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Katsuki misses out on a lot of things. By and large, that isn’t a problem—or until now, it hasn’t been. A good night’s sleep is more important than keeping up with the stooges that live in his dormitory. That's what he's told himself for years, anyway, and up until recently he's sure he believed it.
He still doesn’t understand the need for people to stay up all night talking, saying the same things all the time, reaffirming what everyone already knows. Pinky loves love, and needs everyone else to love love too. Todoroki loves needless, sarcastic interjections delivered in a deadpan way that makes Deku snort out his drinks. Deku loves analysing heroes and limited-edition hero merchandise, and Yaoyorozu loves rich people things and exposing her peasant friends to them. The list goes on and on, but the point is that Katsuki’s classmates feel a need to gather and be predictable in company at the end of a long day, and Katsuki would rather catch Z’s.
Their first and second years living in the dorm together, it was fine. The first half of their third year at U-A, it was still fine—but Katsuki is starting to get itchy. He’s never been afraid of missing out on irrelevant things, but as his last year in high school crawls to its close—a little anticlimactic compared to the chaos of his first and second year, though the teachers all call it another calm before the storm—he starts to worry.
There’s a reason for it. He’s not soft about shit, but he’s started to like the reckless idiots in his year, and he’s pretty much always liked Kirishima.
And Kirishima likes their classmates—a lot.
And when the rules governing their lives loosened up a bit in the wake of gross hand guy’s capture, Kirishima started going out with their classmates—a lot. And it’s not like Kirishima is getting dragged along to these things; he’s a ringleader. He’s tried to get Katsuki to go out with them multiple times, and only let up when Katsuki threatened to blow someone’s face clear off. Usually it’s Kaminari Katsuki threatens, but he switches it up. The one person whose face he never threatens is Kirishima’s, even though Kirishima is the only one who could definitely take it.
That’s another thing that makes Katsuki itchy. He’s always been a violent dude, but lately when he looks at Kirishima he’s filled with both this deep anger and this absurd need to protect, as if he doesn’t believe Kirishima can handle himself in a fight. It’s ridiculous. No—it’s outright offensive, is what it is, and Katsuki wants to purge it from his system, bleed and sweat and swear it out until there’s nothing left of this angry softness. He doesn’t like the feeling at all.
He also doesn’t like waking up in the morning and checking his social media feed only to see a side of Kirishima he’s not used to seeing. Or not not-used-to, but…
A crow caws outside his dormitory bedroom, and he rolls over in bed instead of getting up like he ought to. The usual impatience to get started with the day is absent. It'll be hours before the other losers stumble out of their bedrooms bleary-eyed, and Katsuki has time, so he presses play on the video again. His phone's speakers go tinny with the recorded, overloud sound of Kirishima's performance at some karaoke place last night. Kirishima's face is flushed, and he wears an unshakeable grin as he yell-sings some song about a beast. His arm movements are urgent, bordering on aggressive, and Deku—brandishing the other microphone—meets him, though Deku keeps breaking character. He falls about laughing at Kirishima's antics, especially when Kirishima puts a foot on the table in a moment of passion. There's a sound of Iida yelling about property and respect, but Kirishima has already moved on in his aggressive dance.
He's performing, and the others are laughing, and this is a side of him Katsuki knows—but somehow it matters to him that he wasn't there. There's no new information in that karaoke room, just a bunch of people who know each other well hanging out and being themselves, like they always are—but Katsuki feels like he missed out nonetheless. He downloads the song Kirishima was singing—he remembers Kirishima recommending it to him last month, now he thinks about it—and puts his earbuds in to play it before stepping out of bed and heading down for breakfast.
“Nice moves today!” Kirishima says, slinging an arm around Katsuki's shoulders as they walk away from their afternoon classes, the day cold but bright. He's grinning from ear to ear. “I thought you were going to blast me into a thousand pieces near the end there.”
Katsuki's mood is less buoyant. The duels in class are an important time to practice, and he spent the twenty minutes he was matched up with Kirishima having to force his dumb-fuck lizard brain not to hold back.
Since when does he have to remind himself not to hold back? This is a fucking mess. He can't stop thinking of Kirishima having fun at karaoke without him last weekend, or the frequent gatherings in the common areas after classes, and now when he and Kirishima are given the go-ahead to punch the shit out of each other, he doesn't even want that. He used to love being paired with Kirishima.
Cold autumn air wicks the sweat from his face as he walks—just his face; they’ve switched to winter costumes—and he glares at the cobblestones below their feet. Every breath he takes is too cold in his hot lungs, so he breathes faster to punish his stupid body more.
You’re a fucking joke, he thinks at it.
“Hey, what's up?” Kirishima asks, when Katsuki has been silent for too long. “Are you angry about something?”
“Hungry,” Katsuki says after a beat, lying, and Kirishima laughs. The warm weight of his arm lifts, but there's a slap on the back and a shoulder bump to make up for it. Kirishima is still grinning.
“Low blood sugar, huh?” Kirishima looks back at the rest of the class wandering in the same direction. “Oi, Yaomomo! Riki! Got any snacks on you?”
Yaoyorozu jogs to catch up with them. “Of course I do! What would you like?”
Kirishima looks at Katsuki, and for a moment Katsuki is arrested by this brisk efficiency. He stated a need, and Kirishima instantly met it with the use of his charm and connections. That fucker.
“Something sweet,” Katsuki mutters.
Yaoyorozu smiles brightly. “Chocolate or strawberry? Oh! I might have green tea flavoured—”
“Strawberry,” Katsuki says, more to cut her off from listing inventory than out of an actual preference, and Yaoyorozu reaches into a pouch on her uniform—greatly expanded since its first flimsy design—to hand him the goods. Kirishima chirps a wholly unnecessary thank you in time with Katsuki—Katsuki is the one she helped; why is Kirishima thanking her?—and Yaoyorozu beams at them both before running back to her current group.
Katsuki looks down at a fancy-looking box of strawberry… cookies, of some kind. Rich person stuff. They probably have a fancy name, but Katsuki doesn't know it.
“Want one?” he asks Kirishima.
“You know I do!”
Katsuki shares, and the delicate pastry disappears behind sharp teeth. They eat two more in silence before Kirishima starts shoulder-bumping him again.
“No run-down?” Kirishima asks.
“You were slow the second time you came at me. I could tell what direction you were going to go.”
“I knew it!” Kirishima says, groaning. “I gave it away! You were so fast reacting I just knew I'd messed up again.”
“A normal opponent wouldn't know your tells,” Katsuki says. Much as he likes the duelling, it's not a realistic test of their skills against villains. They all know each other too well, can bluff and double bluff and triple bluff. It’s hard to keep surprising people you’ve lived and trained with for three years; even Katsuki is struggling.
He slides a glance over his shoulder at Deku, walking to the right of them with Iida and Round-face and Half-and-Half. Deku is the worst for facing in duels, because he gets new-move inspiration seemingly every time he takes a shit. Katsuki has learned to appreciate that, with time—it keeps him on his toes—but it’s still a nightmare to face.
He thinks of Deku shout-singing the karaoke song back at Kirishima in that room he’s only seen in a video. How does Deku have time for that in between being a huge fucking nerd and kicking people’s faces in for his work-study? Does he sleep?
“I’ve been listening to that song you recommended a while ago,” Katsuki tells Kirishima now, like it’s something he has to confess. “The beast one.”
Kirishima lights up. It should look odd, since his hero costume is terrifying—but habit means Katsuki is used to Kirishima’s smiles, even when Kirishima is dressed like a fucking demon.
“Do you like it?” Kirishima asks. “I thought I’d seen you listening to music more!”
“Yeah.” Katsuki doesn’t mention how bad listening to music on headphones is for a person’s hearing; Kirishima knows this already and ignores it. Karaoke is probably even worse for a person’s hearing.
“Right?” Kirishima says, like Katsuki had said it’s amazing or I want to raise a family with that song. “It’s so angry and epic! It always makes me think of you.”
The chill in Katsuki’s veins blasts into a full boil. His stomach twists—but it’s a pleasant twist, even as it seems to punch him in the lungs at the same time. His body, as he has recently realised, is stupid.
“It does?”
“Yeah, man!” Kirishima’s eyes are shining. “It’s so you!”
The video replays in Katsuki’s mind. Kirishima in his outside-clothes, no neat little collar and tie in sight. Hair done up, body big and brutal, energy rippling off him as he sing-yells enthusiastically about violence—and thinking about…
Him?
“Invite me next time you go off campus,” Katsuki commands.
Kirishima gasps audibly. “For real?”
“Yeah.”
Kirishima slaps his shoulder and turns to wave at the group. “Everyone! Bakugou’s coming along this weekend!”
There’s a chorus of whoops and cheers, laughter and heckling. “King Explosion Murder!” Kaminari yells. “Yeah!”
“No beauty sleep!”
“No sleep of any kind!”
“Settle down!” Iida yells, louder than any of the others had. “You’re making a ruckus. And sleep is important!”
This initiates another round of heckling, thankfully at Iida’s expense, and ends with Iida squashed between friends and laughing. Katsuki is glad the only person who jostles him like that is Kirishima; no one else would dare. They all know he has sharp elbows.
When he looks up Kirishima is still twinkling at him, just as brightly as Belly-button Prince at his worst.
“What made you change your mind?” Kirishima asks. They’re almost at the dorm.
“It’s our last year,” Katsuki says. He doesn’t mention the video, which he’s since saved to his phone.
“Bakugou!” Suddenly Kirishima is wrapping around him, hugging him like a damn puppy. Katsuki ought to push him away—this behaviour is not to be encouraged—but the crush of Kirishima’s arms feels too good. This hasn’t happened in—well, Katsuki isn’t sure it’s happened before, and he doesn’t react. Whatever aftershave or deodorant Kirishima wears is working hard after all the exercise sweat, and it makes him smell delicious—masculine and real and warm. It’s intoxicating.
Katsuki’s gauntlets are a good excuse for his lack of reaction—his lack of pushing Kirishima away—and he pretends to struggle with them.
“Can’t believe he lets him do that,” Katsuki hears a classmate say as a group passes them.
“‘Lets’?” another classmate says, before laughing. “Is there any stopping him?”
They pass by, and Katsuki catches Deku’s silent, assessing glance from a different group of classmates. He immediately wants to punch him. Deku sees too much; he always has.
Katsuki looks away—up at Kirishima. Kirishima is still holding him, but his eyes are wide, and he looks just a little startled and awkward when he lets go. He seems to be looking at Katsuki’s hip. Waist? Belt? What is it that freaked him out?
“Sorry,” Kirishima says, finding Katsuki’s eyes, but he’s still smiling—just not grinning. There’s a flush across his cheeks.
“Next time I’ll blow your crotch off if you surprise me like that,” Katsuki says, hoping Kirishima doesn’t realize he could have reacted in milliseconds if he’d needed to.
Kirishima stiffens. “Blow my—oh.” He begins to laugh, loud and awkward. “Yeah! Of course! Don’t explode any sensitive areas, please.”
Katsuki gazes in incomprehension, confused why Kirishima was confused for a moment. Then he concedes: “You could probably just harde—”
Kirishima slaps a hand over Katsuki’s mouth, turning pinker.
Katsuki bites the palm set over his mouth, then shrugs when Kirishima lets go. Kirishima is off-balance, and that’s enough for him. He wishes he was wearing proper pants and no gauntlets so he could stuff his hands in his pockets as he stalks off, but he isn’t, so he’s forced to walk semi-normally, and Kirishima jogs to catch up.
They enter the dorm together.
“This is stupid,” Katsuki mutters, looking in his closet like he’s magically going to find new clothes there. Though he’s gotten more muscle mass over the years, he hasn’t gotten taller, and that means most of his clothes are old. The edgy-ass shit he’d loved at age fifteen seems childish now, but it’s worse to be standing here looking at his wardrobe wishing it was cooler or more tasteful. It makes him seem like a loser.
He blames Kirishima. Kirishima’s casual clothes are different from what they used to be; they used to be all bandanas and red T-shirts with manly logos, but now it’s… not that. Kirishima has cultivated a punk look that suits him to a T, his slim, dark jeans ripped in places and soft cotton shirts draping over his buff body like a caress. Necklaces and black ear studs and tough-looking jackets complete the look when he goes out, and Katsuki wouldn’t be interested in his friend’s clothes, except that paired with Kirishima’s bright personality it’s… painful. There’s something so compelling about someone dressing dark but smiling like that, and Katsuki finds himself looking.
With resignation in his heart Katsuki picks out jeans and a T-shirt with a skull on it—not like he has much else—and a lame flannel shirt. Because it’s cold outside. He sighs over the choices more than he’s ever sighed over fabric before, and he decides then and there never to care about clothes again. Why is he being like this?
It has to stop. He’ll go out with classmates, have an okay time, and go back to being himself; he has to.
There’s a knock at the door, and Katsuki puts away his old clothes before ripping it open. Kirishima grins at him.
“Red!” Kirishima says, touching a finger to Katsuki’s red and black flannel. “You don’t wear enough red.”
“No one does, in your opinion.” Katsuki steps past him into the hallway, sliding a glance over Kirishima’s get-up in passing. Kirishima is in the jeans Katsuki likes most, muscles perfectly taut beneath black fabric, and his shirt—a white henley—is soft and too light for the weather. Katsuki knows the shirt is too light for sure, because he can tell Kirishima’s nipples are hard beneath it. He looks away.
“You’re gonna get too cold,” he warns.
“Nah, it’s warm where we’re going! I have a jacket downstairs.”
Yes, but it’s late and it’s dark out, Katsuki doesn’t say. Not everyone starts getting fucking freezing around ten pm.
When they get downstairs there’s an air of expectation in the common room, and people actually cheer at the sight of Katsuki following along behind Kirishima. Katsuki fights embarrassment by asking about what comes next, and finds out about the arrangement that’s been in place since U-A lockdown ended. Apparently there’s a fleet of cars that comes to pick students up from campus when they have plans to go out. Katsuki’s guess is that Yaoyorozu is involved somehow—but maybe not. They’re allowed to go out now, and that’s that.
They all pile into the sleek cars when they arrive, heading out to a strip Kirishima can’t stop talking about now that Katsuki has admitted a desire to accompany them. Katsuki feels stupid for building it up in his head so much, for being nervous. These are his classmates; this is his city. He’s the one who excluded himself because these outings were a waste of time, not the other way around.
He just has to confirm whether they’re a waste of time: whether they’re the same as the nights in the common room, when people sit up talking and having the same opinions over and over, or if they’re something different. He glances at Kirishima, both familiar and unfamiliar in casual clothes, and wonders. Maybe even the nights downstairs wouldn’t be so bad now. The number of nights until school ends are limited.
Lights from bars and restaurants light up the street, and the U-A students spill out of the cars when they stop. Katsuki had thought the others might be drinking in bars underage—he’s seen movies—but that’s not where they head. In hindsight it was a ridiculous thought; Iida is with them, and instead of hitting up bars the crowd of students immediately flocks into a neon-lit karaoke place to book the largest room. Katsuki’s head spins with all the lights and sounds.
“Karaoke?” he says, like he hasn’t seen the video.
“We’ve been on a karaoke kick lately,” Deku says from behind him. “It’s a good way to unwind!”
“Deku is pretty terrible,” Ochako says, eyes squinched almost shut with enjoyment. “We all have fun.”
“Hey!” Deku says, but he’s laughing. He’s so comfortable with all these people, more comfortable than Katsuki is.
Cause they’re all damn nerds, Katsuki reassures himself, but it’s not that. It’s that Deku has been with them all the way, and Katsuki feels… left behind, just a little. Because he made an effort to get left behind.
His ranking in class is hard-won, and suddenly it doesn’t seem like the only worthwhile thing for him to focus on. He follows the group into a large, private room with a giant screen, letting Kirishima pull him along to a seat on a leather bench along the wall. That’s not a problem, but he finds himself sitting next to Half-and-Half with some chagrin.
“Hey,” Todoroki says, deadpan.
Katsuki glares in response, and he’s known Todoroki long enough to tell Todoroki is amused by this—but Todoroki says nothing, and turns to look at their first performer.
To no one’s surprise, it’s Ashido. Pinky and Kirishima share the load when it comes to mood-making in class, and she’s pulled Jirou up with her to many people’s approval—even Katsuki’s. Jirou has a nice voice.
And then the song starts, and it’s such a stupid fucking song about love-love that Jirou’s smoky voice is wasted. She seems embarrassed, but Ashido is having the time of her life.
Katsuki starts to relax, people-watching, and he notices that everyone is relaxing. This is a space that’s just theirs, to be kids-becoming-adults and not future heroes. Snacks and drinks start being ordered, coming in big bowls and pitchers, and soon the party is in full flow. When Kirishima tries to get Katsuki to sing, Katsuki refuses—but he isn’t an uptight jerk about it, at least in his own opinion.
Todoroki, sitting next to him, says nothing of the refusal—until Kirishima is up there with Kaminari, selecting a song. They’re alone-ish.
“Tuck in your shirt,” Todoroki says, voice low. It’s such a stupid thing to say Katsuki isn’t sure he heard right.
“Ha?”
“Taking off the overshirt was good, but tuck in the T-shirt,” Todoroki says. “It’s loose at the bottom. It’ll look better if you tuck it.”
Katsuki stares, not sure what kind of prank this is but not liking it.
Todoroki meets his eyes and shrugs. “Your loss. Thought you wanted to look nice tonight.”
“My loss? What the fuck! I’m not tucking my shirt like some damn nerd—”
“Quiet down,” Todoroki says, and Katsuki’s mouth snaps shut. “Just tuck it at the front or the side. A French tuck. Emphasises the waistline.”
“French I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think, what the hell?”
Todoroki shrugs again, and it has to be reverse psychology, because Katsuki finds himself tucking the front of his shirt just a little, confused. Todoroki makes an OK-sign at him, which nearly makes him untuck it, but he resists.
All these losers going out and being people outside of school—Katsuki isn’t sure what to do with them. It’s uncomfortable. He wants to be a hero, not some dude who knows how to wear shirts in a hundred different ways. But he likes the ways Kirishima has started to dress, so maybe… ugh.
He watches Kirishima up there singing and dancing with Kaminari, and something inside of him loosens. He finds himself glad to be here seeing this instead of back at the dorm doing homework or getting an early night. It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing or whether his shirt is tucked in; what matters is that seeing Kirishima like this—even seeing the others like this, if he’s honest—gives him energy. They’re having fun, instead of fighting sleep in class or yelling moves or panicking about tests. The energy that normally crackles during fights is present here, but it’s brighter and less aggressive.
It would have disgusted Katsuki only a year ago, but now…
Kirishima finishes his song and returns to his side, letting out a breath. Katsuki gets a whiff of aftershave.
“So good! Bakugou, you have to sing. All of us do it!”
“There aren’t any songs I know all the words to,” Katsuki says. It’s the truth.
“Then just yell in time to the music!”
“He’s shy,” Todoroki puts in from Katsuki’s other side, and Katsuki sends him a death glare.
“I’m not fucking shy. I’ll rip out anyone’s throat if I have to.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re not shy,” Todoroki says, and Katsuki’s blood boils. Kirishima starts to laugh.
“I’m with Bakugou. In what world is he shy?”
“Stop talking about this,” Katsuki grinds out. “I’ll sing if I have to. Fuck! I already hate this.”
The look Kirishima gets for a moment—for just a flash—is regretful. Katsuki wants to swallow his tongue. I didn’t mean it, he thinks, but he can’t say that. Fucking hell. He’s going to explode Half-and-Half’s other eye so his face is symmetrical.
“Did you just say you’d sing?” Ashido asks, appearing out of nowhere. Katsuki jumps while she calls the others to attention. “Everyone! It’s Bakugou’s turn! Sing with me, wouldya?”
“No way,” Katsuki says.
Kirishima stands. “I’m obviously the first one who gets to sing with Bakugou.”
“No, pick me,” Todoroki says, looking up at Katsuki with a deadpan face that needs a thousand smacks. Katsuki’s palms sweat angry sparks he manages not to blast into Todoroki’s too-flammable hair.
“Pick me!” Kirishima says, like it’s an actual contest. “We can do the beast song!”
“I’m—” Katsuki starts, looking around for Deku only to find him squashed between Yaoyorozu and Iida in a corner seat. Rather than listen to the conversation the two rich kids are having over his head, Deku is watching Katsuki like a hawk.
Doesn’t Deku usually do that song with you? Katsuki wants to ask Kirishima, without giving himself away.
“Do it, Kacchan,” Deku says when their eyes meet. His sheepish, I-know-something smile entitles him to the same amount of slaps Todoroki has ordered. “We all want to see.”
“I’ll fucking do it!” Katsuki snaps. He charges up to the front and points at Kirishima. He’ll fucking do it, and he’ll do it well and better than shitty Deku. Fuck! He definitely doesn’t know all the words, but he’ll do better somehow.
The song begins.
Halfway through the song, he’s having fun. How did he forget why he wanted to come here? He’d seen a video of Kirishima having fun, and he’d wanted to be there with him. As he and Kirishima yell into crappy karaoke microphones opposite each other, messing up the lyrics in favour of yelling and gesturing, he doesn’t just suspect he’s been an idiot. He knows for sure.
He’s sweating when the song ends. He laughs alongside Kirishima, and lets Kirishima throw an arm over his shoulders and pull him away from the stage.
“We were amazing!”
“Amazing is one word for it,” Jumbo-Tail mumbles, and Katsuki shoots him a look that goes unreceived. He’s too elated to be pissy, though; that felt good—and now Kirishima’s hard body is pressed up against his side, and Kirishima is dragging him out to a balcony ‘to get some air’. Katsuki is glad to get away from the noise and the pressing heat of too many bodies in a too-small space.
They end up on a small metal balcony one story above the street, and Katsuki is still breathing and sweating too hard to complain that he forgot his shirt and coat inside. He leans on the ice-cold railing, looking out on the people below. His mind replays his favourite moments from the karaoke song just now, all the times his eyes met Kirishima’s in faux-anger and they both yelled a jumble of the lyrics. That song always makes me think of you. A grin is pulling at his face; he can feel it.
Kirishima comes to stand next to him, leaning one elbow on the balcony. “That was amazing.”
“It felt good,” Katsuki admits.
“As good as fighting?”
It had felt better than fighting, because it was new—and because Katsuki could yell with all his might at Kirishima and not worry about that stupid don’t-hurt-him impulse that had been showing up lately.
“Almost,” Katsuki says. He glances up at Kirishima, Kirishima’s face lit by the red light above the door, and finds him staring much like he had after the impromptu hug—staring at Katsuki’s hip. Or waist. What’s that about? Katsuki looks down at himself, at the T-shirt Todoroki had told him to tuck ‘to emphasise the waistline’. Somehow, as if by magic, his gesturing during the song hasn’t pulled his shirt all the way out of his jeans. Does it look funny? He doesn’t think so. Kirishima is looking at his belt, maybe.
“What?” he asks, and Kirishima stiffens.
“Ah? Nothing, nothing!”
Katsuki folds his arms. “Something.”
“Nothing, honest. You look good!”
Kirishima’s bright smile might fool legions, but Katsuki can tell when something is upsetting him. “No, I don’t. Tell me for real.”
“You do! And…” Kirishima sighs. “I just have a good time with you. That’s all.”
“What is it you keep looking at, then?” Katsuki asks. He pats himself down, making colour bloom in Kirishima’s face. Kirishima pulls at the collar of his shirt a few times like he’s trying to cool down before coughing to clear his throat.
“Shall we go back inside?” Kirishima asks.
“Nah.” Katsuki moves to lean back against the door—which is slightly wet, and metallic, and therefore freezing. Icy cold water immediately presses through the back of Katsuki’s T-shirt, but he folds his arms and waits like he’s perfectly comfortable.
“It’s odd to see you out of uniform,” Kirishima tries. He glances away.
Kirishima is taller and broader than Katsuki is these days. Katsuki likes that. Kirishima ought to be more sure of himself, too, and as a rule he is—but this is new.
“So?”
Kirishima steps forward under the red light. It casts a pattern of shadow across his face, and makes it hard to see when he reaches forward. He sets his hands against Katsuki’s waist—around it, as far as they’ll reach.
“So this,” Kirishima says, his warm hands leaving a hot imprint for just one moment—before he retracts them. “You have a tiny waist, dude! I’m sorry! I notice.”
“My core is plenty strong, asshole,” Katsuki lets out, but his breath is coming short with that little bit of contact.
“I know that! That’s not the point!”
Katsuki pokes a knuckle into Kirishima’s abs, surprising him. The muscles there contract immediately, becoming hard as glass—even without Kirishima’s quirk activating.
“Maybe yours is stronger now,” Katsuki admits.
“That’s not the point,” Kirishima says again, deflating. His eyes search Katsuki’s, the scar above the right one stark in the red light. Katsuki meets his gaze, moving to hold Kirishima’s waist the way Kirishima had held his. His hands don’t get very far, but Kirishima goes utterly still.
“Maybe you’re the beast,” Katsuki says, impressed despite himself. It makes sense that Kirishima’s this buff, given their training, but it’s still surprising to feel the evidence right there. His amiability makes it easy to forget what a fucking tank he is.
“Uh,” Kirishima says. He wets his lips once, then again. “Uh.”
Katsuki’s heart is hammering. He stops holding Kirishima’s waist—Kirishima is solid, in the best way—and grabs Kirishima’s wrists to put his hands back where they were: on him.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Katsuki says. “You can look.”
Kirishima looks down between them, thumbs tightening on Katsuki’s obliques. “With my hands?”
“Yeah.”
Kirishima is vital, big, strong—but all the strength seems to leave him. His forehead drops onto Katsuki’s.
“Bakugou? What are you saying?”
The vulnerability in his voice is a relief, kind of, because Katsuki is shaking too.
“What do you want me to be saying? I’ll say that.”
Kirishima’s hands move—but not away. One goes to the small of his back to pull him in, and the other to his neck. He presses Katsuki into him like he’s gonna fucking absorb him or something, and Katsuki hopes the strength of the embrace hides his own trembling.
“I think you’re the shit, Eijirou,” he mutters over Kirishima’s shoulder. He hates having to spell it out. It was too much, the doubts this week—the worry the previous months. He doesn’t want Kirishima to grow away from him.
“No way,” Kirishima says, the already crushing hug tightening.
“Screw you. Yes I do.”
Kirishima pulls back. Katsuki can barely see his expression at all—but then Kirishima is cupping his face, and moving in, and soft lips are pressing against Katsuki’s. It’s a breathless moment, the cold air rendered null and void by Kirishima’s hot presence and the blood pumping like magma through Katsuki’s veins, but everything is starkly clear. Katsuki’s hands catch in the too-thin shirt Kirishima is wearing, shaking, and he forgets to worry about the oily nitroglycerin stains they’ll leave.
Eventually the kiss stops. They stand a breath apart, arrested, and still the cold air doesn’t feel cold enough to cool the fire burning through Katsuki.
“Come out with us more,” Kirishima says. It’s a stupid request. Katsuki wants the request to be date me or be my boyfriend or kiss me more—but his breath shudders out without a cuss on his tongue.
“Sure.”
“You mean it?”
“It’s kind of fun.”
“Right?” Kirishima says, and Katsuki can hear the grin even if he can’t clearly see it. He thinks of his oil stains on Kirishima’s clothes and Kirishima staring at his waist and the cold night air. His heart gallops like a fucking horse.
“Yeah.”