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Streetlights are few and far between out here, as are buildings and gas stations and any signs of life. The road is largely empty, poorly cared for, and endless, dipping away far into the horizon. To either side is dirt and dust. To the east is grass and a river Bakugou doesn't know the name of; to the west is trees and a range of mountains Bakugou wants to climb.
They have a ways to go before they reach the motel they plan to stay at for the night.
Bakugou looks over to see Kirishima riding beside him, his cruiser polished as always to a perfect shine, the sun reflecting vivid off the sparkling red. Although he can't hear him, Bakugou can see Kirishima singing along to the playlist they're both listening to on their own phones- a trick they picked up early on when they'd first started riding together, when they'd first started dating. Bakugou returns his attention to the road. The song's a good one- the whole playlist, admittedly, is a good one- and Bakugou finds Kirishima's enthusiasm endearing, despite himself.
At least he's actually wearing his helmet, for once. Kirishima used to complain about it messing up his hair, until Bakugou complained right back about how he wouldn't be able to carry Kirishima and his fucking heavy bike all the way to a hospital were Kirishima to crash and knock his unhelmeted ass unconscious.
It's been a while since Bakugou has been on an actual road trip. Over a year. Almost two. He's kept his rides largely within city limits since his last one. The idea of a potential crash had come to the forefront of his mind when Kirishima first suggested the trip; it had only grown in its prominence since they'd actually started out.
Bakugou refocuses on the road ahead, gripping the handlebars tighter through his gloves, something hot in the back of his mouth he can't quite swallow, as if his saliva is battery acid building up at the base of his throat.
-
Sunset arrives sooner than expected. Kirishima waves at him and pulls off the road onto the dirt shoulder. Bakugou follows with more care, eyeing the empty path behind them. They hadn't encountered all that many cars today, but Bakugou knows better than to not expect one to show up at the worst opportunities. Kirishima's jacket has a reflective slash across the front and back; Bakugou's has an X; both should be enough for a driver to spot and avoid them. But Bakugou knows better than to trust other people to pay attention to their surroundings in the same way that he does.
Kirishima tugs off his helmet and grins as his hair spills out, loose and messy, sweat-stuck to his skin. His smile is bright and beautiful and Bakugou wonders as he often does whether or not he would have fallen in love with Kirishima without it, even though he knows that he would.
While Kirishima sets his helmet atop his cruiser and stretches, Bakugou removes his own helmet and swipes a hand through his hair, shorter for a recent cut. He pulls out his headphones and checks the map; another twenty minutes and they should be at the motel. Bakugou doesn't like riding in the dark, but he'll deal with it. He glances again at the road, a wariness pricking between his shoulderblades.
Kirishima holds out a hand, their silent means of asking permission. Kirishima usually asks permission before touching Bakugou. Bakugou used to think it was condescending, as if he couldn't fucking handle contact; now he's learned to appreciate the small gestures for the personalized care that they are. Bakugou tucks his phone away and slips his gloved hand into Kirishima's. Kirishima beams and brings Bakugou's carbon fiber knuckles to his lips.
“Sap,” Bakugou accuses.
But Kirishima just winks, perfectly comfortable with the label, and turns his attention to the setting sun. It paints its way red and orange behind the mountains, leaving a trail of purple.
“We match,” Kirishima points out as they stand there, watching. At Bakugou's silence, he clarifies, “Red,” -gesturing to his crimson cruiser- “and orange” -gesturing to Bakugou's leaner sportbike, black with orange highlights.
“And the purple?” Bakugou asks, dry.
A moment passes as Kirishima seems to consider a response. “The purple's us together,” he concludes at last.
“Red and blue makes purple, dumbass, not red and orange.”
“Right,” Kirishima laughs at the non-insult, recognizing Bakugou's intent rather than just his words. “Together we're something that's not either of us, though, is what I mean! We're something else, together.”
“And that something is purple,” Bakugou snorts.
Kirishima shrugs, smiling. “You asked.”
“Should've expected a fucking gay answer.”
The light is warm and low on Kirishima's face, bathing him in a dye Bakugou doesn't recognize, as if he is in shallow water coloured with a wet paintbrush.
“Yeah,” Kirishima agrees, grin broadening to intrude on the space of his eyes. “You really should know better by now.”
Bakugou is a slow learner when it comes to people, not that he would ever admit it, not that Bakugou would ever say he is incapable of comprehending. People and their emotions and their inherent distance are just difficult. He prefers the intimacy of the road, the freedom of his bike. He prefers the language of motion and action than that of words. His body does not fail him as often as his voice does, though neither are as perfect as they should be.
He squeezes Kirishima's hand so they both can feel the other through their gloves and watches the colours shift on Kirishima's face as Kirishima watches the sun set.
-
The road is an abyss beyond the arc of their headlights. The stars and light pollution from the nearby town prevent absolute darkness, but not enough to keep cold from beading up underneath Bakugou's kevlar despite the warm weather.
He keeps glancing behind them, searching for another vehicle he knows isn't there, feeling nauseous with the anticipation of finding one. There are flickers at the edge of his vision; he puts it down to the rippled mirror image of constellations in the river at their side. Bakugou chokes down the acid in his throat and leans further forward, moving further faster. Kirishima keeps pace.
The town is a shithole but the streetlights that appear at its extremities are a relieving red carpet for their arrival. They grab hot sandwiches at a diner whose fluorescents buzz like mosquitoes before checking into their motel. The paint is chipped and peeling but Bakugou feels an unwelcome comfort when he spots a few other motorcycles in the parking lot.
Inside, Bakugou initiates the lengthy process of peeling off his several layers of gear while Kirishima- his helmet his only real protection- showers. Once down to his undershirt and boxers, Bakugou sits at the edge of the bed, his hands running unpiloted across his scars.
Kirishima has never asked about those many scars, just as Bakugou has never asked about Kirishima's few. They feel more prominent today, more noticeable, more likely to cause concern that Bakugou doesn't want and wouldn't know how to respond to.
His formerly broken bones ache.
He is fine. He is fucking fine. He will remain fucking fine throughout this trip. He will not allow otherwise.
Once out of the bathroom, Kirishima still doesn't ask Bakugou about his scars. Of course he doesn't. It's been a year since they started dating- why would he ask now?
Bakugou scrubs too hard under the frigid water, well aware of his inability to wash away those marks even as he tries to do so anyway. The temperature of the shower is soothing because it makes his blood feel more present, serving as a physical, undeniable reminder that it remains within the veins.
Kirishima is already in bed when Bakugou returns, phone charging and in his hands. He beams at Bakugou and pats the mattress beside him.
After plugging in his own phone to charge, Bakugou slips under the covers, beside Kirishima but not making contact. Kirishima sets his phone on his nightstand and rolls onto his side, facing Bakugou, now lit only with the dull yellow of Bakugou's lamp. “Doing okay?” he asks.
The question is innocuous, but Bakugou is suspicious of it. “Why wouldn't I be?”
“Just seem kind of tense,” Kirishima says. He sounds casual enough that Bakugou relaxes a hint. Bakugou shrugs in reply.
Kirishima shifts closer, his hand reaching out for his face. Accepting the gesture, Bakugou gathers it into his own and guides it to his cheek. “You know you can talk to me, right?” Kirishima says, softly. “If there's anything bothering you.”
Objectively, Bakugou knows he can. He can tell Kirishima everything and anything, and Kirishima would let him, would listen. He can tell Kirishima that he has not slept well since they started their trip. He can tell Kirishima that he is enjoying their trip but desperately wants it to stop so he can stop feeling like this, that he hates that he feels this way. He can tell Kirishima there are absolutely things bothering him. But he doesn't, and he knows he won't.
Kirishima is still waiting for an answer, so instead, Bakugou leans in and kisses him.
-
It is clear and bright enough and the road is busy, compared to the past few days, occupied with lumbering trucks and cars whose drivers don't pay enough fucking attention. A familiar nausea simmers just below Bakugou's ribs.
He wants to enjoy the trip. He used to love road trips. He still does, in an abstract sense. But he knows he would not be out here now were it not for Kirishima, not that any of Bakugou's bullshit is Kirishima's fault. Bakugou resents himself for his mixed feelings because they are things that should be under his control. An anniversary present, Kirishima had called it, after a year of dating- counting from their first kiss, because they still had yet to fully name what it was they'd been doing all this time. Just some time for the two of them to get away.
Bakugou hadn't argued. He did not then and does not now want Kirishima to know what it is about the idea of a road trip that bothers him, because revealing that means revealing a weakness- something that his therapy, physical and otherwise, was supposed to have filled in. And the therapy had, to an extent; but with sand rather than something sturdier, and as a result it shifts and slips on occasion- when something particularly strong pushes in, the sand gives way to reveal a glimpse of just how deep the hole goes.
Bakugou loves Kirishima. That does not mean he is yet prepared to grant Kirishima a lantern with which to explore Bakugou's caves, nor is he ever obligated to.
A car changes lanes too close too quickly without a turn signal and very nearly swipes into Bakugou. Bakugou is ready for it, slows and stays upright on the bike and on the road. Despite the ease of avoidance, he snarls at the car ahead and very nearly guns the gas to punch through the driver's window.
He does not, because Kirishima is there.
He didn't before, because in the rain and the dark- those are excuses and he knows it, the fault was his because he hadn't been paying attention enough, he hadn't been careful enough, his reaction hadn't been fast enough- he hadn't noticed in time and hadn't managed to dodge. The car caught him against its rear doors, trapped his leg into his bike, grinding it into fissures and shards in the breath before the impact threw him off the road and down the hill that may as well have been a mountain. His bike came with him, on top of him, the weight of it enough to crush him heavier into the dirt and rocks but not enough to provide an anchor, not enough to stop the decent down the slope.
The fuel tank cracked along with his bones, caught fire along with his nerves.
Bakugou pulls over onto the grass beside the road and stumbles off his bike and manages to tear his helmet aside in time to spew the acid drowning his lungs into the dirt.
-
“Just get a fucking car,” his mother had said.
Cars are too closed off from the world; Bakugou feels trapped in them, forcibly isolated. Claustrophobic, though he would never say so. Bakugou needs the open air and the wind cutting through him, the sense of reality that accompanies tangible contact with external forces.
Bakugou has never wanted a fucking car, so he'd gotten another bike, and that was how he'd met Kirishima.
-
Bakugou, doubled over with his fists grinding into the space just above his knees, only half-registers Kirishima pulling over alongside him. He is no longer drowning but has not yet remembered how to swim and thrashes in the water to stay afloat.
Kirishima's hands find his back and bicep and Bakugou tears away gasping, certain that the touch is cinderblocks tying around his limbs.
Bakugou spits up curses instead of water, instead of acid; now in the aftermath, he is infuriated with both himself and the slip and the way he feels as if he needs to siphon off the excess energy that is busy launching artillery from his heartbeat.
“Babe?” Kirishima asks, and the concern is clear and sharp enough in his voice that Bakugou does not even have to attempt to see Kirishima's expression through his visor to know what he must look like. Kirishima reaches out, hesitates, waits there with arms outstretched, gloved fingers drawing nervous patterns in the air between them. Asking permission. “What's wrong?”
Bakugou can't reply for the salt growing from his throat and grinding in his breath, but this time he remains still as Kirishima takes another step closer, another, until his hands are gentle on Bakugou's shoulders. Bakugou leans in, clings to the contact as a raft, lets it- lets Kirishima- ferry him to shore.
Choking on the salt, Bakugou lies, “Nothing,” poorly, obviously, into Kirishima's shoulder, and Kirishima lets him. His hands clench tight in fists at his sides, unable to reciprocate what becomes an embrace, slow enough that Bakugou can escape, if he wants to. If he needs to. And he does, desperately, but escaping from Kirishima will not erase what just occurred, will make his failure all the more apparent, so he remains in place.
Kirishima is quiet for a time before saying, “Bad eggs for breakfast, huh.” An offering to appease the lie. Bakugou feels Kirishima's hands pressing circles into his back through his jacket.
He pulls out of Kirishima's grasp, a strange emotion adjacent to guilt spawning as he does so. “I'm. Fucking fine.”
Kirishima grants him his space and his misshapen defenses but insists they rest for a while, one glove in his teeth as he scrutinizes the map of his phone for a suitable location.
The rest stop is more of a ghost than a structure, but it is nestled into the riverbank and breathes a cryptic calm. Two trucks wait in the lot, one car at the opposite end. A man rests in one of the trucks with his arms crossed and a hat over his eyes, while a couple and three children play with a dog amid dilapidated picnic benches.
They park and Kirishima gathers drinks and snacks while Bakugou goes inside to clean up. He presses cool-wet hands to his eyes and focuses on the feeling of the present before eventually joining Kirishima at the bench closest to the river. Kirishima smiles at Bakugou's arrival and shifts on the bench even though there is already plenty of room for them both. An arrangement of snacks are spread out across the picnic table. Once Bakugou is settled, Kirishima offers a bottle of water and an empty hand. Bakugou takes both.
They eat and drink in a not uncomfortable silence. Kirishima watches the water, gems of sunlight melting along its surface; Bakugou watches Kirishima.
“My first scar,” Kirishima says, turning to Bakugou and gesturing with his free hand at the line over his eye, “I got when I was a kid. It took me a while to learn to ride a bicycle. Ended up face-first in some rocks. Real manly, huh?”
“Yeah,” Bakugou manages, pleased to hear the intended sardonic tone come through. Kirishima laughs, but Bakugou lacks the energy to join in. Kirishima doesn't seem to mind. Bakugou listens as Kirishima shares surface-level anecdotes of each of the scars Bakugou knows by sight, filling in brief details as if outlining a map. Enough to get a glimpse of the geography without designating a path.
The brief stories provide signposts with which to recognize Kirishima's own caverns without demanding Bakugou explore too deeply inside.
-
The ride from the rest stop is quieter but lined with cracks like spiderwebs, though the latter is no fault of anyone's but Bakugou's. His bike is warm beneath him, both he and it soaked in sunlight. Kirishima had asked him, once, if he ever named the bike- his own cruiser is Red Riot, a title which Kirishima remains exorbitantly pleased with. Bakugou had said no, but had later settled on Explodokill because- after the last bike, after the crash, after the therapy- that was what Bakugou imagined it would try to do to him.
He's not going to let it.
-
Bakugou follows his own paths in his mind as they settle into the next motel, attempting to decipher the routes best suited to what he needs to tell Kirishima. Because he knows he needs to tell Kirishima, now- not for any demand on Kirishima's part, but for Bakugou's own sense of stability. Kirishima has known something was wrong this whole time. Kirishima has not pushed this whole time.
Kirishima deserves a map of his own.
When Bakugou joins Kirishima in bed he does not cover himself with the sheets, instead sitting crosslegged with his back against the rickety headboard. Kirishima looks up from his phone with love and curiosity, not in equal measure, and grants Bakugou a smile.
Bakugou offers out his hand. Once Kirishima places his own into it, Bakugou brings it to the space where collarbone meets shoulder and sets it on the patchwork of scars that begins there. He guides Kirishima's hand along their patterns as he attempts to pull the words from his gut, churning there like the disruptions of wheels through mud puddles.
Kirishima isn't stupid. Bakugou knows he's already figured out the surface of the story by now.
“I,” he tries. “It was...”
Kirishima's hand is soft and warm and bracing, a physical reminder of where he is, and Bakugou finds himself leaning into it rather than the memories.
“It's okay,” Kirishima promises after what Bakugou realizes is too long a silence. His free hand travels up to rest on the side of Bakugou's neck.
“It wasn't,” Bakugou says.
“Of course not,” Kirishima replies, gently. “It never is.”
It. Bakugou is supposed to be better than it. He is supposed to have gotten over it already.
It's a long road, but Bakugou can figure out the way. He follows the path Kirishima lays out for him.
Bakugou shifts and lays beside Kirishima, close enough that he can feel Kirishima's smile even before they kiss.