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“Ah,” Kirishima says, tapping at his lower back. “My spine hurts.”
Bakugou, lying on his bed with a textbook propped up on one leg, crossed over his knee, grunts and doesn’t look up from the page he’s reading. “If you stopped hunching over the table like an old man you wouldn’t bend your body into a fucking pretzel.”
“Mm, you’re right,” Kirishima says. “Ah, there’s tightness in my shoulder, too.” He squeezes at the sore muscle.
“Do I look like your physical therapist?”
“You could at least show some concern. I’ve been slaving over this homework for hours.”
“If you don’t like it, go back to your room and work at a real desk.”
“That’s cold. How could I pass up time spent with my crush?”
“I really will sock you in the jaw if you keep talking nonsense,” Bakugou says, flipping a page and still not looking at Kirishima.
“Okay, okay,” Kirishima says, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling of Bakugou’s room. It’s plain, devoid of posters, much like his walls. His furniture, his fuzzy rug, his sheets—black. The only indication of any personality is the bright comforter patterned with explosions that Bakugou’s mother had insisted he bring. Bakugou’s room was dark like Tokoyami’s, but instead of shining a light into Bakugou’s mind it was simply…blank.
Kirishima kneads his fingers in the rug and stares at the light, above him, turned off. The only light in the room was the generic desk lamp on Bakugou’s desk. Kirishima had offered to turn on the light but Bakugou seemed adamant to read in the darkness, grunting at Kirishima and throwing a pillow at him when he made to flip the switch.
“So welcoming,” Kirishima had said, just to tease Bakugou. But there was something about the darkness hanging heavy behind Kirishima’s eyes every time he blinked and swallowing his legs in shadow beneath the table that comforted like a blanket, making him feel safe in its embrace. Did Bakugou feel the same?
Nah, he probably just wanted to chase Kirishima out.
“You should stick some glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling,” Kirishima says.
“What did I just say about spouting nonsense,” Bakugou snaps, throwing another pillow at Kirishima. “Shut up and work or leave.”
It would be surprising if you did, though, Kirishima thinks. It would show something.
What did he know about Bakugou? Explosive temper, formidable physical power, iron willpower, and more pride than could fit in a room. Kirishima himself wasn’t weak by any means, but even his more modest personality exploded onto his walls and bounced around his room, taking the shape of posters and bedspreads and weights littered about the corners of his dorm. Someone like Bakugou shouldn’t have been this subdued. He should be uncontainable.
“I don’t know a thing about you,” Kirishima murmurs.
“Aaah?” Bakugou calls.
“Nothing,” Kirishima says, rolling onto his side to look at Bakugou. “You don’t like nonsensical statements and I’m no good at ruminating in the first place.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bakugou says, “but there’s a history paper not even halfway written on your laptop that’s due in two days. Soul search later.”
“Mm,” Kirishima replies, still looking at Bakugou.
Bakugou lets him get away with it for three minutes. He closes his textbook and exhales heavily from his nose. When his eyes meet Kirishima's, they’re just a little bloodshot. There are creases on his forehead running down his nose to meet the slight curl of his lip, the calm before the snarl. Looking Bakugou in the eyes was something like standing in the eye of a hurricane, still enough to hear your heartbeat pound with the anticipation of what was to come.
Bakugou opens his mouth. “If you keep staring at me—”
“What should I get you for your birthday?” Kirishima asks.
Bakugou’s eyes twitches. “Bastard, I told you not to—”
“There’s a vending machine downstairs,” Kirishima interrupts. “I can get you something if you tell me what you want. A drink, a snack, I don’t really care.”
“I want you to get the hell out of my room.”
“Fine,” Kirishima says. “But first you have to tell me what your favorite book was growing up.”
Bakugou holds eye contact with him for a long moment, grinding his teeth. Then, he clicks his tongue and turns his back on Kirishima. “Do whatever the hell you want.”
I make you angry, Kirishima thinks. But you let me get away with it. Why?
There’s so much he doesn’t know about Bakugou. In that way, Kirishima supposes he’s jealous of Midoriya. Even with their bad blood, Midoriya knew Bakugou. He’d grown up with him. Played with him, eaten lunch with him, met his parents. He knows things Bakugou likes, things he doesn’t like. If he collected bugs, or if he was good at sports; the way he reacted to a bad grade and how he celebrated graduation.
Kirishima doesn’t know those things. He can watch, and he can learn, but Bakugou, for all his explosiveness and his attitude, is secretive. His temper and foul mouth put off most, but those who can look around it find a blank wall. A carefully crafted, well devised, blank wall. The kind of wall you passed on the streets and forgot the moment you saw it, so plain it barely registered. Bakugou, at his core, was invisible.
“Bakugou, I like you.”
Kirishima doesn’t remember why he said it. He’d taken a liking to Bakugou from the very start, once he saw Bakugou in his element. Bakugou had that kind of subtle charisma that has you going why the fuck am I following this guy? as you run into the fray after him, covering his blind spot like you’re a couple of pro heroes who’ve been working together for years.
Kaminari understood. Kaminari also laughed when Kirishima told him about his crush and patted him on the back with a that’s rough, buddy.
Liking Bakugou came naturally for Kirishima, who had always admired men with strong convictions and honor in their actions. A fledgling crush on a boy who could punch villains twice his size with snap judgments and a composed face wasn’t unreasonable. It helped that Bakugou had a pretty face. Kirishima acknowledged his feelings without much fanfare. A crush was a crush was a crush.
“Bakugou, I like you.”
Why did he say that? He didn’t expect or even suspect Bakugou of returning his feelings. Kirishima hadn’t even the slightest inkling of how to tell if Bakugou felt anything but the urge to blow a hole through anyone who spoke to him. The closer he got to Bakugou, the further he got from any kind of understanding. Like his room, Bakugou was a black hole of emptiness.
“He’s so mysterious, man,” Kaminari had said. “A guy like that could do anything. I don’t think there's anything left that he could do to surprise me. I just trust him, you know? Guy’s got the kind of vibe to him that makes you think even if you don’t agree with him or his methods, he’s going to do the right thing.”
Kirishima had wanted him to break character. He wanted to surprise him, to throw a situation at him that he couldn’t expect, couldn’t react to in a way that would keep his wall intact. A sudden confession—who was prepared for that? Bakugou couldn’t possibly be prepared to face Kirishima’s feelings. He would be able to see something, anything, behind that wall.
“Aaah? You stupid? Stop talking nonsense.”
No, you don’t understand. It’s not a joke.
“This is a confession. I’m confessing to you.”
If you would just let me in…
“Just die already.”
…if I could just once…
“I’m serious! I’m seriously in love with you, dude.”
…but I can’t.
“I see. If you have time to talk nonsense, I don’t need to help you with those math problems.”
I understand.
“W-wait! Limits are too hard!”
I’ll continue to support you from the shadows. I won’t get in your way. I’ll learn what I can on my own.
“Ah,” Kirishima says. “I’m definitely the sidekick, aren’t I?”
From the bed, Bakugou snorts. “With an attitude like that, you won’t even make it to a pro’s side."
Kirishima laughs. “I guess compared to you, I’m not quite what they’re looking for.”
“Damn straight.”
“Oh, but I have a better attitude.”
Bakugou rolls over. “You wanna go?”
Kirishima smiles. “I thought I had a paper to write?”
Bakugou clicks his tongue and rolls onto his back, thumbing through his phone without replying.
“Besides,” Kirishima says, sitting up and opening his laptop. “If I was a sidekick to someone like you, I think things would turn out okay.”
Their paper is on dawn of the Golden Age of Heroes, before there were schools dedicated to raising hero eggs and vigilante work began to organize. Kirishima’s report focuses on Everest, one of the first named heroes, who Crimson Riot cites as one of his inspirations. Everest was a modest man who would drop the criminals he captured outside police headquarters and refused to officially take credit for his hero work. Kirishima’s searching for a famous quote of his when Bakugou says, “The All Might Adventure Chronicles.”
Blinking, Kirishima looks up. “The what?”
Bakugou doesn’t look at him. “The All Might Adventure Chronicles. They were watered down comics based on All Might’s real achievements. I knew they were exaggerated, but I still raced Deku to the store every week to buy a copy.”
Kirishima’s jaw drops.
“Green tea. I don’t like sugar and the caffeine in coffee gives me a headache. If you ever offer to buy me something again, I’ll blow you sky high. I hate giving and receiving gifts.” He shifts away from Kirishima. “And I would never have use for a sidekick in the first place. I either want someone who can stand at my side as a real hero or I want no one at all.”
Kirishima can hear every individual beat of his heart. His questions from earlier. Bakugou didn't--he never just answered questions.
But maybe, finally I could know why--
Kirishima swallows. “Why did Midoriya say it had to be me who called out to you, back then?”
“Watch yourself,” Bakugou says.
“Please,” Kirishima says, voice raw.
Bakugou rolls over and gets to his feet. He beckons sharply. “Come on. Get up.”
Mystified, Kirishima does.
Bakugou pushes the coffee table to the side of the room and takes up a sparring stance. “Your form was sloppy in class today. Your hand-to-hand in general is sloppy because you trust your Quirk too much.”
“Bakugou—”
“Put your fists up,” Bakugou orders. Kirishima does.
“We’ll move slowly,” Bakugou says. “Block me properly.”
He swings at Kirishima in slow motion. Kirishima holds up an arm and moves to block the punch. It’s followed up by a kick, equally slow. Kirishima sidesteps. He makes to counter and Bakugou bats him away.
“No,” he says. “Focus on blocking.”
So Kirishima keeps his guard up, taking soft hits to his arm, soft kicks to his legs, and dodging Bakugou while his eyes follow each of the movements. As Bakugou gets faster, Kirishima gets sloppier, eyes darting and trying to focus on Bakugou’s constant attacks, never giving him time to break. Kirishima trips over his own legs at one point.
“Your eyes are everywhere and nowhere,” Bakugou says. “You have to see everything.”
Kirishima shifts his focus to trying to see all of Bakugou’s attacks at once. He takes more hits, but as Bakugou picks up his speed again, Kirishima’s dodging and prediction of movements gets better. He keeps his eyes fixed on Bakugou’s core but darts up to his eyes, watching where Bakugou looks before he strikes, until he can keep up with a normal speed Bakugou. They dance around each other, Bakugou giving away fewer and fewer hints as Kirishima starts to catch up with him. It’s almost rhythmic, and Kirishima feels himself loosening up and blocking more fluidly, until he takes a step back and crashes into a wall.
Bakugou’s fist lands right next to his head, against the wall. “I said you have to see everything, your surroundings included.”
“I caught up to you, though,” Kirishima says, grinning. “I’m a fast learner.”
“You’re missing the point,” Bakugou says, stepping closer to him.
Oh, Kirishima thinks. The light from Bakugou’s desk catches on the ends of his hair and the muscles of his shoulders and lines of his neck, revealed by a black tank top. His eyes are definitely bloodshot and dark in the low light. He scowls with chapped lips that Kirishima can’t take his eyes off of.
“You’re doing it again,” Bakugou says, and Kirishima's eyes snap to his.
“I didn’t—”
“Not that,” Bakugou says. “You aren’t looking at the whole picture. Again. As usual.”
The whole picture? What was he talking about? The sparring? His answers before the sparring? The fact that he was here, in Kirishima’s space, close enough to bump Kirishima’s chest with his own? Kirishima’s mind races, but he can’t find a definite answer.
Bakugou presses his palm flat against Kirishima’s chest. Kirishima flinches under his touch, his pulse spiking.
“It really does excite you to be this close to me,” Bakugou says.
Kirishima makes a noise in his throat and shakes his head, but he can’t hold Bakugou’s unwavering gaze.
“Don’t bother lying to me,” Bakugou says. “It’s written all over your face. I don’t even need to touch you to know.”
Kirishima watches a droplet of sweat slide down Bakugou’s jaw.
“You’re the type of guy who likes to spar because he gets to touch the other person,” Bakugou says. “You’re into skin-on-skin.”
“That sounds dirty,” Kirishima says. “It’s not like—”
Bakugou lets go of him and instead leans in even closer, pressing his chest to Kirishima’s and resting his forearms on either side of Kirishima’s head. Kirishima flattens himself to the wall, face burning and every nerve lighting up when Bakugou moves, warm, against him. Lips brushing Kirishima’s ear, Bakugou murmurs, “You’re probably the type of guy who likes this kind of thing, too.”
“Bakugou, you…” Kirishima starts.
“Pretty far to go, just to get some,” Bakugou says. “All the times we’ve studied together—you’re persistent.”
“No,” Kirishima says as Bakugou leans away. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what?” Bakugou says. “You don’t want me?”
“Stop saying that,” Kirishima says. “Stop saying it like I’m using you. That’s not it.”
“No?” Bakugou says, stepping away. “You’re happy with things as they are? I don’t think you’re being honest with yourself.”
“I just wanted—”
“I know what you want,” Bakugou says. “Do you?”
Kirishima sinks to the floor.
Bakugou mirrors him, sitting on his bed. “Consider this from my perspective, for a moment. I never asked for any of this. I didn’t come to UA to make friends or have a wonderful high school life like you all did—I came here to be the best and that’s it.
“Imagine my irritation when this fucking annoying spikeball insists on being my friend. I never asked for backup—but he’s there. I never asked for someone to spend my afternoons with—but he’s begging me to tutor him. I’m not looking to have conversations, and yet he’s always at my side, bringing me into discussions with the class and checking in on me when I want to be left alone and frankly, making an absolute nuisance of himself.”
Bakugou rubs at his neck, scowling. “This guy is an open book. God forbid a villain comes along—they’d be able to read his greatest weakness as if it were in neon fucking lights. He always says what’s on his mind and never lies and opens up to anyone who takes the time to listen, even to those who don’t. Someone like that, you don’t try to get to know, you just know them. Whether or not you wanted to. You find yourself depending on them. Whether or not you wanted to.”
“Kirishima,” Bakugou says. “I’m not an open book. I will never be an open book. You’re looking for answers I will never give you. So stop asking.”
Kirishima swallows. “Does it annoy you that much?”
“Hell yeah it does,” Bakugou says. “I’m not here to answer your dumbfuck questions. Especially not when I’ve been giving you answers the whole time.”
—“Dude, your perceptiveness sucks,” Kaminari had said—
Tutoring him, agreeing to partner up with him, letting him stay over, answering his questions, giving him hints in sparring—could that really just be Bakugou’s way of saying “we’re friends”? No—Bakugou wanted him to look at the whole picture.
“I like you.”
“Stop talking nonsense.”
I already know, Bakugou was saying. You don’t have to say it.
And I feel the same way, he said when he took Kirishima’s hand.
“Don’t cry,” Bakugou says, scowling harder.
“Sorry,” Kirishima sniffles, wiping at the corners of his eyes. “I just—this whole time, I thought—”
“Yeah, I get it,” Bakugou says, lying back down on his bed and tucking his head under his arms. “You suck at taking a hint. You’re the least subtle guy I know. Too fucking bad for you.”
Kirishima blinks. “Does that mean we’re—”
“Not a chance in hell,” Bakugou says. “You still don’t know what you want, let alone have the ability to put a name on it.”
Kirishima pouts. “Stingy.” For lack of something better to do, he crawls back over to the coffee table, pulls his laptop into his lap, and goes back to working on his paper.
Except, he’d kind of just gotten confessed to, and focusing on hero work wasn’t possible. Kirishima, hero or not, was still a teenager, and having the boy he liked say (more or less) “hey, I like you back” was a recipe for zero concentration.
“Bakugou,” Kirishima asks. “Can I kiss you?”
“More stupid questions,” Bakugou says. “Just so you know, the three I answered earlier were your only freebies. Figure the rest of it out on your own.”
Well. It wasn’t a no.
Kirishima stands up and moves to Bakugou’s side, settling at the edge of his bed. Bakugou’s eyes are closed and he’s scowling. When Kirishima’s weight dips the bed, Bakugou cracks one eye open. “Well?”
Kirishima smiles. He wasn’t going to make this easy, was he? It’s not like Bakugou had a reputation for being exceedingly romantic. Or even interested in things like romance or kissing or sex.
“It’s really okay?” Kirishima asks.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? Figure—”
“Cross your wrists over your head,” Kirishima says.
Bakugou’s other eye opens. His expression doesn’t change, but he moves his arms from under his head and crosses his wrists.
Kirishima leans over him and secures his hands above his head, gripping them firmly without hurting Bakugou. His other hand slides under Bakugou’s shirt and presses against his skin, over his heart. Beneath his fingers, Kirishima can feel the steady thrumming of a wild animal’s heartbeat, a tad too quick to be normal. Kirishima smiles.
Bakugou clicks his tongue and looks away, hunching his shoulders.
“Hey,” Kirishima says.
Bakugou glares at him.
“I see the whole picture,” Kirishima says. He lifts the hand on Bakugou’s chest and cups his cheek instead, leaning in to kiss him.
He kisses light, just the press of lips. This close, he can feel the tension in Bakugou’s body and the barely returned kisses. Kirishima brushes his thumb over Bakugou’s cheek, smoothing the skin beneath his finger. He gives Bakugou’s wrists a squeeze. Bakugou hunches his shoulders tighter as if to say I know, and he forcibly relaxes himself, kissing back at Kirishima with quick, deliberate motions.
Kirishima grins into the kiss, leading Bakugou to hold out for a few moments and retreating only to brush their lips and foreheads together, the suggestion of intimacy. Bakugou’s lips are as chapped as they look, not smooth like Kirishima’s, and the sensation when they kiss tickles. As if resisting Kirishima’s gentleness Bakugou kisses back forcibly, searching for something more.
Kirishima isn’t sure of himself, but he tilts his head and gives Bakugou more.
Mouths parted means that Bakugou can seal their mouths together in a different way, their wetted lips fused as if by fire and feeling just as hot. It’s Kirishima who introduces tongue, the experimental brush of his tongue tip along the seam of their mouths. Bakugou inhales sharply through his nose, but his teeth tug at Kirishima’s tongue and Kirishima presses harder, both with hands and mouth.
He thinks he’s got it, thinks he’s found a rhythm, but when Kirishima tries to pull back Bakugou is chasing after him, arching his spine so their chests touch again and pulling Kirishima back. His fingers flex under Kirishima’s grasp and he pulls against the restraints. Kirishima’s breath stutters and he lets go of Bakugou’s face to push his chest down, holding him in place. Bakugou growls, but allows Kirishima to sit up, looking down on him.
“I’m sorry for making you wait,” Kirishima says. “And I’m sorry for being dense.”
“Whatever,” Bakugou says, voice rough.
“I know what I want,” Kirishima says. “I want it slow. I want to be with you, and learn to read you without words, so you never have to go out of your way to show me what you mean again. I’ll learn your body language, and your choice of words. I won’t be your sidekick; I’ll be your partner.”
Kirishima’s eyes widen and he sucks in a breath. “I want to be your partner.”
“Obviously,” Bakugou says. “You’re so gay.”
Kirishima grins. “Only for you.”
Kirishima watches Bakugou’s eyes dip below his eyes, to his mouth, then back to his face. He watches Bakugou jut out his chin and shift under Kirishima’s hands—not pulling, just reminding Kirishima that he’s there. And he draws his legs up, bumping into Kirishima’s back.
“I know what you want,” Kirishima says, and he leans in again.