i'm late... again. jesus, i'm awful, and very sorry Dx

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Bakugou

"Are you fucking sure about this?" Bakugou mumbled, glaring up at the front door of the house he really, really didn't fucking want to go back to.

"I think you should give it a shot, babe," Kirishima said sincerely.

Of course he did. Bakugou wouldn't expect anything less from the annoyingly supportive boyfriend of his—or his mother, for that matter, who somehow managed to tip the scales and get him to come, and even let them borrow her car.

The day after the shitty fight Bakugou had with his parents—namely his hag mother—they talked him into giving them a call, too, to tell them where he was and all that, but that hadn't ended well. His mom chewed him out through the phone for leaving and breaking more of her godforsaken 'rules' or whatever and being 'so defiant,' still treating him like a fucking child. In the middle of her screeching he'd hung up and very nearly threw the damn phone across the room if it hadn't been for the fact that, at the last second, he remembered it was Kirishima's brand new phone.

Skip forward another day and his mom actually called back. Begrudgingly, she apologized for yelling, but still she demanded he get home because they had 'things to talk about.' He'd merely told her—though his teeth, so he wouldn't end up yelling—that he was an adult and could do whatever the fuck he wanted, and that he'd think about talking to them.

A day later there he was, sitting in the car at his 'home' with Kirishima in the passenger's seat, wanting nothing more than to turn and hightail it back the way he came because damn did he know what the fuck was waiting for him just beyond that threshold, especially after what it took to convince his parents (read: mother) to talk to him with Kirishima.

"Don't worry. I'm gonna be with you the whole time, and if things start to get ugly or whatever we can leave. Kay?" Kirishima asked in an attempt at reassurance—emphasis on attempt.

"Whatever. Let's just get this freakshow over with," Bakugou spat.

With that, he got out of the car and headed up the walk, Dumb Hair at his heels.

It felt weird as fuck knocking on the door to his own house and waiting for one of his parents to get off their ass and answer it. Even if he wanted to just walk in, though, he knew he couldn't; the door was always locked and his mom had taken his keys.

When the door finally did swing open. His mother stood on the other side with a surprisingly civilized look on her face. She'd clearly calmed down from the red-faced, veins popping out of her forehead shit she'd been the other day when she was chewing him out, but that didn't mean she wasn't still looking down her nose at them, clearly ready to start throwing out more slurs or someshit before kicking them out... or so he thought.

"Come in," his dad spoke up from behind her. "Have a seat."

Stiffly, they did as asked. Dumb Hair, being his usually cheerful self, greeted both of them with a smile. While Bakugou's dad was more responsive to it, remaining civilized at the very least, his mother straight up ignored him.

But Bakugou would be lying if he said this wasn't how he expected this shit to go, even right off the bat.

The silence as they shuffled into the house and sat on the couch, his parents taking a spot on the love seat, was more than a little awkward and tense. Bakugou's stomach was tight before anyone had even said a thing, and he could hardly even imagine how Kirishima felt, being the one his parents were probably targeting with the fault of 'turning their son gay.' Jackasses.

"Okay," Mitsuki said, relatively calmly despite the hard look in her eyes. "I'm listening to whatever it is you have to say to justify this."

Typical. Not so much as a greeting from her. She wasn't even yelling at him, which told him how truly pissed she was. Or, 'upset,' as his shitty father would probably say because in his eyes it was like she could do no wrong. Figured.

Before he even spoke, Bakugou's hands were in fists.

"Look," he began, doing everything in his power to keep his cool. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about everything and that I broke your sh—...your rules. I was gonna tell you everything eventually but I was being a fucking chicken, okay?"

"We accept your apology," Masaru said calmly.

"But that doesn't change our minds," Mitsuki said, arms tight across her chest.

"About what, exactly?" Kirishima asked, on guard.

"About everything," she said stiffly. "About taking away the bike and your phone. About the fact that we must've royally screwed up somewhere down the line to make you think it's okay to date another boy."

Already Bakugou could feel the heat of anger swirling just behind his eyes. "And why the fuck do you think it's not okay?" he gritted out.

"It isn't natural, I already told you that."

"How the fuck is it any less natural than a fucking straight couple? Why the hell does it matter who I love?!"

"Katsuki, son, the most prominent purpose of love is reproduction and two males just can't do that together," Masaru jumped in.

If Bakugou hadn't been sitting, he would've been knocked flat on his ass. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" he deadpanned, staring blankly at his father. "That is your piece of shit argument? That's what you think love is for?"

"Oh my lord, I pity you if you think there's any other purpose more important than that," his mother said, leaning back like she was just as goddamn appalled as he was.

Masaru reached over and placed a hand on Mitsuki's leg in an attempt to keep her calm. "Listen, we want to help you get through this, son. But you have to open up and let us. You have to come back home so we can—"

"Help me through what?!" Bakugou snapped. "The only shit I need help getting through is the realization that my own parents are fucking bigots!"

"Katsuki, calm down," Kirishima murmured. As much as Bakugou fucking hated those words, he knew Dumb Hair was right, so he gritted his teeth and forced himself to relax his shoulders, crossing his arms to keep from slamming his fists into something.

"Okay, well, I suppose we understand it's too soon for you to want to accept our help," Masaru said. "I really thought we raised you right."

"So did I," Mitsuki agreed. "Which is why we never suspected you were sneaking around doing things like this behind our backs. I suppose we trusted you too much, too soon."

"Whatever," Bakugou muttered. "If that's the case, fuck living with people who can't accept me. How much time do I have to get my shit?" he asked, not even able to look at them anymore. He was sick to his fucking stomach, and as much as it fucking hurt to hear his own parents say shit like this, he wasn't about to let them see that. He kept his jaw set and his shoulders squared.

"Is that your final decision, then?" Mitsuki asked.

"Let him do what he thinks he needs to for now, Mitsuki," Masaru said with reason before turning back to his son. "We still love you, Katsuki. We really do want to help you through this, so we'll be here when you decide to accept our help and come back."

"Whatever. How long?" he asked again.

"As long as you need. You're still welcome here, but only if you promise to come alone next time and only if it's to let us help."

Bakugou was already halfway to his room by the time his piece of shit of a father was done speaking. Kirishima was at his heels. He was stuffing shit into bags as soon as he made it in, ignoring the fact that weak ass tears were stinging his eyes and beginning to blur his vision. For once he was glad he wasn't able to put any eyeliner on because the last thing he needed was to have that shit smeared all over his face... again.

"Katsuki, I—"

"I don't wanna fuckin' hear it right now, Ei," Bakugou cut in. "Just help me pack."

Silently, Kirishima did just that. He started grabbing things—clothes, mostly—from Bakugou's dresser and laundry basket, murmuring that they could be washed. He found another, old backpack in Bakugou's closet and they stuffed it full of other shit—toiletries, his eyeliner, deodorant, lotion, things like that. He started to grab his phone charger when he remembered his shitty mom was still holding it hostage and, in his frustration, wrapped up the cord and hurled it at the wall.

"Hey man, take a deep breath, okay?" Kirishima murmured.

"Fuck off," Bakugou told him, absently wiping his hand across his face in a vain attempt to erase the stupid tears he couldn't stop.

"...do you want me to start taking some of this out to the car?"

"Whatever."

Kirishima was in and out a few times doing just that, and the rest of the process was without conversation. The house was eerily quiet; Bakugou was pretty sure his parents were doing that shitty, annoying thing where they went in their room and shut the door to talk or whatever, but at that point he couldn't give any less of a fuck. They could talk shit about him all they wanted; they could badmouth Kirishima and condemn them to hell or whatever, but it wouldn't change a damn thing. Even if, for some reason, they changed their minds and decided to apologize and miraculously accept him for who he was, things would never be the same. They'd already said shit to him they could never take back, had already made him feel like the fucking scum of the earth in their eyes. What more could they do? Fuck them. They were the ones who could rot in hell.

When they were finished, most of the essential stuff was out of Bakugou's room and the trunk and backseat of Kirishima's mom's car was full. His bed was empty, most of his knick knacks were gone. Anything he'd bought with his own money was stuffed somewhere in the car. He left the furniture and the television; Kirishima had a better one—no, three better ones—anyway. Out of spite, he left behind anything those pieces of shit parents had given him, too, regardless of the tiny voice in the back of his head whispering that he might regret it later. It wasn't like he and the feeling of regret were strangers.

It just so happened that his parents were coming out of their room right as he and Kirishima were about to leave without another word to them.

"Think about what we've told you," Masaru said, looking almost sad. "We love you."

"No you don't," he muttered back. "C'mon, Ei."

"Ah, you go ahead," Kirishima told him. "I forgot something."

Bakugou narrowed his eyes in suspicion; what the fuck could Kirishima had forgotten? He'd barely been here. But when his boyfriend gave him the subtlest of nods, he got it. Whatever the fuck he wanted to talk to his parents about, Bakugou had no fucking clue, but he couldn't stand another second of being in that house, so he skipped down the walk to the car without another word and hopped into the stupid thing.

Kirishima was only gone another minute, and in that time Bakugou worked on cleaning up his face, as much as he fucking hated to see his own reddened, puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. He swore he'd done more shitty, weak crying in the past hour than he'd done in fifteen fucking years and god, it was disgusting.

"Here," Kirishima said when he hopped back in the car, holding something out to Bakugou before he even reached for the seatbelt.

"What?" Bakugou mumbled, looking over. Resting in Dumb Hair's palm was his fucking phone, surprisingly enough. "How the fuck did you get this?"

"I convinced them to give it back," Kirishima said as Bakugou took it, wiping his nose again as he pressed the power button.

"Yeah, how?"

"For one I told 'em I'm sorry they're so closed-minded and that I wish they could see that what's going on between us isn't really that unnatural. Then I said if they really cared about you, they'd try and keep in contact and if they wanted to do that, they'd need to give you your phone back. On the off chance of you 'coming back,' your dad said he'll keep paying for it."

Bakugou snorted. "Off chance. Right."

"Exactly. But I figure you have a phone for a bit—at least long enough for you to get a new one on your own plan and stuff."

"Thanks," Bakugou mumbled, tossing the device into the small slot just under the stereo. "Now let's get the fuck out of here before I decide to egg the place."

"Sounds good."

With that, Bakugou practically peeled away from the curb without a single intention of looking back.