Chapter Text
They move in on a late Tuesday afternoon.
Their new place isn’t really empty, but it’s far from being full either. There’s a couple of beds, an old couch that creaks when someone approaches, an oven that has seen better days; the only table they have has been marked by other hands, the wood weathered, the warmth of the pine turned to an ashy brown by the sun. The shower is just large enough for one person, the bathroom mirror just wide enough for two, and when they test the lights, the bulbs flicker together. The washing machine has four buttons but only three labels, the front door’s lock doesn’t match the frame, the hardwood floors bear a large stain where someone spilled wine in the corridor. The dust floating between floor and ceiling smells like ghosts.
They’re not the first ones to live here.
But the room that makes for both a common living space and a modest kitchen has this gigantic window in place of a wall and light pours through the old glass to drench them in the sun – the dust flickers in the rays and if they blow in the air, it spirals in a small tornado that sparkles for a few slow seconds. The bedrooms aren’t big but they’re big enough for second-hand queen size beds, the kitchen corner isn’t spacious but they can afford to stack five pans in the cupboards, two nails were forgotten in a wall but the Wi-Fi is good.
It’s a hollow shell of a place but they both have a key to the front door and the mailbox carries their last names together. Bakugou K. & Kirishima E., third floor, first door on the right. It’s not much but it’s theirs, all theirs to warm up, all theirs to come back to, all theirs to mold into a home.
They don’t have many carboard boxes; a few piles of clothes, some books, a bunch of electronics, a couple of posters and sentimental trinkets – it’s all they have to start off with. Not without effort, they haul a punching bag into Kirishima’s room and carefully attach a large mirror the Bakugou’s had to spare in the other bedroom, they throw a mat on the bathroom floor, plug in a microwave that can’t give the time. Room by room, bit by bit, they replace the smell of stagnation with that of sweat and excitation, pushing furniture around, getting used to the sound the three doors they have make when they open. There isn’t much room in the kitchen cupboards but they carefully organize them as if there were, as if it truly was hard to decide where to put the rice, because it almost is. The rice could go anywhere but it’s their choice to make, so they put it on the right, next to where the cans will go once they buy some.
Bakugou never complains. He doesn’t enter Kirishima’s room uninvited, his stuff doesn’t take more space than needed in the bathroom, he’s careful around the corners of the corridor when he carries a nightstand around. Kirishima can see him be careful, thoughtful, willing to do his best.
It didn’t take him much to convince him they should move in together after all.
After long hours of back and forth between the truck that carried them there and the inside of the flat, it’s Kirishima who closes the front door for good. It creaks too but the lock is satisfying to fiddle with.
He finds Bakugou standing in the middle of the living room, between their old couch and the table they salvaged, hands on his hips as he appreciates the view from the large windows. The light cuts his silhouette roughly, emphasizing the thickness of his shoulders; Kirishima always knew his best friend would eventually grow into this tower of muscle, but right now he looks almost soft, his breath deepening after all the efforts they’ve done, the skin of his neck glimmering with a last trace of sweat.
“Well, this is it,” Kirishima declares as he comes to stand besides Bakugou. “We’re home.”
And it doesn’t feel quite like home yet, it’s more borrowed than earned, but Bakugou looks at Kirishima and the sun that filters through his irises makes him look like he was born to stand next to this very window.
“Yeah,” he nods, “I guess that’s it.”
He turns back to look down to the streets, to the soft hum of the city slowing down after a day of work, to people making their way home and kids leaving school. The neighborhood isn’t the quietest or the most beautiful but there’s a park around the corner of the avenue and a grocery store at walking distance. They can’t see the whole city, they won’t see the lights at night, but when the sky is clear, it’ll make for a good star gazing spot.
It’s a good place to be.
Eventually, Bakugou lets out a sigh. “I’m gonna make dinner,” he says before turning around.
“Cool, I’ll go take a shower,” Kirishima smiles. Bakugou opens their almost empty fridge and hums in acknowledgment.
It’s a good place to be and now it’s all they have. These off-white walls, these old pieces of furniture, this mailbox with two names on it. There used to be a yours and a mine as neighbors, in the dorms; now there’s a ours and nothing else. No other place to go, no compromise.
The heater in the bathroom might be slow to do its job and the temperature of the shower might require an engineering degree to get right, but Kirishima’s not in a rush. Today’s liminal, suspended between their before and their after; if only Tuesday evenings were all like this, all ended with a long shower and Bakugou cooking for two, Kirishima might just never ask for anything ever again.
When he realizes after a beat that all Tuesdays could very well be like that, there’s sugar to the thought, a spike of sweetness rushing to his head immediately. Life is good.
His wet hair up in a bun, Kirishima finds Bakugou busy in the kitchen corner, filling the apartment with the delicious warmth of a curry. He rolled up his sleeves and when he shifts his weight from one foot to another, the folds in the fabric shift around his waist.
Kirishima ignores whatever he feels at the sight, because that’s what friends do.
“Aaaah, Bakugouuu, it smells so good!” he keens, coming to lean against the kitchen counter to watch Bakugou. Focused, Bakugou keeps his eyes on the food.
“Set the table while I finish this,” he says before lifting his spoon and to have a taste. His hands are rougher than they used to be, the callouses climbing past the sides to melt into a few dark scars on the back of the wrist. Kirishima knows them too well.
He squeezes himself between the table and Bakugou to reach the cupboards on the other side of the stove. Bakugou doesn’t seem to mind. “Where did you put the glasses?”
“On the left,” Bakugou points to the largest cupboard they have, attached to the wall over the counter. “Hurry up, it’s ready.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kirishima smiles, fumbling through shelves. He manages to find what he’s looking for and the table’s roughly ready before Bakugou turns around to put a pan full of food down between the plates. Bakugou sits down with a heavy sigh, letting Kirishima fill up their glasses with water, and leans back into his chair. His eyes lose focus for a moment, wandering somewhere behind the windows, and Kirishima lets him take it all in. This moment’s rare, fleeting – it won’t happen again and Bakugou deserves to savor it too, to revel in the pause, in the shift between eras of their lives. It’s a privilege to be there when he lets go like that, in their kitchen.
Bakugou snaps out of it after a handful of seconds and shifts in his chair when Kirishima sits down. Before he can reach for the pan, Kirishima clears his throat and raises his glass. “To our new place,” he beams.
Bakugou blinks and looks at him, an eyebrow quirked up. “Kirishima, we’re not making a toast with water.”
“Come on, for the special occasion,” Kirishima insists with a wide grin. “To our new place, to us.”
Impassible, Bakugou looks at him for a while longer as if his silence could convince Kirishima to drop it – it’s doesn’t, of course, so he reluctantly leans forward and raises his own glass with a huff. It takes him an instant but he finds Kirishima’s eyes and when he breathes out, something settles in his gaze, like acceptance. Like an okay held too long, a you got me Kirishima has learned to read years ago.
“To our new place, yeah,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile in the corner of his lips.
Their glasses clink with a singing chime – they drink this contract together, their eyes locked on each other. The water’s cold and plain but the warmth in Kirishima’s chest is unmistakable, thrumming with a special kind of happiness reserved for these memories they make together. He hasn’t felt this good in a while.
They start eating while the sun sets and makes the dust sparkle with gold; Bakugou yawns and groans about the noise in the street and the time at which they’ll have to wake up tomorrow but there’s a gentleness to his face, a lightness to his words. He relaxes, mellows in his chair and there’s no mistake to be made, there’s nothing to be misread. Written in the way he blinks slowly, in the way he doesn’t try to avoid Kirishima’s eyes, it’s clear that Bakugou’s happy too.
They fall into step together like two pieces of a well-oiled machine.
On their first morning, Bakugou’s alarm clock blares through the walls of the apartment but Kirishima’s already up, dozing off on one of the chairs in the kitchen while he waits for rice to cook. He looks up when Bakugou gets out of his room like a bear out of a cave and drags his feet all the way to the bathroom; his hair’s a mess, one of his eyes still hasn’t opened fully, he slouches and lets his legs guide him to where he needs to be.
“G’morning,” Kirishima mumbles, and Bakugou mumbles something back before locking himself in the bathroom. The shower starts running a dozen of seconds later.
Kirishima leans back into the palm of his hand and checks on the rice cooker from a distance. Dawn blooms into a peachy sunrise, spilling liquid coral on the hardwood floors. Outside the windows, the city wakes up too with a low hum as the light comes up to flatter the sides of buildings and shimmer in puddles left by the rain, slow and lazy. There’s mist in the corners of the window panes; it’s probably cold outside, but in the small apartment it’s all warm and cozy, all around Kirishima, all the way down to the pit of his stomach.
He has breakfast ready by the time Bakugou walks out of the bathroom. Some rice, a couple of boiled eggs, a few pieces of ham; it’s not much but they’ll go shopping later, and Kirishima knows Bakugou likes it like that anyway.
“Don’t eat everything before I sit down,” Bakugou warns from somewhere behind Kirishima.
“I might if you don’t hurry,” Kirishima snickers, but when he turns around, Bakugou’s wearing his only towel around his neck and over his shoulders, nonchalantly making his way back to his bedroom with the clothes he slept in wrapped in the crook of his elbow instead of actually over his naked body, and Kirishima wasn’t ready. He didn’t think he’d be greeted by this, by a careless, shameless Bakugou flexing his mouthwatering looks this early in the morning. By all of this.
“Let me live,” Bakugou grunts before Kirishima can say anything, and he disappears in his bedroom – hopefully to get dressed up.
Kirishima can’t take his eyes off the corner around which Bakugou just turned; the warmth in his cheeks is too familiar and by now he knows there isn’t much he can do against it. He closes his eyes and sighs, but it only cements the sight in the back of his mind, everything from the dimples carved below Bakugou’s waist to the muscles rippling under the skin of his thighs. Everything.
He might not survive the first month at this rate, and they’ve only spent one night in this apartment.
Still, he doesn’t comment on it when Bakugou comes back wearing grey sweatpants, because that’s what friends do.
Bakugou sits in front of him, chest bare – is he never cold? – and fills his bowl with rice. His hair isn’t quite dry yet but it’s already puffed up and untamable, and this time he looks awake.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back tonight,” Kirishima says between bites, already busy chowing down his breakfast, “Amajiki says he’s usually back at his place around seven thirty.”
Bakugou looks up at him, fiddling with his chopsticks. “I’ll go buy groceries then,” he groans, his voice somehow still low and heavy with sleep. Kirishima could tell this tone in a hundred; the I just woke up tone, the one that reminds him that Bakugou was just wrapped in blankets not that long ago.
“Text me when you’re going, maybe I’ll be on my way back already,” he says, and Bakugou hums in agreement, absentmindedly checking his phone while he starts eating.
It’s not quite like it was in the dorms; there’s the chatter missing, the background ruckus of dozens of students piled together in a hall, the omnipresent reminder that they’re a pack constantly moving together, a pride of cubs in training. It’s kind of bitter to have lost this routine. Not that Kirishima misses the noise; it’s the warmth he liked, the buzz of it all as if he woke up in the core of a hive.
Here it’s not buzzing, but it’s warm all the same. The comfortable silence is new, and it only exists because they choose to be two.
They break the silence times and times again when it comes to washing the dishes, reminding each other to get dressed already and making sure they’re on time for work; Bakugou’s voice resonates particularly well against the tiles of the bathroom, when he smudges eyeliner all around his eyes to fill in the gaps in his eye mask. He’s had his costume tweaked a bit since they left school – a few adjustments around the legs, some reinforcements on his shoulders – but he won’t possibly be mistaken for anyone else, for his glare is still the same once he covers half his face with black.
Kirishima gets to see him behind the scenes, when his costume is on and his makeup is fresh but his mask is still waiting by the door. He gets to see the whole process, Bakugou’s mouth open in a breath he has yet to take, his rock-hard abs flexing under his shirt when he straightens back up and away from the bathroom mirror, satisfied.
He gets to see, watch and remember as they get ready shoulder to shoulder; he knows Bakugou looks back at him in the same way.
And when there’s only their front door between them and the start of a whole new life, it’s Kirishima who gets to hold the handle.
“You sure you have your key?” he asks for what must be the fourth time, and Bakugou’s still checking his mask in the small mirror they hung to the wall.
“I already told you I have it,” he grunts before turning to Kirishima. “Come on, are you gonna open this door, yes or no?” Kirishima doesn’t answer immediately so Bakugou steps forward.
“Don’t tell me you’re stressing out about this, Kirishima,” he sighs. He reaches for the handle himself but Kirishima opens the door before Bakugou can get into his personal space and gets out – the air out of their apartment feels so much lighter, as if much richer in oxygen, and gets to his head easily. He knows it’s the adrenaline, the excitement so characteristic to Big Days. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Every pro hero has to make their official debut at some point.
“You’re fine,” Bakugou echoes behind him. He closes and locks the door, merciless and out of patience. “Stop overthinking this, you look like you’re going to vomit.”
“Get out of my head,” Kirishima jokes, but Bakugou’s right.
“No,” Bakugou retorts dryly, pressing on the elevator button, “and you should focus, or you’re going to fuck up on your first day.”
“Thanks man, real helpful.”
“You’re welcome.”
The elevator ride is silent but Kirishima can still hear Bakugou’s nerves simmer with eagerness under his skin. After all, today he takes this first step on the sky-high flight of stairs leading to being the Very Best, the Number One. If the seat is rightfully his, today’s date will be written in books and talked about for years to come.
The hall of the apartment complex is empty. Their shoes squeak on the clean floor.
“Don’t forget to text me about the groceries, alright?”
Bakugou adjusts his bracers. “Yeah.”
“And tell me if anything –”
“Kirishima.” Bakugou pushes a door open. “Stop this.” He walks out and the city welcomes them out of their bubble and into the world with the growl of passing cars and the chime of bike bells.
Kirishima breathes in, out. This is it.
“Alright, don’t get lost on the way to the office.”
Kirishima turns to Bakugou, just in time to see him grin before he starts walking away, and watches him go. “See you tonight,” he calls, and Bakugou raises a hand in acknowledgement, see you tonight.
Tonight, the only place in time where there is any certitude, any semblance of an anchor. Tonight is where the windows are so wide night never really falls, where the dust settles over the heaters, where Kirishima knows he’ll go back no matter what happens.
There’s so much safety to the thought that Kirishima manages to think about something else.
He spends more of his day dealing with last-minute paperwork and being introduced to people than he’d like but the realities of a pro hero’s life catch up to him after lunch break, to his relief. Finally, he’s free to overuse the training space in the basement of the office, finally the city is his to roam and patrol. Whatever stress was slowing him down in the morning is distilled into this essence of enthusiasm and pumps through his veins with each step he takes; he soaks all the advice given to him like a sponge and pushes himself to the point of exhaustion as he tries to do everything perfectly. It’s hard on the mind and harder on the body but one child recognizes his mask when he goes outside, then and only then does it become feather light.
This is it, this is truly it. Finally. This is what it feels like to be a hero, publicly, officially. From the outside, it’s not much more than running after petty delinquents but Kirishima thoroughly enjoys every single minute of it. It’s easy to get caught up into it too, to let go of everything else and forget that time passes, so when Bakugou texts him that he’s gonna go buy stuff now, Kirishima’s surprised to see it’s already six in the afternoon.
Tonight grows closer, floating in the distance like a mirage, and even though Kirishima can’t leave work right now, he knows he’ll be there soon. So he tells Bakugou not to wait for him, shoves his phone back into his pocket and promises Amajiki he’ll do his best until the day ends.
He finds himself in front of their door faster than he thought he would, and tonight’s right on the other side. The new lock clicks open and the old frame creaks when he enters; from the hallway, he can see the evening light bathing their living room in copper. More striking still, it’s the smell of smoked fish and steamed vegetables that lets him know he’s home. He knows this well, it’s not the first time Bakugou cooks like this and fills all the space he has with warmth, humidity and a pinch of salt.
“It’s me,” he announces, and Bakugou’s head peaks out from the side of the living room, where their kitchen corner is. The backlight shining on him gives him a crown that hovers around his hair, cutting shadows on his face.
“Don’t put dirt everywhere,” he groans, but Kirishima’s already taking his shoes off. After pushing them into a corner of the hallway, he trots to Bakugou’s side, his mask in a hand.
“How much was it?” he asks, looking over Bakugou’s shoulder at the pile of vegetables he’s putting in a plate.
“Huh?”
“The groceries. So I can pay half,” he clarifies.
Bakugou shrugs, flattening the pile with a wooden spoon. “Just pay for them next time.”
Kirishima considers it for a couple of seconds. “Yeah, fair enough,” he admits eventually, eyeing the filets of fish laid to the side. His stomach grumbles. “It smells so good, Bakugou, I’m so hungry.”
“You gonna say this every night?” Bakugou grins, and his shoulder presses into Kirishima chest when he moves to grab a pepper grinder. “Go take a shower, you stink,” he complains, scrunching his face in disgust and elbowing Kirishima in the stomach weakly, but all it does is make Kirishima chuckle.
“Yeah, yeah, alright, I’ll be quick,” Kirishima smiles, running a hand through his softening hair as he walks away. “Then tell me about your day!”
“I don’t talk to stinky people,” Bakugou says harshly, but Kirishima knows it means okay.
The heater of the bathroom is just as slow as it was the day before, the temperature just as hard to get right, but Kirishima takes his time to wash off the sweat that dried on his skin. The fatigue suddenly catches up with him under the running water, seeping through his muscles and draining all the energy out of him; the steam makes him lethargic, heavy in his lungs. It’s as though a train of emotion ran over him one wagon at a time – the anxiety, the joy, the fervor, all slipping off him and swirling down the drain with the dirt. Eyes closed, head down, Kirishima wastes hot water for a couple of minutes just so he can feel the moment.
He manages to come out of the shower quickly enough to see Bakugou put down plates on the table, his black shirt and sweats sharply contrasting against the white walls of the apartment. He hasn’t taken his eyeliner off yet; most of it is gone but he still has smudges of black above his lashes and under his eyes. Kirishima always found it a certain kind of pretty but never said it out loud, because that’s what friends do.
“So, how was it?” he beams when they sit down.
Bakugou puts some food in his plate. “Pretty cool, I guess. They treat me like a goddamn kid though.”
Kirishima imitates him, treating himself to a generous portion of fish. “It’s normal though, you just started.”
Bakugou looks up to him, his chopsticks crossed. “They already know me well, for fuck’s sake,” he scowls, “’S not like we’re strangers to each other.” He shovels a large piece of broccoli in his mouth as if to accentuate how pissed he is.
“Who doesn’t know about you at this point,” Kirishima scoffs, and Bakugou’s glare is as sharp as ice picks but his mouth his full. “My day was so cool,” Kirishima continues even though his mouth is full too. “They showed me around and gave me a desk! Then we went on patrol and I met all these other sidekicks, it was awesome,” he tries to grin, but too much fish is too much fish.
Bakugou swallows. “You talk like an intern,” he sighs, eyes down to pick which piece he’s going to eat next.
Kirishima chews on his fish faster. “Excuse me for loving my job, mister I’ve Never Had Fun Once In My Life,” he says jokingly, and Bakugou pulls such an offended face Kirishima would worry about him leaving the table right there and then if he didn’t know any better.
He swallows his fish, puts his chopsticks down and lifts his glass.
“To our first day,” he says with a grin. Bakugou’s face falls immediately.
“We’re not doing that again,” he groans, staring straight at Kirishima flatly.
“Why? It’s a special occasion,” Kirishima coaxes him, reaching forward with his glass. “Come on!”
Bakugou sighs but he’s not moving. Unblinking, he stares for a moment and the sunset reflects in his eyes; Kirishima has his back turned to the window, he can’t see the sky, but there’s little more he’d like to see than what’s pooling in Bakugou’s irises and all over his skin. Watery, molten, the gold of the light marries so well with him, with the red of his lips and the smudged black over his lids. A thought passes behind his eyes, then another; eventually he gives in and takes his glass too.
“Alright,” he breathes, visibly annoyed, but he tilts his head to the side in acceptance. A compromise. “To our first day.”
They cheer and the clink sounds like festival bells; they drink all their water in one go as if there was any challenge to it and Kirishima has to make a conscious effort not to smile against the rim of the glass.
They try to go to bed early; they fail.
Their old couch is more dangerous than it looks; once you sit down in it, there’s no way to stand back up. It makes weird noises when someone shifts or moves their legs and the pillows are so comfortable they could very well swallow you whole. Kirishima almost falls asleep in it while the TV’s running but Bakugou reaches out and nudges his shoulder. “Don’t sleep here, idiot,” Kirishima hears him mutter close to his ear.
The bathroom lights are blinding but Kirishima keeps an eye closed while he brushes his teeth; it’s enough to watch Bakugou take off what’s left of his eyeliner, his own toothbrush poking out from between his lips.
They make sure there’s no light on, that all the leftovers are in the fridge, that the door is locked. Sluggish, they go find their beds and mutter a couple of good nights; they go into the night alone in beds too big for one person but tomorrow, tomorrow is the next lighthouse. Tomorrow is where Kirishima cooks rice for two and Bakugou talks in monosyllables until he has his costume on, tomorrow is where the sun makes their hardwood floors blush with peach and the old dust look like glitter, and it’ll arrive no matter what happens.
Well-oiled machines barely compare to this cycle of places in time Kirishima yearns to relive over and over again.
Bakugou never lowers the volume of his alarm, he never brings sweatpants with him in the bathroom, he never insists to make breakfast himself; he always makes sure the apartment smells like his own brand of home by the time Kirishima comes back and when the sunset hits him right, he’s so pretty he smiles without trying.
Bakugou never liked journalists, but if there’s a kind he likes the least, it’s the gossipy ones. The ones that track stupid rumors like hyenas track blood, gums bare as they smile so wide their jaws could unhinge; these are the ones Bakugou could happily send to go fuck themselves if he could publicly do so. He hates their faces their faces, he hates their questions, he hates everything about them.
They play dirty too because a crew ends up cornering him in the middle of patrol, right in front of a bunch of kids. The children have stars in their eyes and fidgety fingers; Bakugou hates, hates these “journalists” but he doesn’t hate them enough to traumatize a bunch of kids by blasting these bloody scavengers off into space. Still, just seeing two or three of these overzealous faces, eyes sparkling with unhealthy obsession, is enough to make Bakugou consider it.
He would have done it, at some point. He would have used violence to cut his way through their crews, he knows this; he’d have been all flames and fury. He wised up though, or at least that’s what Kirishima says, so he rolls his eyes and goes to walk away. His old ways come back to tempt him when a short man with navy blue hair scurries around him and shoves a mic in his face. “Are you and Red Riot planning on working in the same agency? You’re often seen together since the start of the new season,” he pants, voice shrilly.
Bakugou pushes the mic away and tries to do what countless people had to learn how to do before him: ignore them. Maybe if he looks away, they’ll just disappear. Maybe if he walks far enough, he’ll be able to lure them into a passageway and have their disappearances filed under “mysterious circumstances”.
The man has oblivious seen worse than someone refusing to answer; he’s protected by law, the fucker. Of course they have a press pass, and of course no one can use their quirks on them. And these kids standing around the street corner have whole galaxies in their eyes and it could almost break Bakugou’s heart if he had any time for that kind of bullshit.
“You’ve been seen leaving the same building on mornings, are you living together?” the short man tries again. And this… Bakugou ticks at this. What kind of question is it?
“Yes,” he barks, and a fire immediately lights up in the man’s eyes. The sight is sickening – it’s only a word, it’s only a yes but Bakugou’s already said too much. He turns around and starts walking away in long strides – the kids gasp when he passes them. But it’s too late, a leech being what it is, the man with navy blue hair trots behind him.
“Did you make – ah – did you make this decision because you – aah Ground Zero sir, please wait – because you weren’t able to live alone after – after the dorms?” he heaves, obviously having a hard time keeping up with Bakugou’s power walk.
Whatever bothered Bakugou earlier is back with a vengeance; he doesn’t know why but something bubbles in his throat – unable to live alone? Is this hyena talking about him? Or about the both of them, together? Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to think about it.
He whips around and the man almost falls back in surprise. “No, it’s because the rents are too damn high in this city,” he growls, pointing an accusatory finger at the guy.
He’s not lying when he says the rents are too high.
“Kaminari’s inviting us to the bar tomorrow, you wanna go?”
Bakugou puts away a dry plate into a cupboard and takes the wet one Kirishima’s handing to him. “Dunno,” he grumbles, “who’s gonna be there?”
Wrist deep in hot water, Kirishima scrubs a couple of knives clean. “Not sure, probably the whole gang to be honest. Pretty sure Sero’s coming, Ashido too, Iiida will be there and Uraraka said she would think about it.”
Bakugou doesn’t answer, making sure the plate is entirely dry before he puts it away too, and takes the knives from Kirishima. He doesn’t look mad, or defensive at the idea of being asked to go out, but he’s definitely not enthusiastic.
“I just thought that’d be cool,” Kirishima shrugs, smiling. “It’s been a while since we last saw them.” He turns off the tap, puts his sponge away and grabs another towel to dry his hands, resting his hip against the sink to face Bakugou.
“You saw them last week,” Bakugou says without bite, and he puts the knives away too. He’s still not looking at Kirishima though; something about it doesn’t sit right with Kirishima but he can’t put his finger on it. There’s just something in the way Bakugou looks down, in his collected way to brush off the invitation, that makes Kirishima want to ask questions.
Bakugou closes the drawer and leans forward to pull out the plug of the sink; the piping gargles comically but it’s not loud enough to distract Kirishima from the sigh Bakugou lets out right then, into his breathing space and close to the skin of his neck. The physicality isn’t a problem, it’s hasn’t been for ages now. Kirishima’s hugged the guy before and he’ll do it again, he knows what Bakugou’s sighs feel like against the crook of his shoulder, he knows the solid wood of his back muscles, he knows what it’s like to have their ribs pressed against each other’s. He could tell Bakugou’s scent in a crowd, he could describe the color of his hair as seen from up close to a blind person, he’s learned it all. He could map the scars of his hands and trace lines between the moles on his back and Bakugou wouldn’t stop him.
Kirishima knows this is why he gets to stand in this kitchen, why Bakugou doesn’t push him away to reach for something. He’s been taught every line in this book, he could read Bakugou with his eyes closed and there’s no doubt that if he swung his arm around Bakugou’s shoulders and pulled him in right now, Bakugou would let him do it.
He also knows it’s why Bakugou looks so pretty under all kinds of suns. The sight is too familiar, it’s too easy to bask in. Bakugou’s jaw is sharper than when they met, he’s grown taller, broader, his voice has dropped deeper but he never stopped being gorgeous. There’s something to him other people seem to be blind to; gleaming like a thousand jewels sitting in the light, he outshines the moon herself. Their closeness, the bond nothing could break is why Kirishima’s here and it’s also why he can’t take his eyes off Bakugou at times.
Kirishima called it admiration for years – he wishes he still could.
He snaps out of it when Bakugou takes the kitchen towel out of his hands. “You’re spacing out again,” Bakugou says as he spreads the towels on the counter so they can dry. “What’s been bothering you so goddamn much lately, uh?”
The worry is one of these new things too. Well, maybe it’s not worry, maybe it’s tact or misplaced curiosity, but in Bakugou’s mouth it sounds the same.
“I’m just sleepy,” Kirishima admits. “But think about Kaminari’s invitation, yeah? It’d do you some good to see people,” he adds, detaching himself from the counter to make his way to the TV.
Behind him, Bakugou snorts. “What does that mean?”
Kirishima bends to turn on their Wii then sits on the couch. “You haven’t been really social lately,” he says, and he knows Bakugou can hear the smirk he’s wearing. As proof, Bakugou comes to fall on the couch with all his weight. He shifts, crosses his legs; one of his knees his in Kirishima’s lap and he looks determined to get the last word out this conversation.
“I’m very social, what the fuck are you going on about?” The spark of challenge has been ignited and there is little out there that could stomp it out.
Kirishima quirks a brow. “You haven’t seen anyone outside of work in over two weeks, Bakugou.”
“I see you,” Bakugou retorts immediately. “I see you every night. And every morning.”
And the way he says it, so simply, stripped bare, it hits Kirishima in the chest without warning. I see you every night, Bakugou just said, as if that were enough. As if that were all that could matter. As if he couldn’t understand how, how in the world could anyone think he’d need more than to hear Kirishima open the front door.
He’s not fair.
“Aaaaww man, I love you too,” Kirishima beams after a beat, smiling so wide he almost hides in his cheeks.
Bakugou blinks. There’s a trace of eyeliner at the base of his lashes that makes his stare heavy with something Kirishima tries to ignore.
Twisting around, Bakugou pulls two controllers out from between pillows. “You won’t once I beat your ass,” he warns before handing one to Kirishima and pushing his back further into the couch. He shifts and tries to sit more comfortably; his notion of comfort includes having his side pressed against Kirishima’s, their thighs overlapping, their shoulders moving together with their breathing.
Kirishima doesn’t think about it.
“But really, you should come tomorrow. They’d be happy to see you,” he says when Bakugou turns on the TV.
“And I’d be happy to have a long night of sleep.”
“Bakugou –”
“I know.”
There he goes again, looking away. Kirishima can see the shadow of his own profile on Bakugou’s face, but the sun still filters through his eyes, scarlet. There’s something off about his expression; his lids are heavy, his scowl is soft, he doesn’t try to look closed off or cold. He just lets himself be and relaxes against Kirishima with a heavy sigh, and Kirishima knows he can’t ask for much more. This is as gentle as it gets for Bakugou; it’s rare, as precious and difficult to hold on to as a handful of rubies, so Kirishima lets it happen.
The title screen appears with a chime.
“Alright,” Kirishima gives in, “just let me know if you change your mind.”
Bakugou hums in answer, blinks slowly and it stirs something up in the gaps between Kirishima’s ribs. The vibrations make something coil around his lungs and into every chamber of his heart; Bakugou certainly doesn’t feel it but Kirishima could swear he’s about to choke and he can’t explain why. A force takes roots in the core of his chest, thin enough to slither in his veins and around his bones – it pushes deeper with every second Kirishima spends looking at Bakugou instead of focusing on the game but if something must sprout of him, if something must bud in his trachea and bloom out of his open mouth, then so be it. It’s tight like wraps, like tentacles, like a whole tree’s rooting inside of him in the suspended space between breaths and is yearning to sprout out and catch the light too.
Bakugou nudges his shoulder with his own and Kirishima blinks out of it.
“You better focus, if I lose just because you can’t keep your eyes on the screen you’re doing the laundry for the next two weeks.”
Kirishima turns to the screen. “Oh, so like, once.”
Bakugou shoves him away. “You’re so fucking gross,” he growls, but Kirishima laughs it off and pushes himself back up and against Bakugou just before the first kart race starts.
Dusk catches them by surprise not long after they started playing but neither of them moves to turn on a light; they stay huddled on the couch and promise one another they’ll go to bed soon. They don’t, and the more time passes, the less Kirishima feels like he could ever get out of this couch for the roots that have grown in his chest keep him anchored right by Bakugou’s side.
Heavy rain falls against the large window in a cacophony, pushed back and forth by an angry wind that whistles in the pipes of the apartment building. Even sunrise doesn’t help; the sky’s grey, muted, the light smothered by thick clouds. Water gargles in the gutters and splashes on the sidewalks. The few people who are already out trot from shelter to shelter, their umbrellas useless in the wind. Still, the city hums awake, slowly, inexorably.
The old heaters do their best and even in these cold mornings, Kirishima walks barefoot out of his bedroom. It takes him a while to truly feel awake but his hands know the way and work for him: first the rice, then the eggs, then the meat. It’s not haute cuisine but it’s enough this early in the morning. Hunched over the kitchen table, his head in his palm, he manages to get out of his trance slowly while breakfast gently sizzles over the pan. He could watch rain fall all day.
He’s awake enough to mumble a “g’morning” when Bakugou walks past him but it takes him almost a minute to realize, long after Bakugou grunted something back and hid away in the bathroom, that his roommate must have discovered the joys of sleeping naked.
Breakfast suddenly becomes fascinating.
Bakugou wasn’t like this in the dorms, or at least Kirishima never saw him this at ease, unabashed. His boldness had always translated into barks and punches, not into pajamas forgotten at the bottom of a drawer and his naked body strolling around for everyone to see. Not like he had anything to be ashamed of.
Still, the more he thinks about it, the less Kirishima can pinpoint when Bakugou became like this. Would he have grown into the same man if he was sharing this apartment with anyone else? Kirishima’s not sure, but he knows he’s the one who gets to watch Bakugou rub his eyes over his breakfast or stretch his arms while he looks outside the window. It’s over his shoulder that Bakugou looks when he wants to take a peak at the local newspaper, and it’s with him that he shares the bathroom when they have to get ready for work. It’s him who finds Bakugou’s eyeliner when he loses it and when Bakugou mutters a low “thank you”, it’s Kirishima who gets to wonder when was the last time Bakugou called him names.
Saturdays might be the best.
It’s good to wake up late and walk around with a toothbrush when the apartment has already been warmed up by the sun. It’s good not to care about being late for work – but Bakugou might still go out, even though he’s not on call. He’ll find time to go training in the afternoon, or maybe he’ll just unwind punching Kirishima’s sandbag. He hasn’t quite decided yet.
He’d start cooking lunch but Kirishima’s out to buy groceries and their cupboards are pathetically empty, so he pulls out his laptop and goes to sit on the couch instead. Munching on a carrot he found at the bottom of their fridge, he starts to mindlessly scroll through social media feeds that are all more boring than one another before remembering he doesn’t give a shit about any of it. When he switches to a news website, there isn’t much that catches his eyes either – a headline about recent floods in the south, a feature about this orphanage specialized in taking care of children left behind after a tragedy, a couple of articles about some foreign war… And in the corner of a page, a picture of Red Riot.
It’s small enough that Bakugou can’t make out the details of his smile but there’s no doubt about it, Kirishima is beaming at the camera.
He can’t remember Kirishima telling him anything about an article being written about him though. Out of curiosity – and nothing else – Bakugou clicks on it.
The written portrait is short but daring, meet Red Riot, one of the prodigies freshly out of UA! Bakugou scans over the typical why did you decide to become a hero? and what’s your favorite part of the job? questions; he’s already heard Kirishima answer these ones a thousand times and he’s not about to read about him say “oh I’m here to help people!” once more.
Bakugou bites off one more bit of carrot and scrolls down. The interviewer grew bolder as the questions went on; have you ever been the one in need of rescue?, would you ever form a team with your former classmates?, and in every answer Kirishima shines with class and enthusiasm. Bakugou has to admit Kirishima could teach him a thing or two about communication and public relationships – if he cared about that enough to ask. Then again, Kirishima is probably answering this way without thinking about how to seem like a good hero – he just is like that, all smiles and kindness at every point in time.
Bakugou remembers finding it annoying as hell; he grew out of it over time. Watching Kirishima smile helped.
At the end of the column, the interviewer slipped in one last question which probably wasn’t on their list; rumors say that you and Ground Zero could be more than friends, could you comment on that?
Bakugou blinks. What kind of question is that? Rumors, which rumors? He might not be in touch with what people say online or in the streets and he couldn’t find the energy to care even if he wanted to, but that’s a first. Who could even feel the need to ask this kind of stupid ass question – is it because they know that he and Kirishima share an apartment? Is it what it takes to be suspected to be a couple? Fucking hell, their journalistic standards are low.
Of course, Kirishima answered, and Bakugou can hear his smile through the screen, we’ve known each other for years! You could say we’re more than just friends, he’s my best friend after all. I wouldn’t be here without him!
Bakugou shoves the rest of his carrot in his mouth.
He can’t tell what’s worse: the fact that Kirishima answered this question so positively or that it was such a predictable answer from him. Of course Kirishima would answer that way. Of course he’d say my best friend, as if Bakugou hadn’t already made abundantly clear he wouldn’t behave like that with anyone else, as though there was no room for a we’re best friends. And of course, on top of it all, he’d be enough of a light head to forget to deny any romantic involvement, and that’s truly the worst.
Bakugou aggressively chews on his carrot. That’s truly the worst and he doesn’t want to think about the reasons why.
If he had been asked this question, he’d have bit off the mic out of the interviewer’s hand and their fingers with it. He’d have made clear that no one asks these questions to Ground Zero – he and Red Riot? More than friends? Ridiculous. Worth an outrage. Absurd to the core.
He swallows. If he’d been the one asked to answer, he wouldn’t have stayed calm and composed. He wouldn’t have looked at the interviewer in the eyes and found reasons to say yes. Of course he wouldn’t have. That’s stupid. Even for money, he wouldn’t have played into this game. No, he’d have called out the interviewer for being this invasive, and nothing would have given him pause, nothing would have made him hesitate and choose his words; not the knowledge that his reaction would be broadcasted, not the thought of what Kirishima would say, not the years of memories they made together.
Certainly not the bubble between his two lungs, inflating by the second. Certainly not all this water he feels like he’s drowning in, pooling in his chest, expanding every time he re-reads Kirishima’s answer – was he aware of it before? Of the weight, the momentum of it, of this pulsing force twisting in his insides?
Is it new?
We’ve known each other for years! Yeah, for years, and nothing had really changed. They might have grown and learned, but they stayed the same, barging into rooms together, spending late nights in each other’s company; red and gold, blinding with the strength they give each other, they’ve always been like this.
You could say we’re more than just friends.
Bakugou stares at the sentence printed on his screen and for a few seconds forgets how to exhale. The bubble in his chest grows larger, pulses faster, pushes farther; there’s nothing off about this answer and he hates it. Yeah, yeah he has to admit, one could say they’re more than just friends. It’s not wrong. It’s not a lie. He wouldn’t have put it this way during an interview but it’s technically right – and he hates it.
They’ve always been more than just friends.
Kirishima has always been the exception, the social anchor Bakugou has clung to, the lone soldier in no man’s land. He’s always been there; after a few months of warming up to each other, Bakugou’s always returned the favor. They’ve been through Hell and back together. Of course they’re best friends, of course they’re more than friends; who wouldn’t be?
Bakugou blinks; the bubble shivers and trembles, pushing up against the back of his throat. There’s a lie in there somewhere. There’s something that keeps him from looking away, something that swims in wide circles in the lake between his ribs. A creature of the depths coming up to tease the surface, roaming and rumbling through the waves, so large it pushes ripples all the way up Bakugou’s spine. Something Bakugou can’t quite put his finger on, something blurry that slips between his fingers like a muddy eel. There’s something nested in the years of red and gold thriving side by side, in Bakugou being unable to set his train of thoughts on any coherent tracks, in more than friends.
Because if they’re not more than friends, he wants them to be.
He wants them to be.
And just like that, Bakugou understands something.
The bubble pops.
The front door opens and Kirishima enters, shuffling around with bags full of groceries, but Bakugou can’t turn around and say hi; he’s terrified of what he’ll see if he does, of what else he’ll learn. Just thinking about it is dizzying, or maybe it’s because he can’t control his breath properly, maybe because his heart hasn’t been beating right for years and he only just noticed. Kirishima closes the door and now he’s in the hallway and Bakugou can only stare at his picture on the screen, at his smile he knows by heart – it’s the same it’s always been, for years, and that pinch has always been there, and that rumbling in the water has always been there, and that monster finally breaching the surface isn’t new either. How has he been breathing this whole time – was it always this hard, was it always this loud?
“I’m back!”
And if he had never truly looked at Kirishima until now, he doesn’t have much of a choice today; when he turns around, Kirishima’s there the same way he’s always been, the same man in the same body, and he beams with the same solar intensity, making his way to the fridge so casually. He faces the window and the light should say thank you, for it couldn’t find another canvas as fitting as Kirishima’s face; his hair is down, framing his beautiful face in a cascade of ruby and peach, and Bakugou can’t help but wonder if he’s been blind to all shades of red until now.
“What’s up man?” Kirishima asks the way he always has, and Bakugou hears himself mutter something in answer but he can’t tell what. His voice shouldn’t work properly, there’s no air left in his body; he’s only lake, lake and uncharted depths he wasn’t aware of, lake and the pulsing, furiously beating heart he never listened to. There he is, stuffing meat in the fridge, his more than friend. There he is, kneeling to reach the groceries better, and he moves and breathes as though it was an easy thing to do, he just is right there, in the same room – the audacity of it all.
“Ah you finished the carrots,” Kirishima chirps, his head behind the fridge door. “I thought so, I got you some more.”
Bakugou wishes he could find something to say but he’s stuck on the couch and doesn’t know how to stop watching him, the boy he always had by his side turned man he never knew he wanted. He feels like he should take a picture so he could look at it later and understand why, why now, why all this – but it’s useless. He doesn’t need to capture the moment. Kirishima’s sleeping here tonight, and he’s sleeping here tomorrow, and he’ll be sleeping here until they both move on. He’ll have breakfast ready by the time Bakugou leaves the bathroom and he’ll beat his ass more often than not at Mario Kart; he’ll laugh and laugh and laugh and Bakugou will be there to watch it all.
They’ll always be more than just friends.
So Bakugou stays silent and sits there, and there’s a lot to what he doesn’t say; Kirishima rambles about what they could do this weekend and Bakugou listens instead of stopping him to object, looks instead of ignoring him to find something else to do, breathes slowly instead of admitting I just realized I’m in love with you.