The light coming through the window was pale and gray - it was barely after sunrise, probably an hour or so until rehearsal was to begin. Bakugou sat on his chair and waited. He didn't notice he'd nodded off until he was awoken by commotion all around him - the normal sounds of his fellow opera singers getting ready for rehearsal. Reluctantly, he rose and got ready too.

His roommates looked at him, surprised; after all, it probably appeared to them as if he'd left the opera house. But Bakugou held their gazes, and no one questioned him. Let them assume what they wanted to: he told himself he didn't care what they thought. Kirishima, who was not his roommate, only remarked that he looked a little tired. But Aizawa gave him a piercing, withering look, and Bakugou wondered how much he knew.

When Bakugou got back to his dressing room, he found to his shock that all of his things were gone.

He wondered briefly if Shouto had gotten particularly deluded and had stolen it all away, but the idea had barely entered Bakugou's head when Aizawa tapped him on the shoulder. "Follow me, please," he said, and led Bakugou to another dressing room down the hall. It was identical, except its mirror was on a stand, not attached to the wall.

"Your new dressing room," Aizawa said. "Here is the key." He wasn't the type to apologize for the intrusion, or offer any kind of explanation. It didn't matter; Bakugou had a pretty good guess what it was about.

Bakugou gave him the old key and wondered who exactly would take his previous dressing room. Would it be watched quietly for signs of a visit from Shouto? Sealed off from the outside? Bakugou was not exactly clear about whether Shouto was a runaway, implying they wished for his return, or a pest, to be dealt with brutally and impartially.

Bakugou felt a vague, growing sense of unease. He wished he'd gotten any kind of a say in this, but knew the moment for that had passed. Aizawa had offered him a choice the previous morning and Bakugou had made his decision, and now he was Shouto's ally, not the opera house employees'. He was lucky he hadn't been fired.

You should be grateful - isn't this what you originally wanted? part of him asked. And yeah, it had been, originally, but now he was intrigued. It was as if he'd caught part of some epic story, but only a glimpse, a snippet, nothing more. It was infuriating not to know the rest.

And, over the next few days, Bakugou had to admit he was a little lonely without Shouto's voice at the mirror. He'd grown accustomed to the attention. Without it, his dressing room seemed so silent.

But within a week he didn't have much time to be lonely: the date of their performance was approaching. Rehearsals got longer and longer, and soon they were in full costume and makeup. After dinner, Bakugou would go back to his bedroom and crash, sleeping almost straight through until morning, when everyone would be woken up to do it again. Even if he'd still had the old dressing room, he would have had no time for private lessons, not with Aizawa running them all ragged.

On the eve of opening night, it all came to a head. After rehearsal, when normally Bakugou would be running off to dinner, Aizawa pulled him aside. He looked quite as irritated as Bakugou himself felt at that moment. "Bakugou, I need to speak to you."

"I'm hungry," Bakugou said. It felt like lunch, which was always a rushed affair the week before a performance, had happened years ago. "Let's keep it quick."

Aizawa looked at him through those unreadable dark eyes. "If you cooperate, it will be quicker. Follow me."

Bakugou couldn't shake the dread that settled over him, which made him want to drag his feet or run away entirely. When they reached Aizawa's office, Bakugou half expected to see Shouto, perhaps in handcuffs, or a policeman, waiting to arrest him. Instead, there sat Enji.

He was absolutely enormous, a mountain of a man. He seemed to take up the entire room. Bakugou knew he had incredible stage presence, but to be in such a small room with him made Bakugou feel tiny, like a very young child.

Enji stared at Bakugou through narrowed eyes. "This is the kid, huh?"

"Yes, this is Bakugou," Aizawa said. It seemed unfair that Bakugou should be so very aware of who Enji was, yet Enji couldn't even put a face to his name. But that was what being a star was all about, wasn't it? "He's the one I was telling you about."

"Seems like a pretty ordinary looking kid," Enji said. His arms were crossed, his legs spread. His posture seemed to say, I don't want to be here, and I want everyone to know it. "Don't really see what the fuss is about."

Bakugou gathered his courage to ask, "What's going on?"

"You tell me," Enji said, leering.

"Bakugou," Aizawa said, "could you please tell us about the interactions you had with Shouto?"

Bakugou blinked. The question was far more direct than any Aizawa had asked him before. They knew, although exactly how much they knew still wasn't clear. Bakugou figured it was safe to assume they knew about the tunnel in his old dressing room, so he said, "He started talking to me from behind my mirror one day."

"What did he say to you?" Aizawa asked.

"He - he told me he wanted to give me singing lessons."

Enji let out a snort and turned away, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

"About how many times did you two interact?" Aizawa asked.

"Five? Six?" Bakugou tried to recall precisely, but, hungry and feeling very put on the spot, he couldn't be sure. "Something like that."

"How much information did he tell you about himself?" Aizawa glanced at Enji.

"Not much. He didn't give me his name until, like, the fourth time we even talked. He seemed to know everything about me. But he did say he got operatic training, until some kind of - something - left him deformed, so he couldn't be an opera singer."

Enji let out a low, humorless laugh, but said nothing.

"Did you see his face?" Aizawa asked, ignoring Enji.

"I. Uh, yeah," Bakugou said. "Half of it. He was wearing a mask."

"Did you venture into the tunnels with him?"

Bakugou hesitated, trying not to look at Enji's vicious leer. But Aizawa, though stony-faced, was no less frightening. "I remind you that we have no contract with you, Bakugou" he said bluntly. "Whether we ask you back for future shows is entirely up in the air."

"Yeah, yeah," Bakugou said. He took a deep breath. "Yeah. I did. One time."

Aizawa nodded. He did not look surprised; almost certainly they'd known that already, then. "Did he lead you to where he's living?"

"Look," Bakugou said, "I get that he's not supposed to be living here, but if you find him, what are you going to do? Are you going to kill him?"

Enji laughed again. Bakugou felt himself grow angry; everything he did seemed to be amusing to the old man, who didn't feel the need to offer any explanation. Bakugou wondered why he was even there, since apparently he couldn't deign himself to actually explain anything.

"No, we won't kill him," Aizawa said, looking again to Enji, as if for support. "We have no intention of hurting him at all, don't worry."

Bakugou did not know whether to trust them or not, but knew he was utterly at their mercy. He needed this job, and didn't want this to be the thing that threw him out onto the streets. "He did take me to his 'home' or whatever you wanna call it," Bakugou said. "Where he's sleeping."

"Would you be able to show-"

"No," Bakugou said. "Even if I wanted to. Look, there are a lot of tunnels, I learned that much. He only took me there once, and the candle blew out halfway through the trip, but he led us the rest of the way blind. And going back I was half asleep."

"Is there anything else you can tell us about the location, at least?" Aizawa asked. "Any distinguishing features? Anything at all?"

Bakugou thought of the flooded underground portion, of the boat, and simply said, "No."

"And have you had any contact with him since you switched dressing rooms?"

"No."

"I see," Aizawa said, shifting. He glanced at Enji. "Thank you for your candor, Bakugou."

"I think it's best just to be frank with him," Enji said suddenly, startling them both. "I think the truth will take away any sense of mystery. Your name's Bakugou, right?"

Bakugou nodded. It was the first time Enji had addressed him directly, and, for all his annoyance, he felt starstruck.

"It seems that Shouto's grown quite attached to you," Enji said. "Ever since your dressing room was moved, he's been sending Aizawa and I letters.Threatening letters."

Bakugou felt his throat tighten.

"It seems he wants access to you very badly. 'Opening night is very important to you, is it not? It would be a shame if something were to happen to the show's star. This is your final warning.'"

"I don't have anything to do with that," Bakugou said, feeling sick. "I didn't ask him to write that. I don't want him to write that sort of thing! I don't want the show to fail!"

"I understand," Aizawa said, and Bakugou got the sense that his teacher, at least, believed his words. "But he hasn't been caught, and with opening day tomorrow… we find it wiser to give in to his demands for the moment, for the sake of the show."

"You'll get your old dressing room back," Enji said. "But, Bakugou. Listen to me." His eyes, Bakugou noticed, were sea-green, and very, very cold. "This is only temporary, because Shouto will be caught. You can tell him that, too, if he speaks to you. The tunnels are big, but they are only so big. We will find him eventually, and the further he flees, the worse it will be for him."

"You'll arrest him?" Bakugou asked. "For what? Trespassing? Stealing food?" Well, and threatening the opera house, Bakugou thought, but he didn't say that aloud.

"Arrest him?" Enji echoed. "No, he'll be working here again."

Bakugou stared at him, too surprised to speak.

Enji held up his hand, index finger touching thumb in an "O" shape. "His so-called 'deformity' is about this large," he said. "It's an excuse. Of course he should be back on stage. He's been training for it his entire life. The year he's spent hiding in the tunnels is a laughable act of teenage rebellion. Shouto longs to be onstage again, but feels too foolish to give himself up willingly. It's easy enough to see that. Even after all this time, he's never once left the opera house." Enji looked at Bakugou directly again. "You seem surprised. Did he forget to mention he's my son?"

"Oh," Bakugou said. It was all he could say. At first he thought to question or challenge Enji, but the revelation made a certain kind of sense. Shouto hated Enji, Enji laughed at and mocked Shouto, but neither one wanted to kill the other. It had never occurred to Bakugou that they might be looking for Shouto not to drive him out once and for all, but to get him back.

"Tell him that if he's sick of being chased, of living underground like a worm, there's no shame in just coming back out," Enji continued. "You tell him that when you see him, Bakugou."

"Alright," Bakugou said. His hands were shaking, although he didn't know if it was hunger or nerves. "I will."

"That's all," Aizawa said abruptly, getting to his feet. "Bakugou, here's your key. Please go straight to your old changing room. You'll find your possessions have already been transferred."

"What the hell?" Bakugou said, jumping up in surprise. "I don't get any say over it?"

Aizawa looked at him levelly. "Do you wish to protest this decision?"

Bakugou hesitated. He didn't want to protest, per se, but the abruptness of it irked him. The decision had been entirely taken out of his hands.

"No," he said at last. His voice sounded almost meek, and that pissed him off. As he left the room, the two men's stares boring holes into his back, Bakugou knew he probably seemed like a kicked puppy with its tail tucked between its legs. Pathetic.

In his dressing room, Bakugou called out for Shouto, but there was no response. Bakugou wondered if it was already too late, if whatever threat Shouto had made would come to pass despite Aizawa's attempts at preventing it. Hopefully Bakugou wouldn't be blamed? He'd done what they'd asked him, answered all their questions like a good boy. He felt hot with shame.

The next day, Bakugou reached his dressing room and began to prepare for the performance when he heard a familiar voice, warm and pleased. "Bakugou, you're back."

"Yeah, I am," he said, not pausing in his preparations. Another day he might've been shy about being nearly naked in front of Shouto, but he was too strapped for time. He didn't have the luxury of embarrassment, not on opening night. "You know that going away wasn't my plan, right? They made me switch rooms."

"Oh yes, I know. I don't know what they were attempting to accomplish except perhaps just to anger me. But obviously they're more afraid of me than I am of them."

Enji's words rang through Bakugou's head. Did he forget to mention he's my son? But Bakugou said nothing about that, not yet. He was forming a plan, but for now he had to keep his cards close to his chest.

"Can't really talk now," Bakugou said, putting the finishing touches on his costume. "We can talk more after the show."

"Break a leg, Bakugou," Shouto said. "I'll be watching. But for now, I have to go."

"Alright. See you then, I guess?" But there was no response; as usual, Shouto had left immediately after finishing his sentence.

The show went smoothly, which Bakugou was very glad about. Eaten up with nerves, he'd been half waiting for something bad to happen, whether it was caused by Shouto or not. But the lack of issues meant Bakugou got ample time to think of his plan, and the more he ran it over in his mind, the more sure of it he was. He walked offstage after curtain call feeling bone-tired but confident.

"Good work," Shouto said, as soon as Bakugou walked in.

"Thanks." He grinned. "You were watching?"

"Yes, I enjoy watching the shows."

"You don't need to hide in there," Bakugou said. "I've already seen you. What's the point?"

"You want me to come out?"

"Why not?" Bakugou smiled towards the mirror. "It was nice, seeing you. Being with you, physically, with nothing between us."

The mirror opened, noiseless on its hinges, and Shouto peered out. He was once again dressed in what appeared to be a costume - a black tuxedo, complete with bowtie - with a white mask covering half of his face. The idea of him walking through the damp tunnels and rowing the boat while wearing this getup was ridiculous.

With Shouto looking out from behind the mirror, Bakugou felt like he was luring a wild animal out of its cave. "Come here," he said, holding out his arms, and the enthusiasm with which Shouto did as he said gave Bakugou a pang of guilt. Shouto embraced him - the first time they'd touched other than the desperate, thoughtless hand-holding in the dark tunnels.

Shouto smelled like mildew, like clothes washed infrequently, like sweat and perfume sprayed a little too strongly, as if to cover up an odor. He clung to Bakugou with single-minded affection, burying his face in the crook of Bakugou's neck; this might have been the first time in ages he'd touched another human being like this, and Bakugou let him linger for a long time, just holding him.

As they finally split apart, Bakugou turned them around in a half-circle, so their positions were reversed. He stepped backwards, until he stood in front of the mirror, and watched Shouto's expression shift rapidly, from one of peace to something darker, angrier.

"Bakugou, you-"

"Let me talk," Bakugou said. He was careful not to actually back up against the mirror; he didn't know if it would latch and lock automatically when it closed.

Shouto stared. Waited, venomously, seething.

"You should go back on your terms, not theirs," Bakugou said. His throat was dry, but he didn't dare drink, because his pitcher of water was across the room - and he knew that in that time Shouto would slip away again. "You've made your point, you know? They probably thought you running off was just a whim at first. You've shown them you're serious. You have the power in this scenario. But if they catch you - when they catch you - they'll have the power instead, and you'll have to just do what they say."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Negotiate," Bakugou said. "I don't know what made you run off, of course, but maybe they'll be so happy to have you back they'll be willing to do whatever you ask."

"What do you know about me?" Shouto said, bristling. "What gives you the right to tell me what to do?"

"What gives you the right to spy on me in my dressing room? And dictate where it should be? - Look, Shouto, whatever strange friendship or relationship or whatever it is we have, or that you want us to have, it will never work like this. But if you come out, if you join me in the opera, we can get to know one another on equal footing. Maybe - maybe it'll work."

Shouto raised a hand to touch his mask. "But I can't, I'm defor-"

"That isn't what your father said."

Shouto's mouth snapped shut.

"They want you back. Enji, Aizawa, the opera in general, they'd take you back."

"Did they tell you that?"

"Yes?"

"And you believed them?"

"I don't know," Bakugou said, frustrated. "I guess I did. What would they gain by lying? Look," he said, tired and thirsty and annoyed out of his skull, "I can let you go, it doesn't need to be right now or anything, but just think about it, will you?"

"I'll do it," Shouto said suddenly.

"What?"

"Bring my father here. And Aizawa, because I trust him more," Shouto said, stepping towards Bakugou. "I'll speak with them through the mirror. And you should come back, too, of course."

It took Bakugou a long moment to even parse the words, so unexpected was Shouto's change of heart. After a moment he let out a laugh, shaky and relieved. "Well. Okay." He crossed the room and took a deep drink of water. Then a thought occurred to him. "You… you aren't playing a trick on me, are you? When I bring them back, are you really going to still be here?"

"I'll be here," Shouto said. "Now go."

His hands were shaking as he knocked on Enji's door. He was still in his costume, he realized. Enji opened the door himself and gazed at Bakugou as one might gaze at an insect crawling across the floor. "Can I help you?"

"Shouto wants to talk with you," Bakugou said.

The change was immediate; Enji's eyes widened almost comically, and he took a step back in surprise. "Shouto wants-"

"And with Aizawa too. Do you know where he is?"

So, incredibly, Enji led him to Aizawa, and the three of them were like a strange little parade as they headed back to Bakugou's dressing room.

When they got back there, Bakugou positioned himself between them and the mirror. He felt protective, he realized: even if the latch was locked, Enji could smash through the mirror without any effort. If the discussion didn't go well, Bakugou wanted to give Shouto an out. He felt he owed him that much, at least, considering all this had been his idea.

"Is this a prank?" Enji said, after a long moment. "Is Shouto really here?"

"Hello, Father," Shouto said, speaking from behind the mirror. "Do you recognize my voice, or have you gone senile since we last spoke?"

Bakugou thought he saw Aizawa stifle a laugh, but he couldn't be sure.

"Are you ready to end this ridiculous farce?" Enji asked, pointedly ignoring Shouto's jab.

"Yes," Shouto said, "with conditions."

"Conditions!" Enji echoed. He seemed too large for the small dressing room, and seemed to thrum with angry energy, like a bull ready to charge. "You are in no position to make demands."

"What are your conditions?" Aizawa asked, voice low, almost lazy sounding. Bakugou looked at him sharply, unsure who, exactly, wielded the power here. None of them seemed to have it, and all seemed to be scrabbling for it desperately - except for Bakugou himself, who was just in the middle, an observer.

"One: If you let me, I will rejoin the opera as a performer."

"Of course they will let you," Enji said, scoffing, then sneaking a glance at Aizawa. "Why would-"

"Excuse me," Shouto said. His voice, though quiet, cut through Enji's words, shutting him up. "I'm not done speaking. I will rejoin the opera as a performer, and be under the direction of Aizawa. Not you. I will not submit to any private lessons from you any more."

There was something behind this demand that Bakugou could not even begin to comprehend, although to tell the truth he didn't really want to. "Fine," Enji said. "Is that all?"

"No, of course not. Why would I have started numbering if I only had one condition? Condition two: Bakugou is not to be punished for his role in… this."

"He wasn't going to be," Aizawa said dryly. "So that's no issue."

"Good," Shouto said. "Three: I want my own room."

The whole idea of that as a condition - that being forced to share a room was awful enough to send Shouto back into the tunnels - was ridiculous and fussy and so very fitting with this odd person Bakugou was only beginning to get to know. He wanted to be treated like any other member of the opera, but he also wanted his own room? It was ridiculous. Despite the tenseness of the situation, Bakugou laughed.

The others turned to look at him, and Bakugou realized they were not laughing - they seemed confused as to why he was. "That's fine," Aizawa said, turning back after a moment to look blankly at the mirror again. "It will probably be small, but that can be arranged."

"That's fine," Shouto said. "If those three conditions can be met, I'd - I'd be willing to come out and rejoin the opera."

Aizawa looked at Enji, who was staring at the mirror, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. "Come out, Shouto," Enji said, "if it's truly what you intend."

"I want you to promise. Both of you promise."

Legally, promising meant nothing. But Shouto must have known, or assumed, or hoped that Enji had some kind of honor - that he wouldn't go back on his word. "I promise," he said, reluctant. Aizawa said the same, and then Bakugou heard the latch click open.

There was no teary reunion between father and son. Bakugou hadn't expected there to be, of course. Shouto looked up at Enji warily, and Enji laughed and said, "What's on your face?"

"I didn't want to show my scar."

"You look ridiculous." Enji took a step towards Shouto, who stepped back, half hiding behind Bakugou.

"I want to leave it on for now."

"You look - whose clothes are those? Where did you find those things?"

"I'll have someone prepare a bedroom for you, Shouto," Aizawa said. "Enji, please come with me."

Enji did not look happy to be herded away, but followed obediently. When they were out of the room, Shouto locked the dressing room door behind them.

"I should probably thank you," he said to Bakugou.

"I'm still in my costume," Bakugou said, looking down at himself. "God. I'm so tired." He got another drink of water. It had to be close to midnight; he felt weary down to his bones.

"Thank you," Shouto said.

Bakugou looked up at him. "You don't actually - I mean, you're welcome. I guess."

They stared at each other for a long moment, until Bakugou couldn't stand it any longer. "Turn around," he said. "I'm going to change."

Shouto made a noise of protest, but turned around anyways. Bakugou didn't take his eyes off him, not entirely trusting Shouto not to peek.

After he changed they stood in awkward silence for a few minutes, until Aizawa knocked on the door and took Shouto away. Bakugou wondered how it would feel, sleeping in a bed in your own room after however many months spent alone in the damp tunnels. Bakugou had a feeling Shouto would sleep well that night.

And Bakugou slept well, too. There was a lot to mull over, but he was too tired to stay awake for very long once he'd settled into his own bed. Today's had only been the first performance - there would be at least one performance, and sometimes two, every day for the next several weeks. Bakugou already felt burned out. When he awoke the next morning, he barely felt as if he'd been asleep at all.

The day passed quickly. Bakugou wondered where Shouto was, if he was enjoying his newfound freedom to walk the opera house openly or whether he already regretted the decision he'd made. But, swept up in preparations for that evening's show, Bakugou had no time to seek him out.

The show, again, went smoothly. Enji may or may not have been staring at Bakugou when they both happened to be backstage, but Bakugou tried not to focus on that. It was a good thing he didn't have a larger role; he felt sluggish and ever so slightly off. His thoughts kept returning to Shouto, hoping Enji and Aizawa hadn't double-crossed him somehow. Hoping he didn't already regret his decision.

His dressing room mirror was silent, but Bakugou had expected that. Still, it felt a little lonely. He changed quickly and stepped outside, then stopped in the doorway.

Shouto was waiting in the hallway outside. He wore an odd combination of his mask and normal clothes, and gave Bakugou a nod when their eyes met. "You performed well."

"You were watching?"

"Yes. I got to sit in the audience this time."

"Oh, that's good, I guess."

There was a silence that stretched a little too long. Bakugou had begun to wonder if Shouto had any other purpose in coming here when at last he spoke again. "Will you come with me?" he said, turning around and heading off without bothering to wait for the reply.

"Wait up - I didn't actually say I would," Bakugou said, at his heels. "Where are we going?"

"I want to show you my room."

It was nearby - an old dressing room that had been repurposed, perhaps. It was as small as Aizawa had hinted at, most of its floor space taken up by beds, of which it had two.

Bakugou stopped in the doorway, peering in. One of the beds was messy and unmade, the other neat. "What…"

Shouto sat down atop the messy bed. "You stay in a shared room, don't you?"

"Yeah…"

He looked off to the side, not quite meeting Bakugou's eyes. "Would you rather sleep here?"

Bakugou looked at him closely and realized he was nervous. At the thought of being rejected? At living in the opera house, of reentering a life he'd left so long ago? Bakugou knew he could ask those questions directly, but he'd get some infuriating non-answer. Or… or he could learn them as he'd learned everything else about Shouto - slowly, over time. If nothing else, being with Shouto would make him patient.

"Yeah, okay," Bakugou said. "Let me get my stuff."

Shouto smiled - a small smile by most people's standards, but the largest Bakugou could remember ever seeing on his face. "Please return soon."

They should have gone straight to bed, but instead the two of them sat up in bed not doing much of anything, just wasting the candles. Bakugou looked at Shouto, who looked back at him, face inscrutable. He thought of what Enji had said about Shouto's deformity or scar or whatever it was. "Shouto," Bakugou said, "can I see what's under your mask?"

He expected Shouto to shy away, to flinch, to deflect; but to Bakugou's utter surprise he pried the mask off in one motion and set it aside.

Yes, there was a scar there, just under his left eye - which to Bakugou's surprise was a different color than his right one, a blue-green nearly identical to Enji's. The scar began under his cheekbone and traveled up to his forehead, where the top of it was obscured by hair. It was noticeable, the skin a shiny dark pink in contrast to his normal pale shade, but it was not a deformity, it was not horrifying or nauseating. It certainly would not prevent him from being onstage - he could easily cover it with makeup, if he needed to cover it at all.

Enji was right: it had been an excuse. Shouto hadn't needed to hide it. But Bakugou didn't know enough about him to understand why.

With a start he realized his hand was between them, reaching out almost against his will towards Shouto's face. As soon as he became aware, he jerked it back.

"You can touch it," Shouto said, leaning in towards Bakugou.

So Bakugou did, lightly, with fingertips only. The skin felt a little different there than the rest of his face, Bakugou realized. He skimmed his fingers down, past the scar to cheek, then jaw, then chin. Then he pulled his hand away.

"Bakugou," Shouto said, voice soft, breathy.

"I, uh," Bakugou began, no idea where he was going with that sentence. His hand felt hot. How had Shouto gotten injured, anyways? It almost resembled a birthmark, but he'd phrased it like it was an event that had occurred to him in the past. An accident?

"Bakugou," Shouto said again, his voice firmer this time, "I'm very glad to be here with you."

He held Bakugou's eyes, his gaze almost too piercing and direct; Bakugou wanted to look down, but felt trapped, a fly in a web. He swallowed, his face burning. Something about the way Shouto had pronounced the words gave them a certain weight, as if he were very near to confessing something much deeper.

"You'll probably rejoin the opera house after this show's done, right?" Bakugou said.

"Yes, I think so." Shouto paused. "You know, I would still love to give you private lessons sometime."

"What?" Bakugou had been under the impression that his insistent offer had had more to do with Shouto longing for the stage and living vicariously through him, or perhaps using him as a pawn against his father. But that Shouto would still want to teach him, even though he could be onstage soon himself, didn't really make sense. "Why?"

"To spend more time with you," Shouto said. "As a favor to you. To help your career. You have talent, after all. Perhaps as much as me."

"Perhaps as much - ?!"

"And I want to do whatever I can to help you," Shouto went on, ignoring his interjection. "I want to be everything to you." He paused. "Was that a strange thing to say?"

"Yes."

"Oh, okay."

Bakugou looked at Shouto: he was beautiful, even (especially?) with the scar, which made his left eye seem very blue. He met Bakugou's gaze and held it, and Bakugou felt a shiver go through him. He had no idea how deep Shouto's feelings for him went; Bakugou felt as if he'd barely skimmed the surface so far. It was frightening, in a way: he'd never been the focus of this kind of adoration before. He felt almost tipsy from it.

"Was it true?" Bakugou asked.

"Oh, yes," Shouto said. "Absolutely."

Bakugou reached out and took his hand. Shouto's skin was cool to the touch and very pale. That figured; it had been how long since he'd been out in the sun?

"I like you too, I guess," Bakugou said. "Anyway, I'm glad you're not in the tunnels anymore. And it will be-" Fun was the wrong word, perhaps. "It'll be interesting to be in the opera with you."

Shouto's smile was broader now, freer. Perhaps the mask had been restricting it. "I agree," he said. "I'm looking forward to it."

Then he threw his arms around Bakugou. It was like the hug they'd shared the day before, but this time under no false pretenses; Bakugou didn't feel the same stab of guilt as he'd felt then. He relaxed into Shouto's hold, even put his own arms around Shouto in turn. Shouto let out a deep, shuddering sigh.

Bakugou felt small, faced with feelings like this. Shouto had watched him for so long, wanted him for so long - Bakugou shivered thinking of it. And he'd known Shouto for weeks only, could count on one hand the days they'd spent in each other's company.

But this? This was a good start. To be on equal footing meant something could actually begin. Bakugou let Shouto hold on for as long as he wanted - it was a long hug - and then stretched his arms out, yawning.

"Excuse me," Shouto said. "I'm probably keeping you from sleeping."

"Yeah, I'm tired," Bakugou said. "Long day. And another performance tomorrow." Shouto knew this, of course - he probably knew the workings of the opera house as acutely as Bakugou did, if not more so. What was it like, Bakugou wondered, living amongst us, but separate? How did it feel to have that kind of existence?

"Of course," Shouto said. "Please don't let me keep you up."

"Tomorrow," Bakugou said, "let's talk more. I have a lot of questions for you."

"You do?"

"Duh," Bakugou said, and though his tone was harsh, Shouto didn't seem to mind; his smile hadn't faded - it had grown, if anything.

"Goodnight, Bakugou," he said, and blew out the candles.

Bakugou stared blankly up at the ceiling, feeling too awake with nerves and excitement to sleep at all; but he could hear the soft, even sound of Shouto's breathing, and listened to that until its rhythm lulled him, little by little, off to sleep.