Instead of slinking back to the gym with his tail between his legs, Katsuki just calls the security guy to let him into his apartment. He can grab his bag tomorrow morning, on his way to the set. Momo won't mind making a quick stop, and even if she does, who cares? Fuck her.

The anger doesn't fade, for some reason. In the shower that night, he thinks of that redhead—Kiri-something—and grinds his teeth. He thinks about him while putting on his PJs, and settling in for bed, and even while eating breakfast the next morning.

How does he not know who Katsuki is? /Everyone/ knows who Katsuki is.

Hell, he can't even go to the damn grocery store without five different people recognizing him. What's this guy's damage, huh?

There's an enormous fucking billboard with Katsuki's face on it just two blocks from that gym, and Kiri-whatever hasn't heard of him?! Bullshit. He must've been fucking around with him. That has to be it.

Momo gives him hell for leaving his bag but still agrees to let him grab it, because she’s a sucker with a big heart. He’s in and out of the gym in less than a minute, because he has shit to do, obviously. He's a busy man. Kiri-whatever isn't there, not that Katsuki was looking.

Once he's on set, he heads straight to his dressing room, not interested in playing nice with any of his costars. His makeup artist will need the extra time to work on him, anyhow, since he slept so poorly.

Camie, unsurprisingly, drags him within an inch of his life when he finally makes it to her chair. He looks like complete shit, and he knows it. “I’m a MUA, not a miracle worker,” She teases as she clips Katsuki’s bangs back, “You gotta see a doctor or something, bae.”

“You’re not my fucking dad,” Katsuki spits, because she’s not, and also because he's an asshole.

She just laughs softly as she cleans his face. “Shut up, dingdong. I'm just worried about you, y'know, because I care about your dumb ass.”

Ew. Disgusting. How dare she.

“Don’t make that shitty face,” She scolds him, flicking the back of his ear. “Why do you look so bad, baby?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Just regular insomnia or are you upset about something?”

Her back is to him, but he knows she’s listening. When she turns back around, she has a bottle of moisturizer in her hands, and he automatically tilts his head back so she can smear it all over his face. This part is actually kind of relaxing.

Rolling his eyes, Katsuki snorts, “I don’t get fucking upset about shit.”

“Katsuki.”

“Fucking fine, whatever. It was just insomnia, my stupid ass brain wouldn’t shut up. I went to gym—”

“Katsuki!” She interrupts, “I told you to knock that off! Going to the gym makes it worse!”

“Whatever! Anyway! I met some schmuck there and he didn’t fucking recognize me.”

“Holy shit, really?”

“Yeah. He didn’t even know my goddamn character’s name. This bitch called me fucking Naruto!”

And now Camie’s laughing her stupid head off, because she’s an asshole. Why does he ever tell her anything?

She’s still cackling as she digs her phone out of her apron, quickly typing something into it before handing it over to Katsuki. Oh great. She’s changed his contact name.

To Naruto.

“I honestly fucking hate you with every fiber of my being,” He tells her.

Shoving her phone back into her apron, she nabs a tube of primer and squirts some onto her fingers, smiling smugly to herself as she begins to rub it into his skin. “Sure you do. We still on for Friday?”

Is she stupid or something? Of course they’re still having their weekly movie night. Why does she always feel the need to check? He won’t flake on her, he’s never flaked on her.

The two of them continue to chatter while she does his makeup, gossiping idly. Katsuki wouldn’t call it gossiping—just chatting—but it’s definitely gossiping.

Filming that day is annoying, but no more annoying than usual, considering it’s all the same shitty costars he’s had since he was 16. Fuck those guys.

The only tolerable one is Ochako and that’s because she punches him when he annoys her instead of just whining at him like everyone else does. He respects her chutzpah. She hits /hard/.

Deku drives him up a wall, still, but it’s not as bad as it was once upon time. Katsuki used to tear his hair out if Deku so much as breathed in his general direction.

They may or may not have had a fistfight in an empty parking lot that settled a solid two thirds of their issues, so now they’re just like brothers who know exactly how to push each other’s buttons. And God do they know how to push each other's buttons.

Said brother is currently begging Katsuki to go out to eat with them, like he does every day after filming. “There’s only a few weeks left, Kacchan,” He always says, “We have to make the most of it!”

Fuck all that noise. Katsuki doesn’t have to make the most of /shit/.

Today, however, Momo sends him quite the strongly-worded text, leaving him little choice.

When he tells Deku he’s coming along this time, Deku fucking squeals, because that’s just the kind of bitch he is. It’s been about fifteen seconds since Katsuki agreed to go and he’s already regretting it. He can feel a headache forming at his temples.

The My Hero cast has a regular restaurant they congregate at after filming, that’s a ten minute walk from the studio, with a back room they rent out and two regular servers.

They come here because they’ve never once been harassed. The restaurant has, according to Camie, chill vibes only.

Deku says it’s mostly due to the private room, sure, but their two servers apparently also pay a large part in their anonymity. They’ve also been dubbed “chill”.

Neither of the servers know who any of the cast members are, which seems like a fucking miracle. One of them hadn’t even heard of the show until Deku had asked about it.

Katsuki’s reminded of sexy—fuck, no, he means annoying—gym guy. Apparently he’s not the only one who’s been living under a rock, but that just annoys Katsuki more.

Everyone should know who he is. He’s Bakugou fucking Katsuki.

The restaurant is old fashioned and clean and Katsuki is actually rather fond of it, all things considered, which is unexpected. He follows a half step behind the rest of his costars, looking around the place. It’s nice. Cozy.

Their server is a lanky guy with almost weirdly straight teeth and a head of limp, dark hair. The others call him Sero so Katsuki guesses that’s what his name is.

Katsuki doesn’t give a shit about other people’s names, though, so he’ll give this guy a nickname. Probably Soy Sauce because of the way he just spilled some all over Tsuyu, which is absolutely hilarious.

Overall, going out with his costars isn’t as terrible as he thought it’d be. They’re not as fucking obnoxious as they used to be. He might go again, honestly, because it’s not like he has much else going on when Mimi and Momo are busy.

Two weeks later, a few days before the last day of shooting, Katsuki’s struck by insomnia again. It’s 2am and he’s still awake, staring at the ceiling, getting angrier and angrier the longer he lays there. Fuck it, he’s going to the gym.

Like last time, it’s empty. Not even that stupid redheaded giant is here. It’s just Katsuki and the desk guy and that’s nice.

His warmup is long and slow, because he’s not really in a rush here. Sleep will come when it comes. For now, he luxuriates in the burn of his muscles, in the warm silence of the gym.

It’s been about an hour when a booming voice echoes through the gym, freezing Katsuki in his tracks, because shit, he thinks he knows that voice.

“Hey, Naruto, you’re back!” Yep. This fucking guy.

Should Katsuki just ignore him? That’s really tempting, because Katsuki is mentally exhausted right now, and if he speaks to this guy, he’s just gonna roast him alive.

The guy doesn’t say anything more, thank god. He just strolls over to the treadmills while whistling to himself—as if he couldn’t get more annoying—and Katsuki dutifully goes back to his squats. Whatever. Hopefully they’ll never need to exchange words ever again.

After finishing his last set of squats, Katsuki heads over to the elaborate contraption of a machine that allows him to bench without a spotter.

Since there’s only one other person in the gym, if Katsuki wanted to bench freehand would have to ask Ronald McDonald to spot him, and he simply can’t do that. The thought alone is making him nauseous.

Katsuki carefully loads the weights onto the bar, pointedly ignoring Carrot Top who now seems to be watching on with interest. Once the weights are on, Katsuki lies down and wraps his hands around the bar, beginning his reps. He can still feel Kiri-whatever’s eyes on him.

“You know you’re doing it wrong, right?” the guy says after Katsuki completes his first set. “You’re bending your wrists too far back and your hands are too far apart. You’ll just hurt yourself like that.”

Okay, who the fuck does this guy think he is?

“Fuck off!” Katsuki snaps, glaring at the guy as he sits up. He takes a large gulp of water from the fancy metal bottle Camie got him while still glaring at the guy.

“Dude, I’m serious, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” For real, what is this guy’s issue? Can’t he leave well enough alone? “I know what I’m talking about, okay?” the guy huffs.

Katsuki rolls his eyes—this guy has a lot of gall. Katsuki would respect his chutzpah if he wasn’t so goddamn annoying about it. “Says who?”

“I’m a physical therapy student.”

“Okay, and? You’re just a fucking student.”

The guy frowns and crosses his arms over his chest, looking annoyed, now. “I’m more than halfway done with my coursework /and/ I’ve been a personal trainer before. I know how to use a goddamn Smith machine.”

Oh, is that what this thing’s called? Whatever. Fuck this guy.

“Fuck off. You don’t know shit.” There, that should be the end of that. Hopefully this guy will take the hint and never speak to Katsuki ever again.

Of course, the guy doesn’t take the hint. Why would he? That’d make Katsuki’s life too easy, apparently.

The guy clicks his tongue, visibly frustrated, before that expression melts into a wide Cheshire-cat grin. That ends up being much more unsettling than him being upset. “Why don’t I prove it?” the guy asks, grin somehow widening.

“Hah?”

“You don’t believe that I know my stuff, but I can prove it. You work out a lot, right?”

Katsuki raises an incredulous eyebrow—obviously he works out, just fucking look at him! “Fucking duh.”

“What would you say to a little friendly competition, then? I did a bit of Googling so I know we’re the same age—we should be about evenly matched, all things considered,” the guy suggests smugly.

Oh, Katsuki’s no idiot, so he knows this is a trap, but he’s too pissed to care. Does this guy really think he can beat Katsuki at /anything/? “What kind of competition?”

“Lifting? We can use the Smith machine and just see who can lift more. You’ll lose because your form sucks ass,” says the guy.

Okay, that’s it. Katsuki’s gonna fucking crush this arrogant asshole if it’s the last goddamn thing he does. “Fine!”

They keep going back and forth, taking turns benching larger and larger dumbbells, and eventually Katsuki’s arms give out. The barbell falls back into the machine with an echoing clatter that rings in Katsuki’s ears.

He slinks off the bench and chugs some water, all while avoiding looking at Shitty Hair—that’s his name now—because his face is red with shame.

If Shitty Hair can lift that barbell, that means Katsuki’s lost.

Of course, Shitty Hair benches it like it’s two marshmallows on the ends of the bar, not 145 kilos of metal. It’s insane.

Shitty Hair shoots him a gloating, sharp-toothed grin, and Katsuki huffs, “What are you, the fucking Hulk?”

“Nah,” Shitty Hair hums happily, “Just a guy who knows what he’s talking about. I normally bench 170.” 170?! Is this guy even real?!

Suddenly, Katsuki realizes something. “It’s fucking bullshit,” he snaps, baring his teeth.

“What is?”

“I was here for over an hour before your stupid ass showed up, so of course I couldn’t lift as much! This dumb competition wasn’t fucking fair.”

Shitty Hair tilts his head. “Okay, yeah, valid. What do you propose?”

“Obviously we need a rematch, shit for brains! Pick a day and time.” He’ll probably regret this, but the taste of failure is acrid in his mouth.

Plus, filming ends soon, and he really needs stuff to do.

They decide to meet up again in a week and a half at around 10pm. Shitty Hair has class and work almost every day, but he gets off early—apparently getting off at 9 is early—on Tuesdays, so Tuesday it is.

In the interim, Bakugou spends many hours pacing around his apartment, fuming. Whenever he’s not doing that, he’s on set or doing pushups or doing pushups while on set. It’s exhausting but he can’t stop.

What if he loses again? To that stranger?

Wait, shit, does he even know that guy’s name? Katsuki knows he said it when they first met, but… Nope. Katsuki has no idea. Maybe it started with Kiwi? Jiri? Who even knows. Great.

When Tuesday night finally rolls around, Katsuki is naught but a tightly coiled ball of nerves. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach, telling him to run far, far away, and he knows that he’s going to lose. His gut has never lied to him before.

The gym is empty and almost desolate when Katsuki arrives, because, surprisingly enough, he’s 20 minutes early. Contrary to popular belief, he’s very punctual, but this is excessive, even for him. He slinks into the bathroom and locks himself in a stall.

He ends up spending 15 minutes sitting on the toilet, retweeting edgy aesthetic posts on his private twitter. It sucks and it makes his back hurt, but he’s not sure what else to do, so he just stays there.

Eventually, he gets up and washes his hands, avoiding making eye contact with his reflection. Somehow, he knows he’d crumble if he did.

As soon as he steps foot out of the bathroom, a booming voice echoes through the gym. “There you are, Naruto! What were you doing hiding in the bathroom?”

“I wasn’t fucking hiding,” Katsuki snaps, defensiveness firing on all cylinders. “So shut your damn mouth! Let’s just get this shit over with.”

Shitty Hairs snorts softly. “Alright, Mr. Grumpy. Have it your way.”

They head over to the Smith machine in blissful silence, but Katsuki’s stomach is still eating itself alive.

This time around, their competition lasts much longer, but at the end of the day, the result is the same. Katsuki gets his ass handed to him by some stupidly sexy stranger and he wants to go on a goddamn rampage.

Shitty Hair, surprisingly enough, is exceedingly gracious about his victory. He doesn't rub it in, he just simply smiles to himself before saying, “I don’t think we established what happens when someone lost. I say you treat me to dinner.”

“I say you jump off a fucking cliff,” Katsuki snaps, not wanting to spend another minute with the man he just lost to.

Shitty Hair just laughs like Katsuki's respon was good-natured. “C’mon, man, it’s not like you can’t afford it.”

This guy is seriously going to give Katsuki a stress migraine. “You’re even stupider than you look! Shitty Hair, believe it not, I can’t just go out to dinner! I don’t give a shit about paying, okay, the problem is that people will recognize me.”

“I mean, I didn’t recognize you, so why would they?”

“Literally everyone except you knows who I am, shithead.”

“That sounds fake, you’re in here all the time and no one says anything!”

Cradling his head in his hands, Katsuki huffs, “That’s because there’s no one else fucking in here! You don’t believe me? Fine! Let’s go to fucking dinner, and you’ll see.”

“Oh my god, really?”

“Yes, really. Take a fucking shower and meet me by the front desk.”

“Aye aye, captain!”

This is a terrible idea. Katsuki is gonna regret this, he knows he will, but he hates being wrong almost as much as he hates losing.

When Shitty Hair and Katsuki reunite, they’re both in T-shirts and baggy joggers. Shitty Hair gestures for Katsuki to lead the way so he does, tossing a callous “later” over his shoulder to Tokoyami as he steps through the door.

They start to walk and Katsuki realizes what he's just agreed to. Dinner. Alone.

With Kirishima.

God, he's stupid.