And while we're at it, I'll tell you something I don't have the courage to say out loud: when he's working, when things get tough, he becomes frighteningly lucid. His hands are steady, his eyes don't miss a thing. It's like watching a storm from very close and still feeling protected. (I won't write this in the report. Yes, I'm a bitch.)
We start moving again. The trail gets rougher, the forest disappears as a deer runs past us. Here we are on the mountainside, having cut diagonally to save time. Above us, the clouds are gathering: a gray that promises rain, not now, but later. (Yes, that rain I'll tell you about. But let's not rush.)
A hundred meters from the point marked on the map, we lower ourselves. Bakugo points to a higher elevation, a flat rock with a natural balcony.
"Let's see from there."
He's right. We arrive flat on our stomachs, the smell of lichen and damp dust filling our noses.
Below, between two ridges, lies the valley we were looking for. It's not very large: a prefabricated building half-hidden by foliage, a short, camouflaged antenna, two boxes covered with tarps, a generator whose dull beat is more obvious than visible. No obvious movement. But the silence is... disciplined. Not natural. There are pauses that have a timetable. (If you follow me, you'll understand what I mean.)
Bakugo takes out his binoculars and stares for a long moment. His eyes narrow, as if he were embroidering with a tiny needle. He passes me the scope without speaking. I scroll and focus. Main entrance? Nothing conspicuous. I see two possibilities: a paneled back opening, or a side hatch. Is there a patrol? One, maybe two, hidden. The access route has fresh tire marks...the same ones we passed.
Two clicks. Visual check. The base responds with the usual two clicks, plus a long silence that we interpret as "OK, continue."
Bakugo touches my sleeve with his gloved finger. "We're turning west, entering from the ridge. Twenty minutes. Keep your eyes peeled."
"Roger."
If he seems cold, he isn't. With him, that's how you say, "Stay close, I don't want to lose you." He'll never tell you, for goodness' sake. But sometimes words are just an unnecessary burden on facts.
Before crawling back, he stares at me for a moment.
"If you feel anything going wrong, tell me right away."
"It's not going wrong."
"I don't give a shit, even if it's 'a little', you say it."
I hold up two fingers, in a promise.
He flicks out his tongue. "Tsk. Move, idiot."
And so we set off. He and I, side by side, half a step apart, into the narrowing forest. The mountain ahead, the valley below, the air holding its breath with us. You stay with me: I'll keep you close, as always. If something goes wrong, you'll know it from the way I tell you "everything's fine," but you'll know it's fake.
For now, it really is. All is well. Here we go.
***
If you're wondering what the valley looked like up close, I'll tell you right away: cold and suspiciously orderly. The kind of silence that isn't born, it's constructed.
We're cutting across the west ridge, nestled among junipers and damp rocks. Bakugo leads the way, I keep an eye on the flanks. Three bends from the right spot, something you never want to hear on a reconnaissance happens: a click. Small, clear, artificial. (It's not a breaking branch, trust me. Every man for himself!)
Bakugo freezes, hand raised. I hit the ground before even thinking. A moment later, in the distance, a short trill. The alarm sounds.
"Shit," I mutter.
"Down. Two to eleven," he hisses without turning around.
The first drone appears over the edge like an insect looking around. The second comes in low, searching for our right flank. The sky darkens with clouds that had been there before, ready for an endless downpour. Bakugo snaps, a sharp micro-explosion against a rock, kicking up shrapnel and smoke, (for cover, not for show). The high drone adjusts its trajectory, the low one circling closer, but we're already on the move.
"Abort. Take the north route," he says, and it's not advice.
"Confirmed," I reply, already two meters back, eyes on my shoulders.
We run, cutting diagonally. The ridge slides, the gravel gives way, the pine trees scratch our arms like the hands of people who don't want us to pass. The first bullet (blanks? No, they don't play here) stings the rock half a meter away from me and sounds like a tooth falling out. Yes, now you can clench your fists: I did it.
The wind changes, and with it the smell: ozone and open earth. The first drops fall large, cold, on my cheek, my neck. Two seconds later, it starts raining in earnest, a curtain of water that seeps in where it shouldn't and weighs everything down. (What a drag!)
"Check." I whisper, double-clicking the pulse transmitter under my lapel. The light flashes once, then coughs in a flash and goes out immediately afterward. Water has entered it like a party invitation. I repeat, two clicks, three...nothing.
"Base not receiving," I say.
"Give me," Bakugo growls, holding out his hand without stopping.
I pass him mine. He covers it with his palm, his back to the wind, tries a sharp sequence (two, pause, two), then three SOS clicks. A dim light, then dead. "They're wet," he pronounces, which is shorthand for "we're alone."
If you want to laugh, do it now: I think Aizawa told us, "voiceless except in an emergency." And the emergency, with the rain, has swallowed up our voices.
Behind us, we hear a low rustling: it's not rain, but footsteps. At least two, maybe three. They're not shouting; they're trained too. The high drone keeps us in focus, the low one sways uncertainly between the trees and the wind.
"To the right," Bakugo indicates, and we turn into a gully, an old rain gutter filled with rotting leaves. I slip, reach out, my arm pulls, (yes, that), but it holds. Breathe: I'm fine.
The rain is pounding us like hail. The world has been reduced to three things: the sound of the drops, my breath in my throat, and Bakugo, half a step ahead of me. I follow him through the mud like one tracks a trail in the night.
"Shelter," he says. "We need shelter."
I nod, even though he can't see me. The branches part for a moment and I glimpse the mountain face: dark, alive with water, with natural cracks that the rain widens. Somewhere there is what we need.
A flash. Immediately afterward, a thunderclap rolls, dragging the echoes of the valley behind it. The high drone swings widely...even their toys suffer from the weather. Bakugo seizes the moment: he explodes sideways, takes two goat-like steps, and dives behind a rock. I follow him, heart racing.
"Radio."
He orders, already peeling off the cover of his. Water runs over our hands in icy streams. He blows in, a hot jet from nowhere (don't ask me how he does it; it's him), but the card has that burnt plastic smell that says "too late."
"Dead," he concludes dryly. He automatically passes behind my body, shielding me from the view of the valley. "Let's go."
We descend along the gully, then cut left, beneath a spur that resembles the snout of a sleeping animal. The mud tries to slow us down, but we push it free with the weight of need. The rain pounding harder, its sound changing on different surfaces: a drum on leaves, a roll on rocks, a whisper in the tall grass.
"There," I point. A dark crack between two rocks, the narrow mouth of something continuing inside. Bakugo wastes no time: he approaches, assesses it in a split second, slips his shoulder in and disappears halfway, then steps back just enough.
"It's passing. But it's narrow."
"Better than nothing."
I slip inside. The rock is as cold as a freezer; I move my arms to warm myself a little. Inside, it's darker than outside (obviously), but at least the rain stays behind, angry and helpless. The air smells of rotten stone, old, with a hint of mold. The ground is muddy only at first, then becomes stony and dry.
Yes, we've found shelter.
Bakugo enters behind me, the bulk of his backpack scraping the rock. We move in two meters, then another three, until the sound of the rain becomes background noise and not a person shouting in your ear.
I turn around. He's a breathing silhouette, white steam coming out of his mouth. My eyes adjust, and I begin to make out the lines: the uneven wall, a natural step, a drier corner where we could sit without dripping all over everything.
"Sit down," Bakugo says, more command than invitation.
"I'm not..."
"Sit down," he repeats, and there's that note there that doesn't allow for alternative scenarios.
I let myself fall onto the step, my back to the rock. My body thanks me, even if it wouldn't say so in public. I take out the transmitter, dry it with the hem of my sleeve, open it, and look at it as if it were something you care about even if it no longer works. I try two clicks.
Silence. I try the emergency three. Silence.
"Nothing," I say.
"I know." Bakugo is already checking the entrance, half his body out, half his body in. Every now and then he leans over and looks up: the tall drone passes by like a very determined mosquito, but the rain is making him nervous.
"Let's wait for window 0-8-5-5," I say softly, more for myself than for him.
"If it stops, I'll try again."
"If it stops, yes. If not, we'll wait for them to descend or get bored. Then we'll move along the crest."
"Okay."
I swear, right now I'd like to make one of those lighthearted jokes. Something like "Nice trip, huh?" But my tongue stays where it belongs. I feel my arm pulsing smoothly, regularly, like a second rain shower inside my blood. It's not serious. (Don't make that face. Seriously.)
Bakugo turns to me. "Cold?"
"A little."
"You get used to it."
"That's what I'm doing."
"Tsk."
A flash of lightning closer, thunder almost simultaneously. The cave trembles slightly, like an animal shaking off water. For a moment, I think about how strange it is to be alive right here, in a pocket of rock that didn't exist until it was needed.
Bakugo crouches near the entrance, ready to explode out if anything happens. Then he turns, looking at me a second too long to pretend nothing's happening.
"Don't sleep," he mutters.
"Calm down. I can't."
"Better."
I rest my head against the rock for just a moment and count the thunderclaps to gauge the distance. Outside, the rain doesn't let up. Inside, our breathing creates a small room within the room.
We're soaked, the transmitters are dead, and we don't have an open line to Aizawa. But, and you say this too, for good luck, we're alive and hiding for now. The rest will be sorted out. (I say this softly, so I don't scare you.)
Bakugo clears his throat. "When it calms down, I'll move out to look for dry wood."
I nod.
***
An hour passes, or something like it. Outside, the rain has stopped beating down: it falls in thin, stubborn threads. The drone... gone. Or too high up to disturb us. And outside, it's pitch black, the kind of darkness with no visible edges.
I keep the flashlight on, the beam low, aimed at the cave floor. The cone of light bites into the rock and then lets it darken again. Yes, I know: I should conserve the battery, but I'm freezing. My fingers hurt from how stiff they are; my teeth are chattering. The cold is a living thing that gets under your skin and doesn't ask for permission.
Bakugo left ten minutes ago, promising little with a look: "I'll get the firewood. I'll be right back." I nodded as if it were easy. In the meantime, you breathe with me: one, two, three. I don't want you to tremble because of me.
A rustling sound at the entrance. I instinctively tense, then recognize his step: decisive, unhesitating. He enters bent over, his wet shoulders glinting for a second in my flashlight. He carries bundles of wood clutched to his chest, thin branches, rolled bark, dry pine needles plucked from beneath the branches. He also has a flat, dark stone, which he drops gently beside me.
"Move over," he says, already at work. He's not rude. He's precise.
He rounds off one corner of the cave with three stones, making a small fire like they do in the barracks, but quicker. He adds the needles, then the bark curls, then the thin branches. He pauses for a moment, listens to the air (I swear, he really does), checks that the smoke isn't escaping toward the exit. "Pull back here," he mutters. "Good."
Bring his hands together. I don't need to explain: a controlled, dry spark, not noise but heat. The needles catch immediately, the bark ignites in a second, the dry wood makes the sound of rice toasting in a pan. In two seconds, there's a beautiful, intimate, almost polite fire. No flames, no vanity: just growing embers.
I crawl closer, my hands open toward the warmth like a plant toward the sun. The dampness on my back begins to sting, the drops on my cuffs turning to steam. It hurts, but the pain of the returning heat is a friendly pain. I let out a sigh that I can't control.
"Don't stick too close. Dry your gloves first." He growls and pulls them off almost without asking, placing them on a hot stone to the side. "If you catch fire, I'll piss you off."
"I don't want to give you the satisfaction," I mutter, and I hear him give that half-snort that means "shut up and warm up."
The fire crackles every now and then. The smell of resin mingles with that of wet rock, and believe me, it almost feels like home. I bring my hands together, then my wrists, then my face, and close my eyes for a few seconds. My shoulders finally sag a finger's breadth. My arm pulls less. My head is still. (Yes, I'm telling you this because I know you're still thinking about it: I'm fine.)
When the heat really begins to sink in, I slide down a rock step. I remove the flashlight, I place it facing the wall, turning the light low so as not to waste energy, and lie on my side, knees drawn up to my chest, like when you search for the warm spot in bed in winter. I try to rest. I feel my body asking me, its tired voice.
Yet the cold is stubborn. It comes from within, from where the water has stagnated too long. I cover my arms, clasp my hands under my armpits, search for the fire with my feet, but I'm still shivering. Small, regular tremors. I know you're about to tell me to "move closer," and I try, really, but it seems like the warmth always comes a step later.
Bakugo tidies the fire, adding branches without making it grow, just deeper. Every now and then he looks up toward the mouth of the cave, then back at me. He doesn't say anything. I grit my teeth, try to slow my breathing, count to thirty, then start again.
I swear I'm trying to sleep. But the shaking won't stop. It's like a small drum hidden under the blankets I don't have. The fire holds, but the cold clings to me like a second skin. I curl up, breathing slowly. I'm still shaking.
Bakugo stares at me for a second, then snorts.
"Tsk… you're all vibrating. You sound like a broken phone."
He lies down behind me without asking, as if it were the only sensible solution in the universe. He grabs my hips (a firm grip, warm fingers) and drags me a foot closer to the embers. He pulls up my hood with a brusque gesture, tucking my jacket under his as if to create a layer. The jacket brushes against my back; I feel his short, hot breath slide down my neck.
"No more chattering teeth," he grumbles in a low, scratchy voice. "Stay still and warm up."
"I..." I half-speak...maybe a thank you...
"Shut up." It's not meanness: it's him. "Breathe when I say so: in... out... Don't make me say it again."
His chest against my back: I inhale when he inhales, I exhale when I feel him exhale. His right hand remains on my hips, firm, heavy enough to anchor me; the other grabs a green blanket from his backpack, drapes it over me, and returns to me, determined.
"I'm not going to carry you down this mountain."
Slowly, the trembling subsides. His body is a fire, but not a blaze burning upward: more like a tense ember coaxing the cold to release its grip.
"Better?"
"Yes..."
"Good. Don't waste my time anymore."
I barely raise an eyebrow. "How cute you call it 'help.'"
A tongue click. "I'm not 'helping' anyone. I'm stopping you from doing anything stupid."
"Like freezing?"
"Like wasting my time. Now shut up and breathe, you idiot."
I obey: in, out, at his pace. The cold recedes. He brings his nose to my neck; his warm breath brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.
I'm asking you, because I still don't know how to say it to him without sounding stupid: wasn't I the girl he hated?
The one who "slowed me down," the one who "tsks," the one who "wasn't useful." So why does he now keep me warm as if it were his duty?
I say it quietly, without turning around: "Why are you doing this?"
Half a second's silence. I feel his breath moving my hair.
"Do what?"
"This." His hands on my hips, his body warming me. "Help me."
He snorts. "Because you two" (and he says it like a church curse) "Aizawa and you are pissing me off with this 'when you work as a team you cover each other' thing. There you go."
"Is that all?"
"That's all." Pause. "And because if you freeze, we fail. I hate losing."
"So it's not for me."
"Don't ask stupid questions," he growls, but doesn't push me away. "Just breathe."
I'll put it this way, friend: the official story is that he does it for the rules, for Aizawa, for the score, to avoid losing. And that's probably true. But there's also something else (don't call it a feeling, we're not there): it's presence. Someone who says "I'm here," and then stays there. Someone who supports the weight without making a fuss about it.
I'm not in love. I'm not writing hearts on the margins of the relationship. I'm just wondering when the noise that made his name in my head changed: from alarm to metronome. Maybe tomorrow we'll go back to growling like always. Maybe in ten minutes.
Meanwhile, here, in the darkness, the answer I give myself is simple: he's warming me up because we work as a couple. Period.
And if there's anything else, I won't decide it now. Now I breathe. With him. And I keep my eyes open.