Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kirishima woke with a start, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs.  He blinked into the darkness, eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light, the familiar silhouettes of his dorm room beginning to take shape.

It was fine.  He was fine.  He was safe.

He rolled over to his other side, curling into his blankets and trying to settle his heart rate, deliberately slowing his breathing: in for four, hold for seven, out for eight.  He’d found the exercise online ages ago for just these types of situations.  He focused on his breathing, counting the numbers out in his head: in for four, hold for seven, out for eight.  He repeated it until his pulse wasn’t elevated to the point where he felt sick.  If he kept counting, perhaps he could go back to sleep.

As his heart rate finally slowed into something resembling normal, Kirishima suddenly became aware of the fact that his hands were trembling.  He curled them into fists, pressing his fingertips hard into his palms for a moment while he continued to focus on his breaths.  His hands didn’t shake, but he felt the occasional twitch of the muscles in his fingers as though they still weren’t settled.  For now that would have to do.

Kirishima closed his eyes, taking in an extra deep breath, holding it, then releasing it.  But the moment his eyelids fluttered shut, the images of his dream replayed themselves like a film, flashes of scenes that he knew didn’t even make sense when cut together.

Admittedly, it was bizarre mishmash of everything, various events that had happened recently and not-so-recently, cut and pasted together with his biggest fears in a strange collage of scenes.  There were bits that reminded him of the USJ incident, of Kamino, and of all that transpired during his internship; but then there were also familiar aspects of his more normal days at Yuuei and even back from middle school, twisting and altering the events that had happened, changing the friends and classmates that were there with him, changing the heroes that appeared, even changing the villains and the dangers that manifested before him.  But despite knowing that the dream didn’t quite make sense, it didn’t quell the sense of dread that roiled deep in his stomach.

He swallowed thickly, opening his eyes to the darkness again.  He let out a shaky sigh; he probably wouldn’t be getting any more sleep that night.  He rolled onto his back, staring resignedly up at the ceiling.  In times like this, he supposed it was okay for a hero—or a hero in training—to admit defeat.

He settled his hands on his chest; he registered, to his dismay, that they were still shaking slightly, though the tremors weren’t anywhere near as bad as they’d been.  He splayed his fingers across the soft fabric of his t-shirt, trying to focus on the feeling.  Through the heel of the palm on his left hand, he could feel the still-elevated beat of his heart.  He huffed out another sigh and pushed himself into a seated position on his bed, letting his blanket fall into his lap as he folded his legs into a criss-cross position.  He ran a hand through his hair, then rested his elbows on his knees.

If he wasn’t going to sleep, he decided, he might as well do something productive. It was simply the right thing to do—it wasn’t, he told himself sternly, as a distraction.

Though he wondered if that was really true. 

Kirishima stared down at his hands, slowly flexing and curling his fingers to reduce the trembling, contemplating his options. A little extra-early morning training was his first thought, but he quickly decided against it; having a middle room meant that he had to be mindful of his neighbors. While Shouji would be forgiving, Kirishima was fairly certain that Bakugou would force his way into his room, hands crackling with mini explosions if Kirishima dared wake him up, even accidentally. 

Kirishima tried to pretend he didn’t smirk a little in amusement at the idea.  He shook his head, pushing the image of the other boy out of his mind.

Instead, he flicked on the lamp, stretching his limbs and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as light flooded the room.  He blinked a few times, squinting as he peered at the clock hanging above his window.  He grimaced at the time—still too early to justify getting ready for the day.  With a sigh, he stretched again, his hands above his head, leaning to one side and then the other.

He supposed there was always studying to be done.

With a contemplative hum, Kirishima squatted by his bag, rifling through a few of the books inside before finally deciding upon English and maths.  If he was going to do it right, he might as well commit and review content for his two worst subjects.  After all, Aizawa-sensei went through the trouble of preparing supplementary lessons for him, and this was an opportune time to take advantage of them.

He slid his two notebooks out of his bag, then considered his desk.  It was already a mess of papers and pencils and books, and he didn’t much feel like straightening it for an appropriate workspace at that moment.  He shrugged; if he went to the common area, that just meant he could spread out his materials more comfortably on one of the larger tables.  At the early hour, it only seemed natural to take advantage of the wide empty rooms.

To Kirishima’s surprise, however, once he reached the communal kitchen downstairs, planning to grab a snack and something to drink for while he studied, he realized that it wasn’t exactly as empty as he'd expected.  In fact, a very specific one other person was there, blond head bent down in concentration as he stood at the counter, very clearly working on something even though his back was turned to Kirishima.

“Bakugou?” he said hesitantly, tilting his head to the side as he considered the other boy.

Bakugou grunted in acknowledgement, turning his head a fraction to glance over his shoulder.  “Shitty hair,” he mumbled in response, attention quickly returning to whatever was in front of him.

“I know you know my actual name,” he said indignantly.

Bakugou’s shoulders jerked up a little in a shrug.  “Doesn’t make your hair any less shitty,” he shot back.

Kirishima couldn’t help the pout on his lips, fully aware that Bakugou wasn’t even looking at him.  He still stood by his initial rebuttal, back during the sports festival, that the blond’s own hair wasn’t all that different.  Still, he shrugged off the comment from the other boy, having decided long ago that it wasn’t truly worth the argument and Bakugou didn’t actually mean anything by it. 

“What are you doing, anyway?” Kirishima asked instead, sidling up to Bakugou and leaning back against the counter beside him.

“What does it look like I’m doing, hair for brains?” he snapped back.

Kirishima’s eyes traveled from Bakugou’s face down to the dough he was kneading as he glared at it, as though it had asked him the offending question.  It was then that Kirishima noticed the nutty smell of buckwheat, and it prodded at a distant memory he had of his grandmother when he was very small, similarly working at dough until it was just right, just like Bakugou was now.  It made something like fondness stir inside of his chest.

“Are those soba noodles?” Kirishima asked.

Again Bakugou’s only reply was a grunt.  He offered no further explanation—not that Kirishima honestly expected one—as though making soba noodles from scratch at half past four in the morning wasn’t at all a bizarre occurrence and made complete and total sense.  For a fleeting moment, Kirishima even wondered if maybe he was the odd one here.  Besides, he’d already decided it was generally not in his best interest to question these types of things with Bakugou, especially when it was something essentially harmless.

The thing that truly bothered Kirishima, if he was honest, was that it was clear that Bakugou had been at it for some time.  He could faintly remember his grandmother’s noodles, and just how long she would take on them, kneading them until they were perfectly smooth.  Kirishima noted that already the dough in front of Bakugou was that consistency his grandmother would strive for before rolling it out.

He wondered how long Bakugou had been awake.

He wondered why.

Kirishima couldn’t help himself.  He inhaled slowly, bracing himself, as always, for the potential explosion—be it figurative or literal.  “So then—”

“I just got tired of sleeping,” Bakugou said curtly, effectively cutting off the boy’s question.

The irony of the statement didn’t escape Kirishima.  He grimaced a little at the wording, relating to it all too well.  After all, wasn’t that what had driven him down to the common area at such an early hour in the morning?

He couldn’t help but wonder if he was in the same boat as Kirishima, if this was his own way of coping with fear and guilt and nightmares, if this was a recent development or if Bakugou had been doing this sort of thing for weeks or months or—

Just as quickly as the questions rose in Kirishima’s mind, he shoved them back down, choking them off before they could grow any further.  His gaze returned to Bakugou’s face as the realization calmly washed over him.

Bakugou hadn’t questioned Kirishima’s presence.  Not once had he asked why he was there, or told him to get lost or to go back to his room or stop bothering him.  Instead, he’d merely accepted it.  Again, Kirishima found himself seriously considering that perhaps Bakugou was having the same problem that he was, and Bakugou knew it too.

And, well, if Bakugou wasn’t going to mention it, then Kirishima wasn’t going to, either.

With a nod, Kirishima pushed himself off of where he was leaning against the counter.  He let Bakugou continue his work, instead making his way to the refrigerator to grab himself a soda—something with just enough caffeine to help fight the remnants of tiredness.  For a fleeting moment he considered leaving the other boy alone again, to go study in the living area as had been his initial intent.  But something squeezed at his chest when he thought about it.  Even though he’d thought he’d be alone down here, now that he wasn’t, he suddenly longed for the company—even if it wasn’t anything more than a quiet presence.  He looked over at the blond’s back again, biting his lip as he thought.

“If you have something to say, shitty hair,” Bakugou growled after a minute, without even turning, as though he could simply feel Kirishima’s gaze on him, “then spit it out.”

“Do you care if I study in here?” he asked without missing a beat.

He watched as Bakugou’s arms stilled, and he wondered if he shouldn’t have asked at all.  Bakugou liked his space—he probably wasn’t like Kirishima, who found comfort in company, but instead preferred the solitude and—

“Do whatever you want,” he mumbled, the tension leaving his shoulders as he went back to working at the soba.

Kirishima’s face split into a toothy grin, his entire expression instantly brightening.  He knew Bakugou well enough to know that wasn’t truly an indifferent dismissal, but practically an invitation.  He suddenly felt warmer as he settled himself at the kitchen table, spreading out his work materials, satisfaction lightening his mood.

The kitchen was quiet as the two boys worked, silence only broken by the scritch scratch of Kirishima’s pencil as he solved various practice problems and the soft, rhythmic tup tup tup of Bakugou’s knife hitting the counter as he cut through the soba dough.  The time passed easily with a sense of calm that made Kirishima almost forget why he was down in the kitchen at such an early hour in the first place.

“That better not be the homework for today, hair for brains,” Bakugou said disapprovingly as he sat himself in another chair at the table.

Kirishima glanced up at him.  He hadn’t even noticed that the other boy had finished, only faintly registering the sound of the faucet a minute ago; he now realized it must have been Bakugou washing his hands of flour and dough, having finished the soba and storing the noodles away.  Now the blond was sitting adjacent to him, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest.

“No,” Kirishima quickly assured him, shaking his head with a half-smile.  “I swear, I already finished that.  Just doing some extra practice problems from Aizawa-sensei.”  He noticed Bakugou leaning slightly forward, as though to assess the work being done.  “I really think I’ve got the hang of it though, you don’t need to worry—”

Bakugou quickly leaned back in his chair again with a small tch sounding through his teeth in a sneer.  “I wasn’t worrying,” he scoffed.

Still, Kirishima’s smile didn’t fade at all, instead widening an imperceptible amount as he looked back down at his homework.  Whether the blond wanted to admit it or not, he knew now that he did care for his friends in his own way.  Kirishima could see his growth, how he was slowly becoming more inclined to accept assistance, to work as a team in order to become a true hero, ‘number one’ or not.  Bakugou had even shown his progress back before that first exam of theirs, when he’d helped Kirishima study for the written portion; and he’d even shown it when he’d reluctantly worked together with Midoriya for the practical.

He’d shown how he was willing to accept help, even if he refused to call it such, back in Kamino—

Kirishima’s heart stuttered.  Just as easily as he’d forgotten the nightmare he’d had, suddenly it was all there again, at the forefront of his memory, blurring together with reality.  He swallowed tightly against the lump in his throat, trying to force the thoughts back down with it.  It wasn’t real, it was just a dream, he knew that—so why did it still make something dark and murky roll in his stomach, chest clenching to the point that he felt sick—

“Kirishima.”

He snapped his head up, eyes meeting Bakugou’s own critical gaze.  But the boy’s scowl wasn’t one of disgust and disapproval this time, as it so often was.  It was something different.  It was something.  Something like…

Bakugou’s eyes suddenly shifted to the table.  “Your hands are shaking.”

“Huh?”  Kirishima looked at him with confusion before following his line of sight not to the table, but to his hands.  Sure enough, his fingers were trembling, and he found himself dropping the pencil he’d been gripping loosely.  He balled his hands into fists just as he had in bed, pressing them against his workbook.  “Yeah,” he said lamely, “I guess they are.”

Bakugou huffed out a sigh, straightening a little in his chair, leaning forward toward Kirishima the slightest amount.  He unfolded his arms and Kirishima couldn’t help but notice the way Bakugou’s own hands seemed to twitch as though he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

For a fleeting moment Kirishima caught himself wondering if Bakugou was considering reaching out and covering his hands with his own, to help still them and calm his nerves; he caught himself almost sort of half-wishing that he would.  Sometimes he swore he could still feel the ghost of the sensation of Bakugou’s hand in his when they’d made their escape from the battle in Kamino—sweaty palm, rough and calloused fingers, but not unpleasant.

He knew they hadn’t exactly been holding hands—rather, Bakugou had taken his hand when Kirishima had called out to him.  He wondered if that made it better or worse.

He wondered why it mattered so much to him.

Kirishima tried not to dwell on it.  Instead, he took the choice away from Bakugou altogether by withdrawing his hands, shoving them under the table.  He clutched the hem of his shorts in his shaking fingers, pressing the heel of his palms into his legs.  It was fine.

He looked back at Bakugou, forcing a wide, crooked smile onto his face.  “It’s fine,” he told him, trying to convince himself with the same sentence.

Bakugou furrowed his brow, eyes narrowing in annoyance.  “You’re such a dumbass.”

Kirishima blinked in confusion.  “Huh?” The smile slipped slightly.  “What did I do?”

“Lying about this sort of shit,” Bakugou snapped.

Kirishima couldn’t help the grimace on his face, eyes darting away from Bakugou’s.  “It is fine,” he argued quietly.  “It’s just…”

The blond sighed as Kirishima trailed off.  He leaned back in his chair again, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.  “Yeah,” he said in a low voice.  “I get it.”

Kirishima’s gaze slowly drifted back to the other boy, who had tension etched into every sharp line of his face.  He wanted to know exactly how well Bakugou understood, as though hearing about the boy’s worries would somehow soothe his own.  More than that, he wanted to smooth out every hard line of what he knew Bakugou would never admit was fear and doubt.  He wanted to do something, anything to help, even if the other boy was reluctant to accept it.

“It doesn’t… You know it doesn’t…”  Kirishima watched as Bakugou stumbled over the words, furrowing his brow but his eyes still closed, face still tilted away from Kirishima.  Bakugou huffed out a frustrated breath.

Kirishima only stared at him.

Bakugou sighed again, glaring at the boy in front of him, though it held no malice.    “It doesn’t make you any less strong,” he finally said, the words sounding a bit awkward and stilted coming from Bakugou, as though he wasn’t used to saying anything like them.

“Oh.  Right,” he agreed, but he wasn’t sure if he really felt that way.

“Tch.  Dumbass, you—” Bakugou started, then stopped, gritting his teeth.  “It’s the same as your Quirk, isn’t it?” he said instead after a moment.  “You don’t break, no matter what.  You keep standing, or you get back up.  And that’s what makes you strong as hell.”

Kirishima considered his words, feeling the warmth spreading through his chest, slow and thick.  It wasn’t the first time that Bakugou had recognized his strength, but this time it was more than just referring to his Quirk—instead, he was talking about Kirishima himself.

The tightness in his chest was suddenly a much more pleasant feeling, something soft and effervescent rather than painfully constrictive.  It was a feeling that he was quickly getting used to, and he found he minded it much less.

He wanted to thank Bakugou but knew he’d only roll his eyes.  Instead, he gave a small smile—genuine this time.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah, you’re right.”  Bakugou scoffed, muttering a small, 'of course I’m right, you idiot' under his breath.  The remark made Kirishima’s smile broaden.  He couldn’t help it, the temptation to push the boundaries ever-so-slightly, to potentially return the favor the Bakugou—it was right there, and now was his chance.   “You too, right?”

Bakugou stilled completely, stiff and frozen.  Kirishima wondered what it was that grated the blond the most: having to face his weaknesses, admitting that he wasn’t the mass of confidence and arrogance he presented himself to be, displaying even an ounce of vulnerability, or if it was just something else entirely.  Kirishima gripped the fabric of his shorts even tighter, letting his knuckles turn white, hoping that he hadn’t managed to drive the other boy away.  He didn’t retract the statement though; he wanted Bakugou to see it too, to know that he still saw him just as strong, just as powerful, just as amazing, despite—perhaps even moreso because of—these small chinks in his armor.

Bakugou let out a breath, closing his eyes and letting himself relax again.  “Yeah,” he said at last.  “Me, too.”

Kirishima hummed, accepting the answer with a nod.  Again, the air in the kitchen relaxed into something comfortable, something soft and quiet shared between the two friends.  Kirishima couldn’t help but feel his chest swell with pride, knowing that Bakugou had actually confided in him, telling him his own secret, no matter how small it seemed.  Still, it was a secret that now they shared, and Kirishima found it a bit comforting to know that he wasn’t alone.

He hoped that Bakugou felt the same.

Still, Kirishima could note the smallest bits of tension and exhaustion etched into Bakugou’s features.  But what could he do to put him at ease?  Bakugou wasn’t the type who sought out reassurances like Kirishima.  He could think of a half-dozen ways to help, and immediately knew that each one would be better spent on any of his other classmates.

There was still so much about Bakugou that Kirishima found hard to pin-point.

Then, he smirked a little.  “So, I can have some of the soba when you make it, right?” he asked brightly, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward toward Bakugou.

The blond raised his eyebrows.  “And why would I cook for you?” he asked flatly.

“Because I helped, of course!”

The boy looked at Kirishima as though he’d lost his mind.  “And how the hell do you think you ‘helped', hair for brains?” he asked.  “You didn’t do anything.”

Kirishima smiled wider.  “I kept you company!” he said, as though it was obvious.

“I didn’t ask you to keep me company!” Bakugou snapped.

Kirishima pouted, letting out a small ‘awww’ as he looked at Bakugou.  He almost thought the blond boy started to blush as he glared at him, dusty pink creeping across his cheeks; Kirishima had to be wrong though—since when did Bakugou blush?

“Tch.  Fine!” he growled, baring his teeth and looking away.  “You can have some of my damn soba.  But only what’s left!”

The grin immediately returned to Kirishima’s face as he beamed at Bakugou. “You’re the best!” he said.  “Thanks, man!”

There was a low grumble of response.

Kirishima tilted his face, leaning even closer to the other boy.  “What was that?”

“I said,” Bakugou snarled, shoving his hand into Kirishima’s face and pushing him away, “that you’re fucking annoying, shitty hair!”

Kirishima ducked out of his grasp, chuckling.  “But you put up with me,” he pointed out.

“The question is why.”

“Because we’re friends!”

Bakugou huffed out a breath, somewhere between irritation and resignation. “Something like that,” he muttered.

But at that point, Kirishima was fairly certain that nothing could wipe the smile off his face; even after such an unpleasant start to his morning, he now felt buoyant, the easy contentment finding its way to every inch of his face.  Bakugou glared at him again before glancing away, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he was trying not to smile in return.

And Kirishima couldn’t help but think that was definitely good enough for now.

Chapter Text

The good thing about the nightmares, Kirishima supposed, was that they didn’t come every night.  Even the nights they did come, there were plenty of occasions when he was able to roll over and fall back asleep.  He still hated them, couldn’t stand the way that they threatened to consume him, invading his thoughts and twisting the truth of events he remembered; but when it was too much, he tried to recall the conversation with Bakugou, reminded himself that they didn’t make him weak.

He tried to take a deep breath, calm down, and move on. 

It was over a week later that Kirishima once again found himself down in the common area at an odd hour in the morning.  Only this time, it was empty.

Kirishima felt selfish for being a bit disappointed.  He knew that if Bakugou wasn’t around, that that meant he was sleeping well.  He didn’t know what he had even expected. With a sigh, he dragged himself back to his room, pausing for a second outside of Bakugou’s door.  He considered, for a fleeting moment, knocking.  He curled his fingers into fists at his sides, squeezing his eyes shut.

Bakugou was asleep—he shouldn’t bother him.  But would it really be bothering him?  They were friends.  His friend would want to help him, right?  He wouldn’t say no to keeping him company when the thought of being alone was too overwhelming, right?  If Bakugou knocked on Kirishima’s door at three o’clock in the morning, he wouldn’t hesitate to do anything he could.

He bit his lip.  Sure, he knew Bakugou didn’t hate him, but that was about it.  Things were never black and white with him—he never spoke his mind, always hid his true meaning and intentions behind insults and petty jabs.  Kirishima liked to think that he understood Bakugou pretty well at this point, after the time they’d spent together.  And yet, the only thing Kirishima was sure of was that Bakugou’s feelings toward him fell into some undefinable grey area, always in question.  The redhead could define their relationship by crests and troughs, the amplitude too great for him to try and guess where this one moment might fall.

He took a deep breath; he unfurled his fingers, letting them rest against his side, and he pushed open the door to his room instead.

Maybe another night.

The next morning, Kaminari was quick to point out Kirishima’s exhaustion.

“You look like shit.”

Kirishima tried not to frown, tried to laugh off the comment instead, forcing a grin that he hoped was at least mildly convincing.  “Yeah, man,” he told him with a shrug.  “I woke up in the middle of the night and just couldn’t get back to sleep.”

Kaminari nodded, and Kirishima relaxed that he didn’t seem more concerned, didn’t seem inclined to delve in with questions Kirishima wasn’t sure how to answer, unsure if he’d even want to answer.  “That sucks,” the other boy said simply.  “Some teas are supposed to help you sleep, aren’t they?”

“You should ask Yao-momo!” Ashido butted in.  “She has all of her fancy teas, I’m sure she can make a recommendation!”

Kirishima hummed non-commitally.  It wasn’t a terrible idea.  Before he could even agree, Ashido was calling Yaoyorozu over to ask her.  When Kirishima turned his head to glance back at the girl’s desk, his eyes fell on Bakugou instead.  The boy was glaring at him, eyes narrowed.  Kirishima didn’t take offense because, well, it was more unusual to see Bakugou not looking angry; he merely flashed a smile in return.

Kirishima could hear Bakugou click his tongue.  He watched as he jerked his head away and instead directed his scowl out the window.  Kirishima didn’t have the chance to think on it, though; suddenly Yaoyorozu was there and she was talking about chamomile and valerian root and lavendar and magnolia bark and Kirishima tried to glean something from the one-sided conversation because, honestly, he didn’t even know there were that many kinds of tea to begin with.

Later that night, Yaoyorozu stopped by Kirishima’s room, bearing a smile and a tin in her hands.

“It’s chamomile tea,” she told him brightly, pressing the canister to him.  “It should help quiet the mind and body and give you a restful night’s sleep.”

Kirishima returned her smile, taking the tin from her and inclining his head slightly.  “Thanks,” he said. He had to admire how willing the girl was to help her classmates whenever she could, even if it was simple; he was truly thankful for the small act of kindness.

“Of course!” she responded.  “I hope it helps.  Have a good night!”

He nodded and bade her goodnight, thanking her again.  He didn’t hesitate to try the tea, hoping that, by some miracle, it would really do the trick. If Yaoyorozu recommended it, he was sure it would help. 

He was a bit surprised by the taste, reminiscent of apples and something else a bit earthy.  He supposed it wasn’t bad, light and sweet, and definitely soothing as it warmed his throat.

In the end, it did help him fall asleep.

It didn’t stop the nightmares, though.

It was a few days later that he found himself trudging downstairs again, a little before four.  He had argued with himself about it before deciding that at the very least he could make himself another cup of tea in the hopes that it would calm his mind—and his racing heart and trembling hands—and let him go back to sleep.

The kitchen light was on, and his heart began stammering for an entirely different reason.  He inhaled sharply through his nose in an effort to calm himself, and he was met with a sweet scent wafting from the room.  He tilted his head a little in curiosity, entering the kitchen and finding Bakugou once again working at the counter.

Whatever he had been making, he was already cleaning up, an open tupperware container beside him on the counter, letting his creations cool before snapping the lid on.  Kirishima moved to the counter, shoulder to shoulder with the other boy, peering down at the contents, feeling his eyes widen a little in surprise.

“Are these manjū?” he asked, and he thought his voice sounded somewhere caught between impressed and hopeful.

Bakugou grunted in response, turning the sink on to wash up. “What do they look like, shitty hair?”

“They look like really good manjū,” Kirishima responded undeterred, offering him a smile.

Bakugou used his wrist to shut off the faucet, flicking the excess water off his hands before drying them on a towel.  He rolled his eyes at Kirishima.  “Take one and see for yourself,” he said.

Kirishima’s smile widened before he plucked one of the confections from the container, taking a bite without hesitation.  He savored the taste of sweet red bean paste for a moment, then shoved the rest of the rice cake in his mouth.  Before he finished chewing, he put a fist against his lips, telling Bakugou, “They are really good manjū!”

Bakugou threw the towel at Kirishima’s face.  “Swallow your food before you talk,” he snapped.  Kirishima caught the towel, laughing as he wiped his fingers on it.  He placed it back on the sink and was sure he heard Bakugou murmur something about it being good that they turned out, after all.

Kirishima raised an eyebrow at the muttered comment.  “Didn’t you try one?” he asked.

Bakugou shrugged at this, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the sink.  “I don’t like sweets very much,” he told Kirishima simply.

That didn’t come as a surprise to the redhead.  Still, he found himself furrowing his brow as he looked down at the container filled with manjū.  “Why’d you make them, then?” he asked before he could stop himself.  Bakugou didn’t answer, instead jerking his chin a little so he didn’t quite face Kirishima anymore.  “Who are they for?”

Bakugou grunted in response, pushing himself away from the counter.  “Just take them, shitty hair.”

“Oh.”  Kirishima’s eyes widened, his pulse fluttering again as he glanced at the manjū—his manjū.  He picked up the container, following Bakugou into the common room, settling himself on the couch beside him.  Kirishima pressed the arches of his socked feet against the edge of the coffee table, resting the container of manjū on his knees.  He glanced at Bakugou beside him, but the blond wasn’t looking at him, glaring at the wall opposite them as he sank deep into the couch cushions.

Kirishima bit his lip, then took another of the sweet rice cakes.  He wanted to say something, but he was coming up empty.

“You’re still having nightmares.”

Kirishima nearly choked on the manjū, coughing into his elbow. He looked down at the tupperware again, wrapping his fingers around the edges. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly through his nose.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Bakugou huffed out a breath, sounding a little annoyed and Kirishima forced himself not to flinch. He could suddenly feel the blond’s eyes on him, gaze piercing, trying to fathom something out.  “You lied to dunce face about it.”

Kirishima frowned, recalling the conversation he had had with Kaminari half a week ago. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell Bakugou that he hadn’t lied, but then wondered if perhaps he had actually done so by omitting part of the truth.

He sighed.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” Bakugou asked. Kirishima had to take a deep breath, tried to relax at the way that Bakugou’s tone wasn’t accusatory, but perhaps just a little curious.

“Everyone has enough on their plates,” he said, giving him the same reason he gave himself whenever he mentally questioned why he didn’t tell his friends. “I don’t need to worry anyone, especially with just a few nightmares.”

Bakugou scoffed. “You think they wouldn’t care.”  It wasn’t a question, and Kirishima’s fingers tightened even more around the sides of the container of manjū. The statement wasn’t right, but it still stirred something in Kirishima’s stomach, leaving him reasonably uncomfortable.

“It isn’t that big of a deal,” Kirishima argued.

“You’re not sleeping, dumbass—”

“And what about you?” he snapped back.  “I know you weren’t up at three in the morning just to make manjū.”

Bakugou narrowed his eyes, lip curling into a snarl.  “If you don’t want them, I can just take them back.”

Kirishima’s face softened into a frown, clutching the container petulantly.  “I didn’t say that,” he muttered, heaving out a sigh.  “I… thanks for them.”  The blond clicked his tongue at him.  “But… you’re not exactly sleeping, either, Bakugou,” he tried again, softly.

Bakugou grit his teeth, looking away from the other boy.  “We’re not talking about me—” 

“But how is it different?” Kirishima pressed on.  Bakugou didn’t say anything, and Kirishima took a deep breath.  He set the manjū on the table and turned his body to face the blond; he curled his legs up onto the couch and leaned forward, causing the distance between them to shorten.

Something about seeing Bakugou in front of him made Kirishima forget about his own problems, even if it was just for a moment.  He dug his teeth into his bottom lip thoughtfully, searching desperately for something to say.  He wanted to help Bakugou somehow, wanted to get him to open up to him, if even just a little bit.

“Did they start after Kamino?” he asked quietly, after a long stretch of silence.

He noticed the way that Bakugou tensed slightly, something flickering on his face, brow furrowing and frown deepening, shoulders pulling in and fingers tightening on his arms.  He didn’t turn to Kirishima, but he didn’t turn away either.

“No,” he finally said, and Kirishima was admittedly surprised he offered an answer at all.  “After the sludge villain.”

Kirishima’s hand twitched in its place on his lap, wanting to reach out and—something.  Maybe place a reassuring hand on his shoulder, maybe even wrap his fingers around Bakugou’s.  He swallowed, forcing the thought out of his mind.  Again he found himself searching just for something to say—

“Yours did,” Bakugou said then, and Kirishima jerked his attention back to the boy, frowning a little as he tried to make sense of the statement.  “They started after Kamino.”  Bakugou tilted his head, gaze meeting his.  “Didn’t they?”

Kirishima swallowed thickly again.  If the other boy was being honest with him, then he at least owed him a truthful answer, didn’t he?  He nodded.  “Yeah,” he said, looking back down to his lap.  He slid his hands up his legs, resting his palms on his knees.  “I had a couple after the USJ thing, but…”

“But they wouldn’t go away after everything over the summer.”

“Yeah.”

Bakugou nodded with a sigh.  “Yeah,” he said, echoing Kirishima.

Kirishima curled his fingers over his knees, taking in a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.  He’d never talked about them, never really had the opportunity—he tried so hard to keep it quiet, not wanting his friends to concern themselves when it wasn’t their problem.  He thought about talking to his parents, but whenever he considered it, something in the back of his head bitterly reminded him that they were busy—always busy.  He wasn’t convinced that they’d have the time to spare and listen to his problems, even if he decided to tell them.

So he just kept quiet, instead.

“They got worse,” he continued, voice sticking in his throat a little, and he closed his eyes at the sound, “after my internship started.  Especially after… after the rescue mission.  After Eri.”

Kirishima bit into his lip again; he felt bad about bringing it up, all too aware that he still couldn’t divulge the details of what happened, about Fatgum and Rappa and—

“Yeah.”   Kirishima’s eyes snapped open and he looked at Bakugou again; the boy’s voice sounded gruff, and he let out a sigh.  “Yeah, I guess they would.”

Kirishima took the hem of his shorts between his fingers, running his thumb over the thread and the edge of the fabric. He was grateful for Bakugou’s understanding, how he seemed to accept the lack of explanation so easily.  He wondered how much of it was because of Bakugou’s own experience with nightmares.

“How do you deal with them?” Kirishima asked.

Bakugou lifted a shoulder in a shrug.  “You’ve already seen how I deal with them,” he said, the words clipped.

The redhead blinked at him thoughtfully for a moment before it finally struck him—the soba, the manjū.  He had seen how Bakugou tended to handle his nightmares.

He wondered if cooking in the middle of the night could be considered a healthy habit, though.

He figured that Bakugou was all too aware that it probably wasn’t.

Kirishima stopped for a moment, planting his hands on his knees.  He leaned forward, trying to catch his breath, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

The sun was still slowly making its ascent in the sky.  Kirishima straightened, taking a deep breath before stretching slightly, twisting side to side.  It was still far too early to be properly awake, but the pale light of dawn meant that he was permitted to leave the dorms.  He was still reluctant to exercise in his own room, not wanting to bother his neighbors, so he figured this was for the best.

The air was still cool from the night before, but Kirishima was sweating through his shirt.  And it was exactly what he needed.

He had tried to work through his supplementary lessons when he couldn’t sleep, but he found it challenging.  When his mind was still on edge from the anxiety leftover by his nightmares, it was even more difficult to focus on equations and translations, let alone trying to memorize any dates or names from history or hero studies.  Instead, doing this, he could completely empty his mind.  He wasn’t thinking at all—not about his studies, not about the nightmares, not about Kamino or his internship, not about Bakugou—

He closed his eyes, rolling his shoulders back and taking a deep breath.  He set his jaw and went back to his run.

He didn’t even have to concentrate on where he was going, feet easily following the outside track.  It was still early enough that there weren’t any others there to do their own training.  He wondered for a fleeting moment if anyone on campus was even awake.

Maybe Bakugou.

He gave his head a shake, feeling his ponytail brush against the back of his neck.  He was clearing his head.  He was purposefully not thinking.

And that included not thinking about the boy that seemed to keep invading his mind, lately.

When he finally returned to the dorm, it was still incredibly early.  The building was quiet, but he felt just a little more at ease.  He went to the kitchen, getting a drink of water and wiping his face with a dry part of his shirt.  He downed the glass, rinsing it out before making his way back up to his room.  At least now it was probably a reasonable enough time to shower and get ready for the day.

The moment that he reached his door, Bakugou’s opened.  He turned reflexively, hand on the handle to his door as he looked over at his neighbor.  The boy was frowning sleepily, running a hand through his blond hair, sending it in various directions and making it even messier than usual.  He narrowed his eyes at Kirishima, mouth twisting into a grimace.

“What are you doing, shitty hair?” he mumbled, folding his arms as he leaned against the door frame.

Kirishima swallowed thickly, purposefully ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that was insisting the sight of Bakugou still sleepy in his pajamas was adorable.  It was much too early for that.

No, he wasn’t sure there was any time he should be thinking something along those lines.

He realized he’d been quiet for a moment too long when Bakugou raised his eyebrow.

Kirishima forced a smile.  “Just went for a run,” he said, giving a shrug in an attempt at nonchalance.

He watched as Bakugou furrowed his brow, then glanced back over his shoulder.  He turned back to Kirishima.  “It’s not even five yet.”

Kirishima shrugged again.

Bakugou straightened up, and eyed Kirishima critically.  “You’re still not sleeping.”

“I slept,” Kirishima objected.

Bakugou just huffed out an irritated breath at him.  “Right.”

“Look, man—”

“Just fucking wake me or something next time, would you?” Bakugou snapped, rubbing at his forehead.

Kirishima felt his heart stammer in his chest at the idea.  Sure, he’d considered it briefly before, but actually hearing the suggestion come from Bakugou’s lips was a whole different story. “I… what?”

“I know you heard me,” Bakugou said.  He pushed himself off the door frame.

“Bakugou.”  Kirishima called out before he could think better of it. The other boy didn’t respond, but Kirishima could see him stop, waiting for him to continue.  “Only...” He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves.  “Only if you promise to do the same.”

He expected to see an almost imperceptible reaction, body tensing ever-so-slightly, just noticeable to Kirishima. Bakugou was sure to not appreciate being called out in return for his own behavior, and Kirishima was there suggesting he depend on someone—on him.

He was expecting something. Anger. An explosion.

But instead, he caught Bakugou sigh. “Fine,” he said flatly.

“Yeah?” Kirishima asked.

“Yeah. But you’d better hold up your part of the deal, shitty hair.”

Bakugou retreated back into his room, door shutting behind him. Kirishima felt his lips quirk into a smile, finally opening his own door.

Something about the promise of not having to suffer alone anymore made his chest tighten in a way that wasn’t at all unpleasant. He could feel his pulse, still quick, his heart steadily pounding against his rib cage.  His face felt warm, cheeks surely a heated shade of pink.

But, in the end, it was still easy enough to tell himself that it was from his run and nothing more.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Kirishima sent Bakugou a text in the middle of the night.

It was just a simple “are you awake?” and it was followed by silence. Kirishima didn’t expect much. He didn’t want to knock on his door; he still felt guilt at the idea of actually waking Bakugou, especially if it was on a night that he was actually sleeping properly. This way he figured he could justify that he kept his end of the bargain without disrupting the other boy’s rest.

He resigned himself to trying to go back to sleep himself instead, and he pulled his blankets over his head. It was too hot underneath the covers, but burrowed beneath them all, he found himself able to just focus on his breathing. So that was exactly what he did—he breathed, and he counted. In, hold, out; in, hold, out.

He laid there long enough that suddenly the images of his nightmares began to surface. At first, it was just a few intrusive flashes of vague scenes, just fleeting moments replaying in his head like snippets of film clips.  And then, all too soon, they were there, at the forefront of his brain, too vivid and too strong and just too overwhelming, and he threw the blankets off of him. He took a deep gasping breath, feeling like he was breaking through the surface of rough waters as he tried to steady his pulse.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, using enough force that spots began to illuminate in the blackness of his vision. He gritted his teeth, almost feeling angry at himself.

He just wanted them to go away. He was tired of them, tired of feeling weak. He was tired of being the outlier in his group of classmates. He already struggled with feeling like he was behind, like he had such great distances to go to catch up, let alone become an amazing hero. But struggling with this?

He hated it.

The knock on his door was enough to jar him out of his thoughts. He startled at the sound, hesitating for several long moments before throwing his legs over the side of his bed and shuffling to the door. He wondered if maybe he was just hearing things because it was still just a little after four in the morning—none of his classmates should have been up yet. He did briefly wonder if maybe it was Shouji—having a floormate with superhuman hearing was a disadvantage in this situation, because he was all too certain that it would only be a matter of time before he also found out what Kirishima was going through—and he knew he couldn’t exactly hide the truth if Shouji indisputably knew. 

His train of thought was broken by another knock, sharper this time. Kirishima stopped hesitating and pulled the door open to reveal Bakugou, his hands deep in his pockets and a scowl on his face.

“Come on, shitty hair,” he said, as though he was referring to some sort of plans they’d agreed upon previously. “We’re going on a run.”

Kirishima blinked at him for a long moment and Bakugou sighed, shouldering past him and into his room. He dropped himself on the edge of Kirishima’s bed, picking up the redhead’s phone from where it was resting on his bedside table.

“I texted back,” he explained, holding up the phone so Kirishima could see the handful of notifications illuminated on his screen.

“Oh,” Kirishima said lamely. He plucked the phone from the other boy’s hand, glancing at the screen. Sure enough, Bakugou had sent a couple of texts. He checked the timestamps, noticing the distinct difference in them, from the first one he’d sent to the responses he'd recieved. He relaxed a little to know that Bakugou’s first reply had only been about ten minutes prior; the boy was clearly just impatient.

Worried, his mind supplied, and the thought was met with a jumble of feelings in response.  The idea that Bakugou might be worried about him, concerned about what he was going through right now, whether or not he was sleeping…

But that was what friends did, right?  It still made him a little uncomfortable, to think that Kirishima was distracting Bakugou in some way, but…

Friends, he told himself again.  They were friends, and friends worried for each other’s wellbeing. 

“Sorry,” Kirishima said eventually, and Bakugou grunted in reply.

“So are you all set?” he asked. “Come on, already.”

“Yeah,” Kirishima agreed quickly. “Let me just change real fast.” He tugged a little at the seams of his shorts. “The mornings have been getting colder.”

Bakugou nodded, then stood again, stuffing his hands back into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Hurry up,” he grumbled, trudging out into the hallway and kicking Kirishima’s door closed behind him.

Fifteen minutes later, Kirishima found himself on the opposite end of campus, doing stretches with Bakugou on the outdoor track.  They were quiet; the whole school was, this early.  They hadn’t spoken during the entire walk over, but Kirishima didn’t mind.  Just the companionship was enough to keep his mind off of the reason they were there, to keep the images at bay and prevent them from resurfacing.

Kirishima glanced over at Bakugou.  The boy was busy doing seated toe touches; one knee was bent, the foot pressed into his other thigh.  He twisted slightly and leaned forward toward his outstretched foot, causing his shirt to ride up a few inches in the back, displaying a strip of smooth skin.

Kirishima’s mouth felt suddenly dry, and he immediately reached for his water bottle, forcing himself to look away from the other boy.  He finally heard Bakugou moving to stand after another minute or two, and he figured it was safe to glance back at him.  The blond boy had his chin tilted up, looking at Kirishima expectantly.

“You ready?” he asked.

Kirishima nodded, grinning widely.  “You still don’t look quite awake,” he said teasingly.  “If you need me to slow down the pace at any point…"

Bakugou barked out a laugh, corner of his lips quirking into a challenging smirk.  “It’s cute that you seem to think you’ll be able to keep up.”

Kirishima’s eyes widened, his heart slamming painfully against his ribcage.  He stared at Bakugou, mouth slightly ajar, trying to make sense of what the other boy had said because there was no way he heard him right.  The dryness of his mouth before was nothing compared to now, the sudden desert that was his tongue and throat, struggling to swallow the lump that had developed there.  He was trying to work through the statement, but he was failing miserably.

When he came to his senses again, Bakugou had already taken off on the track, shouting over his shoulder, “Come on, shitty hair!”

Kirishima found himself stumbling after him in a sprint.  It already felt like his face was on fire, like his heart was going to burst right out of his chest, and he couldn’t explain it away this time, couldn’t write it off as merely being from the exercise.

He didn’t want to think about it.  He’d been trying so hard not to think about the meaning and implications of the way his heart had taken to stammering around Bakugou; he ignored the way his palms would sweat when he was close, thankful that he didn’t have the other boy’s Quirk because it would only bring attention to it.  He had to stop himself every time he caught his subconscious providing him with damning words when it came to Bakugou: things like ‘adorable’ or ‘sweet’ or, god forbid, something along the lines of ‘beautiful’.

He refused to admit that, more than once, he’d even thought something like ‘kissable’.

Bakugou was his friend and sure, he could have those thoughts about his friends on occasion.  Uraraka could easily be defined as ‘adorable’.  Midoriya was indisputably ‘sweet’.  There was no denying that Yaoyorozu was ‘beautiful’.

He’d never thought about kissing any of his classmates before, though.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind and focus on the run.  He wasn’t going to start thinking about it now.

“What are yours about?”

Kirishima looked up at Bakugou from where he was seated at the kitchen table, the other boy working away at the counter.  Kirishima had tried to see what he was making, but Bakugou had shoved him away, snapping to give him room to work.  The redhead had laughed and rolled his eyes, instead sitting down at the table and working on some of his supplementary work.

It was strangely reminiscent of that first night they’d run into each other.

This time, it was Bakugou that had come to Kirishima.  He’d knocked on his door at an impossibly early hour on Sunday morning, scowling, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his sweatpants.

“Couldn’t fucking sleep,” he’d mumbled in explanation, not quite making eye contact with Kirishima.

It was far too early to go for a run, just a little after two o’clock, so instead Kirishima had grabbed one of his notebooks and groggily made his way down to the kitchen with Bakugou.

Kirishima blinked at him, processing the question for a moment before the words seemed to register and he let out a slow breath.

“Everything.”

"Tch."  Bakugou made the noise in response, rolling his eyes, obviously not satisfied with his answer.

“It’s true, though,” Kirishima said with another sigh.  He glanced back down at his notebook, tapping his pencil eraser against the paper.  “They don’t even make sense, half of the time.  But it’s always the same feelings... Like knowing that the League of Villains is there, and before I can even do anything, Unbreakable will fail and I’m just… useless.”

He huffed out a dry laugh, breathy and self-deprecating.  He pressed the heel of his hand against his eye, dragging his hand down his face.  “It’s stupid,” he said. “I know it’s not real.  And I know I’ve gotten so much better with my Quirk, but it’s just…”  He swallowed.  “It’s easy to feel that way.”

Bakugou considered him for several long moments, leaning back against the counter with his arms folded over his chest.  “I get it,” he finally said.  “About the way they’re more like a feeling than anything specific that happens.”

Kirishima watched him quietly.  He was thankful that Bakugou understood, because of how difficult it was to put it into words.  But no matter what happened in the dreams, it was always that same sensation: everything falling through the cracks of his fingers like sand—and then he was crumbling, battered and broken, until he was completely and utterly useless.  “What’s the feeling in yours?”

Bakugou grunted, and Kirishima thought that maybe that would be the extent of his answer.  It wouldn’t have surprised him, honestly; again he was pushing the boy past his limits. But still, he couldn’t not ask.  In this case, Bakugou was reaching out to him, hand outstretched, and it was Kirishima’s turn to grab it in his.

“It feels like I can’t breathe,” he said at last, his voice so quiet it was almost inaudible.  “Like drowning and suffocating at the same time but worse.”

Kirishima thought back to what Bakugou had said before—that they had started after the sludge villain.  He vaguely recalled what he’d read about the villain at the time, details from a handful of grainy and blurry pictures he’d seen, having gathered enough to take a wild guess at what it might have felt like.  He remembered when Bakugou had tried to explain whatever teleportation power All for One had used back in Kamino—the disgusting muck bursting from his mouth and nose until it consumed him and then spit him back out, leaving him choking and gagging.

He watched as Bakugou unconsciously rubbed a hand over the base of his throat.

He could understand why he wouldn’t want to sleep.

“Have you ever told anyone?” he asked quietly.

Bakugou sneered at him.  “Have you, hair for brains?”

Kirishima bit his lip and looked down at his work.  Of course he hadn’t.  Sure, Yuuei offered different counseling services, especially after some of the incidents that had occurred, but it was something totally different to not only accept that counseling, but seek it out.  He didn’t like the idea that he might be marked as having something wrong with him.

He figured Bakugou was the same.

Kirishima remained quiet, but didn’t go back to his work.  He gazed at the page, but none of it made sense anymore, just numbers and letters and figures jumbled together.  His eyes unfocused has he stared at the book, and he didn’t bother trying to refocus them.  His mind was elsewhere, too distracted, too full and heavy to think on anything else.  After another few minutes, he finally closed his book with a sigh and pushed himself up from the table.

He stood at Bakugou’s shoulder, peering at what he was making.  His face brightened.  “Dango?” he asked, looking at the round dumplings and a saucepan of what looked like mitarashi sauce.  He tilted his head thoughtfully.  “Why do you keep making sweets if you don’t even like them?”

Bakugou sighed, obviously annoyed.  “Because you like them, dumbass.”

Kirishima could feel the heat spreading across his cheeks.  He tried not to read too far into the statement, tried not to think about the fact that Bakugou didn’t just make things for anyone.  It's not like that, he told himself.  This was just something they did, something that started without reasoning behind it.  It was that simple.

Except, it wasn’t really, but he refused to think too hard on it; he was pretty sure his heart couldn’t take it.

“I also like meat,” he said, hoping that his voice came off as teasing while he tried to shove down every other thought.  “If you want to cook, it doesn’t always have to be sweets.”

“I’m not making a fucking steak or something at two in the morning, Kirishima,” he deadpanned, glaring at the dumplings as he slid them onto a skewer.

“Awww.  Well… I guess I can’t complain since you’re making it for me,” he said.  Then, he had an idea, grinning even more widely.  “I don’t know if it goes with it, but I can make some tea!” he offered.  “Yayourozu gave me some.”

Bakugou lifted a shoulder in a shrug.  “Whatever,” he said.

Kirishima took the other boy’s answer as a 'yes' and went back to the table, picking up his book.  “I’ll go grab it,” he said.  “Be right back.”

It didn’t take him long to run back up to his room and put his schoolwork away, exchanging it for the tin of loose tea leaves that Yayourozu had given him.  Once he was back in the kitchen, he began boiling the water; meanwhile, Bakugou had finished skewering the last few dango and placed them on a grill pan.  By the time Kirishima began steeping the tea, Bakugou was brushing the mitarashi sauce onto the finished dumplings.

They settled in the common area as they had before, sitting beside each other on one of the couches in the room.  Bakugou put the plate of dango on the coffee table and accepted the warm mug from Kirishima.  The redhead watched as he skeptically peered at the contents, his nose twitching a little as he sniffed at the aroma.

“It’s chamomile,” Kirishima told him.  Bakugou looked up at him.  “Yayourozu said it helps with sleep.  Or at least makes you relax or something.”

“And does it work?” Bakugou asked in turn.

“It helps,” Kirishima said thoughtfully.  “It’s… calming, I guess?”

Bakugou hummed thoughtfully.  Then, he raised the mug to his lips, taking a tentative sip.  He wrinkled his nose.  “It’s sweet,” he said.

“A bit, yeah,” Kirishima said.  “But is it good?”

Bakugou shrugged a shoulder.  “It’s not bad,” he said, and Kirishima smiled, all too aware of his actual intended meaning.

Kirishima picked up one of the skewers, quickly biting into a dumpling.  “This is amazing, Bakugou!” he said, grinning.

Bakugou kicked at him, shoving his socked foot against his shoulder.  “I keep telling you to fucking swallow your food before you talk,” he snarled.

Kirishima chuckled, hardening his arm just enough that the attack did no damage—to him or Bakugou.  Bakugou pulled his foot away with a huff.  “Your food is just that good!” he told him.  “I get too excited to tell you.”

Bakugou grunted, looking away and bringing the mug of tea to his lips once again.  Kirishima thought that he almost looked a little embarrassed, but he was sure it was his mind playing tricks on him so early in the morning.  Still, Kirishima couldn’t find it in him to pull his eyes away.

He wanted to help.  He told himself again and again that that was all it was.  He wanted to help Bakugou—his friend.

“You know,” Kirishima said suddenly.  “There’s a breathing exercise I found online.  Sometimes I use it.”  Bakugou looked over at him dubiously.  “I just thought… since, you know.  If it feels like you can’t breathe—”

“What is it?” Bakugou asked, his tone flat.

“What you do is you breathe in through your nose for four, hold your breath for seven, and then let it out through your mouth for eight,” Kirishima explained, looking down at his mug of tea and moving it in gentle circles, swirling the contents around.  “It helps slow your breathing and calm you down.”  He shrugged, turning to Bakugou again. “It helps me, anyway.”

Bakugou didn’t answer; still, Kirishima took that as a small victory.  If the blond was completely dismissing the idea, he’d have actually said something, writing it off as stupid.  He figured this was at least a promise to try.

They finished their tea and the dango, Bakugou even eating a skewer of the dumplings after much prodding on Kirishima’s part.  It was relatively quiet between them, but Kirishima felt comfortable.  He didn’t feel like he needed to fill the void of silence, instead just content with the company.

After a while, Bakugou had stretched out the legs he’d previously curled beneath him; he kicked them out and leaned back against the arm of the sofa.  His eyes fluttered closed.  Kirishima knew that he should say something, that he should suggest they go back up to bed, to their own rooms, that there was still time to sleep, especially with it being their day off of school.  He knew that he should, but he didn’t.  Bakugou looked so peaceful, and Kirishima could only assume how rare that look was especially on the same night he’d been woken by nightmares.

He decided to let him rest.

He turned his own body to mirror Bakugou’s.  He leaned back against the arm rest, shuffling down a little on the couch so he too was resting comfortably.  He wedged his legs into the space between the back of the couch and Bakugou’s, and he could feel the warmth of the other boy, even through the fabric of Bakugou's sweatpants.  It made something inside of his stomach flutter, made everything inside him feel effervescent.

He tried to tell himself that it was a comfort and nothing more.  But the more that he told himself that, the less convincing it seemed.

It was a lot harder for him to push all those thoughts aside when the rest of the school was so quiet, the windows not letting in any light but instead revealing the dark inky sky of twilight.  Kirishima wasn’t sure what it was that made it so difficult for him to ignore when they were like this; maybe it was the stillness of everything else, making it so easy to ignore everything surrounding them that instead, his mind was only filled with Bakugou.

He had absolutely no intention of addressing those thoughts, no matter how adamantly they fought to be noticed.  He refused to attempt fathoming them out, trying to find their true purpose.  He was too happy as Bakugou’s friend that anything else was just a threat to that, and he did not want to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, the things he felt and the things he wanted were more.

Bakugou had accepted him as his friend, and he treasured that title.  The boy was opening up to him, little by little, trusting him with this secret that they shared.  Kirishima was not going to ruin that.

More wasn’t necessary.  What he had was enough. 

Kirishima’s first thought when he woke up was warm.  The chill of autumn had seeped into the buildings, still a little too early in the season to turn on the heat.  So waking up and feeling warm was definitely very pleasant and he was definitely content enough to nestle into that warmth and be lulled back to sleep.

However, what he registered next were the sounds.  He distinctly heard someone giggling—then someone shushing the other person.  He frowned a little, unable to make sense of the situation, his head still addled with grogginess.

“Quiet, Ashido!” someone hissed.  Jirou?  It sounded an awful lot like Jirou.  Why was Jirou there?

“I can’t believe I don’t have my phone right now!” Ashido groaned between giggles.

“Oh, I do!”  That was definitely Uraraka.

“Take a photo!” Ashido said quickly.

“Bakugou would kill us,” Uraraka responded.

“This is a golden opportunity!” Ashido argued.  “Look at him.  At both of them.”

“It is kind of cute,” Jirou agreed.

“It really is,” Uraraka said.  “Just all cuddled up together…”

That last statement jump-started something inside of Kirishima.  His mind was suddenly flooded with memories of the night before, Bakugou dozing off on the couch they were sharing in the common area and he himself promising to close his eyes for just a few minutes…

And then what?  He could suddenly make sense of the warmth spread over him—Bakugou was laying half on top of him, one leg draped over his, fingers curled into his shirt.  Something tickled at his nose and he knew it had to be the boy’s hair, his ear pressed against his chest as though he’d been listening to the sound of his heartbeat.  One of Kirishima’s arms was bent back over the armrest; the other hand was resting on the heated skin of Bakugou’s waist where his shirt had ridden up.

It was definitely a compromising position to be in.

And Uraraka, Jirou, and Ashido had apparently found them.  He forced his eyes open as the girls continued to giggle and whisper amongst themselves.  He turned his head to see them looking at Uraraka’s phone.  His heart rate was already elevated, but now it was almost painful.  He shifted, trying to pull away from Bakugou, but the boy groaned and tightened his grip.

Kirishima mentally fired off a string of curse words, swallowing thickly and trying not to panic.  Uraraka glanced up, looking at the boys with wide eyes.

“Kirishima-kun is awake!” she said, clutching her phone.

Kirishima tried to ignore them, deciding they were something he could handle later, instead nudging at Bakugou’s shoulder. “Bakugou, wake up.  Seriously, dude.”  Bakugou moved his shoulder away from Kirishima, then nestled in closer to his chest.  Kirishima could feel his cheeks burning, sure that the girls could notice just how red he was, sure that it was a shade that matched his hair.

“Oh my god, Uraraka, take another!” Ashido said.

“Guys,” Kirishima groaned.  “He’s asleep!  Don’t take photos, that’s so unmanly.”  He tried again to wiggle his way out of Bakugou’s grasp, but he was clinging to him, keeping him pinned to the sofa.  He desperately wished he had a Quirk that would get him the hell out of there so he could go and die of embarrassment in peace.

“Sorry, this is too good,” Jirou agreed with a smirk.

Kirishima shook Bakugou’s shoulder with more force.  “Come on, man!” he said, louder this time.

The boy tried to move away from Kirishima’s touch again; but this time, after shifting away from his hand, he froze.  Kirishima could feel the sudden tension spreading thoughout the boy's body, every muscle taut with realization of the position they were in.  The redhead looked down at him, watched as Bakugou tilted his head up and met his eyes.

There was a brief second, the span of a few fast heartbeats, that they just stared at each other.

Then, everything happened quickly.

“Fuck!”

Bakugou yanked himself away from Kirishima, but the force was too much and the momentum sent him tumbling off of the couch.  He heard the crackling of tiny explosions from Bakugou’s palms, and he found himself wondering if they were unintentional.  The sound barely made it over the girls’ laughter, Ashido doubled over and hanging off of Jirou’s shoulder, Uraraka still clutching her phone as she shook.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bakugou growled at the girls, rounding on them as though he only just noticed their presence.  “I swear, I’ll kill you!”

But even Kirishima had to admit the threat fell flat after just having seen him fall onto the floor, sleep clothes disheveled and a serious case of bedhead.  He couldn’t silence the voice in his head that was determinedly repeating one word like a mantra: cute, cute, cute.

For those thoughts alone, Kirishima was sure that Bakugou would make good on his threat and kill all of them.

Without another word, Bakugou pushed himself to his feet, glaring at the girls, teeth bared.  He didn’t spare Kirishima a glance as he stomped out of the common area, presumably to return to his own room.

Kirishima wanted to follow after him.  He wanted to say something to smooth the situation over, but suddenly Ashido was slinging her arm around his shoulders and he found himself unable to move from the couch once more.

He tried not to worry that, maybe, despite all his best efforts, he’d managed to mess up everything with Bakugou anyway.

Chapter Text

Kirishima spent most of his day off attempting to catch Bakugou to talk to him.  The only issue seemed to be that Bakugou seemed keen on not talking to him.

Shortly after Ashido had released Kirishima—after he somehow managed to smooth things over with them, making them swear, if only for his sake, not to show another soul the photos on Uraraka’s phone—he made his way back to his room to shower, and after he was dressed he headed over to Bakugou’s room and knocked on the door.  He was sure he’d heard the boy in there, but still there was no answer.

He ended up texting him twice, once asking if he was up to grabbing lunch, the other several hours later, asking if he wanted dinner.  However, on neither occasion had he received a reply.  Instead, he got lunch at the dining hall with Kaminari and Sero, and later found himself preparing dinner with Midoriya, Iida, and Todoroki.

The biggest issue, he supposed, was that even if he did manage to talk to Bakugou, he had no clue what to say.  He felt like he needed to apologize, but at the same time, he hadn’t exactly done anything wrong.  He’d woken up to Bakugou cuddled up to him, hadn’t he?  And, well, other than being embarrassed by the girls, he really hadn’t had a problem with that.

As he curled himself up beneath his sheets that night, clutching his pillow, he even found himself wondering what might have happened if they hadn’t been disturbed.  He wondered what it would have been like to wake up naturally to Bakugou sleeping there, ear pressed against his chest.  He wondered if he would have been bold enough to slide his fingers through the blond’s hair, perhaps long enough and gently enough that it would eventually coax him awake as well.

He wanted to know what Bakugou waking up was like without the tension running through his body, wanted to know what kind of implications and insinuations their shared glance might have held instead.  He wanted to know what Bakugou might have said instead of cursing, instead of falling to the ground.

And then… he wondered if anything would have even changed.

He pressed his face into his pillow, curling his hands into fists and clutching the material tightly in his fingers.  It didn’t matter.  He was fine with what they had.  He didn’t care about what it could have been like—he just cared about making sure that when it came down to it, Bakugou was still his best friend.  That was enough.

But no matter how much he told himself that, it didn’t seem to ease the ache that was starting to develop in his chest.

When Kirishima awoke, the aching in his chest only seemed stronger, more prominent; it was now accompanied by his heart pounding incessantly against his ribcage, his breath coming out in short pants, his hands trembling.  Most of the details of his nightmare fell away the moment he was awake, but there was one remnant clinging to his consciousness, making him all too aware.

Bakugou.

Bakugou’s hand slipping from his grasp, falling. Bakugou unable to escape the villains’s clutches. Bakugou gone.

Bakugou gone because Kirishima had failed.

It wasn’t a new dream by any means. He’d had them before, countless times, really. They’d been at their worst just after Kamino, when everything had been so fresh on his mind, like a still-open wound. As happy as he’d been to have Bakugou back, he was still plagued by the ‘what if’s.  But even so, there was something about this time that somehow made it so much worse and Kirishima didn’t want to dwell on it.

He just wanted to clear his mind.

Without a moment’s deliberation, Kirishima was out of bed and changing into something just a little bit warmer, and then he was out of his room.

He hesitated for just a moment, staring at Bakugou’s door, biting into his bottom lip.  He’d promised to tell Bakugou when he couldn’t sleep.  But, he reminded himself, yesterday when he’d knocked, Bakugou hadn’t answered.  And while he knew that the circumstances were different, told himself that Bakugou wouldn’t back out on their deal, he couldn’t handle the possibility that he wouldn’t answer; he couldn’t take the potential rejection.

He instead made his way to the outdoor track alone.

The morning air was chilly, and Kirishima found himself rubbing his hands together in an effort to warm them up, picking up his speed as he walked.  He knew it was only a matter of time before he was sweating from his run, but in the meantime, he was glad he’d chosen a shirt with long sleeves.

He made it around the track twice, settling into a nice, steady pace, his mind slowly clearing, when a sharp voice caught his attention.

“Oi, shitty hair!”

Kirishima recognized the voice.  Of course he did.  Even if he hadn’t, there was no one else that called him by that name.

He slowed himself to a walk just a bit before the scowling boy.  Kirishima took a moment to catch his breath as he closed the remaining distance, looking at him hesitantly, trying to force a smile.  “What are you doing here, Bakugou?”

“Tch.”  Bakugou clenched his jaw, glaring at Kirishima.  “Fucking heard you leaving your room this morning.”

Kirishima swallowed.  “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh',” Bakugou scoffed.  “So much for our deal, huh?”

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Kirishima murmured.  Bakugou’s eyes narrowed at him.  “Yesterday—”

“Fucking hell, Kirishima—”

“Look, I talked to the girls,” Kirishima interrupted, watching as Bakugou ran a hand through his hair in irritation.

“Whatever.”  Bakugou shrugged, glancing away from Kirishima.

“They said they’re not going to tell anyone that you—uh, that we—” He broke off when Bakugou shot him another sharp glare. “Hey it’s fine! You know, Hagakure cuddles up with just about everyone in the common room. It’s not like it’s a big deal.”

Bakugou furrowed his brow, and Kirishima thought it looked like he was thinking for a moment. “The invisible one?” he asked with a frown. “How can you even tell?”

Kirishima quirked an amused eyebrow at this. “Dude, you can tell where she is even if you can’t see her.”

“Yeah, but how do you fucking know if she’s—” He broke off, rubbing at his temple. “You know what? I’m done talking about this stupid shit.”

“I’m just saying,” Kirishima continued, “it’s okay if you’re a secret cuddler. I totally didn’t mind—”

“Don’t make it weird, shitty hair,” Bakugou snarled.

Kirishima frowned. “So then we’re just not talking about it?” Kirishima asked.

“No, we’re not,” Bakugou told him firmly.

“Right.”  Kirishima nodded, sighing.  He still didn’t know what he’d even say on the matter, but it felt as though something needed to be addressed.  The quiet that settled back between them was slightly tense, but he tried to tell himself that if Bakugou was here, that counted for something.  He chose to ignore the sudden awkwardness between them, clearing his throat as he ran his hands through his hair.  “So,” he said as he began pulling his hair together in the back, smoothing out any bumps with his fingers.  “You came to join me?” he asked with an attempt at a teasing smile, twisting an elastic band around the ponytail.

Bakugou rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, go ahead and tell yourself that.”

Kirishima raised a challenging eyebrow, and Bakugou huffed out an annoyed breath.

“Yeah, fine.  I came to join you, shitty hair."

“All right, then.  Let’s race,” Kirishima said, grin broadening to show off his teeth.

“Fine,” Bakugou said, smirking in response.  "What are the stakes?”

Kirishima hummed thoughtfully.  “Dinner?” he suggested.

“Eating your shitty cooking doesn’t count as winning,” Bakugou scoffed.

Kirishima pouted at the jab. “Hey, I cook just fine,” he argued. At Bakugou’s skeptical expression, he sighed. “Fine then. Loser can buy dinner.”

“That’s more like it,” Bakugou said. “Hope you’re ready to lose.”

Kirishima got into a starting position.  “How many laps?” he asked, glancing at Bakugou.

“Four,” he said evenly.  He thumbed through something on his phone before setting it down in the grass just off the track, then he was matching Kirishima’s starting position.

Kirishima could hear the countdown on Bakugou’s phone, and he took a deep breath, his heart pounding in anticipation.  He didn’t have high hopes of winning—he knew that Bakugou’s speed definitely was better than his—but he wasn’t planning on going down without a fight.

He tried not to smile at the thought that dinner with Bakugou would be like a victory either way—it was just a matter of whether or not he’d have to spend money on it.

The tone on Bakugou’s phone sounded, and the boys both took off.  Immediately Bakugou was in front, but Kirishima didn’t let his mind linger on the detail.  Instead, he focused on himself and his own pacing.

Four laps later, Kirishima was amazed when he crossed the line first.  He raised his hands into the air in victory before flopping onto the cool, dewy grass, chest heaving.

“Fuck,” Bakugou groaned, dropping himself next to the redhead.

“I think that was my fastest time,” Kirishima said, still panting as he smiled.  He turned his head a little to look over at Bakugou, grinning widely. The boy met his gaze with a scowl.

“It wasn’t anything to brag about, hair for brains,” Bakugou said, but the breathlessness of his voice made his tone seem softer.

“Still, it was fast enough to beat you,” Kirishima teased.

“I wasn’t fully awake,” Bakugou mumbled, and Kirishima couldn’t help but laugh at the excuse.  Bakugou elbowed him in the stomach, and even though the gesture was weaker than usual, the unexpected impact while he was still catching his breath made Kirishima cough, curling in on himself and rolling to his side.

“Rude,” he choked out.

Bakugou rolled his eyes.  “Whatever,” he said, laying his hands on his chest.  “You better pick some place good.  I don’t wanna eat in some shithole.”

Kirishima blinked at Bakugou for a moment, considering the words.  “Like, eating there?” he asked.  “I kind of assumed you’d just wanna do takeout.”

“I’m not going to half-ass it just because I lost,” Bakugou scoffed.

“You’re usually kind of a sore loser, man.”

“Fine, if you don’t want—”

“I do!” Kirishima said quickly, pushing himself up onto his arms shakily, looking down at Bakugou.  The blond boy’s hair was a mess, a few pieces sticking to his forehead from sweat, his cheeks pink from their run, lips parted as he took deep breaths.  Kirishima’s mouth felt dry.  “Let’s do it,” he said, sitting back a little and glancing away from Bakugou.  “But for now… breakfast?"

Bakugou pushed himself up, planting his hands on his knees and raising to his feet.  “Yeah, whatever,” he said.  He held his hand out.  “Come on then, shitty hair.”

Kirishima took Bakugou’s hand, letting him pull him to his feet.  He didn’t let himself think about the way Bakugou’s hand felt so warm around his, heated and calloused fingers, rough and sweaty palm.  For the briefest moment, Kirishima found himself half-wishing that Bakugou wouldn’t let go; to counteract the inexplicable urge to hold on tighter, Kirishima withdrew his hand the moment he was on his feet, flashing a wide grin.

“Should probably shower first,” he said.  “After that, Lunch Rush will probably be ready for breakfast.”

“Whatever.  Let’s go,” he said, picking up his phone and shoving it into the pocket of his sweats.  He walked over instead to their water bottles and grabbed them as well, tossing Kirishima his.  “Better start thinking of dinner ideas, hair for brains.”

Kirishima caught his water, unable to suppress the smile that was slowly forming on his lips.  He still wasn’t quite sure how he managed to beat Bakugou, but he was definitely looking forward to what he’d won.

By the time Saturday arrived, Kirishima was feeling better than he had in some time.  He hadn’t been troubled by any other nightmares—and to his knowledge, neither had Bakugou, as they hadn’t stopped by each other’s rooms for any more late night meetings.  It made him wonder if things were slowly taking a turn for the better.  Finally being able to talk about some of his anxieties with Bakugou in conjunction with some of the other measures—from Yaoyorozu’s tea to the early morning runs—seemed to be helping.

If he were anyone else, Kirishima would have merely been waiting for the other shoe to drop, because it only seemed natural, almost painfully inevitable that something would go wrong now that things were looking up.  But Kirishima was determined to be optimistic and focus only on the bright side.

Because if Kirishima wasn’t losing sleep over nightmares, maybe instead he could attempt to fathom out this thing with Bakugou.  Supposing, of course, that he wanted to.  He still felt unsure, a sense of dread in his stomach—as though putting a name to it would be the end.

When classes for the day finally concluded, Kirishima wanted to feel relieved; he knew that most of his classmates were ready for their day off, looking forward to the relaxation that immediately started with the end of classes.  But instead, Kirishima was teeming with energy, a sort of nervous excitement in his stomach.  He hurriedly packed his books into his bag, shrugging it over his shoulder and casting a glance over to the desks by the windows, making sure he’d be able to catch up with Bakugou—

“Hey!”  Kaminari was suddenly at his side, slinging an arm around his shoulder; a moment later, Sero was at his other side.  “Week’s finally over, man.  I hope you’re ready.”

Kirishima froze for a moment, peripherally checking that Bakugou was still in the room.  Jirou seemed to be discussing something with him—good.  Kirishima had a couple of minutes.  Instead, Kirishima raised an eyebrow at Kaminari, giving him a slight smile.  “For?”

“Sero reserved a copy of the new hero combat game,” he responded.

“Now that class is over, we can finally actually play it,” Sero said.  “There’s twenty different pros you can play as, plus ten more you can unlock!”

“We don’t plan on sleeping until they’re all unlocked,” Kaminari said.

“Ah—I’m… busy,” Kirishima told them lamely.  “Sorry, guys.”

“Dude, Crimson Riot is one of the ones you can unlock!” Kaminari said.  “Aren’t you going to help us get him?”

Kirishima shook his head.  “I already have plans,” he said, ducking out of Kaminari’s arm and turning around to directly face his friends.  “Maybe next time."

Kaminari and Sero exchanged a skeptical look at that.  Kaminari narrowed his eyes a bit at Kirishima.  “All right, what have you done with the real Kirishima?” he asked, and the redhead couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Sero, meanwhile, folded his arms across his chest.  “Seriously, why are you turning down the chance to play as your favorite hero?” he asked.  “You never turn down video games in the first place—but Crimson Riot?”

Again, Kirishima just shook his head.  “Next time,” he repeated.  He looked over his shoulder and noticed Bakugou’s seat was now empty.  He frowned.  “Look, I gotta go.  Later!”  He turned and was practically sprinting out of the classroom in an effort to catch up with the other boy.

Kirishima managed to reach Bakugou by the time the other boy was making his way down the front steps.  He called out to him, falling into step with him easily.

“What are your plans for tonight?” he asked, giving the boy a sideways glance.

Bakugou huffed out an annoyed breath.  “Whatever dunce face just roped you into doing, I do not want to be involved,” he said flatly.

“No!” Kirishima quickly assured him.  “Nothing like that.”  Bakugou arched an eyebrow at him, shifting his bag up on his shoulder.  “I just… Well, I was going to head to the mall.  I wanted to grab some more tea, and someone singed my last long-sleeved compression shirt today…”

“You would’ve ripped it anyway,” Bakugou said unapologetically, giving him a shrug.

“But it was my last one,” Kirishima groaned with a bit of a pout.  “Ashido’s acid destroyed one on Monday, then Todoroki burnt my other one on Thursday…  It’s too cold to run in short sleeves anymore, so I really need something.”  He swallowed, fidgeting with the strap of his bag.  “Besides, I was kind of thinking that… you know.  We could grab dinner.”

Bakugou stopped in his tracks, staring at Kirishima with an unreadable expression.  Kirishima continued playing idly with his bag strap; it was ridiculous, really, that he was nervous.  It was part of a bet, just the prize he’d won for beating Bakugou in a race.  There was no hidden intentions behind it.

Bakugou glanced away, shoving his hands in his pockets.  “Yeah?” he said.  “You decide on someplace, then?”

Kirishima lifted a shoulder in a shrug.  “Nowhere fancy,” he said with a smile.  “But there’s a place there that has really good burgers.”

Bakugou snorted in response.  “Of course you’d want burgers.”

“I won, so I choose,” Kirishima reminded him with a bit of a teasing lilt.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Then…?”

“Yeah,” Bakugou said, heaving out a sigh.  “We can go get your shitty burgers at the mall.”

Kirishima flashed him a wide smile.  “Great!” he said. “Then... we can change and go?” he suggested.  “I’m starving.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes.  “You’re always hungry,” he said, and he started to walk again. Kirishima was instantly at his side again, matching his stride.  “But whatever, yeah, let’s change and go.  The sooner we leave, the more time we have before curfew.”

“Right!” Kirishima agreed.  He couldn’t stop the feeling of warmth as it slowly spread through his chest; Bakugou’s answer sounded a lot like he was looking forward to this, too.

The mall was about as packed as Kirishima expected it to be on the early evening of a Saturday.  All of the eateries were especially brimming with customers, to the point that Kirishima agreed with Bakugou when he suggested they get whatever Kirishima needed before sitting down to eat.

Picking up the tea was easy.  A nice older woman in the shop helped Kirishima find what he wanted while Bakugou disinterestedly perused the shelves.  Their next stop was a clothing store, which took a little bit longer, as Kirishima was posed with more choices.  His natural instinct was to grab several shirts of the same color, a nice deep red, but another one caught his attention and he couldn’t help but let his gaze linger on it, picking it up as he considered it.

“I like that one.”

Kirishima nearly jumped at Bakugou’s voice, startled when the boy suddenly appeared at his shoulder once more after having wandered off.  Kirishima quickly shook off his surprise, instead offering the other boy a smile.

“Of course you do,” he said teasingly, still holding the shirt in his hands.  He glanced back down at it—the design wasn’t anything special: the shirt itself was black, but there were a few accents for contrast, orange thread along the shoulders and two orange panels on the sides.  “It’s your hero colors.”

Bakugou shrugged his shoulders.  “It’s a good color combination,” he said simply.  Before Kirishima could respond, he was stalking off again, leaving him on his own.

Kirishima hummed thoughtfully, then slung the shirt over his other arm with the others he’d picked out.  He told himself that Bakugou was simply right—it was just a good color combination.

When he found Bakugou again a little while later, the boy was glancing at a display of accessories for the colder weather.  He had the material of a scarf between his fingers, as though trying to see how soft it was.  He glanced up, dropping the scarf as Kirishima approached him.

“Need some new stuff for winter?” he asked Bakugou, and the boy shrugged.

“Don’t like the cold much,” he responded by way of explanation.  Kirishima could understand that; as someone whose Quirk relied on the sweat on his palms, he supposed that the cold wouldn’t be ideal for that—and he knew how much Bakugou hated being unprepared.  As it was, Kirishima thought Bakugou was overdressed for the weather; while he had put on a hoodie over his t-shirt before they left, Bakugou was wearing an actual coat.  Sure, the autumn air was chilly, but definitely not that cold, in Kirishima’s opinion.  So the boy disliking the cold did not seem like a stretch at all.

Without another word, Kirishima took the scarlet scarf from the display.  He reached over to Bakugou with it as the boy sputtered, “What are you doing, shitty hair?”  But Kirishima was undeterred, and instead he coiled the scarf loosely around Bakugou’s neck, then leaned back a little to look at his handiwork.  He smiled.

The bright color of the scarf complemented the deep blue of Bakugou’s coat nicely, and Kirishima fleetingly tried to convince himself that he’d picked out the red for that reason, and not because it was his personal favorite.  His eyes traveled up to see Bakugou’s face—flushed cheeks and piercing gaze.  Kirishima suddenly realized how close they were, noticed the way his hands lingered just below Bakugou’s shoulders as though he’d forgotten to remove them once he twined the scarf around his neck.  Kirishima could feel his own cheeks heating up.

He cleared his throat.  “Looks good,” he said, showing his teeth in an attempt at a smile, but he wasn’t sure his lips got the message.  He withdrew his hands, shifting his gaze away.  At this point, he was fairly sure there was something wrong with his head because of how often his brain seemed to stop functioning around Bakugou.  It wasn’t even as though he could blame it on the lack of sleep when this week he’d slept better than he had in months.

He took a step back, clearing his throat again, still not meeting Bakugou’s eyes.  “I… I’m going to go pay for this,” he said, gesturing to the shirts he still had draped over the crook of his elbow.  He quickly made his way to the cash register, hoping that a tiny bit of time and distance would be enough for his brain to restart and slip back into some semblance of normality.

As Kirishima finished paying, he noticed Bakugou at another register, purchasing the scarf.  The redhead waited for him at the exit, watching as he paid, then made his way over, wrapping the fabric around his neck as he walked.  Kirishima paid no heed to the traitorous voice in his head that was adamant that Bakugou looked good in red.

He continued to ignore it when it suggested that Bakugou probably looked good in any color.

“Come on, shitty hair,” Bakugou said.  “You’re still starving, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Kirishima said with a nod, though he wasn’t so sure anymore.  He was starting to accept that maybe he’d just never be able to make sense of anything around Bakugou ever again.  “Yeah, come on.  It’s this way.”

Kirishima began to lead the way.  However, before they even made it past the adjacent store, there was a boom, followed by screams.  Another explosion sounded off immediately after, so much louder and stronger than the first that Kirishima could feel it in the floor beneath him.  Both he and Bakugou stopped walking, turning toward the source of the noise.

Behind them, they could see people running away from a tiny restaurant, which seemed to be the source of the commotion. There was another deep rumble, and Kirishima could see the smoke, flames quickly spreading from the direction of the kitchen.

Kirishima’s heart pounded as he mentally tried to make sense of what he saw.  A cooking fire?  But no, that wouldn’t explain the distinct sounds of explosions.  Then what?  A villain?  His heart sank at the idea, even if he couldn’t be sure.  No matter what the cause, he could still hear the terrified shrieks of civilians—he needed to act.

Without a moment’s hesitation, without event taking a second to think, he found himself running against the flow of people, toward the restaurant, Bakugou not even a step behind him.  The small café was in chaos as people made their escapes, the fire quickly spreading, flames engulfing the area.  There were still explosions sounding off from the direction of the kitchen, shaking the floor and rattling the walls, a few pieces of the ceiling tiles breaking away and crashing down.

Kirishima moved instinctively when another piece of ceiling fell, pulling Bakugou to his chest and raising his other arm above them, hardening it so the plaster shattered against him, a few small pieces only nicking their faces.

“Fuck,” Bakugou breathed out, gritting his teeth, and Kirishima mentally agreed.  Yeah, ‘fuck’ just about summed it up.

He looked at Bakugou, swallowing thickly.  “You have to get out of here.”

Bakugou shoved against his chest, pushing him away angrily.  “What the fuck do you mean by that, asshole?” he snarled.

Kirishima grabbed onto his arm.  “You can’t do anything!” he argued.  “You’re not allowed to, Bakugou—without your provisional, if you use your Quirk—”

“I’m not going to use my Quirk,” he snapped back.  “It would only make things worse anyway.  But I’m not just going to fucking leave—”  He ground his teeth together.  “We’re going to be fucking heroes, Kirishima.  I’m not running away.”

Kirishima swallowed.  He understood the sentiment, he did, yet every part of him screamed to fight against what Bakugou was saying.  But there wasn’t time.

He tore his gaze away from Bakugou, instead scanning the room.  There wasn’t time, he repeated to himself.  No more waiting, no more hesitating—no more arguing with Bakugou.  He needed to move.

He hardened his arms, lifting and moving rubble while Bakugou helped the few civilians they’d freed make their way out of the chaos.  It seemed as though most of the customers had made it out, the only few people they found caught in the collapsing building amidst the commotion being some workers.  Kirishima tried to move quickly, tried to do what he could while trying to keep in mind he wasn’t exactly the most equipped for the situation.

It wasn’t long before Kirishima was sure he could hear sirens in the distance, could hear a few shouts about pros arriving.  He prayed that at least one might have a water Quirk like Backdraft.  The fire was spreading, the flames jumping higher, the smoke thickening—

And then he heard it and he jerked his head in Bakugou’s direction to see the boy wheezing, coughing so hard his eyes were watering, one hand pressed over his mouth and the other at his throat—

Kirishima was at his side in an instant, prying the hand away from Bakugou’s face and instead pulling the boy’s scarf to cover his mouth and nose.  Bakugou was still shuddering, coughing and choking against the smoke and all Kirishima could think was that they needed to get out now.

“Come on!” he shouted as he yanked the boy close to him again, wrapping an arm around his shoulder as he steered them out of the building as fast as he could.  The fire was only getting worse, without anyone able to put a stop to it, and the building was going to start collapsing.  He could feel the guilt stabbing at him, twisting in his gut, but there was nothing more he could do—the pros would take care of the rest, they would—they’d make sure everyone was saved, they’d put out the fire, they’d find the cause of the explosions—

Kirishima’s priority was Bakugou.

The scene outside was, if possible, even more chaotic.  Firefighters, police, and paramedics were all on the scene, trying to put out the fire, to secure the area, and to help the victims.  Kirishima led Bakugou to paramedics—he was still wheezing, gasping in air desperately, offering a few breathless swears.

“Come on,” Kirishima murmured, coaxing him to sit while they were both checked over.  He sat beside Bakugou on the curb where two paramedics were quickly examining them, one woman gently placing an oxygen mask over Bakugou’s face while saying something about smoke inhalation.  Kirishima watched him anxiously, keeping a hand on the boy’s back, rubbing soothing circles into his jacket.

Kirishima’s mind was buzzing as the paramedics asked questions and he reflexively gave the answers—names and age and the fact that they attended Yuuei.  He began to recount his version of events for them and the police, sure to mention his provisional license and just as sure to be careful about mentioning anything that Bakugou did, still unconvinced that he should have gotten involved.

The questions seemed to take longer than the events themselves—whereas they couldn’t have been in there for more than five minutes, Kirishima felt as though he was talking for at least an hour, answering questions until his voice was hoarse and raspy and the kind woman who’d been treating Bakugou gave him a bottle of water.

The fire had been put out, but pros and police were still on the scene.  It made Kirishima’s head ache as he briefly wondered if they’d make it back before curfew, after all.

It wasn’t until they were finally on their way back to Yuuei, sitting in the back of a police car upon an officer’s insistence, that Kirishima noted he was holding Bakugou’s hand.  He wasn’t even sure when that had happened.  He had no clue who had reached out for who, and he didn’t care.  There was something calming about it, grounding him, reminding him to breathe.

He glanced over to the boy.  His blond hair was a mess, cheeks still a little ruddy and face smudged with dirt.  He looked exhausted, but his entire body was rigid with tension.  Kirishima wanted to do something for him, but he absolutely no idea where to begin.  There were no words he could think of.

Instead, he tightened his fingers a little, and Bakugou squeezed back in response.

Aizawa was there to meet them at the gate, and Kirishima wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.  He half-expected to be reprimanded—even if he was technically permitted to help in rescue situations, Bakugou still was not.  He was sure Aizawa would be able to figure out what had really happened, and was ready to scolded for not stopping him.

But upon seeing his students, their teacher only heaved out a sigh before walking them back to the dormitory.

Kirishima was dreading reaching the dorms, not wanting to have to sit through another interrogation, even if it was just by their classmates.  His entire body ached and he was just so damn tired.  With another sideways glance at Bakugou, he could only assume what he himself looked like, his hair a knotted mess, the sleeves of his hoodie torn from using his Quirk.  He wanted nothing more than to take a shower and wash away everything from the day.

He couldn’t even fathom that not long before he’d been simply enjoying his mall outing with Bakugou.  The red of Bakugou’s scarf caught his eye, and he couldn’t process that wrapping it around the boy’s neck in the store and then pulling it over his mouth in the fire had both happened that day, with so little time in between.  It felt like both moments had occurred weeks ago, and it made his head spin to the point that he almost felt sick.

When they finally reached the doors of the dormitory, Bakugou slipped his hand out of Kirishima’s grip and it felt like everything was crumbling.  His steps didn’t falter, though; he didn’t let himself be moved by it.  Unbreakable, he told himself a little bitterly.

Kirishima wasn’t exactly sure how they managed to make it up to their rooms without being noticed; he wondered if Aizawa had anything to do with it, and as he finally managed to strip off his clothes that smelled of sweat and smoke, he silently thanked every higher being in existence for their teacher.

Shower and sleep.  That’s all he wanted to do.  He scrubbed away the dirt and sweat from his skin, letting the tiredness overtake his body, the slow ache spreading through his muscles and bones, to every limb and each of his extremities.  He didn’t bother toweling his hair dry, throwing on some clothes to sleep in and falling into his bed.

But as tired as he was, the exhaustion practically radiating from his body, sleep would not come.  He focused on his breathing: in for four, hold for seven, out for eight.  He counted—he counted his breathing, counted his heartbeats as they finally slowed into something calmer, counted each second as they turned into minutes and then into hours.

And still, sleep would not come.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flames of the fire, could feel their heat on his skin, could hear the explosions.

He’d found some article on his phone to try to put his mind at rest, just a brief overview of the events.  The blame had apparently been placed on some disgruntled ex-employee with some kind of heat manipulation quirk—his brain was too sluggish and overtired to make sense of the details, but he did catch himself wondering who the fuck knew that flour could explode like that?

It was just something that had gotten out of control.  No big bad villains, no grand terrible scheme.  It definitely helped put, knowing that it wasn’t related to the League of Villains, but he still had no idea what to make of it.  He tried to push all thoughts away for a later time and closed his eyes for another attempt at sleep.

In, hold, out.  He wished that he had some chamomile tea, but he’d dropped his bags at some point during the commotion.  He wondered if he could ask Yaoyorozu, but when he glanced at the clock, bright red numbers shone back at him, telling him it was already after one in the morning.  When the hell had it gotten so late?

He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his other side, curling his legs up into his chest.  He tried to relax, tried to just concentrate on his breathing, but the images behind his eyelids shifted and he saw Bakugou choking on smoke, struggling to breathe—

He was out of his bed before he could think twice.  He made his way to Bakugou’s door and knocked quietly, hoping that the boy was awake because if not, he really had no idea what to do.

Moments later, the other boy answered the door, and frankly, he looked about as awful as Kirishima felt.  Bakugou didn’t say anything—he honestly didn’t even seem that surprised to see Kirishima at his door.  He merely stepped back, letting Kirishima enter his room.

The redhead fidgeted a little, biting into his lip.  “I can’t sleep,” he murmured.  He figured it was obvious, but he didn’t know where else to start.  He looked over to Bakugou, who had been so quiet since the whole ordeal in a terrible way that reminded him of that morning after the rescue in Kamino.  His heart stammered uncomfortably against his ribcage, and he desperately wanted to do something—reach out, take his hand, just to prove that the boy in front of him was real.

“Yeah,” Bakugou grunted, dropping himself onto his bed.

The single word still felt like a relief, just to hear him speak, no matter how rough his voice was.  Still, Kirishima felt the tiniest bit of tension ease out of his muscles.

“You can’t either?” he asked softly.

Bakugou shook his head.  “I’m fucking exhausted, but every time I close my eyes I can’t fucking breathe.”

Kirishima sat down at the foot of Bakugou’s bed.  Then, he inhaled deeply, steeling his resolve; he had nothing to lose by asking—or maybe he had everything to lose, but he was so tired and he was just so much happier to see Bakugou there, in front of him, it didn’t matter.  “Can… can I stay here?”

Bakugou shot up, glaring at Kirishima.  “What do you—”

“Look, I’ll sleep here, at the foot of your bed,” he offered quickly.  “Or even on the floor.  Whatever, it doesn’t matter.  I’ll leave first thing in the morning, too, as soon as I wake up, I… I just…”  He dug the heel of his palm into his eyes, the other hand clutching at his chest, fingertips digging into his t-shirt.  “It’s like my mind won’t calm down.  I keep seeing it and feeling it—and then I think maybe it’s okay because those images disappear but then instead I see you—”  He broke off, biting into his lip.  He lowered his hand from his face, pressing it flat against his chest beneath his other hand.  He shifted his eyes over to the other boy without turning his head, still feeling a little ashamed at his admission.  “I don’t want to be alone right now, Bakugou.”

“Kirishima…”

“Just this once, Bakugou,” he said.  “I won’t ask for something like this again, but right now I just…”  He trailed off, swallowing thickly.  “Please.”

Bakugou was staring at him with a completely unreadable expression.  It almost looked as though he was searching for something as his eyes flitted over Kirishima’s face, gaze critical but not harshly so.  Kirishima wondered if he found whatever it was that he was looking for, because after a moment he heaved out a sigh, leaning back against his pillows again in defeat.

“Fine,” he murmured, his voice quiet but gruff; it sounded low and gravelly, still just a little bit raspy from the smoke.  “Sleep at the end of the bed.”  He took one of his pillows, throwing it at Kirishima’s face.

The redhead caught the pillow.  He shuffled backwards, curling his legs up beneath him.  “Thank you,” he said.  He wanted to smile, tried to offer one to Bakugou but it felt like he didn’t have proper control over his mouth, unable to give even a simple upward quirk of the lips.  He swallowed.  “Seriously, man—”

“Yeah, whatever.”  His tone sounded more embarrassed than annoyed, and Kirishima sighed in relief that he wasn’t seriously imposing.  Bakugou then kicked a blanket over to him.  “We’re not sharing,” he muttered, then he reached over to turn off the lamp on his bedside table.

Kirishima took the blanket, wrapping it around himself as he curled up at the foot of the bed, pulling his knees to his chest.  The room was quiet except for some soft rustling as Bakugou similarly tried to get comfortable beneath his own sheets without kicking the other boy.

When he’d finally settled, Kirishima closed his eyes, reassuring himself with the fact that Bakugou was right there.  He inhaled slow and deep, listening as Bakugou’s own breathing began to even out as he finally drifted off, trying to match the rhythm with his own breaths—inhale, exhale.

It was amazing how much calmer he felt, just from Bakugou’s presence.  He furled his hands into the blanket, remembering the sensation of Bakugou’s hand in his, how it had felt like an anchor before and he caught himself thinking that maybe it would be okay; and now he was there, a strong, physical reminder that it was, in fact, okay.

And with that, Kirishima let the rhythmic sound of Bakugou’s breathing lull him, too, to sleep.

Chapter Text

The fire was climbing up the walls and across the floor and ceiling, devouring everything in its path until nothing was left.  Kirishima could feel the heat as though the flames were licking his skin, could hear the crackling as though it was roaring in his ears.  Everything was crumbling, and they just needed to get out.  He needed to find Bakugou and get out—

He heard the other boy and turned—he could see him through the jumping flames, choking as the smoke filled his lungs, eyes watering from the strain on his body.  Kirishima needed to get to him, but he couldn’t reach him, even as he threw out his arms.  He was ready to harden his skin and barrel through the fire, but his Quirk suddenly didn’t seem to be working.

And then, emerging from the flames behind Bakugou, he could see Shigaraki, laughing madly as he placed four of his fingers around the boy’s neck, careful not to close the last one around his skin—it was a threat, he was just taunting Kirishima with what he was going to do.  All he had to do was lower the final finger and then Bakugou’s skin would be disintegrating, decaying and breaking apart and shattering.  He mentally swore, preparing himself to get to the other boy despite his inability to harden, in any way that he could—it didn’t matter if he had to run through the flames anyway with soft skin, he had to get to Bakugou no matter the cost—

But then hands were emerging grabbing him, as well.  He felt them on his shoulder and upper arm, grip firm, trying to forcefully yank him back.  Kirishima slammed his elbow back into his attacker, desperate to get away because he had to get to Bakugou…

“Fuck!”

The curse jarred Kirishima awake.  His heart was pounding against his ribcage as though it was threatening to break out, his breath forcing its way out of his mouth in short, uneven pants.  He whipped around to see Bakugou, one hand still outstretched, the other covering his bleeding nose.  Kirishima’s eyes widened.

“Bakugou!” he said, scrambling up to his knees.  His hands hovered between him and Bakugou; he wanted to reach out and see if he was okay, but the fact that he had been the one to hurt him was preventing him from covering that final stretch between them.  He swallowed thickly.  “Oh my god, Bakugou, I’m so sorry.”

He clambered off the bed, quickly retrieving a handful of tissues from the boy’s nightstand before crawling back onto the bed.  He chose to shove aside all of his wariness, instead closing the distance between him and Bakugou, sitting close enough that their knees knocked into each other.  Gently, Kirishima pried Bakugou’s hand away from his face.

The bleeding wasn’t quite as bad as he expected, just a little between his nose and upper lip; it hadn’t even gotten onto the boy’s hand, but Kirishima still winced a little when he saw the damage he’d unintentionally inflicted.  He bit into his bottom lip as he raised one hand to gently cup the side of Bakugou’s face, the hand that was clutching the tissues reaching up to gently wipe away the blood.

At the first contact Kirishima made with the boy’s skin, Bakugou jerked his head away; Kirishima’s other hand was there to catch him though, gently holding him in place as he tried to clean off his face as carefully as he could.

He swallowed thickly.  “I’m sorry,” he murmured again.

“Stop apologizing,” Bakugou said gruffly.

Kirishima dug his teeth into his lip again, brow furrowing as he tried to concentrate on the task at hand.  He gently wiped at the blood on Bakugou’s face, unable to meet the boy’s eyes.

And then, Bakugou’s hand shot up and grasped Kirishima’s wrist.  Kirishima froze—or at least, he tried to, but when he stopped moving, stopped wiping at Bakugou’s skin, it only brought attention to the fact that he couldn’t properly still himself.

“You’re shaking,” Bakugou muttered.

Kirishima tried to withdraw his hand, but Bakugou kept a firm grip on it.  Bakugou raised his other hand to catch the one that Kirishima still had gently pressed against his cheek, preemptively keeping that one in place as well.  Kirishima tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but he found he couldn’t.

“You were shaking in your sleep, too,” Bakugou continued.  “You were practically hyperventilating."

Kirishima squeezed his eyes shut.  After a week of nothing, and then everything that had happened at the mall, he supposed he should have expected the nightmare.  But knowing that didn’t make it any better.

Bakugou pulled Kirishima’s hands down so they rested on his knees.  His grip on them was firm, fingers wrapped tightly around them as though it would help still them.  Kirishima kept his eyes closed and tried to focus on the feeling of Bakugou’s hands—warm and rough, calloused and definitely a bit sweaty.  He wondered if they were just always sweaty because of his Quirk, let his mind venture down that line of thought for a few moments because at least then he wasn’t thinking about why his hands were shaking and why Bakugou was holding them.

But he couldn’t keep putting off the inevitable.

Things had gotten better when he started talking about his nightmares with Bakugou, when he wasn’t just being honest with the other boy, but himself as well.  There was no denying to Bakugou what had happened when he had seen it with his own eyes, all too aware of what Kirishima was going through.  It was no good to try to keep it from him; it would only make things worse.

“It was the fire,” Kirishima croaked out, hating the way that his voice broke at the admission.  “Except when the smoke started getting to you, I couldn’t reach you, and then—” He gritted his teeth.  “And then Shigaraki was there and he had his hand on your throat, and I—”  He broke off.

“Hey.  Kirishima.”  Kirishima forced his eyes open, looking at Bakugou tentatively.  “I’m here.”

Kirishima had to fight everything in his body to keep himself from flinging his arms around Bakugou, as though to simply prove that fact.  He wanted nothing more than to feel as much of him as he could, as if it would be confirmation that Bakugou was, in fact, there in front of him.  Instead, he forced himself to simply nod, and Bakugou gave his hands a squeeze.

“Sorry for waking you up,” Kirishima sighed after a moment.

Bakugou simply shrugged. “Not like I was sleeping that well either,” he said. “Kept startling myself awake.”

Kirishima glanced down at where their hands were still joined. The muscles in his fingers still felt jumpy, and he knew that they were trembling ever-so-slightly beneath Bakugou’s. His breathing had calmed down a considerable amount, his chest still tight but his pulse no longer erratic and painful. Kirishima reluctantly drew his hands away, curling them into fists on his lap.  He hated the idea of feeling weak like this, even in front of Bakugou.

Maybe especially in front of Bakugou; he couldn’t be sure.

With a huff, Bakugou dropped himself back onto his bed, against his pillow; he mumbled something under his breath, covering his face with one arm.  Kirishima tilted his head a little in curiosity, then crawled forward a bit, planting his hands on the mattress and leaning his weight forward onto his arms.

“What?” he asked.

Bakugou grunted, dropping his arm to glare at Kirishima.  “Come here, shitty hair,” he said curtly.

Kirishima merely blinked at him, staring down at the other boy as he tried to process the words.  Bakugou sighed impatiently, reaching out to grab Kirishima’s forearm and yanking him down.

Kirishima toppled forwards, falling and landing half on top of Bakugou and half on top of the empty space beside him.  Kirishima quickly tried to pull away, but Bakugou’s hand was wrapped tightly around his wrist, holding him firmly in place against him.  Hesitantly, the redhead looked up, gaze met by the other boy’s.  A half-dozen questions immediately bubbled to the surface in his mind, then seemed to evaporate just as quickly.

The bottom line seemed to be that he didn’t understand Bakugou’s intentions, his reasoning behind the sudden shift in position, and he wanted to.  He wanted to know if maybe there was something more to this thing between them, something more than simple comfort, something to be quantified and explained in a way that he simply couldn’t; he wanted to know if maybe, in relation to the question of whatever this was, Bakugou had the answer.

But the words died on his tongue, unable to translate what it was that he wanted to know into articulate speech.  He simply stared, his heart pounding again as Bakugou did nothing to put his mind at ease; he merely met him with a look that, in the dim light of Bakugou’s room, he almost thought looked just as tentative, just as hesitant as his own.

He wondered if Bakugou could feel his heart pounding like it was going to beat straight out of his chest; beneath his palm, he was sure he could feel Bakugou’s.

All that Kirishima could think was that maybe Bakugou wanted to make sure this was okay—because even through all of his confidence and pride, they both knew that when it came to comfort, the blond boy didn’t exactly know what he was doing.  It was something Kirishima had always acknowledged in the back of his mind, something that had been proved when they’d taken the exam for their provisionals.  Bakugou had no problem with the grander parts of heroics, but when it came to this…

Kirishima answered by lowering his gaze and letting his body relax.  His fingers reflexively curled into Bakugou’s t-shirt, and he swore this time he could feel the flutter of the boy’s pulse beneath his palm.  He settled against Bakugou’s chest, and even though everything in him told him that it should be awkward, that cuddling up to your best friend probably wasn’t the most normal of things, nothing about it felt strange.  If anything, perhaps the strangest part of it all was just how natural it felt to be resting against Bakugou like this, bodies slotted together so effortlessly as though they’d done this hundreds of times.

Bakugou’s hand shifted from Kirishima’s wrist to instead cover his hand, and again the boy couldn’t help but note the sweaty palm; at this point, even Kirishima’s hand felt sweaty, and he tried to write it off as a side-effect of the nightmare, telling himself that it was in no way related to his proximity to his best friend.  Kirishima could feel Bakugou’s other hand as it traveled up his spine, a feather-light touch until it settled in the spot just between his shoulder blades.

Kirishima let out a shaky breath, letting his eyes flutter closed.

“Think you can go back to sleep?”  Bakugou’s voice was closer than Kirishima was used to, a gravelly whisper just above his head.  He swallowed, fingers tightening their grip on the other boy’s shirt.

“Probably,” he responded softly.  “I can try, at least.”

Bakugou hummed, and Kirishima could feel it rumble through his chest as he did.   “I’m right here,” he mumbled again, and there was something about the words, whispered so close, that Kirishima let himself believe them.

In the end, it took Kirishima a while before he could fall back to sleep.  He tried focus on Bakugou’s breathing, the rise and fall of his chest beneath his arm, his heartbeat beneath his palm; he tried to focus on the feeling of Bakugou’s thumb smoothing circles over the skin of the back of his hand, the feeling of his fingers playing with the loose strands of his hair. He knew that Bakugou was doing his best to stay awake until he himself had fallen asleep, and perhaps that was the biggest comfort.

They didn’t say anything more, both of them finding solace simply in the other’s presence.

Sharing a bed with someone was an interesting task.  Kirishima wasn’t sure how it would have worked out if they both hadn’t been so completely exhausted.  As it was, Bakugou seemed to be a restless sleeper, and it woke Kirishima up several times throughout the night when he’d roll over or spread his limbs out wide, knocking into him.  Kirishima was tired enough that he’d simply readjust his position to accommodate for whatever space Bakugou was now taking up, and then immediately drift back off.

It wasn’t a great night of sleep, but it was something.  Kirishima was fairly convinced that he’d have spent the entire night awake otherwise, so he was going to take what he could get.

At a little after seven, the boy finally extricated himself from the tangle of Bakugou’s limbs and blankets, quietly crawling out of bed.  A part of him wanted to stay, to repay Bakugou by watching over him in turn, making sure he managed to sleep.  The moment it crossed his mind, however, he thought of the boy’s reaction to waking up and finding Kirishima still in his bed; he doubted the sentiment would be appreciated, so he quickly wrote off the idea.

He was better off leaving and dealing with the aftermath of it all later, when they were both awake.  He slid out of the bed, quietly creeping across the room and out of the door.  He closed it silently behind him.

He turned, ready to return to his own bedroom, only to see Shouji leaving his room at the same time.  Kirishima yanked his hand off of the doorknob to Bakugou’s room as though it had burned him, staring at Shouji with wide eyes.  His classmate looked as stoic as ever, but something about the gaze felt piercing, too knowing for Kirishima’s liking.

“This isn’t what it looks like!” he blurted out, holding his hands up in front of him.  He immediately winced at the words, knowing that nothing could have sounded more incriminating than that phrase.  He ducked his head a little, running his hand through his hair and gnawing on his lip.  He vaguely registered that that probably only made matters worse, but his brain didn’t seem to be working as he desperately sought out some sort of explanation.

He couldn’t decide what was worse—and not just for him, but for Bakugou because, like it or not, the boy was involved; it wasn’t that far of a leap to make, considering Kirishima was quietly sneaking out of his room in the morning, his hair and clothes sleep-mussed.  He mentally argued over what Bakugou would probably hate more for their classmate to think—to boldly (and incorrectly) assume that they had been messing around, sharing a bed for reasons other than sleeping, or to know the truth of the matter, which both of them seemed so keen on hiding.

“It’s because you both have trouble sleeping, right?”

Kirishima jerked his head up, flush covering his cheeks.  He frustratedly reminded himself that he'd seen this coming—it was only a matter of time before Shouji figured it out.  The boy’s Quirk let him hear small sounds at great distances, after all; Kirishima briefly wondered how many times he or Bakugou had unintentionally made some noise when they awoke, and Shouji had ended up straining to hear, to make sure that everything was okay.

His gut twisted with guilt and shame.  He hated this, hated everything about it—

“It’s okay,” Shouji continued mildly.  “I understand.”

Kirishima eyed him cautiously, still biting on his lip.  “You... do?” he asked hesitantly.

The boy nodded.  “After our training camp, I couldn’t sleep,” he said.  “Everything that happened with Tokoyami and Bakugou…”  He sighed.  “It took a while for things to feel right again.  Certain sounds still make me tense.  I imagine it was worse for you.”

Kirishima rubbed at his arm self-consciously.  “Yeah,” he murmured.  “It’s… it was starting to finally get a bit better, but…”

“Aizawa-sensei gave us a brief account about what happened yesterday,” he informed him, and Kirishima nodded at this.  The boy really did understand, then.

“I’m fine,” Kirishima assured him reflexively, flashing a smile.  Shouji raised an eyebrow.  His smile faltered.  “Or, I will be, anyway.”

Shouji watched him for a moment, as though considering his next words.  “If you ever find you’re not fine,” Shouji told him carefully, “don’t forget that everyone is here for you.  I’m especially more than happy to lend an ear—or a few of them, if need be.”

Kirishima chuckled at the joke, finally feeling some of the tension ease away.  “Thanks, man,” he said with a more natural grin, face softening as he looked at Shouji.  “I mean that.”

“The same goes for Bakugou,” he continued.  “Though he probably isn’t as open to accepting the help.”

“Yeah,” Kirishima agreed, grimacing a little.

Shouji clapped a reassuring hand to his shoulder, then made his way to elevator.  “He has you, though, so I’m not too worried,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder.

Kirishima could feel the flush creeping up his cheeks.  “Ah, r-right,” he stammered out, watching as the boy left.  He remained rooted to the spot for a few more moments, the conversation replaying in his head; Shouji was a good friend—his words of assurance proved that.  Still, something about it didn’t sit right with Kirishima, a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t explain.  He forced himself to take a deep breath, finally making his way over to his own door; he couldn’t be sure if the exchange left him feeling better or worse.

Wednesday found the class outside for hero training, even despite the torrential downpour.

Kirishima understood—he really did.  After all, villain attacks could happen at any time, and disasters occurred under absolutely any circumstances.  Kirishima could recall Asui mentioning before when they chose their fieldwork placements that she’d like to work somewhere where there might be flooding, and at this point, if that was still the case, she was definitely getting practice in for it.

The challenge this time was an obstacle course.  Under any other circumstances, it wouldn’t have been a difficult feat, overall.  It was definitely a test of strength and endurance, several of the tasks challenging even under normal conditions; however, the heavy rain fell in torrents, and it was definitely a hinderance.

The sheets of rain were difficult enough to see through, but Kirishima’s hair was plastered to his face, sopping wet clumps of it falling into his eyes.  Yaoyorozu had graciously lent him an elastic for his hair at the start of class, but it could only do so much when the shorter strands in the front constantly fell out of the band.  He growled in frustration as he forcefully swept the dripping hair out of his eyes.

The rain itself didn’t hinder his Quirk, but it definitely didn’t help.  At some points, he was able to harden his hands to get a better grip as he climbed ropes and walls.  On the other hand, finding his balance seemed to increase in difficulty; hardening his feet or legs would only decrease the amount of feeling he had in them, and he had to be careful along the narrow slippery surfaces, so that didn’t seem to be an option.

He supposed he was better off than many of the others, though.  Kaminari was intent on not giving off even the smallest bit of discharge, knowing that the consequences could be catastrophic to not only himself, but anyone in the vicinity; as a result, he was lagging behind all the others, focus more on his Quirk control than actually completing the course.  The rain altered the viscosity of Ashido’s acid and caused Iida’s engines to stall, hampering their mobility.  Others, like Bakugou’s explosions and Todoroki’s flames, were rendered utterly useless by the wet weather.

At least Kirishima was in better shape than them.

Still, he wondered what Yuuei was thinking when there was a very high possibility the entirety of their hero program would end up sick.  Spending the entire fifty-minute period out in the cold, heavy rain was bound to end with several of them catching a cold—and they’d be lucky if that was all.  At this rate, they’d all end up seeking out Recovery Girl before the end of the week.

He wondered if Recovery Girl’s Quirk could even heal in that way.  Sure, it helped speed up the body’s recovery process, but was that only for injuries and wounds, or did that also cover the immune system?  Could her Quirk make a week-long cold last the span of a few hours instead?  Then would they just have to sleep off the after-effects?  Would a kiss from Recovery Girl and a short nap essentially be enough to cure the common cold?

He wondered if Midoriya would know.  He liked to figure out the limits of Quirks, to determine all of the possibilities and abilities, to come up with all of those different applications.  He was good at that.  Maybe Midoriya would be able to explain to him the extent of Recovery Girl’s skills; after all, he definitely seemed to be on the receiving end of them quite enough.

Kirishima rubbed at his temples, again pushing his sopping hair from his face.  How the hell had he gotten down that line of thought again?  He felt exhausted, his body slow and sluggish, only made worse by the miserable weather.  His brain seemed to be trying to make up for it by working overtime, but the lines of thought his mind traveled down seemed disjointed and disconnected; it was like a train jumping the tracks with how it skipped from one point to the next—or maybe it was like some vessel crossing completely separate dimensions.  He wasn’t sure, because as much as he seemed to be thinking, he was too tired to actually make sense of any of it.

Damn, he was just so tired.

He had been struggling with sleep since everything that happened at the mall.  He wasn’t even sure if he could blame nightmares at this point, when he was finding it nearly impossible to fall asleep in the first place.  He was tempted to ask Yaoyorozu if she had any tea until he had the chance to go and actually get more for himself, but he hated the idea of asking her for more, as though it would be taking advantage of her kindness; that was definitely not an option.

Every night, as he’d laid in his bed for hours on end, sleep evading him, he considered saying something to Bakugou.  How easy would it be to simply speak to the boy next door to his room?  And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.  His mind instead flitted to the boy in the room on the other side.  Shouji would know if he kept going over to see Bakugou every night, and that made something uncomfortable settle in the pit of his stomach.  Eventually he’d talk himself out of it, instead resigning himself to another sleepless night.

He wondered what the cure for exhaustion was; he wondered if that was also something Recovery Girl’s Quirk could fix—or, at least, if it could fix the side effects.

Besides, he reminded himself… if Bakugou hadn’t said anything, that meant he was sleeping.  Kirishima needed to steel his resolve and get over it.

He was fine.  Bakugou was fine.  Everything was fine.

So why couldn’t he just sleep?

In a desperate attempt, he had even increased his workouts and gym time in the evenings, accompanied most times by Sato, Ojiro, Tetsutetsu, and Shishida.  The other boys were fantastic workout companions, and the five of them were constantly able to push each other to the limits and challenge each other.  But in the end, it didn’t help Kirishima sleep.  It only seemed to tire his body out enough to make his muscles ache dully in the morning, but not enough to help him get any more rest.

When he finally completed the obstacle course and he collapsed into the mud beside the handful of classmates that managed to finish before him, he hoped that maybe this would be enough make a difference; it had definitely been a challenge, straining his body to the limits of exhaustion.  The bright side, of course, was that everyone else looked just as beat as he did.  Sero had laid back in the mud after he’d finished the course, chest heaving, having completely given up on staying clean considering how most of them had dirt caked onto their gym uniforms anyway; Kirishima’s own pants were stained up to the knees in mud.  Still, his fellow classmates looked just as tired as he knew he did, so he didn’t have to worry about any more comments like those from Kaminari and Ashido.  No one seemed to catch onto his lack of sleep, this time.

They trudged to the showers quietly when the period was over.  Kirishima reveled in the feeling of the hot water pounding against his aching muscles, easing out the chill that had settled deep in his bones.  He didn’t bother trying to fix his hair when he knew he had to brave the storm once more to get back to the dorms, and he actually found himself too tired to even care.  He wondered if he could simply skip dinner and head straight to bed; he knew it wasn’t necessarily the healthiest option, but he was too tired to even feel hungry, and he found himself hoping that, if he had a head start on his routine of laying in bed for several hours before sleep eventually claimed him, maybe that would mean he’d manage to sleep for more than a few hours.

At this point, what did he have to lose?

Sero and Kamanari didn’t press him when he shrugged off their suggestion to get dinner together.  As it was, half of the class seemed to be heading straight to the dormitories instead of stopping for a meal in the cafeteria.  He figured most of them would be probably cooking something up in the communal kitchen, but there were definitely quite a few that looked as though they were also ready to immediately drop into bed.  Kirishima made himself the promise that he wouldn’t go light on his meal at breakfast, and after waving goodbye to his friends, he made his way to his room.

He hardly even had the energy to change into his sleep clothes, but he somehow managed to shuck of his uniform and slip into his usual shorts and shirt.  He burrowed under his blankets, curling in on himself and letting his eyes drift shut.  Inside, the sound of the heavy rains beating against the window was soothing and rhythmic, and it felt like it was only a matter of minutes before sleep claimed him.

It made it all the more jarring when a knock came on his door.

Kirishima startled awake, pushing himself up onto one elbow and rubbing at his eyes before blearily glancing at his clock.  It wasn’t quite two in the morning—still much too early to be awake.  He felt his eyes closing again after the time slowly sank into his brain; he slowly lowered his body, cheek pressing into his pillow once more.

Then, there was another knock.

This time, the sound registered more fully in his brain, and he was out of his bed in an instant.  Still half-asleep, he felt like he didn’t quite have control over his limbs, stumbling over to open his door.  The light in the hallway was much too bright and he found himself squinting at it, blinking sleepily at the blond boy that stood before him.  Before Bakugou could say a word, Kirishima grabbed his hand and yanked him into his room.

“Shitty hair, what—”

Kirishima closed his door behind him again, shuffling back across his room with Bakugou in tow.  He didn’t give it a second thought as he climbed back into his bed, giving Bakugou’s wrist a firm tug as he did.

Bakugou knelt on the edge of Kirishima’s bed, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted into a frown.  “Seriously, Kirishima, what the hell—”

“Tired,” Kirishima murmured through a yawn, cracking one eye open to look up at Bakugou—when had he even closed them in the first place?  His sleep-addled brain felt sluggish and heavy, so he couldn’t be sure.  All he knew was he wanted to go back to sleep, but Bakugou had knocked at his door and he was not about to abandon him when he was essentially coming to him, asking for help.

“Then go back to sleep,” Bakugou huffed out.  For a moment, Kirishima marveled at the idea that maybe the boy could, in fact, read minds—but, no.  Definitely not.  If Bakugou could read Kirishima’s mind, he was pretty sure he would have killed him by now—or, at least, he would have given him a beating—for the thoughts that ran wild in his head, especially when the boy himself was so often the subject.

But then Bakugou was moving to leave, shuffling backwards off of the bed; Kirishima was glad he still had a hand wrapped around his wrist because he tugged at it again, and Bakugou froze.

“Shitty hair, go to sleep.”

“But you can’t sleep,” he mumbled in protest.

“So?"

“So I’m not going to leave you like that, bro,” Kirishima said.

“What—”

“Come on,” Kirishima whined, and he gave Bakugou’s arm another weak pull.  When Bakugou didn’t budge, he pouted, scooching over and lifting his blankets in invitation.

Bakugou just eyed him warily.  “Kirishima...” he said firmly.

“Hero training sucked, today,” he sighed before the blond could say another word.  “I’m tired.  You gotta be tired.  And this helped the other day, didn’t it?”

“You said it was a one-time thing,” Bakugou argued.

“Then it’s a one-more-time thing,” Kirishima responded easily. “Besides, what good will we be in class if we don’t actually get any sleep?”

Bakugou continued to stare at him for a moment, and even through his fog of exhaustion, Kirishima wondered what the hell he was actually thinking.  His heart jolted a little at the idea that he was definitely crossing over some line now, overstepping his boundaries.  In the dim light of his room, he couldn’t quite read Bakugou’s face, and he wondered if he was making his friend uncomfortable with his suggestion.  Guilt twisted heavily in his gut, a burning weight in his stomach.

He started to push himself up from his bed again.  “Sorry,” he muttered, looking away from Bakugou.  “You don’t have to.  Come on, we can just go downstairs—”

Bakugou grumbled something, and Kirishima turned to him, tilting his head.

“What?”

“Lay back down, idiot,” he snapped, shoving at Kirishima’s shoulder.  The boy was about to object, ready to argue that really, it was fine, he didn’t need to sleep, when suddenly Bakugou was sliding beneath the covers next to him.  His movements were a little stiff and awkward as he settled himself beside Kirishima, scowl on his face.

“You really don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” Bakugou grunted, glaring at Kirishima.  “You know I don’t do anything I don’t want to.”

Something fluttered inside of Kirishima’s chest at the statement.  He knew that Bakugou didn’t likely mean anything by it, that he was simply trying to put Kirishima at ease by assuring him that he wasn’t forcing him to do it; still, Kirishima felt his breath catch at the thought that Bakugou wanted this.

They were so close, eyes meeting even in the darkness, and the only thing that Kirishima could focus on was that Bakugou somehow wanted this—to be this close to Kirishima, to share his bed if only for one more night.  His heart was beating painfully fast, loud enough that he could hear his pulse in his ears even over the rain pounding incessantly against his window.  And there was Bakugou, close enough that Kirishima wondered if he could hear it too.  It made Kirishima hold his breath.

After another moment, Bakugou shoved a hand in Kirishima’s face, forcing his head to turn away.  “Stop staring,” he said gruffly, and Kirishima bit back a smile as he pulled Bakugou’s hand off of his face, because the blond had been staring right back.  “Go the fuck to sleep.”

Kirishima hummed in response, letting his eyes flutter closed at the command.  “G’night, Bakugou,” he breathed out, unable to repress another yawn.  He vaguely registered he still had Bakugou’s hand clasped in his, and his brain helpfully informed him that he should let go.  His fingers didn’t seem to get the message, however, instead curling more comfortably around Bakugou’s, slotting their palms together.  The other boy only grasped his hand in return, mirroring Kirishima’s movements without even a second’s delay.

And, well… that had to mean it was okay, didn’t it?

“Good night, Kirishima,” came the whispered response a moment later, and Kirishima liked how close it was to his ear, a little rough, but intended only for him.  Something made it sound soft and gentle, a low breath like a confession.

It was too bad they agreed this wouldn’t happen again, because he definitely thought it was a sound he could get used to.

Chapter Text

Despite their agreement, it did not end up being the last time that Kirishima found himself sharing a bed with Bakugou.

There was a part of his brain that couldn’t figure out why they both seemed to silently agree that it was a good idea—the reality of it was that it wasn’t.  Beside the fact that they could potentially get in trouble if they were found out by Aizawa-sensei or any of their other teachers, it wasn’t as though it was all that much of a help.

The beds in their dormitories were small, just barely enough space for the two of them to fit together comfortably.  That was, of course, barring the fact that Bakugou liked to take up as much room as humanly possible, spreading his limbs out like a starfish and sprawling over the mattress of whichever bed they ended up in.  Kirishima would often find himself woken up by the other boy accidentally smacking him in the face with his arm or elbowing him in the stomach or kicking him sharply in the shins.  Kirishima was a bit of a light sleeper as it was.  When Bakugou would toss and turn at night, trying to get comfortable, it was always sure to wake him, and the position that Bakugou ended up in would determine how long it would take Kirishima to fall back asleep.

On the other hand, when Bakugou would become restless from nightmares, Kirishima would awake before him.  He would gently wake him, quiet him, comfort him until they both managed to fall back asleep.

When Kirishima found himself sleeping fitfully, it was a different story.  In many cases, he’d wake himself up, hands trembling and heart pounding.  Instinctively, he’d curl into the other boy, seeking quiet comfort.  The movements would often cause Bakugou to stir, sleepily aware of what Kirishima’s shaking indicated and doing his best to put him at ease, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against the backs of his hands as Bakugou held them in his.

It happened a few times like that first night, where one of them would quietly knock on the other’s door until there was an answer; then, they’d be wordlessly tugged into the room before settling in bed together.  Sometimes, they spoke about the contents of the dreams, soothing words offered in return.  Other times, they were both completely silent, letting their actions speak at much louder volumes, communicating what they didn’t trust their words to say.

It was Bakugou who finally broke their steady rhythm, the routine they’d tacitly agreed upon. They’d been studying in the boy’s room for the duration of the evening when Kirishima couldn’t fight back his yawns anymore, stretching his arms over his head as he glanced at the clock. He hummed quietly to himself as he began collecting his books, shuffling his notes together into a semi-neat pile.

“It’s getting late, man,” he said, looking over to Bakugou. “I should head to bed.”

Bakugou glanced up at him and then at the clock, shutting his book with an irritated sigh. He stared at Kirishima for a long moment that made the redhead squirm a little under the scrutiny.

“What—?”

“Just stay here, shitty hair.”

Kirishima blinked at him, frowning. “What?” he repeated. Clearly he hadn’t heard Bakugou right, because it sounded like he suggested...

“Just stay here,” he said again. He turned his head away, his cheeks coloring slightly as he furrowed his brow and folded his arms across his chest. “You’ll end up back in here, anyway.”

Kirishima wanted to argue; every organ in his body suddenly seemed to be working overtime, his heart hammering a staccato against his ribs, his mind reeling with dozens of reasons why he should say ‘no’. Every inch of him fought against the idea, knowing that he shouldn’t. He knew he should say something. 

He wanted to point out that it was Bakugou who generally made his way into Kirishima’s room, into his bed. Kirishima had definitely had a handful of nightmares over the last week or so, but only twice had he found himself knocking on the other boy’s door. Instead, more often than not it was Bakugou who turned up at his door in the middle of the night.

Though, Kirishima wondered if that meant he was more at fault for their current situation, since he was the one to drag Bakugou past the threshold each night, throwing the blankets over them, a quiet but solid, reassuring presence until they both fell back to sleep.

He wanted to tell Bakugou that this changed things—the preemptive decision to share a bed. It was intended as a preventative measure, Kirishima knew, but he knew it wasn’t probably wasn’t right, wasn’t normal. He couldn’t remember sharing a bed beyond kindergarten, having done it a few times with his cousins when he was younger, before his Quirk even manifested, when he’d gone to visit family. But everything about the situation was different.

If Kirishima was honest, he’d woken up a few too many nights curled too closely around Bakugou, legs tangled, hands entwined, his other arm wrapped tightly around the other boy. And yet, that didn’t seem to be the problem of it.  Kirishima was becoming far too content with it, the feeling of Bakugou so close making something swell in his chest, a balloon inflating beneath his sternum.  It made something beneath his skin prickle pleasantly, made his extremities tingle as he’d sleepily catch a glimpse of the other boy before settling back into a peaceful slumber.

And yet, every morning, when he had to awake and face the day, Kirishima refused to pursue that line of thought any further.  With each day, it was steadily becoming harder to avoid, and it made a sense of dread settle in Kirishima’s chest.  Whatever this was between him and Bakugou, this rapidly changing dynamic—he wasn’t sure that he wanted to address it, but he felt sure that if they did this, it would only be a matter of time before he’d be forced to.

So he had to speak up.  He had to say something, to do something.

But his mouth betrayed him, speaking before he could object to the suggestion.  “Yeah,” he said, his voice coming out a little strange.  “Okay.”

Kirishima stared at him for a moment, mind trying to catch up, especially with the direction the conversation had taken.  He took a deep breath, looking back down at his things.  “I’ll just, uh…”  He cleared his throat.  “I’ll go put this stuff back and brush my teeth.”

Bakugou nodded, giving a grunt in response as he picked up his phone.  Kirishima took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet, making his way back to his room.

He took his time putting his books and notes away instead of simply shoving them into his bag.  Then, he made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth, taking probably twice the amount of time that he usually would to do so.  Again, everything in him was objecting, and he considered just staying in his room instead of going back to Bakugou’s.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go back to Bakugou’s room—and maybe that was what the problem was.

He spit into the sink and rinsed, running a hand through his hair.  He wanted to go back, to stay the night with Bakugou.  It may not stop the nightmares, or actually help him sleep better, but there was something about the comfort in it that offered him some peace of mind.  And for now, that felt good enough.

He returned to Bakugou’s room, entering without even knocking. Bakugou was already in his bed, scrolling through some article on his phone.  He glanced up when he saw Kirishima, instantly setting his phone aside to charge.  He shifted over a little to the outside edge of the bed, leaving Kirishima enough space on the inside, against the wall.  Kirishima tried to tell himself that it wasn’t weird, that it was only natural they figured out their preferred positions like this; whereas he himself liked to curl up against the wall, something nice and sturdy right beside him, Bakugou liked the open space, limbs spread wide and often hanging off the edge of the bed.

It was just another routine they settled into.  It was just how they fit together.  That was it.

Kirishima climbed overtop of Bakugou a little awkwardly before sliding beneath the sheets.  It hadn’t taken long at all for Bakugou to give up the pretense of space between, his refusal to share blankets and space after Kirishima’s first nightmare that first night.  Bakugou leaned up to turn off his lamp, then burrowed more deeply beneath the sheets, pulling the blankets up over them further.

The blond boy rested his hand beside Kirishima’s, close enough that any movement would have made them touch.  Bakugou didn’t move his fingers, just let them sit there, right beside his.

Kirishima’s heart was beating too loud, the room too quiet, Bakugou too close.

“Good night, Bakugou,” he breathed out.  He let his pinky shift slightly, just a small movement that made his skin brush against Bakugou’s.

He didn’t move his hand, but he returned the pressure, his finger pressed right against Kirishima’s.  “G’night,” he murmured back.

Kirishima awoke with a start.

It took him a moment to make sense of his surroundings even with the pale light of dawn streaming through the curtains and into the room, to recognize the warmth of the body beside his as a comfort.  The moment he did, he let himself seek out that comfort, let himself reach out a little hesitantly, curling trembling fingers into the worn fabric of the other boy’s shirt.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tight enough that stars burst in the darkness behind his eyelids, white spots swimming amidst black.  He could only faintly recall the contents of the dream, details eluding him, though he could distinctly remember Rappa’s hulking presence; he didn’t know if the nightmare had been a twisted replay of the first time he met him, or his mind supplying possible outcomes of the villain’s promised rematch.  All he could remember was falling, crumbling, breaking.

He grimaced, lips twisting into a self-deprecating frown.  Maybe it wasn’t so far off from the reality of their previous encounter, then.

He swallowed thickly, hands on Bakugou’s shirt tightening.  Kirishima scooted closer to him, pressing his forehead against the boy's collarbone.  He tried to focus on what was real at that moment—on the thinning black material of Bakugou’s well-worn tank top, of the warmth of his skin against his, of the rhythmic sound of his breathing.

He could feel Bakugou move slightly against him, turning so he was completely on his side, facing Kirishima.  He could hear the shift in his breathing, knew that Bakugou was now awake, slowly slipping back into consciousness, but still Kirishima didn’t—couldn’t—move.

“’S’wrong, shitty hair?” Bakugou slurred sleepily.  Kirishima didn’t answer, but he knew he didn’t need to—it was the reason there were in such a position, anyway.  Bakugou made a noise that rumbled the back of his throat, thoughtful and sleepy.  “’S’okay,” he murmured a little roughly, voice gravelly even as he tried to suppress a yawn.  “‘M’here.”

The words, no matter how simple, were a comfort. Kirishima took them and waited, expecting to hear Bakugou’s breathing even out again after a short while.  When it didn’t, he pulled back a little, looking up to see Bakugou peering back down at him, eyes tired and half-lidded, expression otherwise utterly unreadable.

Kirishima wanted to apologize, but knew that Bakugou would just tell him he was being stupid—after all, this was just a part of their agreement now, the solidarity they had in these nightmares, this anxiety.  Instead, he sighed, prying his hands away from Bakugou’s shirt and rolling over onto his back.  Once he pulled away, Bakugou pushed himself up into a seated position, stretching his arms above his head as he did so.

“What time is it anyway?” he asked, openly yawning this time.  He picked up his phone, illuminating the screen and squinting at its brightness.  He grimaced, dropping it back down and muttering a quiet, “fuck.”

The expletive brought a small smile to Kirishima’s lips, a better sense of normality.  Just as much as the whispered reassurances were a comfort, so was this—the idea that everything was still normal between them once morning came, no matter what transpired during the night.  Kirishima felt himself relax as the air between them shifted so quickly, so easily, so seamlessly; it was no longer quietly comforting, hushed and almost intimate, but suddenly the bright and boisterous familiarity between them that Kirishima reveled in.

Bakugou never treated him like he was broken, even when he felt like he was.  And on nights when Bakugou was suffering, Kirishima made sure to return the favor in kind.  There was no pity, no patronizing sadness—only understanding.

It made Kirishima’s heart swell in affection.

“Early?” he asked, tilting his head over to look at Bakugou, who was now tiredly rubbing at his eyes.

“After five,” the blond grunted, scrubbing a hand over his face in a way that muffled his voice a little.  “Almost five thirty.”

Kirishima suppressed the urge to chuckle at Bakugou’s aversion to the morning.  He pushed himself up onto his elbows, giving the boy a teasing smile instead.  “That’s killer,” he said, trying to keep his tone serious.  “I know how you are about your mandatory twelve hours of sleep every night.”

“Are you trying to start something?” Bakugou snarled at him, dropping his hand.  The glare fell short, as it always did when Kirishima saw him like this—soft around the edges, drenched in pale morning light and entire appearance sleep-mussed.  It was adorable in a way that made Kirishima’s pulse flutter pleasantly, as long as he didn’t think too long on it.

“Me?” Kirishima asked in mock offense, pushing the thought away.  “Never!”  Bakugou narrowed his eyes at him and Kirishima pulled himself up into a seated position, glancing over at the other boy.  “Nah, I just think it’s funny that you’re not a morning person.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, huffing out a breath.  “Yeah, well, most people aren’t all sunshine and smiles first thing in the morning, you fucking weirdo.”

“True,” Kirishima agreed, offering a wide grin.  “Most people require a bit of time, right?  I know Sero is an asshole before his coffee in the morning.”  Then, he frowned, making a show of looking thoughtful.  “But Bakugou, you’re an asshole all the time, so what’s your excuse?”

Bakugou gritted his teeth as he glared almost menacingly at the other boy.  “I swear, I’d kill you if it wasn’t so damn early, shitty hair,” he grumbled.

“Whatever you say, Blasty.”

Bakugou heaved another aggravated sigh, flopping back against his pillow and folding his arm over his eyes.  Kirishima knew he must still be tired if he didn’t even snap out a response at the nickname.  He gazed at the blond for just a moment before making up his mind.  He clambered over Bakugou awkwardly, sliding off the edge of the bed.  The moment his feet hit the floor, however, Bakugou had grabbed his arm, yanking him back into a seated position.

“The hell are you doing?” he asked, lowering his other arm so he could fix Kirishima with another glare.

Kirishima merely raised an eyebrow at him.  “Leaving?” he said, as though it had been obvious—which, really, it was.  “I figured you could go back to sleep.”

Bakugou narrowed his eyes before shoving him off the bed.  Kirishima fell to the floor unceremoniously with a thud.

“What was that for?” he asked Bakugou, rubbing the back of his head and looking up at him with a frown.  “It’s still early, man.  Iida's gonna wonder what the hell you’re doing to his ceiling."

“Like I give a shit about the class rep.”  Bakugou swung his legs over the side of his mattress, tossing his covers to the side.  “You’re such an idiot,” he snapped.  “I’m not going back to sleep, hair for brains.”

“But you’re still tired—”

“And you’re not,” he countered.  He pushed himself up off the bed, stepping around Kirishima and going to his closet, grabbing a hoodie and his running shoes.  He slipped the sweatshirt over his head, tugging it down over his tank top and glancing over his shoulder at the other boy.  He braced himself against the wall, sliding his feet into his sneakers.  “Go grab your shit and we’ll go to the track.”  Kirishima blinked at him.  Bakugou crouched down to tie his laces, then raised a challenging eyebrow as he looked over at the other boy.  “Well?  Are you coming or not?”

“Good morning, Kirishima-kun!”

Kirishima turned as Midoriya entered the kitchen, smiling as always, though he did appear a little more tired than usual.  Kirishima smiled in return, turning off the tap as he finished refilling his water bottle.  As always, he felt satisfied after going on his run with Bakugou.  The other boy had immediately slunk off to shower, but Kirishima had decided to stop by the kitchen first.

“Good morning, Midoriya!” he responded brightly.  He took a swig of his water, then tilted his head a little questioningly, knowing that it was still well before the time most of his classmates awoke and got ready for the day.  “You’re up early.”

Midoriya hummed in agreement, grimacing a little as he did so.  “I kept waking up until I finally couldn’t go back to sleep,” he sighed, giving a half shrug as he did so.  “I suppose sometimes I’m a bit of a restless sleeper.”

Kirishima chuckled at that.  “I get that,” he said with a nod.  “But you can’t be any worse than Bakugou.”

Midoriya furrowed his brow, tilting his head slightly.  “Is he that loud?” he asked curiously.

Kirishima shook his head.  “Nah, he just moves around a lot,” he said, pressing his water bottle to his lips again.  “Half the time I wake up with an elbow to the ribs or face.”

Midoriya stared at him for a long moment, eyebrows knit together in thought; Kirishima found it a little odd, but tried to ignore it as he took another long drink of his water.

Then, his words seemed to catch up with him and he nearly choked.

His eyes widened, cheeks reddening as he slammed his water bottle to the counter.  He coughed, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth to wipe away the drops of water that had escaped his lips.  His heart pounded, lungs constricting because oh shit, he hadn’t meant to say that—

“Kirishima-kun,” Midoriya began slowly.

“Wait, no,” he spluttered, trying to clear his throat as he did so.  He waved his hands frantically.  “It isn’t what you think, really—”

But what was it that he wanted to convince Midoriya it wasn’t?  He didn’t even know.  All he knew was that Shouji knowing about their occasional—and really, could it even be considered ‘occasional’ anymore?—sleeping arrangement was enough.  If Bakugou found out that Midoriya knew, especially because of something he let slip, he knew he was dead.

He swallowed tightly.  He really didn’t know how to get out of this.  He looked helplessly over at Midoriya, but the boy was hardly paying him attention anymore, fist raised thoughtfully to his chin as he mumbled under his breath.

“No, no!” Kirishima quickly cut across him, again waving his hands.  “Seriously, this is not something you need to be analyzing!”  He groaned.  “We just… we both have trouble sleeping, sometimes.”

Midoriya blinked at him for a moment.  “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Midoriya frowned again, however, tapping his chin.  “I guess it makes sense,” he said slowly.  “You’re someone that Kacchan trusts, so he’s definitely more likely to seek out, or at least accept, help or comfort from you.  And, well, your feelings for him are clear…”

Kirishima nodded along, but then froze as Midoriya trailed off; his whole body tensed as he considered the other boy’s words.  “My… feelings for him?” he asked a bit tentatively.

Midoriya nodded, then his eyes widened.  “Not that I think he’s noticed anything!” he said quickly, as though it was an assurance.  “Kacchan can be a bit thick about things like that and I wouldn’t ever say anything to him about it!”  He put his hands up in front of him a little defensively, smiling in his typical nervous fashion.  “Your secret is safe with me!”

Kirishima tried to swallow down the lump that was forming in his throat.  “Me and Bakugou…  It’s not like…”  He cleared his throat.  “I don’t…”

“It’s totally fine!” Midoriya told him in what he clearly thought was a reassuring way.  “I get it!  I mean… I guess I don’t get it, necessarily.  But it makes sense.  You two are good for each other!”  He flashed him a gentle smile.  “It’s okay that you like him.”

Kirishima’s first overwhelming instinct was to deny it, to set Midoriya straight because he’d clearly misinterpreted something if he thought that was the case.  He had to tell him, had to let Midoriya know that he did not like Bakugou—not in the way that he was implying.  The whole idea was just ridiculous.

But even just in his head, the words fell flat.

He’d spent so long trying to avoid the truth, refusing to put a name to the feeling.  He supposed that he’d always known the reality of it, well aware just how deep his feelings for Bakugou ran.  Because even though Midoriya’s words felt sharp and loud in a way that he couldn’t avoid, abrasive like bright, flashing neon lights, it didn’t necessarily feel as earth-shattering as he might have expected.

Still, it seemed there was no escaping it, anymore.

He let a short, sharp breath fall from his lips.  He tested the statement out mentally a few times before saying it aloud.  “I… I like… Bakugou.”

Midoriya considered him carefully for a moment, lowering his hands and he stared at Kirishima.  “You... didn’t know?” he asked tentatively.

But Kirishima shook his head; that really wasn’t it.  The confession had tasted unfamiliar on his tongue, had sounded foreign to his ears.  It had a strange weight to it, oddly heavy for a statement so simple.  And yet, as alien as it seemed to him, it was as though it really was the most obvious thing in the world—an indisputable fact, something as certain and undeniable as saying the sky were blue, or the grass green.

And maybe it was.  Maybe his feelings for Bakugou were just that irrefutable, absolutes that he’d always somehow accepted so he never had to truly confront them.

Until now.

“No, I did, I just…”  He swallowed, mouth twisting into a grimace.  “Guess I didn’t want to think about it… I didn’t want to admit it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”  Kirishima looked away.

And he supposed that was what it came down to.  Because in admitting it, even just to himself, with it came the harsh reality that it truly didn’t matter.

Friends were one thing.  Friends meant partners, meant comrades, meant allies in battle.  Even if Bakugou longed to see himself standing alone at the top as the number one pro hero, friends were something he was slowly learning to accept, to welcome as valuable assets as he worked toward his goal.

But this…

“Kirishima…”

Kirishima glanced back at Midoriya, and the look on the boy’s face made something in the pit of his stomach lurch unpleasantly.  Midoriya was clever, insightful; Kirishima was an open book, his heart ever-present on his sleeve.  He had no doubt that whatever expression he was wearing, Midoriya knew exactly what was on his mind.

Midoriya looked as though he was going to say something more, something comforting and reassuring, but suddenly that was the last thing that Kirishima wanted to hear.  Instead, he forced a smile, strained and tight on his lips, not reaching his eyes.

“It’s fine,” he said.  “It’s really fine.”  Midoriya didn’t look convinced, but didn’t argue.  “Anyway, I should go shower…”

“Right.”

“I’ll see you in class, man,” he told him, making his escape from the kitchen as quickly as possible.

He tried to tell himself he wasn’t running away.

Classes that day were a struggle.

Despite what Bakugou tended to imply during their tutoring sessions, Kirishima wasn’t completely hopeless.  He knew that he wasn’t anywhere near as bright as his classmates like Yaoyorozu or Todoroki—his smarts usually leaned a bit more toward the ‘average’ side—but he definitely wasn’t a lost cause, especially if he managed to get into a competitive school like Yuuei.  He excelled in things he was interested in; however, when faced with the task of memorizing dates and data and formulas and figures, the information was like water in a sieve.   He was definitely the type of person who tended to act first and think second, which he knew was occasionally a downfall.

Still, it wasn’t as though Kirishima was bad at school.  He knew his bouts of test anxiety were probably a little worse than most of his classmates, but overall, he was a decent student.  After all, it wasn’t as though he didn’t try.  On most days, it was easy to tell from the way that Kaminari moved his pencil across his paper, he was doodling instead of taking notes—though, Kirishima had to admit his renditions of Aizawa-sensei were becoming rather impressive in their accuracy.  At least Kirishima’s notebook was filled with actual notes.

That day, however, that was not the case.

Kirishima drifted through most of his classes in a haze, unable to concentrate.  He considered himself lucky that he wasn’t called upon by any of his teachers; he was certain he would have embarrassed himself with the inability to offer up an intelligible answer.  Instead, he gazed at the blank pages of his notebook after several failed attempts at note-taking, eyes unfocused.  He hadn’t even been aware that he was tapping his pencil against his desk until Iida had pointedly cleared his throat and glared at him overtop his glasses.  He’d grinned apologetically before gnawing on the pencil to release some of his nervous energy instead—but that had only lasted a few minutes before he’d snapped the damn thing in half with his teeth.

It felt like one of the longest days of his life.

When classes finally ended, Kaminari turned around in his seat, immediately raising his eyebrow upon seeing Kirishima’s mutilated pencil sitting in pieces on his desk.

“A bit stressed?” he asked.

Kirishima grimaced in response.  “Something like that,” he said.

“You know a great way to cure stress?”

Kirishima looked at him dubiously.  “I’m not sure if I trust an answer to that coming from you,” he said.

“That hurts, man,” Kaminari sighed over-dramatically.  “I just wanna help a friend out.”

“You can hardly help yourself,” Jirou inputted as she gathered her own books into her bag.

“Rude!” Kaminari shouted after her as she moved to catch up to Ashido and Hagakure.  She didn’t spare him a backwards glance, but Kirishima could easily spot the grin on her face.  “Anyway…”  Kaminari looked back to Kirishima again.  “Don’t you trust me, dude?”

“Sure,” Kirishima sighed, shoving his books haphazardly into his bag, figuring he could sort out the mess later.  “But all the same…”

“Come on,” Kaminari wheedled.  “I’m thinking you, me, and Sero,” he continued, pointing to the boy in question, “take-out, and playing video games until ungodly hours of the morning.”  He flashed a grin.  “We still haven’t unlocked Crimson Riot, you know.”

“Or Edgeshot,” Sero grumbled.  “I spent six hours working on him last week.”

“You should see Ryukyu’s transformation in it,” Kaminari added.  “The graphics for that are amazing!”

“The animations for the ultimate moves are pretty awesome, too.”

“Crimson Riot, man.”

“All right,” Kirishima said.  Admittedly, the offer sounded appealing, and he still felt a little guilty for having turned his friends down so quickly the last time.  “All right, yeah.  Let’s do it.”

“Yes!” Kaminari whooped, pumping his fist in the air.  “Oh man, this is going to be great.”

It was well past midnight when Kirishima finally trudged back his room, limbs feeling heavy and tired; still, it was accompanied with a sense of accomplishment, having managed to help Sero unlock both Crimson Riot and Edgeshot in his video game.

He tried to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake his sleeping neighbors, shutting his door behind him without a sound.  The evening had been a welcome distraction.  Whereas throughout the day, it had seemed unavoidable that his mind would wander, picking apart anything and everything from his conversation with Midoriya and its implications, spending several hours with two of his best friends, working their way through a hero combat game, had the opposite effect.  It had been the perfect solution, just mindless enough that it wasn’t draining, yet still demanding just the right amount of attention so that his mind didn’t fall back on the very thing he didn’t want to think about.

And now, he was tired enough that he could simply go to sleep without another thought—especially about the boy who was surely already asleep on the other side of his wall.

Kirishima had just finished changing into his usual shorts and shirt to sleep in when his door opened, flooding the dark room with light from the hallway.  It startled Kirishima slightly, even though he was well aware the number of people it could be was extremely limited.  He relaxed for only a brief moment upon realizing that it was only Bakugou before the reality sunk in that—oh—it was Bakugou.

He swallowed thickly, trying to calm his heart as it started to beat erratically, his mind suddenly awake, alert.  He took his bottom lip between his teeth, looking at the other boy with uncertainty.

“You took your time,” Bakugou grunted, arms folded over his chest.

“Yeah, Kaminari’s been wanting me to play this game with him and Sero for a couple weeks,” he explained slowly.  He didn’t quite understand why Bakugou would come over just to say that, not when the boy could have easily texted, or even waited until morning if he just wanted to talk about his poor decisions regarding sleep patterns—not that he thought Bakugou should be one to talk. It had become clear to Kirishima rather quickly that the boy’s sleep habits were far from the best with their horrible inconsistencies, ranging from next-to-no-rest to snoozing-half-the-day-away.  Then, the realization struck him abruptly and he blinked at Bakugou, confused.  “Did… were you waiting for me?”

Bakugou huffed out an annoyed breath, but didn’t offer any real answer or explanation.  Kirishima could practically feel his ribcage caving in, constricting his lungs and heart as he considered this, well-versed in this language of words unspoken by Bakugou.  He fought the urge to fidget, keeping himself completely still as he bluntly reminded himself that the blond boy wouldn't even be here if he knew the depth of Kirishima’s feelings.  If he knew the truth, if he knew that Kirishima liked him, then surely he’d cut ties with him, push him as far away as humanly possible and never look back.  That would be it.

His breath caught a little at the thought.

This was a bad idea.  He’d considered before that this shift in their relationship was already toeing a line he didn’t dare cross—and now it seemed only worse with Kirishima so blatantly aware of the truth of his feelings.

On the other hand, a part of him was desperate to cling onto this.  Even if it suddenly meant something so different for him than it did for Bakugou, he wanted to indulge, to let himself have this, if only just for a moment.

So instead of arguing, instead of voicing his thoughts to Bakugou, he just nodded.  He climbed into bed, turning off his light before scooting back against the wall, leaving room beside him.  And in an instant, Bakugou was there, filling that empty space.  Kirishima’s chest hurt from the way his heart pounded insistently against his ribs, his pulse loud as it thudded rhythmically in his ears.  And then Bakugou was bridging the gap, eliminating those precious few inches of space between them, moving closer to the redhead.  They faced each other, arms pressed together, warm skin touching. 

Kirishima didn’t know how he managed to fall asleep with his heart beating so wildly, Bakugou so close.

And yet, the next thing Kirishima knew, he was blinking awake, a few strips of sunlight peeking through the gaps in the curtains to let him know that it was already morning.  He only had to tilt his head a few centimeters, shifting his gaze only the slightest amount, and he was suddenly face-to-face with Bakugou.

Despite how it sometimes felt, it really wasn’t as though they’d done this an exorbitant amount of times; it was really just a mere handful, only two weeks having passed since that first time Kirishima had approached Bakugou so desperately.  Still, every time that it had happened, Kirishima had denied himself this—this opportunity to simply be, to not think about getting ready for school or what the day would bring in just a matter of an hour or two, once they changed into their uniforms and got moving.  But now, he couldn’t seem to stop himself, couldn’t bring himself to do anything but just exist in that moment; and he did so with Bakugou just beside him, unaware as he slept on.

He let his eyes travel over Bakugou’s face, over every sharp line and every gentle curve.  He took in each and every detail—his slightly-parted lips, his sleep-ruffled hair, his pale sweeping eyelashes, his soft and supple cheeks—and committed them to memory.  He admired the way the sunlight cast shadows and highlights on his smooth skin, the way it brightened the edges of his hair.  Bakugou asleep held a sort of innocence that Kirishima knew the boy would denounce in his waking moments.  Still, it was something that reminded Kirishima that they were both still young, so much time ahead of them.

And in the same way, it seemed to make the boy in front of him seem so real, so tangible.  It made him feel as though maybe Bakugou wasn’t as far beyond his grasp as he found himself thinking the day before. After all, the boy was there, in his bed, sleeping beside him.  Suddenly he didn’t feel so distant, so elusive.  He was there.  He was within reach.

It would be so easy.

Without truly thinking about it, Kirishima found himself extending his hand, crossing the already tiny distance between them.  He let his fingertips brush against the skin over his cheekbone, the too-light touch making Bakugou shift slightly in his sleep.  Kirishima pulled his hand away for just a moment, ensuring the boy didn’t wake, before reaching out again, this time letting his fingers find soft, blond hair.

He reveled in the way Bakugou practically leaned into the touch without even waking, as though he was simply pulled to Kirishima like a magnet, not even aware. 

It released a swarm of butterflies in his chest.  They took flight, tiny, fragile wings beating against his ribs, and insistent fluttering to match the beating of his heart.

With each passing second he found himself growing bolder, let the weight of his fingers become heavier, his touch more insistent. He carded his fingers through the strands of blond hair, gentle but firm, assuring, affirming his presence.  He felt as though hours could pass in this manner and it would be completely acceptable.  And even though he knew it was only a matter of minutes, he did briefly entertain the idea that it could have been hours and it would have been a totally valid way to spend his day.

He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want this to end.

All too soon, he watched as Bakugou’s eyes fluttered open, as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. Kirishima slowed his touches but he did not stop, unwilling to break the spell on that moment between them. He feared for a moment that he should have anyway, but then Bakugou made a soft, rumbling noise of approval and again leaned into the touch.

Kirishima thought fleetingly that his heart might burst from the affection swelling inside of it at that moment.

He felt as Bakugou’s fingers shifted, flexing first, then curling against the skin of Kirishima’s other arm.  It was in that moment that Kirishima couldn’t stop himself from doing what he always did best; he moved without thinking first, letting his arm move beneath Bakugou’s, sliding down until their palms slotted together. He threaded his fingers into the spaces between Bakugou’s, letting his thumb brush across the back of his hand.

And to his amazement, Bakugou didn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

There was something that Kirishima liked about holding hands.

It had become an easy demonstration of comfort; especially when Kirishima found his hands trembling uncontrollably from nightmares, it was so simple for Bakugou to just reach out and cover them with his own, helping to still them with the gentle pressure of rough palms and fingers.  It was enough to ground him, to remind him of when and where he was so he wouldn’t end up too caught up in his own head.

Then again, he didn’t think it was just anyone’s hands; he was pretty sure that no one else would have the same effect on him.  Maybe he just really liked Bakugou’s hands.

Maybe he just really liked Bakugou.

The blond boy tightened his hold on Kirishima’s hand, and Kirishima couldn’t help but marvel at the dichotomy of Bakugou’s hands.  He admired how the skin itself managed to feel so soft, even while parts of his palms were rough and calloused, thickened from the usage of his Quirk.  Kirishima had seen his hands create countless explosions, causing near-irreparable damage and destruction in some cases; he was nimble, skilled, always moving with purpose and strength—because he was so incredibly strong.  And yet, at that moment, those hands were so gently, carefully wrapped around Kirishima’s, just a bit awkward and clumsy, but in a way that Kirishima couldn’t help but love.  It spoke of inexperience. After all, Bakugou had practiced and perfected his Quirk, nearly mastering it even as a mere teenager. However, when it came to this, he seemed to have no idea what he was doing.

The most admirable part was that he was trying.  And, Kirishima realized with a swell of pride and affection inside his chest, it wasn’t for just anyone—Bakugou was trying to figure this out for him.

Kirishima found his heart stammering a bit at the thought, at the idea that Bakugou was making this effort just for him.  It made his mind reel with possibilities, of the idea that maybe his feelings weren’t entirely one-sided—and even if, for the moment, they were, maybe they wouldn’t always be that way, maybe they could still grow into something more, maybe there was hope…

Without even being aware of it, Kirishima's hand that had been in Bakugou’s hair, fingers threaded through strands of blond, suddenly trailed down.  His fingertips ghosted over the sharp line of Bakugou’s cheekbone. It almost felt as though if he increased the pressure at all, the boy in front of him would simply disappear.  Instead, his touch was soft as thistledown, just gently brushing along his cheek, hoping that Bakugou wouldn’t jerk away.

But Bakugou didn’t retreat in the slightest.

Kirishima knew that he was openly staring at the other boy.  It was one thing when Bakugou was still asleep, but now he was awake and Kirishima was far too aware of the fact that he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from him.  Even with the curtains drawn, enough light filtered through that Kirishima could easily see the boy before him. He was unabashedly staring at Bakugou, taking in every inch of his face, drenched in soft sunlight.  He liked Bakugou like this; the scowl he usually wore was gone, his expression eased into something more neutral, something almost peaceful. And Kirishima revelled in the fact that he was the only one who got too see Bakugou like this.  He didn’t know if he could attribute it to their friendship or simply trust—but whatever the reason, pride bubbled inside of Kirishima because he knew that he was lucky to get to witness this secret side of Bakugou.

Something about the idea suddenly made Kirishima bold.  Without thinking twice about it, he slid his hand so that his palm was resting against Bakugou’s face, cupping his cheek.  He could feel the boy's jawbone along the bottom side of his palm, and he let his fingers gently tease at the hair just beside the blond’s ear, let his thumb softly trace his cheekbone.

Again, Bakugou didn’t pull away.  Instead, he shifted slightly, shuffling himself just a few inches closer to Kirishima so the redhead’s arm wasn’t extended quite as far, fingers on his other hand tightening.  Every part of Kirishima felt warm, blood on fire, heart hammering a frantic rhythm in his chest. The other boy was taking over each of his senses, occupying every space in his brain, thrumming with his pulse, a steady mantra of Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou…

“Bakugou.”

He murmured the boy’s name, and instantly their eyes met.  Bakugou’s gaze was intense as always, piercing Kirishima’s entire being, overwhelming him.  But he didn’t care; he wanted to drown in the feeling, because all that mattered at that moment was this—whatever this was.

Bakugou looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue whatever it was he was going to say.  Kirishima wasn’t even sure, but he felt the urge to speak and fill the silence between them. For once, Kirishima thought of that desire for more and considered the possibilities, considering saying something…

“Kirishima!”  The voice called out, drawing out every syllable in his name.  “Aren't you up yet?”

The redhead froze at the trill of Ashido’s voice, immediately followed by the sound of his door opening.  Every cell in his body, every part of his brain screamed at him to move, to pull away from Bakugou, but his limbs wouldn’t obey—one hand stayed in its spot on the blond’s face, the other immobile with fingers still tangled together.  He felt his breath catch in his chest, hiccuping slightly as he inhaled too sharply. He could only assume what kind of expression he might be wearing, eyes wide as they worriedly searched Bakugou’s face for something—anything; but it was perfectly blank, even from the scowl that Kirishima half-expected to see.  Instead, there was a resounding nothing.

“You never sleep this late!” Ashido continued, one hand still on the handle as she stood in the doorway.  “Even Sero and Kaminari—oh.”

Her eyes fell on the two boys.  She blinked at them, eyebrows rising to the point that they nearly disappeared beneath the pink bangs that fell across her forehead.  Something about the look finally jumpstarted Kirishima’s muscles, and he found himself jolting up in his bed, sitting upright and staring at her pleadingly.

“Ashido—”

“I’m just gonna go!” she said in an overly cheerful voice, forcing a grin that was so wide, her eyes fell closed as she flashed her teeth at them.  And just as quickly, she was out of the room again, the door snapping shut behind her.

It only took a moment for Kirishima to process what had happened, and then he was out of bed, vaulting over Bakugou and sprinting out the door after Ashido without a backward glance.  He ran after her, shoving open the door to the staircase, letting it slam shut behind him. The noise echoed loudly but Kirishima ignored it, leaning over the railing to call out to Ashido.

“Wait!”

She stopped in her tracks, looking back at him as he took the stairs two at a time to catch up to her on the landing below.

“Look, Ashido…”  He trailed off, unsure of what to say next.  He found himself opening and closing his mouth several times, struggling to find the words without somehow making the situation worse.

Ashido smiled reassuringly at him.  “Kirishima, it’s fine,” she told him quickly, waving her hand in a dismissive way.  “I was just surprised, is all. It’s my fault for not knocking. But to be fair, I didn’t exactly expect Kirishima Eijirou to have another boy in his bed,” she teased, letting one side of her lips quirk up further into a smirk.  “Though, I guess that time we found you two in the common room all cuddled up on the couch, it should have been a clue, huh?”

Kirishima swallowed thickly.  “Ashido…”

“But hey, good for you,” she said then.  “I mean, yeah, he might not be known for his charming personality, but he definitely makes up for it with his looks.  Maybe not most-attractive-boy-in-the-class-Todoroki level, but he’s definitely up there. You got yourself a hot boyfriend, Kirishima.”

“It’s not like that!” Kirishima told her desperately.  He could feel the heat creeping across his entire face, could feel something twisting in his gut.  He wrung his hands together as he mentally willed her to understand.

Ashido tilted her head curiously, frowning a little at Kirishima.  “You two aren’t dating?” she asked, and she sounded so genuinely confused that it made Kirishima’s chest ache.

“No!” he told her firmly, shaking his head adamantly.

At that, her frown only deepened.  “Then… what are you doing?”

Kirishima ran a hand through his hair.  “It’s just… we…” He bit his lip, sharp teeth digging into the skin.  He couldn’t think of another solution—he’d have to tell her exactly what was going on.  “We can’t sleep sometimes,” he told her quietly, his voice just above a whisper. “Nightmares.”

She considered him for a long moment.  “Does it help?” she asked.

Kirishima gave her a half-hearted shrug.  “A little,” he said. “Sometimes.”

She hummed thoughtfully, folding her arms over his chest.  “It’s been going on a while, right?” she said then. “At least since that time you guys were sleeping on the couch, I’m guessing.  So if it doesn’t help that much… why are you still doing it?”

And just like that, it felt like she so easily reached the root of the issue—the very thing that Kirishima had found himself wondering so many times.  He dug his teeth into his lip, hard enough to feel a sharp bite of pain.

“Let’s… ignore that for a moment, then,” Ashido suggested softly, appeasingly.  “If you’ve been having nightmares for that long, I think you need to do something about it,” she said.  “I mean, it’s been going on longer than that, hasn’t it? It was ages ago that Yao-momo gave you that tea, right?  Has that been helping at all?”

Again Kirishima shrugged.  “It helps a bit with falling asleep, but…”

“But that’s not the real problem,” she said.  He didn’t say anything, but she sighed at his silence, taking it as confirmation.  “Kirishima…”

“It’s fine,” he quickly assured her, hating the tone her voice took on.

“It’s not,” she told him.  “You need something that’ll actually help, something that will make the nightmares go away.  Or… something, I don’t know.” She sighed again. “But this… thing with Bakugou…”

“Ashido…”

“Especially if what you said is true and you two aren’t dating…”  She grimaced. “You’re relying on him too much for something that isn’t even helping.  You’re… you’re going to get hurt.”

The horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t going away.  If anything, now he just felt downright sick, his head spinning at her words, as well.  He wished he could have the wherewithal to make things play out differently, that he knew the words to say to appease Ashido but also to calm himself.  He wanted nothing more than to go crawl back into bed and let things blow over.

Back into bed, where Bakugou was.

He looked away, feeling the twisting in his stomach again.

A matter of minutes ago, his only concern was the potential of crossing some line with Bakugou, of making him uncomfortable or else facing some kind of rejection.  He hated how, in retrospect, that seemed so simple.

“I’m just looking out for you,” Ashido said earnestly, tilting her head a little to try to get Kirishima to look at her.

He did look at her, forcing a grin as he did so.  “I know,” he said. “Thanks.”

There was something in her eyes that told Kirishima she wasn’t quite convinced.  He glanced away again, unable to take her stare anymore.

He cleared his throat.  “Anyway,” he said. “I should…”

She nodded.  “Yeah,” she agreed, without him even finishing his sentence.  “Go on. Shower and dress and whatever. Make your hair fancy, horn buddy.”  Her teasing grin returned, and it eased a bit of the tension between them.

“Of course!” he said.  He quickly made his way back up the stairs to the fourth floor exit, feeling Ashido’s eyes on him the entire time, until the door closed behind him.

When he finally reached his room, he found Bakugou still there, sitting on his bed.  The boy had the blankets pooled around his waist, still looking completely ruffled from his sleep.  He glanced up at Kirishima when he came back in and shut the door once again, heaving out a sigh as he did so.

“What did black eyes say?” Bakugou asked him.

Kirishima’s hand jumped to the back of his neck, rubbing it self-consciously.  “It doesn’t matter,” he said evasively, looking anywhere but at Bakugou. He couldn’t tell the blond exactly what they’d talked about, the way that Ashido seemed to have seen right through him.  All of his previous thoughts of ‘maybe’ and the different possibilities seemed so distant, and now he just wanted to lock them away once again in the recesses of his heart.

Bakugou narrowed his eyes at the other boy, but didn’t say anything about it, clicking his tongue instead.  “Tch.  Fine,” he said curtly.  “You seemed pretty upset.”

Kirishima worried his lip for a moment.  “You’re not?” he asked, raising his eyes a little tentatively.  He watched as Bakugou shrugged.

“Why should I be?” he challenged.  “She knows better than to say anything to me about it.  Who cares if she knows?”

Kirishima wasn’t sure about the specifics of what Bakugou was referring to—whether it was the nightmares, or the fact that they were sharing a bed.  He supposed that in the end, it didn’t matter—his assumption was likely the same, that Ashido wouldn’t bother him about it.

Still, something about it niggled at his brain.

“But it’s not just her,” Kirishima said warily.  “I mean, even if we don’t mention Uraraka and Jirou when they found us in the common room…  Shouji knows. I mean, he can pretty much hear everything on the floor if he wants to, you know?  And yesterday, Midoriya—”

Bakugou groaned.  “Shitty Deku knows?” he asked.  “Of course he can’t mind his own fucking business.”  He gritted his teeth a little, then sighed. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter.”  He eyed Kirishima a little critically. “Don’t get so worked up about it, shitty hair.”

Kirishima swallowed thickly.  “Right,” he murmured, looking away from Bakugou.  He didn’t understand how the other boy was so nonchalant about the whole thing, but at the same time, he almost supposed it made sense.  Bakugou never cared what people thought of him—unless, of course, they were underestimating him. On the other hand, Kirishima cared too much.  As much as he liked to think he had gotten over all of his middle school insecurities, he knew that many of them were still there, lurking beneath the surface.  He’d made improvements, but his doubts and uncertainties still had yet to disappear completely.

At some point while he had been lost in his thoughts, Bakugou must have gotten up from his spot on the bed because next thing Kirishima knew, the boy had punched him none too gently in the shoulder.

“Hey!” he said, elbowing Bakugou away with a frown on his face, rubbing half-heartedly at his shoulder.

“I told you already, stop thinking so much, hair for brains!” Bakugou growled.  “Now, come on. Didn’t you say you got called in today?”

Kirishima blinked at him for a moment until the words seemed to jumpstart something in his brain.  “Right!” he said, clearing his throat as he forced himself to focus his attention elsewhere—specifically, his internship with Fatgum.

The issue was, however, that the thoughts wouldn’t leave Kirishima alone. He struggled with them throughout the entire day, and before he knew it, he was trudging back to his room, a little worse for the wear.  He changed into his sleep clothes, then checked his appearance in the mirror, grimacing at the skin of his cheek. He pressed his fingertips gingerly against the already darkening bruise, the skin along his cheekbone broken, though the bleeding had stopped.  It had been a stupid mistake, being too distracted during a fight, and he was lucky this was the extent of the price he had to pay.

He was lucky that he had Fatgum and Suneater there.  He couldn’t afford to make slip-ups like that, not when he was working so hard at becoming a hero.  He gritted his teeth as he pulled a little at the skin, thumb brushing over the cut.

“You’ve looked better, shitty hair.”

Kirishima jumped slightly at the voice, turning to see Bakugou, clad in his pajamas, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest.  Kirishima tried to ignore the swooping feeling in his stomach, the way it felt like he’d missed a step when going down the stairs.

He looked back at his reflection.  “I’ve had worse,” he said with a shrug.

Bakugou grunted in response, closing the door as he entered the room.  “You got a first aid kit?” he asked once he was at Kirishima’s shoulder.

Kirishima glanced up, meeting Bakugou’s eyes in the mirror.  “In the bathroom,” he said.

A moment later, Kirishima found himself being steered to his bed, Bakugou nudging his shoulder with one hand, holding onto the small first aid kit with his other.  He sat Kirishima on the bed and then opened the kit, sifting through the contents. The redhead watched him quietly as he did, finally picking up a cotton pad and antiseptic.

The reality of what was happening finally seemed to sink in, and Kirishima swallowed.  “Bakugou—” He broke off with a hiss of pain, a sharp inhale through clenched teeth, when Bakugou pressed the disinfectant against his cut.  He pulled back. “It’s fine!” he quickly told him, holding his hands up.

Bakugou narrowed his eyes at him.  “Tch. Whatever.” He tossed the cotton pad in the bin.  “Just sit still for a second.”

Kirishima was about to object again when Bakugou grasped his jaw carefully in his hand, tilting his face slightly.  He felt his breath catch in his throat, and he blinked at Bakugou. He could feel his pulse fluttering, chest tightening as Bakugou pressed a butterfly bandage to the wound along his cheek—then a second, then a third.  Finally the blond pulled back a little, glancing over his handiwork before their gazes met. Bakugou’s hand was still cupping Kirishima’s jaw, a sort of inexplicable gentleness in the gesture. He let his thumb brush along the softness of Kirishima’s cheek, just below the discoloration of the bruise blossoming against his skin.

Kirishima wanted to kiss him—wanted to lean forward just a few inches and find out if his lips tasted like burnt sugar the same way he tended to smell because of his Quirk—wanted to know if his lips radiated extra heat just as the rest of Bakugou seemed to.  Kirishima wanted to know if Bakugou’s hand would stay put or slip around to the back of his neck, maybe tangle in his hair—wanted to know if Bakugou would use that hand to pull him back in the moment Kirishima tried to draw away—wanted to know, wanted to feel it, wanted to experience it…

Instead, he pulled back, turning away a little embarrassedly and gathering up the contents of his first aid kit before getting to his feet.  He murmured a quick ‘thank you’ before disappearing into the bathroom to put the kit away, willing his heart to calm its frantic rhythm.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” Bakugou asked when Kirishima returned a moment later.

The redhead dug his teeth into his bottom lip, knowing all too well that he couldn’t give the other boy the full answer, couldn’t admit just what had been on his mind all day that had caused him to be distracted.  “Just a dumb mistake,” he told him. “Tired, I guess.”

Bakugou eyed him carefully for a moment, considering him.  “More nightmares?” he asked.

Instantly, Kirishima shook his head.  “No,” he assured him. “Just…” He sighed.  “Just tired.” The blond still looked at him dubiously, but Kirishima gave him a small smile, pulling back the blankets on his bed.  “Are you… staying?” he asked a little hesitantly, refusing to meet his eyes. He could only assume that was why Bakugou had shown up in the first place, and yet he still wasn’t sure what answer he wanted to hear.  As much as he liked it, the feeling of the other body near him, warm and solid and comforting, there was still the guilt that ate away at him. Ashido’s words from that morning echoed in his skull, telling him that it was a bad idea—

That he was going to get hurt.  That he was relying too much on him.

He could see Ashido’s face clearly, hear the tone when she asked, “Then… what are you doing?”

Kirishima couldn’t answer that.  He didn’t know what he was doing.  But he was fairly certain that she was right, that he’d be hurt because it was a very high likelihood that his heart was far more invested in this, and his chest ached at the thought.

“Yeah,” Bakugou said.

Kirishima nodded, shaking away the thoughts, and they quickly settled into their usual spots beside each other.  Bakugou flicked the light off before shifting beneath the blankets, turning over to his side. Kirishima found himself staring at the boy’s back as his mind reeled with an infinite number of what ifs.

What if Ashido was right?  But what if she wasn’t? What if Bakugou felt the same?  And what if he didn’t? What if Kirishima had kissed him?  Or what if Bakugou had kissed him?

What if…?

He squeezed his eyes shut, rolling over to face the wall, drawing in on himself as he huddled beneath the covers.  He inhaled deeply, then once again let out the air slowly. He just needed to sleep, to somehow get these thoughts to disappear…

Kirishima felt his whole body aching, could feel Unbreakable shattering.  His breath came in harsh pants and he gritted his teeth, clenched his fists.  He couldn’t give up, not when Fatgum was already weakened, next to no strength left.

And there was Rappa, mocking him.  Kirishima could tell he was grinning tauntingly even beneath his mask.  His limbs were heavy and every muscle, every inch of his skin burned with how badly they hurt, but he refused to break, even as his hardened form cracked.  He ran at Rappa once again, but the man instantly pushed him back. Kirishima’s back was screaming in pain when he collided with the wall behind him, felt the brick crumble behind him at impact.

He wouldn't give up.  He couldn’t.

“Come on!” Rappa said provokingly.  “You’re not going to save him?”

Kirishima’s mind dully tried to make sense of the words, to provide a name for the ‘he’ Rappa was referring to.  Did he mean Fat? But no, Fatgum was weakened but he didn’t exactly need saving… He cracked an eye open and felt his heart stop.

One of Rappa’s arms was wrapped around Bakugou’s throat in a chokehold.  The blond was struggling against him but his Quirk was seemingly ineffective against Rappa.  Kirishima watched as Bakugou clawed at Rappa’s arm, snarling out curses and threats as he tried to free himself from the villain’s grasp.

Kirishima forced himself to his feet, feeling his vision blur even as he did so.  He swayed on his feet, the pain almost unbearable. But he couldn’t give up.

“Kirishima!”

The sound of Bakugou’s voice cut through the air and Kirishima took in a ragged breath, hardening his skin.  He charged at the villain, but again he was knocked back, felt the searing pain as he crumbled again.

“Kirishima!”

Kirishima tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t see anything, met only with inky blackness.  Even without being able to see, it felt as though everything was spinning. He couldn’t lift a finger, pain coursing through him.

“Not that much of a man after all,” Rappa spat.  “Looks like I get to kill this one, too…”

“Kirishima!”

The boy jerked awake, gasping and shaking uncontrollably.  His mouth moved silently like a fish as he choked on air. He blinked into the darkness, eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light, beginning to focus on the shape of a person looming over him.

Instinctively he tried to jerk away, but the figure reached out for him, grabbing his upper arms.

“Kirishima, it’s me!” the person said, and quickly he registered the voice as Bakugou’s.  “You need to breathe, shitty hair. Come on, what was the thing you told me? The numbers.  Fuck, what were the numbers?” Kirishima watched his face shift into a grimace. “In for four, hold for… hold for…”

“Seven,” Kirishima gasped out.

Bakugou nodded.  “Then eight?” he said, and Kirishima gave a single nod in response.  “Right, okay. Breathe with me, Kirishima. Ready? In—two, three, four.  Now hold it…” He whispered the numbers as he counted them out. “Okay, good, now out…”

Kirishima focused on his breathing, focused on the sound of Bakugou’s voice as he said each number, focused on the feeling of Bakugou’s hands on his arms, rubbing against his skin slowly and soothingly.

As KIrishima calmed down, however, a sharp pain in his chest started to develop, which he knew had nothing to do with his breathing.  His mind flitted back over the nightmare, to seeing Bakugou in trouble like that, versus the way the boy sat in front of him now, on his bed, rubbing soothing circles into his arms as he counted his breaths.  And yet again, he thought back on Ashido’s words, which were now so loud and adamant, demanding to know what it was that he was doing.

Again he found himself unable to come up with an answer and he felt a constricting sensation in his ribcage.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he choked out, his voice breaking, squeezing his eyes shut.

He could feel Bakugou tense, his hands freezing in their ministrations.  The room was silent except for Kirishima’s still ragged, stuttering breaths.  “Kirishima…”

But Kirishima shook his head.  “We can’t do this,” he repeated.  “The sleeping thing. We need to stop.”

He felt Bakugou slowly pull away, and Kirishima reluctantly opened his eyes, almost afraid to see the expression on the blond’s face.  “What the fuck do you mean ‘we need to stop’?” he demanded, and Kirishima could see the anger evident on his face, as he’d predicted, though it was tinged with something else—hurt?  But no, Kirishima told himself, that couldn’t be right.

Again, the boy just shook his head.  He felt his hands trembling, unsure if it was still a residual effect of his nightmare or something else entirely, feeling the anxiety roiling in his stomach, making him feel sick.  “I’m sorry, Bakugou,” he whispered.

The boy stared at him for a moment that seemed to stretch on for hours, but Kirishima knew it couldn’t have been more than a minute or two.  Finally, after what seemed like ages, Bakugou pushed himself up from the bed. “You know what? Fucking fine.” He turned, stalking to the door and yanking it open.  He didn’t glance back as he pulled the door shut behind him, and Kirishima was half-surprised he hadn’t slammed it out of anger; still, the noise was too loud in the now-silent room, echoing in Kirishima’s brain for several moments after.

Biting his lip, Kirishima clutched his blankets in his hands, collapsing back onto his bed and burying his face in his pillow.  He tried to ignore the pain in his chest, the tightening in his lungs as he struggled to breathe again, knowing it had nothing to do with the post-nightmare panic.  He vaguely began counting the seconds, trying to calm his pulse and regain control of his breathing.

He wondered if it mattered.  He wasn’t going to sleep anymore that night, anyway.

In the end, Kirishima was right.  However, sleep didn’t just evade him that night, but for the entire week.  Now it wasn’t only the nightmares keeping him awake, but the anxiety of what had happened with Bakugou.  He knew he was to blame for that, but he tried to tell himself that it was better this way—that he wouldn’t get hurt, that he wouldn’t rely too much on the other boy, that they’d both get over this nightmare thing and it would be better for both of them.

He hadn’t been prepared for the other aftereffects.  Bakugou now seemed determined to ignore Kirishima every moment of the day, as though Kirishima hadn’t just suggested they stop sharing a bed, but also stop being friends.  But it was worse than just mere indifference or anything of the sort—Bakugou acted as though Kirishima simply didn’t exist.

Bitterly, Kirishima thought that at least he had experience with being invisible—that’s how he’d always been before Yuuei.

He found himself half-wishing that it would have just gone back to the way things were before they’d teamed up at USJ and the sports festival, back to insults and anger.  At least then he’d be acknowledging Kirishima in some way.

He tried to tell himself that Bakugou just needed time, that maybe he hadn’t been imagining the hurt on the boy’s face that night.  That he’d come around. That things would get better.

They had to, right?

With each day, it got harder to convince himself.

Exhaustion began to wear him down.  Nights when he did sleep were still fraught with hours of lying awake, tossing and turning.  Kaminari was quick to mention it again, pointing out not only how tired he looked, but how his exhaustion subdued him.

“We just miss your big shark tooth smile, dude,” he told him one day before class.

Uraraka, who had been with him, nodded along.  “Are you feeling okay?”

Kirishima forced a weak smile.  “I’m okay, guys,” he assured them.  “No need to worry. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

Kaminari and Uraraka shared a quick glance, still looking very concerned.  “Just let us know if you need anything?” Uraraka urged him, before returning to her seat.

Once she was gone, Kaminari leaned in over Kirishima’s desk.  “Did something happen with Bakugou?” he asked, voice low.

The question caught him off guard, and Kirishima could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “What?”

Kaminari frowned.  “He seems out of sorts, too,” he said.  “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you two haven’t been hanging out at all this week.  You’re the guy’s best friend, the only one that can get through to him half the time. Did he do something?  Say something?”

Kirishima shook his head, looking away.  “Nah, he didn’t do anything,” he murmured.  It was me, his mind supplied, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

He was pretty sure he reached his lowest point the next time Fatgum called him in.  His bruise was finally fading and the cut on his cheek was healing nicely, and he luckily managed the day without another injury.  It wasn’t until he was changing out of his hero suit and collecting his things and shoving them into his backpack, and Fatgum called him over.

“You okay, kid?” he asked, clapping a hand down on Kirishima’s shoulder.

Kirishima felt a little taken aback before he slipped into his usual smile, grinning reassuringly at Fatgum.  “Of course!” he said.

Fatgum looked at him dubiously, considering the boy carefully.  “You know there ain’t no shame in admitting it if there is something wrong, right?” he asked.  “I won’t make you talk to me about it, not if you don’t want to, but don’t just keep it all in, okay Red?  You seemed out of sorts last week, too.”

Kirishima swallowed, feeling the guilt building in the pit of his stomach, but he didn’t let his grin fall.  He knew he could trust Fatgum, knew that the hero wouldn’t think any less of him and would likely help him. Still, the thought of talking about it...

“I’m fine,” he said.  “Just not quite getting enough sleep.”

“Let me know if the workload is gettin’ to be too much,” he told him.  “I know you’ve got lots of school work, too. Don’t be afraid to say somethin’.”

Kirishima nodded.  He couldn’t say much else.

During hero training the next day, Kirishima supposed that it was almost funny that he thought his mentor noticing was his lowest point.

He knew that he was the one to blame for it, in the end.  His mind was sluggish and he felt dazed, even as he went through the motions.  He’d been put on a team with Yaoyorozu, Tokoyami, Midoriya, and Bakugou. The last two were enough of a challenging combination on a good day; even if things had been steadily improving between them, there was still the insatiable desire to constantly outdo each other.  They’d now become rivals less in the sense of enemies, but more like competitors—and Kirishima figured that made most the most sense; they were both after the spot of number one, after all.

Yaoyorozu seemed strained, trying to act as a mediator as they worked out a plan to capture the other team’s flag.  Tokoyami was quieter than usual, as though reluctant to get between the two feuding boys. More than once Yaoyorozu shot Kirishima a pleading look, but he guiltily glanced away whenever she did.  He simply did not have the energy to get in the middle of the argument.

In the end, Yaoyorozu had come up with a course of action that included points from both Midoriya’s and Bakugou’s suggested plans, and somehow managed to get them to agree upon it.  Kirishima had listened to the plan and done his best to commit it to memory, to prove—mostly to himself—that he wasn’t doing that terribly.

It started off without a hitch, and they managed to make it to their opponent’s base without being detected, largely due to the fact that they didn’t have anyone like Shouji or Jirou on their team.  Their classmates were ready for them, however. They immediately launched their counterattack. The plan left Midoriya and Bakugou to fend off and distract their competitors while Kirishima and Yaoyorozu covered Tokoyami, with Dark Shadow eventually being the one to take the flag.

It all happened very quickly.  The fight had moved closer to the center of the base, and several times Yaoyorozu and Kirishima found themselves deflecting attacks, mostly from Kaminari and Ashido.  Just as Dark Shadow had grabbed the flag, successfully dodging Tsuyu’s defenses, the moment that Kirishima breathed out a sigh of relief, there was an explosion. Aoyama’s laser and Bakugou’s AP shot were apparently a disastrous combination, and the blast caused the surrounding rocks to crumble.  Tsuyu had immediately snatched Yaoyorozu out of the way as there was no way for her to create a defense so quickly, and Dark Shadow shielded Tokoyami, taking the brunt of the impact. Kirishima had immediately run from the explosion, diving out of the way. Most of the others, thankfully, were out of range of the falling rock.

It was only after the dust cleared that Kirishima dully registered the searing pain in his shoulder and he realized that he hadn’t hardened.

He rolled over onto his back, groaning at the pain that shot through him at the movement.  He tried to move his arm, but the pain made it nearly impossible. He gasped out, clutching at his shoulder.

“Kirishima!” Ashido quickly ran to his side, helping him up.  He winced as she did so, gasping again as she shifted him into a sitting position, muttering placating assurances under her breath.

“Oh, dude, your shoulder doesn’t look good,” Kaminari said, crouching down and taking off his glasses.  Kirishima glanced over and could peripherally see that Kaminari was right—that something was definitely wrong because shoulders are not supposed to stick out like that.

Yaoyorozu was next to reach him, hands hovering in the air between them, looking, but unsure if she should actually touch.  “I’m pretty sure that’s dislocated,” she said. “I can probably put it back in place—”

“Probably?” Kaminari asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I mean, I think I could!” Yaoyorozu flustered.  “It’s just sliding it back—”

“And how much is that going to hurt?” Ashido asked, biting her lip.

“It should only hurt for a moment,” Midoriya said quickly.  “It should feel better after.”

“If it’s done right,” Tsuyu added.

“It’s not like he could feel worse, I’m guessing,” Kaminari said.

“Can you guys stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Kirishima grunted out.

“You’re a bit incapacitated at the moment, man,” Kaminari told him.

“What the hell is the problem?”  A few of the others turned as Bakugou finally made his way over.  He glanced at Kirishima, glowering as he did so.

“Kirishima dislocated his shoulder after the blast,” Ashido said, frowning at Bakugou.  “What were you two doing, anyway? That was too much!”

“Yeah, someone could have gotten hurt!” Kaminari put in.

“Someone did get hurt!” Ashido reminded him, turning to glare at the other boy.

“Oh, right,” he muttered.  “Well, someone else could have gotten hurt.”

“I think I can put it back in place,” Yaoyorozu said again, and she gently placed her hands on Kirishima’s arm.

“I wish you sounded a little more confident,” Kirishima sighed.  “Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“What the hell?” Bakugou shouted.  “You’ve handled worse than that, shitty hair!”

“That’s true,” Midoriya said.  “Your hardening should have prevented an injury like this, shouldn't it?”

Kirishima felt his cheeks heat up with shame.  “I didn’t harden,” he mumbled out.

“What the hell?” Bakugou demanded again.  “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” Kirishima said through gritted teeth.  The pain was making him feel sick to his stomach and he wished more than anything he could just go to Recovery Girl and have something done about his arm.  He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, hoping that it might calm the resulting nausea.

“Clearly,” Bakugou said with a sneer.  “You could have prevented this, you idiot—”

“I get it!” Kirishima snapped.  “I get it, all right? I’m an idiot ‘cause I couldn’t even think to use my Quirk, guess I just can’t do anything right—”  He cut himself off with a shout of pain. He turned to stare at Yaoyorozu who was looking at him apologetically.

“I’m sorry!” she said quickly.  “I should have asked first, but I thought it would be best to do it while you were distracted…”

“It’s fine,” Kirishima said, looking away, an uncomfortable silence following.

“Come on,” Ashido said at last, placing a hand on Kirishima’s back.  “We should go get sensei and then get him to Recovery Girl.”

There was a flurry of movement, most of his classmates backing up to give them space while Midoriya stepped forward to help Kirishima to his feet.  Together, he and Ashido began to steer Kirishima back to where the rest of their classmates were waiting with their teacher.

There was no talking amongst the group as they began their trek back, but Kirishima was fairly certain he heard the crackling of Bakugou’s palms as they walked away.

Kirishima fidgeted in front of the door.

He took a deep breath.  He could do this. He had to do this.

He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulder back.  Yaoyorozu had put his shoulder back in place and then Recovery Girl had taken care of the rest hours ago, but still a small bit of residual pain remained.  But if anything, it was just a reminder that he had to do this.

His sleep wasn’t improving.  It hadn’t been, even on those nights where he told himself that Bakugou was helping, before things had gone to hell.  Still, in reality that had been just a temporary solution.

But this… this might finally be a step in the right direction.  If he did this, then maybe he could finally start to solvethis problem, to fix it at its root instead of simply slapping a bandaid over it.

Another slow inhale to steel his resolve.

He knocked on the office door before pushing it open, peering into the teachers’ office.  Only two of the pros that usually frequented the room were still present, and Kirishima was relieved to see that the very person he was looking for was one of them.  Both teachers glanced up at Kirishima as he hesitantly stepped into the office.

“Aizawa-sensei,” he said, looking to his homeroom teacher.  “Could I talk to you?”

Midnight glanced at the other teacher, then pushed herself up from her desk.  “Have a good night, Eraser,” she said, patting his shoulder as she walked past.  “You too, Kirishima,” she added, smiling as she excused herself from the room, closing the door behind her.

Aizawa sighed as he turned to Kirishima.  “What do you need?” he asked in his usual flat tone.

“I…”  Kirishima paused, biting his lip for a moment as he considered his words. "I think I need help with something."

Chapter Text

Aizawa eyed Kirishima carefully.  “Is this about one of the lessons?” he asked.

“Oh, ah, no,” Kirishima responded.  He couldn’t help but fidget a little under his teacher’s scrutinizing gaze.  “It’s nothing like that.” He glanced away, taking his bottom lip in between his teeth, biting into it nervously; his hand found the hem of his blazer, rolling the material between his fingers.

Aizawa frowned as he noticed this, heaving out another sigh.  “Take a seat,” he ordered Kirishima, gesturing to the unoccupied chair beside his desk.  Kirishima did so, the tenseness still evident in the way he sat, a little too stiff, hands clutching his knees.  “Would you like some tea?”

Kirishima blinked at him for a moment.  “Uh, sure?” he responded, a little surprised by the offer.  He watched as Aizawa pushed himself up from his own seat, then proceeded to prepare two cups of tea.  Kirishima muttered his thanks as his teacher handed him the cup, wrapping his hands around the porcelain and reveling in the warmth against his hands.  He took a sip and felt himself calming slightly, even though it wasn’t the same chamomile tea like Yaoyorozu had given him. All the same, it helped him relax, and he was glad to have something to do with his hands.

“All right,” Aizawa said after a few moments of quiet in the office.  “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Kirishima took a deep breath.  “I... I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” he said sheepishly, looking down at his lap where he clutched the mug of tea in both hands.  He grimaced a little at the admission, feeling childish once he actually put it into words for his teacher. “Like, a lot of trouble. It probably sounds stupid, but I get these nightmares and—and they’re bad.  Terrible.” He licked his lips nervously, glancing back up at Aizawa. “I thought they’d go away. Like, it’d just be a week or two at most and then things would be back to normal. But they haven’t gone away. They get better for a while and then it’s like something will happen and they’re back again.”

Thankfully, his teacher didn’t brush him off.  He still worse his usual indifferent expression, but it was better than what Kirishima had half-expected, so he tried to relax.  He tried to let himself be a little hopeful that this conversation might actually lead him to something helpful.

“How long?” Aizawa asked.

Again Kirishima shifted his gaze away, this time a little guiltily.  “Since everything back in Kamino,” he admitted quietly. He didn’t like to bring it up, especially to his teacher.

The reprimand they’d received—not just him and Iida and Midoriya and Todoroki and Yaoyorozu, but the whole class with the exception of just three—still felt fresh in his mind some days, even after so much time had passed.  He didn’t regret his decision, but he still hated everything about the circumstances. Aizawa had given them all another chance in light of what had happened with All Might, and Kirishima wasn’t going to waste it. Still, bringing up the ordeal made him uncomfortable, as though a part of him hoped that maybe Aizawa had forgotten about it.  He knew that wasn’t likely to ever happen, but it was easier to think of it that way.

“They got better for a bit,” he quickly told Aizawa, shifting the subject away slightly and driving their current conversation forward.  “But then the rescue mission with Eri happened, and—and the thing with Rappa and Fatgum…” He swallowed, mouth feeling dry. “They came back after that.”  He quickly took a sip of his tea, but it did nothing to sooth his parched throat.

“Those were two very significant events,” Aizawa said, carefully and deliberately.  “I think it’s reasonable that they’ve effected you.”

“But I feel—”  Kirishima swallowed again, gritting his teeth a little.  “I feel weak,” he admitted. He closed his eyes; he hated to say it, to word it that way, but he knew that was what it essentially came down to.  And sure, Bakugou had tried to quell those thoughts on several occasions, but still the doubt clouded his mind.

If he couldn’t handle things now, then when he was a pro, when things surely managed to get worse...

He tried not to let his mind take that path.

“It doesn’t make you weak,” Aizawa responded.  “Plenty of people—heroes—they suffer from the same problem.  If you found out that any of the pros you look up to, ones you’ve worked with or learned under… if you found out that they were going through the same thing, would you think of them as weak?”

Kirishima frowned a little.  “I guess not,” he said.

“The same goes for you,” Aizawa said.  “Just because your brain has these thoughts that you can’t control, asleep or awake, does not determine your strength.”

Kirishima considered the words.  After all, the man was right—this was not something he could easily control.  Surely that counted for something, should give him some kind of leeway. And yet...

“I feel like I’m falling behind.”

He’d heard Bakugou utter the phrase countless times by now.  The boy who was always ahead of everyone—he wasn’t behind at all, but merely falling into stride with the others.  Still, for Bakugou, that seemed enough for him to consider himself below the others.

Kirishima had always tended to think of that way to begin with.  It was a game of catch-up from the start, constantly working on turning himself into the hero he wanted to be, to make his Quirk be something he could use to help people.  He knew that his classmates didn’t have the same doubts he did—and when they did, they quickly overcame them. He tried not to compare himself to the others, knew that everyone’s situation was different, but it was so difficult not to to look at everyone else making such progress and see himself as stagnant.

He figured that was probably why he worked so hard at his internship.  He had something to prove, to himself more than anyone else.

“You know, Kirishima, we are often the ones hardest on ourselves,” Aizawa continued, setting his cup down and leaning forward slightly. “We offer others understanding who have a difficult time, but none for ourselves.” Kirishima gazed down at his knees. “I know it’s a lot simpler to say than to change the way you think, but it still stands. By admitting that this is a problem you can’t fix by yourself, by seeking out help, already you’re headed in the right direction.”

Kirishima nodded mutely, swirling around the contents of his teacup. Aizawa didn’t retreat, still leaned forward with his elbows on his knees as he carefully considered his student sitting in front of him.

“Have you talked to anyone else about the nightmares?” he asked after a few moments.

At this, the subdued demeanor that Kirishima had slipped into immediately shifted back into the fidgeting anxiousness from when he first entered the room. Aizawa raised an eyebrow as Kirishima shifted in his seat.

“I—uh—yes?” he offered nervously. “There are a couple of people who kinda know the... the general idea, but I don’t think they know how bad it is. I didn’t tell them, anyway,” he said, thinking of Shouji and Midoriya and Ashido. “But uh… I’ve told… a friend,” he continued hesitantly.  “Kinda,” he added hastily, grimacing a little at the fact that he had to qualify the statement. He didn’t like that he wasn’t sure if Bakugou considered him a friend anymore—forget the other feelings he had hidden deep, locked away in his heart. He couldn’t even be certain what Bakugou was thinking.  His mind flitted back to class that afternoon, back to the argument they’d had. He wasn’t even sure if he could call it an argument, how it was mostly Bakugou shouting a few choice insults at him.

But, he reasoned, he hadn’t exactly sat there quietly and taken it.  He’d done his fair share of shouting back.

His chest clenched a little at the thoughts, and he found himself worrying his bottom lip.

“I’m not going to get into that one,” Aizawa sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, and the response made the corner Kirishima’s lips quirk into a tiny half-smile.  He knew that even in his attempt at showing indifference, his teacher was still concerned. “What I was getting at, however,” he then continued slowly, “is that this seems like a conversation you should be having with your parents.”

Again, anxiety seized Kirishima.  Of course. Of course Aizawa-sensei would suggest that he talk to his parents.  But still, the tightness in his chest only seemed to worsen, and iron fist grinding his ribs together and crushing his lungs.

“I, uh… I guess.  Probably,” he admitted.  “I just… I can’t.”

“‘Can’t’,” Aizawa repeated slowly, “or ‘don’t want to’?”

Kirishima considered the question for a moment.  He supposed that on some level, he did wish he was having this sort of conversation with his parents—or at least, that he could.  So no, it definitely wasn’t a matter of that.

He tried to imagine it.  Tried to imagine giving his parents a call, or taking the train to see them on his day off.  But instead of imagining the subsequent conversation, all he could picture was the familiar sound of their voicemail boxes and the house that was far too empty far too frequently.

“Can’t,” he said quietly.

Aizawa frowned, brow furrowing at he looked at his student.  “And why can’t you?”

“They… don’t have a lot of time for me,” he said.  “Not like—not like they… neglect me or anything!” he added quickly, looking at his teacher with wide eyes.  “They just… they’re always busy, you know, with work and all of that and... and I’m not going to bother them with… with this.”  He shifted his gaze away again, down at his empty mug. He couldn’t even remember drinking most of the tea, but he supposed he must have at some point.  “Even if I did,” he said, “it wouldn’t matter, anyway. They don’t have the time to listen, they definitely wouldn’t have the time to try to… do anything about my problems.”

Kirishima shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  He didn’t like talking about his parents in such a way—it almost felt like he was somehow letting them down, that he was painting them in an unfairly negative light.  After all, there was plenty that they did for him—even if they just weren’t there.  And, he reminded himself, it wasn’t like they were bad parents.  He knew that it could be worse, that there were others who did have it worse.  But still, there were so many times that he found himself just wishing…

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, taking in a deep breath.  He then looked back to Aizawa, hoping that he understood—it really was a ‘can’t’.

Aizawa gave him a nod, straightening up in his seat.  “All right,” he said, slowly, and Kirishima couldn’t help but notice the slight downward tilt of his lips indicating the start of a frown.  “Well, given that your inability to sleep hasn’t caused you any physical harm as of yet…”

Kirishima grimaced shamefully.  “But today in class—”

“Today’s class can be considered just an injury from hero training,” Aizawa cut across.  “As long as it doesn’t happen again.” Kirishima didn’t miss the stern warning in the last part.  He nodded. “In which case…” His teacher heaved out another sigh. “If we can manage to sort things out…”

Kirishima’s eyes widened, feeling the swell of affection for his teacher within his chest.  He suddenly felt so happy, so relieved that he’d managed to convince himself to go to the man.  He still wasn’t sure what could be done, but again he could see the small glimmer of hope that maybe there was a solution somewhere, after all.

“Thank you, sensei!”

“But that means I need to see you actively working on solutions and making some progress,” he said firmly.  “Sleep deprivation can cause more serious problems and if it begins to adversely effect your health, or there are any more slip-ups in your hero training or in your internship, I will be obligated to say something to your parents, even if you choose not to.”

Kirishima nodded.  “Understood.”

“Though,” Aizawa continued, “I still have to suggest that you do say something, regardless of whether or not you think it will matter to them.”

Kirishima swallowed thickly, but again nodded.  “Okay,” he agreed.

Aizawa gazed at him for another moment.  “Well, if you’re serious about this, then one technique that works for a lot of people who get nightmares is imagery rehearsal,” he said.  “I’m assuming you’ve never heard of it?”

Kirishima shook his head.

“It doesn’t work for everyone, but it’s at least a place to start,” Aizawa continued.  “The goal is to rewrite your nightmare, in a sense. Think of one of your nightmares, and then come up with a way to change it.  Then every day, you need to take some time and visualize that change.”

Kirishima blinked at him.  “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Aizawa said.  “But you have to stick to it and clearly imagine the changes you’d make.  It takes some practice.”

“Okay,” Kirishima said slowly.  “I… I can do that.”

“I’ll be checking in to make sure that you are,” his teacher continued.  “I’ll walk you through it for the first time.”

“Right,” Kirishima said, a smile finally on his lips.  This was hope—he actually felt hopeful.  “Thank you, sensei.”

“All right, so first, decide on a dream…"

Kirishima stared up at his ceiling in the darkness.  He had desperately tried to sleep, but laying on his side put an uncomfortable pressure on his shoulder.  It had been healed by Recovery Girl, but still it ached dully with residual pain. It was just enough to keep him up, or to jar him awake when he did manage to doze off and then he shifted too suddenly in his sleep.

He tried to go over the process Aizawa described of rewriting his nightmares.  The only issue now, he supposed, was that he wasn’t able to put it into practice, to properly test the theory.  He doubted that it would make an actual difference the very first time, but he was still curious if it would have even a small impact yet.  He wasn’t dreading sleeping and finding out, instead merely curious and incredibly optimistic. But what good was it if he couldn’t even properly sleep in the first place?

With a sigh, Kirishima rolled over, facing away from his wall.  He winced a little at the movement, but he felt too awake now anyway that he supposed it didn’t matter.  He burrowed beneath his blankets, instead staring at the opposite wall; the one he shared with Bakugou.

He wondered if the other boy was sleeping.  He wondered if he’d been faring any better than Kirishima had that week.  He tried to think back, to any signs that Bakugou hadn’t been sleeping well either.  However, everything seemed to have passed in a haze of exhaustion and he couldn’t remember Bakugou showing signs of anything other than anger and annoyance—when he wasn’t intent on treating Kirishima that he didn’t even exist.

Kirishima just wanted to talk to him.

He grimaced as he realized that he didn’t even know what he’d say if he did get the chance to speak to Bakugou.  He supposed some kind of apology would be a good place to start.

He knew that he wasn’t completely at fault—or at least, that it wasn’t solely his fault.  After all, he wasn’t ignoring Bakugou in the same way the boy was ignoring him. Still, he knew that he should have handled that night better, chosen his words more carefully or waited for the morning to be of clearer mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut, a pang in his chest.  Maybe there was something else he should be sorry for too.

A sudden noise caused Kirishima to jump slightly, his eyes flying open.  He was still and silent until he heard a door in the hallway shut, quiet footsteps audible only because of the absolute silence at the late hour.

Those sounds had come from the direction he was facing.

They’d come from Bakugou’s room.

Kirishima didn’t take another moment to think.  Instead, he threw his covers off, clambering to his feet.  He ignored the pain in his shoulder as he pushed himself up, moving quickly to his door.  He didn’t even pause to get his slippers, too intent on not missing his chance.

The hallway was already empty when he reached it, but he didn’t let that deter him.  He hastily made his way to the stairwell, opening the door as quickly and quietly as possible, desperately determined to get to the other boy while still trying to be considerate of Shouji and everyone else who was asleep.

The light was shining from the kitchen by the time he reached the first floor, illuminating the hall with its soft and warm glow. He could faintly hear the distant sounds of Bakugou sifting through contents in the refrigerator, then taking something down from a cabinet.  Once again, the thoughts and feelings of that first night flooded back to Kirishima, memories that felt so impossibly distant. It felt like they’d happened years ago, when he knew it was only a fraction of that. How was it that in only a couple of months, so much had managed to change?

And it wasn’t negative.  Sure, his heart ached at the current rift between them, but he intended to fix that.  Still, there was so much more to have come out of what had transpired.  He thought back to each glance, each touch, to each moment they shared that was charged with emotion and energy.  Even just a few weeks ago, Kirishima hadn’t understood the depth of his feelings—or he had, but refused to put a name to it.  Now, it all seemed so painfully obvious, and he was so incredibly aware of it.

Kirishima knew that this was another tipping point.  The moment itself didn’t seem particularly monumental.  At this point, they’d spent so many nights down in the kitchen and common room together.  But still, he knew too well that he had to say something to Bakugou.

And he knew that whatever he managed to say would either change nothing or everything.  He wasn’t sure which would be worse.  The situation was so far from black and white, a vast multichromatic scale that varied by thousands of shades of every color.  There were hundreds of potential outcomes, some definitely more preferable to others, but still Kirishima couldn’t begin to imagine which might come to fruition.

He supposed there was only one way to find out.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen.  “Bakugou?”

The boy didn’t respond at all, despite the fact that Kirishima knew he’d heard him—the dorms were far too quiet that late for him not to have.  But Kirishima wasn’t going to run, not anymore.  He swallowed, squaring his shoulders. He walked over to the counter, folding his arms over his chest and looking at the other boy.  Even though Bakugou refused to acknowledge him, Kirishima was sure that he could see him peripherally.

“Bakugou.”  His voice was stronger this time, more confident and firm.  But still, Bakugou didn’t respond. Instead, he carried on with his work, fiddling with a dial on the stove before moving a pot over the burner, then grabbing a pair of chopsticks from a drawer.

Kirishima huffed out an annoyed breath.  “You know what?” he said. “Fine. You don’t have to respond.  Go ahead and act like you’re not listening. I’m going to talk anyway.”

Kirishima inhaled deeply.  Despite his sudden resolve, he had no actual idea what he wanted to say.  He had vaguely considered a few things, a few ways to start when he had first thought about it while lying in his bed, but now his mind seemed blank.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “About everything.” He paused.  “About the other night."

He knew it wasn’t enough, but he didn’t know where else to start.  He bit his lip.

“I... I talked to Aizawa-sensei today,” he continued, and he noticed the way that Bakugou’s movements seemed to falter as he stirred the contents of the pot, the smallest detail that would have been imperceptible to almost anyone else; still, it was there, a small stutter in his actions even as he continued to focus on what he was doing instead of the boy speaking.  “I didn’t say anything about you,” Kirishima quickly clarified. “Just about… me. My problems. He, ah… he’s going to try to help. He explained this thing to me, something that apparently helps a lot of people who have nightmares and… I don’t know. I’m hopeful about it, I guess. It seems like something that could actually work.”

Kirishima watched as Bakugou rinsed his hands in the sink before setting to work cutting mochi.  He bit his lip again.

“I really am sorry,” he said, his voice softer as he hunched his shoulders a little; instead of confident, he knew that the motion made him look vulnerable and insecure.  Still, he couldn’t help the defensive stance as he took a deep breath. “About the other night,” he went on, glancing away from Bakugou. “I’m sorry for pushing you away. I’m sorry for… for running away.  The nightmare I had?”  He paused, closing his eyes to ready himself for everything he was about to say.  "It was… it was about you.”

The sound of Bakugou’s knife stopped, and Kirishima glanced up to see the blond set the utensil on the cutting board and brace his arms against the counter.  He was suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that Bakugou was giving him his full attention, even if he was still refusing to look at him.

“It was about Rappa.  He had you, and he wanted me to fight him and I…”  He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat.  “I failed. Unbreakable failed. And he was going to kill you and I knew it was my fault.”  He took a deep breath, closing his eyes again, trying to steady his thoughts.  “And then I woke up and you were there and it was somehow better and worse because… because I knew you were safe, but I—I just couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t take it.”

He opened his eyes to glance at Bakugou once again, but the boy hadn’t moved an inch.  Kirishima shifted his gaze to the floor and whispered, “It hurt too much.”

He took a deep breath.  “So I pushed you away instead,” he continued, a little bit stronger.  "And I know I was being a coward and that it wasn’t manly, and I regret it.  I do. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t have you there because it wasn’t right, because… because I…"

This was it.  This was the moment that that had the potential to change everything.  His heart pounded, slamming against his ribcage painfully and insistently.  For a half-second, he considered running away again, considered just dropping the subject.  But he knew he couldn’t—he couldn’t do that to Bakugou or to himself. He owed his best friend an apology and an honest explanation.

“I’m sorry, Bakugou,” he breathed out.  “I’m sorry, but I… I like you.  I like you more than just as a friend.  And I know that you don’t do that sort of thing, I know you don’t feel the same way.  I’m not expecting anything from telling you, I just…”  He inhaled slowly. “I needed to say it, I guess. I suppose you deserve to know why I acted that way the other night.

“And I—I understand,” he continued but his throat felt tight as he voiced his worst fear, “if you don’t want to be friends anymore.”  He hoped more than anything it wouldn’t be the case, but he knew that it went against so much that Bakugou was. “I won’t blame you. I just had to get it off my chest.”

Kirishima tentatively looked up again, but Bakugou’s expression was unreadable, devoid of any emotion either way.  Kirishima felt a sharp pain in his chest, felt his breath catch a little. He’d never given much thought to the feeling of heartbreak before, instead focused on becoming a hero like all of his other classmates.  But as the pain spread, a dull ache emanating through his ribs, slowly reaching each of his extremities, he knew that was what it was. And it wasn’t just the pain of rejection at the thought that Bakugou didn’t return his feelings—he’d already come to terms with that.  Instead, it was the idea that Bakugou was confirming his worst fears and rejecting him as a friend as well.

And that just hurt.

He looked away again.  He’d said it was okay, that he’d understand.  He just had to make himself believe it. He didn’t have another choice.  If this was what Bakugou wanted, then he’d respect that.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.  “I’ll… I’ll just go.”

And with that, Kirishima pushed himself away from the counter.

Chapter Text

A hand shot out, grasping tightly onto Kirishima’s bicep as he moved to walk away.  He could see Bakugou out of the corner of his eye, but his anxiety kept him from turning to properly face him.  The blond boy still hadn’t turned to look at him, either, so Kirishima just waited.

Waited for Bakugou to say something—anything.

The silence wore on but the hand on his upper arm did not relinquish its grip, and Kirishima didn’t even try to pull away.  Then, finally—

“Who says I don’t?”

Kirishima furrowed his brow, allowing himself to look up at Bakugou.  The boy was still facing away from him, his other hand still braced on the counter, but there was an obvious frown on his lips—not one of annoyance, but something else: confusion, perhaps even a bit of concern.

Kirishima swallowed.  He tried to make sense of the words, but wasn’t sure what Bakugou had meant by them.  He blinked at the boy, uncertain of what to say. “What?”

“Who says,” Bakugou repeated, his voice a low grumble as he turned slightly to the other boy, still looking at him a bit indirectly, “that I don’t feel that way?”

The question took Kirishima aback.  “You always…” He cleared his throat, trying to regain his footing in the conversation.  “You always say that all you want is to be the top pro hero, and that you don’t want anyone to stand beside you when you do it.”

Bakugou finally pulled his hand away from Kirishima’s arm, letting it fall to his side.  He met Kirishima’s gaze at last. “You’re… different.”

The admission made Kirishima’s heart stutter in his chest.  It was as though he had suddenly forgotten how to breathe as he stared dumbly at the other boy, disbelieving.  “I am?”

“You’ve always been different, idiot,” Bakugou scoffed.  “You know it.”

Kirishima shook his head, frowning slightly.  “I really don’t.”

Bakugou sighed.  “You’ve been that way since the sports festival,” he said.  “Maybe since the USJ. I don’t know.”

“But how am I different?” Kirishima couldn’t help but ask.

“I don’t know,” Bakugou grumbled.  “You just are. Like… sometimes it feels like everyone else is in my way or just another challenge or obstacle I have to beat but… you don’t.”  He furrowed his brow. “And I don’t mean it like you’re not strong enough to consider competition. It’s more like… we complement each other. Our Quirks,” he added hastily, then paused, looking away.  “And I guess other ways. But… it feels like you want to work together, to be my partner or something. You support me. You… you want to see me succeed, to reach my goals, to become stronger.” He glanced back at Kirishima once again.  “And I want to see that for you, too.”

Kirishima’s heart fluttered in his chest, affection swelling for the boy in front of him.  Whatever he had been expecting Bakugou to say, it certainly hadn’t been that. Kirishima forced himself to breathe, forced himself to steady his breaths in an effort to calm his racing heart.

“So, just… don’t go making stupid assumptions about how I feel,” Bakugou said.

“So then… you like me, too?” Kirishima asked hopefully.

Bakugou sighed.  “Yeah,” he muttered.  “Yeah, I do.”

Kirishima couldn’t stop himself from staring as his brain worked furiously to process the new information.  He struggled as he tried to make sense of it, thinking back to all the different moments and wondering if he should have read them differently.  Still, he couldn’t seem to reconcile the thoughts with what Bakugou was saying. “But…”

“I wouldn’t have taken anyone else’s hand so easily back then, shitty hair,” Bakugou cut across flatly.

Kamino, Kirishima's mind supplied, and he felt his chest clench a little at the thought.  Bakugou was implying that he’d liked Kirishima even back then—before, possibly, if what he was saying…

He blinked at Bakugou, unable to believe it.  “You’ve liked me since then?” he asked incredulously.

Kirishima was sure that he could see a faint dusting of pink along Bakugou’s cheeks as he glanced away, wearing a scowl and stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.  “It’s… whatever.”

It felt as though an entire swarm of butterflies had been released inside of his chest, fluttering about, beating their fragile wings against his ribcage.  It felt as though a balloon was rapidly inflating beneath his sternum, causing his breath to catch as he inhaled. It felt like breathing, like air, didn’t even matter because there was Bakugou, right in front of him, admitting that a part of his heart belonged to Kirishima in the same way that a part of Kirishima’s belonged to him.  It felt like too much and not enough, like he was too close and too far away, and Kirishima found himself wanting to just reach out, hands trembling a little just at the thought.

“Bakugou,” Kirishima said, his voice a quiet, gentle whisper, as though afraid if he spoke any louder he’d break the spell—or else, wake up and discover it was just a dream.  “Bakugou, can I kiss you?”

Bakugou jerked his gaze back to Kirishima.  “Hah?”

Kirishima winced a little at the reaction.  “I’m sorry,” he apologized quickly, shrinking back slightly, biting into his lip.  “I just… I’ve wanted to, and I thought…”

Before he could finish his sentence, Bakugou grabbed two fistfuls of Kirishima’s shirt and yanked him toward him.  He pressed his lips against the redhead’s, chaste but hard.  He drew back before Kirishima had the chance to properly react, before he even had the opportunity to close his eyes.  Bakugou didn’t pull too far away, hands still clutching onto Kirishima’s shirt, staring with an intensity different from his usual one—an intensity that Kirishima vaguely thought he could get used to.

“I guess that’s a ‘yes’?” Kirishima asked after a moment, lips quirking up into a smile as he stared back at Bakugou with his own wide-eyed expression of affection.

Bakugou huffed out an annoyed breath, and Kirishima could feel it, warm against his cheek.  “Idiot,” he grumbled, but it held no malice.

Tentatively, Kirishima reached up to cup Bakugou’s jaw.  He gently guided him forward, letting their lips meet more softly this time.  Kirishima slid his other hand to the nape of Bakugou’s neck while the blond boy’s hands loosened their grip, smoothing out Kirishima’s shirt as Bakugou pressed flat palms against his chest.

When Kirishima pulled back a moment later, his lips were almost immediately captured again.  It was gentler than the first one but still firm, almost an undertone of aggressiveness to it as Bakugou moved his mouth against his.  But Kirishima couldn’t complain because this was Bakugou, and he seemed to approach kissing the same way he did everything—with the intention of winning.

Kirishima reluctantly pulled away, taking the span of just a couple seconds to revel in the sight of Bakugou’s expression, so soft and calm.  There was no tension in his brow, and his lips were still slightly parted. Kirishima watched as blond eyelashes fluttered, then the boy opened his eyes.

He wanted the sight branded into his brain like a hot iron, to keep it locked away for all of eternity.

It was only a moment before the crease between Bakugou’s brows formed once again as he frowned.

“So do we...” He trailed off.  “This... this thing...”

“‘Thing’?” Kirishima repeated questioningly.

“You know...” Bakugou gestured his hand in the small gap between the two of them.

“You mean ‘us’?” Kirishima said, an amused lilt to the question.

Bakugou fixed him with a glare.  “Yes, fine, us.” Then, he closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling sharply through his nose.  When he opened them again, he muttered, “I have absolutely no clue what the fuck I’m doing, shitty hair.”

“It’s not like I have any experience with this either,” Kirishima said with a shrug.  “But you’re asking... what happens now? Like, if we date?”

Bakugou gave a jerky nod.

Kirishima hesitated.  “Is that what you want?” he asked.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Bakugou conceded, and Kirishima couldn’t stop the small smile from forming on his lips.

“I want to,” he said.  “I really like you, Bakugou.”  Again, he paused, frowning slightly.  “But...”

Immediately Bakugou took a step back, shoulders raised in tension as he tried to school his expression into something neutral—or at least, his usual look of aggravation.  “If you don’t want to, shitty hair—”

“Hey, no, don’t do that,” Kirishima said, reaching out to grab Bakugou’s wrist.  The blond tried to jerk it out of the boy’s grip, but he wouldn’t let go; instead, he could hear the crackling of Bakugou’s opposite palm.  But still, Kirishima stood his ground. “Just listen to me for five seconds,” he said.

Bakugou scowled, but lowered his other hand.  Kirishima inhaled slowly.

He’d thought about it during the time he and Bakugou hadn’t been talking.  Granted, when he first thought about it, he hadn’t had any intention of telling Bakugou how he felt, and had never considered the possibility that those feelings would be returned.  Still, the last night Bakugou had spent in his room sat heavily on his conscience. He knew that if there was going to be any going forward, that he had to take some time and fix things.

That was why he’d gone to Aizawa, after all.  He knew things couldn’t stay that way, any longer.

And he knew it wasn’t just him.

“I think... we need to sort some stuff out with ourselves, first,” he said.  “I need to work on this thing that Aizawa-sensei told me, to see if it helps.  I need to figure that out. And I think... I think that maybe you should do something too.  I think you should tell someone.”

“I’m not—”

“You don’t have to talk to a Aizawa-sensei,” Kirishima told him.  “Or even another teacher or a counselor or anything like that, but... maybe your parents?”

“Kirishima—”

“You said before that you want to see me improve and get stronger with stuff, right?” Kirishima cut across.  “Well, this is the same thing. I need to get stronger. Better.  And... I want to see that for you, too.  And I know I can’t help the way I want to, Bakugou.”

Bakugou gritted his teeth a little, but Kirishima gave him a pleading look, willing him to understand.

“At least think about it?” he suggested, finally dropping Bakugou’s hand.

After another moment of silence, Bakugou let out an aggravated sigh.  “Fine,” he grumbled, turning away to face the counter. “I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you.”

“Whatever…”  He placed the chunks of cut mochi onto a baking sheet before shoving it into the oven.  He then went back to the burner with the pot, stirring its contents once more, peering at it critically as though to see if it was still fine after sitting for the duration of their conversation.

Kirishima planted himself at Bakugou’s side, letting their shoulders brush with proximity.

“What are you making tonight?” he asked instead.

“Oshiruko,” Bakugou said in response.  He didn’t move away from Kirishima, despite how close they were.  Kirishima reasoned that it had been some time since the days when Bakugou would jerk away from his contact, whether it was out of friendship or hidden affection.  Still, he couldn’t help but feel satisfied.

“Sounds amazing,” he said excitedly.  “It’s gotten so cold.” He hesitated for just a moment, as though he suddenly remembered the state of things when he’d first come down into the kitchen.  “Is it… I mean, could I have some?”

“Tch.  Who else would I be making it for, shitty hair?” Bakugou grumbled.

Kirishima couldn’t suppress his smile.  More than anything he wanted to slip his hand into the other boy’s, to lace their fingers together and feel the warmth of his palm, to give a gentle squeeze in an effort to communicate the affection bubbling inside of him.

But he could be patient.  He knew that, inevitably, it would be worth it.

Within a week, Kirishima was beginning to notice the subtle differences in his sleeping, the effects slowly becoming evident.  Even his friends were noticing his overall improvement, Kaminari slinging his arm around his shoulder and telling him that it was good to finally have him back—and honestly, Kirishima had to agree.  He excitedly reported his progress to Aizawa after class, as well as to Bakugou over homework.

For a few long moments, Bakugou didn’t say anything.  Kirishima watched the boy curiously from where he was lying on his stomach on the floor of Bakugou’s room, the blond boy sitting cross-legged on his bed with his book in his lap.  Kirishima pushed himself up onto his elbows, waiting for the other boy to say something. Then, finally—

“I’m going home next Sunday for the old hag’s birthday,” he said gruffly, staring down at his notebook.  “I’m going to talk to them. My parents.”

Kirishima pushed himself off of the floor and kneeled on Bakugou’s bed instead, shuffling forward, close enough their their knees knocked into each other.  Kirishima ducked his head a little, trying to fall into Bakugou’s line of sight. Reluctantly, the boy’s gaze shifted so their eyes met.

“Really?” Kirishima asked.

“I don’t say shit I don’t mean,” Bakugou ground out.

“I know that,” Kirishima assured him.  “I just… are you sure you’re okay with it?”

Bakugou looked back down at his book.  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Do you…”  Kirishima paused, hesitating over the words.  “Do you want me to come with you?”

Bakugou’s expression slipped seamlessly into a scowl as he stared at his notebook, flipping the page with more force than necessary.  “Why would I want that?” he asked impatiently.

Kirishima shrugged.  “Moral support?”

“Tch.”  He turned the page aggressively again, and Kirishima was almost amazed it didn’t rip.  "You’ve got your internship, anyway.”

Kirishima frowned a little.  “I can talk to Fat, I’m sure he would be fine if—”

“You are definitely notcoming with me, shitty hair,” Bakugou said flatly, still trying to focus on the notebook in his lap.

“Oh.”  Kirishima pulled back a little, feeling abashed for pushing the way he had.  He should have known that wasn’t the type of offer he should be making to Bakugou.  “Okay.”

Bakugou snapped his book shut, tossing it to the side on his bed in aggravation; it landed with a plop.  “It’s not like—shit.”  He clenched his jaw for a moment.  “The next time you see my parents, it’s gonna be with me introducing you as my boyfriend.”

Kirishima’s eyes widened, and he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.  They hadn’t discussed the matter since that night in the kitchen—since Kirishima had first admitted his feelings for the other boy—since Bakugou had admitted he felt the same—since they’d kissed—and suddenly Kirishima could feel his pulse quickening.  “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Okay, yeah,” Kirishima said, swallowing.  “Yeah, that would… that would be cool.”

Bakugou raised an eyebrow.  “‘Cool’?”

Kirishima pouted at him.  “You caught me off guard!” he objected.  “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say!”  He looked down at his hands, fidgeting slightly.  “I mean, is that really okay? Is that what you want?”

Bakugou narrowed his eyes at him, jaw tight in aggravation.  “Is what what I want?”

Kirishima shrugged one shoulder.  “To be boyfriends.”

The next thing Kirishima knew, Bakugo had pinned him to the bed, hands grasping his wrists tightly.  The redhead tried to wriggle out of the grip, but Bakugou bared his weight down on him, hands crackling in just enough warning for Kirishima to harden his forearms against the tiny explosions.

He turned his torso one way, then the other, trying to get out.  “Hey, man, not cool—”

“Then stop that shit!” Bakugou growled.

Kirishima grunted, trying to shift his weight and knock Bakugou off balance, but again Bakugou just pressed more firmly into his wrists.  Kirishima hardened his skin further against the increased pressure, though still cautious that his Quirk wouldn’t cut into Bakugou’s palms.  “Stop—stop what shit?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Your ‘I’m not good enough’ bull shit,” Bakugou told him.

“I hate to tell you, dude,” Kirishima said, twisting under Bakugou, “but if you’re trying to help my self-confidence, this is not the way—”

The rest of Kirishima’s sentence was swallowed by Bakugou’s mouth as the boy surged forward, pressing their lips together in a sharp kiss.  The sudden action caused a swooping sensation in the pit of Kirishima’s stomach, reveling in the way that this was a thing—they could do this, now.  He quickly relaxed into the kiss, eyes closing as he moved his lips in response to Bakugou’s, tilting his head just a little for better access.

All too soon, Bakugou drew back, cheeks a shade of pink that Kirishima was quickly falling in love with.  He blinked up at the blond boy. “What...?”

In response, Bakugou grimaced.  “I’m shit with words,” he said, his tone one that Kirishima didn’t recognize; it was gruff but soft, curt but just a hint embarrassed.

“Oh,” Kirishima muttered.  His heart was beating much too fast, and he vaguely wondered if Bakugou could feel his pulse from where he was still gripping his wrists.  Still, he nodded in understanding, because he did understand—this was Bakugou’s answer: a very clear, very firm yes.  “Well, I... I do, too,” he said.  "I want us to be boyfriends.”

Bakugou didn’t respond other than a noise in the back of his throat, a little softer than his usual grunt.  Kirishima noticed the way the boy’s gaze flickered down to his lips, lingering there, and he wondered if he was going to kiss him again.

He kind of wanted him to.  He knew that they were still working through things on their own first, but god Kirishima almost just wanted to forget all of that and let Bakugou kiss him senseless, instead.  Maybe it wasn’t just a ‘kind of’—he knew that he shouldn’t, that they shouldn’t, but he really wanted Bakugou to kiss him.

But instead, the blond boy pulled away, sitting up and grabbing his notebook once more.  “Come on, shitty hair,” he said, glaring at the pages. “We need to finish up.”

Kirishima pushed himself up onto his elbows, and he was a little satisfied to see the blush across Bakugou’s cheeks, a delicate rosy color that looked so out of place on him, but Kirishima silently vowed he would do everything in his power to make that blush appear as much as possible.  He let out a sigh, flopping back on the bed for just a moment.

He just hoped that the remaining days until Bakugou went home didn’t end up killing him.

When Sunday finally arrived, Kirishima was feeling better than he had in weeks.

As soon as he’d first had that thought, a brief feeling of dread passed through him as he recalled the last time he’d felt that way.  However, he quickly steeled himself for whatever was to come either way, good or bad.  This time, he was much more confident in his abilities to overcome.

So when he walked into Fatgum’s hero office, it was with the determination to tell his mentor about everything that had transpired over the last couple months.

When he finished talking, the hero clapped a heavy hand onto Kirishima’s shoulder.  “I’m proud of you for sayin’ somethin’, kid,” he told him. “You had me worried.”

Kirishima grimaced a little at the statement.  “I’m sorry,” he sighed, glancing down.

But Fatgum shook his head.  “Worryin’ someone isn’t somethin’ ya need to apologize for, Red,” he said.  “It just means they care for ya.”

“Then... thanks?” Kirishima offered instead, looking back up the hero.

Fatgum chuckled, patting the boy’s shoulder.  “Better,” he agreed. “No go ‘n’ get yourself ready!”

By the time Kirishima made it back to the dorms at Yuuei, he was sore and tired, though satisfyingly so.  The day had been long but not especially eventful. Toward the end of their patrol they had managed to apprehend a thief, and Kirishima escaped without injury this time, save a couple typical scrapes and bruises.  Still, the events had ensured that Kirishima didn’t finish his day until much later than expected. He’d showered briskly at the hero offices, grabbing food to eat on the train so he could return more quickly and still make it with plenty of time before curfew.

When he stepped out of the elevator and onto the fourth floor, he noticed that Bakugou’s light was on.

Immediately, the boy bypassed his own room, beelining for Bakugou’s instead.  He didn’t even stop to drop off his bag, heading straight for Bakugou’s door and knocking three times in rapid succession.  He didn’t wait for an answer before opening it.

“Hey,” Kirishima said, still hovering by the door after he closed it, his backpack slung over one shoulder.  “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Bakugou said flatly.

Kirishima bit his lip when the blond boy didn’t elaborate.  Then, he took a few tentative steps into the room. Finally, he dropped his bag on the floor and then sat on the bed next to Bakugou, curling one of his legs beneath him.  “What did they say?” he asked gently.

Bakugou heaved out a sigh, setting aside his phone which he had been flicking through and folding his arms over his chest.  “They... wanna help, I guess,” he said with a shrug. “They talked about some different ways to handle it, what I can do.”

Kirishima nodded reassuringly.  “And what did you say?” he asked.

“That I need a couple days and I’d think about the different things they said and figure it out,” he said.  “They’re gonna check up on me in a few days and see what I decide.”

Kirishima grinned widely at him.  “I’m proud of you,” he told him.

“Yeah, whatever...” Bakugou muttered.  “How was your stuff?”

“It was a pretty good day,” Kirishima said.  “Nothing too interesting, though. Just long.”

Bakugou hummed in response—then, for a moment, a comfortable silence fell between them.  In that time, Kirishima gently reached out, taking Bakugou’s hand into his as he’d wanted to so many times before, but had only allowed himself a handful of times during late hours of the night when everyone else was asleep.  He intertwined their fingers, brushing his thumb over the back of Bakugou’s hand.

He really did like Bakugou’s hands.

After a few moments, Kirishima couldn’t suppress a loud yawn; he leaned over, pressing his face into Bakugou’s shoulder.

“‘M tired,” he mumbled.

With a scoff, Bakugou shoved him off his shoulder, though he did not relinquish his grip on his hand.  Kirishima pouted back at the boy, but only seconds later, he found himself being tugged forward so he was lying on the bed beside Bakugou.  The boy’s other hand tentatively found his waist, and Kirishima could feel his palm, burning hot, even through the fabric of his t-shirt. Their other hands sat in the space between them, sill entwined.

Kirishima pushed his hair out of his face, then looked up at Bakugou.  The boy’s own expression had the smallest hint of uncertainty as his eyes traveled from where his hand sat just above Kirishima’s hip, up to his face.

“This okay?” he asked in a gruff whisper.

“Yeah,” Kirishima responded in an equally soft tone, nodding.  “Yeah this is okay. It’s good.”

Bakugou looked at him for a moment longer before shifting his gaze away.  “I still owe you dinner.”

“Dinner?” Kirishima questioned, looking at him with curiosity.

“Yeah,” Bakugou said.  "From before. You won that race, but then… then, at the mall… Well, we didn’t get our dinner.  I still owe you that.”

Kirishima smiled as realization slowly seeped through him.  The grin stretched across his face while an effervescent feeling pervaded through his stomach and chest.  “Bakugou, are you asking me on a date?” he asked, unable to keep the slight teasing tone from his voice.

“That’s not what I’m doing, hair for brains,” Bakugou snapped defensively.  “You won, so I—”

“I’d like it if it were a date,” Kirishima admitted quietly, his tone appeasing this time.

The statement caused Bakugou to snap his jaw shut and swallow thickly.  Finally, Kirishima shifted his other hand up so that he was holding Bakugou’s in both of his, as though it was something precious.  He offered Bakugou a small, genuine smile as he watched him consider the sentence, as though Kirishima was able to see the gears turning inside of his head, the machinations of his thoughts.

Then, Bakugou huffed out an agitated breath.  “Fine, then,” he grunted. “It can be a date.”

Kirishima curled his fingers more tightly around Bakugou’s, the fondness bubbling up in his chest until he almost couldn’t bear it.  “Bakugou,” he said softly, “can I kiss you again?”

Bakugou furrowed his brow.  “Why the hell do you keep asking first, shitty hair?” he asked, though it wasn’t exactly in annoyance.

Kirishima raised his shoulders slightly in a shrug.  “I want to make sure it’s okay,” he said.

Bakugou’s frown only deepened at this.  “Why wouldn’t it be okay?” he asked instead.

“Then…” Again, Kirishima couldn’t stop the teasing lilt his voice his took on. “You want me to kiss you?”

Bakugou glared at him.  “I didn’t say that,” he snapped.

Kirishima just grinned. “It’s okay to tell me you want to kiss me.”

“If I want to kiss you then I’ll just fucking do it,” Bakugou ground out.

A beat later, Bakugou’s hand found its way to the back of Kirishima’s head, pulling him close until their lips collided.  His fingers slid through Kirishima’s hair, holding him in place, other hand sliding out of the redhead’s grip and onto his shoulder.  Kirishima let his arms find Bakugou’s waist, wrapping around him and pulling him impossibly closer. Their knees knocked together as their mouths slid against each other in what was quickly becoming a practiced rhythm to them.  And Kirishima savored that feeling, loved that this was something that was becoming so normal to them, a routine that they partook in together.

Finally, they reluctantly drew apart in an effort to catch their breath.  However, their lips were the only parts that separated, still maintaining their proximity, close enough that Kirishima could feel Bakugou’s warm breath caressing his cheek with each tiny puff of air.

“Like that?” Kirishima asked breathlessly, one hand traveling up to rest between the blond’s shoulder blades.

“Yeah,” Bakugou murmured.  “Like that.”

Kirishima smiled as he leaned forward, burying his face in the other boy’s chest.  Bakugou was gently combing his fingers through Kirishima’s hair, a gesture so calming and comforting that he almost felt himself being lulled to sleep.

At the idea, Kirishima’s chest clenched a little.  He tilted his head, glancing up at Bakugou.

“How have you been sleeping, lately?” he asked.  His own sleep had been improving dramatically, and he knew that today was Bakugou’s own effort at improvement.  The boy hadn’t come to wake him up due to any nightmares, but he knew too that that didn’t necessarily mean that Bakugou wasn’t having them.

“It’s been worse,” Bakugou muttered.

“But still not great?”  Bakugou hummed noncommittally and Kirishima could feel the sound rumble through the boy’s chest.  Kirishima sighed. “I wish I could do something to help.”

“You could stay,” Bakugou suggested, and it was so quiet that Kirishima wasn’t even sure if he’d heard it.  After a few moments, he finally pulled back far enough so that he could properly look Bakugou in the eye.

“I could stay…” he said slowly.

He wanted to question it, but he knew all too well Bakugou would insist that he meant it, because he wouldn’t have said it otherwise.  He knew that it wasn’t a real solution, but he understood too that sometimes it was enough of a comfort to just know that you weren’t alone.

“You don’t have to."

Maybe that was Bakugou’s way of saying he didn’t want to be alone.

And Kirishima definitely didn’t want to leave him alone; he wanted to face these problems with Bakugou head-on, hand-in-hand, at his side.

Kirishima smiled gently.  “I’ll stay.”

Chapter Text

Kirishima was fidgeting.

Kirishima was fidgeting because he was nervous.

Bakugou shot him a sideways glance, frowning.  “Knock it off, shitty hair,” he grunted. Still, even with the gruff command, he shifted slightly closer to the redhead as they walked through the gate, letting their shoulders brush in what Kirishima knew was an attempt at reassurance.

“I can’t help it,” he groaned, hand jumping up to fiddle with his hair.

Bakugou’s own hand darted up, grasping Kirishima’s wrist as he stopped walking, still a short distance from the front porch, turning to properly face the boy.  “I said stop,” he said firmly.  “Your hair is fine.  You’re fine.  Everything is fine.”  He sighed, jaw tight as he furrowed his brow.  “I don’t know why you’re freaking out, it’s not like you’ve never met them before.”

“It’s different this time,” Kirishima murmured weakly.  He lowered his hand from where it was touching his spikes, but Bakugou didn’t relinquish his grip.  Kirishima grimaced. “It’s one thing to be your classmate, but it’s another to be your… your…”

“My boyfriend,” Bakugou supplied, the edges of his lips tilting in a slight smirk.  Kirishima nodded with a blush.

The truth was, they were still both stumbling blindly through this whole thing; it wasn’t as though either of them had experience in the area.  Kirishima was especially tentative, wanting to do everything right. After they’d first talked it all out, Bakugou had even admitted he was shocked that Kirishima wasn’t ready to shout a confession from his balcony—or at least, pleasantly surprised that Ashido and Kaminari hadn’t tackled him to the ground and demanded answers, especially considering their inability to, as Bakugou put it, ‘mind their own fucking business’.

They’d agreed to take things at their own pace.  For the most part, this involved a lot of mutual teasing when either got inevitably hung up on certain new aspects to their fledgling relationship—in Kirishima’s case, the boy couldn’t seem to utter the word ‘boyfriend’ without his cheeks turning a shade of red that rivaled his hair, while Bakugou seemed to short-circuit whenever Kirishima brushed his lips along his cheekbone, accompanied with a few sweet, simple words of affection.

But, Kirishima thought pleasantly as Bakugou slipped his hand more comfortably into his, fitting their palms together, they were making progress; Kirishima didn’t ask before every kiss anymore, and Bakugou was quickly familiarizing himself with each of Kirishima’s tells, learning those moments when he needed reassurance. When it was just the two of them, it was filled with moments of trial and error, teeming with affection.  They were defining their relationship by their own terms, with the same slow and steady pace as they worked toward their own personal recoveries, as well. There was no rush.

“Does it even really matter what they think, anyway?” Bakugou huffed out.

“Yes,” Kirishima responded without hesitation.

“It’s not like it’d change anything,” the boy continued to grumble.  “Would it change how you felt if your parents didn’t like me?”

Kirishima felt a small pang in his chest.  He knew the answer that Bakugou was searching for—that no, it would not change how Kirishima felt.  Still, he couldn’t help but replay the phone conversation with his mother, the one during which he tried to explain to her everything that had been happening, and when he’d even mentioned Bakugou and the developments in their relationship.

It had been an incredibly short phone call.

Bakugou had noticed the poorly veiled disappointment when Kirishima had told him about it afterwards.  He’d immediately tried to play it off as fine, assuring him that it wasn’t a big deal, that it was what he’d expected, but he knew that Bakugou could see how he’d deflated after; if anything, though, that was what bothered Kirishima most about it—the fact that it had gone exactly how he’d predicted, and he still felt so incredibly let down.

Still, he’d been taken aback when, the next day after class, Bakugou had informed him that Kirishima would be coming home with him for the short Christmas to New Year break.  Kirishima hadn’t even told the boy yet that he had been planning on staying at Yuuei for the break, that he had actually been on his way to bring it up with Aizawa-sensei and ask him about staying in the dorms for the holidays.  In the end, he hadn’t needed to.

Instead, he now found himself standing outside of Bakugou’s house, hand in hand with the other boy, two days before Christmas.

“No,” Kirishima admitted quietly.  “But…” He wasn’t able to finish the sentence, but the way he trailed off into a tense silence said enough for the other boy.

“Shit.  I didn’t… Sorry,” Bakugou said awkwardly.  He took a deep breath. “They already like you just fine, though,” he went on, giving Kirishima’s hand a reassuring squeeze.  “Pretty sure the old hag’s been in love with you since Kamino.”

A tiny bit of the tension eased out of Kirishima’s shoulders at that.  “Yeah?” he asked, allowing himself to be a little bit hopeful that maybe Bakugou’s mother wouldn’t completely hate him, purely on principle.

“I’ll be shocked if she doesn’t try to adopt you by the time we go back to school.”

“Well, if I did, then at least one son wouldn’t be a total brat.”

Kirishima tensed, turning to see the woman they’d just been discussing leaning against the doorframe, arms folded with an all-too-familiar smirk on her face.  “Ah—Bakugou-san!” He bowed his head. “Thank you for having me,” Kirishima told her quickly. “I really appreciate it."

“No need to be so formal, Kirishima-kun,” the woman said, approaching them and patting the boy’s shoulder.  “We’re more than happy to host Katsuki’s boyfriend.” She tilted her head toward the other boy. “Especially if it means he’ll actually come to see us,” she said, ruffling his hair.

Bakugou ducked away from her, hand falling out of Kirishima’s grasp as he did so.  “Get off!” he snapped. “I just saw you a couple weeks ago. Isn’t that enough?”

“Well, I certainly hope you’d see your mother on her own birthday,” she said, folding her arms over her chest and cocking her hip.  “The point is,” she continued, turning back to Kirishima with a smile, “that we’re happy we get to meet you again.”

“Don’t make a big deal about it,” Bakugou told her, and Kirishima wondered whose sake he was saying it for, considering the flush on his cheeks that was more from just the cold air.

“Katsuki, if you haven’t scared the poor boy off yet, it’s not like your father and I can manage it,” she told him plainly.  Kirishima mentally had to agree with that assessment, but he didn’t say anything. “Anyway,” the woman pressed on, “your father is finishing up dinner.  So why don’t you two set your things down upstairs and get washed up?”

Bakugou grumbled something out in response, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he pushed his way through the door.

“We really are glad you’re here,” his mother told Kirishima with a genuine smile.

“Thank you again, Bakugou-san,” Kirishima said quickly.

“Come on, shitty hair!”

Mitsuki scowled as she turned toward the sound of her son’s voice.  “Katsuki!” she scolded. “I know that you did not just call your boyfriend—”

“It’s fine!” Kirishima quickly assured her.  “He’s called me that since I met him, I’m pretty sure.  It’s not a big deal.”

Mitsuki raised an eyebrow, then shook her head.  “You’re too kind for your own good,” she said.

But Kirishima shrugged.  “He doesn’t mean anything by it,” he told her.  “I know he doesn’t. He never does.”

Again, the woman shook her head, this time smiling slightly as she patted his shoulder.  “I sure hope that boy knows how damn lucky he is to have found someone like you,” she said.  “Though I might be speaking a bit from experience when I say that he probably does.” Kirishima was about to respond when she gave him a slight push toward the door.  “Go on up to Katsuki’s room and put your stuff down,” she told him. “He’s probably losing his mind over the fact that I’m talking to you alone right now.”

Kirishima chuckled, murmuring his thanks once again as he hurried off after Bakugou.  He toed his shoes off at the door, then made his way up the stairs to Bakugou’s room. He’d only been there once before, not long before the catastrophe that the summer camp ended up being.  It had been a quick visit, in the days just before the trip to I Island, but he could still vaguely remember just where the boy’s bedroom was situated. He made his way there to find Bakugou with his usual expression of annoyance, line between his brows as he scowled at his desk.  He’d thrown his bag into his chair and was unpacking a few things, dropping them onto the workspace. Kirishima wasn’t quite sure why Bakugou was bothering with it—they hadn’t been assigned any work over the break, and they’d been told by his mother to go and wash up—

Then it occurred to him, and it seemed painfully obvious.

“You’re nervous, too.”

Kirishima had meant to pose it as a question, but instead it came out as a statement, a sort of disbelief buried in the words.  He watched as Bakugou’s shoulders tensed, as he clutched the back of his desk chair, fingers digging into the fabric.

“It’s okay—”

“I am not,” Bakugou snapped, whirling around to face him.  Kirishima quirked a brow, looking at him dubiously.  After a moment, Bakugou’s resolve crumbled. “Fine,” he said.  “I’m nervous.”

“Why?” Kirishima asked.  Then, with a sigh, he stepped closer to the boy, placing his hands reassuringly on Bakugou’s arms.  “They’re not going to run me off, you know,” he assured him. “It’s not like they’ll change what I think of you.  You’re still the coolest, manliest guy I know, and I’m here with you for a reason.”

Bakugou shifted his gaze away, glaring at a spot on the wall just beyond Kirishima’s shoulder while his cheeks turned a faint rosy color.  “You’re such a fucking sap.”

Kirishima’s lips twitched into a smile.  He paused for a moment, considering, then leaned forward, one hand raising up to Bakugou’s jaw to turn his head slightly. He captured the boy’s mouth in a quick kiss, a chaste but lingering press of lips.  He drew back from the kiss, resting their foreheads against each other.

“I really like you, Bakugou,” he whispered in admission.

Bakugou cleared his throat.  “You should...” he murmured. “While we’re here, you should call me Katsuki.”

Kirishima pulled further away, blinking owlishly at the other boy.  “Oh,” he said. “I... Are you sure?”

Bakugou raised one shoulder in a shrug.  “It’s just a name,” he muttered, though his cheeks were still a brilliant shade of pink that Kirishima was quickly considering one of his favorite colors.  “Doesn’t matter.”

He nodded in agreement, unwilling to say that he felt like it was something bigger.  “Yeah, okay,” he said.  “Then... then you can call me Eijirou.”

“Eijirou...”  He said the name quietly, contemplatively, as though he was trying it out, seeing how it tasted on his tongue.  Kirishima felt his own cheeks heat up, wanting desperately to save the sound of his name on the other boy’s lips.  It felt almost strange to hear, so used to Bakugou’s insulting nicknames that never had any actual venom behind them, not just for him but for their entire class—and honestly, just about everyone else they encountered.  It wasn’t a bad sort of strange, though—instead, it made something constrict in his chest pleasantly, made his cheeks feel warm against the chill of winter that had settled deep into his bones, made his heart beat a staccato rhythm against his rib cage.

“Dinner’s ready!”

The call from downstairs made Kirishima jump slightly, and he took another step back from the other boy.  “We should hurry up and wash up,” he mumbled.

Bakugou nodded.  “Yeah,” he grunted in agreement.  “Come on, then, Eijirou.”

Kirishima briefly wondered if he could somehow convince Bakugou to only use that name for him from now on, but shook his head to clear it of the thought.  He’d have time to readdress it later. First, he had to get through dinner.

As it turned out, dinner that night proved to be an interesting experience for Kirishima.  The boy felt as though the meal took an inordinate amount of time, purely because of how long was spent by Bakugou’s parents asking him questions about anything and everything—from getting accepted at Yuuei to his performance at the sports festival; from his classes with Bakugou to their exams and hero training; from initial fieldwork to his current internship with Fat Gum.  Certain topics seemed to be avoided, and Kirishima half-wondered if Bakugou had anything to do with that; he couldn’t help but find it noticeable the way nobody seemed to bring up the fact that he wasn’t at his house with his family for the holiday—or the way that the Kamino incident wasn’t mentioned, despite the fact that Kirishima practically expected it to be.

He didn’t exactly mind that, though.  Instead, the conversation seemed focused on the other boy’s parents attempting to get to know him the best that they could.  He felt oddly like he was being interviewed, a strange sort of spotlight on him that he still wasn’t quite yet used to. Still, their interest seemed genuine and he tried to calm his nerves as he answered honestly.

By the time the meal ended, Kirishima felt drained.

Mitsuki and Masaru insisted that they boys start getting ready for bed while the two of them cleaned up after the meal.  To his surprise, Bakugou agreed easily.

“I’ve made plans,” he explained, after they’d changed into their pajamas and brushed their teeth, returning to Bakugou’s room.

Kirishima blinked at him.  “For us?”

“Yes, for us, shitty hair,” Bakugou huffed out.  “Who the hell else?”

A wide grin spread across Kirishima’s face, his pulse fluttering a little at the thought—Christmas Eve with Bakugou.  He knew the boy didn’t exactly care for convention, but all the same, the thought that he had planned for them to do something on a holiday couples typically spent together?  He was suddenly eager to go to sleep, excited to see what Bakugou had thought up for them to do together.

It was then that he noticed there was no spare futon or bedding in Bakugou’s room, and he bit into his lip.  “Are we sharing?” he asked, gesturing to the bed.

Bakugou frowned a little.  “Problem?”

“No!” Kirishima quickly told him.  “I guess I just... I’m surprised your parents...”

Bakugou rolled his eyes as he drew down the blankets on his bed.  “My old man tried to offer up a futon, but my mom wasn’t having it,” he said.  “She brought up that we’ve done it before anyway at school, that it’s not such a big deal ‘cause it’s just sleeping...”  He shrugged. “Is that fine? Because I can go get—”

“It’s fine!” Kirishima assured him.

Bakugou raised an eyebrow dubiously as he slid beneath his sheets.  A moment later, Kirishima crawled into bed beside him, the blond reaching over to flick off his light.  He shifted, pulling the blankets over their shoulders and looking at the redhead, their eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.

Slowly, Kirishima shuffled forward, closing the gap between them; he snaked his arms around Bakugou’s waist, pulling him just a few inches closer.

“Is this fine?” he asked in a whisper.

He felt Bakugou nod more than he saw him.  “Yeah,” he breathed out, draping an arm over Kirishima in return.  “It’s good.”

Kirishima pressed his face against Bakugou’s collarbone in an effort to hide his grin.  He let all of his attention fall on the slow sound of Bakugou’s breathing and the sensation of his warm hand rubbing calming patterns between his shoulder blades.

“Good night, Katsuki,” he murmured, smile widening at the way Bakugou’s hand stuttered for just a moment in its ministrations.  Then—

“‘Night, Eijirou.”

It wasn’t long before sleep claimed them both.

Kirishima was running—no, he was being pushed.  Midoriya was at one side, arms grasping his middle, while Iida was on the other side, doing the same exact thing.  He hardened his arms as they broke through the concrete, then sped up the wall of ice Todoroki had created.

Suddenly, they were in the air and Kirishima looked down—he flung out his hand, calling out at the top of his lungs—

“Come!”

He watched as Bakugou moved to project himself toward them, directing his hands toward the ground and readying himself for the blast—

But then there was Shigaraki, using his left hand to grab Bakugou’s arm and, before the boy could react, the villain shoved his right hand in Bakugou’s face, all five fingers making contact with the skin so it instantly began to crumble amidst screams.

“No!”

Kirishima jerked awake, sitting bolt upright in bed.  He gasped for air, hand clutching his chest. His felt like his head was spinning—like the whole room was spinning.

“K’shima?” came the sleepy murmur beside him, and he felt Bakugou shifting into a sitting position next to him.

Kirishima pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, watching the white spots erupt in the darkness against his eyelids.  His breath stuttered and he almost felt like crying—things had been getting so much better, and now, suddenly…

“It’s okay,” Bakugou said, his hand finding the boy’s shoulder.  “Hey, it’s okay."  But Kirishima only shook his head adamantly.  It wasn’t okay—it wasn’t the first time he’d had the nightmare, but it was one that always seemed to haunt him the most.  It was one he’d constantly tried to mentally rewrite, and for the most part, he was successful—but then there were nights like this when it felt as though he was suddenly losing his progress so quickly, where he so simply slipped back into the nightmares, back into that same terrible routine, watching the events unfold and lead to an outcome he never wanted to see again.

He swallowed, choking on the air as he tried to inhale.  It wasn’t supposed to end up like this again, not when things were getting better…

“Hey,” Bakugou said, pulling the boy close to him.  He wrapped an arm around his middle, his other hand finding Kirishima’s, which the redhead clutched tightly in return; Kirishima’s other hand grasped onto Bakugou’s shirt, taking a fistful of the cloth.  “Breathe,” Bakugou told him firmly. “Kirishima—Eijirou. Here—tell me five things you can see.”

The demand was almost startling—so simple but unexpected, and Kirishima couldn’t quite make sense of it.  “I—w-what?” he stammered, still trembling slightly as he looked at Bakugou, trying to fathom out what he’d just requested of him.

“Just trust me,” Bakugou said calmly, the same firmness to his tone that left no room for argument.  “Five things you can see, Eijirou.”

Kirishima blinked, furrowing his brow a little as his eyes flitted over the room, still adjusting in the dark as he tried to pick out five things he could see.  “I can see... your desk...” he said slowly. “I see the chair... the window...” He tilted his head a little, eyes focusing near his lap. “The blankets...” He shifted his gaze back to Bakugou.  “And you.”

Bakugou nodded.  “All right, good,” he said.  “Now tell me four things you can feel.”

“Four things I can feel?” Kirishima questioned, and again the other boy nodded.  He took a deep breath, trying to slow his mind down as he processed the next request.  “Okay... I can feel the blanket, I can feel the heat,” he said slowly. He glanced down between them, loosening his tight grip on the boy’s shirt and spreading his fingers against the fabric instead.  “I can feel your shirt... and your hand.”

Bakugou’s fingers tightened slightly around Kirishima’s, the grip gentle but reaffirming.  “Okay, good,” he said. “Tell me three things you can hear.”

Kirishima shifted his eyes up to the ceiling, straining his ears a little to pick up any sounds he could in the quiet room.  “I can hear the heater,” he said, “the wind outside, and your voice.”

“Two things you can smell.”

Kirishima paused for a moment, closing his eyes, inhaling slowly through his nose, catching the faint scent of lavender fabric softener and something a bit citrusy.  “Your shirt and your shampoo,” he said.

“And one thing you can taste?” Bakugou asked.

Kirishima’s tongue darted out between his lips, but couldn’t name anything.  Even the flavor of his toothpaste had dissipated after the couple hours of sleep, completely indistinguishable in his mouth.  His eyes flickered up to Bakugou, who was looking at him expectantly. Without a moment of deliberation, Kirishima curled his fingers back into Bakugou’s shirt and shifted forward just a few centimeters, pressing his lips firmly to Bakugou’s before drawing back just as quickly.  He flicked his tongue out again, catching the faint but sharp taste of cinnamon on his lips.

“You,” he whispered, a small smile forming on his lips.

Even in the darkness, he watched as the blush crept across Bakugou’s nose and cheeks before the boy shoved a hand in his face, pushing him away.  “Idiot,” he grumbled.

Kirishima couldn’t stop the grin from widening across his face, noticing as he did so how his heart rate was already slowing to something he could consider normal.  The muscles in his hands still felt taut, but his hands weren’t shaking.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.  “That... what you did. It really helped.”

Bakugou hummed, seemingly overcoming his slight embarrassment from moments before.  “It’s called grounding,” he told him.

“Where’d you learn it?” Kirishima asked.

Bakugou stared down at where Kirishima’s hand sat in his, idly running his thumb over his skin.  “Found it online,” he said. “After that night when you got so upset and I couldn’t calm you down ‘cause I couldn’t remember that breathing thing... I looked up some other stuff.  Other ways to help.”

Kirishima stared at him a little incredulously, feeling his heart flutter in his chest.  “You did?”

Bakugou gave a jerky nod.  “I didn’t like how... useless I felt.  Like I couldn’t do anything.”

“Bakugou…"

“I get that you were upset about more than just that,” he cut across, gaze serious as he looked back up at Kirishima with a frown.  “But that doesn’t change that there was nothing I could do, and I wanted to be able to do something.”

Kirishima surged forward, wrapping his arms around Bakugou’s middle and pulling him close, pressing his forehead into the crook of his neck.  After a moment’s pause, the other boy returned the gesture, sliding his palms up Kirishima’s back, a solid pressure that eased all of the remaining tension out of his body.

“Thanks,” Kirishima breathed out, giving the other boy a slight squeeze as he whispered the word. “Thank you, Katsuki.”

Bakugou’s hands stilled for a moment.  Then, one palm pressed more firmly against his spine while the other hand drew away, and seconds later Kirishima felt the boy’s thumb ghosting along his jaw, his other fingers trailing across his neck.  Kirishima tilted his chin upward hesitantly.

Bakugou shifted his own face toward his, their noses brushing because of their proximity.  Kirishima could feel the blond boy’s hair tickling his forehead, his breath against his lips as his palm settled on his cheek.  Bakugou’s gaze was focused on his mouth, a pretty blush dusting along his cheekbones. And Kirishima let himself be lead closer still, closing the tiny gap between them, eyes fluttering shut as Bakugou pressed his lips against his.

The kiss was sweet and gentle, but still charged with emotion as Bakugou parted his lips, Kirishima tilting his head for a better angle. A small noise of appreciation sounded in the back of Bakugou’s throat, a tiny hum of contentment that reverberated against Kirishima’s lips as the kiss deepened.

After a few long moments, Kirishima drew back. He let his forehead rest against the other boy’s, eyes still closed as his heart pounded for reasons that were completely unrelated to—and admittedly much more pleasant than—his dream.

He felt as Bakugou pushed some of his hair from his face, tucking a few falling strands behind his ear. “You wanna talk about it?” he asked. “What was this one about?”

Kirishima lifted a shoulder in a shrug as he pulled back a little further, tilting his head away and directing his eyes downward. “The usual stuff,” he murmured evasively.  He didn’t want to relive it—not when he knew the other boy had his own nightmares about the incident—not when Bakugou was right there and clearly fine.

Bakugou frowned at him, staring at him for a moment before pulling away completely.  He threw the rest of his blankets away, then planted his feet on the floor, standing up.  He grabbed Kirishima’s wrist, tugging at him. “Come on, shitty hair.”

“What—” Kirishima clambered to his feet as Bakugou yanked on his wrist again.  “Where are we going?”

“Kitchen,” Bakugou supplied simply, opening his bedroom door and closing it softly behind them.

“Why?”

“We’re gonna make a Christmas cake.”

Kirishima blinked at the other boy as he continued to pull him, following him quietly down the stairs, careful not to make any noise.  “I don’t really know how to make a Christmas cake,” he said blankly.

“Well, you’re going to learn,” Bakugou said, dropping the boy’s hand as he flicked the switch by the archway and fluorescent light flooded the kitchen.

Both boys squinted at the harsh light, Bakugou immediately making his way to the refrigerator and rifling through the contents.  He passed an egg carton, stick of butter, and jug of milk behind him, letting Kirishima take them as he then moved to the pantry to retrieve the other ingredients.  Kirishima set the milk, butter, and eggs beside the tins of flour and sugar Bakugou pulled out; then, the boy went to the cabinets for a bowl, a pot, and a whisk.

“I can’t remember the last time I had Christmas cake,” Kirishima said thoughtfully as Bakugou turned on the oven to preheat.  “Probably when I was little. Sometimes my grandmother would bring us one.”

The blond boy froze in his actions.  He glanced at Kirishima, then filled the pot with water, placing it on the stove.

“I make one every year,” he told him.  “So you’ve never even helped make one?”

Kirishima shook his head.  “Just because it was Christmas Eve didn’t ever make my parents any less busy,” he said with a shrug.

Bakugou slid the bowl over to Kirishima, followed by the carton of eggs.  “Crack three eggs into there,” he ordered.

Kirishima looked from the bowl to Bakugou.  “What?”

Bakugou rolled his eyes.  “You’re gonna help make the cake, hair for brains,” he said.  “So crack three eggs in there. And don’t get any shells.”

“Oh.  Right.”  Kirishima opened the carton, taking out three eggs and carefully tapping them against the edge of the counter before pulling the shell halves apart and letting the raw egg fall into the bowl.  He carefully inspected the eggs as he did so, making sure that no shell remnants had fallen into the mix. “All right, now what?” he asked, looking to the other boy expectantly.

Bakugou handed him the whisk.  “Start mixing, and I’ll add the sugar.”

Kirishima nodded, taking the whisk and beating the eggs.  Bakugou measured out the sugar, then dumped it into the bowl while Kirishima continued to mix.  After a moment, Bakugou took the bowl from him, placing it on top of the pot of hot water, continuing to stir the contents.

They fell into a quiet, steady rhythm.  Bakugou gave Kirishima tasks, usually having him mix the ingredients while Bakugou measured them out and poured them in.  Once the batter was finished, they placed the filled baking tin in the oven and Bakugou moved onto making the cream while he had Kirishima slice strawberries.

When the cake was finished baking and had cooled a little, Bakugou took over the decorating.  Kirishima perched on the counter while the blond boy cut the cake in half, spreading the whipped cream and strawberry slices in the middle; then, he stacked the cake halves again and brushed the syrup on top before slathering it with more whipped cream and whole strawberries.

“It looks amazing,” Kirishima said as Bakugou sprinkled powdered sugar on top.

“You can’t have any yet,” the blond boy told him.  Kirishima pouted, but Bakugou just rolled his eyes.  “It’s for after dinner, shitty hair.”

After a moment of consideration, Kirishima asked, “Were your holidays always like this?”

“Something like it,” Bakugou said with a shrug.  “Always very... traditional.  My mom always made Christmas cake, and my dad would always make fried chicken.  They’d take me to see the lights until I got old enough to realize it was more of a couple thing and told them I didn’t want to go.  Then every New Year, we’d visit the Shizuoka Sengen shrine and do all of that stuff.”

Kirishima nodded along; he had to admit, it all sounded so pleasant and appealing, a genuinely warm holiday with family.  And yet, even after being there for just a short time thus far, he still felt welcomed instead of like he was intruding.

“Thanks,” he said hesitantly.  “For bringing me along this year.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Bakugou huffed out, folding his arms over his chest.  His tone was soft though, and Kirishima took it as the boy saying ‘you’re welcome’.  He smiled gently in return.

Shortly after, Bakugou dragged him into the living room and the two boys ended up cuddled up on the couch beside each other, wrapped up beneath a blanket together as they watched some classic hero movie after the cake had finished.

Which meant that Kirishima wasn’t all that surprised when he found himself stirring awake at a sudden noise, hours later, snuggled into the couch.  Bakugou was strewn across him, hands fisted into his shirt and one leg thrown over his, as thought he was trying to sap any warmth he possibly could from Kirishima.  Kirishima smiled sleepily as he looked down at the boy, letting his own hand fall against the back of his head, fingers instantly weaving through blond hair.

There was another small sound, and Kirishima finally registered that the noise was from the kitchen.  He glanced up just as Bakugou’s mother entered the living room. He tensed, trying to shift out from under the other boy, struggling to sit up slightly.  “Bakugou-san!”

The woman instantly shook her head, pressing a finger to her lips.  “Let him sleep,” she said quietly, folding one arm over her chest, a ceramic mug of coffee in her other hand.  “He never looks that peaceful.”

Kirishima could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, but nodded regardless.  He leaned back a little against the armrest again. Mitsuki leaned against the arm of an adjacent chair, tilting her head slightly as she glanced at her son.

“Katsuki mentioned that you have trouble sleeping, as well,” she said, taking a sip from her mug.

“Ah... yeah,” Kirishima admitted sheepishly.  “It’s been getting better, but last night...”

Mitsuki nodded in understanding.  “He’s said it’s like that for him, too. It comes and it goes. But he said you’ve been working on something for it with Aizawa-sensei.” Kirishima nodded along, a part of him feeling pleasantly surprised that Bakugou had put so much effort into explaining Kirishima’s situation to his parents as well. “Thank you,” she told him then, “for convincing him to say something to us.”

“I... I want him to get better,” he said.  “I want both of us to get better.”

The woman smiled kindly at him.  “You really love him, don’t you?”  Kirishima immediately spluttered in response, but Mitsuki waved her hand dismissively.  “All right, you haven’t said it to him. That’s fine. I’m not talking about whether you’re in love with him or not anyway,” she assured him.  “That’s between you two. But...” She paused for a moment, looking back at her sleeping son.  “You genuinely care about him.”

Kirishima’s cheeks still felt warm, but he nodded.  “I do,” he agreed.

“I’d thought so since he was kidnapped,” she admitted.  “I had hoped, at least. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said.  “I did it because I wanted to.”

Mitsuki considered him for a moment.  “Katsuki’s always had people fawning over him because of his Quirk.  He’s smart and he’s talented and he knows it, so he’s a brat about it.  So yeah, people always admired his abilities, but when it came to people who actually cared for him...” She sighed.  “I’m happy he has someone like you in his life, Kirishima-kun.”

“I’m happy to have him, too,” Kirishima told her.

She grinned, pushing herself up from her seat.  She placed a gentle hand on her son’s head, then instead moved to ruffle Kirishima’s hair.  “Keep taking care of him, all right?” she said. “I know he can take care of himself, he’s always been independent—more independent than any mother would want of their child.  But... he needs someone. He always has, but isn’t the most willing to let others help. I knew that if he ever did, they’d have to be someone just as headstrong as him.” She smiled. “Thank you for being that someone.”

Kirishima smiled.  “Of course.”

“You’re always welcome here,” she went on.  “Katsuki mentioned a bit about your home situation—just know that our door is always open for you.”  She smirked. “And if you come around, then Katsuki will too to try to keep us from embarrassing him.”

“Thank you, Bakugou-san,” he said.

She patted his cheek affectionately, then padded back out of the room.  He could hear as she ascended the stairs once again.

“She gone?”

Kirishima jumped slightly at Bakugou’s voice.  “You were awake?” he asked, feeling the heat flood his cheeks again.

“You’re not that quiet,” Bakugou mumbled, pressing his face into Kirishima’s chest as he curled more into him and his warmth.

Kirishima wanted to argue that Bakugou was an incredibly heavy sleeper and he’d known him to sleep through worse, mind jumping to the last time they were in a similar situation and Kirishima had nearly shoved Bakugou completely off him in the presence of Uraraka, Ashido, and Jirou—none of whom were remotely quiet—before he’d woken up.  Instead, he hummed noncommittally, one hand grabbing the blanket they were under and tugging it closer to them. When Bakugou made a tiny, content noise at the back of his throat, burrowing further beneath the cover, Kirishima knew he’d made the right choice.

A short while later, Bakugou finally declared they should start getting ready, and Kirishima reluctantly released him so they could prepare for the day.  He attempted to ask several times just what it was they were doing, but Bakugou refused to tell him anything more than advising him to dress warmly and comfortably.

It was when the bus they were taking passed the city limits and they finally unboarded on the outskirts of town that Kirishima finally was struck by the realization of where Bakugou was taking him.  He glanced around at the surrounding area, the scenic landscape that wasn’t far off, which Kirishima could only assume was their destination.

“Are we going hiking?” he asked the other boy excitedly.

Bakugou ran a hand through his hair, then shoved both his palms in his pockets and gave a firm nod.  “You’ve been bugging me about it for ages, haven’t you?” he asked flatly.

“Well, yeah,” Kirishima agreed.  “But I didn’t think you’d actually bring me along.”

“What kind of shitty boyfriend do you take me for?” Bakugou snapped.

But Kirishima just laughed in response.  “Nothing like that, man,” he assured him with a smile.  “But this is like... your thing.”

“Which is exactly why I’m taking you, shitty hair,” he grumbled in annoyance; still, the response only served to broaden the redhead’s grin even further.  Bakugou frowned a little, looking at the ground with a scowl. “I know it’s not exactly… couple-y shit,” he said then. “Not what you’re supposed to do on Christmas Eve or whatever.”

“Dude, who cares about that?” Kirishima asked.  “We’re going together. That’s the important part!”

He watched as the blush spread across Bakugou’s cheeks, noticed the way he hunched his shoulders a little in embarrassment.  “Are you this fucking sappy just because it’s the holidays?”

Kirishima chuckled.  “Am I wrong?” he challenged.

Bakugou sighed, gaze still not meeting the other boy's.  “’S’pose not,” he muttered. In response, Kirishima pulled Bakugou’s hand out of his pocket, slotting their palms together and intertwining their fingers.

The trek was, for the most part, filled with a comfortable silence between the two boys.  Kirishima did most of the talking, excitedly pointing out different things that he saw along the path.  At first, he’d been worried he was annoying the other boy, until he had glanced back at Bakugou after enthusiastically running after a rabbit—as the creature hopped away from Kirishima’s crouched form, he looked back to where Bakugou was standing, expecting to see him watching critically, but instead he saw the boy with a fist pressed to his lips as his shoulders shook with repressed laughter.

After a moment, he shook his head at Kirishima, taking his hand and tugging him to his feet so they could continue on.

When they finally stopped, it was at the edge of a rock face; it was nowhere near the peak, but it was high enough to overlook the land beneath them, the town visible in the distance.  Kirishima suddenly appreciated the phrase ‘breathtaking view’ as he stared in awe, lips slightly parted as he looked out into the distance.  He couldn’t understand how it somehow managed to make everything look bigger and smaller at the same time—but he could understand why Bakugou enjoyed this.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

The statement was quiet, just a soft whisper of a declaration that Kirishima almost didn’t even catch.  He turned to Bakugou, who was still gazing at the view; the way the wind ruffled his hair and jacket, the way the sunlight caught his face and created a halo-like glow, Kirishima felt like he had another prime example of the term ‘breathtaking’.

“I’m glad I came down to the dorm kitchen that night,” Kirishima responded.  “I’m glad I told you about everything, and that you did, too.”

Bakugou turned to him.  “Yeah,” he said with a nod before turning away once again.  “Me, too.”

Kirishima reached his hand out, and without hesitation, Bakugou took it.  He gave the boy’s hand a squeeze as he turned his gaze away once more, looking out into the distance.  The weight of Bakugou’s hand in his felt solid and reassuring, a comfort that he never wanted to let go of—a reminder that he wasn’t alone anymore, and neither was Bakugou—they were a team.  Whatever the future had in store, he knew they’d face it head-on, side by side.