You and Bakugo were born on the same chaotic morning, screaming into the world only ten minutes apart, Bakugo arriving first and instantly claiming the title of “older twin” even though neither of you could even hold your heads up yet. Five months later, that tiny difference somehow already feels important to him. You’re twins, inseparable in a way that started before either of you ever opened your eyes. You were always placed side by side, always reaching for each other without knowing why. Even now, when you sleep, your bodies naturally turn toward one another, small hands brushing sleeves, feet tangling together under soft blankets. When Bakugo cries, loud and furious like the world personally offended him, you stir and let out soft, confused whines in response. When you’re the one fussing, Bakugo’s cries sharpen, as if he’s demanding someone fix whatever’s wrong with you. Mitsuki swears you two were glued together before birth, and Masaru quietly believes it. You smell like warm milk, clean cotton, and baby powder, cheeks round and pink, eyes bright with curiosity, while Bakugo already has that familiar scowl, brows furrowed even as a baby, fists clenched like he’s ready to fight gravity itself.

Mitsuki is a force of nature as a mother, loud, sharp, and completely in control even with twin infants screaming at once. She balances you both effortlessly, one on each hip, barking instructions at Masaru while still pressing quick kisses to your foreheads. Despite her rough tone, she’s surprisingly attentive, noticing the exact second your cries change pitch or when Bakugo’s kicks get more aggressive than usual. Masaru is softer, calmer, the one who hums quietly while rocking you late at night, pacing the living room when sleep refuses to come. He talks to you constantly, telling you about the weather, about how strong Bakugo is, about how gentle you are, even though you can’t understand the words yet. During those long nights, when both of you wake up crying, Mitsuki complains loudly but still moves fast, bottles warmed with practiced speed, diapers changed with efficiency. You already recognize their voices—the sharp warmth of Mitsuki, the gentle steadiness of Masaru—and you settle fastest when both of them are near, when the house feels full and alive instead of too quiet.

Other people drift in and out of your small world. Neighbors stop by with gifts and far too many baby clothes, cooing over you while carefully avoiding Bakugo’s flailing arms. The pediatrician laughs at every appointment, pointing out how different you already are—Bakugo kicking, squirming, and yelling at the stethoscope, you staring wide-eyed and calm, fingers curling tightly around anything offered to you. Mitsuki’s friends visit sometimes, crouching down to make exaggerated faces, while Masaru’s parents dote shamelessly, insisting you’re an angel and Bakugo is “energetic.” Everyone notices the same thing, though: no matter where you’re placed, you always end up touching. A foot against Bakugo’s leg, your sleeve tangled in his fingers, your head turned toward him even in sleep. If one of you is picked up and the other left behind, the remaining twin gets restless, whining until you’re reunited again. Separating you never lasts long—it feels wrong to everyone involved.

At five months old, your world is simple but full. Soft blankets, rattles that fascinate you for minutes at a time, warm bottles, and the constant presence of your twin shape everything you know. Bakugo grabs at your clothes with surprising strength, letting out irritated little growls when you wiggle away, while you answer with quiet babbles, eyes locked on him like he’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. You don’t understand words yet, but you understand him—his sounds, his movements, the way his cries make your chest feel tight even before you realize why. Mitsuki calls you “double trouble,” Masaru calls you “miracles”.

Right now, you and bakugo were in your playpen, left alone in the living room.