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When Kirishima dons his hero costume, he is all blood reds and molten golds.He glows in shades of pure amber and casts shadows the color of red wine. He bleeds in hues of scarlet and mahogany. And when he shouts in triumph and grunts in effort, or when he pumps a fist and flashes a peace sign, he is all goldenrod fire, bright butterscotch and the slightest hint of sun showers in the highlights of his skin.Not only that, but he is bold and intense, lines cutting ridges and valleys into the bronze of his skin. He is pure muscle, solid and real, up until his hardening sets in and all that is left is the rough marrow of his bones and the razor edges of his teeth. He is bright and sharp and big, torso thick and fists large and nose crooked from all the times it has been broken. The burgundy and black of his clothes are a
stark contrast against his piercing white smile and happy upturned eyes.He is hard to look at, sometimes.Bakugou finds himself looking anyway.
Late evenings in the dorms finds Bakugou tucked into the corner of a couch in the common room--his corner, where the pillows are soft and the blankets plentiful and nobody dares to look at him twice.He likes the nights when it’s just Kirishima and the rest of his idiot friends. When the whole class gathers downstairs for an impromptu dumbass celebration, Bakugou doesn’t stick around for long. He tends to seal himself away in his room where their loud laughs and warm demeanors can’t touch him. They’re annoying, and bothersome, and he can’t keep up with all of the loud chatter and teasing jokes and bodies crammed on comfy couches.Most of all, it’s overwhelming, overstimulating, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.So Bakugou doesn’t do big group hangouts. Whatever.But the evenings where it’s just Kaminari elbowing him in the ribs, or Sero laughing at Jirou’s joke, or Ashido leaning against his legs from her spot on the floor in front of him--well, Bakugou doesn’t really mind those.And when Kirishima is there, flitting around like a butterfly, or the tip of a redorange flame, all over the place but always there, always present? That’s fine, too.On these particular nights, Kirishima’s energy ebbs away like a low tide. He becomes dark shades of navy, deepwater hues in the tint of his skin. The red is still there, in the form of leftover cheer and excitement from the day. His smiles are tired but steady. His quips are slow but they land. He is a cliff, rusty red clay in the form of a human.The way the colors in his being contrast during this specific time of the day leaves Bakugou at a loss for words, so he sits in his sullen couch corner and lets Kaminari elbow him, and Jirou tell him bad jokes, and Sero laugh in his face, and Ashido lean into him.And he lets Kirishima’s eyes linger on his own face for too long, too.
(Kirishima’s stares are by no means a new trend, but before, Bakugou had never really cared. People stare at him all the time, and for various reasons--for his tangible anger and his explosive hands and the starburst scars that line his arms and legs. They stare because they are scared, and with good reason. Let them stare , Bakugou thinks. Let them stare with animosity and fear in their eyes. See if I give a damn. Kirishima’s stares, however, are different.When Ashido somehow convinces him to let her paint his nails gunmetal grey, Kirishima stares. When Bakugou beats Kaminari at the old-ass hero game that Sero has on his vintage console, Kirishima stares. And when Bakugou attempts to doze off to the sounds of Jirou singing under her breath from her spot next to him, he can feel Kirishima’s eyes on him.Kirishima’s eyes aren’t full of animosity or fear like they should be. His stares have something in them that Bakugou is unable to decipher. He wants to. He wants to know what the fuck is going on in Kirishima’s head that makes his eyes linger on Bakugou’s face for so long, in a way that he can’t read.So he asks.)
He catches Kirishima in the kitchen one night, alone, as he is pulling an orange soda out of the back of the fridge. “Who the fuck even drinks orange soda?” Bakugou says as he enters the room, hopping up onto the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.Kirishima looks up. He looks really... Fluffy today, clean from a recent shower and warm in a worn t-shirt and dark sweatpants. The fringe of his hair flops over his eyebrows. “Uh, me,” He says, quirking a brow. “It’s good, man.”Bakugou humphs but doesn’t respond. The clock that hangs above the refrigerator ticks quietly. Muted music echoes into the kitchen from the common room.“Need something?” Kirishima asks, humor in his eyes as he leans back against the fridge. The shape of his torso is nice to look at, Bakugou thinks. The shoulder to waist ratio is nice.“Stop staring,” Bakugou commands, a bit hypocritically, meeting Kirishima’s eyes and holding his gaze.Kirishima snorts, looking down. He does that a lot--he looks away when Bakugou looks him in the eye, and really, it pisses Bakugou off. Kirishima has the guts to stare at Bakugou’s face unabashedly, point-blank, but the minute Bakugou turns to meet him halfway, he stops.It’s irritating. Bakugou is irritated. He continues to glare into the side of Kirishima’s head like a jackass. Kirishima glances up once more, a smile in his eyes. “Looks like you’re the one doing all the staring right now.”Bakugou ignores him. “No. Stop staring when we’re with everyone else and you think I don’t notice.”Kirishima remains silent, humor fading from rusty red eyes as they trace over his face critically.“I’m not a dumbass,” Bakugou continues. “If you have something you want to say to me, then say it.”Kirishima rolls his eyes good-naturedly and pops the cap off of his orange soda, taking a comically large swig. He belches and wipes at his mouth. Bakugou wrinkles his nose, and tries not to imagine how Kirishima’s breath might taste after her downs the whole soda, tangy with citrus and bubbly with fizz.“No,” Kirishima says, echoing Bakugou’s tone.“No?” Bakugou repeats indignantly, jumping off of the countertop and stalking over to where Kirishima is leaning nonchalantly against the fridge, unfazed. Bakugou points a finger into his annoyingly solid chest. “You’re always spewing bullshit about having a manly spirit and speaking your goddamn mind, but you’re not even ready to tell me whatever the hell is going on in your brain. If you have a problem with me, then you should uphold your dumbass values and tell me.”“I don’t have a problem with you,” Kirishima says, the last of the humor weaning from his face, red bleeding away as navy waves beat against the cliffside. “And I’ve been ready for awhile. You’re the one who’s not ready.”Kirishima attempts to leave, then, turning on his heel to exit the kitchen and go back out to the common room, but Bakugou’s hand shoots out. He latches onto Kirishima’s wrist. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”“I mean,” Kirishima’s voice drops to something barely above a whisper, low and smooth as he turns back around and gets up into Bakugou’s face. He’s a bit taller than Bakugou now, having gained an extra couple of inches during his most recent growth spurt, and Bakugou hates the fact that he has to look up into Kirishima’s face now. “That you’re not ready to know how I feel about you.”Bakugou stares at him. Kirishima stares back. His breath smells faintly of oranges and something else, something rich. Like chocolate, maybe. Or cherries.When Kirishima turns to leave this time, Bakugou doesn’t stop him. He lets Kirishima’s wrist slip out of his grasp, and watches his broad back as he goes, disappearing into the other room without another word.Bakugou lingers in the kitchen for a while after that, thinking of ruby eyes and orange sodas and hints of cherry chocolate. He thinks of long stares and hushed whispers and wide shoulders stretching the thin cotton of an old t-shirt. He thinks of dark blue waves crashing against red clay cliffs.Bakugou decides to leave it alone from then on. If Kirishima wants to stare, if he wants to keep quiet and keep his thoughts to himself, then that’s his business.But Bakugou will be ready when he decides to talk.
In class, Kirishima’s hands gradually become covered in ink.This is a habit that Bakugou had noticed during first year, when Kirishima was his only friend and the label was still very cautionary. During the breaks between classes, Kirishima would amble over with a steady gait and a happy grin, approaching Bakugou’s desk without fear and leaning against it as he chatted Bakugou up about nothing important.
How do you feel about the practical coming up?
His hands always flew through the air as he spoke, like a pair of hummingbirds mid-flight.
I wouldn't mind being paired with Asui, she’s always pretty level-headed out in the field.
And, always, the skin on the backs of his palms were covered with black ink, little notes and doodles and reminders Kirishima set for himself because he can’t for the life of him remember anything. Some of it was faded, but most of it was legible, tiny bold characters forming temporary tattoos, almost looking like art.
Then again, being paired up with anyone in the class would be okay.
The ink bled into his tan skin, blending to create the color of wet sand.
I hope I get paired up with you. We’d make a kickass team.
Second and third year aren’t any different. The skin on Kirishima’s hand is still stained with black, covered in tiny words and phrases that fade from his skin over the course of the day. We would, Bakugou says. Time passes.
We do.
Hood pulled over spiky hair, Kirishima smiles down at his phone. The air outside the train is cold despite it finally being summer, and the sky is gray and clouded over. A light drizzle falls from the sky, peppering the window with tiny droplets of rain. Bakugou lets his eyes follow the trail of one particularly large droplet as it drips down the outside of the window, blurring the motion of the cityscape outside as they pass by.The train jolts and Kirishima, who is not holding on to anything, bumps into Bakugou’s side. Bakugou lets it happen. He’s done grumbling to Kirishima about proper safety and etiquette while riding the train; if Kirishima wants to fall over every damn time they hit a bump, then that’s his problem. Bakugou just grips the overhead handle tighter and huffs out a sigh, and lets Kirishima keep his close proximity, just in case.“Hey, Bakugou,” Kirishima says, voice quiet so as not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere of the train car. There are currently only a few other people in it--an older couple who lean into each other, and a woman with her headphones on. “What are you gonna do after this?”“Sleep,” Bakugou grunts, because the evening is coming to a close and he is tired. It doesn’t matter that he’s on break; it doesn’t matter that there is no summer training camp or anything for him to be stressing out over at the moment; it doesn’t matter that all he did today was go shopping with Kirishima. Bakugou’s always tired. Bakugou wants to go home and fall into bed and sleep.“No, after this,” Kirishima says“After this?” Bakugou repeats, eyebrows furrowed.“Yeah, y’know,” Kirishima looks up from his phone and into Bakugou’s face. “After Yuuei.”Bakugou frowns. After Yuuei. The phrase almost sounds unpleasant, settling in Bakugou’s stomach like a heavy weight. A life after Yuuei is uncharted territory, unfamiliar and daunting, and Bakugou prefers not to let himself dwell on it. He doesn’t know why Kirishima is asking about that, especially now, of all times.“You already know what I’m gonna do, dumbass,” Bakugou rolls his eyes and pretends like he’s not avoiding the question. “I’m gonna be a fucking hero.”Kirishima huffs and pouts. “You know that’s not what I meant. Where are you going to go?”Bakugou remains silent for a few moments. Of course, he has this grand plan, the one he’s been hatching since his elementary school years. The one where he goes to a big city, and takes out as many villains as possible, and quickly climbs to the number one hero position.Things have changed since then, though.“Not sure,” Bakugou answers honestly. “Wherever the villains go. Tokyo’s always been a hotspot.”Kirishima hums. The sweatshirt he is wearing is this awful bright pomegranate color, and the hood of it clashes terribly with his cherry hair and his rosy cheeks. “Tokyo’s pretty far.”“‘S not far enough,” Bakugou grumbles, looking back up and out of the window. Buildings crawl by as the train continues its route, and in the distance the crests of the mountains stand gray and motionless. The sight makes Bakugou want to go hiking again. He should plan another trip; it’s summertime which means that the sun rises early and the air is cool and crisp in the morning, and that Kirishima will be able to come along with him. He likes hiking with Kirishima.“Hey,” Kirishima protests, nudging Bakugou with his elbow and bringing him back down to earth. “You’re seriously gonna leave me, man?”Bakugou turns to look at him, then. The overhead lights of the train are honey yellow, coating Kirishima in this hazy golden glow. He already looks dewy from the rain, wayward strands of hair poking out from his hood, but the lighting makes him look softer, and in this moment, Bakugou has the overwhelming impulse to lean down and press his lips against Kirishima’s, to kiss him slowly until this conversation is dropped and all that they can think about is the touching of their lips and the softness of their cheeks and chins against each other.He doesn’t do it, though.Not yet.“You’re not coming, Shitty-Hair?”Kirishima stares for a second. But then he smiles, and it stretches to his eyes, crinkling the corners and smudging them with hints of happiness. “You asking me to?”“I’m not asking you to do anything,” Bakugou asserts stubbornly.“Do you want me to come with you?” Kirishima asks anyway.Bakugou looks toward the window again, looks at the sun that is beginning to peek through the curtain of clouds and summer rain, painting the sky a raw red.“I wouldn’t hate it,” Bakugou allows. “If you came with me.”Bakugou can see Kirishima grinning again, in his peripherals, but he doesn’t turn. Kirishima doesn’t respond. Instead he opts to look out the window as well, and Bakugou knows that both of their eyes are tracing the top of the mountain range.Kirishima also decides to reach a hand up and take hold of the overhead handle, the same one Bakugou is holding onto. His fingers lay atop Bakugou’s. Neither of them pull away.
“C’mon!” Kirishima says, tossing the word over his shoulder as he walks up ahead of Bakugou. He hikes along the worn path breezily, boots scuffing against the gravel when he hops from rock to rock. His backpack bounces with every step he takes. His hair is down, strands loose underneath a beanie, a grey thing that Hagakure had knitted him for his last birthday. The dye is fading from the tips of his hair, and it glows almost pink in the early morning light, a captivating ombre.The leaves on the surrounding trees are green, dark and soft, sunlight leaking through them in uneven patches. It creates spots of yellow and gold on the ground.They reach a creek soon, a small bubbly stream of gushing water, and Kirishima splashes in the gray of it, toe of his boot scraping along the pebbled bed, just because. Birds that cannot be seen chirp overhead, singing soft songs. The wind rustles branches and leaves, whispers through patches of grass, sifts through Kirishima’s hair. Everything is refreshing and invigorating, and Bakugou is suddenly and viscerally reminded of how much he loves hiking.They walk along the bank until they reach a wider section of flowing water. Kirishima attempts to hop across the creek on unsteady rocks, balancing precariously on the tips of his toes. He almost falls in, right in the middle, but Bakugou is right behind him. He catches Kirishima by his flailing hand, helping him to right himself and making sure that he makes it to safety on the other side of the creek.Kirishima smiles at him, something sweet, cheeks tinted a cute pink as he glances down at their joined hands. Bakugou’s palms are big and rough, skin thick and unpleasant to hold, but Kirishima doesn’t seem to mind. His longer and more calloused fingers lace with Bakugou’s.Bakugou likes the way Kirishima’s hand feels in his. He likes the way Kirishima’s steady palms smother his sparks. He likes the way Kirishima is looking at him now, eyes starry and almost as soft as the juniper green leaves above.Bakugou looks away but doesn’t let go.
The sky is milky blue on the day that Bakugou almost dies, and vast in a way that seems almost incomprehensible. The clear blue is punctuated every now and again by the occasional fluffy cloud, edges fuzzed out and blurred. The contrast that this color creates against the fire-red blood that coats his right hand is stark, and he feels everything in his body burning, burning.If he had been quick enough, smart enough, strong enough, then this wouldn’t have happened. If he had been better, then maybe death wouldn’t be knocking on his doorstep right now. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Because he’s here, right now, and he has to deal with the consequences of his own incompetence.The little girl he had protected from the falling rubble and debris is safe underneath him, though, virtually untouched besides the tears that spill down her cheeks and the small scrape on the underside of her chin.
(Kirishima had once gotten a scrape on his chin like that during a particularly scrappy sparring session with Bakugou. All Bakugou had wanted to do was touch it with healing fingers, kiss it better with grazing lips. Instead, he had fired off another explosion, and had demanded more.
More what? Now, he doesn’t know.)
The little girl hiccups from underneath Bakugou’s torso, fingers clenching the fabric of his hero costume. He holds her trembling body. There is definitely glass tearing into his backside, chunks of concrete lodged in the skin around his spine. He can feel blood welling up in his wounds, dripping down onto the ground below and forming rapidly growing puddles. It’s too warm against his skin. Too warm; too fire-red.Just about a minute passes before the girl looks up at him, eyes wide and round and light blue against her dark, freckled skin. She seems to be waiting for something. But what? Bakugou finds himself struggling to remember what he had learned in his provisional license training course, the lessons buried in the back of his fuzzy skull. He doesn’t know what to say to her in this situation. His license burns a hole in his back pocket.Sweat is pooling in his palms and beading on his forehead. His tongue is rough and his mouth is dry and his head hurts like a bitch, almost as much as his backside. His pulse hammers in his ears and thrums at his temples. Most of all, he feels overwhelmingly tired. His body wants him to give in; to close his eyes and let go.Bakugou can’t do that. But he has no idea what he can do.So of course, Bakugou thinks about All Might. What the hell would he do in this situation?“It’s gonna be okay,” Bakugou says, voice as rough as the gravel in his skin, trying his best to sound reassuring and not at all like his usual self. The little girl continues to stare at him. She looks no older than seven, maybe eight. Her entire body continues to shake and she hiccups again, and the tears keep rolling down her face, unrelenting, flowing like the hard current of a river.
A river that Kirishima almost falls in. This river is swifter, more dangerous. Kirishima is balancing precariously on sharp rocks, and Bakugou is reaching and calling out to him. He barely manages to catch his hand, but this time, they fall. They both fall, and Kirishima is smiling his razor edged smile.
Kirishima is smiling.
The answer is as clear as day.“It’s gonna be okay,” Bakugou repeats and he smiles--or rather, he tries to. Tries so hard to smile for her, despite the pain, despite the absolutely shitty situation, despite the fact that he might never see All Might, or Kaminari and Sero and Ashido, or Kirishima again.Bakugou wishes Kirishima were here. Here with his hardened skin and rough exterior, here with his soft eyes and warm laugh. What would he do? Would he reach out with expectant fingers again and wait? Would Bakugou take his hand this time?
I am here.
He would.The girl reaches up and touches Bakugou’s face with shaky hands, and God, she is so small, so delicate, with tiny bones and paper thin skin. He doesn’t even realize she’s wiping his tears until her hands come away wet.
I am here.
He coughs and tastes metal. “I’m here,” He says, voice barely breaking a whisper. The girl’s tears begin to cease.Bakugou doesn’t know how long it takes before the pros take over and the paramedics arrive, but it feels like a lifetime. Surely, Bakugou should be dead by now; by some miracle, he isn’t, and he stays there, clutching her small body against his chest, until they are forced apart and Bakugou is placed face down on a stretcher, ears ringing, eyes blurring to grey, then black.
He wakes up and the burning is dulled, bearable. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, yet, not when the ache is tangible in the air, when he can feel the flare of the yellow hospital lighting above. His head is pounding, his veins pulsing, and everything is fuzzy--the beeping of a nearby monitor, the feeling of an IV hooked into the back of his hand, the small whispers in his ear that he is only just beginning to make out.“You push yourself too hard, too much,” He hears. Kirishima’s rough voice.He can’t tell if this is still a dream or not. His consciousness came back to him in the middle of Kirishima’s talk, it seems. Everything feels hazy. Bakugou can still smell the smoke in the air, can still taste metal on his tongue, can still feel the girl's tiny fingers underneath his eyes.A palm is placed lightly against his chest, above his heart. Hard, rough, warm, soft. Not a dream, then.Kirishima is here. Everything is okay.Bakugou doesn’t move a muscle.Kirishima’s voice sounds again, closer this time. “You’re not indestructible, Katsuki,” He murmurs after a beat, lips almost brushing Bakugou’s cheek. Almost. So close.
Come closer.
“You’re not indestructible,” He continues. “You got really hurt, and I… I guess I never realized that there’s a chance I could lose you for good until today.”Bakugou wants to still his breaths so that he can hear Kirishima better, hear the desperation in his voice when he mumbles those small words, hear the feeling in his thoughts that comes with the pain, the terror, the care.“I was so scared,” Kirishima says. “I had just got back from my patrol with Fat and Amajiki and everyone was watching the TV, and I could feel all of them look up at me, and they all seemed so--so sad, so sorry, and I knew something was wrong, and Aizawa tried to stop me from looking, but he couldn’t,” Kirishima’s breaths are shuddering. “And I looked on the TV and saw you being put on a stretcher. You looked so close to death, Katsuki, and I remember feeling the same way. I didn’t cry because I didn’t want everyone to see me break. You wouldn’t have wanted that for yourself, or for me. I didn’t cry.”Kirishima pauses again, pulls away. He sniffles and hiccups and takes in a painful breath and he sounds just like the little girl that Bakugou had shielded with his body.He had never gotten her name.“I didn’t cry,” Kirishima says once more. “I didn’t cry.” And then he breaks.Kirishima breaks beautifully; he hunches over Bakugou’s body and cries, loudly, the sounds echoing in the hospital room as he clutches onto the blankets draped over Bakugou’s torso. It’s sound painful, but it sounds real, and Bakugou was never prepared to hear this vulnerable side of Kirishima, was never prepared to hear Kirishima break for him.“You’re an amazing hero as you are,” Here, Kirishima rests his forehead at Bakugou’s temple, breaths beginning to calm, the worst of the tempest having passed. “You don’t need to almost kill yourself in order to become number one. You’re the best as you are. Alive.”A pause. A million words flit in and out of Bakugou’s head, but they all feel useless, in this moment, too little to even begin to describe the well of emotions that Bakugou is feeling at his core.“I need you to keep reaching out to me,” Kirishima’s voice still sounds watery, shaky. Bakugou can picture the way his bottom lip might be trembling, the way that the scar on his eye might be stretching as he squeezes his eyes shut.Kirishima’s fingers trace the back of Bakugou’s hand, then fit underneath it to latch onto his sticky palm.“I love you, Katsuki,” He whispers.Bakugou’s head is milky blue, cloudy and fuzzy, but his heart--his heart is fire red, burning, burning.“Keep coming back to me.”Bakugou opens his eyes.
Bakugou is forced to get glasses.Of course, it makes sense that he would eventually need them--his vision is shit due to his father’s genetics, and he’s sure that the routine of blowing shit up right in front of his face every day for the majority of his life has certainly not helped in bettering his vision. That’s what his parents say, anyway.But then the optometrist with three sets of multi-colored eyes on her face is throwing around words like “far-sighted” and “new prescription” and “contact lenses” and Bakugou feels suddenly and vastly underprepared for being diagnosed with chronic shitty vision. And then he is being coerced into picking out frames, and holy shit, it finally hits him that he’s gonna have to go through the rest of his life looking like a fucking nerd. Great.He refuses to get rectangular frames on principle, because his old man has rectangular frames and so does Iida, and he’ll be damned if he walks into class with his new glasses on only to be compared to the fucking Class Rep with a stick up his ass. Absolutely not.So he opts to get circular glasses with thin metal frames, not at all flashy, but functional and sleek, and they arrive at his dorm two weeks later in a steely gray case. He puts them on and wow, he can finally actually see shit, what the fuck. He didn’t realize just how shitty his vision was until now. Because now he can pick out all of the details in the carpeting of his floor, and the wood of his desk, and the faded detail of Kirishima’s Crimson Riot shirt that is thrown over the back of Bakugou’s desk chair, red thread and toothpaste stains and small holes in seams of the armpit.As much as he is loath to admit it, Bakugou wants to see more.And so Bakugou walks down into the kitchen, passing by the common room briefly, and everyone gathered there gawks at him like a bunch of extras. He ignores them in favor of stalking over to the fridge and grabbing one of Kirishima’s shitty sports drinks. It’s a bright teal color, probably tastes disgusting, but now Bakugou can read the tiny characters on the label and it says Cool Blue and it sounds just as gross as before but Bakugou will drink it, whatever.Uraraka accosts him because she is the bravest one out of all of those fucking idiots gathered around on the couch in the common room. She materializes in the kitchen and chirps out a, “Bakugou!” He can see now, with the aid of his glasses, that she has thick unruly eyebrows and a mole underneath her eye. He never would have noticed that before.“What,” He growls, taking a step backward, away from Uraraka’s face so that her sunny disposition can’t mess with his unceasingly angry vibes.“You got glasses!” She exclaims, pointing directly at his face, as if he didn’t fucking know that already. Her nails are short, almost bitten to the beds.He bats her hand away and sneers. “Why the fuck do you care?”Asui, who had previously been sitting with Uraraka, comes over to where the two of them are standing and puts a finger to her chin thoughtfully. She has faint freckles on the apples of her cheeks, marks tinted a soft color that appear almost green. “You look a lot nicer, now, Bakugou.”Bakugou blanches, caught off guard. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He sputters indignantly, clenching his free fist to smother the rising smoke.“You’re not squinting anymore,” She says patiently, tilting her head. “You look less mean.”Uraraka turns to Asui. “Oh, I see what you mean! Before, his eyebrows were always like this,” She brings two fingers over her own bright eyes, pointing them downwards. “But now that you’re not squinting and scowling, you just look normal!”“Normal?” Bakugou says, hands sparking, because what the fuck. He’s never looked normal, and now these two have the audacity to approach him to tell him he looks more--more approachable ?Kaminari saves them from their impending doom by appearing in the kitchen doorway. “What’s going on-- holy shit! ” He exclaims as he catches sight of Bakugou. His yellow eyes are bright and wide. He has this scar on the side of his face that Bakugou has never noticed before, shaped like a bolt of lightning and stretching from his cheekbone down to his chin. When the hell did he get that?“Who are you and what did you do with Bakugou?” Kaminari says, pointing an accusatory finger at Bakugou’s face. “Have you seen him around? He’s tall, blond hair, doesn’t have glasses. He looks like a bitch and not at all like the pleasant and polite man that is standing before me.”Bakugou growls and lunges at him but Kaminari dodges, laughing as he goes to stand on the other side of the kitchen island. “Shut the fuck up, Dunce Face!” Bakugou bellows.“Ah, there he is,” Kaminari smirks. “Seriously though, man, when the hell did you get glasses?”“Who got glasses?” Ashido bounds into the kitchen, maintaining her label as Dumbass #2 alongside Kaminari as her mouth falls open and she takes in Bakugou’s appearance. She has dark pink sunspots on the bridge of her nose. Bakugou hadn’t been able to make them out before. “Woah, Bakugou is handsome?” She says in surprise, and Bakugou’s hands spark again.“What the fuck?” He shouts once more. “Why are you dumbasses making a big deal out of this? I look exactly the same!”“You really don’t,” Jirou says, following behind Ashido, indifferent and casual as always. Her eyeliner is thick, and it runs underneath her eyes, smudged almost artfully.Sero hums in agreement. When the fuck did he even appear? Does Kirishima’s whole brigade of idiots just simultaneously materialize when you least want them too? “You look a lot less mean, Bakugou. Also, smarter.” His front tooth is chipped. Why are all of these details sticking out to him, suddenly? It can’t just be because of the glasses. His vision couldn’t have been that bad before. But then--But then, Kirishima enters the kitchen, calling out to Ashido, but Bakugou doesn’t even hear his words because he’s too busy just looking . All he can think is holy shit, maybe getting these glasses was the best decision he’s made in a while, because seeing Kirishima’s face in full definition is enough to make Bakugou’s grumbling breath come to a sudden halt.Kirishima turns to Bakugou and his words stop short, and he’s looking at Bakugou, too, and they’re both staring, and Bakugou can recall a time--maybe even earlier this year--when he would have squirmed uncomfortably under the heat and intensity of Kirishima’s molten gold stare.He’s not uncomfortable anymore.Kirishima’s eyes are this burgundy color that look fire red in the light, and it’s not like Bakugou didn’t already know that, but now he can see how the suggestion of a deeper color on the outside of his irises, and the flecks of brown in them. His face is dotted with freckles and moles, along his cheekbones and on the tip of his nose, and his eyelashes are so thick and dark and long. Blurred out, Kirishima is strong lines and muscle and smooth, tawny skin, but up close and
clearer, he is pretty in a way that almost suggests delicacy.The moment drags on for a time that may be considered a bit longer than socially appropriate. “Holy shit,” Kaminari is saying again, this time muttered in awe under his breath. Jirou elbows him. Neither Bakugou nor Kirishima turn to acknowledge his comment.“Are you drinking my sports drink?” Kirishima asks abruptly in the otherwise all-encompassing silence. The fringe of his hair flops into his eyes when he tilts his head. He should really wear something to hold his bangs back, because now that Bakugou can see he really wants to look at the marks on his forehead, and the tiny white scars and brown marks that dot along his widow’s peak.Bakugou looks down at the drink he is holding in his left hand, still the same obnoxious shade of bright blue. His hands have stopped smoking. When did they do that?“Yes,” Bakugou says, regaining his composure and trying to amass whatever is left of his integrity as he juts his chin out defiantly.“You got glasses,” Kirishima now states, a little more certain.“Yes,” Bakugou confirms again.A pause. Vaguely, Bakugou recognizes the shapes of Kaminari and Ashido and Sero and Jirou and even Uraraka and Asui, standing stock still on the other side of the kitchen. But he doesn’t pay them any attention, because Kirishima is in front of him, and his red hair is so long, and he’s wearing his red bracelet that matches Bakugou’s, and the red scar that cuts a notch into his right eyebrow has never been clearer.Kirishima clears his throat. “You look good,” He says, and one of his hands goes to scratch the back of his head, but he doesn’t avert his gaze, keeping it trained on Bakugou’s face. His cheeks are flushed. He really is so pretty, so sweet and kind and genuine and Bakugou doesn’t know what to do with this terrible, awkward, fluttery feeling that Kirishima’s words give him.Bakugou doesn’t say thank you. He never does. He doesn’t do gratitude. He doesn’t accept compliments. He certainly doesn’t do any of those things in front of a crowd of people who cannot for the life of them mind their own goddamn business for a few seconds.So he takes a swig of the drink, caps it, walks up to Kirishima and pushes it into his palm. Kirishima’s fingers close around it without taking his eyes off of Bakugou.Then Bakugou leaves.He hears Kaminari’s outraged yell of “Bro, what the fuck ?” All the way from the elevators.
Bakugou doesn’t know how they ended up here.“If you steal all the blankets, I will put my cold feet on you,” He says, attempting to come out threatening but most likely sounding sleepy and rough.“It’s so cold, though,” Kirishima says, and Bakugou can feel him shivering, the pink tank top he is wearing exposing his broad tan shoulders.“How the hell are you so cold,” Bakugou says. It’s not phrased as a question.“I’m not wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants right now like you, man! Also, I’m not hogging all of the blankets.”Bakugou scowls at him. “I run cold, dumbass. I need the warmth.”“We could always--”“No.”“You don’t even know what I was gonna say!” Kirishima exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air.“I’m not cuddling with you, fucker.”Kirishima pouts. His lips are full, a delicate shade rose pink that Kirishima shouldn’t be able to achieve with the fucking shark teeth that sit in his mouth dangerously, almost promising to tear the skin apart. “Why not? Are you that insecure in your masculinity that you can’t platonically cuddle with your bro?”Bakugou is going to kill him. “Wh--no,” He sputters indignantly. “Who the fuck said anything about cuddling platonically?”Both Bakugou and Kirishima freeze. The only difference in their expressions is the contrast in Kirishima’s grin of pure delight versus Bakugou’s grimace of abject horror and mortification.“Aw, Baku-babe, you wanna cuddle romantically?” Kirishima croons. He flexes one of his bare arms, for whatever reason--God, Bakugou has a personal vendetta against that ugly pink tank top--and fuck, he really is ripped. Bakugou definitely hates it. Definitely.“I didn’t say that,” Bakugou protests through gritted teeth. His palms are beginning to sweat and smoke, and he tries to conceal them in the pocket of his sweatshirt. “Shut the fuck up.”“But I’m cold,” Kirishima whines. He tugs on the strings of Bakugou’s hoodie. “Let me in!”“No.”“What if I said please?”“Fuck off.”Silence. Kirishima pouts at Bakugou, and he must be channeling his most pathetic, adorable face, because Bakugou feels his resolve wavering as he looks at Kirishima’s dumb soft expression. He is pink, so pink, everything about him. Bakugou never realized how appealing the color could look until he met Kirishima, and now Kirishima is looking at him with eyes glazed over in soft pastel pink and God , how can anyone resist that?“Fuck, fine, c’mere,” Bakugou grumbles, turning to face his body toward Kirishima but still not uncrossing his arms.Kirishima stares in surprise. “Wait, really?”Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Did you want to be cold for the rest of the night, Shitty-Hair? Because that can be arranged. I’ll kick you off the bed in two fucking seconds if you want.”Before Bakugou even finishes talking, Kirishima is surging forward, tucking himself into the dips and curves of Bakugou’s body like he belongs there. Underneath the blanket, his body is bigger than Bakugou’s, wider and thicker where Bakugou is more lithe and sinewy.Kirishima hums into the skin of Bakugou’s neck. “You’re comfy,” He says. “And warm.”“Shut up,” Bakugou says again, but there is an absence of heat behind his words, and the presence of a heat building up in his cheeks.“You’re really cute when you’re half asleep,” Kirishima says anyway.Bakugou pulls away so that he’s looking Kirishima in the face. “Eijirou,” He begins, and Kirishima looks absolutely thrilled at the use of his first name. “If you don’t shut the hell up I will explodo-kill your ass.”“Wow, Katsuki, you sure know how to charm a guy,” Kirishima says with a toothy grin, reaching out and placing his hands on Bakugou’s waist. His palms are really big. Why the fuck is this guy built like a brick shithouse? When did that even happen? Last Bakugou checked, Kirishima had been smaller and thinner and less prone to looking like he could bench press Bakugou’s entire weight and then some.“I’m not kidding,” Bakugou says, and his voice sounds weak even to himself. God, he is so weak. It’s disgusting.“Sure,” Kirishima replies. He squeezes Bakugou’s hips. The gesture sends tingles into Bakugou’s stomach. “You may not seem like it at first, but you’re kind of a softie, Katsuki.”Bakugou directs all of his leftover murderous energy into the glare he levels at Kirishima.Kirishima responds by tutting good-naturedly. “It’s not a bad thing, man. I like soft things. And besides, I said that you don’t seem like it at first.”Bakugou grunts. Kirishima likes soft things. Kirishima’s hands are sneaking under Bakugou’s sweatshirt, making contact with Bakugou’s skin, warm in a way that Bakugou is unfamiliar with. He doesn’t hate it, though. “What the fuck do I seem like at first?” He asks, voice a mumble.“Strong,” Kirishima says immediately. “Super manly. Really mean, but if I’m being honest, I’ve always had a thing for bitchy blond boys.”Bakugou sputters and shoves at his chest. Kirishima laughs and doesn’t budge. He never does.“You’re tough. Really tough,” Kirishima continues, his voice going softer. His hair is splayed all over Bakugou’s pillows, and his roots are growing in, long inky strands melding into rich red. He almost seems to be glowing in the night; his skin is bronze in the moonlight that leaks into Bakugou’s room through the dark curtains. “I also have a thing for tough guys.”“Just say you have a thing for me, Kirishima,” Bakugou says brazenly, without really thinking about it first, because he’s impulsive and kind of a dumbass, although he would never admit it out loud.His hands are pressed up against Kirishima’s broad chest. Kirishima is so solid and real underneath Bakugou’s palms, and his eyes are bright like faraway stars or the distant lights of a city in the dark, and he’s laying here, in Bakugou’s bed, and what the fuck .Bakugou likes him. He really does.Kirishima leans forward, agonizingly slowly, until his nose is brushing Bakugou’s. His eyelids are half closed, and if Bakugou concentrates he can see the outline of the pink scar on the corner of his right eye. Pink again. Pink scars on his skin when he wears his hero costume, pink highlights in his hair while hiking in the woods, pink hands clutching his desperately in a small hospital room.His cheeks are the color of a perfectly ripened peach. They feel like peaches, too, when Bakugou reaches a hand up and traces the curve of his face; soft and fuzzy to the touch. Kirishima leans into it, despite Bakugou’s destructive hands, destructive tendencies.“I have a thing for you, Bakugou Katsuki,” Kirishima breathes out, soft and slow and achingly true.Kirishima smells like mint toothpaste. He tastes like it, too.
(He’s pink in his cheeks, dusted with a soft rosey color. He’s pink in his hair, in the faded tips of the soft strands that caress the pillowcases and shine in the moonlight. He’s pink in his fingertips, and in the vulnerable underside of his chin, and in his lips, in his lips.He’s pink, and Bakugou suddenly decides--fuck it. His favorite color isn’t bright orange, or olive green, or the specific combination of red, white and blue that makes up All Might’s iconic hero costume. No, his favorite color is the pink he sees when Kirishima pulls away from their first kiss in Bakugou’s bed way past the acceptable curfew for a school night.The last thing he sees before he falls asleep is pink.)
They’re almost late to class the next day, but it’s not like it really matters, because Aizawa never shows up on time anyway. Kirishima didn’t get the chance to style his hair this morning, too busy flinging himself out of Bakugou’s bed at the sound of the alarm, running to the door, and then running back to kiss Bakugou again, and again, and again. By the time Bakugou had actually managed to push Kirishima away and out of the door, the snooze button on his alarm had been hit three times.Kirishima’s hair is loose as a result, brushing along the tops of his shoulders in beautiful messy waves. It’s getting a little too long; he will need to cut it soon, or at least tie it up for hero training. Maybe Asui can teach him how to tie his hair in that crazy ass knot that she does. Bakugou thinks that Kirishima would look good like that.Kirishima’s eyes burn into Bakugou’s head throughout class, and during the couple of times that Bakugou does turn his head to look at him, he outright beams, eyes scrunching closed as a result of his comically enormous smile. His shark teeth are on display, his gums pink, and fuck, Bakugou loves him too. He didn’t say it last night, didn’t say it on their last hiking trip, didn’t say it when Kirishima himself confessed at his hospital-bedside. But he does.He wants to tell Kirishima, but he doesn’t know how, so when Kirishima ambles over to Bakugou’s desk during the break between classes, Bakugou takes out a black pen. He takes Kirishima’s hand and writes on the back of it--a reminder, a promise for Kirishima to keep for later.Kirishima watches the black ink bleed into his sand-colored skin and smiles his gummy pink smile, and the trees outside are dark soft green and the sky milky blue, and Kirishima’s socks are the color of pomegranates from where they peek out underneath his pants, and his eyes are rusty cliff red and his hands deepwater navy, and his heart is shining crimson and gold.Bakugou takes a moment, memorizing the way these colors fit into and around Kirishima. Then he reaches out and takes his ink-stained hand.He doesn’t let go.