carefully. It resisted at the frayed corner, and he eased it through, patient. He placed it in the tin and left the lid off, as if that could let a little air into the past. The lamp hummed softly. The rain ticked on the glass. His phone lit again with another alert praising their synergy. He didn’t look.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, the shape of the card imprinted behind his lids, the echo of the press room applause fading into the remembered sound of Bakugou saying, It’s nothing. It wasn’t. He knew better.

Midoriya exhaled, long and slow, and let the apartment hold him while the city moved without him outside. He reached out without opening his eyes and slid his fingertip along the edge of the tin, finding the dent again, grounding on it like the edge of a truth he couldn’t quite open all the way.

Bakugou’s door shut behind him with a solid click. The apartment answered with the same blank quiet it always had—a couch, a kitchen that could have been a photograph, floors clean enough to reflect the overhead light. He toed off his shoes and left them aligned, keys dropped in the tray with a precision that felt like compulsion.

He still smelled like smoke and concrete dust. He went straight to the bathroom, turned the tap, and scrubbed his hands until the grit was gone and his knuckles went pink. Water steamed up around his face. He stared into the mirror, jaw set, shoulders tight, and saw the press room lights ghosting over his skin. He rolled his neck. It cracked. He didn’t feel better.

He didn’t put on music. He didn’t turn on the TV. He crossed the narrow hall and opened the door to the spare room. Mats covered the floor. A rack of bands and a battered heavy bag hung in the corner, duct tape crisscrossed where the leather had split. He wrapped his hands, tugging the fabric down hard, thumbs pressing the tension into place, and stepped into the familiar rectangle of space where things stopped talking back.

The first punch landed with a dull, satisfying thump. He exhaled through his teeth and hit again, harder, letting the residual thrum of his quirk rise just enough to warm his skin. He fell into rhythm: step, twist, drive. The bag swung and he met it, absorbed the return, drove it back. His breath steadied. Sweat broke along his spine and at his temples. Adrenaline, at least, was honest.

Except his head wouldn’t empty. It never did after a day like this. The city had almost swallowed people whole—panic in a wave, the pressure of responsibility like a weight on his sternum. Noise. Reporters clustering like flies when the smoke cleared. He could still hear the question about their history, the way Midoriya had smoothed over the spike in the room with a practiced answer, little laugh tucked in like a bow.

He hit the bag like he could wipe that from his memory. The image that flashed wasn’t the asshole who’d set the building on fire. It was Midoriya, under the camera lights, eyes bright in a way that wasn’t natural anymore. That big, even smile that said: we make this look easy, we always have, nothing to see here. It made something in Bakugou’s chest grind, the way grit gets into a hinge.

He didn’t want to hear that voice go calm for a crowd. He didn’t want to see that face arranged into comfort meant for people who didn’t understand that what they called synergy was two people holding their shit together with white-knuckled fists. He didn’t want to admit the part of him that bristled because the smile wasn’t for him.

His knuckles connected again. The bag jumped. The tape shifted. He drove an elbow into it, a clean, mean arc that reverberated up into his shoulder. Breath out, breath in. He closed his eyes and saw Midoriya from the locker room instead, hood down, curls damp with sweat, mouth soft on the words good work. The little pause before he left, like he was waiting for permission to exist.

“Damn it,” Bakugou muttered, and the sound scraped his throat.

He hit the bag until his arms shook. He let small pops flare in his palms, not full blasts, just enough to sting, to leave a warmth over his bones that he knew how to translate. He focused on angles, on footwork, on anything that wasn’t that stupid, practiced grin replaying like a loop.

It kept looping.

It wasn’t even fake. That was the problem. Midoriya’s media smile wasn’t a lie. It was a choice. A shield with a shine. Bakugou knew shields. He could respect a weapon when he saw one. He still wanted to break it just to see what face was underneath when no one else was looking.

His mouth twisted. He drove a hook into the bag with enough force that the chain creaked and dust shook down from the ceiling. He leaned his forehead against the rough surface, sweat cooling in the air. His heart hammered, not only from exertion.

They had looked good today because they were good. Because he could feel Deku at his back without seeing him, because he knew where he’d be in a room by the sound of his boots. That heat flooded his veins for a second—pride, fierce and unwilling, that he pushed back down with force. The reporters ate it up and turned it into a headline with hearts in the comments. As if the work didn’t cost anything. As if the space between them wasn’t wide and carved out sharp.

He straightened and stripped one wrap off with his teeth, tossing it toward the corner, then hit the bag bare-handed just to feel the impact ring his joints. His skin would bruise across the knuckles by morning. He welcomed it. He wanted a reason his hands hurt that didn’t have Midoriya’s face attached to it.

He was too hot. He shoved his shirt up and over his head, tossed it, and planted his feet again. Sweat traced down his chest, caught at his waistband. He blew out a breath and found his rhythm one more time, trying to outrun the picture his brain kept serving up: Midoriya under harsh lights, shoulders squared, eyes kind when they shouldn’t be, voice steady, smile too bright.

The bag swung away and back. He caught it and held it there, palms spread, head tipped forward. His fingers curled into the canvas, then he let go and took a step back. The room pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

He hated the press. He hated how easy Midoriya made it look. He hated that he’d almost answered that question himself, truth sharp on his tongue, and then choked because the honest version was messy and real and not for them. He hated how the ache that sat under his anger tonight wasn’t simple. It wasn’t even clean.

He wiped his forearm over his face and laughed once, a humorless sound that came out like a cough. He stood there in his quiet box of a room, chest heaving, staring at the dent in the heavy bag where his fist had landed most. The apartment didn’t offer him anything back. He didn’t need it to. He needed his breathing to slow. He needed tomorrow to come so he could put his gloves on and stop thinking.

His hands shook once before they steadied. He went to the kitchen for water and drank it cold from the tap, head tipped back, throat working. The glass clinked when he set it down. He didn’t look at his phone. He didn’t want to see “perfect synergy” again. He wanted the sound of Midoriya’s real voice in the locker room, quiet and close and not packaged for anyone else, and he punished himself with three more sets on the bag until his arms went numb.