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The punch connects with his jaw, the momentum sending Bakugou reeling back against the wall. The fact that this no-name asshole has managed to land a hit on him stokes the embers of his anger into a full-blown flame. Two-bit villains aren’t allowed to get the best of him, and if his jaw is bruised tomorrow he’s going to be pissed. As he pushes off from the wall, his features pull into a savage smile.
“You’re going to regret that, No Name.”
The villain might protest that, might try and monologue his way into relevancy, but Bakugou hears none of it. Explosions erupt from his hands at the same moment he lunges towards his assailant, turning abruptly on his heel at the last moment and detonating behind the man. The force of his Quirk sends the villain toppling into the same wall he’d punched Bakugou into a minute earlier, and Bakugou sets off another explosion that pins the villain down in a modest amount of rubble. Fucking amateur.
He doesn’t bother crowing about his victory—at his last count, there’d been a dozen lackey villains hanging around this building, with the biggest fish waiting on the roof. Bakugou shouldn’t be wasting his time with the riff-raff, but having twelve of them at his back while he tried to take down their boss would be annoying at best. Despite every one of his teachers bemoaning his recklessness for three years, he does spare a thought for strategy.
His boots thunder against the stairs as he races up a floor, exaggerating his steps on purpose. He wants these fuckers to know he’s coming, wants them to have the time to hear the explosions and know exactly who’s about to take them down. Some people build up their heroes’ personas by posing with old ladies or rescuing kittens out of trees. Bakugou creates his own by making villains piss themselves.
There are two more lackeys waiting for him on the stairs, but Bakugou uses the force of his Quirk to send one toppling into the other. He follows up by quite literally bashing their skulls together, cackling as they crumple to the floor. Useless goons didn’t even have time to respond with their Quirks.
“Oi! Are any of you losers going to be a challenge, or what?”
The answer to that is a resounding no, as Bakugou takes out three more villains on the second floor before proceeding to the third. Either the idiots don’t realize that their friends are being picked off one by one, or they think themselves progressively stronger, because they keep rushing at Bakugou as though they can hope to land a blow on him. So far, Bakugou imagines the only wounds he’s suffered are the minute scratches on his cheeks and forearms that he gets from the incidental blowback of his Quirk. In other words, everyone in this building is a waste of air, excepting himself.
Still, he’s keyed up for more of a fight than he’s getting, and taking out eight separate villains on his way to the roof only heightens the feeling. Adrenaline surges through him as he blasts the roof-access door off of its hinges to herald his arrival.
“Alright,” he calls out, voice hoarse with a scream but tinged with a manic laughter, “Who the fuck is next?”
In his mind, this is the moment when the bigger-name villain pisses himself. But reality proves disappointing. Instead of the boss and his remaining lackeys waiting on the roof, preferably in a pretentious crescent formation, backlit by moonlight, he gets—well. He gets all five of his remaining targets on their knees, their hands tied behind their backs. And standing over them is a vanguard of heroes. And worst of all, Bakugou knows them all.
“Are you shitting me right now?” he spits out, barely glancing at each of the heroes as he recognizes them.
Uravity. Ingenium. Froppy. Red Riot. And Deku.
“Kac—I mean—”
God, Deku is a fucking disgrace. Though Bakugou doesn’t know how he’d actually refer to him if he’d chosen a different hero’s moniker. In his mind, at least, the meaning hasn’t changed, despite what the rankings say.
“What the fuck?” Bakugou growls, eyes roaming over the gathered Yuuei class reunion and coming to rest on Kirishima, who grins at him and offers a wave. What the fuck. Last Bakugou knew, Kirishima was working a prefecture up north. When did he get back? And why hadn’t he fucking told—
“We all got the alert,” Uraraka is saying. “Is anyone left downstairs?”
“What the hell do you think?” Bakugou asks her.
“Okay, so more villains left to be collected downstairs,” she says, unflappable, as she jots a note into her phone for the police. “They’ll be here in three minutes, everyone.”
“I had it covered,” Bakugou says through gritted teeth. Because, really, what kind of inefficient bullshit is this? Despite everything, Bakugou can admit that his former classmates are a formidable group of heroes. They don’t all need to be going after atrophied remnants of the mafia, for fuck’s sake.
Suddenly, there’s an arm thrown over his shoulders, and a grinning face is much too close.
“Don’t keep whining about it,” Kirishima says, completely good-natured in a way that makes Bakugou want to punch him just to prove that he can’t calm Bakugou down with just a few words. “We all got the hit, and you just happened to get here first. How many did you get downstairs, anyway?”
“Eight,” Bakugou answers shortly, before remembering that he’s a world-class hero who doesn’t need to keep a tally sheet to prove his worth.
Kirishima whistles through his teeth. “Nice, man. You’re off-duty soon, right? Let’s all go grab a drink!” The last part of that is addressed to the gathered crowd of battle-stealing losers.
“Great idea,” Uraraka says, as the same time Bakugou hisses, “No goddamn way.”
Somehow, fifteen minutes later, he finds himself sitting in an izakaya with Kirishima on one side of him and Uraraka on the other. Iida, Asui, and Deku sit across from them, and everyone’s nursing some drink or the other. Bakugou hadn’t bothered paying attention to their orders when he’d mumbled out a request for a coke.
He’s still keyed up with energy, but he’d already been on-duty for almost eighteen straight hours and he doesn’t need the higher-ups breathing down his neck for overworking himself. The less involved authority figures are in his life, the better.
They’re all back in street clothes, but when Bakugou looks around their booth he sees everyone’s hero personas laid over their normal, familiar faces. He sees them often enough—they show up to take down the same villains, or Deku calls some bullshit meeting to talk about pooling resources to take down an actual threat. But that’s different from seeing them all day, every day, for three years straight. Bakugou had never been one to purposefully cultivate relationships, and he hasn’t kept up with these people in any meaningful way.
Kirishima, at least, has stayed in touch. He emails Bakugou articles about his heroic exploits, complete with colorful commentary on the real story. He texts every time Bakugou shows up on the news, with a liberal use of emojis to express how impressed or concerned or whatever other thing he happens to be, each time. He calls, sometimes, and Bakugou isn’t good at keeping up his end of those conversations but he likes listening to the familiar sound of Kirishima’s voice.
“Hel-lo?” Now there’s a hand being waved in front of his face. “Earth to Blasty, you in there?”
Bakugou growls half-heartedly and shoves Kirishima’s hand out of his face. At least now that he’s back in civilian clothes his bare chest isn’t on display. His costume’s gotten more streamlined since their student days, but Kirishima always has the excuse of his Quirk to show off as much skin and muscle as possible. Bakugou’s too much of a professional to find it distracting, but when he’s not on duty he thinks about Kirishima’s abs more than is perhaps appropriate for a friend, or former classmate, or whatever they are, now.
“Fuck off,” he mutters halfheartedly, letting his elbows rest against the table as he presses his face into his hands. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t have impulse control, so he could blow up this stupid table he’s being forced to sit at with his stupid classmates.
Kirishima’s bright, buoyant laughter fills the small space. “I think you might be grumpier than usual when you’re tired, but you’re not saying much so it’s hard to tell.”
“I’m not tired,” Bakugou mutters. Or maybe he is, but he has too much energy left to burn for his body to fully realize that fact. He realizes he should be grumbling at all of them more, for the sake of appearances if nothing else. He is mad that they took out the mafia boss before he was able to, but there’s nothing left to do about that now. Even if he chewed Deku out for it, the nerd wouldn’t put up enough of a fight for it to be worth it. Fighting with Deku—really fighting—is one of the most visceral and satisfying experiences he’s ever had. But Deku doesn’t unleash the whole of himself over trivial things, and Bakugou’s not in the mood for his halfhearted appeasements.
He leans back, surprised when Kirishima’s arm is there to catch him. Over the years, Kirishima had wormed his way closer and closer to Bakugou, gotten more brazen with his casual touches. Bakugou never tolerated such affection from anyone else, but for some reason Kirishima slapping his back or grabbing his hand never felt wrong. Or maybe he’d just gotten used to it, since Kirishima was so persistent.
“Want me to take you home?” Kirishima asks.
Bakugou balks at the thought of being handled, but when he looks up the izakaya’s lights are dyeing Kirishima’s entire face in amber light, and his setting off his hair like the flickering edges of a flame. Bakugou finds himself nodding sullenly.
Kirishima says his goodbyes pretty quickly after that, hugging Asui and Uraraka goodbye and clapping Iida on the back, then undergoing some bizarre series of hand-clasps with Deku that must be, what? Some sort of secret handshake? Bakugou bites down a snarl.
“Alright, alright,” Kirishima laughs. “Let’s get going.”
“I hate all of you,” Bakugou tosses over his shoulder, for good measure.
Kirishima doesn’t ask him for directions, and manages to keep in-step as they head out in the direction of Bakugou’s apartment. He’s lived there since shortly after finishing school, but he can’t remember if Kirishima had ever been there with him before he moved up north. Maybe once, or twice? With Ashido and Kaminari and the rest of that group. Even when he sees them, these days, it’s never in the space of his own home.
Fucking hell, he really should’ve gotten to take out that mafia boss. Now his mind keeps spinning around with useless, extra thoughts, and he can practically feel the heat radiating off of Kirishima’s body as they walk side-by-side. He’s perfectly casual in jeans and a t-shirt, but he’s grown a little bit since the last time Bakugou saw him. His shoulders are a bit broader, his arms well-build and strong even without the benefits of his quirk.
“What’re you looking at?” Kirishima asks, using a tone entirely opposite from the one Bakugou would’ve adopted, asking the same question.
Bakugou blinks as he called back to reality, then instinctively takes a step back to put space between him and Kirishima. “Nothing,” he mutters defensively.
“Mm-kay,” Kirishima says agreeably. “One of these is your building, right?” He gestures around them, to where they’ve come to stop at a small, nondescript residential complex.
Bakugou swallows down an insult and nods. “That one,” he says, although he’s positive Kirishima remembers exactly where he lives. Then, unsure of what else to say, he adds, “You can go, now.”
Kirishima tips his head to one side, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “You’re not going to invite me up?” he asks.
What the hell would be the point of that, Bakugou wants to ask. It’s fuck all past midnight, and he should really just head upstairs and land directly on his bed. He needs to sleep off the last day and a half, but he knows he won’t be able to fall asleep. Inviting Kirishima up would lead to, what? They can’t spar in the enclosed space of his apartment, and he can’t even imagine that they’d end up watching a movie or chatting into the night like they had when they were students. He’s not inviting Kirishima up to his place for a fucking sleepover.
The adrenaline that’s been building up in him like a powder keg seems to ignite at that thought. What the fuck is Kirishima even here for, anyway? Why hadn’t he called, first, instead of just showing up on the job like that? And he hadn’t even come alone, had brought the entire merry fucking band of Yuuei elites with him.
Bakugou growls and takes a step forward, swinging his arm in an arc aimed for Kirishima’s face. It’s not his best planned move, or his most elegant punch. But, shit, he needs to move, needs to hit, needs to burn out this fire inside of him before he explodes. He puts force into the punch, focuses right on Kirishima’s bright eyes when he strikes.
Kirishima catches his fist easily, side stepping and pulling Bakugou’s arm behind his back. “Hey,” he says, voice still calm and tinged with warmth, “What was that for?”
Bakugou hisses at him, struggling to pull his arm free of Kirishima’s grasp. A couple of years can’t change that much, and Kirishima has had to fight tooth and nail for every victory he’s ever had over Bakugou. Even then, those victories are few and far between. He can fight Bakugou to a standstill, but he can’t overpower him. He can’t handle him—
Suddenly, Bakugou’s back collides with the smooth wall that encircles his complex. Kirishima is standing over him, still gripping Bakugou’s fist in his hand. Bakugou is breathing hard, looking up at Kirishima and trying to decipher when he’d managed to push Bakugou up against the wall. Kirishima shifts until he’s holding their arms above Bakugou’s head. He looks down at Bakugou, and though the height different between them is negligible, Bakugou feels surrounded. He can’t decipher Kirishima’s expression, his lips slightly parted and his brows raised just slightly. In the moonlight, there are shadows cast over his face and the scar above his eye stands out in stark relief against his skin.
“What—” Bakugou starts to say, but he’s interrupted by Kirishima pushing closer, until his lips are pressed against Bakugou’s, swallowing the rest of his words.
For a blissful moment, Bakugou’s mind goes utterly blank. Kirishima’s lips are chapped and rough, but Bakugou is sure that his are no better. He can taste salt, and smell the sweat and ash of battle on both of them. Kirishima leans into the kiss for the span of several heartbeats, as though he’s giving Bakugou time to figure out what he’s going to do about all of this. Then he pulls back, smiling bashfully.
Bakugou stares at him, brows drawing together. A hint of hesitation flickers over Kirishima’s face, and then Bakugou is acting on instinct. He clenches a fist in Kirishima’s t-shirt and jerks him forward, pressing their lips together for a second time. He feels Kirishima’s lips pull into a smile against his.
It’s a different way of burning off adrenaline, but it makes his blood sing in the same way a battle does. Now encouraged, Kirishima lets go of Bakugou’s wrist and brings his hands up to frame Bakugou’s face. His skin shouldn’t be so soft, it shouldn’t make Bakugou shudder when Kirishima trails his fingers against Bakugou’s cheek. Bakugou snarls in protest, biting down on Kirishima’s lower lip and smirking when he feels Kirishima shudder against him. He presses closer, feeling their chests meet and cursing their shirts under his breath. Kirishima’s still kissing him, tongue slipping into Bakugou’s mouth and licking across his teeth. Bakugou tries the same, feels little pinpricks of pain where the pointed edges of Kirishima’s teeth hit his tongue. He shudders, and chases the sensation.
After a moment, Kirishima pulls back, panting for breath. He settles his hands on Bakugou’s hips, thumbs pressing down like he can keep Bakugou in place that way. He’s looking at Bakugou, eyes dark and skin flushed. He’s waiting for Bakugou to make the next move.
“Fucker,” Bakugou mutters, one hand still clutching the fabric of Kirishima’s shirt. “Get your ass upstairs.”
Kirishima tilts his head back and laughs, smiling so wide that it hurts to look at him.
Bakugou tilts his head away, but then Kirishima grabs his wrist and pulls him towards the staircase. He definitely does remember which apartment is Bakugou’s, because he leads the two of them there with no problems. The asshole was just playing coy, before.
Bakugou’s barely managed to unlock to the door before Kirishima is crowding against him, his hands against Bakugou’s back and dipping under the hem of his shirt. Bakugou shivers when Kirishima’s fingers graze against his skin—he feels hot, still burning from battle, but Kirishima’s fingers are cool against him. He lets his head tip back as Kirishima leans in to kiss his jaw, and then his neck. He kisses every inch of Bakugou’s throat and collarbones, with movements so frantic it’s like he’ll never get this chance again. Good—he should appreciate what he’s being allowed to do.
“You look really hot when you’ve just kicked a door down,” Kirishima tells him, one hand pressed against the back of Bakugou’s neck.
Bakugou stiffens and pulls away from him, eyeing him skeptically. “You were thinking about this that whole time?”
Kirishima smiles wickedly, then shrugs. He’s never fooled Bakugou into thinking he’s as innocent as the others think he is. Despite his shit grades, Kirishima is cunning and he knows what he wants. And evidently, what he wants tonight is Bakugou.
The question is then, does Bakugou want him back? The kisses have set him alight in a way he’s never felt before, and he doesn’t want to admit it but he’s always drawn to Kirishima. He sticks out like an uneven stone on a walkway, tripping Bakugou up whether he’s paying attention or not. What would it mean to give in, to let himself trip and then fall?
Kirishima curls his arms around Bakugou’s waist, embracing him from behind. “Man, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he says.
Bakugou clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “If you’re going to spout shit like that, this is over right the fuck now.”
Kirishima stiffens, and then Bakugou can feel the elevated beat of his heart against his back. “And if I stop saying things like that?” he asks, voice suddenly quiet.
Bakugou twists in the space of his arms, leaning up to bite Kirishima’s lower lip between his teeth. “What do you think?”
Kirishima flashes him another of those brilliant smiles, and Bakugou has to look away from him. He grabs Kirishima’s wrist and yanks him toward the bedroom, pushing him through the doorway and barely pausing before he pulls his own shirt over his head. Kirishima’s static in front of him, eyes roaming over Bakugou’s bare chest.
Bakugou rolls his eyes and looks at Kirishima pointedly. “Strip,” he orders.
He might be laughing as he pulls his shirt off. But Bakugou doesn’t chew him out for it, because he’s too distracted by the revealed expanse of Kirishima’s chest. He steps forward, splaying his hands against Kirishima’s abs and enjoying the way Kirishima’s muscles clench when he sucks in a breath.
Bakugou allows himself a smirk when he pushes Kirishima backwards onto his bed. Kirishima goes willingly, with another laugh, and then he’s tugging off his jeans and boxers. Bakugou isn’t shy, but he chooses that moment to busy himself with his own pants, shrugging out of his remaining clothing before he steps back to get a good look at Kirishima.
“Fuck,” he breaths out, when he sees Kirishima reclining in his bed.
Kirishima’s still smiling at him, expression wide and open. “Come here.”
And Bakugou goes, climbing onto the bed and then straddling Kirishima’s legs. Kirishima sits up and lets his hands settle on Bakugou’s waist. Suddenly, without the layers of clothing between them, everything is more real. Kirishima is hard, pressed against Bakugou’s stomach when he leans forward to kiss him. Bakugou lets himself be distracted by Kirishima’s tongue as he reaches down to skirt his knuckles against Kirishima’s cock.
Kirishima shudders and his breath hitches—he bites down on Bakugou’s tongue in the same moment and Bakugou shoves him away.
“Shit,” he curses, tasting blood in his mouth.
“Sorry,” Kirishima says immediately, coming close and cradling Bakugou’s face between his hands. “Sorry, sorry.”
“Fuck off,” Bakugou bites out, tilting away from Kirishima’s kiss so that his lips end up against Bakugou’s neck, again.
“You like this?” Kirishima asks, before he bites gently against Bakugou’s skin.
Bakugou shudders, clenching his hands around Kirishima’s forearms. “You wish.”
“Mm.” Kirishima mumbles something agreeable, then continues to bite and suck at Bakugou’s neck. Bakugou lets his head fall back and enjoys the strange, unfamiliar combination of pain and pleasure.
Kirishima keeps him held there, keeps playing with him until Bakugou is shaking. How fucking long is this supposed to take, anyway? He reaches down again, gripping his own cock this time and stroking over it at a quickening pace. He grits his teeth, but a moan still escapes him, which causes Kirishima to pause.
“Let me,” Kirishima says in a low voice. He shifts until he has his hand against Bakugou’s cock, taking over and matching Bakugou’s tempo. Bakugou’s toes curl when Kirishima grips his own cock in the same hand, bringing them both together.
In a strange moment of clarity, Bakugou realizes he’s never been this close to someone for so long. Usually, when he’s making contact, it’s a punch or an impact, something that immediately forces the other person away.
“Hey,” Kirishima says, still stroking them both.
Bakugou looks up at him, and there’s a tenderness in Kirishima’s eyes that’s almost painful to look at. He’s never asked anyone to look at him that way, never expected it. His breath catches in his throat.
Kirishima brushes his lips against Bakugou’s cheek, a gesture entirely at odds with the frantic pace of his hand against them both. His cheeks are flushed, redness spreading down his neck. He presses his forehead against Bakugou’s, and Bakugou clenches his eyes closed, listening to the raggedness of Kirishima’s breathing.
The spark catches a flame, and Bakugou feels himself blown open from the inside. Behind his eyes, his vision goes white, and he feels the slickness of cum against his skin. He shudders as Kirishima keeps pumping him through his orgasm, not letting up until they’re both spent and Bakugou is gasping for breath.
He falls backwards, away from Kirishima, and lets his back hit the mattress. His hair is plastered against his forehead with sweat, and he can feel every thump of his heart against his chest. He’s spent and burnt out, but in the best way. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Kirishima reaches out to trace the shape of his lips with careful fingers.
“Good?” Kirishima asks, wiggling closer when Bakugou bats his hand away. He comes up beside Bakugou, lying sideways to face him.
Bakugou sniffs, rubbing at the cum drying on his stomach. He wonders what he’s supposed to say, now. Does Kirishima want a fucking five-star review? Or some of that sentimental shit he was leaning towards, earlier?
Is “your hair is the color of an explosion just before it bursts” the right thing to say?
Bakugou lets out a sigh and curls in on himself. He feels Kirishima’s hands against him, tracing idly over the length of his arms.
“Bakugou?”
“How long are you staying, this time?” Bakugou says, because it’s suddenly imperative that he knows whether Kirishima’s about to just fuck off to the north for another three years.
“Oh, well. I’m sort of… moving back to the city?”
“How do you sort of move anywhere, dumbass?” Bakugou grinds out. “Are you, or aren’t you?”
“I am,” Kirishima says, more definitively. “As soon as I find an apartment.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes, and then turns over. “If you’re planning on spending the night in my bed, you better fucking shower, first.”
Kirishima gurgles out a laugh, pushing himself up by his hands and planting a kiss on Bakugou’s brow. “You don’t want to shower first?”
Bakugou reaches out and shoves Kirishima onto the floor. “Go before I change my mind, shitty-hair.”
Although he landed in a tangle of limbs with an audible noise, Kirishima’s back on his feet in a moment. In the low light of Bakugou’s bedroom, every line and angle of his body is on full display. He smiles again, light glinting off of sharp teeth. Bakugou turns his face towards the sheets.
Kirishima has to shake him awake a little while later so that he can take his own shower. With damp hair and warm bodies, they lay themselves out in Bakugou’s bed. Bakugou’s too tired to detangle the mess of what he’s feeling, and in any case, he’s always been bad at things like this. He’d decided, early on in life, to pursue his talents and ignore the difficult things. So now, instead of confronting whatever these emotions are, he presses forward against Kirishima’s back and lets the warmth of their bodies and the gentle noises of the street below lull him back to sleep.
--
It should be more difficult than it is for Kirishima to once again become a part of Bakugou’s life. For all that he pretends otherwise, he hasn’t been completely disconnected for the last three years. He knows that’s a shit way to be a hero, and for all that he grumbles he doesn’t much mind his team-ups with Ashido and Sero and Kaminari. They can be useful, and Bakugou has always liked having people under his direction. In any case, they’re more tolerable than the others—Asui and Uraraka and Todoroki and Deku—who he ends up working with out of necessity, more often than he’d like.
But Kirishima has always been different. He’s someone Bakugou can measure himself against, but he also gives Bakugou the kind of attention and praise that he craves. He challenges him but doesn’t expect Bakugou to bend his entire personality into some pretzel-shaped creation designed to make people think that he gives a fuck. Which he definitely doesn’t, for the record.
So, when Kirishima finds his own apartment and sets up shop in the city again, Bakugou doesn’t know if he’s supposed to respond in some new way. Is he supposed to invite Kirishima to take on a villain hideout with him, or does sending the coordinates to his phone work, the same way it does with Kaminari or Ashido? Does Kirishima expect them to hang out, now? Is Bakugou supposed to initiate these things?
He’s no good at this shit, and Kirishima fucking knows it. Bakugou relies on that for the entire first week that Kirishima’s back for, not bothering to text him or contact him in any way. And if he’s a little rougher than he needs to be when he’s pummeling into some no-name villain, so be it. If these fuckers didn’t want to be used for hero stress relief, they should’ve chosen a different profession.
He pretends he’s not relieved when, at the end of the week, his phone lights up with a new message.
my new place, Kirishima says, along with an address. come over whenever you want!
Come over for what, Bakugou wants to ask. Is sex going to be a regular thing, now? Does Kirishima think he’s entitled to it, because Bakugou let him jack him off, once? He doesn’t trust Kirishima’s intentions, or his own. The tangle in his stomach, of emotions he’s been ignoring for at least three years, pulls into tighter knots.
Fuck it, Bakugou thinks after he gets off work the next day. Kirishima’s place is close enough, and he’s too tired to make it back to his own apartment right now. He ends up at Kirishima’s building, kicking three times against the door instead of knocking.
When the door opens, it reveals Kirishima with his hair tied back, dressed in pajama bottoms and a tank top. His eyes are wide with surprise for a moment before he grins.
“Dude,” he says. “You could’ve texted, first.”
Bakugou lifts his chin and looks down his nose at Kirishima. “You said ‘whenever I want,’ shitty-hair.”
Kirishima’s still grinning, lower lip caught between his teeth. “I did,” he agrees. “And I meant it. I just got a pizza with like, every kind of meat on it. Wanna come in?”
Bakugou shrugs and steps into the apartment as Kirishima shifts out of the way. Bakugou looks around while pretending that’s not what he’s doing—Kirishima’s apartment is smaller than his own, and already cluttered. He’s always been one to over-decorate, and the sheer amount of red in the room is probably offensive by normal standards. But Bakugou just pulls off his shoes and heads to the couch, sprawling across it while he waits for Kirishima to return with the pizza.
Kirishima has lots of photographs on his walls, not framed but tacked and taped up the same way a college student would do. Bakugou catches glimpses of Kirishima’s family, and their upperclassmen from Yuuei, and of course all of Class 1-A, over and over again. Kirishima had always been good at making friends, and Bakugou can’t remember a single person he didn’t get along with, even if he wasn’t equally close to everyone. Bakugou’s never thought so lowly of himself as to be jealous of someone else, but he has to admit it’s an admirable skill—being able to be so liked by so many people. If he cared about being liked, he’d ask Kirishima how he manages to connect with so many people without his head exploding.
“Hey, ready to eat?” Kirishima’s standing in front of him, balancing a pizza box and two cans of soda.
Bakugou shrugs aside, making room for Kirishima on the couch. The pizza is warm and laden with too many toppings to be structurally stable. Bakugou doesn’t eat junk food all that often, but when Kirishima offers him the box he indulges, letting the cheese burn the roof of his mouth so he has something to focus on that isn’t the expectant look Kirishima’s giving him.
“I’m glad you came over,” Kirishima says, in between his third and fourth slices of pizza. He’d clicked on the TV at some point so that they could watch the nightly recap of hero activities in the city and across the country. By this point, they recognize most everyone.
Bakugou levels Kirishima with a look, brows pulling together skeptically. “Ha?”
“Kaminari says you don’t go out so much, with everyone,” Kirishima says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I was trying to figure out what to invite you to, so you’d actually come.”
“Kaminari should shut his damn mouth and focus on cracking the top ten.” Bakugou’s lip curls, and then he mutters, “If you invited me, I’d go.”
Kirishima doesn’t answer that, for a moment, and when Bakugou looks up Kirishima is looking at him with that same expression from the other night—a little incredulous, but open and honest and affectionate.
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Kirishima asks.
“Fuck off,” Bakugou says, because he doesn’t know how else to respond. He reaches for the box of pizza and grabs another slice, biting down with far more force than necessary as he crams half the slice into his mouth at once.
He can still feel Kirishima’s gaze on him when he finishes eating, so he shoots him a sideways glare and says, “Stop being fucking coy.”
“Huh?” Kirishima asks, blinking and looking away like that’d convince Bakugou he hadn’t just been staring.
“Man up,” Bakugou hisses at him. “If there’s something you want, then fucking say it.”
Kirishima goes quiet, again, and Bakugou can practically hear the gears turning in his head. If he keeps this up, he’s going to burn out whatever brain he still has. Just as Bakugou’s about to scoff and tell him so, Kirishima leans in so that their faces are too close together.
“What,” Bakugou says, every one of his muscles locking up as he fights conflicting urges to lean closer and edge away from Kirishima’s proximity.
“You stopped me, last time,” Kirishima tells him, lips curled into a pout. “Are you going to let me say it, now?”
Bakugou scrunches his face into a frustrated expression, jabbing his index finger against Kirishima’s chest. “What did I just fucking say? Say what you want to, I don’t give a shit.”
Kirishima is too close to him. Bakugou can feel his breath against his face, can see every strand of his too bright hair when he looks up. He hates being constrained, locked in, trapped. But if he pushed at Kirishima now, Kirishima would let him go. Bakugou is certain of that, and that makes it easier to stay still.
Kirishima is nervous, biting his lip again when he says, too quickly, “I really want to kiss you, again.”
That’s not what he was going to say, before. It can’t be, because it wouldn’t have made sense. But for now, Bakugou doesn’t demand the words that Kirishima would’ve offered if Bakugou hadn’t cut them off. Instead, he shifts so that he can press his hands to Kirishima’s shoulders, forcing him onto his back on the couch as Bakugou straddles him.
“You take too fucking long,” he says, and then he kisses Kirishima, biting at his lips the way he’s been wanting to all night, every goddamn time he saw Kirishima worry his own lip between his teeth. It’s as good as he remembers, especially when Kirishima’s brain comes back online and he manages to kiss back. There’s nothing passive in either of them, Kirishima as unyielding in his kisses as he is in battle. And Bakugou fights for every angle, all teeth and pressure and growled out noises.
Bakugou curls his fingers into Kirishima’s hair, pulling the surprisingly soft strands out of the tie Kirishima had used and tugging at them. Kirishima makes a soft noise, at that, so Bakugou tugs harder as Kirishima licks over the roof of his mouth.
This would probably taste better, Bakugou thinks, if they hadn’t been sitting here eating junk for the past hour. But the physical sensation is enough to wash away any other unpleasant details, and he finds he doesn’t want to complain if it means this will stop. He clenches his thighs around Kirishima’s waist and lowers his face to nip at his jaw, then down to his collarbones. His hands drift from Kirishima’s hair down his arms, gripping tightly over the firm lines of muscle.
It’s gratifying, to see the way Kirishima looks at him. His eyes are carmine red, half-lidded and burning. When Bakugou pulls away from him, his lips are red and his mouth hangs partially open, like he can’t believe his good fortune. And he shouldn’t be able to, because not just anyone is worth having Bakugou sprawled out on top of them like this, giving them the attention of his lips and hands. Kirishima is worth that, but Bakugou doesn’t know how to articulate that, or whether he wants to.
Kirishima leans up to whisper in Bakugou’s ear. “Hey, can I blow you?”
Heat erupts against Bakugou’s cheeks, and he pushes Kirishima back down against the couch so he won’t be witness to Bakugou’s embarrassment, or his desire. Still, his pride is impossible to relinquish. He can’t let Kirishima have the upper hand so easily.
“If you think those teeth are getting anywhere near my dick, you’re fucking crazy,” Bakugou bites out.
Kirishima laughs, shrugs apologetically.
Bakugou glowers at him, then sits back on his haunches and considers something. “I’ll blow you,” he decides, as if that will somehow give him the upper hand.
And maybe he’s calculated correctly, from the way Kirishima’s eyes widen while his pupils dilate, and he looks at Bakugou like he’s the manifestation of a fever dream. There’s a stupid smile playing on Kirishima’s lips, and he lifts his hands to Bakugou’s hips, pressing in firmly against his skin.
“Sure,” he says, “Whatever you want.”
Bakugou can tell Kirishima is trying to look less eager than he is, and that, too, is somehow gratifying. He rids Kirishima of his pajama pants and tries to find a comfortable position to crouch in. He tries to focus on the heady memories of kissing Kirishima, on the whisper touches of his hands against Bakugou’s skin.
Eventually, when Kirishima’s hands are running through his hair and Bakugou’s mouth is full of him, it becomes easy to think about nothing at all. Just the slow, gentle cadence of Kirishima’s voice above him, and nothing else.
--
As easily as once becomes twice, twice becomes three times, and three times becomes a routine. There’s enough bullshit going down in the city on any given day, so it’s not a given that Bakugou and Kirishima cross paths in the course of their work as heroes. Instead, after hours, Kirishima will text Bakugou, or Bakugou will show up at Kirishima’s apartment. Sometimes, Kirishima will stay the night in Bakugou’s bed. Sometimes, Bakugou will even make him breakfast the next morning.
It relieves a store of stress Bakugou had been unaware he was carrying around. Instead of going home to an empty apartment and falling into a dreamless sleep after too many hours on the job, he has Kirishima to come home to. The sex burns energy, but just as often they wind up watching dumb movies, or gossiping about the latest events in the hero world. Kirishima catches Bakugou up on who from their old class is dating, which pro heroes are set to retire this year, and his elaborate conspiracy theories about inter-villain alliances. Bakugou claims he doesn’t care about any of that bullshit, but when Kirishima talks Bakugou rests his head in his lap, and enjoys the slow movements of Kirishima’s fingers through his hair.
Kirishima invites him out, sometimes. If he needs to get his costume repaired—and the fucking thing still can’t keep up with the durability of Kirishima’s Quirk, what the fuck are the tech people wasting their time on?—he’ll ask Bakugou to come along with him. Then, he mentions that he, Kaminari, and Sero are going to see a movie, so Bakugou tags along. Half of class 1-A meets up for dinner at the end of the week, and Bakugou finds himself there, sitting between Kirishima and Ashido.
It’s not as if he’s been avoiding these people since graduation. He fucking sees all of them, whether he wants to or not. He’ll call them for backup, if he needs it. But there’s a complex and constant social undercurrent to the world of pro heroes, and Bakugou hasn’t bothered to keep up with it. Kirishima, on the other hand, becomes its center within a few weeks of being back in the city. He’s like a whirlpool, drawing everyone towards him. And Bakugou, somehow, has been pulled in just like the rest.
No one comments on the fact that Bakugou is suddenly a more active presence in their lives. They tease him, the same as they always have, and he retorts with insults and creative cursing. But all of that is normal, and no one says, Oh, were we not worth hanging out with until Kirishima got back?
Bakugou doesn’t know what he’d say if they posed such a question. After all, the answer might very well be yes, but saying so would reveal a vulnerability he can’t even admit to himself, much less anyone else.
And not every night on the job is so routine. Some fights are harder than others, and one night ends up with what feels like a bruised rib, and a gash across his forehead that dyes his hairline red. He grimaces at himself, because the best of the best should be able to defeat any villain without taking a scratch. Nights like tonight remind him why he’s still working for that ascendancy, why he isn’t actually number one.
He doesn’t make the conscious decision to go to Kirishima’s place instead of his own, and yet that’s where he ends up. He never knocks, just kicks at the door until Kirishima answers. With as often as he’s here, he should ask for a key. But he won’t.
Kirishima pulls open the door, takes one look at Bakugou, and pulls him inside. “Man,” he exhales, “What took a bite out of your face?”
“Some asshole,” Bakugou mutters.
Kirishima whistles low, then ushers Bakugou into his living room and nudges him towards the couch. He disappears for a moment, and Bakugou sits down, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch. He’s so fucking tired, and his head hurts.
Then, Kirishima is back in front of him with a first aid kit. “You alright?” When Bakugou nods, Kirishima snaps open the first aid kit and says, “I’m gonna just clean you up a bit. Just relax, okay?”
Bakugou should tell Kirishima to stop talking to him like he’s a wounded animal, or an invalid. But his head is spinning more than it should be—should it be spinning, at all?—so he lets his muscles go slack as Kirishima dabs at the cut on his forehead with gauze. A few minutes later, Kirishima presses a bandaid over the cut, sitting back to admire his handiwork.
“There,” he says. “All better.”
Bakugou lifts one tired arm, aiming to smack a hand over Kirishima’s face. But Kirishima catches his hand, bringing his palm to his lips to plant a kiss there. Bakugou sighs, despite himself.
“Hey,” Kirishima says, still holding onto Bakugou’s hand. “You know if you ever need me, I’ll be there, right?”
Of course, Bakugou knows. He’s always been able to trust Kirishima to watch his back, to be there even when Bakugou isn’t expecting him. Even now, years later, Bakugou can see a teenage Kirishima extending a hand towards him, promising him—something. Safety, hope, a way out? Or maybe faith. Kirishima’s always believed in him, in a way no one else has.
Bakugou groans. It’s too hard to think of all of this right now, when his head is still stinging and every muscle in his body is screaming for rest.
“Let’s just go to bed,” he says.
“Yeah, absolutely,” Kirishima says. He helps Bakugou to his feet, even when Bakugou tries to fight him off.
Soon, he has Bakugou laid out in his bed, pulling the blankets over him as Kirishima slides in behind him. His arms go around Bakugou, and Bakugou doesn’t bother to overthink things as he turns over to face Kirishima, resting his head against Kirishima’s shoulder. Kirishima holds him in a loose embrace, and thus encircled Bakugou lets his thoughts float away as sleep overtakes him.
--
Some weeks pass with the steady tempo of a drum, consistent but impacting. Others come on with a dissonant clash of noises that shock Bakugou back to reality, just when he’s about to get complacent.
The villain is some kind of elemental—either magma or some kind of seismic Quirk, though they’ve been unable to pin down the specifics in the three days they’ve been chasing her around the prefecture. Still, quakes and fire follow in her wake, which means pursuing her is as much as rescue operation as a capture one.
Bakugou’s been grinding his teeth for three days, because though he understands the necessity of rescue missions, his style is always going to be better suited to destruction than preservation. Maybe that’s the great truth of his life, that he’s an expert at tearing things down, and therefore everything, even the things he wants to keep, are fragile in his hands.
And now—this. There were six of them to begin with—Bakugou and Kirishima, Ashido and Sero, Jirou and Kaminari. But the villain had friends, this time, and even though the heroes knew they were being peeled off in layers, distracted by the lesser prizes, they couldn’t leave the other villains be. So Sero and Kaminari had fallen behind first, then Ashido, and finally Jirou.
Bakugou had run ahead of Kirishima, determined not to let this shitty two-bit villain get away from him again. But he’d miscalculated, thinking that if he exploded the ground before she could rip it open, he’d have the advantage.
He’d been wrong, and now he’s trapped under a thick layer of rubble, his hands pinned to his sides. He doesn’t know whether she planned this, and her Quirk is this exacting, or if she’d just gotten a lucky shot. He’s not sure which truth would hurt his pride less.
Bakugou squirms in the tight space he’s trapped in, trying to yank one of his hands free enough to use his Quirk safely. He can’t manage it, and he doesn’t want to blow away one of his legs along with the rubble.
He hears a distant voice somewhere above him, calling out his hero name, but can’t see past the rocks encasing him. Someone’s still up there. Kirishima is still up there.
“Fuck,” Bakugou bites out. Then, louder, “Don’t worry about me, shithead! Don’t let her get away!”
He doesn’t know whether Kirishima has heard him. He does know that his breathing is growing labored, and that he’s going to need to find a way out of here sooner rather than later. Maybe a small explosion would dislodge enough of the rubble, while only searing him? It’s a tactic he’s used before, but one that hurts like a motherfucker.
The world goes quiet above him, though Bakugou can feel vibrations ripping through the earth. He doesn’t know how Kirishima plans to take this villain on, or if he’s even thought that far ahead. They should’ve been more organized—would’ve been, if the villains hadn’t happily danced through the path of so many civilians that the heroes couldn’t ignore.
“Fuck,” Bakugou spits, still trying to tug his hands free. He can feel the skin around his wrists tearing open, shredded against the jagged rocks. It’s not more pain than he’s ever felt, but it makes him angry. His vision goes red, and then black.
He doesn’t know how long he struggles like that, feeling pathetic and overpowered. But time starts moving again when he hears the rocks shifting above him. He braces himself for an impact, for the rocks above him to cave in and smother him. But instead, they’re lifted up and away from him, and suddenly there’s sunshine streaming down on him.
A figure steps into the light, casting a new shadow over Bakugou. He’s imposing and fierce, arms gnarled like a tree’s branches and so hardy and strong that they can lift rocks the size of men. Bakugou blinks in the light, and is met by sharp angles and bursts of red overpowering his vision.
“Are you okay?” Kirishima is asking him, ripping the rocks that have Bakugou pinned out of the ground.
“Have you been digging me out this whole time?” Bakugou demands. “You idiot, you should have gone after—”
“Hey, hey,” Kirishima says, in the warm but authoritative voice he adopts in his hero’s persona. “Calm down. I got her.”
Bakugou’s hands spark with irritation when they’re finally free. But when he follows Kirishima back into the light, and sees the others are standing guard over the captured villains, he lets out a breath and lets his muscles unclench.
“Way to go, Red Riot!” Ashido cheers, tossing an arm around Kirishima’s shoulders. The others come up, all congratulatory, but Bakugou hangs back.
He holds his breath and waits for the surge of hatred that comes from being rescued, but it never arrives. His mind won’t let go of the image of Kirishima haloed by light, coming to Bakugou’s aid. And Bakugou can’t even begrudge him that, because Kirishima hadn’t done it to one-up Bakugou, or to look down on him. He’d just done it as part of the mission, the same as anything else. It’s a part of who he is, and who he is doesn’t challenge Bakugou’s conception of himself.
“Hey,” Kirishima says later, coming up behind Bakugou and placing a hand on the small of his back, “Let’s get out of here. Go home.”
Bakugou is covered in dust from the rubble, and is probably bleeding in more places than he can readily see. At the moment, nothing seems more appealing than going home with Kirishima. He grumbles out his response, but it’s an assent.
--
He makes Kirishima beg for the privilege.
Bakugou is on his back against the sheets of his own bed, legs drawn up to his chest while Kirishima presses two fingers into him. Kirishima has his other hand on Bakugou’s cock, working over it slowly as he eases his way inside of Bakugou.
Bakugou’s teeth are clenched so tight he wonders if they’ll shatter. Kirishima’s movements are too hesitant, give Bakugou too much time to anticipate which sensation will come next—the spark of pleasure, or the tight pull of pain.
“Relax,” Kirishima says.
Bakugou lifts his head to snarl, baring his teeth. “If you don’t get on with it, shitty-hair, you can just forget this whole thing.”
Kirishima offers Bakugou a flat look, and he doesn’t say You’re going to kick me out of bed when I have two fingers up your ass? but Bakugou knows that’s what he’s thinking. Still wearing that expression that says he sees through all of Bakugou’s bullshit, he leans over him until he can kiss Bakugou chastely.
Bakugou whines, tilts his head up for a deeper kiss, and Kirishima obliges him. Bakugou sucks on Kirishima’s tongue, chases that sensation even when he feels Kirishima press deeper into him.
Kirishima’s hand drifts from Bakugou’s cock up to his chest, stroking a long line down his body. Bakugou’s muscles twitch beneath the movement, and he groans softly against Kirishima’s lips.
“I’m going to add another,” Kirishima says, pulling back slightly.
“If you don’t stop warning me and just fucking do it—” Bakugou’s voice gets lost somewhere in this throat when Kirishima presses in with three fingers, splaying them and sending a jolt of sensation through Bakugou’s entire body. A gurgling, abortive noise bubbles up in Bakugou’s throat, and he reaches out to clench his hands into the sheets, feeling his palms go warm.
It’s probably a rule of sex that you’re not supposed to blow up the bed, he thinks distantly.
“Easy,” Kirishima says again, nosing against Bakugou’s jaw and down his neck. “Just breathe, I’ve got you.”
“I fucking know that,” Bakugou snaps. He feels Kirishima smile against his skin.
It’s another few agonizing minutes until Kirishima finally pulls back, groping behind him to find the condom they’d thrown onto the bed earlier. “You ready?” he asks, when he’s retrieved it.
“I’m not going to tell you to get on with it, again,” Bakugou grouses.
Kirishima doesn’t ask for permission, again. His hands ghost over Bakugou’s body, gently squeezing his cock until Bakugou’s gasping. Then, Kirishima presses forward, reaching out to grip Bakugou’s hip as he eases his way inside of him.
Bakugou immediately realizes his mistake. He should’ve insisted on facing away from Kirishima, for this. Because the look on his face is too much, in this moment, and Bakugou is suddenly full of him, almost delirious as he tries to find something safe to focus on. Not the feeling of Kirishima inside of him, not the guttural moan Kirishima makes as he bottoms out, not the light behind his eyes as his eyelashes flutter, not how Bakugou feels in that moment. None of it is safe to settle on, and Bakugou clenches his eyes shut and tries to will away the torrent of emotions that’s threatening to drown him,
And then, Kirishima is all around him, his grip tight on Bakugou’s hip, his other hand brushing the pale hair back from Bakugou’s brow. “Oh, fuck,” he says, with reverent emotion. “You feel—so good—”
No. Bakugou’s never going to make it through this if Kirishima keeps talking like that.
“You’re amazing, you know,” Kirishima keeps going, starts thrusting in a loping, uneven rhythm. “I—”
“Shut up,” Bakugou hisses. His hands scramble against Kirishima, scouring long lines down his back. “Shut up, shut up, just keep moving—”
Kirishima leans in and captures Bakugou’s lips, and this, this is better, because kissing Kirishima has always come easily, as long as he doesn’t focus on what he’s giving away in those kisses. He continues to cling to Kirishima as he thrusts into Bakugou, every movement sending something hot and molten burning through Bakugou’s entire body. He’s flushed all over, eyes clenched shut as he presses his lips to Kirishima’s, mouth half-open like he could devour him.
“I’ve got you,” Kirishima whispers to him, pulling back from the kiss. Both of his arms are around Bakugou, now, crushing him up against Kirishima’s body. “I’ve got you—I’m here—”
“I know,” Bakugou says again, voice high and strangled. He’s tipping closer to the edge, and when he reaches down to fist his own cock, Kirishima beats him to it, stroking Bakugou in the hard, fast rhythm he knows will bring him to completion.
Kirishima’s still moving, still enveloping Bakugou from all sides. Bakugou’s heart is beating in his ears, and when Kirishima presses into him at just the right angle his eyes snap open so that he can see Kirishima’s eyes fixed on his, blown wide with desire.
“Fuck,” Bakugou manages, shaking as Kirishima keeps stroking him.
Kirishima’s staring at him, his movements paused for a moment when he whispers out, “Katsuki.”
A shudder rips through Bakugou’s entire body, and he lets out a moan from deep inside of his chest, spilling over Kirishima’s fingers. Kirishima keeps stroking him, keeping fucking into Bakugou, and it’s abruptly too much. Bakugou is scrambling against Kirishima’s back, chest heaving until his body finally falls back, spent and sensitive.
Kirishima is frozen above him, until Bakugou blinks open his eyes and growls, “Are you going to finish, or what?”
And maybe Kirishima is too far gone himself to question that statement, because he adopts a slower rhythm but keeps fucking Bakugou, a handful of shallow thrusts that end with him coming, face pressed against Bakugou’s neck as he murmurs, “Katsuki, Katsuki,” over and over again.
Bakugou can feel his whole body trembling, and when Kirishima lays himself over Bakugou, one leg splayed over his and his hand reaching out for Bakugou’s, he sighs out in quiet contentment. He lets Kirishima intertwine their fingers, holding on tightly.
His mind is still blissed out, focused on some distant cloud that allows the sweat and cum and heat between them to not be as off-putting as it should be. Bakugou curls against Kirishima, reaching his other hand into Kirishima’s flaming hair and tugging at the strands.
Kirishima lifts his head to smile at Bakugou, wide and crooked and sincere. Bakugou’s heart is somewhere in his throat, choking off his air and making it impossible to think about anything other than Kirishima.
“You’re incredible,” Kirishima breaths out, fingers against Bakugou’s cheek.
He should say something in return. He should tell Kirishima that he’s found a part of him that Bakugou didn’t even think existed, a part filled with stupid sentimentalities and a fierce affection and an ability to recognize an equal without shame or anger or fear.
He doesn’t know how to say all that. He doesn’t know if the words could even pass through his lips. And if he did say it, then what? Would that just give Kirishima license to let out even more sentimentality, words that Bakugou has never been good at hearing?
“Shh,” Kirishima says, stroking his hand through Bakugou’s hair. “Stop thinking so much, okay?”
Bakugou sticks his tongue out. “One of us has to think,” he says, with no bite.
Kirishima chuckles, and they’re so close together that Bakugou can feel it reverberating against his chest. “Don’t be mean,” Kirishima tells him.
Bakugou presses impossibly closer, his chin on Kirishima’s shoulder. “Not to you,” he agrees, finally, in a soft voice.
Kirishima’s arms are tight around him, and then he says words that end with a whispering caress of Bakugou’s name. “…Katsuki.”
Bakugou clenches his eyes shut, and tells himself he hasn’t heard.
--
It’s Ashido’s birthday, which means that Kirishima helps organize a get-together at some local club that favors neon lights and sour-smelling drinks. On the day in question, he asks Bakugou if he wants to come along early, to help Kirishima and the others set up and organize. Bakugou pointedly declines, and as Kirishima leaves Bakugou’s apartment he presses a kiss to his temple and says, “See you later, then.”
The imprint of the kiss burns against Bakugou’s skin, and he spends the next few hours lying upside-down on his couch. Maybe, if he inverts himself, then the world and his life will seem like they’re right-side up. It’s no use, however; the time comes for him to leave for the party, he’s no less confused than he was in the first place.
This is his routine now, isn’t it? When he’s off-duty, he’s at Kirishima’s place or Kirishima’s at his place. They aren’t dating, per se, but they go out together and when Kirishima is invited somewhere, people assume that he’ll bring Bakugou along.
Has he lost something along the way, without realizing it? His independence, his strength, his shields? Bakugou can’t shake the feeling that they’d just fallen into this intimacy, without regard for how Bakugou wants to be perceived.
Kirishima isn’t a weakness, he reminds himself. But he does reveal Bakugou’s own weaknesses, and isn’t that the same thing? Kirishima’s words from the previous night ring in his ears, no matter how Bakugou tries to drown them out.
Bakugou shakes himself out of those thoughts, getting dressed and heading out for the club. Kirishima always dresses up for events like this, in jeans that Bakugou has to practically peel him out of afterwards and bright, flashy shirts. Bakugou, on the other hands, wears the same loose, dark jeans that have been a staple of his wardrobe for years. At the last minute, he pulls on a button-down instead of a t-shirt, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows and scowling at his reflection. This’ll have to do.
By the time he arrives, the party is already in full swing. The whole of Class 1-A is here, along with some losers that Bakugou recognizes from 1-B and other programs from their high school years. They give him a wide berth, though one or two of them wave at him. Bakugou barely nods back in greeting.
After wandering around the—dark, crowded, loud—club for half an hour, Bakugou finally spots Ashido and Kirishima. They’re sitting in a booth towards the back, along with Kaminari and Sero and a floating set of bangles that Bakugou assumes is Hagakure. The table in front of them is full of empty shot glasses, and Ashido is leaning against Sero and giggling, her cheeks flushed magenta.
Kirishima is leaning back against the booth, his face red and his features lax in a dopey smile. He perks up immediately when he sees Bakugou, smile widening.
“Babe, you made it,” he says, looking indulgent and fond and absolutely drunk.
Despite realizing that last bit of information, Bakugou stiffens. “What the fuck did you just call me?”
Kaminari howls with laughter, falling forward against the table and sending shot glasses rolling. “Yeah, babe, get over here. You’re late.”
Bakugou’s eyes flash with anger as he turns on Kaminari. “Shut the fuck up,” he growls. Before he can lunge for Kaminari, someone—Kirishima—is grabbing his hand and tugging him back into the booth.
“Don’t be mad,” Kirishima says, syllables dragged out playfully. He looks alert, just loosened up by the alcohol into this casually affectionate state. His hands are all over Bakugou, circling his wrists and squeezing his hip.
“What the hell is wrong with you,” Bakugou growls, trying to edge out of Kirishima’s grasp. He doesn’t usually mind when Kirishima touches him, but this is different. Here, watched by their friends, he’s raw and exposed. No one else is supposed to see this.
Kaminari’s still chuckling, and Sero is giving Bakugou a look from under arched brows that Bakugou absolutely hates. When, exactly, had he lost control of this situation?
“Ba-ku-gou,” Ashido says, punctuating each syllable like a cheerleader wielding pom-poms, “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Tell you fucking what,” Bakugou snaps, slapping Kirishima’s hands away for the third time. “Stop that,” he hisses at Kirishima.
“That you were dating, obviously!” Hagakure cuts in excitedly. “We only got it out of Kirishima tonight because he kept saying he didn’t think you’d show.”
That, Bakugou takes exception to. Everything Kirishima invites him to, he shows up at. Sure, he’ll be late, or leave early. But he makes an appearance. Usually after claiming he doesn’t want to come, or that he won’t. But he’s never actually made good on those statements, so Kirishima had no fucking right to think he wouldn’t show up.
But Hagakure had said something else, hadn’t she? And that has Bakugou whirling around to look down at Kirishima, who’s still sitting in the booth.
“What the fuck? You told them we’re dating?”
Kirishima blinks up at him, still smiling crookedly, in a way that would be endearing if Bakugou wasn’t so angry.
Instead of taking the hint, Kirishima reaches out for Bakugou again. “Of course,” he says. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
Is it? They’ve never really talked about it, Bakugou realizes. Every time Kirishima verges towards conversation in that direction, Bakugou cuts him off, or distracts him. They’ve never been out together on anything resembling a date, even if they eat together and end a good portion of their nights with sex and sleeping in each other’s arms.
But the more Bakugou thinks of these things, the more he realizes that if they’re not dating, he’s not sure what the hell they’ve been doing for the past few months. And that, combined with the feelings he’s desperately been trying to contain, leave him dizzy and at a loss for words.
He must look apoplectic, to the others, angered to the point of speechlessness.
Kirishima takes advantage of Bakugou’s moment of indecision, reaching out and pulling Bakugou towards him. And Bakugou’s body reacts faster than his brain, used to this, used to the push and pull rhythm he’s developed with Kirishima. Within a matter of moments, he finds himself perched on Kirishima’s lap, while Kirishima noses against his cheek and presses a kiss to his jaw.
“I missed you,” Kirishima says, too soft and fond and honest, for this moment. “Katsuki.” He draws out the last syllable, letting it ring in the small space of the booth.
Bakugou can feel four pairs of eyes fixed on him, can feel the heat rising up his neck, can feel the anger burning so bright it’s about to explode. And he hates it, he hates this, he hates himself, because—
Because in that moment, all he wants to do is bury his face in Kirishima’s hair and say, I missed you, too, shitty-hair.
Someone’s laughing, behind him. And someone else is shushing them, and a third person is shushing the second, and then all four voices are collapsing into a chorus of laughter. And Bakugou feels—humiliated, exposed, conflicted.
He acts on the first impulse that comes to him, shoving Kirishima away bodily and scrambling out of the booth, back onto his feet, where he can stand his ground and fucking think without smelling Kirishima’s shampoo—his shampoo, because Kirishima had slept over last night and showered at Bakugou’s this morning—
“What in the fucking hell is the matter with you?” Bakugou is practically screaming, and he doesn’t care. He turns on the others, next. “Shut the hell up! No one asked for your goddamn commentary!”
Maybe they see something burning in Bakugou’s eyes, because the others snap their mouths closed very quickly, after that.
Bakugou throws a disgusted look their way, then turns back to Kirishima and spits, “Don’t fucking flatter yourself. Calling me—thinking you can—telling people we’re—just. Fuck off. Get away from me.”
Kirishima’s looking up at him, wounded and wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open like it’s taking him a moment to process what Bakugou’s saying to him.
“Hey,” he calls out, scrambling to his feet. “Wait a second—I’m sorry—”
“Take a hint!” Bakugou yells, turning away. He realizes they’ve drawn a crowd when he heads for the entrance, but as soon as Bakugou turns his glare on them the gathered onlookers make a path for him. He doesn’t bother looking back, elbowing his way through the crowd and hunching his shoulders. He doesn’t want to look at any of them, doesn’t want any of them to see his face—
The cold night air hits him a moment later, and Bakugou shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he trudges down the street. If Kirishima thinks he can talk about them to just anyone, he’s fucking dreaming. Bakugou’s going to make him realize that, make him figure out just what he’s messing with.
“Hey! Katsuki!” And then Kirishima is right beside him, grabbing his wrist and holding him back. He’s breathing heavily, like he’d run the whole way from the club. He shouldn’t be winded so easily, he’s a damn pro hero. What the hell is the matter with him?
Bakugou wrenches his hand out of Kirishima’s grip and snarls. “What.”
Kirishima’s expression is serious, like he’d run off his buzz coming after Bakugou. “Just, hold on a minute, okay? I messed up, but—”
“Yeah. You messed up.” Bakugou throws the words back in his face. “You should be on your goddamn knees, thanking me for wasting my time with you, and instead you act like I fucking owe you something, like you have a right to any of me?”
“I didn’t,” Kirishima starts to say, hurt flashing over his face. His brows draw together, and his jaw clenches. “Katsuki, I—”
“Stop calling me that!” Bakugou screams. He doesn’t care that his voice is echoing through the street. He doesn’t care that anyone passing by can see this. They’ve all already seen too much, haven’t they? What difference will this make? “Just—stop. I don’t want to see your fucking face again. We’re done. Whatever the fuck this was, it’s over.”
Kirishima looks as though Bakugou had just blown a hole in his side. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t tell me what I mean,” Bakugou hisses.
But Kirishima doesn’t just stand there and take Bakugou’s ire. He squares his shoulders and says, cool and too calm, “Someone has to.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that you never say what you actually mean!” Kirishima throws his hands in the air, casting a shadow over both of them against the street lights. “I try really hard to understand you, but you don’t tell me how you feel, or let me tell you how I feel, and what am I supposed to do with that?”
“Whatever you want,” Bakugou spits. “Because now, you’re not my problem, anymore!”
Kirishima looks—angry, sad, conflicted. “Is that what you really want?”
“It’s what I fucking said, isn’t it?” Bakugou demands.
Kirishima purses his lips for a moment, looks down at his feet. “Yeah,” he agrees finally. “It is.”
They stand there for a moment, only a few feet between them. They’re both breathing hard, by this point, and Bakugou has his hands clenched at his sides while Kirishima’s arms are crossed over his chest.
If he moved now, and told Kirishima something, anything, maybe he’d stop looking at Bakugou like that. But Bakugou can’t make himself move, and is too choked on humiliation and anger to form the right words. He’s never been good at this.
“I need to go back,” Kirishima says at length, in a distant voice. “Ashido’s going to—”
“Do whatever you want,” Bakugou says. This time, when he turns away, Kirishima doesn’t follow him.
--
He ends up at home, an empty apartment greeting him. But even though Kirishima isn’t there, he’s left traces of himself everywhere. Pairs of his shoes are in the entryway, and one of his throw blankets is crumpled up on one side of the couch. When Bakugou shuffles his way towards the bedroom, he sees the space where, just a day ago, Kirishima had laid beside him and whispered terrible, sentimental truths into Bakugou’s ear.
“God fucking damn it,” Bakugou screeches, grabbing the blankets and sheets all at once and ripping them off the bed. He throws the entire mess to the floor, ripping at the buttons of his shirt and adding it to the pile. He steps out of his jeans, next. And even when he stands next to a stripped bed in nothing but his boxers, all he feels is a hot, consuming anger.
He hadn’t asked for any of this. He hadn’t asked for Kirishima to come back into his life and carve out a space for himself in Bakugou’s heart.
Because Kirishima’s never made him ask, has he? Ever since their school days, he’s just been where Bakugou has needed him to be, regardless of whether Bakugou had even recognized that need. And Kirishima just does this, with a smile, with a tenderness and admiration in his eyes that crowd out everything else Bakugou is feeling, that make him think that those emotions might burn out the anger that’s always simmering in his blood.
It’s a frightening thought. For so long, Bakugou has subsisted on his anger, on his superiority, on a host of emotions that don’t require him to get close to anyone else. But if he lets Kirishima in—now that he has let Kirishima in—he’ll have to rearrange all these parts of himself, and figure out how to function without the familiarity of those consuming emotions.
He doesn’t know if he can do it. He doesn’t know if he can change, if his emotions and personality can bend that far without breaking entirely.
Right now, he feels broken.
He slumps onto his bare mattress, face down and miserable. Now that the anger has burned through him, he’s left abruptly exhausted. But he can’t fall asleep. He can’t remember the last time he fell asleep without Kirishima, or without knowing exactly where Kirishima was. Now, he’s alone in an empty bed, and he doesn’t know if Kirishima’s ever going to knock on his door again.
Maybe he’ll come groveling, Bakugou thinks. Maybe he’ll realize this is all his fucking fault, and he’ll show up here in the dead of night and apologize. And Bakugou, gracious as he is, will forgive Kirishima as long as he agrees that they’re not dating, as long as he agrees to keep their relationship where Bakugou does not have to define it or face the whole of it. And if Kirishima does these things, Bakugou will give him meager attention and begrudging company in return.
Bakugou laughs darkly, face pressed into his pillow. What a fucking joke. Even as he imagines it, he knows none of this will come true. He knows that he’s done nothing to deserve what he’s gotten from Kirishima so far, and certainly nothing that will have Kirishima crawling back to him.
That doesn’t stop him from staying up the entire night, listening for a knock at the door that never comes.
--
It isn’t the end of the world. Bakugou’s life shifts gears once again, from what he’d had with Kirishima back to how things had been before. It wasn’t as if he’d been unhappy—his life had purpose, he did good work, and he was comfortable. He didn’t—doesn’t—need anything more than that, after all. His mission in life has always been to be a hero, and being a hero doesn’t mean you have to be nice to people, or connect with them, or have someone to come home to at night. All the rest of that is just bullshit.
But his life isn’t quite the same as it was before Kirishima moved back to town. There are fewer texts from Kaminari and Ashido and the others. When they meet up on the job, everyone is strictly efficient, and the teasing has stopped in large part. No one tries to banter with him, but Bakugou does catch the others looking at him out of the side of their eyes, like they’re afraid that he’s a bomb about to blow.
Honestly, that’s how he feels, most days. Everything he feels and thinks packs tighter inside of him like gun powder, and sooner or later the fuse will light an everything will come bursting out of him. He can only hope that when the time comes, he’ll burst apart and be left destroyed, just like a bomb would be. At least then he won’t have to deal with the fallout.
But it happens, as of course it would, that within a few weeks there’s a major incident, and a half dozen heroes end up on the same battlefield against a cluster of enemies. And it so happens, because the universe is determined to fuck with him, that he and Kirishima are both among them.
He’s too much of a professional to be distracted by Kirishima’s presence. And anyway, in battle, they’ve always worked like two limbs of the same body, working in wordless coordination. When Red Riot runs forward and shields him from a villain’s attack, Bakugou can rush around him and let loose an explosion while their enemies are distracted. This, at least, has not fallen out of step.
But the battle drags on, and Bakugou senses the unfamiliar, uncomfortable tension building between them. He’ll parry an attack from a villain and then look over his shoulder to see Kirishima looking at him with furrowed brows until his Quirk activates and swallows the nuances of his expressions. It’s all too quick, and any battle Bakugou participates in is loud and full of destruction and dust. There’s no time to talk, no time to even look at each other. Bakugou has to content himself with the knowledge that Kirishima is there, watching his back as he always has been.
A fist collides with Bakugou’s jaw, blowing him backwards and sending him crashing into a wall. Bakugou rolls with the punch, but the impact still leaves him winded.
Maybe he isn’t as on his game as he’d imagined. Bakugou spits blood from his mouth and braces himself for the follow-through, hands extended in front of him so that he can push the villain back with the force of an explosion.
Fuck, it feels good to let loose. When there are civilians around, when the villains aren’t strong enough to take it, he has to hold back. But now, out here in this shipyard, where everyone is either a villain or a hero who can take care of themselves, Bakugou lets his Quirk go with only the barest thought of restraint.
“I’m going to fucking destroy you,” he tells the villain, just before he lets loose a cluster of explosions that throw the man backwards, onto his back. Bakugou cackles, following through with a punch, tossing the villain into the wall he’d just punched Bakugou into.
“Lightweight,” Bakugou spits out, once he has the villain restrained.
After that, he glances around, looking for his next target. Instead, he sees the imposing figure of Kirishima with his Quirk completely activated, all jagged angles and bared teeth as he uses both of his hands to hold back a villain the size of a car.
Bakugou moves towards them before he’s even though to do so, until he’s close enough to hear the way Kirishima’s sliding backwards against the concrete, forced back by the villain’s strength.
And then, the villain wrenches one of his hands free of Kirishima’s grasp, swinging his arm in a wide arc that catches Kirishima under his chin, sending him reeling as his Quirk falls back into the smoothness of his skin.
Bakugou doesn’t see where Kirishima lands. He’s taken hits worse than that, before, and will be on his feet in a matter of moments. There’s no reason to think that he’s seriously hurt, or in any real danger. This is all part of the job, after all.
And yet, Bakugou sees red. He lets out an inhuman noise, blasting himself towards the villain until he’s right in his face, twisting in the air to aim explosions right in front of his eyes, blinding him with light and smoke. And then Bakugou is detonating near the center of the villain’s chest, sending him backwards with the force of the impact.
But when the villain lands on his back and doesn’t move again, that doesn’t stop Bakugou. He screams out something hoarse and keeps moving forward, hands flickering like a lit fuse. He’s so goddamn angry, and he swears that just before Kirishima was forced back, his eyes had flickered to Bakugou, because that idiot is always looking out for him, always reaching for him, always—
Bakugou doesn’t realize he’s still screaming until someone wraps two arms around him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. Bakugou howls, kicking out at his attacker until he hears a steady voice in his ear.
“Hey, hey, it’s me, calm down, you got him, you got him—”
But Bakugou can’t calm down, he can’t stop, he feels like he’s being ripped open from the inside and everything within him is spilling out. His cheeks feel wet, under his mask, and he hates this, he hates himself and he wants to be away from here—
“Katsuki.” It’s a low, whispered voice in his ear, no less urgent for how quiet it is. Because, of course, no hero would say his name out loud in a battlefield, like this, no one would risk compromising him in that way, especially not—
“Eijirou.” The name shudders out of him, spilt like so much ink across a page, careless and unguarded. It should have been more difficult to give it up, it should be something Bakugou took with him to his own grave. There’s too much honesty, too much vulnerability wrapped up in those simple syllables.
Kirishima lets go of him, and Bakugou’s feet hit in the ground. He half turns to see Kirishima, whole and unhurt aside from the typical cuts and bruises. Around them, Bakugou can hear the familiar noises of a battle ending—the cheers of other heroes, the approaching police sirens. This will all soon be over.
And despite all that noise, despite all the distractions, Bakugou keeps his head down and tries to focus on Kirishima only out of his peripheral vision. Kirishima isn’t smiling; there’s something tight and fierce in the set of his jaw, like he’s trying to hold back whatever expression he’d be making naturally at this moment. He’s looking at Bakugou with inscrutable eyes—not wide and honest, like Bakugou’s used to seeing them.
He doesn’t know what to do. His heart is clogging up his throat, making it impossible to form words.
“You got this,” he says finally, the words barely inflected enough to be a question.
“Huh?” Kirishima asks, then looks around, at the two villains who won’t be going anywhere. “Yeah, why—”
Bakugou turns abruptly on his heel and breaking into a run. He doesn’t care that it looks like he’s running away, he doesn’t care what Kirishima thinks of him. He just needs time to think.
--
Bakugou has never lacked for courage, which may just mean that he’s always had an abundance of recklessness. Despite this, he waits three days, even when his phone lights up with messages from Kirishima. He doesn’t think he can read what they say, yet.
Still, that day in battle had revealed something to him he’s never wanted to accept. He’s always held himself above the people around him, utterly sure of his place in the world in relation to them. He’s always wanted to be the one on the throne, looking down.
But Yuuei had cured him of some of those feelings, if not all of them. He’s had his share of humbling moments that have deconstructed his ego and fit it back together again in different ways. He’s willing to accept, at this point, that as a hero he can’t do everything on his own. He even asks for help when he needs it, albeit in roundabout ways. But the one thing he’s never gotten used to is the idea that he might need people for other, more personal things. That there might be holes inside of him that he cannot fill himself.
After three days of stalking around an empty apartment that smells less and less like Kirishima as time goes on, Bakugou snaps. It’s nine-thirty at night, and he’s been wearing the same t-shirt for two days, but he doesn’t care. He kicks open his door and slams it shut behind him, letting his feet carry him down familiar pathways.
He lands in front of Kirishima’s door, and before he thinks better of it he kicks it three times in quick succession. Then, he waits.
He’s still holding his breath when the door swings open. There is Kirishima, looking rumpled and tired and so good. Why had Bakugou never let himself admit how much he just likes being in Kirishima’s presence? His hair’s down, a complete mess, and his tank top hangs low at his neck, revealing his collarbones. Eventually, Bakugou forces his gaze upwards, to look at Kirishima’s wide eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Kirishima asks carefully.
Bakugou has to consciously unclench his teeth so that he can answer. “You said I could come over whenever I wanted.”
Kirishima tilts his head, looking at Bakugou skeptically. “Yeah,” he agrees finally. He looks so tired.
“Well?” Bakugou demands. “Is it still true, or not?”
Kirishima licks his tongue over his lips, then shrugs. “I think that’s probably up to you. You’re good at making all the decisions, aren’t you?”
It hurts more than an outright rejection. But Bakugou hasn’t come this far to just give up, so he blurts out, “Look, can I just—fuck—can I just come in, for a bit? Can we talk?”
Kirishima’s red eyes are unreadable, but eventually he nods. “Okay,” he says at length. “Let’s talk.”
They end up in the kitchen, sitting on opposite ends of the table. Bakugou wonders if Kirishima had purposefully kept them away from the living room and bedroom, the places where their intimacy had been at its most potent. He wonders if it’s because Kirishima got this kitchen table second hand, and it never sits level and he therefore won’t mind if Bakugou ends up blowing it up.
“So,” Kirishima says, hands against the table, “Talk.”
“This all got fucked up,” Bakugou says, because that much he’s sure of. Maybe it’d never been quite working, from the start, but eventually his own feelings had gotten in the way and made everything worse.
Kirishima quirks a brow at him, smiles without mirth. “Yeah?”
“I didn’t—” Bakugou starts again, cuts himself off. “I should’ve let you say what you wanted to,” he says, finally. He doesn’t add, I should’ve said what I needed to.
Kirishima’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and he presses his lips together to fight off his expression. “You know I love you,” he says, simple and direct.
And fuck, how does he say it so easily? Hearing it makes Bakugou feel too hot and too cold, like he simultaneously wants to reach for Kirishima and push him away. So how, when Bakugou is so confused, can Kirishima be so certain?
“I know,” he says finally, because he does know. There has never been any artifice in Kirishima’s feelings, especially not about this.
Kirishima waits for a beat. “And?”
Bakugou gnaws on the inside of his cheek, clenches his hands into fists. What is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to fix this?
“I don’t know how to do this,” Bakugou growls, throwing out the words like an accusation. “I don’t know how to do any of this, which is why it was easy when we were just fucking—I don’t know what to do when people know, when they expect us to act a certain way around each other—I can’t just do that.”
Kirishima’s expression softens. “I know. I shouldn’t have put you in that position. Not without talking to you about it, first.”
“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” Bakugou grinds out, because even though he’s willing to shoulder his own portion of the blame, that doesn’t mean Kirishima is completely innocent.
“But,” Kirishima continues, “there’s a problem with that, too. Because I don’t just want to fuck you.”
And when he says it, Bakugou realizes it was never just that. They always lingered over each other, spent their time together. Even though Bakugou had never said it out loud, it was never solely about the sex, or the intimacy of another warm body beside him. It was about Kirishima, about Eijirou.
Kirishima lets out a hollow laugh, letting himself fall forward until his chin hits the table. “I’ve liked you for a long time, you know. Since the Yuuei days. But it never seemed like the right time to tell you. I could never guess how you’d react.”
That startles Bakugou, because he’s always thought of Kirishima as the person who’s able to read him best.
“And then, I thought maybe graduation would be a good time. But I got that offer to work up north, and you refused to talk to me about it.”
Bakugou remembers that. He remembers a burning anger, because he’d had some stupid image in his mind of him and Kirishima becoming an official team after they graduated. He’d never known if that was exactly what he wanted—because all the top heroes worked as the leaders of teams, or solo. They didn’t have partners. But Bakugou wanted Kirishima in that way, and it had been a confusing clash with his other aspirations. And then he’d gotten wind that Kirishima might not be staying in the city, and his feelings had been too jumbled to face.
“And then you came back,” Bakugou says, because as far as he’s concerned that’s the next part of this story.
Kirishima shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah. I mean, that was always the plan. Get some experience in a new environment, come back here and—I dunno, sweep you off your feet or something. But then I got back, and I was really nervous. Ashido was being no help at all, so I ended up texting Uraraka about it.”
“Round face knew you liked me,” Bakugou hisses.
Kirishima laughs, again. “Dude. Everyone knew I liked you. I’m not good at hiding stuff like that. And she had this idea that—well, we’d all gotten the villain alert, and knew you’d be there. So, she thought if she and the others were there as backup, it’d be easier for me to see you, again.”
“You were nervous,” Bakugou says dumbly. “To see me.”
Kirishima’s smiling again, this time warm and indulgent. “I’d been sitting on my feelings for years. So, yeah, I had the butterflies in my stomach, and all of that stuff. And like I said, I missed you. I’m always better when you’re around, you know. You push me, in all the best ways.”
“So, what then?” Bakugou asks. “What was your plan? Just show up with a crowd of those losers—”
“If you mean, our friends, then yes—”
“—and then what? Just fucking, get down on one knee?”
Kirishima looks mildly affronted. “Give me some credit, Bakugou. It was going to be manlier than that. But then we started walking, and just being around you made me so happy—and you’re like, really hot, you know that? I guess I got carried away.”
Bakugou stares down at the table, at his own clenched fists, letting this all wash over him. This all explains how they’d gotten to where they were, but it doesn’t tell him how he can fix things, now. Maybe it’s unfair to rely on Kirishima for all of that.
He clears his throat. “You are, too.”
“Huh?”
“Hot,” Bakugou says. “I like fucking looking at you, okay? At your arms and your eyes and your stupid, shitty hair.”
Kirishima’s grinning, now. “If my hair’s so shitty, why do you like looking at it?”
“Shut up.” Bakugou takes a deep breath, struggling to find the right words. “But I don’t—I don’t just want to fuck you, either.”
“Okay,” Kirishima says, exhaling and shifting to a more serious face. “Okay. So—what do you want?”
Bakugou bites his tongue before he answers, the slight spark of pain forcing him to stay in this moment, in this honest space.
“I want you to be there when I come home,” Bakugou says.
“Okay,” Kirishima says, getting up.
That would just be going back to how things were before, and Bakugou knows that won’t work, again. He’s at an impasse, and if he wants to move forward something will have to change. He’s never been good at changing, but the alternative is losing—losing this fight, losing Kirishima entirely. And if there’s one thing Bakugou will never accept, it’s a loss.
“And,” Bakugou continues, “I don’t know—I don’t know what you want. In front of other people. Or dating, or whatever the fuck. But I can—I can try.”
Then, Kirishima is right in front of him, putting his arms around Bakugou and pulling him in close. “Thank you,” Kirishima says, embracing him. “I know you try more for me, than you do for other people. It—it means a lot to me, that you let me in.”
Bakugou sighs, lets his muscles unwind as he rests his head against Kirishima’s shoulder. “I missed you,” he says, begrudgingly, like it’s Kirishima’s fault.
Kirishima’s arms tighten around him. “Hey, Katsuki. Can I kiss you?”
Bakugou brings his hands to Kirishima’s waist, grip tight. “Stop fucking asking, shitty hair.”
Kirishima laughs, and the sound fills Bakugou with warmth. Then, Kirishima’s hands are framing Bakugou’s face, and their eyes lock on one another.
“I really do love you, you know,” Kirishima says.
“I know,” Bakugou says, cheeks as red as Kirishima’s hair.
He leans in, and Kirishima closes the gap between them. The kiss feels more like sunshine than fire—familiar warmth rather than burning desire. But it’s just as good, just as right. Bakugou shifts closer, lets Kirishima trail his lips downwards so that he can bite at the skin of Bakugou’s neck.
“Eijirou,” he says, the rest of what he means caught in his throat.
But Kirishima keeps holding him, keeps kissing him, keeping reassuring him with every touch and every word.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I know.”
--
Kirishima’s apartment was shitty in the first place, so it’s no real loss when he lets his lease lapse. It takes only a day of work to move his things into Bakugou’s apartment, and Bakugou takes particular joy in demolishing the old kitchen table into ash.
They’ve been dating for almost three months, now, and Kirishima’s been back home for over six in total. Bakugou can’t imagine his life retracting back into what it was before Kirishima was a part of it, and he doesn’t want to. Even on days like this.
“How many fucking people did you invite?” Bakugou hisses at him when there’s yet another knock at the door.
“Everyone?” Kirishima says, with a shrug, as if that’s the obvious answer. “They’re your friends, too,” he says in his own defense as he gets up to go answer the door, pressing a kiss to Bakugou’s temple on his way.
Bakugou’s skin heats in that now-familiar, self-conscious way. But he allows it. The apartment is already full of people, a half dozen in the kitchen and another ten crowded into the living room.
“Yeah, Blasty, we’re your friends,” Kaminari says, daring Bakugou to disagree.
“And you love us,” Ashido puts in.
“I don’t fucking love anyone,” Bakugou tells all of them, even when they laugh good-naturedly at him. He’s learning to take that laughter for what it is, and not the mockery he’d always assumed it was.
Uraraka’s looking at him, head slightly tilted as she smiles knowingly at him. “You love Kirishima,” she says, as though it’s a given.
“Fucking obviously,” Bakugou says, voice dripping with disdain. “Would I let all of you shitheads into my house, otherwise?”
Uraraka blinks at him. “You would,” she decides finally. “But that was sort of sweet, in a roundabout way.”
Kirishima reappears a moment later, bringing Jirou and Yaoyorozu with him. He reclaims his spot by Bakugou on the couch, looping one arm around Bakugou’s shoulders. And Bakugou doesn’t shy away from, doesn’t shove him away. Instead he shifts slightly until he can lean his head back into Kirishima’s comfortable, solid presence.
“The things I do for you,” he growls.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Kirishima says, voice low and promising in his ear.
It’s hours later, and they’re curled up together in bed, and Bakugou feels so good and sore that he decides, yes, Kirishima has made it up to him. He presses against Kirishima’s back, one arm across Kirishima’s waist, and buries his face in Kirishima’s hair. He murmurs his words there, in the quiet of the night.
“Mm?” Kirishima says sleepily.
“I said I fucking love you, Eijirou,” Bakugou says, voice still quiet and lacking in any kind of heat.
Kirishima brings his hand up over Bakugou’s at his waist, holding him there. “I know,” he says, and he sounds so happy that Bakugou can only press closer, the fire inside of him stilled for the moment.