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Bakugo leaves a mark on Red Riot’s door as he knocks on it.
But all is fair, he thinks, because Kirishima’s definitely punched him in the nose before. Surely he won’t mind a little blood on the door, and it’s only a little bit.
And as his enemy doesn’t answer the door, Bakugo decides to make his life a little more inconvenient by banging on it multiple times, smearing his bloody hands on white paint. Because even after a villain attack, he’s going to be petty.
Though, that sentiment doesn’t last for long, because Bakugo’s tired, bloody and bruised and injured, and he’s probably not going to be even standing for much longer. His knocking goes frantic as his arch-nemesis refuses to come to the door, and he adds it to his list of things that Kirishima does that infinitely annoy him.
He nearly falls through the door when it opens, having been leaning all his weight on it, and his eyes struggle to adjust from the light that streams out from the open door.
Kirishima, Red Riot, comes into focus, and his eyes flash with fear, maybe a little worry before masking themselves back into the stone-cold red that Bakugo’s used to seeing. Maybe the concern was just a trick of the light, maybe something that Bakugo’s adrenaline-infused mind just made up.
Kirishima fixes him with a steely gaze, his arm resting on the doorframe. “What happened?”
Frowning, Bakugo stares at him. He’d cross his arms if he could, but his body is riddled with pain, and he doesn’t have the energy to be witty. He’s embarrassed enough by even being here, especially in these hours of the morning, so the snarkiness would help - but he’s hurting. His brain is fuzzy around the edges, and he can barely think of anything to say.
“Your friends,” Bakugo grits out.
Bakugo’s covered in injuries. Whether they were Kirishima’s friends or not, he doesn’t know; but they were villains, and that’s enough information for him. Though, Kirishima doesn’t seem the type to get involved in that kind of stuff.
But he doesn’t know. He’d look more into it if he hadn’t had half the daylights beaten out of him.
Everything hurts so much he doesn’t know where to begin; he hadn’t been able to look at the villains who’d got him, and even though he swore he could take them on his own, Bakugo can’t take down two dozen people all by himself. And so he’s here, beaten and exhausted, clinging onto consciousness but only by a thread.
It had been a blur, from having a mildly boring patrol to seeing nothing to suddenly seeing villains and too many of them and then he was fighting, but they were too strong, and Bakugo-
Bakugo took the brunt of it, and barely managed to escape with his life. The media will call him a coward for retreating, and he knows it-
But he just sighs, and stands his ground as Red Riot looks at him from his doorway.
Kirishima rolls his eyes. “Not my friends,” he clarifies, pushing an unruly mess of red hair out of his face. “Why are you here?”
Bakugo wants to be cool. He wants to be calm and collected even though he’s in pain and practically bleeding out on Kirishima’s doorstep. His hero costume is in shreds and his skin is marred with bruises that have shown already and there’s a horrible, horrible wound on his torso that he can’t bring himself to look at.
And as time goes on, the pain is getting worse and worse and he wants someone, anyone to help. Because he’s a hero, and he’s meant to be the one doing the saving. Because Pro Hero Dynamight has never needed help, so why would he now?
Bakugo feels sick. He’s not going to be able to stay on his feet for much longer.
“Dynamight?”
He’s dizzy. Had he not responded? Bakugo thought he’d said something. Hopefully something snide and sarcastic, but now he thinks about it, he can’t recall saying anything. His mouth doesn’t seem to work, and as his heartbeat continues to drum erratically, he finds himself even less able to speak.
Looking down, he finds his eyes unfocused, his vision showing just a blurry outline of the floor, the light from Kirishima’s house, Kirishima’s socked feet patting on the floor, and red. A thick blood red, and lots of it, clouding his vision. There’s a lot more than Bakugo remembers there being.
Did it always hurt this badly? Because he can feel the blood on his skin oozing down as his adrenaline wears off, and everything burns.
“Dynamight-”
“Bakugo,” Bakugo says shakily, his hands refusing to cooperate with him as they tremble and quake by his sides. “Katsuki.”
The flash of worry has returned to settle in Kirishima’s eyes, taking over whatever facade he’s tried to put up, and he looks deathly scared as Bakugo’s limp form falls into him, his hero costume soaked with blood and falling off of his shoulders.
Compared to the night he’s had, Kirishima’s hands are so warm. They’re soft and supporting him and keeping him from falling face-first into the concrete; his hands certainly don’t seem very villainous as they fall gingerly onto Bakugo’s waist, his shoulders, careful around his wounds and his bruises.
He could kill me easily, Bakugo thinks. Or he could just let me die.
But as his pain-addled mind debates those outcomes as well as it can, Kirishima is doing none of those things, and is hoisting him up gently so Bakugo’s weight can comfortably rest on him as his feet lift off of the floor.
“Who got you?” Are the words out of Kirishima’s mouth, soft yet filled with anger, and bitterness.
His hands tighten in Kirishima’s shirt, and he groans in lieu of a response. The sound is involuntary; he’s awfully, overwhelmingly embarrassed but he can’t help it. Everything hurts so, so much.
It’s the most pain Bakugo’s ever felt. Every inch of his skin that Kirishima touches is warm and lit up like a livewire, but he can’t focus on it, because every other part of him is littered with blood and bruises, which burn and sting all the same.
“Who got you?” Kirishima asks again, his hand resting on the back of Bakugo’s head so it doesn’t loll back. In the back of his mind, Bakugo realises he’s getting blood all over Kirishima. On top of that, Kirishima is carrying him. His arch-enemy. His nemesis. Carrying him.
His nemesis has a very warm house, Bakugo registers as he’s carried on through what he thinks is the hall. It’s hard to focus on just one thing. His mind is running quicker than his body can comprehend.
“I’ll kill them,” Kirishima murmurs, more to himself than anyone else, and his hand tightens in Bakugo’s bloodied hair as he shuts the door behind them, shutting out the cold air and Bakugo feels so warm.
He feels strong arms wrap around him, and everything goes dark - but everything is still so kind.
Red Riot and Dynamight have met up before. They’ve negotiated before, as a hero and a villain. Dynamight has put him in quirk-cancelling handcuffs and Red Riot has still managed to kick him in the teeth, Red Riot has caused havoc in the streets and Dynamight has stopped all his fun.
Kirishima and Bakugo have met up before. They’ve met up in civilian clothes, up on a rooftop, speaking in hushed voices and quiet tones, exchanging information, locations. They’ve met up like that more than once, and Bakugo can’t find himself hating it; having casual banter, standing close enough that he can see the small scar on Kirishima’s eyelid.
He hates that he knows that, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. The information is stored forever in his brain, along with the fact that Kirishima dyes his hair, Kirishima has to wear reading glasses, he knows that Kirishima’s name is Kirishima because he told him, completely unprompted, on a soft autumn evening after a fight.
He wishes it wasn’t as comfortable as it was. Kirishima is friendly in a way nobody else is, especially villains.
There was a news report of their first fight. It hadn’t been anything huge, but what really got the media going was the fact that Dynamight had stopped to talk. Dynamight had frozen in his tracks, stopped by nothing but a stupid head of red hair and a hardening quirk.
He’d caught the rest of the villains involved in the incident, but not Kirishima.
He remembers seeing Kirishima walk away, seeing his back retreat through the remnants of all his explosions, through the debris and the rubble. Remembers watching his back as it got smaller and smaller across the horizons, not even a scratch upon his skin.
And this morning, he blinks his eyes open and sees that same back, golden and sun-kissed and smooth - but it’s moving around a kitchen island, long red locks draped loosely down it. This morning, he’s in Kirishima’s house, watching him clean up his kitchen as he wakes up.
It’s not a horrible sight, but Bakugo’s a hero, and he shouldn’t be thinking that. Shouldn’t be looking at all. (Even if it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Red Riot’s villain costume doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination).
“Shit,” Bakugo says, his voice hoarse, bones aching.
Kirishima turns around, his hair whipping around him, and his eyes focus on Bakugo - they’re fiery, angry, alive, but it dissipates as he scans Bakugo, checks he’s okay.
It was a small, unspoken gesture, but a nice one nonetheless. Bakugo could count on one hand the people who would be angry if he were to get injured.
“Shit indeed,” Kirishima echoes, staring at Bakugo’s frail form. “Why did you show up? Here, of all places?”
Blinking, Bakugo looks at his hands, turns them over and inspects them. They’re bandaged up, cleaned even around his fingernails, any traces of blood disappeared completely. “I don’t know,” he admits, voice low.
He doesn’t look up at Kirishima, instead averts his eyes to the floor, covered in splatters of blood. He can feel crimson eyes boring into the back of his head as he stares at the ground.
“Sorry about the floor,” he mutters, flexing his fingers out. They still work. “Blood must be a bitch to get out of hardwood.”
“I don’t care about the floor,” Kirishima says heatedly. Bakugo still refuses to look at him. “Who got you, and why did you show up here?”
He spits the words out like it’s the strangest thing in the world, for Bakugo to come here. For Pro Hero Dynamight to come to a villain’s hideout when he’s injured. And, Bakugo supposes, he’s kind of justified. Bakugo himself wasn’t in his right mind last night, and had only gone to the place where he’d wanted to.
“Blood everywhere…” Bakugo trails off, not wanting to answer.
“Bakugo.”
Bakugo’s blood runs cold.
He’d forgotten he’d told Kirishima his name. God, what else did he do last night? Had he really been that stupid? Even hearing his name come out of Kirishima’s mouth is strange. The word sounds foreign from his tongue.
Fighting back any emotions that could possibly overtake him, he tries to calm his breathing, tries to calm himself. Because Kirishima knows his name now, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
Like he can tell Bakugo’s thinking too hard, Kirishima kneels down in front of where he sits on his couch, so he has no excuse to not look at him anymore.
“Yeah, you told me your name,” he says. Bakugo wants to look away, he wants to, but his eyes are so captivating, deep and red and gorgeous. “Your full name. Katsuki.”
It sends a shiver down Bakugo’s spine. The way Kirishima looks at him, the low thrum of his voice, and Bakugo’s so tired and confused and cold, it’s nice to be close to someone, even if they are spitting his name out with a bitterness he never thought he’d hear.
“You said I’d never know your given name, over your dead body,” Kirishima says quietly, resting his hand on Bakugo’s knee. I’m wearing his clothes, Bakugo realises. They’re too big for him, and not his style at all, but he can’t complain because his hero costume had been pretty much destroyed last night, and it’s nice he has anything at all.
Kirishima’s clothes smell nice, he thinks, and then curses himself for thinking it. It’s a completely inappropriate thought for a hero to have about a villain - even if he is in his house. Bakugo gulps.
He wants so badly to sink into Kirishima’s couch and disappear forever. Hide underneath his clothes and not have to answer anything.
It’s difficult. Bakugo doesn’t know what to say. And even if someone told him the exact words, he still doesn’t think he could get them out. His throat seems fused shut, and with Kirishima still staring at him intently, it won’t open.
“You got beat up so badly you thought you were going to die,” Kirishima emphasises. “And you showed up here.”
Bakugo’s mouth suddenly opens, and all of his words spill out at once.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he says, voice raised. His shoulders hunch over himself protectively as he shouts. “And you fixed me up anyway, so it was a good fuckin’ decision on my part, ‘cause I’m not dead.”
Sighing, Kirishima’s shoulders deflate, though his hand still stays resting on Bakugo’s knee.
Bakugo looks off to the side. “I’m not arguing with you when you aren’t wearing a shirt.”
“Because someone bled all over it,” Kirishima retorts, though he gets up nonetheless, and Bakugo stares at his back as he exits the room.
He frowns.
He’s never going to understand their relationship; for some reason, he’s inexplicably drawn to Kirishima, and he knows he shouldn’t be - but it’s something he hasn’t had in years. Someone who, even though they’re a villain, seems to understand him. And he wonders if- maybe things had been different - they could be…
Not happy. But comfortable, maybe.
Bakugo’s pain is nowhere near as bad as it had been last night; his skin is no more than a dull ache, rather than the searing, blinding pain he’d felt last night when he’d knocked on Kirishima’s door. It’s bearable.
He’s covered in bandages, he notices. His hands are wrapped up completely - they were one of the only injuries Bakugo could get a good look at yesterday, and he knows they were looking worse for wear. His skin was worn, ripped and bleeding in all the worst places, knuckles bruised to hell and he felt like his fingers were hardly attached to his hands.
But now, he looks at them, and they seem nowhere as bad. The normal hue of his skin is back, clean from dirt and blood, and his fingers feel once again joined to the rest of him (even if it is through extensive bandages).
They’re done well. Bakugo wonders how many times Kirishima has had to do this for himself.
He feels… clean. His hair doesn’t feel as matted. His eyes can open freely. He leans back into Kirishima’s couch, and he feels light.
He wonders how bad of a villain Kirishima really is.
Kirishima’s never hurt him.
They’ve duelled, sure, got a few good hits on each other, fought in battles on opposing sides - but when it really matters, Kirishima’s never really hurt him. Not enough to be permanent. Never enough to scar.
Bakugo’s got scars from people on his own side, but never Kirishima.
There’s a tap of feet on wooden floors that breaks Bakugo out of his reverie, and he sits up, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and his back. He tilts his head to see Kirishima re-entering the room, and he sighs.
For the most part, Bakugo’s only been able to look at him while fighting, so he’s never had the time to stop and muse - but Kirishima is beautiful.
He’s all tan, dark golden skin and deep red hair, thick and crimson and framing his face, tumbling over his shoulders, curling a little around his neck; his eyes are the same red hue, fierce and heavy and a solid, candied red.
Bakugo’s never had the chance to look at his eyes before, only catching glimpses of them, but he’d had the chance to look today. And he never wants to stop.
Even in battle, he’s beautiful, rock-hard skin and hair tied up, flicking about in the wind of Bakugo’s explosions.
Kirishima’s covered in battle scars, thin lines spiralling over and around his arms, down his back from what Bakugo could see earlier, up and all over his legs. Thin white lines from his hardening, where it’s cracked and where he’s been hit, every time he’s persevered through everything.
He has bigger ones from bigger fights, a long gash over his shoulder, a tiny one over his eyelid. And he’s beautiful.
Bakugo can’t be convinced he isn’t on the inside, too. He knows Kirishima’s a villain, a wanted one at that, but Kirishima’s heart is so-
Again, Bakugo will never understand him. How Kirishima is a villain, when he clearly cares. When he avoids destroying buildings, because he knows people are in them. When Bakugo’s really looked into anything he’s done, he’s on Kirishima’s side, even if he can’t write that on an official document.
He supposes if a person is that pure of heart, they always will be.
“I need to look at your wounds again.”
Kirishima is that person.
Bakugo can’t explain why he lets him do it, but he leans back onto the arm of the couch, lets Kirishima look at him like he’s a thing that needs protecting. Because somehow - he’s okay with it.
He shouldn’t trust Kirishima. Red Riot is a villain, and the last person on this very Earth he should trust - but he doesn’t care.
Kirishima’s shirt easily slips off of Bakugo’s shoulders, revealing his bruised chest, already coming up in shades of green and purple, and his torso wrapped in bandages, all the way over his stomach. They’ve been dislodged as Bakugo had turned in the night, pained even in his sleep. And even though he’s a villain, Kirishima is so gentle with him.
His hands are steady, fingers brushing Bakugo’s ribs every time he unravels a little more of the bandages, careful with the scraps and the bruises. Bakugo blinks down at himself, at Kirishima’s hands, at Kirishima’s face looking on in concentration. He looks so tender, so careful to be kind.
“You’ve been thinking about this, huh,” Bakugo laughs dryly.
“I’ve been thinking about you dying,” Kirishima responds, his fingers resting on Bakugo’s stomach, and his eyes don’t move from where they look at the gash on his skin. “And I don’t want that on my conscience. Or my couch,” He adds.
Bakugo snorts, watching Kirishima inspect the wound closely - it’s a horrible, violent red, that would have definitely healed quicker if he’d have gone to a hospital. Why didn’t he go to a hospital?
And then he feels Kirishima’s hands, soothing on his skin, wearing away the pain with gentle touches and soft gazes. And Bakugo thinks again, Kirishima can’t be a villain. Sure, he has a criminal record, but he can’t be.
“You’re a shitty villain,” Bakugo says weakly.
Kirishima huffs. “I could kill you easily,” he says, looking up at Bakugo, his hands staying where they are, gently resting on his waist.
“Then why haven’t you, Riot?”
The words hang in the air, and Bakugo is almost afraid to hear the answer.
“Because,” he says. “I don’t want to.”
And then he goes back to looking at the injuries on Bakugo’s skin, picking up a clean bandage like it’s nobody’s business.
“I could’ve killed you last night,” he says absentmindedly. “When you showed up here, half-dead already. I could’ve killed you when you were asleep, in my house. And I could kill you now, because you’re lying on my couch with an open wound.”
Bakugo gulps. He knows how easy it would be for Kirishima to harden his hand, end Bakugo’s life, and Pro Hero Dynamight would be no more-
“But I don’t want to do that,” he murmurs. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have. But you’re good, Bakugo,” he continues, lifting his upper body easily to wrap a bandage around his back, not too loose, and not too tight.
And then there’s silence again, save for Bakugo’s slightly pained breathing as he stretches to give Kirishima an easy job. The gentle touches are nice, they’re soft, and they’re comforting. They’re comforting, like touch should be after a rough day. And Bakugo hasn’t felt it in ages.
He’s committing it to memory already. Kirishima’s eyes looking into his. Kirishima’s hands on his skin. ‘I’ll kill them.’ ‘I’ve been thinking about you dying.’ ‘You’re good, Bakugo.’ Kirishima and his stupid, stupid heart.
There’s a quiet murmur that interrupts his thoughts as Kirishima finishes redressing the wound on his stomach. Bakugo doesn’t quite catch it, but watches mesmerised as Kirishima’s scarlet eyes stare at him, look him over, all the bruises and bandages and plasters in his shirtless glory.
“What?”
“Eijirou,” Kirishima repeats, his hands leaving Bakugo’s skin. If he wasn’t so prideful, he’d ask for them back - but he reasons, he’s already asked Kirishima for enough.
(But did he ask the first time? Did he even need to ask?)
Kirishima’s expression doesn’t budge as he looks up at Bakugo. “I know yours. It’s only fair you know mine.”
Staring into his eyes, Bakugo frowns. His face still doesn’t move, perhaps waiting for Bakugo’s reaction - but he doesn’t have one. He doesn’t have anything to say. Eijirou is a beautiful name, but Bakugo couldn’t tell him that.
Eijirou is so much gentler than Red Riot. Eijirou is the one who took him in yesterday, Eijirou is the one who cared for him, wrapped him up, kept him from dying - not Red Riot. Maybe if Bakugo keeps telling himself that, if he can separate the two, he’ll feel less guilty.
Why does Kirishima care about being fair? Why does the villain, why does his enemy care about being equal with him?
“Sit up,” Kirishima says. It isn’t a question, but Bakugo answers anyway.
“Why,” he says flatly, watching Kirishima huff and stand up, cross his arms. And even though he’s physically looking down on Bakugo, he knows he’s not. Kirishima is a villain, Bakugo is a hero, and Kirishima doesn’t pity him. He simply cares. And Bakugo feels safe enough to acknowledge it.
He hates that. Bakugo feels some semblance of a good feeling with Kirishima, and he hates it so much. The one person he isn’t supposed to feel anything for - and it’s the feeling he craves the most.
“You’re a shitty hero,” Kirishima repeats Bakugo’s words back to him, one side of his mouth quirking up in a smile. “You’re gonna die someday, you know. Questioning villains so much.”
“Yeah, well,” Bakugo says, clasping his hands over his lap, trying not to groan in pain. “You haven’t killed me yet.”
“I told you. Because I didn’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t feel like it,” Kirishima drawls, still looking on at him. “I could always convert you to villainy.”
“Good fucking luck with that, Riot.”
“Eijirou. Now sit up.”
“I hate you,” Bakugo says, rubbing his face in frustration. But he knows he doesn’t. He hopes Kirishima knows he doesn’t, too.
He thinks back to Kirishima’s words. Does he really want him to call him Eijirou? Does Bakugo want him to call him Katsuki?
There are a thousand things Bakugo understands in this universe, and Eijirou Kirishima will never be one of them. His relationship with Eijirou Kirishima - whatever it is, however it stands - will never be one of them.
Bakugo groans, pushes himself into a sitting position with difficulty, tries not to writhe from the agony he’s in under the strain. Everything hurts, hurts even more now Kirishima’s (Eijirou’s?) hands aren’t on him, warm and comforting and healing; he longs, yearns for them back, but he could never ask that. He’s not supposed to ask that, to feel that, to feel any of this. He shouldn’t have this.
He’s going to become addicted to Kirishima. The warmth of his hands, his eyes, his heart.
Kirishima couldn’t be a good villain if he tried.
He’s a corrupt vigilante at best, but nobody at his agency will believe that. They certainly won’t be happy that Dynamight is trying to argue a villain’s case, especially one that has avoided capture for so long.
Bakugo wants to take everything bad from him. Bakugo wants to fix him so, so badly. Take away his pain, take away whatever happened to make him turn to this, take away the status of a villain, because he doesn’t deserve that.
Katsuki is going to become addicted to Eijirou. Dynamight is becoming infatuated with Red Riot, and it’s getting harder and harder to tell the difference.
Deku’s always been the one with a saviour complex, but Bakugo can’t help himself this time. He wants to save Kirishima, with every inch of his soul.
Kirishima sits down behind him, the couch dipping under his weight, and Bakugo holds his breath. He refuses to even blink, waiting for what Kirishima’s going to do, and his spine is rigid because he’s so close-
“Come here,” he drawls, hands coming to rest on Bakugo’s shoulders, warm and burning hot on his skin, and Bakugo still doesn’t take a breath. Kirishima’s so close to him he can feel his breath on his neck, he can feel heat radiating off of him, and he thinks his brain is short-circuiting.
He feels… vulnerable. Bandaged up and injured, in a house he doesn’t know, with Kirishima so close to him - though he doesn’t really mind. His chest deflates as he lets go of the breath he’d been holding, and Kirishima’s palm flattens on his shoulder blade.
Bakugo can feel everything. The ridges of his palms, the roughness of his skin, where the pads of his fingertips press slightly harder than the rest of his hand. And he can’t believe that he doesn’t mind - because normally, Bakugo would hate this, but this time, with this person - he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all. He likes it. Craves it, even.
The touch feels electric, and Bakugo can’t bring himself to hate it.
Kirishima’s other hand comes to rest on his back, and Bakugo’s thoughts flatline as Kirishima pulls him closer; he’s a villain, Bakugo shouldn’t want this, Bakugo isn’t allowed to want this, and Bakugo most certainly shouldn’t need this.
“Is this alright?”
There’s isn’t a single thought in his head as he nods. He can hear, he can feel Kirishima’s smile behind him, can see his pointed teeth showing in his mind as he smiles. Bakugo longs to see it, to remember the smile as he sees it.
And then, as he’s pulled against Kirishima’s chest, he feels trained fingers dig into his back, and he’s gone.
It’s a massage, and nothing more than that, but Bakugo’s back kills, and he’d be an idiot if he didn’t revel in the moment, enjoy it while it lasts. Pro Heroes don’t have time to do stuff like this, damnit. Bakugo feels in heaven.
There’s an audible click in his shoulder that Kirishima works out, and it’s not long before he’s sagging in Kirishima’s hold, no more than a puddle of bones. He savours it, hyper-aware of every point of Kirishima that touches him; mostly just his hands, his fingers and palms working magic on his awful joints, but Bakugo’s also leaning against him, and his bare back rests on Kirishima’s chest.
Bakugo couldn’t care less that he’s not wearing a shirt. Half of him is covered in bandages anyway, but he feels safe. He wouldn’t mind.
“This is how you’re gonna kill me,” Bakugo groans, eyes shutting as Kirishima’s fingers work their way up his neck. “I have no bones anymore.”
“You’re going to die of chronic back pain,” Kirishima mutters.
With a clench of his fists and a grunt, Bakugo manages to stifle what would have been a very embarrassing noise when Kirishima presses just next to his shoulder blade. “I need a damn chiropractor,” he grits out.
“You need a better job.”
Bakugo snorts.
But, Kirishima’s right.
Nobody at Bakugo’s agency would do anything remotely like this for him, and he knows it. Nobody at his agency is even this nice to him. Maybe because they’re scared of him, maybe because they’re all extras and Bakugo has never really bothered to befriend them - but it still hurts. Hurts, because the only person who would ease the pain from his body is a villain.
After he’d graduated from UA, he’d drifted. He hasn’t talked to Pinky or Tape Face or Pikachu in far too long; their group chat still exists, but it’s awfully dry, and he wouldn’t say he misses them - but he does.
Bakugo hates to say he misses having a friend, but he does. He sees Deku at family gatherings where Mitsuki invites Inko, but that’s it. That’s it.
There’s always a nagging voice in the back of his head that reminds him, he didn’t know how alone he’d be as a hero. He has the vague hope of a class reunion, a dead group chat, and occasional small talk with Deku, of all people. That’s all he has left.
Like he has a sixth sense, Kirishima seems to hear his thoughts.
“Being a hero isn’t the same as you’d imagined, huh?”
Bakugo bites the inside of his cheek and holds back tears as he nods. There’s a quiet hum from Kirishima, a gentle squeeze at the base of his neck.
“You’re lonely,” Kirishima whispers, his voice vibrating against Bakugo’s skin. His hands are still. “So alone and in pain that you’ll come to the first person you think you have a connection with.”
Bakugo doesn’t say anything, simply because he can’t. His throat feels fused shut again, and so he focuses on Kirishima’s red-hot hands, starting to rub away the tension again, catching the hairs on the nape of his neck.
But then, Kirishima’s arms, strong and scarred and sturdy, are snaking around his waist, pulling him even closer. He encapsulates him in a hold, and if this is his way of kidnapping him, Bakugo wholly and completely doesn’t care.
He feels held. He feels small and vulnerable and held in a way he hasn’t in a long time, and he fights the urge to turn around and hug him back. There’s a soft, blazing fire in his chest that’s started up and is just going to keep burning as Kirishima adds the fuel, makes him feel wanted.
“That was me,” Kirishima murmurs, deep and low, his breath on Bakugo’s hair and lips almost touching his head. “The person that gave your hero career purpose. Because you already made it to the top, and it’s not at all like you thought. Is it, Bakugo?”
A tear falls down his cheek. He ignores it. He feels Kirishima’s nose brush his hair as he shakes his head.
“It’s unfulfilling. People hate you. Rip on you for every little thing. You just can’t save everyone, can you? Especially not yourself.”
Shut up, Bakugo thinks. Shut up shut up shut up.
He focuses on Kirishima’s arms around his waist, gentle with his sore skin. If he focuses on something, then he won’t cry. If he just doesn’t pay attention to what Kirishima is saying, then it can’t upset him.
But he’s right, his mind supplies helpfully.
Bakugo grits his teeth and concentrates on where Kirishima’s arms touch his skin. Across his waist, over the bandages, fingers dancing on his ribs; his head right behind Bakugo’s, his chest flush against his back, the odd place or two where their legs touch.
“You’re breaking, hero,” Kirishima drones, fingers pressing into Bakugo’s sides, though it doesn’t feel bad. It’s not bad, like how Bakugo would’ve thought if he’d imagined a villain doing this, being in a villain’s grip - instead it’s gentle, warm, comforting. And it’s not fair.
His mouth fills with the taste of copper as he bites the inside of his cheek a little too hard, and a pained gasp escapes him as he finally opens his mouth. But Kirishima doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even say anything, instead soothes him, rubs comforting circles into his skin as his breathing evens out again.
“I’m not a bad person,” Kirishima says softly. “You might think so, because I’m a villain, but you wouldn’t have shown up here if you really thought I was.” His fingers ghost over the bandaged wound on Bakugo’s stomach, not applying pressure, but just to remind him of what had happened the night prior.
“I think you know I’m not,” he continues. “I want to help you. You’re destroying yourself.”
Bakugo feels a soft breath on the top of his head as Kirishima pulls him closer, dragging his fingers over the expanse of scars on Bakugo’s chest, his shoulders, his collarbones.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, dipping his head down so his lips brush the shell of Bakugo’s ear. A shiver runs down his spine, and he tries not to shake in Kirishima’s grip. “I know it hurts. I know it’s hard, and you’re in pain, Bakugo. You’re allowed to be in pain.”
There’s a small moment of silence, a soft intake of breath from Bakugo, and Kirishima’s palm flattens over his chest.
“Heroes are allowed to cry, Katsuki.”
And there’s his breaking point.
And oh, how Bakugo cries.
It’s how Pro Hero Dynamight finds himself having a damn catharsis in Red Riot’s house, on his couch, pressed to his chest, wrapped in the stronghold of his arms. And he doesn’t care.
He cries, he cries and he sobs and Kirishima just holds him, turns him over so he can cry into his shoulder. His fingers grip Kirishima’s shoulders, leaving small red circles behind with the force, and he bawls. Everything wrong suddenly comes to the forefront of his mind and he can’t seem to stop, no matter how hard he tries.
When Bakugo cries, he doesn’t hold back. His mouth feels stuck open with the force of his cries, and he’s drooling on Kirishima’s shirt and he knows but he can’t help it. His nose is running and his eyes are squeezed shut and-
“Shh,” Kirishima says softly, hands running up and down Bakugo’s back, rubbing soothing patterns into his skin, over every bandage and every scar. His palms are warm, easing the tension from his body, patting his skin as he sobs. Bakugo heaves.
The hand on his back helps, in a way. It helps him let it out, like the touches are expelling the bad feelings, the tears. Kirishima’s fingers stroke over his skin and it’s like they drag out everything corrupt.
Kirishima’s arms cage him in, lips now deliberately pressing against his head, against his hair. Bakugo thrashes and cries in his arms, and his heart burns. He’s loud. His voice cracks and breaks as he sobs, and he presses as much of himself to Kirishima as he can.
It could’ve been hours that they lay there, Bakugo crying, Kirishima comforting him with no words, just gentle touches and soothing hands. And as he calms down, he feels strange that he doesn’t regret it.
They just breathe together. Kirishima’s chest rises and falls steadily, taking Bakugo up and down with it where he lays, his full weight resting on his enemy; Bakugo’s breathing is still a little shaky as he starts to get it back, starts to finish calming down.
As Kirishima’s hand finds itself on the back of Bakugo’s head, fingers settling in his hair, Bakugo looks up. His eyes are bloodshot, the red of his irises melting into his skin, his face flushed and hot. Kirishima’s eyes meet his.
He looks broken, but he stares up at Kirishima like nothing else matters, like he hadn’t just broken down in his lap. Staying quiet, Kirishima leans down, uses the hand he has on Bakugo’s head to push their foreheads together.
“Hey, Katsuki,” he murmurs, cupping his cheek, wiping away the remnants of his tears.
“Why,” Bakugo says back. “Why did you let me do that.”
“Think you needed it,” he whispers.
Bakugo bites his lip, watches Kirishima’s eyes mirror his own. They’re wide, they’re pure and kind, and Bakugo’s eyes glint with tears as he looks back.
“Why are you so nice to me?”
Bakugo’s voice cracks on the last word.
“It hurts,” Bakugo says. “We shouldn’t have this. We can’t have this. Are you trying to kill me? Is- is that what this is? Trying to- trying to get me to open up so you can just destroy me-”
“It’s not like that,” Kirishima whispers. “It’s never been like that.”
And Bakugo doesn’t think, doesn’t cry, doesn’t regret anything as he hauls himself up, wary of his wounds, and leans forward. His nose brushes Kirishima’s. His ashy-blonde hair touches his forehead. He can feel every breath Kirishima takes spilling over his skin.
The light catches the scar on Kirishima’s eyelid, hidden a little by his eyelashes, and Bakugo realises that if he’s close enough to see that- if he’s close enough to feel Kirishima’s breathing-
Bakugo feels a light pull on the back of his head; it’s Kirishima’s hand, with a firm but not painful grip on his hair.
“We shouldn’t,” Kirishima whispers, his voice barely a squeak.
“You shouldn’t do a lot of things,” Bakugo retorts. “You literally have a criminal record.”
Kirishima blinks at him, completely silent, immobile. His hand moves from Bakugo’s head down to his shoulder, remaining in contact the entire time, and he shivers, his hairs sticking upright on his arms.
“Eijirou,” Bakugo murmurs.
“Shouldn’t be- kissing a hero,” Kirishima grits, but he certainly doesn’t think that as he leans in, and Bakugo’s lips meet his.
Somehow, kissing a villain isn’t half as bad as Bakugo had imagined.
Kirishima’s no different in kissing him than he was taking care of him; he’s gentle, tentative, hands holding back like he’s almost scared of hurting him, pressing too hard on his wounds.
Bakugo kisses him back with the emotions he didn’t get rid of when he cried; he kisses him with drying tears on his cheeks, eyelashes brushing wet on his skin as he shuts them, kisses him with relief that he cares. He kisses Kirishima with the salt of tears still on his face and, in the moment, neither of them seem to care.
Sighing against Bakugo’s lips, into his mouth, Kirishima’s hands find themselves on his back. They run down his skin, over every ridge of his spine, across the dips of his shoulder blades, old scars and new bruises, coming to settle on his lower back, fingers moving ever-so-slowly in comforting motions.
With bandaged fingers, Bakugo brushes Kirishima’s hair back, resting his hand on his shoulder, dipping his thumb underneath Kirishima’s shirt to brush his collarbone. Again, Kirishima sighs, pulls him closer.
Maybe they stay that way for a little too long. Maybe they’re too comfortable doing what they’re doing for two people who shouldn’t even know each other. Maybe they’re much too happy to be kissing, for a hero and a villain.
The tears on Bakugo’s face have dried, and he no longer tastes salt as he continues to kiss Kirishima, his fingers suddenly filled with renewed strength as they run along Kirishima’s jawline, behind his ears to fall in his hair, gently card through it.
Kirishima’s hair is soft, is what he finds from that - which is a nice piece of information to know - but he doesn’t care so much about that fact as he uses the hold he has on his head to tilt his face, kiss him deeper.
When Kirishima stops kissing him back, Bakugo pulls away, face hot and flushed, and he feels cold without Kirishima right there. Like there’s something missing. Though when he leans back in, Kirishima stops him, open-mouthed and breathless.
“Run away,” he pants, red hair falling in his face. “With me.”
“Was this your plan?” Bakugo asks, reaching up to tuck it behind his ear, nails grazing his skin and hands lingering on his cheek. “Your group’s plan to get me to step down? Get rid of the Number Two Hero?”
Kirishima shakes his head. “I don’t have a group,” he says, capturing Bakugo’s lips another time before he speaks. “And no, it’s not,” Another kiss. “If last night and this morning weren’t proof enough, I care about you. And I want you to run away, with me, before you burn yourself out.”
Bakugo kisses him again. To get Kirishima to shut up or just because it feels nice, he doesn’t know.
“I want you to heal,” he says as they break apart, though Bakugo doesn’t pull back, just lets Kirishima murmur against his lips. “I want me to get better. And I wanna leave this all behind.”
“You want me to run away with you,” Bakugo says, eyes darting up from Kirishima’s lips to stare into his eyes. “Leave my house, my responsibilities, my job behind, to run away with you.”
In lieu of an answer, Kirishima kisses him.
“You’re so stupid,” Bakugo mumbles into his mouth, hands running over soft red hair, taking it in his fingers, twirling it around and dropping it to lie loose on his shoulders. “I hate you so much.”
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Kirishima says, kissing Bakugo’s cheek, the bridge of his nose, his forehead. “Is that a yes?”
“Duh.”