Chapter Text
Shinsou doesn’t put up much of a struggle when Kirishima hoists him over to the wall. His thoughts run by him too fast for him to really fixate on anything in the first place, and all his tired mind can manage to make him feel is just this vague sense of annoyance, and embarrassment, like a kid being caught with their hand in the cookie jar, wide-eyed with childish culpability.
It makes Shinsou feels sorry and stupid. It makes him want to tell Kirishima to fuck off, flip him two birds, and make him fucking let go. He wants to tell this infuriating boy to wise up and walk away, and he tries, he tries, but all that comes out just sounds like gibberish, tongue useless and heavy against his teeth. Shinsou thinks he might be drooling, thinks that if Kirishima notices, dizziness be damned, he’s going to somehow gather up whatever meager energy he has and knock him out. Itsuka Kendo-style.
“There we go.” Kirishima sits him up against the wall, caging him in to stop him from keeling over, and holds up the half-empty energy drink to his mouth. Shinsou weakly swats at it, misses, and ends up smacking Kirishima’s cheek.
“Take that. You...”, Shinsou slurs, searching for words. His muscles feel like jelly and even the simple movement of lifting his arm seems taxing. When he speaks, he’s not even sure he’s actually forming sentences. “...metapod headass.”
Kirishima huffs. “Pokemon. Really? You’re breaking my heart, man.” Shaking his head, he brandishes the Gatorade threateningly. His face is scrunched in determination, and some small stupid part of Shinsou wants to reach up, smooth out his brow. “Just for that, you’d better drink this. And I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.” Bottom lip jutting out, he shoves the Gatorade at Shinsou’s mouth. “I promise you’ll feel better, at least, for now. And if you’re hungry, I’ve got some granola bars.”
Shinsou levels him with a hard look. “I don’t..”, a sharp pain shoots through Shinsou’s skull, and he hisses out his next words. “I don’t need your charity".
Surprisingly, Kirishima doesn’t give an inch, just fixes Shinsou with this determined kind of expression.
“I wasn’t aware that helping a guy who looks one sneeze away from dying is charity”, he leans back, tilts his head. “But, by all means, go ahead.” He nods towards the gym exit. “Take your leave.”
Ha, what an imbecile! What a clod! Did he really think Shinsou’s common sense would win out here, of all times, faced with a challenge such as this? Not on his life! He’s going to make his useless ragdoll body get up and walk away, just to spite this silly, snaggle-mouthed fool, who dared to underestimate the extent of Shinsou’s pettiness.
So he braces his hands on the concrete floor, splintering his nails against them, and his muscles strain with the effort of pushing. His teeth are gritted so hard they might shatter, and Shinsou grinds them together as he stretches his legs and forces himself to move. He’s moving, leaning forward, getting up, the look on Kirishima’s face will be priceless-
And, well, it is. It’s especially priceless when his abdomen decides to just exit the fucking building and he folds in half like laundry, forcing Kirishima to catch him. The asshole isn’t even amused, just wears this exasperated look, like this whole bit was anticipated. Shinsou fleetingly wishes he could disintegrate, but instead just lets himself slump against Kirishima.
He knows when he’s lost.
“Man, don’t you know when to quit?”, Kirishima sighs, tiredly.
“Don’t you?”, Shinsou mutters against the red fabric of Kirishima’s shirt. Doesn’t he? Most everybody else would’ve, Shinsou knows, with a clear certainty, like it’s a fact, rather than an opinion.
“You got a point, there.” Kirishima’s voice seems to curve in the shape of a smile. “I’m not good at quitting. Not on anything,” He leans Shinsou back against the wall gently, “Or anyone.”
He fixes Shinsou with a smile, small, but open. It makes a pocket of warmth grow in the space between Shinsou’s ribs, like a sun coming into existence.
“And, that includes you.”
Suddenly, looking at Kirishima now seems hard, like staring into a supernova. Shinsou’s eyes are damp, and his throat clogs, and this time, when Kirishima holds out a bottle of Gatorade, he takes it.
“You’re a sap”, he says, instead of everything else, and rips off the cap with his teeth, ignoring Kirishima’s protesting (“we were having a moment!”). He chugs it down, like it can soothe the raw feeling in him, can unstick all the words he chose not to say, and he doesn’t know how long he’s drank it for, but all of a sudden he’s finished the bottle.
Well, it helped. His head seems marginally clearer, his vision is significantly less blurry, and he’s suitably conscious enough to feel cowed.
He looks over at Kirishima, who’s sat beside him.
Kirishima looks back.
They stare.
“Finished it.”, Shinsou tells him, when his words come easier. He hands the empty bottle back, and, at Kirishima’s surprised expression, he looks resolutely down. “Don’t have money on me right now, so-”
“No way, man.”, Kirishima interrupts, shooting him a grin. “On the house. I’ve got enough Gatorade to last an apocalypse. And, furthermore…” He spreads out the bunch of granola bars in his hand, making it look like a fan made of snacks. “You want one? Yay or nay?”
Shinsou nods mutely, a yay, and soon enough, they’re both munching on the snacks. His tastes like peanut butter and chocolate, wholly artificial, but Shinsou just leans back and lets himself enjoy it. They both bask in the silence, and Kirishima runs his tongue over his teeth, grumbling about stuck food, while Shinsou listens to the sound of them, feels the wild, broken-glass buzz in his head quiet.
It’s still raining, but sounds less like crying, less like war, and more like music. It’s a right summer storm, to be sure, and if you wanted, you could close your eyes, tell yourself the cheap, seventy-five cent granola bar you were eating is what sunshine would taste like.
“I don’t think I’m a metapod.”, Kirishima says, out of the blue. He picks at his teeth in concentration, and his hair falls in sweeps of red, turned violet in the night, over his face. “I feel like I’m more of a Machop, you know?”
He puts up his fists and throws a few punches. He mutters ‘Machop’, like how Pokemon repeat their own names.
Shinsou looks at him for a minute, pondering the arbitrariness of this impending conversation. Then decides, fuck it, he’s too tired to make any meaningful use of his time anyway.
“....Hm. Maybe.”, Shinsou concedes after a minute of thought. “But I think you’re more an Onix.”
Kirishima brightens immediately, the proverbial lightbulb going off.
“Oh, for sure!” He sits up, excited. “I mean, we both got our rocky thing,” He quirks up his arm by way of example, making the dips and edges glitter in the moonlight. “So, Onix is a definite yes.”
He turns to Shinsou. “But you”, Kirishima says, appraising him, eyebrows scrunched in thought. “What would you be? An espeon?” Kirishima shakes his head after some thinking. “Nah. You’re too angry.”
“Hey,” Shinsou fixes Kirishima with a scowl. “I’ll have you know I’m a fucking delight.” He leans back and takes another bite of his granola bar, “Besides, I’m definitely Mewtwo.”
Kirishima nods, like some intellectual, finger rubbing his chin. “I could see that. You both definitely got that tragic-backstory vibe to ya.”
...God, he’s annoying.
“I take it back. You’re no Onix. I won’t insult them that way.”, Shinsou lets a smirk slash across his face, in that way that makes his too-long teeth seem sharper. “You’re a Trubbish.”
Kirishima gasps with fake indignance and barely-veiled amusement. “Dude.” Kirishima laughs, in that full way, which sounds out of place in the silence. “That’s low.” He sticks out his tongue at Shinsou. “Fine. If that’s how we’re gonna play, you’re a fucking Zubat.”
Shinsou scoffs. “Supersonic.”, he deadpans, and Kirishima pretends to start punching himself dramatically, making fake pained noises and exaggerated expressions. He curls a fist into his gut and dies a dramatic death, making spraying noises to imitate blood. Shinsou coughs, what is definitely not a laugh, into his fist, and Kirishima’s snort turns into a chuckle turns into a laugh. It reverberates around the gym, leaping off the walls.
Casting a glance at the abandoned punching bags, Shinsou wonders what he’s doing, what’s become of him. It’s not even been a week. Has he changed so much?
It smarts more, when Kirishima slants a crooked grin at him and Shinsou can’t quite bring himself to hate all this change as much as he should.
“Sorry.”, Shinsou says quickly, before his recalcitrance can win over his morals. He owes Kirishima this, unwieldy as it is. “I should’ve been there, especially after I told you I would.” He looks at Kirishima, who looks back.
“I was a real jackass. So.” Shinsou runs a hand through his hair, restless. “Sorry.”
“You already said that.” Kirishima says, smiling. He leans back, crosses his hands behind his head. “And I’d already forgiven you. Even though you were a jackass.”
Shinsou scoffs. “Bet you’d know all about dealing with jackasses, wouldn’t you?”
“Bakugou is not a jackass!”
“I’d never mentioned Bakugou."
Kirishima splutters for an amusing few moments. “Shut the hell up!” He exclaims, and sticks out his lip in a pout, with the ghost of grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Anyway, you’ve got no room to talk, man.”
“Ah, well.”, Shinsou crumples the granola wrapper, and tosses it at Kirishima’s forehead. The wrapper lands dead center, bullseye. “We can’t all be perfect.”
Kirishima lets out a short huff of a laugh as he leans back, closes his eyes. Slowly his smile shortens, and he visibly relaxes. His breathing goes softer, slower.
Silently, they listen to thunder crack outside, and watch lightning race outside the window.
“We gonna go back?”, Kirishima asks, not opening his eyes.
“Not in this hellish weather.”, Shinsou replies, watching water run down glass panes. “We can wait it out.”
“Mmmkay..”, Kirishima mumbles, eyes already falling shut. “Sick. We can…”
He trails off, and he’s asleep.
Shinsou watches him sometimes, watches nothing at all other times, and when his vision flickers, when his eyelids grow heavy, he doesn’t fight it.
This, time, though, when he falls asleep, it’s quiet and dark, like velvet, without a nightmare to be had. The rain quiets, like it can see them sleeping, can hear the whisper of their breaths, the presence of them. The sky has exhausted itself, is tired like humans are, in cycles.
It decides to sleep as well.
The light’s too bright, even behind his eyelids. It filters through them, sharp-warm like a heated knife, and it makes Shinsou wince, as he wakes up. The sun scorches his retinas, leaves dark fingerprints on his vision making him blink.
Also, Kirishima’s sleeping on his shoulder. Shinsou doesn’t quite know how he managed to lean himself all the way over like that, but his hair’s tickling Shinsou’s nose and he’s not really big on the thought of sneezing into the other boy’s head.
That’s when he catches sight of Kirishima’s digital watch, and the numbers on it.
8:10
8:10
15 minutes until class starts.
Shinsou doesn’t even comprehend it at first, just stares at the watch dumbly, mouth hanging open.
Then, it hits him.
“Oi!” He jolts like he’s getting electrocuted, sending Kirishima tumbling off his shoulder and into a heap on the ground.
“Whassa matter?”, Kirishima slurs, eyes half-open. He shoots up, suddenly becoming more alert. “Oh fuck!”, he gasps. “Is it the League?”
“The only “league” around is this league of idiots who are going to be late to class, damnit!”, Shinsou shouts. “Tee-minus-fifteen minutes, fuck!”
Kirishima totters to his feet, eyes squinted in the too-bright morning light, and lets out a string of curses that would make the Devil himself blush. He scrambles for his bag, his phone, then as he’s searching, his eyes widen in horror. He freezes, chest heaving.
“What?”, Shinsou asks, already halfway out of the gym. Kirishima doesn’t answer, just stands there with that same frozen expression, like he’s been slapped.
“What?!”
Kirishima looks up slowly, terror written all over him.
“I forgot my room key.”
Shinsou freezes, mid-step, foot suspended in the air.
“You’re joking.”
“I forgot my room key.”, Kirishima intones, like he can’t believe it. “I forgot my room key.”
Forgotten his room key. Of all things. His clothes are in there, his schoolwork’s in there, hell, the hair products he probably uses are in there. What’s he gonna do? Walk into school looking fit to be arrested by the fucking Fashion Police, with his stupid red pajamas and stupider mismatched footwear? Shinsou can just imagine the headlines: High-schooler has such a bad fashion sense, it’s a felony! Anna Wintour hates him!
Kirishima looks two seconds from puking, and, maybe it’s the anger clouding his memory, but Shinsou literally can’t remember the last time he’s wanted to wring someone’s neck this badly. Even he remembered his room key, and with the way he was flailing around last night, he could’ve set some kind of record for failing a field sobriety test.
And well, it’s probably that aforementioned anger that clouds his judgement, shuts up that tiny voice telling him to just fucking leave, moves his mouth for him, when he says:
“You can borrow my stuff.”
Kirishima trips on nothing and almost falls into his gym bag, lying limp on the floor. He looks up, incredulous, and Shinsou’s face heats.
“...Really?”
Shinsou turns away, because of course he does. He’s a chicken like that.
“Yes, really.”, Shinsou sets his jaw and steps out into the sunlight, Kirishima still inside the gym.
Somehow, it feels important for a such a stupid situation, something he can’t go back from. There’s this feeling of crossing a threshold, of stepping out into the sea, not knowing if it’ll be kind to you.
“Now come on! We’re wasting time!”
Kirishima beams like a kid given candy. He slings his bag over his shoulder, kicks his empty bottle of Gatorade up from the floor, and bolts out ahead of Shinsou.
“Race ya!”, he shouts, already getting smaller in the distance, a speck of red in the blue sky.
It’s exhilarating. It’s frightening. It’s stepping out into the sea, all right, with her riptides and tsunamis and loving her anyway.
Shinsou’s smile, although small, comes easy this time. He breaks into a run, and everything blurs around him, blue on white on green on red.
It doesn’t take much effort for him to catch up, what with Kirishima being bogged down by his gym bag (filled with way too many snacks), and when he reaches Heights Alliance, he tosses a smirk over his shoulder. Kirishima sticks out his tongue at him and they race up the stairs.
“Not fair!”, Kirishima puffs, struggling to keep pace. “You weren’t carrying anything!”
“Well, last time”, Shinsou says, bounding up the steps. “You got a head start, so. Shit for shat.”
Kirishima makes an affronted noise. “That’s not how it goes!”, he says, and Shinsou shoots him a glare.
“Do you want to walk into school looking like a homeless strawberry?”
“Homeless strawberry?"
Ignoring his protesting, Shinsou shoves his room key into the lock and fumbles open his door. Kirishima frantically checks his watch, “Tee-minus-ten minutes!”, he yells, and Shinsou swears as he scrambles for his toothbrush. Ripping open a package for new one, he chucks it at Kirishima, as well as a tube of Crest.
“Haul ass, motherfucker!”, he yells, mouth full of paste-suds, and Kirishima hurriedly scrubs his teeth even as he grabs Shinsou’s clothes from the closet.
“Your damn pants are too big!”, Kirishima garbles, still furiously brushing. Shinsou spits into the sink and glares at Kirishima even as he lunges for a shirt.
“Well, fucking deal with it!”, he shouts. Kirishima snarls and wrestles on a shirt as Shinsou slides a belt wrong-side-up through his pant loops. He tosses a stick of deodorant at Kirishima (they may be tardy, but they’re not going to be tardy smelling bad), who just stares at it in panicked uncomprehension, before Shinsou’s yelling snaps him out of it.
They make it out with five minutes to spare. And, sure Kirishima’s still wearing his mismatched shoes, and Shinsou’s wearing his shirt on backwards, his tie...another matter entirely, but they weren’t late.
Sleep-deprived? Maybe. A mess and a half. Absolutely. But late?
Fuck no.
Before Kirishima bolts off to Class 1-A homeroom, though, he whips a pen out of his pocket, grabs Shinsou’s arm and furiously scribbles something down. When he steps back, Shinsou sees numbers. He blinks dumbly, then it hits him.
Oh.
“Call me!”, Kirishima gasps out, breathless with adrenaline. His hair’s a disheveled mess and his tie’s on wrong and he makes that sign, you know, hit me up, with the thumb and pinkie out to imitate a phone. He turns and runs, smile wide, like he’s not about to get a whole earful from Aizawa.
Shinsou’s stare follows him, until he disappears.
Then, Shinsou turns and runs.
___