Bakugo got up, dusted himself as if he didn't feel anything, and grabbed Kenji by the neck. "Good run, idiot. You've caused enough trouble for me." He lightly slapped the back of his head, sending it jerking forward.
Kenji just rubbed the spot, looking down. "Ouch."
They both walked outside the construction site together, and Bakugo looked at him. "Get on my back," he said to him.
"What—"
"I don't owe you an explanation. Get. On. My. Back." He ordered, his voice lacking any warmth now.
..
Kenji gulped down his saliva and mounted him, as he ordered. "What now?" he asked.
Bakugo smirked, "Takeoff." BOOM! They burst into the sky with explosions at high speed.
He tightened his grip around Bakugo's neck, the wind screaming past his ears.
"WHERE THE HELL ARE WE GOING?!" Kenji shouted over the explosions.
"STOP CHOKING ME!" Bakugo barked back, adjusting his trajectory with precise bursts from his palms. They weaved through the skyscrapers of Musutafu with relative ease.
Kenji's eyes watered from the wind, but he was still taking in details from the architecture, weak points, and stuff. His quirk didn't have an off button, it was tiring.
They descended rapidly toward what looked like a mid-rise apartment complex, newer construction with reinforced balconies. Bakugo landed on a seventh-floor balcony with far more grace than Kenji expected, the explosion dampening to almost nothing as they touched down.
"Off," Bakugo ordered.
Kenji slid down, his legs shaky. "You live here?"
"What'd you expect, a cardboard box?" Bakugo unlocked the sliding door and stepped inside, not bothering to check if Kenji followed.
The apartment was... surprisingly normal. Clean, but lived-in. A kitchen with actual dishes in the drying rack. A couch that looked comfortable. Weights in the corner. Hero magazines were stacked on a coffee table next to what looked like case files.
"Shoes off," Bakugo said, already kicking his own boots toward the entrance.
Kenji hesitated at the threshold. "Look, man, I appreciate the save back there, but—"
"You're staying the night." It wasn't a question.
"I don't need—"
"Bathroom's down the hall. Shower. You smell like garbage." Bakugo was already moving toward the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator. "You eat garbage?"
Kenji's stomach chose that moment to betray him with an audible growl.
Bakugo snorted. "That's what I thought. Go clean up. We'll talk after you don't look like a drowned rat."
"I'm fine."
"Kid." Bakugo turned, and his expression was harder now. "I pulled three villains off murder attempts this month. Two of them were targeting homeless teenagers. You wanna know why?"
"Because you're easy targets. No one's looking for you. No one reports you missing. You disappear, and the world keeps turning." Bakugo pulled out ingredients. "So yeah, you're staying tonight. Tomorrow we'll figure out what to do with you. But tonight? You eat, you sleep somewhere that isn't an alley, and you don't get your throat slit by some piece of shit who thinks quirk trafficking is a lucrative business."
"Shower," Bakugo repeated. "Clean clothes in the bathroom closet. They'll be big, deal with it."
Kenji was just stunned. He knows what the hero said, but his legs just weren't working. Why was he doing all this? He could just hand him over to the police.
"Fuck you looking like a chump for? Go get freshened up." Bakugo barked out.
He broke out of his trance and walked to the place Bakugo pointed to as the bathroom. He opened the door and just widened his eyes. Pristine white marble, a toilet—somehting clean, unlike the public ones.
He shut the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment. His hands were shaking.
He stripped off his hoodie, his shirt, wincing at the bruises blooming across his ribs from the fall earlier. His reflection in the mirror looked worse than he'd thought.
You look like shit, he thought, but couldn't quite look away.
The shower took a minute to figure out, but once he got it running, the steam alone nearly made him cry.
Kenji stepped under the spray and had to bite down on his fist to keep from making a sound.
Hot. Actually hot. Not lukewarm, not barely warm, but hot water. It's winter, and he doesn't get hot water out there.
He scrubbed at his skin with soap, smelling like roses and flowers. Weird. He'd expect a girl to have that kind of soap, but guess he was wrong.
His hair took three rounds of shampoo before the water ran clear. He watched the dirt and sweat spiral down the drain.
Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty.
He probably should've gotten out sooner, but he couldn't make himself move. This might be the only time in months that he'd get this again.
Finally, reluctantly, he shut off the water. He found the clean clothes Bakugo had mentioned in the closet—a black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that he had to roll up at the waist three times.
Kenji caught his reflection again. Still looked like shit, but at least now he was clean shit.
He opened the bathroom door cautiously. The smell of cooking meat hit him immediately.
Bakugo was at the stove, spatula in one hand, phone in the other. He glanced up when Kenji emerged.
"You drown in there?"
...
"Sit." Bakugo jerked his chin toward the small dining table.
Kenji sat.
A plate landed in front of him a minute later, full of rice, grilled chicken, and vegetables that were actually cooked and seasoned.
"Eat," Bakugo ordered, setting down his own plate and dropping into the chair across from him.
Kenji picked up the chopsticks with hands that trembled slightly. He told himself it was just fatigue.
He could barely hold his happiness when the first bite went it. Delicious fucking food.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Kenji kept sneaking glances at Bakugo, trying to figure out his angle. Heroes didn't just... do this. They arrested criminals, sent them to juvie or social services, and moved on to the next emergency. They didn't cook dinner or offer showers.
"What's your deal?" Kenji finally asked.
Bakugo looked up, one eyebrow raised. "My deal?"
"Yeah. Your deal." Kenji gestured vaguely at the apartment, at his plate, at himself. "Why are you doing this? I hit you. I ran. I'm a criminal, remember? You said so yourself. You're like a top hero, I know you, you're Dynamight, Why do you do this?"
...
"That's not an answer. I asked you a question, man, it's not polite to just ignore."
Bakugo set down his chopsticks with more force than necessary. "You want an answer? Fine. You remind me of someone."
"Who?"
...
"Myself, when I was younger. Stupid, reckless, thought I could handle everything alone." Bakugo's jaw tightened. "Difference is, I had people who gave a shit. Teachers, classmates, a mom who'd beat my ass if I pulled half the crap you're pulling. You don't have any of that."
"I don't need—"
"Yeah, yeah, you don't need anyone. I heard you the first five times." Bakugo leaned back in his chair. "Let me break it for you, that—that is not tough. You don't need tough. Not for this. You know what happens to kids like you? They either die, or they end up working for the wrong people."
"You've got potential," Bakugo continued. "Your quirk, your instincts, even your smartass attitude could be useful. But you're gonna waste it all because you're too stubborn to accept help. You've been on the run for five months and successfully evaded the pro heroes, great, but this is not the way."
Kenji looked down at his half-empty plate. "So what's your plan? Send me to an orphanage? Foster care? I've heard the stories, man. Those places aren't exactly paradise."
"No," Bakugo said slowly. "They're not. But they're better than an alley."
"In the alleys, at least I'm in control."
"I see. Control is the problem."
"I can deal with being homeless. I'm used to that. It's not unbearable stuff, Dynamight. At least to me. But what I can't bear is a bunch of adults who have no idea try and tell me how I should be."
He let the silence stretch between them.
"You think having no floor under your feet and no ceiling over your head is control?"
He leaned forward, crossing his muscular arms on the table.
"Listen to me, you brat. You're right. Most adults are full of shit. They talk about 'justice' and 'responsibility' because it makes them feel safe. But I'm not most adults, 'nd I'm telling you: you don't have control. You're a leaf in a hurricane, and you're just lucky the wind hasn't slammed you into a brick wall yet."
The silence stretched between them. Bakugo drummed his fingers on the table, a habit when he was thinking hard.
"What if you didn't have to deal with those adults?" he finally said.
Kenji looked up, suspicious. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean..." Bakugo ran a hand through his hair, looking more uncomfortable than Kenji had seen him all night. "What if you stayed here? Temporarily," he added quickly, like the word might soften the blow. "Just until we figure something better out."
Kenji stared at him. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
"You look like you've lost your mind," Kenji shot back. "You're a pro hero. You can't just... adopt random street kids you find beating up villains."
"I'm not adopting you, dumbass. I'm offering you a couch and three meals a day while we work out your situation." Bakugo crossed his arms. "You want control? Fine. Here's control: you stay here, you train properly, you learn how to not get yourself killed. In exchange, you stop playing vigilante and stealing from crime scenes."
"You want to be a hero? Actually be one? Then you need training. Real training. And yeah, eventually you'll need to deal with the system—get enrolled somewhere, get your quirk registered, all that legal bullshit. But we can work up to that."
Kenji's chopsticks clattered against his plate. "And why would you do this? You don't even know me."
"I know enough." Bakugo's voice was quieter now, but no less intense. "I know you've survived two years on the streets. I know you've got a powerful quirk and the brains to use it strategically. I know you're trying to do good, even if you're going about it in the dumbest way possible. And I know that if I send you back out there tonight, there's a decent chance I'll find you dead in a ditch within a month."
"You think you're invincible because you've made it this far. But luck runs out, kid. Always does. And when yours runs out, there won't be anyone there to catch you."
"What do you get out of this? Heroes don't just do charity work."
"You're right. I don't." Bakugo stood up, collecting their plates. "But I'm not doing charity. I'm investing. You've got potential to be a damn good hero someday. Maybe even better than most of the extras who graduate from the hero schools. But not if you're dead."
Kenji widened his eyes as he leaned back. This was insane. He should refuse, walk out right now, disappear into the night before Bakugo could change his mind or call social services or whatever heroes did in situations like this.
But.
The apartment was warm. The food had been real. The shower had been hot.
And Bakugo hadn't lied to him yet.
"I'm not calling you 'dad' or any of that weird shit," Kenji finally said.
Bakugo barked out a laugh.
"And I'm not going to some cushy hero school full of rich kids."
"U.A. isn't cushy, you little shit. But fine, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."
"And I keep my bat."
"Your bat stays. But you use it in training, not on actual villains. Not until you know what the hell you're doing."
Kenji was quiet for a long moment. "If I don't like it, I can leave. No cops, no social services, no forcing me into the system."
Bakugo turned around, meeting his eyes. "If you don't like it, you can leave. But you gotta actually try first. None of this running at the first sign of structure bullshit."
"How long?"
"Two weeks. You give it two weeks, follow my training, and if you still want to go back to the streets after that..." Bakugo shrugged. "Then I won't stop you. But you try. Really try."
Kenji stared at the hero's outstretched hand.
Two weeks.
He could survive two weeks of anything. Hell, he'd survived worse.
"Deal," Kenji said, and shook it.
Bakugo's grip was firm, calloused. The handshake lasted exactly two seconds before he pulled away and pointed down the hall.
"Guest room's the second door. Futon's already set up. Alarm goes off at five-thirty."
"Five-thirty?"
"You got a problem with that?"
"Yeah, I got a problem with that. That's not even a real time. That's when serial killers wake up."
Bakugo shrugged it off. "Get used to it. Heroes don't sleep in."
"Jesus Christ." Kenji rubbed his face. "Fine. Five-thirty. Whatever. What else?"
"Bathroom rules: you use it, you clean it. Don't leave shit everywhere. I see a wet towel on the floor, I'm throwing it at your head."
"Got it. Towels off the floor or get assaulted."
"Kitchen rules: you eat my leftovers without asking, I'll blast you through the wall. You cook something, you clean up after. And don't even think about touching my spice cabinet."
"I'm homeless. I don't know how to cook, uncle."
"Hm, fair point. Just don't fuck up the kitchen trying to find food then."
"Training starts at six. You're gonna hate me by the end of week one."
"I already hate you."
"Not a surprise." Bakugo grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, cracked it open. "One more thing."
"Yeah?"
"You try to run in the middle of the night, I'll know. I'm a light sleeper, and this place has security. You set foot outside without telling me, deal's off. I drag your ass to the nearest police station myself."
Kenji felt his jaw tighten. "Thought you said I could leave."
"After two weeks. You made a deal. You don't get to half-ass it three days in because you got scared."
"Before you say anything, everyone gets scared, kid. The difference is whether you're smart enough to admit it." Bakugo downed half the bottle in one go.
Kenji frowned. "Isn't this a rather big decision to make in so little time?" he asked.
...
"Hm."
"What do you mean 'Hm.'?"