Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bakugou never minded walking out of his bedroom entirely naked, and he’s not going to start now. He knows the way by heart even with eyes closed; he tries to open them when he passes through the living room though, just to check if Kirishima’s looking.

He likes seeing things he’s not supposed to, so when Kirishima raises his hands to adjust Bakugou’s mask before they go out the door, Bakugou tries not to get caught looking through his lashes.

Three letters wait on Bakugou’s work desk one morning, sitting on top of a couple of small, colorful boxes. The whole pile is some shade of pastel and clashes with literally everything around it. Bakugou could puke, if he cared enough.

Looking around, he notices he’s not the only one in the agency who has to deal with that; there are letters everywhere, a small mound even piling up over someone’s workspace. A colleague is munching on chocolate, pointing out different kinds to another guy, and a third one is wasting time going through wordy letters from adoring fans.

Bakugou sighs. It’s mid-February and he doesn’t have time for any of that shit.

He leaves the letters in the bin under his desk before his day really starts and he’s forgotten about it entirely by the time he jumps head first into an armed robbery.

So it’s a bit of a surprise when Kirishima pulls out a bag out of nowhere while they prepare dinner, a hand holding a wooden spoon and the other clutching the handles of this pastel pink monstrosity.

“And guess what I got today!” he chirps, obviously very proud of himself. His hair is still damp from his shower, water pearling at the ends, and his face glows in the light.

“Don’t tell me you’re into that Valentine shit,” Bakugou grumbles, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

Kirishima pouts. “Don’t be grumpy just because you didn’t get anything,” he says, putting the bag next to him on the counter and rummaging through it with his free hand. Just by the sound, Bakugou can tell there are tons of letters in there, paper rubbing against paper, but the bag doesn’t look light either so Kirishima must have brought home an unholy amount of chocolate.

“Hey, I got plenty!” Bakugou protests with a snarl, and Kirishima smirks at him.

“Oh yeah? You read some juicy love letters from your hundreds of fans?” he taunts Bakugou, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively before pulling out a handful of envelopes from the bag. Some are already open but Bakugou spots a few that are still sealed shut.

“Is that what you got?” he asks, trying to mask the curiosity peeking through his tone. “Juicy stuff?”

Kirishima leaves the letters on the side and takes a medium-sized box of chocolates out of the bag. “A few, yeah,” he admits with a faint blush. “Some people are…. enthusiastic. But look! Dessert!” he says, smiling wide as he shakes the box a bit.

Enthusiastic. That’s not how Bakugou would call it but okay.

Still, no matter what the content of these letters truly is, Kirishima has received enough for a regiment. It’s not too much of a surprise, since he’s always been the popular sunshine boy amongst the new recruits, but it’s something else to see it in person. Between all these letters there must be flamboyant love confessions, verbose descriptions of date scenarios, heartfelt encouragements and enthusiastic propositions. All these letters and just as many people, who thought of Kirishima – of Red Riot, rather – when came the day to declare their feelings. Some of them are probably out there, waiting for an answer, imagining what it’d be like if Kirishima said yes.

And all that for Kirishima to focus on the chocolate instead. What a waste.

Bakugou grabs couple of closed envelopes and rips them open. “Are you gonna answer those?”

Kirishima looks down at the potatoes he’s trying to cook properly. “I want to, but Amajiki says I shouldn’t,” he shrugs, disappointed.

“You haven’t even read them all, you lazy ass,” Bakugou grunts, taking a letter out of the first envelope. It’s soft cream paper on which someone with obvious calligraphy training did their best to write cleanly.

“I didn’t really have the time. ‘S why I brought them home,” Kirishima explains, but there’s no bite to his voice. He manages to take out a second box of chocolate out from the bag and sets it on top of the first one on the kitchen counter.

“Dear Red Riot –”

“Bakugou are you sure you want to read these,” Kirishima sighs.

Bakugou ignores him. “I have been following you since – blah blah blah, no one cares, where is th– ah, here, your beautiful face enchants my nights and I dream of you holdi–”

“Bakugou!” Kirishima croaks, his face red as a beet.

“–holding my hand as we walk on the beach–”

“Bakugou that’s enough!” Kirishima squeaks, trying to snatch the letter out of Bakugou’s hands, but Bakugou snickers and twists out of his reach.

“You better keep an eye on these potatoes, Kirishima,” he grins, taking the other envelope too. “I’ll make you regret it if you burn them.”

Kirishima swallows painfully at the sight of Bakugou holding the second letter. He’s frankly adorable all blushed like that, torn between leaving the kitchen counter and jumping forwards to get these letters out of Bakugou’s grasp, his hair puffing up as he keeps turning back and forth between the two options.

Looking at him in the eyes from a distance with a grin, Bakugou unfolds the other letter. This one has a hurried, messy writing in black ink over bright red paper. Someone hand drew white hearts in the corners and little sketches of smiling Red Riots here and there, and even without reading, it’s easy to tell the whole thing is dripping with obsession.

It does get worse though.

“Darling Red Riot, I’m so happy you are reading my letter – yeah, yeah, get to the point,” Bakugou mumbles, eyes scanning the body of the letter as fast as he can despite the bad writing. This time Kirishima doesn’t interrupt him, and Bakugou can tell he is also curious. “I’ve always known we were compatible souls even since I first saw you–”

Kirishima’s face flares up at the words coming out of Bakugou’s mouth. “Gosh, Bakugou, please,” he mutters, but Bakugou can’t quite tell if he’s really asking him to stop.

“–and I am convinced my body was made to take y–” Bakugou cuts himself when he realizes what he’s getting into.

The following lines include graphic descriptions of various appendices, holes and juices, complete with measurements, enthusiastic action and generous adjectives highlighting the raw bliss that would result from Red Riot meeting with his self-proclaimed #1 fan, somehow without ever taking off his costume. Bakugou doesn’t really want to read any of it but his eyes can’t stop going further; he feels his heart pumping just a bit faster at the thought of someone thinking it might be a great idea to send this to Kirishima – but also, maybe, at the thought of it, at all.

When he manages to pull his eyes off the paper, blank-faced, he finds Kirishima standing there with his faced crunched up as if he had just eaten the sourest of lemons. “Please tell me you didn’t just read that,” he begs, so embarrassed Bakugou expects him to be swallowed by the ground any moment now.

Bakugou walks around him and throws both letters back into the bag. “Juicy stuff, uh?”

With a heavy sigh, Kirishima turns back to his potatoes. “Amajiki told me it would happen,” he recalls, “but I really don’t need to read about that.”

Bakugou didn’t really need to either.

Luckily, it’s not the bulk of what Kirishima has received. They skim through letters while they eat, letting the nastiest ones fall down to the floor before Kirishima gets a detailed account of what some of his fans fantasize about and chokes on his chicken. Most of them are very sweet, Bakugou admits; there’s a lot of modesty to the simplest ones, shyly admitting they have a crush on their local hero, and a bit more bravery to those who found the courage to ask him out on a date. Bakugou has never met these people but he can feel how flustered they must be – it’s all over their handwriting, probably practiced for most of them, and the careful composition of the chocolate boxes that came with it.

He’s never met them but he’s met Kirishima, who gets lost in every other letter and re-reads most of them with wide, disbelieving eyes. He knows him enough to tell he’s probably going to try and answer some of these, probably going to find a spin around nice words and polite thanks – maybe he’ll even go on a date or two. Maybe he’ll stroll down the beach with someone who knows calligraphy, or maybe he’ll eat a waffle with someone who told him he has pretty eyes. What would it take for him to consider a stranger like that? What, in these letters, makes him blush like the schoolgirl he isn’t, what is the ingredient that keeps him from looking away, makes him bite his bottom lip, makes him smile this tenderly? Bakugou wishes he could know – not that he’d do anything with it the knowledge.

Still, Kirishima’s smiling and it’s not at him, and he’s thanking strangers in low mumbles but there’s no one besides Bakugou to hear it. I would love to spend an afternoon with you, said a girl. I have two tickets for the winter fair, said a boy.

Bakugou has nothing to say.

“Here, have some,” Kirishima tells him, handing him a box of chocolates over their plates. “I’ll never eat it all by myself.”

Bakugou takes the whole box for himself, and Kirishima chuckles. “Just leave some for me, alright.”

Someone made these chocolates by hand. Some have been painted with vibrant colors, some are wrapped in edible gold or dusted with refined powders. Meticulously shaped, there’s Kirishima’s headgear sitting next to a heart, and there’s a large double R smoothed by hand, carved from white chocolate. All of it must have taken so long, so much energy, and it all lead to this box sitting in Bakugou’s hands, in the cozy warmth of their kitchen.

It’s in slow waves that he realizes he’s not the only one who drowns at the thought of Kirishima’s life intertwined with his own.

There’s few dozens out there, maybe a hundred. They probably have posters and pictures and interview tapes. They probably could recognize Kirishima’s voice in a crowd of thousands; maybe they hug their pillow at night, and maybe they bought all of his merch, and maybe they do more than that. Some probably have sincere hope and others know it’s a fantasy. And maybe those who persevere are right, maybe Kirishima will, one day, turn around and kiss a fan for the cameras.

But in the meantime, it’s Bakugou who gets to empty half this box of chocolates and hold it away from Kirishima. It’s Bakugou who gets to watch him squirm and try to reach out for the sweets, a huge smile on his face as he stretches over the table and into Bakugou’s space. It’s Bakugou, alone, who has the right to see him like that, without artifices, swinging his legs in the air when he sits on the kitchen counter to dry the dishes. There’s no one else in this whole city, no matter how well they write, next to whom Kirishima curls up on the couch before night falls. It’s a privilege reserved to Bakugou and Bakugou only.

Kirishima’s reading a thing on his laptop, scrolling through pages of a travel blog. He looks like he could fall asleep any minute now, with his heavy lids and his tilted head, his shoulders pushed into the back of this couch. Bakugou watches him over the screen of his own laptop; Kirishima yawns with a whine, opening his mouth so wide a tear pearls at the corner of his eye, then blinks a few times slowly.

No one else gets to see this. No one else gets to feel their lungs fill up with honey, feel their heart flutter at the soft mirage that is Kirishima doing casual things like rubbing the back of his head or mindlessly poking his tongue out from between his lips. There’s no one else, no matter their talent at poetry or erotica, that gets to remember what Bakugou sees: a man of rock and silk who catches the light like he breathes, and who deserves someone willing to show as much as he does.

There’s no one else, and for the better or worse, it’s lonely.

“Kirishima,” Bakugou almost whispers, his voice raspy with fatigue.

“Hmm?”

“I’m tired.”

And it sounds like come to bed with me but he doesn’t say it, it sounds like I want to hold you in my sleep but he doesn’t mention it; if by chance, by mistake or fate Kirishima hears it anyway, Bakugou knows he won’t find the strength to deny it.

Kirishima turns to him and for a beat, Bakugou believes he’s been understood. What else could it be, that he sees in Kirishima’s eyes? A flash of something burns through them both, but then Kirishima blinks and it’s gone.

“Want me to carry you to your bed?” Kirishima smiles tenderly, but his tone says he’s joking. Fuck, he really is too beautiful when he looks at Bakugou like that, his head tilted back and opening up his throat, the light of his laptop casting soft shadows around his jaw.

For a moment, Bakugou considers what it’d cost him to say yes. His dignity, maybe. His right to ever know peace if Kirishima decides to talk about it with Kaminari next time they go out, probably. Whatever’s left of his strength to deny how much he wants to kiss him, without a doubt.

It’s tempting. It’d be a finishing blow for sure. It’d be what forces him to look at the monster he’s been feeding, to really look into its eyes and accept there’s no going back from there. There’s no going back from drowning; there’s no going back from having your arms looped around the neck of someone you love, from having them carry you to your own bed, from wanting so hard you end up getting what you crave.

And Bakugou has never craved like that. It’s absurd. It’s not him to be torn between this kind of choices, between kissing and not kissing, between having and not having. Usually he takes, and it’s all he does. He takes what he wants and it’s never about warmth, about lips, about taste. Yet Kirishima forces him to choose between what’s soft and what could be softer. Between their daily routine Bakugou wouldn’t break for anything and the possibility of trying, just for one night. There could be arms carrying him to his bedroom and into bed, arms around his body and curled closer, hands behind his neck and against his thighs, around his hips, against his jaw. There could be skin and skin on skin, fingers under fabric before fabric stops being a bother. There could be lights turned on and pictures Bakugou has never had a hard time coming up with, bending warm and sweaty under his palms for real this time.

There could be so much, so many ways to call Kirishima in between gasps and sighs and just as many reasons to remember Valentine’s Day for years to come.

It’s too dangerous. It’s too much, and Bakugou should stop thinking about it immediately.

He scoffs to cut the ground from under his own feet. “Fuck off,” he hears himself mumble, and Kirishima’s grinning when he turns back to his laptop.

He’s still beautiful, and he’ll always be.

Bakugou gets up on his own, finds the way to the bathroom on his own, brushes his teeth on his own – he still stands on his side of the mirror, his feet playing with their stupid shark-shaped rug. Kirishima stays up for longer than him. Bakugou finds him on the couch right before going to bed; Kirishima mumbles a warm “g’night”, his red hair almost turned black in the poor lighting. A pile of uneaten chocolate and unfolded letters still sits on the table, and Bakugou knows he doesn’t have to worry about them.

Some nights, Bakugou dreams.

It’s rarely pictures, more sensations. His skin remembers more than it has to imagine; the pressure, the weight, the violence of the impact on his left side, the concrete snapping and falling apart. It still makes his bones vibrate. He still feels it, feels the rain of brick and metal scraping his skin away, the scratches turning to wounds turning to trauma. It cuts at him again, one rod of steel falling for the sky after the other. Time stops just like it did then and it all gets etched into his skin all over – he had no armor then and he has none now.

He always sinks deep into it, eyes closed, and the night is always long. It melts everything into a blur, a drunk haze there’s no escape from. It’s deafening at times, overwhelming in every aspect; it whirls around and drowns Bakugou without leaving him a chance to take a breath. It’s like choking on moldy cotton, being unable to spit any of it out and swallow the repulsing taste of rot and rust, fibers getting stuck between his teeth grinding against each other the same way nails scrape against blackboards. Sometimes his skin remembers the sudden heat of an explosion, sometimes his mouth remembers the sharp taste of metal, always, always his ears remember the desperate cry for help he could not answer.

Some nights Bakugou dreams, and he can’t tell one side of the veil from the other.

His mind builds a maze he’s not supposed to escape, and he loses himself in it. There’s no I, no me, only a body that keeps bringing back the same sensations over and over, only a brain stuttering like a broken record, repeating the same mistakes on a loop until trying to fix them loses all meaning. Bakugou vanishes, ambition vanishes, every other day vanishes. There is only the tower, collapsing, and the skin opening bit after bit under a deluge of stone. There is only the cold that tragedy brought along, and the shivers contained for so long they exploded in brutal tremors way later.

Some night Bakugou dreams, and he remembers his name when he hears it through the veil.

It’s always foreign, whispered from a distance far away. It’s always gentle, too, never pressing, and it contrasts so well with the smell of dust and the brutality of carnage that he can only be drawn to it. It’s cream, Bakugou, cream and gold compared to the grey, to the blood red of the maze, and it finds a way to make him breathe again.

It doesn’t come with pictures either but it brushes the crumbs of stone away with a hand on his cheek, in his hair, over his shoulder. It erases bruises and scrapes like they’re simply chalk, and it gives the skin a body, and the body a name, Bakugou. It brings with it a warmth he doesn’t need to remember, and a weight that feels familiar, and a voice that sounds like home. It stays for long, then for longer, lingering around him with promises in whispers. It’s okay, it repeats from the other side of the veil, and no matter how many times Bakugou hears it, it never loses its meaning. It’s okay, he’s okay, and it’s no memory.

It’s easy to find his way out of the maze then. It’s easy to breach the surface and pull his head out of the water, to forget again. Nothing ever resists it, not the slabs of concrete falling like dead birds, not the cut covering his arms, not the calls ringing in his ears. It all vanishes in lashes of thin smoke and his lungs open, and he breathes.

Some night Bakugou dreams, until he’s set free by a dip in the mattress and a hand in his hair.

The snow has stifled everything, draping the whole city in a layer of thick wool that crunches under everyone’s boots. This Sunday morning is silent, the usual hum of the busiest districts muffled by the winter, and the warm light turns blinding white. The storm never stops either, and it coats the few people who dare to stop walking, piling up on their shoulders.

It makes everything much slower and forces people to huddle closer together so they can face the wind and stay warm. From the third floor, Kirishima spots a couple of kids ruining the fresh snow, a group of friends shivering as they wait for a bus, and an old man leaning into the wind to not lose his balance as he walks on frozen ground. It’s so comfortable to watch all of it from the inside of a warm apartment – still, the snow has an effect on him too. He may not be cold but he can tell today has a special taste, a special kind of vibe. For today, and until the storm dies out, everything is a little less urgent, every mistake forgiven a little faster, every hour a little bit longer.

Bakugou’s been tiring himself out against Kirishima’s sandbag for a good hour now. Kirishima doesn’t have much to do – he asked some people to know if they wanted to go out and do something, but no one’s feeling it, so he’s also stuck inside. He’d go see what the park looks like under the snow, but going alone is no fun. A mug full of tea in hand, he resorts to sitting on the couch and watching YouTube videos. He’ll probably use the sandbag when Bakugou’s done with it, or maybe he should call his mother instead. He’s not sure yet. There’s no rush.

He’s in the middle of a 10 Best Pro Wrestling Moves of The Year video, slowly sipping on his tea from time to time, when Bakugou finally emerges from the corridor. His shirt is sticking to his back and has turned dark with sweat, and his hair is an absolute mess. Kirishima barely has the time to see how red-faced he is before Bakugou goes for the kitchen corner and fills up a glass.

Without a word, he comes to crash on the couch next to Kirishima. He might not talk but he’s still breathing heavily, his chest falling deeply with each exhale, and he radiates raw heat that almost makes Kirishima regret wearing additional layers. A drop of sweat courses down from his hairline to the cliff of his jaw and falls right on his collarbone, glistening over the curves.

“You’re still sweating.”

Bakugou shifts to look at his screen. “Of course I am,” he says against the rim of his glass.

“You sure you should be sitting here? I don’t want our couch to be infused with nitro,” Kirishima says, and Bakugou doesn’t answer that, as if it weren’t a valid concern, but Kirishima is genuinely worried. He doesn’t want their flat to blow up because the couch pillows absorbed all of Bakugou’s sweat.

Instead of doing anything to dry himself, Bakugou points at a video sitting in the suggestion bar. Under a title crafted for clickbait, the thumbnail shows a guy with navy blue hair and a predatory smile, holding out a mic to someone who’s had their face blurred and replaced by a massive question mark. “This bastard again,” Bakugou grunts.

“Ah yeah, that guy,” Kirishima mutters between his teeth. He sees the guy enough times in a week to never feel the need to watch him online on top of that.

“He’s a fucking parasite, that’s what he is,” Bakugou grunts again before taking a sip.

Kirishima sighs. “Well, he has a huge audience. He needs to satisfy them somehow.”

“He needs to get off my dick, yeah.”

The video still playing announces #4: the Diamond Cutter. Kirishima shifts uncomfortably in the couch. There isn’t much they can do to stop guys like this self-proclaimed journalist from following them and asking them questions. Still, there are topics Kirishima doesn’t need to think about while in the middle of patrol.

“He keeps asking me if we’re together,” he says with a nervous chuckle. Oh how that sounds stupid when said out loud. It’s laughable, of course, and Bakugou is going to be rude about the idea, of course, because what’s not funny about that?

It’s ridiculous, right, two good friends being more than friends?

Bakugou’s silent, and a second stretches for an eternity; the more time passes, the more Kirishima regrets bringing this up. The feeling sinks down his throat and something contracts around his heart, squeezes hard and tight; how he hates this silence. How he hates the words he said himself. It’s not even bad, because it’s true: this guy can’t seem to have any other subject of conversation than the status of Kirishima and Bakugou’s relationship, but Kirishima should have left the words unsaid. Some ideas are better left asleep and mute, and waking them up only hurts. They’re friends. Friends.

After one more beat, Bakugou speaks. “Yeah, me too,” he says flatly. His breath has evened out and his hair has fallen back down, heavier with sweat, sticking to his forehead and temples. The drops on his collarbones are disappearing but the skin of his neck is still shiny and glossy; the white light from the outside highlights the bulge of his Adam’s apple and the strength of the muscles he’s spent so long to develop. There’s so much room there, so much that moves when he talks and looks around, right under the skin. It’s probably very sensitive on top of being a difficult area to begin with – Kirishima knows how Bakugou avoids to wear ties and tight collars – but gentle touches could probably bring the best out of all this sensitivity. Massages, maybe. Kisses, certainly.

Hickeys. That’s a thing people do, right? Hickeys. Kirishima has seen some before, on people who did not care enough to hide them. Has Bakugou ever had one? Has he ever left anyone bite down and suck, has he ever asked? They’d have to be so close to him too, completely pressing their whole body against his, and it’d be easier if they were held in a tight embrace. The thought of Bakugou closing his eyes and letting someone work his skin between their teeth is maddening – what kind of sounds would he make? What would he do with his hands? With the rest of his body, and what would it take? Who would this person have to be in order to claim the neck and the throat for themselves, to mark him, to kiss every part they see?

Bakugou probably never received a hickey, all things considered, so Kirishima knows well he’s projecting onto someone who doesn’t exist. As far as Kirishima knows, Bakugou doesn’t have more than friends.

“By the way, did you say yes to these letters?” Bakugou asks, his eyes not leaving the screen.

Kirishima blinks. Letters? Which lett– oh, the Valentine’s Day letters. These letters. All of these letters.

“Uh, yeah, I thanked most them,” he admits. “Not the juicy ones though,” he adds with an awkward grin. Bakugou doesn’t seem to notice.

“You better not bring anyone home,” he warns, his voice falling lower. There’s something off to his attitude but Kirishima can’t put a finger on it; he’s too busy blushing up a storm.

“Ho–Home?” As in, bringing a stranger here? Into their apartment? In the kitchen they share, with their bathroom they decorated? And his bedroom – this would be the last thing he’d do, his bedroom? “No no I’m not– Bakugou! Come on!” Kirishima stutters, and he knows he’s red all the way to the tip of his ears. If he were to bring anyone home, they’d have to meet Bakugou and that could not go well, and on top of that he’d have to entertain them and do whatever people do when they bring dates home, into their shared space, where he and Bakugou live, together, with no one else.

His eyes still not leaving the screen where the video keeps playing, Bakugou shrugs. “I dunno, just saying,” he says flatly again, with this weird attitude settling into his body language – he drinks more water and keeps avoiding Kirishima’s eyes.

There’s a hint of a smile though, hidden in the corner of his lips. Just a ghost, a subtle couple of lines only Kirishima notices when others are not looking. Kirishima likes these lines. He likes seeing them when they’re out and Bakugou pretends he doesn’t want to go places, doesn’t want to have one more round of sushi, doesn’t want to do this and that. He closes himself off a bit to earn the right to pretend but Kirishima knows how to read him, so he often insists; Bakugou ends up getting what he wants, and Kirishima’s a bit happier every time.

So Kirishima, once again, insists. “Are you worried about my love life?” he asks with a lopsided grin, and Bakugou quirks an eyebrow at that. There he goes, playing his act again. This time there is no food, no games to play though, and Kirishima doesn’t know what Bakugou expects to win, but it’s too easy.

“Of course I’m not, why the fuck would I be,” Bakugou almost pouts, and Kirishima can’t tell if the red on his cheeks comes from his training session or just bloomed right this instant.

“Come on, admit it,” Kirishima coaxes him, half-joking half not. He kind of wants to hear it. Scrap that actually, he really wants to hear it.

“I don’t care about who you date, you dumbass,” Bakugou groans, his fingers tighten around his glass. “Just don’t bring them here.”

“Aaaww, you do care,” Kirishima pushes further, his tone singing. He can’t stop smiling for some reason, he can’t stop looking at Bakugou trying to avoid his gaze, at his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. Something’s off but Bakugou’s not going to explode at his face, Kirishima knows it. “That’s cute,” he whispers. Because it is. All of it is. Bakugou’s harsh, yeah, he’s as rude as it gets on the surface, but the best of him is in the details. It’s where he truly is, in these tiny things he does and these tiny moments he has. Kirishima has always found him kind, and he can’t deny Bakugou also cute.

Finally, Bakugou looks at him. Kirishima reads frustration and vexation, and he wasn’t looking for it but he also finds expectation. A will, badly hidden. A want, not quite smothered. A question that Kirishima doesn’t know what to do with.

“You’re seeing things, Kirishima,” says Bakugou, and his voice is soft this time. Kirishima, he said. Not idiot, not dumbass, not anything else. There’s something to his stare that isn’t fatigue or roughness, and yet it pierces, it makes its way to the core of Kirishima’s heart, as though Bakugou could see through him. The tone, and the words, and the eyes; all of it is too true. It’s too honest. It’s too raw, and Kirishima gets lost in it.

Bakugou’s too pretty when he lets something shine through. His voice sounds better when he uses it like that, all soft and mellow, like a plea almost. Kirishima could stop breathing and just look at him for hours if he didn’t already have years of practice. And yeah, maybe he’s seeing things. Maybe Bakugou doesn’t worry at all. Maybe Bakugou wouldn’t mind if he dated someone, a stranger he met one night, a long-lost friend he reconnected with. Maybe Bakugou wouldn’t give a single thought to any of it.

But Kirishima would. Kirishima already did. Kirishima still does, right now, and he decides for the thousandth time there is no one he’d rather date and kiss and hold and come back home to than Bakugou.

It’s too much to hold inside of himself, it’s too big for just one man. It’s heavy in his chest when it bubbles up and it’s heavy in his throat when he can’t seem to cough and it’s heavy on his tongue before he can stop it from reaching that far. Bakugou still looks at him like there’s something pulling at him from the inside, like he’s waiting for relief, and Kirishima doesn’t know how to stop himself from letting it all out.

So he doesn’t.

“I love you, you know.”

He might have said it a billion times already, but there’s a shiver coursing down his spine today. There’s a shake, imperceptible to someone who doesn’t know where to look, making his hands quiver, making all of him vibrate with an intensity he doesn’t know how to contain. It was too easy, it was too simple, but this time out of thousands was the realest, and he doesn’t know what to do next. All that flutters and pulses within him feels like it’s going to burst out and sprout of him, grow out of his mouth like a tree outgrowing a forest; Kirishima knows he could repeat it. He could say it again, the I love you, the words he made his over the years. He could keep saying them until the day he loses his voice and it’d never feel dull, and it’d never feel hard.

All the other times were easy too, just banter between friends, just something you say from time to time. All the other times were true, but this one – this one does not come from a place of friendship. If Kirishima could, he’d call it a confession, but there’s nothing to really confess since he’s never really hid it either. Still, of the billion times he said it, this time Kirishima hopes, begs, implores that Bakugou does not hear it as something friends say.

But Bakugou would never truly hear it. Like with a song that’s been played on a loop, he’d never truly get it. The words have lost meaning already, Kirishima has stripped them bare by saying them too often, too loudly – just above a whisper at times – and to Bakugou, they cannot mean I want you anymore. How could they, when Kirishima keeps repeating them in the middle of mundane conversations? How could they, when they came after Bakugou fixed Kirishima’s headgear before they went out one morning, or after Bakugou cooked enough food for five, or when he fell asleep on Kirishima’s shoulder late at night? Bakugou isn’t to blame, with his wide eyes and his gaping mouth, with his held breath and his white knuckles, his eyes darting right into Kirishima’s soul. He isn’t to blame, he could never be.

Still, Kirishima never wanted Bakugou to hear it as much as he does right now.

It hurts.

Kirishima brought a curse upon himself; he’s stuck, doomed by his own running mouth to never be able to say it more honestly, to never find a way to make it clearer, heavier without talking for longer. He’d need to expand, maybe to lean in and kiss, and carve the meaning onto Bakugou’s mouth directly, to push it there between his lips until Bakugou finds a way to say it back, but Kirishima doesn’t know how to do that. Three words, that he can do. That he can say. Going any further is too much, too hard, too risky.

I love you, this is as far as he’ll go.

And it’s out there, floating in the air; there is a truth to it Bakugou’s deaf to, and Kirishima finally admits to himself that’s as good as it’ll ever get.

It’s a quiet form of acceptance that washes over him. Whatever was growing in the core of his ribcage deflates and falls back down slowly. Resignation, that’s all there is to it; knowing he can’t make it louder or say it with more intent, knowing today is one of these days he can’t come back from. He wonders, for a second, if Bakugou can read any of this on his face, then decides he probably doesn’t. Bakugou would say something if he had any clue, but right now he’s still silent, still looking at Kirishima, and his cheeks are still red, his skin still shiny, his lips still parted.

Kirishima doesn’t kiss him.

He knows he should. It’s something that friends do not do. Bakugou would understand that, at least, if he doesn’t understand the words.

Still, Kirishima doesn’t kiss him. He does one thing though, to honor the truth in his words he was the only one to hear, to mark today as a special occasion; he reaches forward and bumps his mug against Bakugou’s glass without breaking eye contact. It’s more of a push than a feisty clink of glasses, more of a kiss of their knuckles, but it’s enough. Kirishima takes his mug back and drinks all of his tea at once, letting it burn his throat, then finally breathes out and finds Bakugou’s eyes again.

He’s not sure Bakugou has blinked.

He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something, clearly perplexed; Kirishima can hear the what was that for? coming, the questions that would force him to explain, to stammer around his justifications. He’s ridiculous, he knows it well. He should not have done that. Bakugou probably thinks he doesn’t make any sense – he’d be right.

But still, he did it, just the way he said I love you every time he had the chance, and he’s not taking it back.

He swallows. “But I’d love you more if you took a shower before this couch is soaked with your sweat, dude.”

And this time, Bakugou blinks. He pulls himself out of a trance and swallows around his tongue; a frown immediately appears on his face and his body’s tensing all over, as if hurt by something he never saw coming, as if betrayed.

“You’re the worst roommate I could ever have chosen,” he says flatly, and Kirishima doesn’t know what to hear in that. It sounds real, honest, but Bakugou’s face is torn between two emotions Kirishima cannot read for once. Bakugou does not sound mean or cold; it was a statement. A just observation. A simple remark, as though he realized he made a mistake and blamed it all on himself.

“You know I’m not,” Kirishima smiles.

Bakugou stands up, hiding his face away. “Yes you are,” he says, turning around the couch to leave his glass on the table.

“I mean, think of Monoma,” Kirishima continues, twisting around to look at him go for the bathroom, unable to stop himself from talking. All he gets in answer is Bakugou’s sweaty shirt in the face, a glimpse of his naked torso and the lock of the bathroom door. The shower starts running a couple of seconds after.

Something in Kirishima wants to smile at it. At his poor attempts at something more, at something true. He could still change it right now, and tomorrow, and at every opportunity that ever arises. He could lay it all down for Bakugou to see. It’d be easy to talk through the door of the bathroom and ramble, admit to everything without having to watch Bakugou’s face. He thought about it before.

He doesn’t; leaving Bakugou’s shirt of the back of the couch, Kirishima turns back to the screen of his laptop and stays silent, because it’s what friends do.

The snow keeps falling for a good week. Kirishima wakes up to a silent city every morning, and all his sees out the window is white, fluffy, dulled down. From the sky to the ground, there’s no color anywhere, nothing but the occasional neon umbrella or bright jacket. It doesn’t melt easily. Instead, it stays, solid and frozen, and the next storm brings a fresh layer on top of the ice. It smothers a bit more every morning, it muffles sounds a bit better, and it looks a bit eerie too, like clouds piling up on top of each other.

It doesn’t stop the sun though, and even though it’s always cold the sunrise shines through the window with the same colors. The light spills in the living room the way it always has, dripping in gold. The snow constantly falling soothes out the color a bit, making it a bit paler, a bit sheerer, but it still spreads like liquid on the hardwood floors and warms up Kirishima’s feet when he waits for breakfast to be ready.

No matter the temperature, Bakugou still leaves his bedroom without any clothes on. Kirishima mumbles a “g’morning”, as he always does, and Bakugou groans back, as he always does. The eggs are ready right when Bakugou comes back (with clothes this time), his hair damp, bleary eyed. His walks behind Kirishima to make his way around the table, pulls out the chair and sits down with a sigh. The day doesn’t really start until he gets his crown, brilliant and rich; the dust swirls behind him and glints in the light. Their ankles touch under the table and neither of them does anything about it.

Bakugou closes the front door behind him and as usual, the apartment is silent. It’s been waiting for him all day, and everything is still right where he and Kirishima left it. It’s still bright outside but frost has bloomed around the edges of the large window; the succulents are thriving, bathing in the light, and clouds move lazily to cast slow shadows over the hardwood floors.

Walking through what could be a still-life painting, Bakugou takes off his boots, his mask, his bracers, his collar. He leans into the small mirror of the hallway to rub some of his eyeliner off; it never really comes clean off, he’ll have to take it out of his lash line later, but at least his lids aren’t all black anymore. He goes to hook all of his stuff in his room. Maybe he should just leave it at the office. He doesn’t really trust the others to care for his costume but it’d be easier than to come back home with it every night. He should ask Kirishima what he thinks of it.

After changing into something more comfortable, he goes back to the living room, stands right there and breathes in. His sigh is the only noise in the whole apartment. If he didn’t move, at all, there’d be no way to say if time is still running; he’s alone for an hour or so, and this moment is his and his only. Taking a few steps forward, he looks out the window at the city still buzzing. It’s winding down, humming lower, breathing slower like the gigantic lung of a tired beast. The crowds disperse and sheer out, blending with the grey of the buildings. The moon is already out and sits above, round and full, yet the sun still warms up Bakugou’s face.

It’s a good place to be.

Kirishima won’t be home for a while so Bakugou turns and –

The front door unlocks.

Still as stone, Bakugou watches Kirishima push the door open and drag his feet inside. He steps over the threshold like his ankles are heavy with iron; his head’s low, his hair’s already down, damp and messy. He carries a big sports bag over his shoulder – a lump forms in Bakugou’s throat when he recognizes it as the one Kirishima uses to bring his costume back home with him after hard days. Slumping, Kirishima pushes the door behind him, closes it, and leans against it with a huff; the back of his head comes to rest against the wood and he closes his eyes, apparently exhausted. From here, Bakugou sees him swallow.

He’s not sure Kirishima’s seen him. Kirishima never acts like this. He always calls out, says he’s back, he’s here, he’s home, but right now he seems to have to gather himself before taking one more step forward, and Bakugou doesn’t like this. It’s a break in the routine he did not prepare for; more than that, it’s a sign that something’s wrong.

Kirishima drops his bag to the floor and pushes back against the door with a heavy sigh, standing up straight. A hand running in his hair, he tilts his head to the side as if to stretch a muscle, sluggishly making his way to the living room. There’s a cramp to the way he moves – he’s usually so bouncy, feline almost, but tonight he’s merely crawling down the hallway. Bakugou feels himself frown.

“Kirishima?”

Kirishima looks up. Some of his hair has landed between his eyes, curling around itself in places. He must have taken a shower back at the agency. “Oh, Bakugou,” he breathes after a second. He sounds drained and it breaks Bakugou’s heart. Not that Kirishima is never tired, but he’s never tired like this, like he’s about to turn to smoke and vanish any second now, like he could collapse without even trying to smile once before night falls.

Bakugou joins him halfway. From up close, Kirishima’s a mess of contradictions. He’s so broad and thick, his strength bulging out from under his shirt, but there’s no joy to his eyes, no contentment and excitation. He’s flat, dim, his aura muffled and muted. Bakugou’s almost expecting him to crash and breakdown right here and now, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

He should maybe hold him. Hold him and encourage him to talk and let it all out. Maybe he should cajole him like good friends certainly do. It wouldn’t be the first time, but tonight, Kirishima looks so fragile Bakugou’s afraid landing a finger on him would break him instantly.

Before Bakugou stops thinking, Kirishima sighs again. “It’s fine,” he says without being asked. “I’m fine.”

It is, obviously, a lie.

“You’re not,” Bakugou states harshly, and the irritation in his voices surprises even him.

Kirishima looks at Bakugou in the eyes and for a beat, Bakugou braces himself to catch Kirishima in a hug, to squeeze tight and give him the few minutes he needs. He owes it to Kirishima, and even if he didn’t, he wants to. It’d be fine. If Kirishima were to slouch and let himself fall against Bakugou’s torso, Bakugou would simply wrap his arms around his waist and let it happen.

But Kirishima doesn’t step forward.

“I’m good,” he mumbles again. “It’s just– There was–”

He sighs, visibly at loss, and blinks a couple of times. Bakugou’s hands itch terribly but he doesn’t know what to do, what to say – he’s bad at this, he’s so bad. Powerless, he watches Kirishima try to string words together, and his chest hurts at the sight.

“There was this guy with a nullification quirk,” Kirishima finally says. He takes a deep breath. “I went to stop him. I got him. It’s fine.”

He looks down and leans back subtly, as if trying to get out of Bakugou’s space. Evasive, he avoids Bakugou’s stare, even when Bakugou tilts his head to the side, only to finally step back and turn away. There’s no way he can’t feel the heat of Bakugou’s eyes against his side, there’s no way he can’t hear Bakugou’s heart vibrating, his whole body taunt.

A nullification quirk. Kirishima heard about an asshole with a nullification quirk and jumped into the fray, him, whose sole line of defense relies on his hardened skin. Kirishima might know how to punch, and he might know how to take a hit or two (or three), but with his skin bare? With his soft flesh and breakable bones, with his armor down? He’d be nothing but cannon fodder to someone with a plan. Standing alone in front of a villain, isolated, in desperate need for help, Kirishima wouldn’t be anything else than a dead man walking without the protection of his quirk. Bakugou hates to admit it, because Kirishima’s strong. He’s stronger than Bakugou in more than one aspect, he’s ridiculously overpowered in fair battle.

But without his quirk, he’s vulnerable. Without his quirk, he risks it all – his body, his mind, his life whole. He, the Chivalrous Hero, is so absurdly self-sacrificing he decided to go out there, alone, and face someone who he knew was able to take everything away from him.

Someone who was able to take him away from Bakugou.

Bakugou’s fuming.

The whistle of a boiling kettle vibrates through him, from the furiously bubbling water in his chest to the core of his bones; it sings, sings and pierces, and the more he thinks about it, the worse it gets.

Even now, Kirishima is still so desperately willing to jeopardize everything. And of course, that what a hero does, and of course Bakugou does it too, but when Kirishima does it, it’s different. Kirishima doesn’t have the right to throw it all away, to risk his health, his face, his smile like this. He doesn’t have the right to jump into battle and never come back whole from it. He doesn’t have the goddamn right to roll a dice and possibly deprive Bakugou of it all.

If Kirishima was looking at it right, then he’d see. He’d know, he’d understand immediately, Bakugou’s sure of it. They’ve grown so well into each other and feelings don’t matter, it’s not even about want and need and stupid fucking love, it’s not about Valentine’s day cards he never wrote and lips he never kissed and hands he never took – it’s not about all this stupid bullshit, it’s about Kirishima eyes when he says yes and the way he laughs when he says maybe and the warmth of his body nothing could replace. It’s his hands in Bakugou’s hair and his breath against Bakugou’s temple and his chest pressed against Bakugou’s back, it’s about his attempts at cooking growing more successful with each passing day and the way he naturally slots next to Bakugou in the bathroom.

And fuck it, maybe it’s about feelings. Maybe it’s about the hope Bakugou still has to, one day, find it in himself to hold and kiss and moan into him. Maybe it’s about all these ridiculous things, and maybe Bakugou’s only angry at himself for realizing he could have lost Kirishima today without having ever showed him how much he means when he says “good night”.

Something’s going to pop off, and Bakugou can’t stop it.

“Stop being so reckless,” he groans, and his voice wavers with five emotions at once. “Be careful, for fuck’s sake. That was dangerous.”

Kirishima turns back to him, not quite scowling but almost. “You know well sometimes we can’t afford to be careful, Bakugou.”

There’s a warning to his tone, a seriousness Bakugou doesn’t often hear coming from him. It’s flat, cold, solid like a slab of concrete – a clear reminder, and Bakugou’s hit with the thought that Kirishima might have gone through this whole thought process before.

But it doesn’t change a thing. Bakugou can’t afford to lose him.

“That’s no excuse,” he retorts, his frown heavy, and it’s only three words but he loses his breath over it. There’s so much he tries to say at once, so many long winded sentences he wishes he could vomit, but this will have to do; he’d grab Kirishima and shake him, and tell him what he means, but he doesn’t know how. At the bottom of his stomach, there’s a please come back to me, and in the curve of his throat there’s a don’t make me go through this, but he swallows them down. “You better not end up in the fucking hospital,” he warns instead.

Something in Kirishima shifts in a second. There’s a new spark in his eyes, something that’s never there, and when he inhales, his chest puffs up like a rooster’s. A vein pulses in his neck, beating like a war drum.

He’s offended. Genuinely offended, as if he was expecting to hear something else, something else or nothing at all. Bakugou doesn’t manage to read him properly; still, he can tell he probably fucked up, at least a little. After all, he ended up in the hospital himself weeks ago.

“The bills are on auto-pay,” Kirishima says, and his voice hitches. “I’d still pay my part of the rent just fine.” He swallows his spit and looks at Bakugou in the eyes. “Someone needed to go stop that guy. I went.”

Bakugou could blow up half a forest.

“Rent? Rent?” he snaps, coming into Kirishima’s space. “Do you hear yourself? Do you think that’s what I’m worried about? Paying rent?”

He takes one more breath, and with that the floodgates open and the lake spills over.

“I don’t care about rent, I don’t give a single fuck about bills and all that bullshit,” he barks, pushing a finger into Kirishima’s chest, and it’s true. He could even say he doesn’t care about the apartment at all, about the view, about the shower and the old couch; none of these things have any value if he can’t share them with Kirishima and Kirishima only. Another roommate wouldn’t cut it, any other agreement would go to waste – no one else knows the gold there is to find in a trio of succulents sitting on a window sill, in a shark-shaped rug giving color to the bathroom, in the clink of glasses echoing against white walls. “I want you to be here,” he continues, pushing further into Kirishima’s space. “I want to see you, in one whole fucking piece, do you hear me?”

They still have a cat to adopt, and they still have recipes to try out, and they still have stupid old movies to watch, games to play for the millionth time, early nights to spend in the curve of each other’s body. They still have so much to do, and so much to see, and Bakugou doesn’t know how to say it without leaning into Kirishima’s face, pulling himself so close Kirishima can’t possibly ignore him. He still has so much to say too, so many things he can’t describe, like the taste of strawberries and the warmth of coral, of gold light shining on his hair and turning him royal. There’s no other way to deal with any of this than to admit to himself first, to Kirishima second, that he wants him to be his first thing in the morning and his last thing in the evening, that he wants him from dusk to dawn and back, and that nothing, nothing, could ever compare to the sight of him dozing off on a chair while the sun rises.

Bakugou’s voice breaks when he speaks again, much quieter this time.

“Please.”

Kirishima’s coldness slips off him like silk. He can’t seem to be able to look away from Bakugou’s eyes, and Bakugou can feel his breath stutter, the vein in his neck slow down. He looks lost, lost and unable to find himself, desperately looking into Bakugou’s eyes, face, everything to find a grip, something to hold onto. He bites his bottom lip then lets go, and Bakugou doesn’t know why he’s not kissing him – he should! He should, it’d be simpler, but Kirishima’s back to being so fragile he could crumble if shaken. For the better or worse, his heart beats furiously against his ribs. Bakugou can feel it pump through the tip of the finger he jabbed into Kirishima’s chest; he wants to splay his palm open, to push all of himself against the chest and grab, push and pull to make him understand, but then Kirishima talks and Bakugou forgets everything.

“You know I can’t promise you that,” he breathes, his voice low. “Realistically, I–”

“Promise me.”

Bakugou insists, and he’ll always insist, pushing his finger harder between Kirishima’s pecs. The incessant waves lapping at his insides make his blood turn cold even though his skin’s burning. He could be out of his body, he could jump out of these bones if it made Kirishima understand he’s bursting to the seams with feelings.

Kirishima looks at him and god is he pretty, even when he breaks down.

“I’ll do my best but–”

“Kirishima, I swear.”

Kirishima raises a hand and grabs Bakugou’s wrist. He doesn’t do much more, his hand just stays there. He doesn’t push him away, he doesn’t do anything; he simply acknowledges Bakugou’s finger pushing into him and forces Bakugou to feel his heartbeat again, from the palm of his hand this time. His eyes are full with something Bakugou wishes he was blind to, full of words he doesn’t say, as if he was holding back.

As if he’d been hurt before.

“Bakugou,” Kirishima starts again, his voice softer, “I hope I don’t have to tell you I don’t want it either, right?”

And Bakugou can’t stop himself; his other hand flies to Kirishima’s side and grabs his shirt, fists around the fabric and pulls. He forces Kirishima to stay there, as close as it gets, and look at him in the eyes when he talks.

“Don’t turn it around,” Bakugou says, unable to tell if the heat he feels is from a blush or a burst of anger, or if it comes from Kirishima himself. Kirishima’s gaping, his brows up, his whole face shining, and through his hand Bakugou feels a suppressed shiver.

He squeezes Bakugou’s wrist. “I said I’ll do my best.”

“It’s not enough,” Bakugou grunts between his teeth. Kirishima’s breathing grows harder at that, his heart suddenly hiccupping. It’s not enough, just saying this is not enough. Bakugou wants a guarantee, he wants something sure, intangible, more than a promise. He wants the skies to part and to tell him Kirishima will never be hurt, and he wants the written word of an old god on a silver platter, and he wants the sun to never stop shining on this beautiful, heartbreaking face he refuses to ever lose the sight of. He wants Kirishima whole now, tomorrow, and until they don’t have to do this anymore.

Kirishima visibly looks for words, his mouth opening and closing on the fetus of a sentence, and he doesn’t know where to look. His whole face has flushed pink and everything that was flat, muted about him is now fluttering, pulsing with emotions he has a hard time containing. He’s gorgeous, and he’s still the same. He’s still the same mess of a boy, the same person Bakugou could never shake off, the same partner he’s had for years, but never had Bakugou wanted to kiss him this badly. It’s barely about the gesture, about body against body and the dampness of a sigh, or the weight of relief. It’s about Kirishima knowing.

There are words Bakugou can’t say but a part of him wishes Kirishima could hear them.

And maybe Kirishima just did. Maybe that’s why his hand wraps in the folds of Bakugou’s shirt, maybe that’s why he pulls too. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t talk but he licks his lips and pushes Bakugou’s wrist out of the space between them, maybe that’s why he doesn’t blink and his breath comes in waves, rippling against the skin of Bakugou’s neck in a delicious echo. Maybe it’s the sole reason why he presses his body into Bakugou’s, and maybe it’s not; Bakugou sees red, pink and red and gold, and he forgets what anger feels like when he meets Kirishima halfway to taste strawberries.

It catches them both by surprise.

They crash into each other, a wave against a cliff, and Bakugou’s entire body goes numb the moment their lips meet. He couldn’t fight it if he tried, all he knows how to do is to kiss, to drink Kirishima whole, to desperately push against him and try to make their mouths slots better against each other, move harder, feel stronger. Feverish, he clings to Kirishima’s shirt with one hand and pulls on his arm with the other, trying to bring him impossibly closer, and Kirishima tugs at him too. He can’t feel his legs, he can’t feel his stomach, he can’t feel anything; he’s only vibrating bones, cold blood, burning skin and hungry lips, hungrier with every second. He breathes, finally, he takes some air in as he moves and the oxygen rushes to his head; dizzy, drunk on it all, Bakugou insists and leans further, opens his mouth wider, high on the feeling of Kirishima’s mouth moving frantically against his.

Kirishima kisses him with an urgency Bakugou didn’t know him capable of, his hands coming behind Bakugou’s back to hold him tight. Tilting his head to the side, he doesn’t let Bakugou think, he doesn’t pull back, and his whole body shivers for a second before he pushes his fingers against the back of Bakugou’s neck and tangles his fingers in his hair. Bakugou forgets how to breathe properly. He hears himself pant, heavy and hot in Kirishima’s mouth. He gasps when Kirishima pushes him backwards and presses him into the back of the couch, his body moving like a snake’s against his own; without thinking, Bakugou breaks the kiss and climbs on the furniture, fumbling around to find his balance and using Kirishima’s body for leverage. Kirishima watches him with lidded eyes, his lips red and slick, one of his hands holding Bakugou’s side firmly. His hair’s even more of a mess than before and he’s winded too, detailing Bakugou’s face with both hunger and tenderness.

“Stay,” Bakugou breathes, pulling Kirishima between his thighs. Stay, he begs instead of come here, instead of I can’t lose you, and Kirishima gets it; one arm around Bakugou waist, the other in his hair, he closes the gap between them and kisses him again.

They devour less and savor more, riding their high and learning how to move with each other properly. Kirishima tilts his head to the left and Bakugou follows blindly, languorously moving with him. He pulls on Kirishima’s shirt and wraps an arm around his torso, keeping him close, and Kirishima hums into the kiss.

It’s only at this moment that Bakugou realizes he’s making out with his best friend in the middle of their living room, that it’s not temporary, it’s not a race. Kirishima has a bed in this apartment, he has a morning routine Bakugou’s part of, he has the keys to the front door. Bakugou can take his sweet time with him, and Kirishima won’t go away.

There’s no rush.

Bakugou tries to stop it but he smiles into the kiss anyway; it’s bad, it’s sappy and mushy and stupid but for once, just for this once, he feels good and doesn’t mind Kirishima knowing it. In answer, Kirishima only hugs him tighter and smiles too, still trying to kiss him and it’s a mess, he can’t aim properly, his shoulders are shaking with contained laughter and they’ve lost all synchronization but Bakugou wouldn’t have it any other way. Kirishima throws an anchor out and Bakugou grateful sinks with it, and there’s never been a happier drowning man.

Reluctantly, Kirishima pulls back. There he is, back to his usual beaming self, dripping with beauty in every aspect. His hand comes to cup the side of Bakugou’s face and he smiles, true, honest, but doesn’t talk.

Bakugou swallows. “Idiot,” he almost whispers, his voice raspy, and Kirishima smiles wider. Both his arms come to loop behind Bakugou’s neck and he looks at him with a softness Bakugou’s not sure to ever deserve.

Bakugou’s heart squeezes.

Kirishima leans forward to leave a peck against his lips. “You can talk,” he says against Bakugou’s mouth before kissing him again chastely. “I’m not the deaf one here,” he continues before leaving yet another kiss on the corner of Bakugou’s mouth, then another on his cheek, and another on his temple.

“You’re still an idiot,” Bakugou mumbles as a pleasing shiver crawls up his spine. He’s pretty sure he knows what Kirishima’s talking about, and his point still stands, Kirishima’s an idiot. Said idiot makes his way down to the edge of the jaw and Bakugou tilts his head to the side to leave him more room, to let him pepper all the kisses he wants, and Kirishima accepts gratefully. He traces curves and maps onto Bakugou’s skin for a moment, taking his sweet time making shivers bloom all over Bakugou’s throat, then drops it and hides into Bakugou’s neck.

“Promise me too?” he mutters right under Bakugou’s ear. “That you’ll be careful.”

Bakugou didn’t hear him promise anything though. Kirishima has refused to say it, to even try to pretend. And Bakugou gets it. He can’t promise it either.

He rubs Kirishima’s back in slow circles instead of answering; Kirishima relaxes into the touch, and Bakugou knows they’ve understood each other.

They stay there for a minute, melting into each other’s warmth. Just for a silent moment, they breathe in, breathe out, and allow one another just a bit of respite, a bubble of mercy, wrapped into each other on the back of their old creaking couch.

It’s Kirishima who speaks up first. “Dinner?” he asks, his breath tickling Bakugou’s throat.

Bakugou shrugs. “Yeah. Dinner.”

Slowly, Kirishima peels off him, unwrapping his arms and taking his body away. He takes a few steps back to allow Bakugou to jump off the couch. He’s still red all over, from his forehead to his collar, and the light pouring from outside is still so bright he has no way to hide it.

He’s so cute. Fuck.

“I’ll just put my costume away,” Kirishima says, making his way back to the front door where he left his bag. “I’ll be right there!”

Bakugou nods and watches him go. He’s alone for a moment in the living room, it’s just him and the hardwood floors still warming up with the sun. It’s just this still-life painting he gets to stand in, the same as last night and all the nights before. It still feels like a cozy nest.

He’s busy slicing carrots when Kirishima comes back. His footsteps grow closer until he presses his front against Bakugou’s back, his chin resting on a shoulder, both arms wrapped around Bakugou’s waist. His damp hair brushes the curve of Bakugou’s neck and touches the side of his face too, but Bakugou only leans into it.

Kirishima’s voice reverberates through their chest when he talks, when he chats about small nothings. Much more lively than when he arrived, his tone dances over the words – Ashido’s throwing a party on Saturday, he says, so I thought about the cat, he says, and Bakugou listens. Kirishima also tries to take the knife and help Bakugou cut some vegetables but Bakugou refuses every time; these hands belong around his hips, his whole body pressed flush against his own, so tonight Kirishima’s not cooking.

Shortly, the entire apartment is warm with the smell of curry; Kirishima sits on the kitchen counter, his legs swinging in the air, and rambles about mundane things. Bakugou doesn’t ask him to shut up, because why would he? Why would he deprive himself of this sight, of Kirishima happily chirping about random things he likes? Bakugou has yet to find a way to say it, but there’s little more heartwarming than Kirishima blooming after a long day, outshining the sun in this tiny kitchen corner, his red hair turning peach as the light shifts gold.

Bakugou stares, a lot, and never tries to hide it.

He’s the one who brings the food to the table and sits second; when he looks up at Kirishima, he already has his glass raised.

Bakugou sighs, but his attempted pout breaks into a grin. Alright.

He takes his glass and raises it too, secretly hoping he looks just as serene as Kirishima does in this moment.

“To you,” Kirishima says, and it may be short but Bakugou hears much more.

“To you,” Bakugou says back, and by the way Kirishima smiles, he knows Kirishima heard his me too.

Their glasses clink like chiming bells and they drink all of their water at once; Kirishima’s smiling when he brings his glass back down, a fresh blush on his cheeks.

Bakugou will burst open at the sight one day.

Not tonight though, because he wouldn’t miss a second of this. He kind of wonders what he’ll have to say to the navy-haired hyena next time he sees him, but it barely matters; he won’t implode tonight, not when Kirishima glows in the backlight, not when he looks at Bakugou with these eyes that make him want to kiss this pretty face all over, to push dinner aside and pull him over the table. Not when fleeting dust gives him a jeweled tiara, glimmering in low light, and makes Bakugou want to never blink again.

And when they sprawl on the couch, nothing’s really different from before. They still lean into each other’s presence and curl around each other’s side and shove each other away when the races get too tight. They still share the same personal space and talk the same way, tease the same spots, have the same manners. Nothing’s really changed, and neither of them is surprised about it.

But maybe, maybe there is something new in the way Bakugou presses Kirishima into the couch and catches his lips with his own. Maybe there’s something to explore in the slow kisses they revel in, in the hums they echo, in what they see in each other, in themselves with their eyes closed. Maybe there’s a bit of an adventure there, and something held back for too long, in the hands coursing under the shirts, and the itches relieved by loving caresses; Bakugou straddles Kirishima’s hips and holds him down, and Kirishima gratefully takes it.

Their bodies warm up to each other and sometimes Kirishima talks, you’re beautiful, he whispers, can I? and kiss me again, and Bakugou only says yes, yes, yes.

Kirishima wears this shit-eating grin of his when he carries Bakugou to his bedroom; Bakugou protests and squirms in his arms, but he doesn’t really try. A facade isn’t important – there are much better things to find in the crook of Kirishima’s neck, in the ridiculous giggles that ripple in Bakugou’s chest, in these lips he knows he’ll have all the time in the world to kiss again.

Turns out Kirishima’s bed is perfectly sized for two. The sun is barely setting when Bakugou dives back into him, head first, and Kirishima catches him in a breath; it’s just as he thought it’d be, if not a little bit better. Kirishima’s body is heavy but his hands are soft and his lips softer, his breath deepens then stutters when Bakugou nips at his skin and lets his hands roam. They don’t try to coax sounds out of each other but Bakugou still gasps and sighs and pushes Kirishima away to breathe – Kirishima laughs at him, every time, but he always waits for Bakugou to pull him back in.

They manage to remember to brush their teeth and turn off the lights. Bakugou rolls under Kirishima’s blanket without being offered to join and given Kirishima’s face, he’s not about to complain anyway.

They’re not asleep by midnight but they genuinely try at least a couple of times, until Kirishima pulls Bakugou’s waist closer and finds new spots he hasn’t kissed yet, new patches of skin he wants to taste; Bakugou lets him. Their legs tangle under the covers and their hands rarely stop moving, from hair to shoulders to the small of a back. Sometimes Bakugou shivers all over, and Kirishima mirrors him when they pull a bit harder onto each other, when fingers tentatively dig into the muscle for purchase, when Bakugou murmurs against his chest.

There’s a lot that’s new but they have all night, and all day after that, and all week if they want to. They have a home into each other and places to come back to; Bakugou pushes his hands into Kirishima’s hair and kisses him for the hundredth time, and he tastes like the rising sun.

Kirishima adds some more steps to his morning routine.

He learns how to slither out of Bakugou’s grip when his alarm goes off, slowly pushing the hands away and rolling out of bed. Sometimes Bakugou lets him go; more often, he holds on tight and keeps him close, trying to take advantage of Kirishima’s body heat for a little longer. Eventually, Kirishima manages to slip out from between his arms – he makes sure the blanket’s still covering Bakugou before leaving and closes the door on his way out.

It’s often raining in the early mornings this time of year. Kirishima watches the city wake up with him while the rice cooks, water gently tapping against the window. The sunrise is always slow, always gentle, and one of the succulents turns magenta when the warm light hits it just right.

He learns how to stop looking away when Bakugou emerges from the bedroom naked. He can look now. He can watch and learn – it doesn’t change much since he’s always been a hands-on kind of guy, but Bakugou’s all his to stare at, even when neither of them can properly open their eyes. He mumbles a “g’morning”, Bakugou grunts something back and always, always Kirishima smiles.

The table looks perfect when Bakugou comes back into the living room in his sweats, and Kirishima learns his favorite part then. His feet dragging on the floor, Bakugou makes his way around the table and stops for a second to kiss the side of Kirishima’s head in a quiet hello. It always lands in his hair and it’s always gentle, always a soft push, but in its regularity Kirishima feels a confession. Bakugou doesn’t cling to traditions without a reason; he finds this reason in the way Kirishima smiles up at him.

They’re things easy to learn and even easier to love. Every day that passes, Kirishima finds home on the third floor, first door on the right, and forgets what it’s like to wonder what a friend would do when Bakugou’s head pokes out from behind a wall. It doesn’t matter, because he’ll do whatever he wants; if he wants to waltz with him between the table and the couch and make the dust glitter with gold, he knows Bakugou will let him.