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Summary
Eijirou contemplates the space between them, and how easy it would be to eradicate. Contemplates when they crossed the line from friends into something not quite. Contemplates when Bakugou became so comfortable in relaxation, when burning eyes and vulnerable chokes and air thick with shared regret became their normal.
“You’re not a monster, Bakugou,” he whispers, because he isn’t, and neither of them are. Because he can see right into the violence in carmine eyes and knows that it’s directed more at himself than anyone, knows that Bakugou is proud and strong in many ways, but not all. Never all.
Never in the ways that really count.
“I was,” is the reply. Choked, pleading. “Am. Used to be— Used to be worse.”
Or;In which a dorm room is the safest place for a hero in training, and it only ever feels like a cage.
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