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let me let you go

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both of you are in the shadow of an alleyway. his face is jaded by midnight streetlamps and you smell like vodka and smudged lipstick. (it isn’t yours. which is the crazy part. but more about that in a bit.)

he looks at you with this look people only have when they see accidents, tragedies. and you imagine yourself looking at him like a wounded animal driven into a corner. you would do anything to get out of his hands right now.

you are midoriya izuku and there aren’t many ways to make you ache but bakugo katsuki seems to know all of them.

you have your back against a vandalised brick wall and he's close enough that you could smell his cologne. still the same one, you realize. you turn your head to the side in annoyance and the world spins a little. you're beginning to regret that last shot.

this is the first interaction you've had with bakugo ever since your breakup two months ago and you are nauseated by his close proximity.

"at least look at me," he says, somewhere between a growl and a plea. his voice is familiar and surprisingly alien all at once.

you do.

he has his hands in his pockets and you can tell it's because he doesn't know what to do with them. the thought kind of makes you sick to your stomach. he's wary of you now.

you know he's mad, if the dangerous set of his jaw and the vein protruding from his forehead is anything but a dead giveaway. but at the same time you notice how his eyes are worried. they look the same way they did back then, when he had first told you he loved you and he was so nervous you wouldn't say it back, you realize if only blurrily.

but you did say it back. that's the problem here, isn't it?

you remember the moment long ago and how he said it back again after you did. and how he had promised he would say it everyday.

and he had.

until, one day he stopped.

and now your life has become a limbo between trying to forget how the words sound on his tongue and waiting for the day he'll finally say it again.

but that isn't the reason why bakugo dragged you out here, why he got you out of that crowded club. no, that isn't the reason why he punched the guy with the purple lipstick who was feeling you up earlier, either. (even though you're still kinda hoping that it is.)

"kacchan, what do you want?" you ask him. even now the nickname still brings a singsong feeling to your chest and you hate it. your words are a bit slurred but you're guessing he understood you, in the way he runs his hand through his hair in frustration. you resist the drunken urge to reach out and run your hand through it as well. what can you say? old habits die hard.

for a second, he only stares at you, as if you're the most incredulous thing in this entire universe. (maybe you are.)

and then he speaks.

"what do you think you're doing?" he says exasperatedly, like the sight of you pains him. there’s a part of you that hope it does.

you are surprised at his tone and you allow yourself the luxury to roll your eyes. he sounds like your mother.

"i'm not some sixteen year old girl that you have to chastise," you answer back with more venom in your voice than you’ve ever had in your entire life. he flinches just a tad. "i was having fun. ever heard of it?"

"so you call getting fucking debauched by some stranger fun?" he shouts, as if you're insane.

and maybe you are but the question still makes your blood boil. makes you see red, if red could ever be dark and shaky. you don't know when was the last time you ever felt this angry.

"who do you think you are to decide for me?" you spit. your tone is different from the ones you’re used to using with him. maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s the hole in your chest, you aren’t quite sure. what you are sure of is how he looks equally furious as you are.

"i haven't seen you since we ended things months ago, and now i find you in some broken down bar with your tongue down some guy's throat and wasted beyond your mind. c'mon, look at you!" bakugo gestures to you with his hands shaking and his voice loud like a storm. you’ve always hated thunder.

"you're a fucking mess. what are you trying to prove?"

the words pass through the lethargy of alcohol before they hit you. that means there is a millisecond of silence before the intoxication goes away and the pain sinks in. and when it does, it's unbearable.

the tears pinprick behind your eyes and it becomes increasingly hard to breathe.

he realizes what he said too late. the damage has been done.

you always hated crying, hated feeling weak and vulnerable. and for someone who hates it so much, you do it quite frequently. but you will not cry now.

"deku, i-i didn't mean-i'm sor-"

so you do the most logical and the most impulsive thing you can think of, when your head is half soaked in alcohol and the other half riddled with open wounds. you reach out and slap him hard across the face.

the sound of palm against skin resonates in the silence of the dark alley.

your hand burns. you try to focus on feeling just that one exact point of pain at the center of your palm, so you can try to ignore the burning in your chest. keyword: try.

you stare at him as bakugo just stands there, eyes wide.

he’s drenched under the moonlight and city lights, wearing some old band shirt with a skull logo, smelling like whiskey and home. his blond hair is a disaster and his left cheek is reddening with a bruise that's about to bloom. you hate yourself and how all you can think about is how he looks so beautiful.

you don't apologize. you’ve always been the one to apologize during fights but you think maybe he's taken that away from you too.

"i just wanted to forget, okay?" you stare at your shoes as you whisper under your breath.

"i just wanted to forget about you, even just for a little while," you say quietly, feeling so goddamn foolish. nothing with bakugo has ever been easy. maybe there’s a fault in you expecting anything to be different. maybe.

he stays silent.

"but the universe is unfair," you laugh but it lodges in your throat, your voice cracking everywhere. "she just won't allow me to."

bakugo doesn't say a word, so you keep going. he's got this faraway look on his face, and it reminds you of the kind of stony expressions soldiers have after a war. when the hurt sinks in and there’s nothing you can do. maybe now he feels even just a quarter of what you do.

you force out a small smile although your whole being is against it, choking out:

"maybe you just don't forget about special things like that."