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[KIRISHIMA EIJIROU: AGE 20]
As much as he’d like to say that he’s a hero, and as much as he technically has the paperwork that claims that he is, in the eyes of his hero branch he’s a sidekick. A sturdy, unflinching, and down-right stubborn one under the wing of one Pro hero by the name of Fatgum (and he’s been there since the second year of high school when he was just an intern).
“You can’t save them all,” Fatgum states, expression somber, the worst he’s seen in the longest of times. His gaze unwavering in his staring, outwards at the flash of red, white, and blue lights as emergency services took over the scene. Three ambulances already filled, and at least three more would be needed.
And Kirishima knew that, knew that no matter how much he tried sometimes things just happened and sometimes shit had hit the fan before you could even do a damn fucking thing to stop it. “Two people died because we couldn’t—” he ground his teeth together, clenching his eyes shut.
There were more than just the two of them on the scene—any other hero could’ve done something. Kirishima could’ve done something—anything. He could feel his stomach roll, boiling as he seethed beside the taller man.
“I know,” Fatgum says and Kirishima looked to him, “I know it hurts, and I know how frustrating it is. And there’s days I go home an’ I can’t bare to look at myself, an’ there’s days I wish I didn’t become a hero.” The man is looking towards a police officer radioing in with the walkie talkie on his shoulder. “But I am, and you are. So we owe it to everyone to put on our costumes, and come out here an’ save as many people as we can. And some days we can save everyone, an’ some days we can’t. But at the very least we owe it to them to try, ‘cause who else will protect them?”
His words didn’t make it better, it didn’t make the anger within him smother in the slightest. But it made something in him prickle with understanding, with the acknowledgement that he too was feeling the same damn thing that Kirishima felt—and if he were to think back on it (and he would), he’d appreciate that that was the exact thing Fatgum had been aiming for. To acknowledge that frustration and helplessness and tell him that every hero had felt this way at one time, and that they needed to continue on for everyone else if not just for themselves.
-
Staring out the blur that passed, Kirishima stood with the masses on their commute home. Body swaying as a person bumped against him, “sorry” they mumbled and continued on. It was better than the person before them who said nothing. He got off at the next station, setting out with the flow of the crowd.
-
[BAKUGOU KATSUKI: AGE 20]
The front door slammed open, then back closed, sending the birds into a twirl of fright and displeasure. Bakugou stilled, pausing in the middle of his stirring head tilted as he listened to the new arrival slam another door closed further down the hall. The blond man flicked the burners off, removing the pan from the element.
He left the kitchen, and check to the left towards the pair of discarded boots by the door—they were Eijirou’s. His first stop from there was to the large bird cage to check on Blast and Red. “You’re okay,” he cooed at the pair, only for them start up again when a sharp crash and shatter of glass sounded from the door his husband had tucked away into.
He bared his teeth, the fuck is wrong with him.
Bakugou left the birds and followed the pregnant silence that always seemed to permeate after something broke—like the world, or the person, was trying to decide if it needed to fracture more or if this was enough—until it led him to their bedroom. The door was still closed, and when Bakugou pressed his ear to the door a different break greeted his ears.
The splintering of fake wood cracking, followed by the clatter of objects that had been on the very piece of furniture he had just broke. Bakugou sighed, pulling away from the door and leaned up against the wall beside it. Listening for any further movement—there were none—before twisting the handle and pushing the door open. He counted to three before rounding into the room, leaning against the doorframe.
It had been Eijirou’s nightstand.
Both shelves were discarded, tossed to opposite sides of the room while the main frame splintered in two separate places a foot from where the door swung to. A plethora of miscellaneous shit scattered along the floor, there were things on the bed—the lamp for one thing (good, picking up after a lightbulb was never fun), the two picture frames he kept at his bedside were another. Bakugou’s gaze roamed back down to the floor, catching the glass that he’d heard earlier. Just a regular glass than, not some memento.
“Are you done with your tantrum?” He crossed his arms over his chest, tone cautious. He’s seen Eijirou like this two other times in the span of knowing each other, and each time it had Eijirou snapping out something he didn’t mean. Eijirou’s temper was easy to pull the man out of, once something allowed him a reprieve of his inner stewing—the whole battle was to actually shake him out of it.
The man was stubborn at the best and worst of times.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Eijirou quipped, lacking any of the usual warmth that accompanied it. Bakugou’s fist clenched, a twitch of his cheek the only sign that the man hit the nerve he’d been aiming for.
It was a dig at him; they knew too much about each other for it not to be the case. It wasn’t just a prod at his temper but the IED as well. Bakugou clicked his tongue against his teeth, “don’t start with that Eijirou. You know the difference between them just as much as I do.”
“Yeah ‘cause that excuses it,” the redhead snorted, needling further. He was looking for a fight, and Bakugou could feel the temperature in the room drop as he pushed off the door frame. He really didn’t want to get into it with him when he was like this; it was like an open flame flirting with gasoline.
They’ve said things at each other in anger before, they’ve fought like any couple, but this one hit harder than anything else—it was just something about how Eijirou was behaving mixed with the suggestion that his words provided.
It didn’t sit with Bakugou right.
He crossed the distance between them, brushing shit away as he passed. Bakugou grabbed hold of the shirt he wore, pulling the other man forward then whipping him around and slamming him back into the closest wall. He barred his teeth, sneering up at his husband, "do I need to drag you out to some abandoned lot and have us kick the shit outta each other? 'Cause I fucking will."
Eijirou blinked, mouth falling open. “That’s…” he stared, then stopped himself.
“It’s not anything but a couple of guys kicking the shit out of each other,” Bakugou stated, pushing back as he released the other’s shirt. Eijirou couldn’t meet his gaze as he paused, it was somewhere locked on his neck. “Clean this shit up,” the blond sighed, “I’ll finish dinner.”
-
Eijirou found him in the living room with Blast and Red back out of their cage, the white bellied (Red) caique bouncing along on the coffee table talking non-stop while the black headed caique (Blast) lay on his back in Bakugou’s lap as the man played with his belly.
Bakugou glanced up, “you good?”
The other man sat, running his hand through wet strands of red. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”
Bakugou snorted, “I’ve said worse shit to you when we’re fighting.” That one just hit something still a little sore. “It’s payback, in a way. Shows that even you, as fucking sickeningly sweet that you are, are petty enough to hit at sore spots to start a fight. Makes me feel a bit better when I know I’m not the only fucked up one in this relationship.”
“Katsuki,” the other frowned, “don’t excuse this. I knew it’ll hurt and I did it anyways. You’re always saying to not let you get away with that stuff, so don’t let me either. I shouldn’t have brought this home with me—and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
He leaned forward, setting Blast on the table beside Red (who continued to Bop, Bop, Bop around talking to himself) before leaning back against the arm of their three-seater. “Then what’s fucking you up?”
Eijirou looked away, watching the two birds as Blast tackled Red and the pair began their wrestle. Bakugou sat silently, watching the other man watch them, for what seemed like minutes. “Five people died; I could’ve got there sooner—I could have saved them.” The man looked up at him then, lashes full of unfallen tears.
And Bakugou got it—fuck, you never could forget those days.
He moved leaning in and pulling his husband towards him, “c’mer.” He pressed a kiss to his temple; he didn’t have words for it, wasn’t fluent enough in comforting conversations. He didn’t try. Bakugou simply held him; there wasn’t much else he could do save that.