[ The weight of a drunk, and the weight of his sorrow is enough to slow Bakugo's pace. He practically drags Gildor and his grief across the sand, onto solid ground, pausing when he has to redistribute the weight he's carrying and press back against the sorrow. Inside of himself, he flexes against it. Tries not to throw up walls of heat and gouts of flame to keep the other at bay, the way he's been practicing - it's hard to resist, because grief is infectious and it reminds him of the way he feels ( useless, stupid, helpless -- ) way deep down where he's buried it. ]

I don't care what the symbiote needs, I don't plan on getting close to my team.

[ "Team", not brood. Giving in to the telepathy is as close as he wants to get to touching the dangerous depths of that connection. ]

They're all weird, and I hate them.

[ Some of them, he's on neutral terms with. Most of them, he's just mistrustful of. ]

Gildor. I'm sixteen. I can't drink, it's illegal.