Work Text:
“I didn’t think it was possible for these to get worse but they’re so much wooorse.” Denki groans, letting his head drop against Kirishima’s shoulder. “My head is fucking killing me.”
They’re at the very end of a training session that has stretched well past sunset. Every last one of them is sweaty and exhausted and Kirishima is no exception. His skin feels raw and tingles at his elbows and knees. It feels like he’s swimming through something thick and viscous instead of walking through air. All he can think about is a hot shower and collapsing into bed for the next twelve hours.
“Didn’t you stay below your volt limit?” Kirishima says, turning to get a better look at Kaminari. It’s a weird angle since he’s leaned up against his shoulder, but from here Kirishima can’t see any drool or the tell-tale placid contentment that comes with Denki burning his brain out.
“Yeah.” Denki whimpers, gripping the side of his head. “But I still let off a couple big ones man. If I go overboard it’ll make my head hurt if it doesn’t fry my brain.”
“You saved Aoyama from getting hit by all those training bots though.”
“I shoulda let him get crushed.” Denki whines. “Aizawa might have called the class off early.” Kirishima chuckles. “I doubt he would have.” Their training sessions have been growing progressively longer and more difficult since Kamino ward. Kirishima would be more upset about it if he wasn’t acutely aware of the reason why.
All Might’s hero days ended at Kamino. Best Jeanist and Ragdoll have resigned completely. Night Eye is gone. The League of Villains has been quiet for awhile, but they won’t stay docile for long. Soon a battle will break out, and it’s more than likely UA is going to be dragged right into the center of it. So Kirishima is more than happy to run himself ragged in training. He needs to get stronger. They all do.
Kirishima winces as pain lances up his arm. The skin of his forearm is cracked from one too many hits, and he can feel blood, warm and sticky, running down his wrist. So maybe more than happy is a bit of an exaggeration.
Beside him Denki shifts, pushing himself up and off of Kirishima’s shoulder. “Dude you should go see Recovery Girl.” Kirishima shrugs. “I will tomorrow. Tonight I just wanna shower and sleep.”
“Okay man bu-”
“SHITTY HAIR.”
Kirishima and Denki wince at the same time. Kirishima glances over his shoulder. He’s far off. He’d probably lingered in the training arena up until the moment Aizawa had come to personally kick him out. His blonde hair is, impossibly, in more disarray than usual and he’s got smudges of dirt and ash all over him. They turn him grey from this distance. “Gotta go.” Kaminari says, limping further ahead. “I’m not here for Bakugou to make this migraine go nuclear. I’m gonna go talk to Jirou.”
“Like she’s better?” Kirishima says absently, watching Bakugou’s telltale shock of white-blonde hair bob closer and closer. “I’ve heard what she listens to.”
“She uses headphones, your boyfriend just screams.”
“Not my boyfriend.”
“Not yet.”
“It’s not like that.” Denki must have just rolled his eyes and walked away because he doesn’t respond. Kirishima lets him go. He stands, rooted to the spot until Bakugou is finally upon him.
He’s sneering but there’s little force behind it. His arms hang heavy by his side. Kirishima wonders how many explosions he must have let off today alone, and how much shock his shoulders and arms must have had to absorb as a result.
“You okay man?” He asks, concerned.
“Fuck off.” Bakugou snaps. Suddenly, he’s in Kirishima’s space, up in his face. He’s a few inches shorter than him so he’s got to tip his head back to meet Kirishima’s eyes. “Why’s there a damn trail of blood leading from the arena to your dumb ass, Shitty Hair?”
"Hu- oh.” He looks away. “It’s nothing man it’s just a cut.”
“That fucking cut is getting blood everywhere Kirishima.” Without warning Bakugou swings his arm out, hitting Kirishima’s. The pain burns for a moment and he yelps in surprise, cradling the his injured arm.
“Don’t fucking lie to me Fuckface.”
“Dude.” Kirishima hisses, wincing as he rolls up his sleeve to check on his arm. The wound oozes blood and the skin around it a mottled purple. “Why would you do that?”
“Cut through the bullshit faster than asking you more questions.” Bakugou grunts, glaring at Kirishima’s arm in a way that makes him cradle it even closer to his chest, turning away from Bakugou. His lip curls in a perfect sneer. “You’re a fucking moron Kirishima. C’mon.” And without another word he’s marching towards the dorms.
Kirishima watches him for awhile. He doesn’t stop to look back. He doesn’t even slow down. When he’s halfway between Kirishima and the dorms, Kirishima finally follows. He has to start jogging to keep up. His leg muscles scream at him, already overworked, but he reaches Bakugou before he disappears inside the building.
Kirishima might be imagining it, but he thinks he sees the tense muscles of Bakugou’s back loosen just a bit when he approaches.
--
He’s no Shouji, but in comparison to most of the class, Bakugou keeps his room pretty spartan. His bed is tucked in one corner, layered with grey and burgundy bedding that is constantly crumpled in a messy ball on top of the mattress. There’s some books on the shelf, a few weights and resistance bands in the corner, and a couple of boxes tucked beneath the bed. Other than that, Bakugou’s room is bare.
It makes Kirishima feel a little sad. They’ve been living in the dorms for months and Bakugou hasn’t even hung up pictures. All his stuff is still packed away in boxes as if he’s expecting to have to up and leave at any moment. Bakugou pulls a first aid kit out and a roll of trash bags out of one of the boxes. “Cover the chair with one and put another on the floor.” He growls out, tossing the roll to Kirishima before he sets the first aid kit on his bed, turning to rifle through it.
Kirishima does as he’s told. It feels a little creepy, like he’s setting up the room for his own murder. He wonders how many times Bakugou has done this for himself. “Good.” Bakugou says when he’s done, not looking up from his own work. “Now you won’t get blood on my chair or my floor.”
Kirshima chuckles. “Y’know most people use trash bags for holding trash.”
“They’re good for keeping idiot blood off my carpet.” Bakugou grunts. “Sit. I’m gonna wash it out.” He’s got cotton pads in one hand and two bottles hang by their necks from between the fingers of his other hand. Kirishima swallows. This is by far the worst part. He can deal with getting hurt. He’s usually so hopped up on adrenaline he can barely feel it, and afterwards it’s easy enough to push through pain and ignore it as long as he’s got something else to do. But there’s nothing to do while Bakugou approaches him, cotton pads held aloft, nothing but sit and pay attention to how much everything hurts. He starts with the water. It stings in a raw, tender sort of way. Kirishima can’t look as Bakugou mops up diluted old blood from his arm. He keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling when Bakugou douses the cut in alcohol. That burns.
“Oh my fuckin- are you crying?”
Kirishima blinks hard, trying to drive away the wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. “N-no!”
“What the fuck?” He is sneering, Kirishima can hear it in his voice.
“Shut uuuup.” He whines, closing his eyes. He feels a tear escape and run a warm trail down the swell of his cheek. “It hurts. I’m allowed to cry! People cry when stuff hurts!”
“Yeah, babies cry when stuff hurts.”
If Bakugou didn’t have his injured arm in a death grip Kirishima would probably be attempting to escape about now. As it is he just sniffs and looks away. There is something complicated about the shame he feels. He should be stronger than this. There will be worse injuries than this one. There already have been. And Kirishima won’t have the luxury of tears when he’s facing off against a villain.
But it hurts. And he’s alone at school with Bakugou, who’s supposed to be his friend. Something soft hits his face. Kirishima blinks and manages to catch it before it falls into his lap. It’s soft and white, a clean cotton pad.
“Wipe your face before it gets all sticky, dummy.” Bakugou grumbles. He’s turned away from Kirishima, laying out rolls of gauze and a box of butterfly bandages. Kirishima sniffs again and wipes his face.
Bakugou slams the first aid kit closed. “Stop making that fucking noise.” He growls down at his own bed. “What noise?”
Bakugou inhales through his nose hard. It sounds like a snort more than a sniff. Kirishima frowns. “My nose gets runny when I cry dude. Would you rather I just let it drip all over my face?” He snaps and then sniffs again.
Bakugou throws another cotton pad at him. “Blow your stupid nose. I’m gonna close this up now.”
Kirishima does. It makes a loud wet noise and he winces a little. Gross. “Sorr-”
What happens next is so sudden that Kirishima isn’t certain it’s happening until Bakugou is already halfway through.
Bakugou’s hand radiates warmth. It seeps through his hair and into his scalp. For a moment, it’s really nice, then Bakugou begins to move his hand around roughly. This clearly isn’t something Bakugou is used to doing. The hand running through Kirishima’s hair is rough and choppy. It jerks his head around a few times. When he’s done he drops his hand back to his side, fingers curling and uncurling.
Silence stretches between them for a long moment before Bakugou grunts and kneels to better get at Kirishima’s wound.
Kirishima blinks down at Bakugou.
The top of his head is the same as always. His hair fuzzes out in every direction, heedless of gravity. The white blonde is so distinct it shines through even beneath a layer of ash and dust. The tips of his ears are ever so slightly pink.
His hair is soft under Kirishima’s hand. It’s awkward to reach across his chest to get at it. The movement pulls a sore muscle Kirishima hadn’t been aware of.
Bakugou goes still beneath his hand. It’s weird because even when he is sitting still, the Bakugou Kirishima is familiar with is constantly in motion. He grinds his teeth and fidgets and spins his pencil and taps his foot.
“The fuck are you doing Kirishima?” Bakugou asks. He does not look up and he doesn’t take his hands off of Kirishima’s arm.
“You did it to me.” Kirishima explains, letting his fingers curl slowly, running along the curve of Bakugou’s scalp. This is dangerous. Sometimes dealing with Bakugou feels like defusing a bomb. There’s a thousand ways Kirishima could set him off and only one right answer out of dozens to keep him from blowing up. Right now, stiff and still beneath Kirishima’s palm, Bakugou feels primed to explode. But his hair is soft between Kirishima’s fingers, and from this distance he can see the faint freckles that dust his shoulders and Kirishima has never known when to pull back when it comes to Bakugou. “I’m not crying though, idiot.” Bakugou growls, voice so low Kirishima has to strain to hear him from only a foot away.
“Do you...have to be?” Kirishima asks. “Was that the only reason you did the whole ruffle thing?” Kirishima pauses, brow crinkling. “Dude were you trying to comfort me?” There is a subtle hitch in Bakugou’s shoulders. It’s so small he’d probably have missed it if he wasn’t currently staring down at them. “Aw dude.”
“Shut up!” Bakugou snaps and Kirishima gets the distinct impression that if it weren’t for him holding Kirishima’s injured arm, Bakugou would be using his hands to shove him or punch him.
Being hurt shouldn’t be an advantage, but nothing ever really makes sense when it comes to Bakugou. Maybe it’s the blood loss, but Kirishima decides to press on. He cards his fingers through Bakugou’s hair. “Thanks man. It was really nice.” That’s not completely the truth. Bakugou’s head petting needs serious work. But the sentiment was nice.
“Dumbass.” Bakugou mutters, hunching back over Kirishima’s arm. He doesn’t move to swat away Kirishima’s hand. To the contrary, when Kirishima slows the soft movement of his fingers Bakugou makes an angry grunting sound. It’s about as close as Bakugou will probably ever get to admitting he enjoys it. Kirishima keeps petting him.
Eventually, he finishes wrapping up Kirishima’s wound. A neat coil of bandages runs up and back down the length of his forearm.
“S’not perfect.” Bakugou says, sitting back on his heels. “But it should hold up until Recovery Girl can actually treat you.”
Kirishima flexes his hand a few times, smiling. He doesn’t move to get up and neither does Bakugou. When he lets the hand in Bakugou’s hair fall back to his side, he watches the twin red points of Bakugou’s eyes follow the movement. The ever present frown on Bakugou’s forehead deepens.
He glares at Kirishima’s hand as if it personally wronged him. Kirishima watches his temple pulse as he begins to grind his teeth.
“Wanna hang out?” He blurts.
Bakugou stares. They are both covered in ash and dirt and more than a little blood. Kirishima is a bone deep kind of tired that makes it hard to move.
At the same time, he just learned Bakugou likes having his hair pet. The thrill of that knowledge alone is enough for him to rally for a good few hours.
“You smell like a fucking sewer.” Bakugou says. He’s turned back to the first aid kit to put it away. His movements are slow, careful, not Bakugou-esque at all. His ears are pink again. “Shower first.”
“Okay!” Kirishima says, voice bright. His muscles burn when he stands to help Bakugou clean up. Their shoulders brush when Kirishima joins him by the bed. He doesn’t move away.
“Remember to wrap that.” He says, pointing at Kirishima’s bandaged arm. “So it doesn’t get wet.”
“Help me?” Kirishima asks, partially because it’s hard to do with one hand and partially because he’s starting to enjoy having Bakugou take care of him.
Bakugou grumbles as he works but he’s gentle as he wraps a clean plastic bag around Kirishima’s arm and duct tapes it in place. “There, now you look like a moron and you still smell like shit. Come back when you’re clean.”
Kirishima grins. “Thanks man. You’re the best.”
Bakugou’s mouth twitches for just a moment, the corner of it drawing upward. “Whatever. Shoo you fuckin clingy moron. Go.”
Kirishima laughs on his way out. He’s still giggling when Bakugou slams the door behind him with a grunt.
“I’m locking the door to keep Shitty Haired morons out.” Bakugou calls through the door, loud and rude as always.
“Alright man!” Kirishima responds. He listens for a moment for the telltale click of a lock sliding into place.
The hallway is silent. Kirishima can’t stop smiling.