Chapter Text
Kirishima stepped into the apartment later that evening. The soft hum of the city outside made the space feel calm, a small bubble of quiet after the day’s noise.
The smell of something savory greeted him immediately. He followed it to the kitchen and paused at the doorway.
Bakugou was already there. He moved with precise efficiency, setting plates on the small dining table, glasses of water catching the warm glow of the overhead light. The edge of his jaw was tense, but his hands were steady, methodical. Kirishima smiled wearily. His head still ached a little.
“You’re already set up?” he asked.
Bakugou glanced up, expression softening just slightly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Figured we could eat together. You were out all day.” He returned his attention to the table, placing the last fork down with a quiet click.
Kirishima walked over, pulling out a chair across from him. He sat and let out a long exhale. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “It smells amazing."
Bakugou shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Didn’t take long. Just thought it’d be easier than waiting for you to do it.”
Kirishima’s eyes flicked to him, curious. “How was your day?” he asked, voice gentle.
Bakugou lifted an eyebrow, smirking faintly now. “Same as usual. Missions, paperwork, annoying interns.” He paused, finally looking at Kirishima. “What about yours? Did you survive the newbie swarm?”
Kirishima chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I think so. They’re eager, which is good, but… it was exhausting keeping track of them all. At least they were focused. Mostly.”
They ate in silence for a while. The only sound in the room was the clinking of forks. Kirishima glanced at him. He should mention that Tomo had found out. If he found out another way, he might get angry.
“Today… I went out for lunch with Tomo,” Kirishima began, his voice soft but even, trying to keep it casual.
Bakugou’s eyes flicked up sharply, a hint of curiosity—and maybe a flicker of something else—crossing his face. “Yeah?” he said, tone flat but alert.
Kirishima nodded, pushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Yeah. We talked… about old times, and stuff. It was nice.”
Bakugou’s jaw tightened subtly, though he didn’t say anything right away. He reached for his water glass, fingers tapping lightly against the glass as he processed the information.
Kirishima took a deep breath, deciding to get it over with. “He… found out about us,” he said carefully, watching Bakugou’s reaction.
Bakugou froze mid-bite, his fork hovering over the plate. His jaw tightened, and a sharp edge crept into his voice. “The hell? How the hell did he find out?”
“Uh… Mina told him,” Kirishima admitted, wincing slightly. “She was drunk.” He stopped, trying to choose his words carefully.
Bakugou slammed his hand lightly on the table, making Kirishima flinch. “Damn it…” he spat, voice low but tense.
Bakugou dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard through his nose like he was trying to keep the explosion in his chest contained. The room felt smaller suddenly, the quiet heavier than before.
Kirishima swallowed, fingers tightening around his fork. “Katsuki,” he said softly. “I know it’s not ideal, but—”
“Not ideal?” Bakugou snapped, finally looking at him fully. His eyes burned, not with anger exactly, but something sharper. More personal. “We agreed to keep this quiet. Especially from people like him.”
“I know,” Kirishima said quickly. “And Mina probably didn’t mean to. It just… slipped.”
Bakugou scoffed, pushing his plate away like he’d lost his appetite. “It always ‘slips.’”
The words stung more than Kirishima expected. He took a steadying breath. His head throbbed again, a dull pulse that matched the ache in his chest. “He didn’t react badly,” he added, carefully. “He was surprised, yeah, but he wasn’t… judging. He just wanted to make sure I was okay.”
That made Bakugou pause.
“…He wanted to make sure you were okay?” Bakugou repeated slowly.
Kirishima realized too late that he had said something wrong, then immediately added. “That's not-- He asked if I was happy. If—”
“That’s not his place,” Bakugou cut in, voice suddenly sharp.
Kirishima blinked. “Katsuki—”
“No,” Bakugou said, pushing his chair back as he stood abruptly. The legs scraped loudly against the floor. “I don’t give a damn how ‘nicely’ he asked. He doesn’t get to check in on you like that. He doesn’t get to look at my relationship and decide he’s got a say.”
“He was just worried,” Kirishima tried, brows knitting together. “We go way back, that’s all.”
Bakugou laughed, harsh and humorless. “Yeah? Funny how people always get ‘worried’ when it’s me, huh."
He turned fully toward Kirishima now, eyes blazing. “If that guy thinks for one second he gets to look at you like I’m some kind of mistake you need protecting from, he’s gonna learn real fast how wrong he is."
Bakugou huffed through his nose, jaw clenched tight. He turned away from Kirishima without another word and started clearing the table. His movements were sharp, clipped—plates stacked a little too loudly, forks clinking with more force than necessary. Kirishima watched him for a second, then let out a quiet sigh. He rubbed at his temple, the headache flaring again, and pushed his chair back slowly as if sudden movement might set Bakugou off.
“Katsuki…” he said again, softer this time.
Bakugou didn’t answer. He carried the plates to the sink, set them down with a controlled thud, and turned on the water. The sound filled the space between them.
Kirishima swallowed. His chest felt tight. This was the part he’d been dreading—the other thing he hadn’t said yet.
He stood, hesitated, then forced himself to speak.
“When we were talking,” he began, carefully, “Tomo thought we were actually married. Like… legally.”
Bakugou’s hands stilled in the sink. Kirishima’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “I told him the truth,” he said quickly, before he could lose his nerve. “That it’s not real. That it’s just for appearances.”
Bakugou turned slowly. “…You told him what,” Bakugou said.
“I didn’t go into details,” Kirishima rushed, heart pounding. “I just said it wasn’t a real marriage. That it’s complicated. He didn’t push, I swear. He just nodded and said he figured there was more to it.”
The silence stretched. Bakugou dried his hands on a towel with deliberate slowness, folded it once, then set it down. His voice, when he spoke, was low and tight.
“So now he knows we’re not even officially tied,” he said. “And he already knows we’re together.”
Kirishima nodded, uneasy. “I couldn't lie.”
Bakugou stepped closer. Not into his space, but close enough that Kirishima instinctively stiffened.
Bakugou let out a breath, slower this time, the edge of his anger dulling into something heavier. He looked at Kirishima for a long moment, eyes narrowing not in irritation, but in thought.
“…You know,” he said quietly, voice rough, “sometimes I think you’re too good for this world.”
Kirishima sighed, knowing he was right.
A few hours passed. The apartment had settled into its nighttime quiet, lights dimmed, the city reduced to a distant glow beyond the windows. Kirishima sat curled up on one end of the couch, a blanket pulled up around his shoulders, the TV murmuring softly in front of him. He wasn’t really watching. The images blurred together while his thoughts looped back to the dinner, Bakugou’s words, the tension that had never quite broken.
He shifted slightly, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the blanket, trying to relax. He was feeling a little unwell.
From down the hall, the door to their shared workroom opened.
Bakugou stepped out, sleeves pushed up, hair messier than before like he’d been running his hands through it one too many times. He looked tired. Focused-tired, not angry-tired. He headed straight for the kitchen, grabbed a mug, and poured himself coffee, the quiet clink of ceramic echoing faintly in the space.
Kirishima glanced over when he heard the sound. “You still working?” he asked gently.
Bakugou paused for half a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Had shit stuck in my head.” He leaned against the counter, taking a slow sip. His eyes drifted toward the couch, lingering on Kirishima bundled up like that.
“…You cold?” he asked.
Kirishima shook his head slightly. “Not really cold,” he said, voice a little hoarse. He shifted under the blanket, then added after a beat, quieter, “I think I’m just… feeling kind of sick.”
Bakugou turned to him. He straightened from the counter, mug still in his hand. “Sick how?"
Kirishima shrugged, a small motion. “Headache’s been bugging me all day. I feel tired. Kinda off.” He gave a faint, apologetic smile. “Probably nothing.”
Bakugou clicked his tongue. “You say that every time.”
He set the mug down on the counter and walked closer to the couch, stopping in front of Kirishima. He crouched slightly, studying him with a frown.
“You're hot.” he asked.
“Thanks” Kirishima joked.
Bakugou grumbled. He muttered something under his breath. He raised a hand like he might check his forehead, then hesitated, fingers curling back before he committed. He pressed the back of his knuckles lightly against Kirishima’s temple instead, quick but careful.
“It’s probably just the headache,” Kirishima said, trying to shrug it off. The movement was slower than usual, dulled. He leaned back into the couch cushions, clearly more tired than he wanted to admit.
Bakugou straightened. “You’re not getting up.”
Kirishima blinked. “I wasn’t planning—”
“Good,” Bakugou cut in. He turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen, movements quick but controlled. Cabinets opened. A drawer slid shut. The sound of a glass filling with water followed.
Kirishima watched him from the couch, blanket pulled tighter around his shoulders. He should probably tell him it wasn’t that serious. He should probably argue. But the ache behind his eyes made it hard to summon the energy, and the steady way. Bakugou came back with water and painkillers, setting them down on the coffee table a little too carefully.
“Take these.”
Kirishima swallowed the medicine. He set the empty glass back on the table and leaned into the couch again, exhaling slowly.
“I really am okay,” he said after a moment, voice calm but a little tired. “You don’t have to stop working or anything. I can rest while you… do your thing.”
Bakugou didn’t answer.
Instead, he grabbed the coffee mug again, took a single absent-minded sip, then set it down on the counter with a soft clink. He crossed the room without a word and sat down on the couch beside Kirishima.
Bakugou leaned back, one arm draped over the back of the couch, eyes flicking to the TV. Whatever sharp edge he’d had earlier was dulled now, smoothed down into something quieter.
“This is what’s got you zoning out?” he asked, nodding toward the screen.
Kirishima followed his gaze. A dramatic scene was playing—soft lighting, tense music, two characters staring at each other like the fate of the world depended on a confession that was clearly not coming yet.
“…It’s a drama,” Kirishima said, a little sheepish. “It’s not that bad.”
Bakugou snorted. “They’ve been staring at each other for, what, five minutes? Just kiss already or get on with it.”
Kirishima huffed despite himself, a small smile tugging at his lips. “That’s kind of the point.”
“The point is pain, apparently,” Bakugou shot back. “Who watches this crap on purpose?”
“You do,” Kirishima said gently. “Right now.”
Bakugou clicked his tongue but didn’t move away. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t melt into the couch.”
Kirishima shifted slightly under the blanket. The warmth beside him was grounding, familiar. “…You don’t have to babysit me.”
Bakugou glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “…I know.”
The show droned on, dialogue blurring into soft background noise as the minutes slipped by. Kirishima tried to follow it. He really did. But the ache behind his eyes throbbed dully, heavy and slow, and his limbs felt warmer than they should, heavier than he remembered.
He adjusted the blanket around his shoulders, blinking a few times like that might shake it off. The talking on screen dipped into silence, replaced by swelling music. Kirishima’s breathing had evened out, slow and deep. He gradually lost consciousness.
Something cool brushed against Kirishima’s forehead.
The sensation cut through the haze slowly, not enough to wake him fully, just enough to make him shift with a faint, confused sound in his throat. The coolness lingered, pressed there deliberately, in contrast to how overwhelmingly hot the rest of him felt.
He didn’t open his eyes. The effort felt impossible, like his lashes were weighted down. His head throbbed harder now, each pulse slow and thick, and when he tried to take a deeper breath, his chest protested. Even breathing felt like work, shallow and warm and wrong.
“…Eijirou,” someone whispered.
Bakugou's voice sounded low and muffled from close by. Kirishima’s brow twitched faintly at the sound of his name. He tried to respond, but all that came out was a soft, uneven exhale. His throat felt dry, tight, like he’d been running a fever dream instead of sleeping.
The cool cloth shifted slightly, careful as it dabbed at his temple. It felt good. Too good. He leaned into it without realizing, drawn toward anything that eased the heat crawling under his skin.
Bakugou was right there. He could feel him now without seeing—his presence pressed close at Kirishima’s side, one knee angled toward him, an arm hovering just behind his shoulders as if ready to catch him if he stirred too much.
“You’re burning up,” Bakugou murmured, quieter now, like the words weren’t meant to be heard. His voice tightened on the edge of something restrained.
Kirishima’s chest rose again, shallow. The air felt thick. His breathing hitched, uncomfortable, and his hand twitched weakly atop the blanket like he might be trying to reach for something without knowing what.
Bakugou noticed immediately.
“Hey, don’t force it,” he whispered, firmer but still gentle. The cool cloth pressed back to Kirishima’s forehead, then down along his hairline. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
Kirishima didn’t have the strength to argue. He stayed there, eyes closed, half-awake and burning, anchored only by Bakugou’s closeness and the quiet rhythm of his voice, letting himself drift in that fragile space between consciousness and sleep.
Bakugou shifted carefully, making sure Kirishima didn’t stir too much before reaching for the thermometer from the side table. His movements were controlled, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away.
“Don’t move,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than Kirishima.
He slipped the thermometer into place and waited, eyes fixed on the small screen like it might lie to him. Kirishima’s breathing stayed shallow, uneven, a warm puff of air against Bakugou’s wrist where he hovered close.
The beep sounded far too loud in the quiet room.
Bakugou looked down.
“…Shit,” he breathed.
The number stared back at him, unmistakable.
“That’s too high,” he said sharply, panic finally cracking through the careful control in his voice. His jaw clenched hard. “Damn it, Eijirou.”
He didn’t waste time arguing with himself. He tucked the thermometer away, slid one arm firmly behind Kirishima’s shoulders and the other under his knees.
Kirishima made a faint sound, brows knitting together as he was lifted. His body was too warm, heat radiating through Bakugou’s shirt, limp in a way that made Bakugou’s chest tighten painfully.
He adjusting his grip when Kirishima’s head lolled slightly. He pulled him closer without thinking, keeping him steady against his chest.
He carried him down the short hallway, steps quick but careful, shouldering open the bathroom door. The bright light made Bakugou wince, but he didn’t slow. He set Kirishima down on the closed toilet lid, one hand immediately going back to his forehead.
Bakugou didn’t hesitate. He stripped off his own shirt in one quick motion, then carefully guided Kirishima into the shower stall with him, keeping a firm arm around his back the entire time.
“Easy,” he muttered, steady but urgent. “I’ve got you.”
He reached past Kirishima and turned the handle. Cold water rushed out, splashing against the tiles with a sharp hiss.
Kirishima flinched immediately.
A broken sound slipped from his throat, half gasp, half whine, his body tensing instinctively. His fingers curled desperately into Bakugou’s shoulders, gripping tight like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Katsuki...” he breathed, voice weak and strained.
“I know,” Bakugou said quickly, tightening his hold without even thinking about it. He shifted so his own body blocked some of the direct spray, letting the water hit Kirishima’s arms and back instead of his chest. “I know. Just a little. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Kirishima’s forehead tipped forward, pressing into Bakugou’s collarbone as his knees threatened to buckle. His breathing stuttered, uneven and shallow, every shiver sharp and helpless.
Bakugou swore under his breath.
“Your fever needs to go down,” he murmured, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of Kirishima’s head, fingers threading gently through damp hair.
Kirishima shook his head weakly, a faint, helpless motion that barely broke free of Bakugou’s chest.
“Don’t want to…” he murmured, words slurring together, breath warm and unsteady against Bakugou’s skin. “...too cold.”
His grip tightened, fingers curling into Bakugou’s shoulders like instinct alone was keeping him upright. The cold water kept running, droplets clinging to Kirishima’s lashes, tracking slowly down flushed cheeks that were far too warm, far too red. His hair hung loose and damp, darker now, strands plastered to his forehead and neck. He looked small like this. Nothing like the unbreakable hero everyone else saw.
Bakugou swallowed, jaw tightening as he adjusted his stance, bracing Kirishima more fully against him. One arm stayed firm around Kirishima’s back, strong and unyielding, while his other hand slid from Kirishima’s hair down to his shoulder, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles through wet fabric.
“Hey,” Bakugou said quietly, voice dropping, rough but careful. “Look at me. Just for a second.”
Kirishima didn’t lift his head, but he turned it slightly, cheek pressing closer to Bakugou’s chest instead, like that was easier than meeting his eyes. His lashes fluttered, breath hitching again.
Bakugou let out a slow breath.
“Damn it,” he muttered. His gaze traced Kirishima’s face without permission, the softened lines, the vulnerability fever had stripped bare. The way his shoulders shook, the way he trusted Bakugou completely without even meaning to.
Bakugou’s grip tightened just a little.
“I know you hate this,” he said, quieter now, almost a confession. “But I’m not letting you burn yourself out.”
"Fucking..." he paused for a moment. Then he let out a defeated sigh. "You've been there for me in every difficult moment. In every damn nightmare. Just let me take care of you once, okay?"
He leaned his forehead briefly against Kirishima’s temple, ignoring the chill biting into his own skin.
“…Okay,” he whispered, so soft it barely reached the sound of the water.
He held him in the cold water until the warmth on his skin subsided slightly.
Bakugou reached out and shut the water off. Steam and cold mist hung in the air as he steadied Kirishima, one hand firm at his back, the other braced at his side.
“That’s enough,” he murmured, voice low but certain. “C’mon.”
He guided Kirishima out of the shower stall carefully, step by careful step. Kirishima’s legs wobbled the moment his feet hit the tile, a sharp shiver ripping through him despite the heat still clinging to his skin.
Bakugou caught him instantly.
He grabbed the biggest towel he could find and wrapped it around Kirishima without hesitation, pulling it snug around his shoulders and back, cocooning him in rough cotton warmth.
Kirishima sucked in a breath, teeth chattering now. His hands fumbled weakly at Bakugou’s forearms, clinging there like he might slip otherwise. His eyes glanced at the clock. It was 3 am. How long had he slept in that couch.
He rubbed brisk circles along Kirishima’s arms through the towel, trying to chase the chill out, grounding him with firm, steady pressure. Kirishima leaned into it without protest, forehead dropping toward Bakugou’s chest again, breath still uneven.
“You’re shaking,” Bakugou muttered, more to himself than anything. He glanced around the bathroom, calculating. “We’re getting you dry and warm.”
He maneuvered them out of the bathroom and down the hall, never letting go. In the bedroom, Bakugou sat Kirishima down on the edge of the bed and crouched in front of him.
Kirishima nodded faintly.
Bakugou grabbed clean clothes from the dresser: soft sweater, sweatpants, thick socks. He worked quickly but carefully, peeling the damp towel back just enough to get the job done, keeping Kirishima covered as much as possible, movements efficient but uncharacteristically gentle.
“Lift your arm,” he said quietly.
It was as if Kirishima couldn't hear the words. It was as if he was physically present but mentally somewhere else entirely. Bakugou huffed and did it for him, easing the shirt over his head, careful not to jostle him. His hands lingered for half a second at Kirishima’s sides, grounding, before pulling the fabric down.
“Good,” he muttered, like encouragement mattered even now.
By the time Kirishima was dressed, his shivering had eased a little, though his skin was still warm under Bakugou’s hands. Bakugou tugged the blanket up over his lap.
“There,” he said, voice quieter now.
Kirishima’s lashes fluttered as he leaned back against the pillows, exhaustion pulling him down hard. “…Thanks,” he whispered, barely audible.
Bakugou stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching the rise and fall of Kirishima’s chest, making sure it stayed steady. Then he reached out and brushed damp hair back from Kirishima’s forehead, slow and careful.
“Yeah,” he said roughly. “Anytime.”
Bakugou adjusted the blanket one last time, making sure it was snug around Kirishima’s shoulders. He hesitated, then started to pull his hand away, already turning his body like he meant to grab something from the other room. More medicine. Water. Anything useful.
Before he could take a step, fingers caught around his wrist.
Bakugou froze.
Kirishima's grip was a bit weak. His lashes fluttered as he struggled to focus, breath still uneven, chest rising and falling too shallowly.
“…Katsuki,” he murmured. His voice was rough, barely there. “Don’t go.”
Bakugou looked down at their joined hands. At how Kirishima was holding onto him like an anchor, like if he let go the room might tilt too far and he’d slip under again.
“I’m not,” Bakugou said automatically, a little too fast. “I was just—”
Kirishima shook his head faintly, the movement slow and uncoordinated. The blanket slipped a little off his shoulder, revealing flushed skin and the faint tremble running through him.
“Stay,” he whispered. “Please.”
It hit harder than Bakugou expected.
He swallowed, jaw tightening as something hot twisted low in his chest. He’d seen Kirishima injured. Exhausted. Pushed past his limits. But asking like this—soft, vulnerable, stripped of his usual bright strength—felt different.
Bakugou sat back down immediately.
“Idiot,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. He shifted closer to the bed, careful not to jostle him, then tugged the blanket back up around Kirishima’s shoulders with one hand while the other stayed right where Kirishima had grabbed him.
Kirishima’s fingers relaxed a little but didn’t let go. He exhaled, long and shaky, tension easing out of his shoulders as if Bakugou’s words finally reached him.
Kirishima hummed softly, unfocused. His eyelids fluttered, half-opening before drooping again. Fever-dulled thoughts leaked past whatever filter he usually had. His grip tightened just a little, thumb brushing Bakugou’s skin without meaning to.
“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” he said softly. “About Tomo. I just… I hate lying. Especially about you.”
Bakugou froze. He looked down at Kirishima’s face—flushed, exhausted, painfully sincere even now.
“I know,” he said after a moment, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
Kirishima’s lips curved faintly, a tired little smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes.
“You’re… you’re the safest thing I’ve ever had.”
That one landed like a hit to the chest. Bakugou sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, eyes narrowing as he stared at the far wall.
“Tch,” he muttered. “You’re delirious. Fever talking."
“Mm,” Kirishima agreed easily. “Still true.”
He shifted just enough to settle more firmly against the side of the bed, one forearm braced on the mattress, the other still trapped under Kirishima’s loose grip.
“Whatever. Get some sleep,” he muttered after a moment.
Kirishima breathed out a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh if he’d had the strength for it. His fingers curled once more around Bakugou’s hand, then loosened, exhaustion finally winning. His chest rose and fell in a steadier rhythm now, breath still warm but less frantic.
“…Don’t disappear,” he murmured, already slipping under.
Bakugou glanced down at him, eyes lingering on the flushed curve of his cheek, the way his brow finally smoothed out. He adjusted his grip, turning Kirishima’s hand just enough to lace their fingers together properly, solid and sure.
“I’m right here,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Kirishima didn’t answer. He’d already drifted off, held there by warmth and exhaustion and the certainty of Bakugou’s presence.
Bakugou leaned back slightly, staying awake long after he should have, watching over him. The apartment was silent now, just the low hum of the city outside and the sound of Kirishima breathing.
For once, Bakugou let it stay quiet.
And for the rest of the night, he didn’t let go.