Chapter Text
At first, the attention is just that: attention. Bakugou likes the admiration, because he deserves it. That shitty-haired idiot is smarter than the rest of the class for seeing that.
That shark-toothed redhead was an open book. His joy, his admiration, his excitement were all scrawled over his face like a toddler took a crayon to it. Bright red, probably, the kind that strained the eyes. He knew the natural order of things, unlike others. He saw Bakugou’s strength for what it was and paid him the respect that he was rightfully owed. In return, Bakugou deigned him acknowledgement.
His strength is built beyond his quirk.
He demands the attention the world will not freely allow him.
He can rival Bakugou himself — would have been number one had he not taken the stage.
His name is Kirishima.
In a class of Deku and Four-eyes and Sparky and Soy Sauce, Kirishima stands out from the rest. He’s a little stupid, can’t do math for shit. Definitely too loud, and too familiar in the way he touches Bakugou like he’s allowed to. But he reaches to Bakugou and seizes the right for himself, demands his respect the same way he demands look at me, look at me with his shitty fire-engine red hair sticking up in points from his skull.
He doesn’t seem to know that he’s built from a different mold, the kind that Bakugou himself was born from. Likely because he’s a damn idiot. Even if he senses how things are meant to be, he doesn’t seem to follow — and it’s infuriating. Offers Deku too much respect, but doesn’t allow himself enough.
But Bakugou will let that slide, because what really counts is that Kirishima just keeps looking at him . There’s passion in his eyes, and he feels he can get drunk on it. Even when he’s beaten, his quirk coming apart at the seams, unable to hold up beneath Bakugou’s force, he still gazes at him in awe.
“That was a good fight!” Kirishima declares, head wrapped in bandages, his teeth stretching into a shark’s grin. “Next time I’ll give you a real run for your money, Blasty.”
His fight with Tokoyami is next. It will be a shamefully easy one — their quirks are unbalanced. The thought fills him with little joy, but it’s the bird-brain’s own fault for not having a back up. Relying solely on one’s quirk is just careless.
Kirishima at least has more than just the strength of his skin — that muscle, that resilience was worked for.
Bakugou spares him a glance, saying, “My explosions weren’t doing shit at first. Learn to endure, then we’ll see how long it takes to put your ass on the ground.”
And fucking Sparky jumps in with complaints — “ Already , seriously? You’re such a shitty winner, you know that?” — but Kirishima understands, and he laughs and bumps his knuckles against Bakugou’s shoulder, a deal made.
Kirishima is valuable, so he has to stay on top. Bakugou will kick his ass the entire god damn way if he has to, but he’ll make him use his own feet. He makes some snide comment at the end of the term and Bakugou snaps at the bait — he’ll tutor the idiot until he’s bleeding through the ears. It’s a jaw-grinding task, because Kirishima’s quirk apparently makes his skull impenetrable as well and he literally has to beat him over the head with the material before a snippet of it sticks.
But Bakugou learns. Words don’t just click for him the way they do for Bakugou. He starts to draw charts. To spell out equations step by step by agonizing step, color-codes notes and forms flashcards and drills it into him until there’s no possible fucking way Kirishima can fail.
He doesn’t. Not the first bit, at least. Somehow he crashes and burns during the practical, and Bakugou wants to tear his own hair out watching the pathetic display on the screen.
His guts are too twisted for him to dwell on it, though, the memory of Deku’s voice lacerating his ears.
So he doesn’t think about it until Kirishima approaches him later on, shame and apology in his face, and bends in a half-bow. “I failed,” he declared, “after all the work you put in. I’m sorry.”
Bakugou just gawks at him for a good handful of seconds before cuffing him over the head. It’s a little too hard, because Kirishima jerks up with an “ow!” but it gets his eyes back on him. “You passed the written exam,” he reminds him, impatient, “which is the shit I was tutoring you on. So don’t go apologizing to me when I did my fucking job.”
Somehow Kirishima only looks more abashed, so he huffs and seizes him by the hair to give him a little shake, ignoring his startled yelps and the concerned looks from Sparky and Soy-Sauce. “Next time I’ll fucking beat your ass into the ground, too, if that what it takes.”
Kirishima winces, massaging the roots of his hair where Bakugou had been pulling. “Hang on, he protests, frowning, “you just said I don’t need to study more!”
Bakugou raises his eyebrows. “I know what I fucking said.”
“So then why —” Kirishima’s expression clears. “Oh! Oh man, seriously?”
“I also say what I mean, Shitty-hair.” He taps his foot impatiently.
And to his satisfaction, Kirishima beams. “Great! Man that’ll — that’ll be awesome. I can’t wait, sparring with you is gonna be great.”
Bakugou snorts, even if he is preening inside. He’s the one that put that dopey fucking grin on Kirishima’s face. “Don’t get too fucking eager. You’ll be crying before I’m through with you.”
“I’m counting on it!” This time, Kirishima offers his knuckles. Bakugou rolls his eyes and shoves them away, letting a minute explosion spark against his hand for good measure.
It’ll have to wait for after their training camp. The teachers are gonna be torturing them enough on their own, because UA apparently only hires sadists. Bakugou’s brand of cruelty doesn’t have any room here. He’s learning from the pros.
Except —
Scratch that.
They’ll have to wait for Bakugou to get away from these scum-of-the-earth villains first, which might be a little hard when they’re intent on dragging him into the sewers with them. They pull him into the darkness and bind him down so he doesn’t murder them where they stand.
His hands are encased in metal. If he tries to use his quirk the explosion will be contained and he’ll just blow his own hands apart. He can’t move cause —
— he’s chained to a post for all to see, the crowd gawking in horror as he strains, as he screams —
— but they can’t hear him because there’s slime in his throat, choking him, drowning him, he can’t move or breathe —
— where are the heroes.
It’s not Deku that lets him go, or a hero, or even a faculty member with disdain written on their face.
It’s a villain.
They want him to —
He just blasts Shigaraki in his disgusting face, cracked lips and scabbed neck, he’ll burn it all away so he doesn’t feel quite so sick looking at him. It’s not enough to kill him, only knocks one of those freaky hands away. Things happen too fast after that.
The heroes arrive, and he’s being swallowed up by black tar, thrown into the frigid night. All Might, is being countered, is losing , his childhood hero invincible, undefeatable.
And Bakugou is surrounded. He throws himself into the air and twists, but there are four-five-six (more?) of them, and his heart is beating in his throat. His brain is scrambled, he can’t look fast enough to figure who he needs to kill so he can escape —
There’s a sound like a rocket. A burst of light, and the villains crane their heads to the sky, and Bakugou does too. It’s an amalgam of bodies, a human machine. He sees all their faces but only has eyes for one, for red hair and red eyes and the hand stretched out for him, the voice calling to him:
“Come!”
He leaps.
.
.
.
His room is right beside Kirishima’s. Bakugou thinks of it jealously; he wants the room against the wall, the furthest from the rest. It didn’t make sense to place Kirishima on the outside.
He wants it, because he will have privacy there: no one walking past his door, he’ll the very last they reach out to. The hardest to hear in the night, when he wakes up believing there are fingers on his throat, four delicate brushes easing into a murderous fifth. He would shove his own head under a pillow while he sleeps, but it makes him feel that he’s suffocating again.
There’s a bottle of sleeping pills in his bag, prescribed for the nightmares.
It’s such a childish word. Nightmare. Like he’s a toddler dreaming about monsters coming to eat him. "Night terrors” sounds a little bit better, but it boils down to the same thing: he’s afraid. He’s fucking terrified. And it’s making him weak.
He probably already was, to get captured by villains, to lose to Deku, to bring All Might’s end. What an incredible fuckup he is. If Deku is worthless, what the hell does that make him? Where is he left as a hero if he can’t even protect himself?
His palms are sweaty. His fingers twitch.
He wakes up with the smell of smoke in his nostrils. His sheets are burned through to the mattress, his heart is beating out of his chest. Bakugou doesn’t know if he screams during his nightmares — doesn’t know if he screams out loud at least, his dream self howls . But no one disturbs him. The nights tick by.
A particularly bad one has him up at three AM. In the dark, alone, he winds his arms around a pillow and sobs. Then there’s a knock at his door.
Bakugou shoves his mouth into the pillow. For a moment, he’s ready to dismiss it as his panicked imagination, until it sounds again. Knock knock knock. Quiet. A call through his door: “Bakugou?”
He responds with, “ What?” Which is a mistake because Kirishima takes that as permission to enter. By the time he starts sputtering for him to leave, the door is already closed. The only light comes from one outside, the curtains not drawn to shut it out. Bakugou can only just make out the edges of all his furniture, and of Kirishima’s face.
Concern. It’s sickening.
“I brought you a drink,” he says.
Bakugou takes a moment to register that. “What?” He says again, because it doesn’t quite make sense.
Kirishima thinks it’s a different question. “Hot chocolate,” he tells him. “I dunno if you like whipped cream but, like, who doesn’t like whipped cream?” He pads across the room, the floorboards creaking slightly. Gingerly, Kirishima sits on the edge of the bed, and extends a mug to him.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t make Bakugou choose. He just comes in with the decision already made.
"Come!” He had cried.
“Here,” he says now.
Bakugou takes the mug. It’s warm, but not hot against his palms. They’re slicked with sweat, and Kirishima waits to be sure he has a good grip on it before letting go.
He makes his hot chocolate with milk, whipped cream and no marshmallows. It’s sweet and it warms him from the belly out, and in between his gulps he can steady his breaths.
He says, “Go away, Kirishima.” His voice comes out a croak.
And Kirishima does so without a word, gets up and makes his way for the door again. As he steps out, Bakugou blurts, “The hot chocolate is good.” It’s such a meaningless thing to say.
He can hear the smile in Kirishima’s voice. “I’m glad.”
He doesn’t have nightmares every night. Kirishima doesn’t come every time he does. It’s only on the worst nights. Bakugou thinks he probably cries out on those nights, and wonders if he should shove his bed to the opposite wall — but he would still be heard, by less desireable company.
So Bakugou lets it continue. On some nights he wakes up, tangled in his sheets or with his pajamas sweat-soaked and clinging. Within a minute, there will be a knock on his door, Kirishima asking him what he wants to drink.
Once, he starts openly sobbing. It’s disgusting, it’s pathetic, and he will not himself be seen. He doesn’t respond to Kirishima’s question through the door, just shoves his hands over his mouth and prays for him to leave, swears that if that door opens so much as a crack he’ll blow it off its hinges.
He gets a small knock. He hears Kirishima’s door close. When Bakugou gets his breathing under control and tears stop pouring from his eyes, he checks in the hall. There’s just a bottle of water.
His chest wells with something thick and cloying. Gratitude. He’s hopelessly thankful that Kirishima had just let him be.
It’s over a fucking water bottle, but Bakugou grips it tight in his hands and thinks fervently to himself ‘ what would I do without him.’
And then he stops.
And then he knows.
‘This can’t continue.’
So he stops letting Kirishima in at night. Stops responding to his call through the door. Stops taking the drinks left in the hall. He thinks he sees a flash of hurt in Kirishima’s eyes the first morning that he walks out and finds Bakugou left his mug in the hallway to cool.
Bakugou tells himself he doesn’t care.
The Hero License Exam is a fucking joke.
He’s the number-fucking-one in their class. Nobody could take down as many villains as he could. And, shit, he played their asinine game, pretended to be the goody two-shoes so-called hero that would rather lug around deadweight with a sprained ankle than go after a criminal.
But he failed.
So did Icy-Hot but fuck if that was any comfort. Asshole didn’t know what it meant to give it his all, he threw in the towel the first chance he got. Kirishima and Sparky and Roundface and fucking Deku all got their licenses — and didn’t that tell him what he’d been suspecting all along?
He was less than worthless. He was so low that pulled the number one hero down with him.
So while he’s off taking remedial lessons with the two-faced bastard, his class, his competition are all taking leaps and bounds ahead of him. Within days, Tsuyu and Uraraka and Kirishima have their own headlines.
The name Red Riot is emblazoned on websites, the headlines scrolling on TV. Bakugou doesn’t even know what he feels: pride or disgust? Because hell, he told that shitty-haired bastard he was strong. He’d known what Kirishima hadn’t, and here was the proof that Bakugou was right all along.
But Bakugou should be there with him. He’s falling behind.
And now Kirishima is keeping something from him. Even when he demands answers, the asshole keeps his lips sealed shut. Apparently he prefers Deku and his girlfriend and that frog-face, too.
That’s just fine and fucking dandy in Bakugou’s book. He doesn’t need Kirishima. And Kirishima will regret blowing him off when he sees Bakugou rise to the top on his own.
He hates how quickly his fury twists and distorts into concern , the moment Kirishima is gone for a day. Because the rest of his little gang are gone too, and so is Aizawa. Which means whatever secret they’ve been holding, it’s going down now. And Bakugou is here, sitting on the sidelines, waiting with the rest for news.
It turns out to be terrible news.
Kirishima is the last to be discharged from the medical ward. All of them sustained injuries, but his ran deepest, lingered longest.
His skin is fractured. It runs all the way to the root, blood seeping between the fissures. His ribs are cracked. Arms broken, with entire patches of flesh stripped away. Joints so stiff he can barely move. Vision impaired because apparently one of his eyeballs cracked, too.
Bakugou might as well get a fucking Recovery Girl T-shirt from how much damn time he spends in there. Who needs a first aid class when the school nurse is teaching him how to change Kirishima’s bandages, how to help him get dressed without hurting him, how to get him in and out of the showers each day.
“It’s a little less weird if it’s you,” Kirishima tells him the first time he helps him strip down. There’s nothing remotely suggestive about it: Bakugou feels sick seeing his exposed chest, lined with scabs and bruises. “You know, she could be my grandma. I don’t want her helping me shower. So like, since you’re my age, and you’re like my friend — oh, we’re friends, aren’t we? I mean you wouldn’t be doing this if —”
“Stop fucking babbling,” he snaps, “it’s fine.”
Shit, after this he’s gonna pass the rescue portion of the exam with flying fucking colors. They should just give him a nursing degree while they’re at it, he’s qualified for the job.
Once he’s able to get out of bed, Kirishima is in a wheelchair. With steady treatment, he progresses up to crutches, and even is allowed to traverse outside until he grows so fatigued that Bakugou has to lug him back. Ponytail has the notes for all the days he’s missed printed out, complete with recordings of the teacher’s lectures and guides for the homework. Satou sneaks him sweets he’s technically not supposed to be eating. Jirou keeps him entertained with music. And that doesn’t begin to include the bullshit Mina and Sero and Kaminari get up to.
Kirishima’s face lights up whenever he gets a new visitor, and it makes Bakugou’s guts twist. They did not lose fucking sleep wondering where he was. They did not camp out by his bedside when he was near delirious from all the pain meds pumped into him. They did not spoon-feed him because he couldn’t use his fucking hands and they did not carry him to the showers before he could walk again and they did not deserve that disgusting look of gratitude that dawned on his face every time they fucking graced him with their presence.
Bakugou did. So that coil winds tighter and tighter, until he’s almost ready to snap.
Somehow, he manages to hold it in until Kirishima is discharged. It goes from a frothing rage to a simmer, and finally inky and still, sitting deep within him but unmoving.
But Kirishima has moved the fuck on past Bakugou, apparently. He doesn’t know why he even bothered. Should have let Recovery Girl deal with the burden instead, Kirishima would at least spare her the time of day.
Next time he’ll let Kirishima suffer alone.
The nightmares shift. Most of them are about him suffocating in some way, either choking on sludge or his own vomit or with a band of metal strapped over his mouth and nose so that he poisons himself with the carbon dioxide expelled from his lungs. Sometimes it’s of Shigaraki, and of his body crumbling in on itself, paralyzed and in agony.
Tonight it’s a fucked up combination. There’s a foot on his throat, slowly crushing his windpipe. He thinks it’s All For One, but when he strains his eyes up its black eyes framed by blonde hair that stare down, not smiling but snarling, pure hatred on his emaciated face. A foot knocks into his skull. His ears ring. His neck snaps, he feels the vertebrae crunch, but somehow he’s not dead. Or he is, but his mind is still intact, his body is still and unmoving, not a breath in his lungs, but his eyes are open and his brain can still see.
It’s Kirishima on his knees before Shigaraki. His arms have shattered up to the elbows, dribbling blood. He can see jagged bits of flesh and muscle and bone, hardened like diamonds then crushed. There are three fingers on his face. A thumb turns him towards Bakugou so their gazes can meet, so he sees the plea in Kirishima’s eyes.
He sees the moment it shifts into despair as Shigaraki’s pinky comes down, and it’s frozen there as he face splits down the center.
For once he doesn’t wake up thrashing and panting. He’s perfectly still, body chilled to the marrow of his bone. A frigid sweat is layered on his skin.
He knows he will not get any sleep tonight. Bakugou considers getting up to make himself hot chocolate. In the end, it’s too much to even think about, so he sits up and stares at his phone screen until sunrise.
Not even thirty minutes pass before there’s a rapid knock at his door. Bakugou grimaces to himself. If he waits, Kirishima will go away. He doesn’t need his charity.
Another bust of knocking. It sounds frenzied, somehow, and that’s what makes Bakugou puase. A third, and this time it’s accompanied by a gasp, a desperate, “Bakugou.”
He’s on his feet before he has time to think of it, opens the door without warning. Kirishima stands in the hall, hair messy, blinking thick tears down his face. He’s clutching at his arms, at the red scars that mar them. He repeats, voice breaking, “Bakugou,” and collapses against him.
What is only meant to hold him up turns into an embrace. Kirishima clings to him, arms around his back, fingers twisting the material of his shirt, face pushed into his neck. He doesn’t sob, but he’s trembling out of control.
Bakugou doesn't know what to do except hold him. Kirishima doesn't ask for anything more.
He doesn't count how many minutes they stand like that — it could be two, it could be ten. The longer they stay, the more aware Bakugou becomes. He doesn’t know where to put his arms. How tight to squeeze. Kirishima is not fragile, but like this he feels breakable.
When Kirishima draws away, he’s pathetically relieved.
“I’m sorry,” Kirishima croaks, dragging the back of his hand over both eyes. “It’s just — nightmare, I’m sorry.”
Something shifts in Bakugou’s chest. Like a rib had been poking his lung, and suddenly it just slid back into place, the pain gone. “You get nightmares?”
A pinching of the expression, a nod. “They’ve gotten worse since…” He reaches up to cradle his own arms again, crossed protectively over his chest. It’s a mockery of his defensive stance, now folded in on himself with an echo of terror. A laugh breaks from his mouth. “Fuck. God, this is pathetic, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so scared for myself, I’m such a. Coward.” Kirishima bites off the word like it makes his teeth hurt.
Bakugou scowls. “What is that even supposed to mean?” He takes Kirishima’s hand, expecting him to jump when they touch. Instead Kirishima seizes it and holds tight, following him close as they pad towards the bathroom.
“Heroes are supposed to protect people. How am I supposed to do that if I’m afraid of getting hurt?” His eyes are downcast. Bakugou has to pull his hand free as he takes a washcloth and wets it.
He cups Kirishima’s face, wiping the damp cloth under his eyes, cleaning the tear-tracks away. “Kirishima,” he says, voice hard, “What I heard was that after getting the shit kicked out of you back there, you just threw yourself in front of the villain again. You’re telling me you were scared when you did that?”
Bakugou stops, hand still on Kirishima’s jaw, pulling the rag away from his skin. Though miserable, Kirishima isn't able to turn his head away. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I was terrified.”
“And you jumped in anyway. You’re such a fucking idiot.”
Kirishima flinches and hunched in on himself. Bakugou growls, “No! That’s what I’m talking about, hair-for-brains! You’re usually so fucking good at reading between the lines but I guess I have to spell it out for you!”
He leans in until their noses nearly touched. Kirishima’s eyes widen. “Jumping into danger even when you’re scared is the fucking definition of bravery. Got it? Is your illiterate ass understanding the sounds coming from my mouth cause I’ll say it again!”
He drops the rag. Takes Kirishima’s face with both hands and shoves their foreheads together, gaze boring into his. “You are a hero, Red Riot. Fucking deal with it.”
Bakugou releases him, spinning away with a huff. There’s warmth staining across his face.
Kirishima doesn’t follow immediately. He lingers in the bathroom, cleaning himself up properly. When he comes back through the door, Bakugou is rearranging the pillows on his bed. “Go get your pillows,” he says, glancing up over his shoulder.
Kirishima blinks at him. “...Why?”
“Because I don’t have enough pillows for two people.” He crosses his arms.
It’s visible when it clicks in Kirishima’s brain. His face lights up, and he all but prances out of the room. There are two pillows tucked under his arms when he returns, and he tosses them down onto the bed beside Bakugou.
The mattress dips under his weight. He turns onto his side, facing Bakugou. Their eyes meet, and then Kirishima reaches for him, waits. Bakugou doesn’t resist as Kirishima tucks himself against his side, one arm draped over his chest.
Their sleep is dreamless.