Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bakugou sits in silence in a chair too large for him. Even if he tried to talk, no words could come to him. The hospital room is quiet, suspended in time; only the flutter of the curtains in the wind disturb the deafening stillness he tried to avoid for days. They caress the edges of an empty bed and dance lazily around the open windows, waltzing with the fresh air the nurses have insisted would do their patient some good.

Bakugou saw the bandages they took away, peeking through a bag held by a nurse, before he entered the room with a clog in his throat. Covered in old blood, fused with softened crust that had grown over the wounds, unwrapped and loose, they looked like they had soaked pain and misery. Still, they couldn’t compare to fresh bandages wrapped around fresh wounds. They couldn’t compare to the white canvas around the arms, the torso. They couldn’t be as heavy to carry as what Bakugou could read all over Kirishima’s face, within the lines of his silence, in the nervous trembling of his fingers.

Kirishima doesn’t like to be seen like that, Bakugou can tell; still, he sits here and watches, because that’s all he can do. He sits here and doesn’t talk, even though he wishes he had something to say for once. He sits here and Kirishima lets him; he has this sorry look on his face, his eyebrows tenderly drawn together, his lips torn in what he must think is a smile. Before coming in, Bakugou thought of ways to start the conversation, of easy things to say like you idiot and look at where you landed, but the sight stole it all from him. Kirishima is pale as his sheets, laying there with his stupid red hair like a puddle of blood in fresh snow, defenseless. It’s not like him, it’ll never be, and yet Bakugou has to look at him, he has to see.

Kirishima tilts his head to the side and Bakugou can hear his voice crack in his throat before he tries to talk. There’s an ocean in his eyes, a sea he tries to contain, ready to spill over any second now. Bakugou opens his mouth to stop him from trying to move but he doesn’t know to say; with a vague gesture to Kirishima’s chest, he gapes for a second before his lips decides to move on their own.

“That’s gonna leave scars,” he blurts out flatly.

Kirishima looks at him, his eyes widening slowly. The wind takes a curtain out of the room; it pulls on the rod with a light cling and the fabric swishes with the breeze.

Then Kirishima chuckles, tentatively bringing a shaking arm to his chest; he smiles weakly, his eyes almost closing with exhaustion, as if laughing itself could drain him.

The clog in Bakugou’s throat impossibly swells then melts away.

Kirishima only hums in answer once he finds it in himself to look at Bakugou in the eyes. Yes, that’s gonna leave scars. Yes, the skin will carry ugly marks for a while.

They both silently wish it wouldn’t.

Taking the bandages off stings a bit. The fabric pulls on the hair, clings to the scabs and the damp skin. Kirishima’s jaw clenches at the sensation of the dressings holding onto him before eventually giving in. Fresh air hits his skin like the back of a blade, waking up a myriad of sensations he had managed to forget. More than the feeling, it’s the sight that disturbs him; his skin has burst open in places, pulled apart like a swollen, carmine canyon. Wounds have dug straight lines into his skin, torn their way into it from wrist to elbow, branching off into rifts and crevices red with blood that barely seems old enough to let the flesh heal.

“You can cover them up during the day but it would help if you let them breathe during the night,” the nurse advises.

Kirishima politely nods at that. He texts his parents before leaving the room and shoves his phone back into his pocket when his finger hovers over Bakugou’s name for too long.

He slithers back into the dorms and doesn’t even have to lie when he says he’s tired. Having a welcome back party doesn’t feel like the right thing right now. He doesn’t want the attention, he doesn’t want noise; in truth, he doesn’t really know what he wants. Looking in the mirror of his bedroom doesn’t really help to know.

That night, he spends a long time memorizing every line, every corner, every branch of the tree that grew on him. He learns the map by heart; it looks like one of these markings lightning leaves on people who were struck by the wrong kind of light. Violent streaks scatter left, right, left again, like his skin was at loss for where to break.

Because he broke.

He broke, he wasn’t strong enough. Rappa, vicious like a storm in July, robbed him of the luxury of not knowing how it feels to do his best, give it his all, call himself unbreakable and still break.

He broke and his body will carry a reminder of this day forever, right there, on his forearms, where everyone can see it. Where he can’t look away from, right above his hands. Kirishima already hates the lines, the depth under them, the way they don’t undulate with the muscle. He already hates the purples and the browns peaking though the scabs, softening into mossy greens and dirty yellows where the bruises haven’t disappeared yet.

Kirishima spends hours solidifying the sight into the back of his mind; from the next day of class, he spends hours avoiding this miserable spectacle. Forgotten overnight, all the reason he’d have to pull his sleeves back; abandoned on a shelf, his shirts and tank tops. As long as the sky can’t see his arms, neither can he.

A few tables away, Bakugou doesn’t have to ask Kirishima to strip to know what’s under the uniform. With every shake of Kirishima’s fingers, every second of hesitation when he would usually have thrown his arms in the air, every careful move, Bakugou feels shame poking at him. Crawling up the back of Bakugou’s neck like a summer spider, guilt refuses to let him think of anything else.

He could have been there.

He could have helped. If he hadn’t failed like that.

Kirishima didn’t have to suffer like this. He didn’t have to hate himself like this. Insecurity doesn’t look good on him; Kirishima wasn’t born to waver and falter, his arms were not made for him to be afraid to use them. Kirishima never deserved any of this yet here he is, shuddering like a careful child before pulling bread apart, keeping himself from taking up space by holding his arms close to his torso, jumping at every abrupt move made in his general direction.

Yet this boy still finds it in himself to smile large and wide. He laughs at Sero’s jokes during breaks, cheers on Yaoyorozu over something Bakugou doesn’t care about – but he doesn’t pat Uraraka’s back when she complains about next week’s tests, he doesn’t high five Kaminari when he very well could have. Kirishima keeps his head high but his hands low.

He stills beams like a sun when he tries to get Bakugou to participate in whatever stupid thing they’re going to do after class. He still grins so wide he almost hides himself in his cheeks, his eyes pressed closed – Bakugou can see he tries too hard. He knows him. He’s not stupid, and Kirishima can tell.

Bakugou says no to everything but he likes to hear Kirishima ask again. When Kirishima insists, Bakugou looks at his arms instead of his eyes, because it’s easier.

Kirishima still hopes the scars will fade away with time. If it doesn’t take hours, maybe it’ll take days, maybe it’s a couple of weeks the skin needs, maybe nights spent wide awake will help his arms lose the fissures and the faults.

They don’t.

When Kirishima first designed his sleeves, he wanted them to protect the people he’d rescue. His skin being his greatest weapon, he cringes at the idea of it hurting someone he’d hold close, someone who would cling to him for dear life; pad them, he had asked after slapping his concept drawings on a desk, make them comfortable. He used to wear them proudly, as a sign he was ready to help, ready to carry, ready to be the anchor and the shelter people in distress would need. He used to love his sleeves.

Instead of using them to protect other people’s skin, he now puts them on to protect himself from the sight of his own.

The wounds have stopped stinging a week ago but the cracks have stopped fading at the same time, settling into this pale, chalky shade Kirishima wishes he could paint over. Not as crisp as they once were, thin lines zigzag all over his forearms, sitting where chasms opened wide, from the surface of the skin to the belly of the muscle. He should be grateful for modern medicine.

He isn’t. Not really.

All dressed up, he can look in the mirror for longer. In his hero costume, he doesn’t have to avoid these milky lines following him anywhere, he doesn’t have to voluntarily look away. It still feels bitter, to see himself like that; him, the wannabe Sturdy Hero, standing there, hiding the proof he wasn’t sturdy enough. The rest of his image is still there – the red hair, the spikes, the attitude – but some of it is fake, made up, drawn in smoke, and now that he thinks about it, maybe it’s all of it.

He tries not to think about it.

The locker rooms are loud after training, even though they’re all exhausted. It’s late, already dark outside, and at this point there isn’t much on their mind besides a warm meal, shower and bed. Ojiro grunts something about cramps, about bruises, about Ashido not holding back. Kirishima takes his boots off.

He doesn’t listen when Iida tries to remind everyone of the group project they should turn in next Friday. He doesn’t really pay attention when Sero and Kaminari lightly bicker, their laughs echoing against the cold tiles of the room. The heart isn’t really there, just like it wasn’t in training; he still feels fragile as a porcelain doll, body eager to be shattered by blows, skin vibrating with anxiety at every kick. It’s in his head, maybe – but he feels it. The pull. The force that could break him. All around and inside of him, calling, taunting. The reminder sleeves don’t hide.

Kirishima takes his mask off.

He rubs his eyes slowly, head low, trying to pull himself back together; he inhales, one, exhales, two, then lifts his head up. It’s just a hurdle. A mental block. It shouldn’t be this hard, it shouldn’t be this complicated. He breathes deeply again, one, two, then undoes his belt.

“Kirishima, hurry up, I’m hungry,” Kaminari calls. He’s already fully dressed and as usual, he waits next to the door so they can go back to the dorms together. Sero is ready to go too, and so is Midoriya. Todoroki, Koda and Tokoyami have already left.

“Go ahead,” Kirishima answers with a small smile, “I’ll catch up.” He takes it belt off and puts it in his locker. He’s usually faster than this. He knows it. Everyone knows it.

But if he wants to leave this room, he has to takes his sleeves off and bare his arms for everyone to see.

It wouldn’t be the first time. They’ve seen the scars, they know the lines. No one has been tactless enough to ask about it or comment on the particular geometry of it, on the bark that grew on him. Kirishima knows they worried in their own way. None of them are good at showing it yet, himself included. But today’s not the right day. Today he doesn’t want to. Today his skin would be better hidden, away from others, away from himself. He wishes he didn’t have to shower, he didn’t have to change; he wishes he had one of these quirks that let you shape your body into what you want so he’d never have to stare at these lines again, instead of having this quirk of his that he never really liked anyway. The light is harsh in the locker room and it makes everything pop, from the bags under Sato’s eyes to the fades bruises over Shouji’s arms – the scars would stand out like black lines on white paper, so obvious they can’t be ignored.

“Come on man, there’s beef tonight!” Kaminari insists, stomping into place. Kirishima sits down on a bench and starts taking his pants off, one leg at a time. Slowly.

“I promise, just walk ahead, I’ll be right there,” he says again, trying to keep his voice warm – failing.

Kaminari opens his mouth again, probably to tease him about something. He shouldn’t have.

“Just fucking leave already, you goddamn leeches!” Bakugou booms from behind Kirishima. Familiar crackles erupt in the center of calloused palms, throwing short-lived shadows of Bakugou’s fingers on the floor. “You smell like cows, go take a fucking shower or something!”

“Wow there,” Kaminari snickers, “alright, Murder Lord, calm down. Guys, let’s go,” he adds, turning to Sero and Shouji.

“What the fuck did you call me, Pikachu?” Bakugou snaps, but he doesn’t move, towering over Kirishima instead.

“See you at dinner, Kirishima!” Kaminari points a finger at him, completely ignoring Bakugou, then waltz out the door with the others. Even Midoriya follows, smiling gently at Kirishima on his way out. The door clicks shut.

The locker room is suddenly much more silent.

Kirishima hears Bakugou let out a heavy sigh and close his own locker. He hurries up to put his school uniform pants back on and stand up. When he turns around, Bakugou’s face is stern, closed, cold. He refuses to look at Kirishima in the eyes but Kirishima knows what he just did.

“Thank you,” Kirishima mutters, voice low as if he was worried someone would hear him. The room is empty and his words are the only noise echoing against the tile.

Bakugou grunts and raises his gaze to meet his. He doesn’t look as mad as he sounded a few moments ago. He has a heart, beating under these layers of ice he shows people he doesn’t deem deserving enough. He has a warmth to him Kirishima only asks to bask in. Kirishima smiles – Bakugou visibly softens at that.

Without another word, he takes his sleeves off. It’s suddenly cold without the padding; a wave of shivers runs over his torso, ripples down his arms. Bakugou can see the skin erupting subtly, from this sweet spot over the sternum to the crook of the elbows. The ghostly maps drawn over Kirishima’s forearms shift in the light, the skin texture being quite different from what it used to be. Bakugou wonders briefly if it hurts or if all sensation was drained from the nerves, cut off entirely. It still stings to see this, to watch Kirishima still carry these scars like they’re punishment. Even though Bakugou would rather not have to admit this himself, it pains him to watch his friend lower his head in humiliation, hide from others like a bird about to die, unable to stand other eyes on his skin when he can’t even stand his own.

It’s not the Kirishima Bakugou knows.

“You should be proud,” he says without warning. “These scars look badass.”

Given how Kirishima’s face freezes when he reaches for his shirt, this wasn’t the right thing to say.

“Use them as trophies,” Bakugou continues nonetheless. “You took that away from the fight. Like a medal,” he grunts.

Kirishima’s hand is shaking when he grabs his shirt; he visibly attempts to hide it but fails. His throat makes a strangled sound, as though he tried to talk but stifled any semblance of a voice. It’s pathetic, watching him be like this, so far from the loud, cheerful, boasting boy he usually is. There’s a gaping hole in Bakugou’s chest, an abyss only filled by a special kind of smile Kirishima must have refined over the years, attuned, practiced. He actually has dozens, maybe a thousand variations of the same grin, of the same sun shining all over his features, melting ice cubes in the back of Bakugou’s throat. For a time, Bakugou had even wondered if he had another quirk that would make people feel all warm inside; he thought then maybe that’s the reason Kirishima is always so solar, so radiant, maybe he has this something that guarantees he’ll wake up in a good mood every day of his life. Maybe that’s the reason things feel easier around him.

But looking at Kirishima now, pliant and bent in defeat, grey and muddy and pitiable, there’s not even a guarantee he’ll genuinely smile again. Hesitation is painted on him, dictates his every move from morning to evening. His brows are always low, his moves always slow, his encouragements bittersweet. He doesn’t even look at Bakugou in the eyes most days.

Bakugou can’t stand this any longer.

“Hey!”

Kirishima jumps at that. Bakugou fucking hates it.

“You won, right?” he almost barks. He knows he’s rough but he doesn’t know what else to be. He points at Kirishima’s arms. “These are proof of it, you idiot. Not anything else.”

He’s bad at this. He knows he’s bad. He knows he should be able to do better than to make Kirishima squirm into place, blink too fast, bite his lip. There’s a tremble in his chin, a shameful blush across his cheeks. He purposefully avoids Bakugou’s stare and starts putting his shirt on his silence.

Bakugou hates every single part of it.

“Hey, Kirishima! Look at m–”

“You don’t get it.”

Kirishima’s voice is wet and choked up, his tone low like he hasn’t used his vocal cords in days. Finally, he turns to Bakugou and answers his stare. There’s enough suffering in his eyes for a decade, too vibrant to be ignored, too present for Bakugou to think he’d be able to smother it all by himself.

“I broke,” Kirishima’s voice comes again, harsh. “I couldn’t stand my ground.”

Bakugou steps closer to him, his finger raised to Kirishima’s torso as if he could threaten him, as if he could push this smile out of him, as if he challenged him to show me you can still take my punches. He wants to say how much he hates them too, how much he wishes they’d be gone, hidden from his sight so he wouldn’t have to remember daily how much pain Kirishima was in. He wants to scream and shout and yell at the walls, at the universe for not allowing them to breathe it out – if there was a way to destroy it all, to burn these lines into submission, Bakugou would give it his all. He hates every single thing about this but the worst part was days ago, when he heard Kirishima sob through the wall of his bedroom. The need to hit and bite and crush came over him like a tsunami, holding his every thought captive for lack of knowing how to deal with Kirishima’s broken breathing in any other way.

Bakugou keeps it in.

He grabs Kirishima’s shoulders and makes sure he can’t look away from his face. Kirishima tenses up.

“You came back alive,” he grunts; other words tickle his lips, you came back to me. He doesn’t know why he insists, but he does. “Don’t be an idiot about this. You’d be useless as a hero if you died instead of breaking.”

Kirishima inhales very, very slowly, as if trying to contain something bigger than him growing in his chest. There’s a stutter to the sigh he releases. His shoulders fall down. His eyes haven’t left Bakugou’s, clinging onto him like he’d drown if he let go. There’s a need in his stare, a desperate call for help he doesn’t vocalize. For a second, Bakugou’s glad he learned how to read him. For the next, he loathes that this is what he has to read.

“If you didn’t stand your ground, you wouldn’t have these scars,” he says, softer this time, and that seems to push Kirishima over the edge of a cliff.

He chuckles weakly, his shoulders entirely relaxing. Blinking slowly like a cat in the sun, he smiles and Bakugou wishes he could take a picture; this is genuine, this is true. The dimples in his cheeks and the creases under his eyes – these are what Bakugou knows. These are what he likes to see. These, he’ll allow.

He takes his hands off Kirishima.

“Thanks man,” Kirishima almost whispers, but there’s no shame to his voice, only gratefulness. He puts his shirt on and this small grin doesn’t leave his lips, even when he smoothes the fabric over his forearms.

Bakugou can feel the tsunami in him die down at the sight.

In front of the mirror, Kirishima realizes seeing these scars isn’t a surprise anymore. Not that he has forgotten what naked arms look like – actually, maybe he has. Maybe seeing his younger self in pictures will feel weird, as if it wasn’t really him.

The lines carved in his flesh are there to stay. He could almost be okay with it.

“Focus, dumbass.”

When Kirishima rubs the back of his neck, his elbow almost bumps into Bakugou’s shoulder.

“I knoooow,” he groans, “but this is so hard.”

“Less complaining, more studying!” Bakugou barks, slapping the back of Kirishima’s head.

Kirishima laughs at that. “Yeah yeah, gimme a minute.” His pen turns between his fingers as he re-reads a homework question for what must be the tenth time.

Bakugou sighs. Fuck, this guy is a desperate case. Some things will never change. His room is still as obnoxiously red as it was before the fight, his taste just as disastrous. This place is a mess – it’s always been, but it’s gotten a bit worse over the last week. Will Kirishima ever get his shit together? No one knows.

He’s wearing a t-shirt today though.

The sleeves sit below his shoulders and his arms are naked. Bakugou didn’t mention it when he entered his bedroom, but it’s been a while since he saw his dorm neighbor like that. He had almost forgotten Kirishima’s the kind of guy who hoards shirts with stupid sayings on them. He could have stayed in a sweatshirt, too, as he usually does when they study together after class. But tonight, he didn’t.

Bakugou tries not to think about it too much.

If Kirishima is starting to feel better about these scars, he’s not going to say anything about it. He’ll let him, because that’s what Kirishima deserves. Time. And patience.

And Bakugou doesn’t even really care anyway.

But he can’t help but stare. These lines actually fit Kirishima. There’s no way around the fact that they’re scars, smoother than normal skin, shinier maybe – but they look like well-chosen tattoos from afar. Rough, angled, they have the shape of rock itself but have seeped into the skin with grace, like it’s where they belong. The bruises are long gone, the redness has vanished; there’s only the contrast left behind, the change of tone between what broke and what didn’t. When Kirishima writes, the scars barely move. They stay straight, reminder of what used to pull the flesh apart, and accentuate the muscles right under, the bones that have grown stronger.

Bakugou stretches an arm out and touches the skin.

Kirishima flinches, his arm brusquely folding back towards his chest; pupils blown, eyebrows raised in surprise, he turns to Bakugou like a doe startled by a gunshot. Bakugou can almost hear his heart beat between his ribs, hammering away like a mad horse. Kirishima’s breath shakes for a second as panic takes him by the throat.

The sight hurts.

“Sorry,” Kirishima mumbles when he starts to relax, blinking quickly. “I wasn’t– I didn’t– it’s not–” he tries, but eventually smothers his stutter in a sigh, his shoulders slumped. Bakugou doesn’t pull his hand away; he simply looks at Kirishima, waiting for him to say something again.

He kind of wants to say things he wouldn’t usually say, like it’s fine and I promise and can I? But he doesn’t. He lets Kirishima takes his time to occupy the space again.

Eventually, Kirishima puts his arm back where it was. He looks exhausted now, muddy and out of place, as though he’s just been hit by a truck.

Bakugou can’t allow that.

Without a word, he pushes his hand forward and touches the skin again, softer this time. Kirishima doesn’t pull back; he just looks at him in confusion, his head tilted as if heavy with dozens of questions at once. Without making eye contact, Bakugou starts tracing the milky lines, working his way up from the wrist; he follows the roads mapped for him, takes a turn when he can, always gentle. He can see Kirishima’s mouth fall open – the boy lets him draw on his marked skin without protesting.

He’s been wanting to do that for a while now. Put his fingers on him. Feel the pulse, know the skin. It’s not particularly soft, particularly glossy and moisturized, but it’s Kirishima’s. It’s the same boy he’s been worrying about in silence, the same boy no one can protect from himself, the same boy that makes Bakugou find excuses and reasons for everything. It drives him mad, at times, the way Kirishima just seems to slither in every part of him, every thought from morning to night. It’s that thing he does, when he carries his whole heart on his face for everyone to see. It makes Bakugou forget what it feels like not to care about anyone, what it feels like not to want.

And yet here he is, fingers drawn to what used to hurt Kirishima like to a magnet, like he could push them into the skin if he wanted, like he could rub it off like old chalk. Kirishima’s breath slows and is mouth closes, gently curves, hinting he could be okay with that, he could stand the idea of Bakugou touching what used to make him cry out in pain. Kirishima’s face softens and a ball of nerves Bakugou didn’t know he had in his stomach unravels with it. There’s something else that pops in his mind at this moment, another gesture; he holds it down, smothers it immediately, and keeps running his finger along the scars in silence.

He rubs the arm instead of the face, because it’s easier.

Two minutes after the door of the locker room opens, the sleeves are off. Kirishima even bickers back and forth with Sero and laughs loudly at Kaminari’s stupid jokes. There’s a bruise on his neck and cramps in his legs, other details just as important to the way he moves as the scars on his arms.

Bakugou tries not to look too much. Not that he wants it.

On the same night, Kirishima swings his hips in the kitchen, carefree in his t-shirt, singing along some musical with Ashido while he overcooks his noodles. There he is, radiant once again; their classmates seem to feel it too, this renewed warmth that’s so typically him. It fits him much better than the pout he hides when he doesn’t want to show he’s in pain. It fits the whole class better, really. Everything is much easier this way. His aura vibrates and spreads around, making people around him feel just as warm as he seems to be.

Bakugou can tell a facade when he sees one though.

He catches Kirishima looking down when he thinks no one’s watching, mindlessly running his fingers along the bark drawn over his skin. He sees him, openly baring his chest during training but still holding onto his sleeves a bit tighter than he used to, still avoiding mirrors when he wears shirts. Kirishima used to fix his hair in the reflection of windows he’d walk past; now he barely looks, barely raises his forearms over his line of sight, keeping them close to the rest of his body. He’s not stupid, Bakugou knows it; he’s well aware that if he smiles, people will look at his face, entranced, grateful. Kirishima keeps his arms low so people who look up to his face won’t have to see the lines.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Bakugou spouts one day. His head in his palm, his elbow presses into Kirishima’s desk.

“Hey, I didn’t do anything!” Kirishima almost giggles out of surprise, a pencil in his hand and a notebook under the other. There, that’s yet another annoying thing. The little tilt in his head, the little dimples in his cheeks, the little laugh; all of these little things.

“Stop trying to hide it,” Bakugou continues with the same rough tone, ignoring the pang in his chest.

Kirishima furrows his brows. “What?”

What will it take to make your dumb ass feel good about this? Bakugou doesn’t ask. He just looks at Kirishima straight in the eyes, insisting. After a moment of confusion, Kirishima’s smile falls when the realization sinks in – Bakugou hates himself for it. Kirishima puts his pencil down and starts rubbing his wrist, not going any higher, as if he was afraid the lines would burn him.

“It’s fine,” he says eventually with that voice he only uses when they’re alone. The fist in Bakugou’s chest clenches tighter. “I’m doing better.”

“You’re a fucking liar,” Bakugou spits, much more aggressive than he wants to be right now. “You still hate yourself, it’s so goddamn obvious.”

“Why do you care?” Kirishima snaps back without missing a beat, his eyes coming to drill into Bakugou’s soul. His voice is firm, unwavering, but there’s no anger. He could even sound like a genuine question to a stranger – Bakugou could hear nothing but that if he didn’t know Kirishima so well.

Yeah, why does he care? Why does it matter, if Kirishima falls apart before his eyes, stumbles on his own in the dark? Why is Bakugou even here, in this bedroom – is it because a weak classmate makes for a terrible training partner? Is it because Kirishima’s the only punching bag he has, and he can’t stand the idea of having to find another? Is it because he’s tired of listening to him break down under the covers, long after midnight?

Why does Bakugou care in the first place, why does he cling to the warm routine of their shared habits, why does he count the times he makes Kirishima smile without trying – why does any of this matter? It’s not for the small touches he misses, for the arm that used to wrap around his shoulders, for the spontaneity Kirishima has smothered. It’s not because it hurts to watch him like this. It’s not because these smiles make him feel some kind of way, because he craves them like an addict would fight withdrawal, because Kirishima is so much prettier when he smiles. It’s not because Kirishima being pretty matters in the first place.

“It was thanks to you, you know,” Kirishima says. “That I stood my ground.”

Bakugou blinks. “What the fuck are you talk–”

“What you said. About being strong, not crumpling.” Kirishima’s gaze softens. The fist in Bakugou’s chest opens wide. “I thought of you. That’s why I was able to use my quirk, really.”

He punctuates his sentence with a tender smile; whatever held onto Bakugou’s lungs lets go in a flutter.

Kirishima spends a lot of time staring at his arms in the shower. He can’t exactly remember what they looked like before – if the scars vanished overnight, he wouldn’t feel like this skin is his own anymore. He can’t quite put a finger on the reason why, but he’s pleased about it. They do look badass. They still feel rough at times, not to the touch but to the eyes. Remembering they’re there come with a pinch to the heart, with the echo of Rappa’s words in his head. Kirishima doesn’t need to protect himself from the scars as much as he needs to face the memories themselves.

Water pools at his feet while he combs his hair in front of the bathroom mirror, a towel around his waist. Violently, the door swings opens on Bakugou, coming in with his toothbrush already in his mouth and a blank look on his face.

“Hey dude,” Kirishima chimes, bringing a hand down to make sure his towel is tightly attached to his hips, and Bakugou grunts in answer. He picks a sink and starts to brush his teeth like he’s trying to draw blood from the enamel.

“Do you have time tomorrow to help me with math?” Kirishima asks, pulling on a knot. “I think I understand most of it but the questions look so hard.”

Bakugou mumbles a thing that could very well be “fuck off”, mouth foaming with toothpaste. Oh well. Kirishima shrugs.

“Yeah alright, I’ll ask Yaoyorozu then.”

Bakugou spits right away.

“The hell you are,” he growls, foam dribbling down the corner of his mouth. He points his toothbrush at Kirishima accusatively. “If you let her tutor you, you’re not gonna understand shit and you’ll fail the fucking test.”

Kirishima cocks his head to the side. “I thought you said ‘fuck off’?”

Bakugou gives him a puzzled look but doesn’t answer that.

“And Yaoyorozu is a good teacher you know! It’s fine if you don’t–”

“Now you can really fuck off with that bullshit, fuckass,” Bakugou protests, shoving his toothbrush back in his mouth. “I’ll be in your room at 7 tomorrow, you better have your books open by then,” he manages to mumble around the toothbrush.

Kirishima grins wide, working on another knot. “Thanks dude!”

Bakugou looks angrier than before. He’s hard to work with sometimes. One moment he’s pissed off, the other he’s as supportive as he gets. Kirishima doesn’t really mind, it’s not like Bakugou is angry at him. He knows the dude would fight a cloud if someone told him it looked at him wrong.

A few moments pass in relative silence, only perturbed by Bakugou’s furious brushing and some water dripping from a showerhead, somewhere behind them.

Bakugou spits again. “And give me back my tank top. I know you have it.”

Kirishima opens his mouth, but Bakugou continues.

“The black one. I saw you with it.”

Kirishima gapes for a second. It’s not like he sneaked into Bakugou’s room to steal it. Bakugou left it in his sports bag a couple of days ago after training, mumbling something about not having enough room in his own bag (which was ridiculous, because of course he did). Kirishima didn’t take the time to say something, quickly distracted by Iida and Kaminari fighting about daylight savings. He wore it once, yesterday, simply because it’s the first thing his hand landed on – not at all because it still smelled like Bakugou, or because wearing a tank top again for the first time in weeks is much easier when it belongs to someone you value.

“Sure!” he smiles, putting his comb back into his small bag with the rest of his toiletries. “I’m sorry, I forgot to give it back to you yesterday.”

Bakugou dives head first under the faucet to rinse his mouth but Kirishima still sees his cheeks burn into this lovely shade of pink.

After eight at night, Bakugou stretches an arm and touches Kirishima’s skin.

His finger always falls on the same spot, on the bony bump of the wrist, then slowly slides along the side of the forearm. Kirishima flinched the first time; now he doesn’t even look up. The bark under the skin hasn’t moved, forever carved in this paler tone. Bakugou tells himself he does it out of selfishness, just because he can. He totally doesn’t do it to watch shivers simmer in his finger’s wake, to watch Kirishima write slower than a minute ago, his pupils blown wide as he tries to focus on his homework. He has no other reason to trace the scars than to test him, to push him like he would in training. In no way does he like the idea of Kirishima getting used to the brush of skin against skin. He doesn’t even want it himself, it’s not an excuse to touch him.

It’s simple – they’re here, and Kirishima doesn’t budge anyway.

Some nights, he scoots a bit closer. It easier when they sit on the floor with pillows under their legs, leaning back against Kirishima’s bed with a low table in front of them. On these nights, Bakugou can make their thighs touch and pretend it doesn’t matter, because it truly doesn’t. He can choose a line and trace it slowly as though he was given orders to regularly inspect the scars from a nurse – not that he’s the kind to follow orders. Kirishima’s body heat radiates all the way to the core of his throat and something pulses there when he leans closer still.

Drawing within the lines trauma traced on Kirishima’s skin is the most intimate thing Bakugou has ever done. He’s never kissed, he’s never made love; hell, he doesn’t hug when he very well could. Yet for Kirishima, Bakugou would find it in himself to brush the lines in a palm, to caress the lower side of the arm, where the skin if sensitive and tender. Not thinking about what would make it worth it is part of the charm; still, Bakugou likes the way Kirishima stammers in the middle of his sentence, the way he looks away then back at him in a second, the way he lightly, ever so subtly, leans into the touch.

When Bakugou’s finger reaches the elbow, he takes it away. Goosebumps erupt where he touched the skin last. Sometimes Kirishima sighs, sometimes he stretches, sometimes he smiles – that’s Bakugou’s favorite, but he’ll never say it out loud.

Nights never stop being rough.

When there’s nothing to distract him and no one to keep him grounded, Kirishima folds in two under the blankets. His room might be crammed with things he uses to make the space feel less empty but the bed could almost be too big for him; the sheets are cold. Wrapped around himself, Kirishima breathes in, one, breathes out, two.

It doesn’t take the pain away.

He knows it’s not in his body, it’s not in the nerves – it’s all in his head, this pain that tears him apart, claws at his forearms, rips his flesh open without letting a single blood of drop out. It’s all in the memories, in the never-ending carousel of images that swirl around and swallow him in a maelstrom he doesn’t control; he stills feels the punches when he closes his eyes, he can hear the cracks, the disgusting pops of the skin, the heartbreaking sound of his best effort snapping in cascade. Like chalk on a blackboard, pieces of his sole line of defense screeched against each other in a sordid demonstration of powerlessness, falling apart with these repulsive crackling noises. His armor fractured like bone would and shattered not all at once, but slowly, clefts spreading in a nauseating cancer from the center of the forearm to the wrist first, to the elbow then. The adrenaline stopped him from feeling his own blood trickle down but now, rolled into himself in an empty room, Kirishima wishes he couldn’t feel it gush out from wounds that have healed long ago.

He sobs it out.

A hand over his mouth to hold pained wailing in, Kirishima lets his entire body shake violently, all his muscles taunt and tense, on the verge of cramping all over. His elbows hit his knees when he tries, impossibly so, to disappear in a ball that pain would spare; he feels it all rushing, washing over him in polluted waves, smothering him under a tar he knows too well. It’s thick and heavy and sticks to the inside of his lungs, to the bottom of his stomach – he can’t breathe well through the sobs and hiccups once, twice, then more than he bothers to count.

His body tires eventually.

Exhaustion is all that’s left when the memories decide to let go. Mind blank, Kirishima feels himself float when he sits up. There’s a gap where his thoughts used to be.

His legs find their way to the bathroom before he realizes he’s going anywhere but once he finds himself in front of a running sink, he knows that’s where he has to be. The water is cold, falling between fingers that don’t feel like his own. He splashes his face a couple of times then looks in the mirror. Wretched, his reflection has red eyes and a puffy face, made worse by the harsh neon lights of the bathroom. It’s like seeing a ghoul incarnate, or one of these ghastly portraits of drowned people found with no name. It doesn’t look like himself.

Kirishima grabs the sides of the sink and lets his head fall low. One. Two.

That’s the moment Bakugou chooses to take a piss in the middle of the night.

He bursts into the bathroom, visibly not having thought of finding someone there, and stops dead in his tracks when he sees Kirishima hunched over a sink with death all over his face. Time freezes. They look at each other like they’re seeing ghosts, stuck in their movements the way deer stand still in headlights. Bakugou’s expression is undecipherable; there’s not a twitch to his features, not a blink, nothing but sheer shock.

Then the clock starts ticking again and panic submerges Kirishima without warning. He feels all the air leave his lungs at once and doesn’t try to stop it; he’d rather have to run to the other side of the campus than to have Bakugou watch him be a shell of himself. He stands straight again, rubs his face quickly then moves for the door as fast as he can.

Bakugou grabs his arm and stops him. He looks at Kirishima straight on, disbelieving, his face scrunched up with a million questions. His mouth opens and closes slightly as he tries to mold words before speaking but can’t seem to get them right. Kirishima shouldn’t want to leave so badly. It’s just Bakugou. He shouldn’t have to be afraid of him, to avoid him of all people; in truth, he doesn’t want to.

But Bakugou is sickened by weakness, and that’s all Kirishima has to his name tonight.

He pulls on his arm to get Bakugou to release him, but Bakugou’s having none of it. He resists Kirishima’s move, pulling him closer to him at the same time; Kirishima whines when he gets to be seen from up close. He’d be ready to ask for pity, for Bakugou to have mercy, but Bakugou speaks first.

“You look like a corpse,” he says bluntly, and there’s his very own brand of anger bubbling behind his words.

“Let me go,” Kirishima tries, his voice dim and broken. He pulls again but Bakugou doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Have you spent the whole fucking night crying?” he growls, his tone punitive, raising like a warning.

“Bakugou, please…”

“I know you have.”

There are other words suspended in the air but they never make it to Bakugou’s lips.

Kirishima feels the tar boil between his ribs again, his throat tightening, stinging. He has to go. He really, really has to go. He can’t break down again, not here, on the tiles of the bathroom floor – for a split second, the image of Bakugou holding him up crosses his mind but he stamps out these sparks before he feels the fire. Somehow, he manages to swallow. Bakugou’s eyes narrow at that, his gaze jumping from forehead covered in sweat to trembling chin to lips pressed together. When he looks at Kirishima’s eyes again, Kirishima could swear he reads worry. His breath itches painfully.

He pulls again and this time, Bakugou lets go.

Kirishima’s name echoes against the tiles when the bathroom door closes behind him; he doesn’t answer and rushes straight back to his room, mortified. This is the worst thing that could have happened.

He slams his bedroom door shut with a strength he didn’t know he had and collapses on his bed face first. If he holds his breath long enough, maybe he’ll just pass out and wake up tomorrow, ready to pretend none of that just went down. Maybe, once the sun is up, he’ll get his shit together and never break down again. Maybe he’ll be okay.

He doesn’t believe any of that.

The only thing he knows is how empty this all feels. Like a stranger in his own body. A single crab in a bucket, with nothing to hold on to no matter what he tries. It always ends up catching up to him, to these arms he’s tried to love, to this skin even Bakugou seems to like when, late after class, his fingers dance along the scars.

Kirishima’s heart hurts at the thought.

He never sees Bakugou this gentle, this soft, this attentive. It’s only when he draws over the lines without looking at Kirishima, as though he was doing it all for himself, that Bakugou shows a part of him hidden until then. Kirishima thought about breaking the ritualistic silence they share when there’s a finger caressing his forearm, but he always ends up swallowing his words. There’s no way he’s ruining that.

And yet, over time, he still came up with a thousand ways to ruin it all. He adds new ones to his list every day; he thought of the lips, barely open on unsaid words. He thought of the cheeks, bare and blushed when they’re so close to sleep. He thought of the hands, the fingers, the delicate skin of the palms he could lean into fully. He thought of the eyes on him and the breaths he can almost taste; he wished he could feel them on his tongue once then never stopped wanting it. Suspended between minutes that belong to them only, Kirishima always begs the seconds to stretch – they seem to listen, letting him sink into the pulp of the moment. It’s a torture in itself, a world of desire contained within half a square inch of contact that makes the rest of his body hypersensitive when he focuses on this single finger touching him. His mind races from mouth to neck to collarbones to mouth again, to the shivers pleading to erupt from under his skin, to the inches of space between them he could eliminate but never does.

Kirishima whines into his pillow.

One.

Two.

Someone knocks on his door – Kirishima almost jumps out of his skin. He pushes back against his bed and doesn’t have the time to stand up before the door clicks open.

“It’s me,” Bakugou’s voice comes from the other side of the room. The door closes and footsteps approach. It’s so dark Kirishima can’t see him properly – Bakugou probably can’t see anything either but he still finds his way to the feet of the bed. He stands there, cold moonlight giving shape to his features, before sitting with a sigh. The mattress dips under his weight, the bed creaks a bit. Kirishima shifts to sit with his legs crossed and tries to come up with something to say but his mind is blank. Back hunched, arms close to his body as if he was trying to protect his stomach, he sniffles a bit too loudly.

“You should have told me,” Bakugou says. There’s restraint in his tone.

Kirishima doesn’t know what to say, so he stays silent and plays with his fingers. He presses his thumbs into his own palms in circles, desperately trying to keep himself grounded for long enough.

Bakugou grabs one of his wrists. Kirishima’s eyes shoot up in surprise but he doesn’t pull back. Bakugou’s fingers are not even tight, not trying to stop him from moving; they just sit there, where Kirishima looks most of the time, where Bakugou knows Kirishima will feel them better.

“You are so fucking annoying, I already told you that a billion times,” Bakugou grunts again, pulling the arm towards him. He scoots closer at the same time and the low light filtering through the curtains hits his cheekbones with a new angle, making the skin glow softly. His lashes flutter with each blink, as if too heavy this late into the night, but there’s a rare tenderness to his gaze. Kirishima watches him settle the forearm into his lap, forcing him to open his chest and breathe in. Both hands come to hold him like his forearm is precious, breakable. Bakugou looks at him intensely; with the night light shining through them, his irises have a shade Kirishima has never seen on him – or maybe it’s just his general expression, as rough as ever yet devoted.

“It hurts,” Kirishima says.

“Now?”

“No. Not anymore. Just… sometimes.”

Understanding flashes through Bakugou’s eyes, and Kirishima knows. Bakugou is familiar with it too, with this kind of pain that doesn’t need a wound to find roots in.

“It helps when you’re there though,” he says before he can stop himself. He can’t even find the energy to be mad at himself for that.

Bakugou doesn’t blink for a handful of seconds. In the silence, their closeness dawns on Kirishima; Bakugou can probably feel his pulse, sense the miniscule shivers running down his spine from where he sits. Their thighs are touching, their shoulders have started leaning against each other at some point – Kirishima blames the fatigue for his lack of attention. Now as aware as ever, he can’t believe he hasn’t noticed earlier. Bakugou’s face is right there, so close he could kiss his temple or run a hand through his hair without moving much. He has all ten fingers over Kirishima’s forearm and both eyes caught into Kirishima’s stare. It’s already bad enough for Kirishima’s blood pressure but then he moves his hand on his skin in a way that could only be described as caressing, deliberately gentle.

Kirishima’s going to crack open.

Bakugou’s fingers move over the scars and Kirishima breaks eye contact. He watches Bakugou do what he does best: put him back together. Though he can feel Bakugou looking at him intensely, memorizing all the tiny moves on his face, the parting of his lips and the subtle twitch in the corners of his eyes, Kirishima doesn’t look back up. There’s nothing more he wants that this kind of silence, than this finger rewriting the whole story for him.

Or maybe there is.

Breath catches in his throat. There is. There is much more he wants.

Bakugou’s fingers go to the crook of the elbow and back and Kirishima soars then melts all at once, unable to keep a long sigh in. Shivers implode right where Bakugou touches him as if his skin itself was alive and singing, firecrackers sparkling in his veins. There’s nothing holding him back from jumping into Bakugou’s lap and tackling him into the bed in the most grateful hug he’d ever have given; he doesn’t though. He stays, eyes glazing over as he loses himself in the sensation of what he can have, what he can get as long as he doesn’t ask for more. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t demand, doesn’t offer; he just takes what Bakugou has for him and it’s enough.

Against all odds, Bakugou gives more.

He takes Kirishima’s wrist and holds it up; gently, he leans forward and presses a kiss there, right where a line breaks in two. Kirishima’s heart hammers at the bottom of his throat, against his temples, in the depth of his stomach – blood rushes to his cheeks, his ears, every inch of his skin. He can feel his eyes widen but he does nothing to stop surprise from painting his face. Bakugou has his eyes closed and his lips wet, glossy in the moonlight, his breath as calm and smooth as ever. He moves again and Kirishima inhales, one, he can anticipate it – without trying, he drives his entire focus to where the mouth will fall, to where he wants his whole self to be and when it does, when Bakugou kisses him there again, Kirishima feels part of him ascend. Unbelievably naturally, Bakugou peppers kisses over the lines again, and again, as if he had thought of it for months, as if the memory of his lips wasn’t now and forever engraved in the skin, as if the scars hadn’t just gone from unfortunate markings Kirishima should honor to light ribbons he should cherish.

After exactly six pecks, Bakugou leans back – his breath hovers against Kirishima’s fingers for a second before he brings the arm back down.

Two.

“Then come see me next time, instead of crying on your own.”

Kirishima forgets what words are. He barely remembers having a body at all, if it isn’t for this arm Bakugou still holds. Their faces are so close, the ghost of these lips so vivid all over his body, Kirishima can’t tell if they have kissed or not; maybe his brain went blank, maybe he hallucinated all of this. It’s so unlike Bakugou to go so far out of his way to be this demonstrative. He must only be like this past 2 am; holding onto each other in the intimacy of a messy bedroom, they have no other witness than the moon.

Bakugou pushes the forearm back into Kirishima’s lap and pulls back. He stands up, making the bed creak again, well aware of Kirishima’s shameless stare following his every move.

“Sleep,” he almost orders before turning around. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

A hand grabs the hem of his shirt.

“Katsuki.”

It’s more of a croak than anything else, but none of it matters when Kirishima uses this name. Bakugou turns back to face him, slowly; he would have gotten mad in any other circumstances, for anyone else. But Kirishima? Shivering, shell-shocked, lonely Kirishima? He’d let him call him Kastuki with any voice he chooses.

“Thank you.”

Kirishima’s flushed from hairline to collarbone, radiating warmth in the pale aura of the moonlight. The bags under his eyes are still puffy and he still has this greyish tone to him, this shade of exhaustion that will never look good on him – but his eyes… The spark in them is fresh, vivacious, desperately alive. Even if he had said nothing, Bakugou would have felt the gratefulness emanating from his entire being; still, Kirishima somehow manages to smile. It’s weak, it’s frail and shy but it’s for Bakugou; it’s right there, drawn on his lips with his best effort, accentuated by the eerie light that seeps between them. He’s such a sight to behold, unraveled like this on his own bed, carved from flesh out of thin air – he could exist anywhere, for anyone, but his hand holds onto Bakugou’s shirt as though it was the only thing that truly mattered in a world of billions.

Anything that still stands hard and true in Bakugou’s chest cracks and collapses like marble towers, turns to dust between blinks. His throat melts into his lungs and turns to flowers, to feathers, to a humming hymn he never admitted he held in him. Bakugou dissolves entirely when Kirishima finally lets go, his hand lingering in the air like an invitation to take it. He finds his way out of the room but something in him wants to stay, wants to turn around and scream and whisper and sing all at once – he can’t lie to himself anymore, it’s eating him alive. He wants Kirishima to know that he kissed his arms instead of his lips, because it was easier.

Midoriya trots to Kirishima’s side when they go back to the dorms after training. “Good job out there!” he chimes with a bright smile. He could have sparks flying around his face, the feeling would be the same, just as genuine and encouraging.

“Thanks man,” Kirishima smiles back at him. “You did well too! You have your Full Cowl under control now, uh?”

Midoriya nods at that. Strands of his hair stick to his sweaty temples. “Yeah, I’m getting better every day,” he says enthusiastically, his strides matching Kirishima’s. He pauses for an instant, then ads something. “You’re also getting much better.”

Kirishima tilts his head to the side. “Uh?”

“Your quirk,” Midoriya says more softly, keeping this conversation between them. “You seem more… Confident isn’t really the word.” He looks into the distance for a second, choosing what to say. “At ease? Less anxious, is what I mean.”

Kirishima never really thought of what it must be like to watch him, from an outsider’s perspective. He’s aware he used to hold back, right after his visit to the hospital; first it was by fear his wounds would open again if he pushed it too far, then it was by fear, period. Following the nurses’ recommendations as well as common sense is one thing, holding back because he refuses to face his most extreme form after his encounter with Rappa is another.

But he made progress. He’s getting there.

“Yeah… Was it really noticeable though?” he dares to ask. Midoriya gives him a puzzled look. Kirishima chuckles nervously. “That I was anxious?” he clarifies. Midoriya doesn’t make fun of him for asking, which he’s grateful for.

“We know you, you know,” he says warmly. “Everyone knew you’d need time. It’s normal.”

Kirishima doesn’t know what to do with the implication that his classmates have apparently talked about this together. He rubs the back of his neck and grins as his only answer. Midoriya smiles back. Kirishima doesn’t know what he did to deserve him. This boy is too supportive, too kind for his own good.

They both have visible scars now. Midoriya doesn’t seem to be bothered by his, even though they’ve also been caused by his own quirk. It seems trivial now; of course, there’s nothing to worry about, of course he’s able to use his quirk easily now, like he used to before the fight. Of course, he’ll be fine, the way Midoriya is.

When he hardens during training, the patterns on his skin follow the lines traced there, but it’s not scary anymore. It looks like a guide, it feels like experience. It’s familiar and sweeter than it is bitter. They’re still scars, they still have history, but Kirishima likes them.

“You can go back to your room if you want.”

Bakugou looks a Kirishima and raises an eyebrow. “What, am I bothering you?” he asks sarcastically.

Kirishima visibly flushes at that; he smiles and shakes a hand, as if trying to chase thoughts away. “No no! It’s just– It’s late and I don’t want to keep you up. I’m pretty sure I can do the rest by myself,” he says, eyeing four math questions that still need to be answered. “But you can stay too!”

Bakugou only sighs at that. He reopens his math book, vaguely thinking about re-reading the chapter for the ninth time. Part of him is only staying here because he has nothing better to do but the other half is screaming how about you take a hint, dumbass?

Kirishima scribbles something in silence, busy solving the first problem on his list. His hair is down and a lock is tucked behind his ear. He looks well rested for once, at peace. There’s no tremble anywhere, nothing that shakes – actually, Bakugou hasn’t seen him in a bad state for a while now. He doesn’t make sounds at night anymore, he doesn’t stay up on his balcony until ungodly hours.

He doesn’t get lost in the bathroom, looking like an apparition straight out of a horror movie.

“Did it happen again?” Bakugou asks bluntly.

Kirishima looks at him, not understanding the question.

Bakugou doesn’t feel like clarifying, not with words at least, so he does what he knows Kirishima will understand; he touches his wrist and rubs circles with his thumb here. Kirishima’s face falls – it’s never been quite clear to Bakugou whether the scars had a different sensitivity than the rest of his skin or if it simply felt good.

“No… No, it didn’t,” Kirishima mumbles, his voice suddenly much lower than it was a minute ago. His exhale has a stutter to it, as if an emotion was strangling him. This time he shifts closer to Bakugou, wiggling around until his knee touches Bakugou’s thigh. Bakugou doesn’t flinch at the sudden proximity. “It really helps to…” he stops, inhales slowly, then continues. “To have you around.”

His eyes look straight into Bakugou with this genuine, honest warmth only he knows how to pull off; he stops his sentence there but there’s still much to be said, Bakugou can hear the fight inside of him, words kept muffled and silent. Maybe it’s a lack of bravery – though Bakugou would doubt it from him.

He wants to hear it.

A single finger tracing a line turns to two, turns to five; Bakugou splays them along the length of the forearm, multiplying the contact by a thousand. His palm runs over the curve of the muscles, embraces the softness of the skin away from the wrist – he can feel blood pumping under these lines he knows by heart. He caresses Kirishima’s skin like he would smooth over the surface of a polished sculpture: with respect and patience.

And something else.

Not tenderness, he promises himself as his hand climbs up past the elbow. Not softness, he hopes, keeping his expression stern – he fails, he fails at hiding anything, he can feel it. He knows it because now Kirishima’s looking at him like he looks at the moon, at the stars he whispers to after midnight; he inches closer, clearly craving Bakugou’s touch, or maybe its Bakugou who leans forward. He can’t tell but it’s not wanting and it’s not loving, it’s none of that, he refuses to find a word for it. It’s just making sure, just appreciating that Kirishima is here, with him, that he came back from under the bandages and the sweaty covers, from the other side of the bathroom mirror.

Somehow Bakugou breathes in, forcing air into his lungs past his thrashing heart beating away at the bottom of his throat, and his hand slips up to cup Kirishima’s jaw. Kirishima has completely abandoned his notebook, his pencil, everything. He opens his mouth to say something but no words come out; only a faint sound, almost a moan, slithers past his lips. He doesn’t seem to notice. Subtly, he leans into Bakugou’s palm, his eyes not leaving Bakugou’s, as if he had no regard for the harsh callouses rubbing against the delicate skin of his cheeks. Bakugou’s breath catches in his throat and solidifies there, suffocating, then Kirishima turns his head without breaking eye contact and presses a single, soft kiss in the center of Bakugou’s palm, and everything that ever mattered cracks in dozens of pieces.

Bakugou understands now, he gets what it’s like to have this minuscule patch of skin to cling to, to know in a fraction of a second that the memory of the touch, of the cushion of wanted lips over the skin, will never go away. It’s both a curse and a blessing being invoked right in front of him, so good it’s almost painful.

Kirishima’s lips stick for a second to Bakugou’s palm when he pulls away. He simply looks at Bakugou; his curtains are closed but Bakugou sees the moonlight shining through his eyes, he sees the same aura than the other night, the same words, the same please stay.

Kirishima gives him a shy smile but there’s nothing left to melt in Bakugou’s chest.

So Bakugou pushes his fingers through the hair behind Kirishima’s neck and when he kisses him, it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

He crashes into Kirishima without restraint, pushing lips against lips, forehead against forehead in a mess of need and want and desire. Someone makes a sound, a muffled moan laced into a sigh, but Bakugou can’t tell if it was him – he couldn’t care even if he tried. Kirishima’s lips are already wet, barely parted, and Bakugou kisses him once, twice, three times over, pressing forward like he’s desperate to drown into him.

When Kirishima kisses back, pushing against Bakugou with the same fervor, Bakugou whines in relief and brings his other hand to the side of Kirishima’s face to make sure he stays, to make sure he never goes away, to make sure he doesn’t fall apart. Kirishima’s fingers find their way up Bakugou’s back and into his hair; he has a thumb rubbing circles behind Bakugou’s ear, sending warm shivers down his spine. His other hand hugs Bakugou, pulling him closer; Bakugou pulls back to take a breath, his nose still touching Kirishima’s, his eyes snapping open to make sure Kirishima is not going anywhere, then he climbs into Kirishima’s lap, settles there, tilts his head to the side and kisses him again.

Breathless, Kirishima chases after his lips between kisses. Bakugou doesn’t spare the corners of his lips, his chin, his cheeks – he kisses him all over and holds him tighter still, pulling Kirishima closer to him between his knees, then finds these lips he’s wanted for months again. Messy and wet, their sloppy kisses lack control and moderation but neither of them care – they give, give and give again, and when Kirishima opens his mouth more, Bakugou doesn’t wait for him to ask before sliding their tongues together. They melt into each other, humming in unison, bodies pressed tightly.

Clearly out of breath, Kirishima pulls away. His hands don’t move, holding Bakugou’s head close to his; if he leant forward just a little, they’d be kissing again. His face is redder that Bakugou’s ever seen it, his lips pink and flushed after being thoroughly kissed.

“Well that was, uh…” he gulps. “Unexpected.”

Bakugou frowns. “So not only are you annoying, you’re also blind as fuck.”

And that’s what does it; Kirishima smiles wide, his cheeks pushing tiny lines under his eyes. The hand behind Bakugou’s head starts rubbing tiny circles there again and Bakugou’s heart threatens to break the sound barrier.

“Don’t be rude,” Kirishima laughs, before leaning forward to leave yet another kiss on Bakugou’s lips. Bakugou follows his moves lazily, feeling Kirishima’s other hand slide down to hold the small of his back and pull his hips closer. He lets Kirishima kiss him at his own deliberately slow pace.

“Wanna stay the night? Like… a sleepover?” Kirishima asks eventually, lips moving against Bakugou’s cheek. Bakugou can feel the warmth of his blush without looking at him.

“I have my own damn bed, idiot,” he snaps back. He wanted to go for another insult, to show he was still grounded and somewhat cold, but Kirishima trailing his lips down the line of his jaw makes him lose his focus for a second. For more than a second, actually.

“Yeah but what if I have another nightmare?” Kirishima pleads childishly, his tone not hiding the fact that he’s only looking for an excuse to keep Bakugou close to him.

“You won’t,” Bakugou breathes, not without any difficulty since Kirishima’s now busy peppering kisses along the column of his throat.

“Yeah, but,” Kirishima starts, looking back up to kiss him on the lips fully again, “what if?” he grins, his fingers tangling into Bakugou’s hair.

Bakugou can feel himself turn to a deep shade of crimson; he pushes Kirishima away and Kirishima giggles at that, his voice clear and ringing like a chiming bell. Kirishima feigns trying to focus on his math homework again, unable to keep smiling as he plays with his pencil, but Bakugou can’t stay here and just watch him. He can’t go either. What if? The thought alone is all it takes.

They don’t get much math done.

The morning light filtering through the curtains gives Kirishima’s face a soft glow Bakugou rarely saw on him. It draws a halo around his features, golden and creamy. His messy hair spread over the pillow, Kirishima’s still sleeping. Overnight, their legs have tangled into his comfortable limb sandwich Bakugou doesn’t dare disturb. He simply looks, still bleary-eyed, and memorizes all the small details, the rare freckles around the bridge of his nose, the scar over his eyelid, the grace all over him. His forearms are sitting close to his chest and his scars shine in the light like nacre, forever part of him, beautifully so.

Bakugou must have inched too close because Kirishima’s eyes blink open slowly; he shifts lazily, burying his face into the pillow to ease into the morning. Bakugou doesn’t move.

“G’morning,” Kirishima’s voice comes, muffled. Bakugou hums back at him in answer and wraps his arms around his waist to pull him closer. Kirishima sighs deeply, pushing his face into Bakugou’s torso, and relaxes against him.

“We’re gonna be late to class,” he mumbles against Bakugou’s t-shirt.

“Don’t care,” Bakugou mutters in Kirishima’s hair.

Kirishima breathes slowly, pushing more of himself against Bakugou.

“Math test,” he mumbles again, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself than anything else. “Can’t miss it.”

“How did you sleep?” Bakugou almost murmurs, his eyes slowly closing again.

One of Kirishima’s hands starts rubbing his back lovingly, and that’s the only answer he needs.

They won’t miss the math test, but it’d be lying to say they didn’t try.