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"I'm just saying it would benefit you to be just the tiniest bit friendlier in your majors. I know you think connections and networking are trash but they DO matter." Jirou lectures, and Bakugou is cringing. It's the first day of his sophomore year in a dual program, and here he is, getting sassed by his closest friend. It's entirely too soon for this. It's just a bit too on the warm side today.
"Oh fuck right off with that. My work speaks for itself. I don't need people to suck up to. That's for the birds." Bakugou Katsuki is a Fine Arts and Fashion Design double major, and in both respects, he is the best. His professors are consistently stunned by his work and he outshines the rest of the class with his keen eye for pattern, colors, composition, and groundbreaking design. His only issue is that he is kind of a prick; most would say that his attitude is much like a dumpster fire.
Walking next to him down the pathway to the arts buildings is Jirou Kyouka. A Music Production major who fronts a band currently named Chargevolt (compliments of the bass guitarist and always subject to change) who has the keenest ear for great sound and has mastered no less than 10 instruments in her life. She's determined to contain the blaze that is Bakugou's personality because she knows reputation means a lot in his chosen field. Sometimes it doesn't matter how good your work is; if working with you is like trudging through raw sewage, no one will want to collaborate. But fashion is competitive, and Bakugou is a winner.
His first class of the day is Figure Drawing, and he can see the white marble and elegant structure of the Fine and Visual Arts Building ahead of him, almost blinding in the September sunlight. He shouldn't have worn this turtleneck but the heat was completely unexpected and almost every shirt he owns is black. So, not a lot of variety. Figure Drawing means sketching models and sitting through some fairly uncomfortable moments. Last time he had to figure draw, the model was an old man who kept making bizarre comments to many of the students and Bakugou had a hard time holding down his anger and not knocking the naked geezer's lights out. He wasn't supposed to criticize the human form, but the guy also had more cracks than a canyon. It had been a little hard to stomach. He swallowed back a bitter taste and silently hoped that this semester would be better.
He and Jirou attend Musutafu University in Japan, a school renowned for their high student success rate and the prestige of the teachers. Currently the campus looked like something out of a romance drama. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom and the breeze carries their petals all over. Students are bustling to get to class through the various pathways, running in and out of buildings of steel, glass, marble, and brick. Someone, somewhere, just realized their class is on the other side of campus, and they're definitely going to cry before the day is over.
Jirou's first class is Music Theory II, where she gets to have discussions with Tokoyami, lead guitarist of Chargevolt and resident goth. He's clearly waiting for her outside the performing arts building, a concrete monolith capable of pristine audio production and capture. So there Tokoyami is, leaning against one of its' walls, decked out in his leather jacket. He's got to be sweltering under it, but Bakugou can respect the commitment to aesthetic. Jirou pats the blond on the shoulder, which causes an involuntary scrunching of his nose. Tokoyami nods at him, and Bakugou nods back.
Tokoyami is a bit birdlike in appearance, he always thought. His nose and sharp features give his face a sort of pinched look, but it works for him. His hair is also consistently slicked back, looking like the wind plastered it that way. He has definitely been called Birdman before, but not by Bakugou (not at all). "Bakugou. A pleasure. Off to wow the masses again?" he asks, knowing that's exactly what he intends.
Of course he does not answer that question. It doesn't need a response. Instead he goes for the criticism. "Aren't you gonna sweat to death in that getup? It's fucking 65 out." he states, eyes flashing over to his building where he sees a swarm of students going in. "You're wearing a turtleneck and khakis, so the same could be asked of you." Tokoyami poses. This guy is one of the few people that Bakugou doesn't both arguing with because he is so unflappable. It isn't worth it. As Jirou starts to enter the building, she stops and comments over her shoulder "Oh don't you know? Bakugou's got to maintain the 'brooding, unapproachable artist' image!". That's her favorite line. He nearly shouts "Screw you! Just go make noise and let the professionals get to work!". Anyone else would think Bakugou was insulting the two, but they know better. He respects the two musicians and actually enjoys their work. They know he's a fan when he listens to their mixes and projects and genuinely softens in the eyes.
Jirou gives a parting remark. "Have fun dear! Remember, they're more afraid of you than you are of them." She's talking about the nude models. Bakugou scoffs and makes his way into the marble building, feeling instant relief when the AC blasts him in the face. Now he's going to be able to work in relative comfort and be only 40% belligerent asshat.
~~~~~
Bakugou Katsuki usually finds that his expectations and reality are fairly similar, and at first they are when he walks into his Figure Drawing class. Open floor design, walls covered in previous projects from students, warm sunshine filtering in through the windows across from the door. He can see the dust motes floating in the rays of light and smell the old paper and charcoals. It's a supremely comforting atmosphere. Students are at varying degrees of attentiveness. Some have coffee, some water, some Red Bull. Bakugou decided on his espresso this morning and nothing more. He needs a steady hand and that Red Bull crap just makes him feel like his body is buzzing. He does find himself pleasantly surprised by a few things. Where he expects to see Deku, he doesn't. Momo Yaoyorozu is here. He wasn't always so friendly with her, often viewing her as a holier than thou rich girl who was always looking down on him. After much painful friendly conversation, he found that she was not. She never was.
He also waited for the teacher to stride in, one of those overly-friendly types who always want you to introduce yourself, and talk about your artistic passion, and blah-blah-blah. Instead, a lady who emanates confidence and directness enters the room, wearing crisp grey gaucho pants and a pristine white button down. She addresses the room with the same confident air she holds in her stature.
"I am Nemuri Kayama, and this is Figure Drawing 101. Over the semester, you will viewing a number of different models and turning in sketches each week for your portfolios. The end project will consist of your best sketches and one full body portrait done in either charcoal, pencil, or another drawing medium that will serve as your main piece. I trust that you all know what you're doing here and aren't unwise enough to show up unprepared. Your model will be in in a couple of moments. Ready yourselves around the stool."
He's already slipping into his element, his easel unfolded and situating his sketchbook and various implements on the shelf. Momo has taken the liberty of setting up next to him. With a voice like cashmere, she broaches the silence. "Nice seeing you here Katsuki. I wasn't entirely sure what session you would be in." He barely even grunts in response. She doesn't take it personally.
The third, and most shocking discrepancy between his expectations and reality comes in the form of the model. The person that comes through the door is not an older person, or a woman for that matter. What strides in is a red-headed, tank of an angel in a half shirt. Bakugou feels a blush immediately rise on the bridge of his nose and a column of heat running along his spine. No one, he thinks, has the right to look that good. He will not allow the blush or his body to give away any sort of nerve however, so he shoves the random attraction down inside a box called 'Forget About It', and throws it away. His best call. He is not flustered. He will not make a fool of himself in front of the peers he is supposed to blow out of the water. Bakugou fuckin' Katsuki is a professional.
The one thing he will do is study his man until his eyes burn. From the tips of that red spiked hair to the toes of his currently bare feet, he is cool and smooth. Bakugou starts counting back from ten to one, pulling in breaths, and letting out exasperation. The model's movements do nothing to hide the well-proportioned muscle layered on his shoulders, back, arms, legs, god everywhere. He slips between two ladies who are making a big deal about being in his way. At least Bakugou has enough decency to not glaringly stare at the guy like he's fresh meat. The voice that flows out of him is easy and jovial. It fits him, and when he speaks, the prettiest smile pulls his lips up at the corners. "Hey everyone. Name's Kirishima Eijirou. I think I'm your model for 2 weeks...3?". Nemuri holds up 2 fingers. Damn, the blond internally sighs. Nodding, he continues. "So, I guess I just sit here and you tell me what to do."
And then he turns, making direct eye contact with the blond, and winks. It is equal parts hot and corny. Under his breath and shielded by his easel, he whispers "what the FUCK." He's not going to let a pair of ruby eyes and thighs like stone deter him from his work, but Kirishima's presence beckons. Momo is covering a giggle next to Bakugou and leans over to joke "It seems you have a little friend."
Kirishima makes short work of getting down to his boxers. He's a testament to strength, with his form somehow herculean but moving with the smoothness of a river. The group has readied themselves at their easels and Nemuri putters around the classroom. The atmosphere should feel soothing to Bakugou but instead the air feels thick. At least his hands remain steady when Professor Kayama pipes up. "Kirishima dear, we did discuss that this would be a nude modeling position. Are you alright to do that? I don't want you to do anything you're not comfortable with."
Softly laughing, he replies, "Oh, I know! I'm just going to settle in first if that's alright. Then the grand reveal!". Great, he's a comedian too. Bakugou has already begun to sketch, smooth lines turning into shoulders, cheekbones, calves. He knows he's going to have a hard time getting Kirishima out of his head later, but it's only two weeks and then there'll be peace again.
There's always those few eggs in the group who can't seem to hold it together in class. Bakugou and Momo finds themselves irritated by the mutters of a couple young ladies across the circle, making rather lewd comments about Kirishima's ass and his romantic status. Bakugou snaps not because he's jealous because he's not, but he needs the quiet to work. "Hey airheads, how about you spend some time sketching instead of objectifying! Maybe then you can call yourself artists!". In the relative quiet of the circle, his exclamation is like a canon blast. Kayama raises a brow, moving towards the two girls in question. "Ladies, if you cannot contain yourselves, I'm going to ask you to leave. Bakugou, as much as we appreciate your authority, please focus on your work." Kirishima at first stiffens, looking like he's the one in trouble. After Nemuri starts moving around the circle and she purrs out an apology to Kirishima, he returns to a more relaxed pose. He mouths a thank you to Bakugou, only getting a nod in return.
He;s no stranger to the human form. His mother is a cosmetologist and father a fashion designer himself, Bakugou had seen plenty of professional models in his lifetime. None of them were as pretty as Kirishima. Everything about him screamed hard work, from the long, square hands, to the barely noticeable scar on his left eyelid (Bakugou had made sure to sketch that). He began to let his mind ponder about the red-head. What does he do to look that strong? Fight? Physical education? Weight lifting? How does he move so softly when he looks like he could deliver the strongest knockout? Is he a student? Why has he never seen him before? All that time, he's completing a near perfect sketch of Kirishima. He's posed on the stool, looking off to the left, arms propped on his thighs, hands dangling between.
Nemuri lets out a soft "Oh!" when she reaches Bakugou and has her hands on her hips. Kirishima moves his glance slowly back in the direction of the prized student, looking pleased as pie. "Bakugou, you never cease to amaze. You even captured his scars. The attention paid to the eyes and face is exquisite. This definitely goes in the portfolio." He feels the familiar swell of pride in his chest but doesn't look at the professor. "ust a sketch, but I know. I can blow all of you out of the water."
Class is halfway through the exercise when it happens. Kirishima is definitely not shy about his body. Once he's completely naked, Bakugou doesn't breathe for a full 30 seconds. He doesn't give any outward hint that he's choked up and fighting an internal struggle with his professional and personal interests. "Bakugou, are you alright...you stopped drawing. Are you upset?". Momo has an eyebrow quirked up and is leaned slightly in his direction. Kirishima isn't even facing him and he really thought he didn't look like how he feels. " 'M fine Ponytail!" he grits out, flipping to a new page in his sketchbook. He's a professional! Why is he jealous? This guy is a stranger and he's nothing more than an amateur model. Nothing worth exploring here. Except the crest of his shoulders. And the bend of his neck. And...
Bakugou Katsuki is screwed.
~~~~~~~
Kirishima had started the day with positive intentions and energy. The Kinesiology and Fitness Medicine program had surrounded him in like-minded individuals who followed the same strict dietary and lifestyle choices. He gets up, goes to the gym, trains for his next boxing MMA fight, eats a protein bar, wakes his roommate Kaminari up, and studies until his brain feels like it might break. His very first classes of the semester are Nutrition and Human Anatomy I, but first he has an obligation. Since he needs money and the vitamin shop can only give so many hours, he takes on odd jobs. This semester, he has a modeling job for a Figure Drawing course. He knows it'll be a little awkward, a bunch of people sketching him naked and probably having some deeply inappropriate thoughts about it. There was a positive to the offer other than the money though. Rumor had it he would be able to meet renowned Fine Arts and Fashion Design darling Bakugou Katsuki.
He remembers what Kaminari said this morning as he shoveled Lucky Charms in his face. "I hear the dude is a total prick. Like no charm whatsoever. I bet you 2000 yen YOU can't even enchant him." Kirishima had been downing a peanut-butter protein shake when he'd said this. "I'll take that bet. 2000 yen to you if he doesn't like me. 2000 yen to me if I get his phone number." Kaminari threw a thumb up in his general direction, with the silent satisfaction that he would probably win. Not that Kirishima isn't the dreamiest, but Bakugou is a hard sell. Winning the 2000 yen should be easy.
The walk to the arts building is more aesthetically pleasing that the one he usually has to his own building in the Science quarter. Everything here is spattered in the petals from the cherry blossoms and the shifting sunlight of an abnormally warm September. His sneakers slap against the pavement and he tugs a bit at the end of his red half-shirt. It says Red Riot on it, which is his MMA moniker. The name was inspired from a previous boxer named Crimson Riot and a tribute to the clear choice of color in Kirishima's eyes, hair, and wardrobe. He wore his hair down today, feeling like it would be appropriate for the modeling job. At least it gave him a softer look. Glimpsing the marble Fine Arts building, he breathed in confidence and optimism. He was going to fill his role and try his damndest to win this bet.
Just as he predicted, nude modeling had been pretty awkward. Kirishima knew he looked alright but he had anticipated a consistent level of professionalism from all of the students. Hearing the indecent comments from a couple of people in the group had caused a clear tension to settle over the room. He'd been scanning the circle and trying to figure out which of the four guys in the class were Bakugou Katsuki. He was almost certain that the ash blond he faced first was the man he was looking for. He was right when a pretty, soft-spoken woman next to him said greeted him, using his name. The bet had simply been to get the guy's phone number as proof that Kirishima could charm him. Now that he'd seen him, the bet wasn't the biggest worry. He wanted Bakugou to really like him. The blush on his nose and cheeks seemed to be evident of that.
He'd had to change positions on the stool a couple of times, giving each student a bit of time to study. There were hushed murmurs between Professor Kayama and the students, with the soft sounds of charcoal and pencil brushing over paper and pages being turned. Kirishima had gotten an approximate look at the blond and if it wasn't such a public place, he'd probably be way more worked up. His hair looked so soft despite the spiked appearance. Lit from behind by the outside light, it reflected sand, gold, straw, and ash; shaped almost like an explosion. His eyes were red, much like his own, but echoing completely different emotions. Instead of warmth, Bakugou's gaze was that of intensity, focus, and burning. Kirishima couldn't really tell from how he was sitting, but he was probably fit as hell too.
He'd gotten to hear the guy's voice once when a girl behind him had said something very rude about his ass. "Hey airheads, how about you spend some time sketching instead of objectifying! Maybe then you can call yourself artists!". Wow, could he get hotter? The tone was sharp and raspy, as if yelling was natural for him. Now he really needed to get his number to see what Bakugou sounded like when he wasn't yelling or criticizing someone.
It was clear that he was talented once Professor Kayama had commended his sketches in the group. He desperately wanted to see what the mind and hands of Bakugou Katsuki had translated onto the page. Sadly, he'd packed up his materials and stormed out of the classroom, throwing a knifeblade glance towards the two girls who had been so disruptive before.
Now Kirishima was jogging down the hall as fast as he could, looking for Bakugou. He knew what direction he'd gone in because he'd asked the girl who had been speaking to the blond. Momo Yaoyorozu came off as a really lovely person and seemed to know exactly why Kirishima was asking. "Oh, after class he usually heads back to his dorm since his other classes aren't until late. So make a left down this hall and maybe he'll still be there?". He was off to the races. The hallways of the Fine Arts buildings were decorated with projects ranging from oil paintings, mixed media, photography, sketching, raw materials, and watercolors. He would've stopped to smell the roses but he had a man to catch. After several minutes of peaking down corridors, Kirishima found Bakugou. The guy was moving towards a side entrance, sketchbook tucked under one arm, and a soft grey messenger bag bouncing against one khaki clad hip.
"Bakugou! Hey, wait up.", he gasped out, feeling abnormally winded. The guy did stop but looked annoyed that someone would slow his roll. When he registered that it was Kirishima calling his name, he spoke with no real fire. "What do you want, fuckmunch?". He'd put a hand on the blond's shoulder in a friendly gesture but could feel the muscle underneath. "Ha! Name's Kirishima. We just spent a very intimate hour together, you defended my honor, very sweet of you." He was not going to lose this bet.
"I didn't defend squat. Those twits were just interrupting the class." He moved away again, turning his face to hide a clear bloom of rose across the creamy complexion of his face. He was not giving up, so he skipped up beside the guy. "Yeah it was really rude of them. You're only trying to do your work in relative peace. So, I was wondering," but he was cut off by the guy scoffing. Or coughing? "What are you wondering? I'm busy and I really need to get on with my day." His voice was still rough but he only sounded a bit impatient. It was softer, as if he was stifling something embarrassing from coming out. He was looking at Kirishima now, really looking at him. He didn't know if this was a thing that all artists did, or just Bakugou, but either way he wanted to have this forever. It wasn't an assessment or a cheap checkout. This was reverence, layered in whatever shyness the art student was steeped in. Now that he could properly see the guy, Kirishima could appreciate the full spectacle in front of him.
Those eyes weren't just red. They reflected rust and mandarin when the sunlight hit them. His eyelashes were dusky and the envy of any woman. The black turtleneck clung to the broad expanse of his chest and snatched waist that led into perfectly tailored khakis. The look was topped off with shiny black dress shoes that Kirishima could never afford. Bakugou snapped his fingers, capturing his attention again. "What do you want? Or is this your half-assed way of hitting on me?". Kirishima promptly choked on some spit.
"OH! Oh damn, sorry. I just? I blanked out for a minute. I actually was going to ask for your number. I mean I heard things about you but in person you're definitely..." back to staring. Bakugou cocked the hip with the messenger bag and scrunched his nose, which for someone who held himself like he was an active landmine, was incredibly cute. "No."
Kirishima realized that he had tried and failed and Bakugou Katsuki was leaving the building as he had most likely came. Well-dressed, pulled together, and ready to fuck shit up. "That approach doesn't work on me. Better luck next time, Shitty Hair." Kirishima was out 2000 yen; but he also had a second chance at flirting and succeeding.
~~~~~~
The rest of his week, including classes, work, projects, eating, breathing, are filtered through a Kirishima Eijirou-colored haze. He's talked with Momo in the dark room on that following Saturday afternoon, developing photos and working with overexposure when he lets an inner thought slip out. "Goddamn sin, that face." Momo doesn't say anything immediately, pinning a couple of her photos up and changing her gloves. Bakugou is dipping a set of photos showcasing Jirou's band into the developer when she decides it's the best time to interject. "Whose face? You didn't say." The man jumps and barks out an expletive, careful not to disturb the photos. They lapsed back into silence and he hoped that she wouldn't ask again. She didn't, but as they continued their work he started to feel like he owed her an explanation.
Under the red lights that casted shadows and bathed them in unearthly color, Bakugou confessed a real emotion to someone who he once considered a rival. "It's Kirishima. I don't even know him. I just keep thinking about his stupid face and how he looks like all the greatest statues. It's a real sin!" He contains his agitation when he pulls his photos out for final development. Momo is moving over her prints gracefully with the print squeegee when she offers her opinion. "I know that when you say stupid, it's just a placeholder for what you really mean. I know you didn't see it, but he was looking at you constantly when you were working in the class. I think you stand a fair chance of getting a date but you need to be nice!". The enlarger timer is adjusted, another easel is set up, and the work continues. Almost as if he's being challenged, Bakugou boasts "I'll show him nice! I'll flirt with him and nice him out until he's bloody!". Momo lets out a sigh and looks up to the ceiling of the dark room, almost praying that she didn't ruin Kirishima's romantic fate. Poor guy, she thinks.
~~~~~~~~~
Since Kaminari isn't a complete ass, he doesn't ask for the 2000 yen from Kirishima because he knows all the guy's cash goes into his savings. He does ask for a meal out though, and on the same Saturday that Bakugou confesses his developing crush to Momo, Kirishima whines to Kaminari over his tonkatsu. "It's just not fair! He looks like a goddamn star, you know? And his eyes are just incredible! And he was kind of mean but no one looks at you like that and doesn't have some sort of thought! He looks like he could throw a clean right hook too. What am I gonna do?". Kaminari is only half paying attention, shoveling curry into his mouth. The restaurant they picked is about 15 minutes from university. "Yeah..right...". The restaurant is bustling, the worn red leather benches holding students, some on dates, some already cramming for courses; families trying to enjoy a hot meal and keep their kids entertained. The atmosphere is the perfect place for someone to pine over a guy he's only been around for an hour and half.
"You aren't even paying attention! Don't you want to know how it went? Or was it really just about the bet?". Kirishima sighs, picking at the tonkatsu. Across the restaurant, a waitress serves bowls of sukiyaki and a young child slurps ramen with gusto. Kaminari texts his boyfriend, Sero, exchanging memes of various subject matter. He's blushing into the cuff of his black track jacket, yellow hair ruffled from sleeping until 3:00pm. He leans back on the cracked bench, throwing his friend a grimace. "Kiri, you're such a soft ball of sunshine. Please don't let him ruin you. All I ever hear about him is that he's a fuckton of ego, aggression, and bad conversation. His friend is probably right. Bakugou hadn't remembered his name, called him fuckmunch and Shitty-Hair, and refused to give his number. He probably wasn't interested and was bad news, but Kirishima loved to torture himself. It was the same reason he pushed himself in the ring and took on classes he knew were going to change his sleep patterns for the worse.
"Man, I get it! You were right. He was kind of rude and really mean. But he like defended me in class a little and he was blushing every time I looked at him." "You were naked, man." "Right...but I think...". "I'm not going to convince you otherwise, am I?". "Nope! I'm going to try again next week." They bask in the yellow lighting of the restaurant, slipping into conversation about classes, Kiri's fight schedule, the parties happening later that night, and in the back of Kirishima's mind, he wondered where Bakugou Katsuki found himself on a Saturday night.
~~~~~~
The following Tuesday arrives. Jirou is begging Bakugou to fill in as the drummer in Chargevolt. "No way. Not with that half-wit on guitar. He fried two amps? Right?". Jirou's shoulders fall, remembering how Kaminari decided playing his solo on full blast would be a "rad addition to the set" and then watching the amp catch fire. The second one got destroyed when he connected a busted cable to it and began to play. "Honestly, you're right. But I need someone who knows what they're doing and you're incredible on drums. Your mom definitely didn't waste her money when she got you the lessons." But he isn't listening. There's Momo, wearing her tan trench coat and battling the windy day with her easel under her arm. He should start his niceness brigade now so it won't be so painful later. He sees his friend gawking at Momo out of his peripheral vision.
"You can come talk to her, you know? She's not terrible. Momo's kind of..." he offers, feeling the gay panic rippling off Jirou. She's fidgeting with the strap of her pack and looking nervously between Tokoyami (leather jacket accompanied by a grey beanie) and Momo, who is managing to get the door open but appears to be struggling. "I...have to go! Consider it, okay?". She sounds jittery and actually runs into the Performing Arts Building. Bakugou goes off to his class, wondering if Kirishima has actually upped his game or not.
He's gorgeous, painfully gorgeous. Hair slicked up today, which is kind of...hot. Today he came in wearing a black tank top with red print emblazoned on the front. It says "Red Riot", whatever the fuck that is. He had paired that with some cargo shorts and what Bakugou knows to be the ugliest shoes going: Crocs. He can forgive the Crocs though, especially when Kirishima is laid out on the small couch provided for class, flashing the most fantastic smile. His teeth are filed. On anyone else it would like horrible and grotesque, but on him, the shark teeth look predatory and...kind of sexy.
Bakugou couldn't pinpoint why he gives one iota of a fuck about how he looks to Kirishima today. He spent extra time picking out an outfit, and even practiced relaxing his face in the mirror this morning. His agonizing over an outfit had created the following look: light blue button down, black skinny jeans, patent leather sneakers, and his own leather jacket. Unfortunately trying out expressions in the mirror ended with his brows settling in their naturally furrowed position and his lips falling in a straight line, somewhere between boredom and disgust.
Now he just feels stupid. Kirishima is flashing him suggestive glances and it all feels wildly inappropriate for an art class. He crouches in front of his sketch pad and decides that at least here, in his art, some of the softer emotions he hides within his psyche can be let out here. The result is masterful. He retraces the cleft of the man's chin, the way his eyes convey want and vulnerability, and how his left arm is laid across his stomach like he was taking a catnap. He doesn't know what he looks like as he draws. Momo catches it though, and so does Kiri when he changes position, so he can peer around the side of Bakugou's easel. What he sees is perfection.
His eyes have really opened, like he's seeing beyond his sketchpad, beyond the current scene, and looking somewhere within Kirishima and himself. His eyebrows have pulled up and he's worrying at his bottom lip. His charcoal scoops across the page like an extension of his arm, and he's inside his head. The expression on his face, paired with the cornflower blue of his button down and the heavenly softness of the smile that appears on his lips looks like something private; maybe it's something even Kirishima shouldn't be seeing. When they make eye contact in that thin space, the distance between them seems to fold until they're right there, sharing a space made for them. "Bakugou, you're really onto something.", Momo whispers, not even moving her eyes from her own project. She caught the private moment and immediately exited it, choosing to not ever mention it. Bakugou's vulnerability cannot be known to anyone, not even himself. He and Kirishima share one more glance, one where Bakugou's lips part like he's about to say something. He instead lowers his eyes to choose a smudge stick and remember the moment as something gorgeous and unspoken.
Later, in the hallway, Kirishima claps a warm hand down on his shoulder again. He wishes he could feel the full effect of those calloused palms through the cotton. He grimaces, nose scrunching, blush turning his face carnation pink, and turns his head ever so slightly. The eye contact and tension is instantaneous. "I feel lucky today Bakugou, I really do. So..." he sounds terribly confident. "So you're here to hit on me again." To Kirishima's surprise, the guy does not look so disgusted by the idea. He's got a smirk on his face that says "Try me." So he does. "Okay, we both know what happened in that room today. All I'm saying is give me a little chance. Even if we just hang out." Rust red eyes start to move over his crossed arms, the bulk in his biceps and deltoids. "Not with those crocs on we aren't.". Bakugou's staring at his shoes. "Oh come on man, they're comfortable. I'm not exactly worried about taste, just function!". Kirishima jokes, giving the art student a little push. They shuffle in the hallway, bickering about fashion choices, Bakugou evading the question.
He really wants to see Kirishima in an appropriate setting. He wants to do more than sketch him, but the part of him that's defined by the crappy opinions others have of him whispers, fools him again into thinking he would only be harmful for Kirishima. Then Momo's friendly pointers fight the other voice down. "Don't you dare deny yourself a human experience Katsuki!". He pulls the niceness he's stockpiled from somewhere deep inside and pulls his journal out from the side pocket of his messenger bag. "Here, take it." He shoves the folded note at Kirishima, folding his arms and looking absolutely juvenile.
When he starts to walk away and Kirishima watches his backside encased in finely tailored denim, sighing like some lead in a drama. He gives finger guns to the empty air Bakugou leaves behind him, saying "Got ya!". He definitely got him. On the note he holds in one sweaty palm is a phone number.
~~~~~~~
That Thursday, Kirishima puts his little heart out there in a text.
Kirishima [2:34pm]: Bakugou!
Kirishima [3:13pm]: blood orange, he's so pretentious
Bakugou [5:45pm]: it's fuckin red
Bakugou [5:47pm]: are you quoting project runway to me you fuckin weirdo
Kirishima [6:00pm]: NOW that I have your attention
Kirishima [6:03pm]: I have a thing to invite you to, and maybe you can get some material
Bakugou [6:12pm]: this better be good alright
Kirishima [6:20pm]: I fight MMA sweetheart, I have a match. Saturday at 5:00pm
Kirishima [6:22pm]: at All Might Fitness. I'd really like if you came.
Bakugou [8:38pm]: Whatever.
Kirishima [9:14pm]: great!!
They don't see each other in person from Wednesday to Friday. They do post separate thirst tweets on separate Twitter accounts.
@GroundZeroFashion going to die of sudden cardiac arrest over this guy's stupid face
@RedRiot_MMA do I text him a meme that sort of hints that I want to make out or just say hey lets make out
~~~~~~
He does decide to go to Kirishima's match. He does a little online searching to figure out that Kirishima is an amateur MMA fighter. He's fared well against his opponents, being cited as unbreakable since he's able to withstand hits that others immediately go down over. Bakugou has two separate thoughts. One: this is a great way to get to know the red-headed sweetheart, and two, he'll get some great photos if he goes. He's only texted Kirishima a little bit. Enough to know that he's really into fitness and health, wants to be a person trainer, and is going to the same school under the Kinesiology program. He's also kind of a dork.
The blond doesn't have a roommate, which allows him to have an easier time getting through his morning routine. On that particular Saturday, he gets up a bit earlier than normal to paint. He had started a paint of Kirishima based on the sketch from the previous Tuesday. He's already decided that this will be part of one of his projects. The man radiates beauty, both physical and internal. There's no missing the free-flowing vibrancy that comes from Kirishima. In the smile full of serrated teeth and easy laughs. The catlike eyes that caught him on a Tuesday afternoon. His suave way of talking Bakugou into giving his number.
It's what he thinks about when he peels the simply gray jersey sheets off himself; when he makes his cup of espresso; opens the blind to let the morning light through. The room is tastefully decorated and well-organized for an art student. He keeps his things in folders, some hung up for reference. He only hangs the works he's most inspired by and actively working on at a time, so as to not clutter his headspace. He spends the day moving between his assignments. He has Photography, Figure Drawing, Japanese History, Statistics, and Fashion Illustration. Katsuki feels bad that he's seeing parts of Kirishima in all his drawings. He barely knows the man and thinks he might be a little obsessed.
Then it occurs to him as he's halfway through his Stats worksheet and mulling over lunch options, that he's found a muse. Lots of great artists have muses; a person, or multiple persons, that inspire their work. Kirishima is an amazing muse, because he's not soft like most of them. He exudes power and a brash sort of look that makes him stand out. He is first splash of tangerine across the sky at sunset. He is a statement.
Morning turns to midday and he texts Jirou simply about the offer for her band.
Bakugou [12:15pm]: I can't right now. Too much going on. You'll figure it out. Hold an audition.
Jirou [12:26pm]: what is it going to take to get you in the band?
Bakugou [12:28]: you couldn't pay me enough
Jirou [12:35pm]: right bc you're a luxury few can afford
Bakugou [12:52pm]: don't meme at me ok?
Some time passes. The sun moves across the sky and the beams of light climb across Bakugou's room as a silent reminder that Kirishima's fight time is coming closer. He has to get ready.
Jirou [2:15pm]: Can I count on you to come over and at least listen to the new project Tokoyami and I have for Music Production?
Bakugou [2:17pm]: sorry, have a thing today
Jirou [2:18pm]: wtf you don't love us anymore
Bakugou [2:19pm]: never did! Gotta go
Jirou [2:25pm]: shut up you do, you're just a jerk
Jirou [2:26pm]: YOU have a THING? What kind of THING?
Jirou [2:27pm]: is it a date I bet it is YOU CANT HIDE FROM ME FOREVER
~~~~~~
Kirishima had been fidgeting all day. In his sparring against Tetsu this morning, he slips a few times, almost getting taken down by his silver-toned friend. "Bud, you look positively spaced-out. What's going on? Are you not taking your electrolytes? That math class finally broke your brain?". He knows what it is. It's Bakugou and what he's labeled as "The Stare that Stopped Time." Kirishima is the only one who calls it that and he most definitely will not tell any of his friends about it due to their low opinion of the artist. He does think he can tell Testu a little bit about what's got him so hazy. "It's this guy. I met him doing that modeling thing."
He sighs when he talks about him and Testu chuckles at him because he knows his buddy is a hopeless romantic and has seen his swoon before. He knows something about this is different though when Kirishima continues his train of thought. "He's one of the art students, and so goddamn pretty? He acts so aloof but I know he's good underneath all that ego." All the while, Testu is unwrapping his hands, walking across the ring to his bag. All Might Fitness was opened by a prolific boxer who had made his way from America to Japan, known for his almost superhuman strength. It's a state of the art facility, with an indoor track, pool, and machines. The ring and MMA fighters are what the facility is known for, and Kirishima intends to make his name known in the upper echelons of the industry. He known his college degree will help, but fighting is where he feels alive.
The idea that Bakugou Katsuki, already prolific in his field, is going to come watch him, is astounding. He flops back on the ground of the ring, wiping the back of a bandaged hand over his perspiring forehead. The fluorescent lights beam down on him and add to the tension headache he formed this morning. Kaminari hadn't helped by leaving the kitchen overflowing with dirty dishes from last night's movie marathon. He waits now for his match against Satou Rikidou. And as time creeps closer, Kirishima finds himself more pumped up for the fight. He feels the pressure to be at his absolute best, because that's what Bakugou Katsuki deserves.
The blond arrives around 4:45pm, wearing a rust colored jumper, loose fitting denim jeans, and some Doc Martens. Kirishima is in his corner of the ring with his coach, Tashiro Toyomitsu. He catches sight of Bakugou out of the corner of his eye, wielding a fancy looking DSLR camera. The blond peers up at him from a row of seats, a half-smirk adorning the lips Kirishima has not stopped thinking about. The fighter gives a small wave, not making a big deal about it. He knows Bakugou is a private person.
From Bakugou's perspective, he knows he'll get some good shots. It's easy when the subjects are so aesthetically pleasing. Both Kirishima and the man he fights are like tanks and the minute they meet in the middle and bump fists, Kirishima is a different person. Bakugou doesn't raise his camera, not yet. He knows Eijirou can outlast hits that others go down at the thought of and this skill immediately comes out when Satou jabs at his stomach and chin and he barely even shutters. The red-heads hair is spiked up today, and with his fists wrapped, sharp teeth in the mouthguard, and red shorts on, he looks dangerous. Once Kirishima's hands start flying, Bakugou's begins to set the aperture on his camera and watch for perfect moments.
They come, fast and blaring like a freight train. Bakugou captures the moment that Red Riot's right hook connects with Satou's cheek and sends the man into the ropes. Bakugou wonders if he caught all of that moment. The ferocity in Kirishima's tightly coiled muscles, the determination in his stare and the set of his jaw. The small crowd sounds like a thousand because they're chanting for the guy like he's going for the belt. All of a sudden, Katsuki feels the electric waves of inspiration hit him once the fighters begin to grapple. It's arms locked around each other and feet digging in for traction. Kirishima is pushing his head furiously against Satou's. The force that is Red Riot wins the match when he pins the other man.
Bakugou keeps switching between watching Kirishima fight like a bull and snapping rapid-fire shots of the fight. For once in his work, he doesn't think the photos or sketches are going to be able to capture the man in all his glory. He's an experience, not to be decreased to a single moment. He feels the softness he exhibited in last Tuesday's class boiling up to the surface. When Kirishima taps fists with Satou and is declared the winner, Bakugou knows he's staring up at the man and he's staring back at him and god, the space between them is folding again.
Kirishima is being pulled out of the ring to his changing room but he shouts at Bakugou to wait for him before he disappears. They walk to the same restaurant that Kirishima and Kaminari had their bet dinner in that Saturday. "Did you get some good shots? I hope you did!". He's almost skipping next to Katsuki. The street lights are starting to come on and all around them the air feels fresh with the rain that passed over during Kirishima's match. Bakugou won't meet his gaze, afraid to have another one of those moments. "Yeah, I think they'll be fine. You fought...good." He can feel those pretty eyes boring into his right cheek with adoration and surprise. "Oh, well thank you. I wanted to do my best. Sometimes I overestimate myself and then I'm not as strong as..." but he's cut off in front of the restaurant, which is unusually empty for a Saturday evening. Katsuki plants himself in front of Kirishima, face etched in contemplation. "Why the fuck would you ever think you aren't strong? What I saw in that ring shows that you are strong as hell." Strong as hell is punctuated by Bakugou jabbing his hand into Kirishima's chest, which is covered by a burgundy wool sweater.
Kirishima lets a harsh breath come out of his nose and he grabs Katsuki's hand mid-air. He knows there's something mingling between them here. The blond jumps visibly at the touch but doesn't pull his hand away. His head rolls to the right and a groan comes from deep in his throat. "Why don't we go eat? And you can flatter me over dinner all you want?". He's feeling so high from his win that the normally crappy restaurant is aglow, all golden and dreamy. He's starting to think that Katsuki is able to make everything beautiful. It's his gift.
~~~
It takes time, but eventually Bakugou lets his new 'friend' use his given name. It happens on a day when Kirishima had begged to come over to Bakugou's place to hang out. The semester is half way through and Bakugou has been soaring through his projects, with Kirishima being is unofficial muse. Bakugou feels increasingly comfortable at All Might Fitness; so much so that he switches his gym membership to go there instead. He goes with and without Kirishima, but it's somehow better when the red-head is offering tips on endurance and strength training. The couple of times that they do spar, Bakugou and Kirishima find themselves at a stalemate. With the air crisp and clear on an October afternoon, the feeling is different though.
Kirishima is enjoying the way the leaves turn, with caramel, rust, mustard, and vermillion turning the forest into a blaze. He muses that those colors fit Bakugou; both the blond and those fall tones look like explosions. The Friday afternoon was a welcome change from his somewhat stressful morning at the vitamin shop where his boss consistently asked him to work late even though less than 10 people had come in all morning. Â With his head clouded by nutrition science homework and blue button downs, he'd refused and was now on his way to be in the presence of his crush.
Bakugou's dorm is a pleasant, orderly space and unmistakably his. He's let in with a curt "Took you long enough." Nestled down in some plush arm chairs that the college definitely didn't provide, the pair are nursing coffees and surrounded by an accoutrement of snacks. Kirishima can't stop admiring the artwork lovingly hung on the walls. Each piece is a little bit different, but you know that Bakugou made it. There's concept designs for clothes, watercolors of an orange tabby cat, oil paintings of models, and photos from Kirishima's match against Satou. He sees one that Bakugou has hung strangely close to his bed. It's him throwing a right hook at Satou, and it catches the force coming from both his shoulder and somewhere inside of him. He doesn't remember smiling like that, but Bakugou caught it.
"I love that picture. You see everything!" he exclaims, a little breathless when his friend's eyes lift to his brimming with confusion. He addresses the photo, blushing a bit and pouting. "That's the point, dumbass. A photo is supposed to capture the scene." That's not what Kirishima means though. His eyes drop to his textbook again, facts about the benefits of ketosis scrambling about his head. Bakugou moves from his chair to a mannequin he has set up next to the windows in his kitchenette, which is half covered in honey and persimmon colored fabrics. It looks like he's making cuts for a long cardigan, but Kirishima can't assume anything.
The sun sets so much earlier now so a floor lamp gets turned on for them to work by. Deciding to better explain his earlier comment, Eijirou clears his throat and leans forward in his seat. "No. What I mean is that you see the stuff that's inside. You see the soul. You saw how determined I felt in that picture. You caught the energy in that moment. I know how photos are supposed to work, but you make them do other things...". It happens again.
Bakugou's hands freeze, setting a pin in a lapel. He doesn't move or seemingly breathe, as if he's never heard praise before. It's not that really. The problem is that whenever Kirishima compliments his work, he sees the spirit of it so easily. How can someone look through his work and him so easily? His body turns towards the man on his own and with his arms fall slack at his sides. Again, the space between them seems to be folding. They're closer somehow without being right next to each other. The "Thank you," that comes out of Bakugou sounds watery. He rubs his hands together and standing there in his grey sweatpants and simple black tank top, Kirishima is certain that this man is the most gorgeous soul he's ever seen.
Now the night sky is in full swing and the pair has switched to beanbag chairs on the floor and watching a mindless action film. The mound of blankets and pillows they've created makes it look like they're having a sleep over. Eijirou notices how the blond has burrito-ed himself into the blankets and looks delightfully grumpy. "A little cold over there, are ya?" he teases. Grumbling ensues when he pushes his beanbag closer to Bakugou's. He's been wondering for weeks now if the artist is interested in him. The long, time-stopping stares and rare physical contact are juxtaposed by the prickly nature of the blond and Kirishima's inability to express his interest directly.
He wonders if now is good. Right now, when they're in orange beanbag chairs and stuffed with junk food might be the perfect time to ask the man out on a real date. He turns on his side and takes a deep breath. On screen, a car scraps under an eighteen-wheeler, and Kirishima can't help but think that that is exactly what he is heart will feel like if he's rejected. "Katsuki." It sounds like a plea for the blond to really see him. Bakugou's face is turned away from him, and he groans. He's definitely in the midst of falling asleep but he turns over anyway. His eyes don't open and he lets out a sigh that softens his face.
Kirishima pulls one arm out from his own blanket cocoon to attempt something. He brings his finger tips up over the lamp-lit cheek of the other, tracing the sharp planes that are melting into rest now. He runs a finger down his nose, a thumb over an eyebrow, and then cups his chin. The guy fell asleep, so now his plan is foiled. He says his confession to the air.
"Katsuki, I like you so much. You move me."
He falls asleep after several moments of his heart sinking. Once he's deep in slumber, Bakugou's eyes slide openly softly and see him. He really sees him.
~~~~~~~
Katsuki doesn't know how to address the elephant in the room. Now it's November, he's pretending that he didn't hear Kirishima's confession that night, and the inside of his head feels like a pressure cooker. He's been building his sketch portfolio, the photography project, and his final piece for the Figure Drawing class. The last few times that Kirishima came over, he tried messing with it, but Katsuki will not let him see yet. It's too soon.
He's come to the conclusion that he has succumbed to a terrible disease when thoughts of Kirishima bounce around his head like taunts. They're all "Oh hey, look at this read-headed miracle, running, stretching, punching, posing nude in your figure
drawing class, hitting on you, confessing his affections!". Rude, really. He doesn't know what to do with this information and frankly, would like it if he could file it under "shit I don't need", along with 17th century sonnets, the collective discography of Katy Perry, and his memories of the last time he had the flu. Katsuki is totally banking on smothering his burgeoning crush on Kirishima until Jirou comes through his dorm door, carring with her the mixes she's made for his consumption and review.
"So, what's eating you? Your face looks way more tragic than normal." She asks, mock interest in her tone. "Fuck off!" he groans, not entirely sure he wants his closest friend to be digging into his emotions while he's wrestling with them.
"Well how about you try to stomach the mix I made this week, and then you can get all Edvard Munch-ian. I've got time." She winks. Jirou knows what she's doing. She's like the keeper of his secrets. The music production major is historically known for her excellent hearing (some say she's got super human eardrums and could detect a dog whistle) and her penchant for gathering gossip but never dispersing it. Bakugou calls her "Rumor Tapes" for that exact reason.
He genuinely enjoys this week's project from her. It's a progressive rock track she texted him a couple times about. She said that track is supposed to pay homage to Dream Theater and convey her current feelings on the loss of true artistry in the music industry. The keyboard work is flawless in this one, but Bakugou would like to hear her incorporate more intricate drum solos. He'd offer but then he feels like he's doing a favor, and he hates doing favors for people. Plus, Jirou is crazy talented and can do it on her own. He's already said no to her numerous please.
She's musing over one of the pencil sketches he finished of a cat hanging next to his desk when he pulls off the earphones and delivers his opinion "'S fine. Keyboard's decent. But you know," he offers. Of course, she knows. "Yeah, yeah. More drums. You and the drums, you're always on about that." She sighs, plopping down on his bed and taking the tape back from hi. As much as he hates to admit it, Jirou is actually comforting to have around. She's quiet mostly, doesn't ask a whole lot, and really listens to his well-crafted opinions on art and fashion and offering genuine insight. She's also a good model for when he's fitting pieces. Sometimes he even makes a dress or shirt that she openly wears and boasts to others about, saying that the great Bakugou Katsuki designed it. It does wonders for his ego.
But like any good friend, she does finally dig her hand into the proverbial cookie jar, looking for something sweet to savor, as far as talk goes. Katsuki sees her noticing the sketch he has of Kirishima, from the waist up, only wearing a half shirt, taped on the wall his bed is flush against.
She gasps a little, sits up, and asks one well-posed question. "Bakugou Katsuki, who is this fabulous creature you're sketching?". He really is going to brain her one day. "None of your business, now drop it." But he knows she won't.
Jirou knows better than to tamper with the art, but she will ask about it. "Nope, not a chance in hell. Do we have a muse?". Her voice is taking on a teasing tone that he rarely hears, and he knows it's because she's about to log Secret #241 on him. "A fighter. MMA." He tells her after many moments of angry swipes of the stylus over his tablet and shaking his head in annoyance. "A gym buff. So how did you come across this Statue of David type?". The room feels really hot now, like it's June and the AC is shot and there's a buzzing in the air and can you hear that buzzing or is it just him?
He gets up and goes to crash on his bed, which is a signal for Jirou to do the same. It's time for a heart to heart. Bakugou's way better at these now than he was in high school, but they still feel like he's giving a part of himself away. And for someone who often works himself to exhaustion and shirks off physical self-preservation, he keeps his feelings and thoughts guarded in a mental lock box.
"He modeled for my figure drawing class. The guy's a Kinesiology major here and he fights and is just so stunning that it's painful for me to watch him." All of that came out as a muffled statement but Jirou can still translate Bakugou through a down feather pillow. He looks like he's about to explode; a body containing unlimited nitroglycerin. Jirou does not hug or push him, but she speaks with honesty and understanding that seems to come from a lifetime of being super in tune with emotions.
"Listen, I know you hate admitting that you, you know, feel things, but this could be awesome. Also, I hear he's a pretty great guy. You'd be really dumb if you didn't try. Unless you like being alone, which is cool too. But what I'm seeing right now is a guy pining over someone that's completely within his grasp but torturing himself anyway!".
Bakugou is right back to baseline when he finally lifts his head and stares at her, brows furrowed and pouting expertly. "Whatever, fuck. Why are you always so...". He gestures indifferently. "Right?" she replies, looking like the cat who caught the canary.
He also realizes that Jirou knows Kirishima, through some round about manner. Maybe she can run reconnaissance. "You KNOW him?" he asks incredulously. He will not start sounding like a love-struck teen; not now, not ever. She seems to catch on to his plan. "I know of him. He's friends with Sero and Denki and rooms with Denki but I barely see him around. That makes sense though with how busy he seems to be. Do you want me to do some investigating? Because that doesn't seem very like you, not at all!". She's ready to poke at him, but he throws the pillow he's been groaning into at her and she laughs, knowing that he knows that he's got another point of access to Kirishima now.
Bakugou doesn't reveal much more about his newfound affections. The pair end up watching Whiplash and Jirou takes her leave around 9:00pm, seeing as she has work at the college radio station early tomorrow. Before she leaves her ashen-haired friend for the night, she gives one last piece of advice.
"Don't be like me. Don't be so scared to take a leap that you stay stuck in one place. You're not the kind of person who stays stuck, Bakugou. You're way bigger than that. Maybe it's time that you jump." He shoots her a glance that says "really?" before digging for his sweatpants. He can hear her letting out a sad laugh. "Yeah, I know. I should try my own advice. Night, man. You know what to do."
And she's right. He does.
~~~~~
Finals week rolls around with all the force of a freight train. With each finished paper or presentation, Kirishima feels like he's climbing further up out of the trench he started in a mere three and half months ago. The end of the semester meant that he and Katsuki hadn't found much time to get together. Their communication hasn't changed at all, even after Kirishima sadly admitted his emotions from a beanbag chair. That's a blessing, he thinks. He at least has the possibility of maintaining his friendship with Katsuki and noT setting it ablaze.
He does wish he'd kept with his original plan to sweep the guy off his feet though. He feels the attraction ebb and flow when they're together and keeps blaming himself for not taking the next step. As he closes his laptop on the final paper of the semester and sinks lower into his mattress, Eijirou meditates on the way Katsuki reacts to his affections. Flushing pink, scrunching his nose, calling him Shitty hair or using an expletive are the surface level signs that he's flattered. Then there's the soft inner layer that Katsuki probably never intended on letting anyone see. There isn't a single thing more breath-taking to Kirishima than the soul of Bakugou Katsuki. He puts those parts himself in his art and in those private moments when Kirishima and he are in some kind of gauzy, warm space, it feels like those parts are there too.
He has one thought before his phone dings. How can someone who makes everything around him beautiful like not give himself a little of that glory?
A text from the man in question appears.
Bakugou [6:43pm]: I know it's late but are you free?
Of course he is. Yes, yes.
Kirishima [6:45pm]: yeah! Whats happenin
Bakugou [6:50pm]: I have something to show you. Come to the Fine arts building
Kirishima [6:52pm]: Oh man is it like an exhibition? Do I have to dress nice?
Bakugou [6:54pm]: not really, but I swear if you wear those crocs I'll crush you
Kirishima [6:57pm]: they don't deserve your disrespect
Bakugou [7:00pm]: just get over here.
Kirishima flies around his room for an outfit. Bakugou isn't the type to spring random things on people, which means this is something important to him. Important to him and he wants Eijirou to see it. He digs up a pair of faded blue jeans, one of the few pairs of pants that aren't sweats, ripped, cargo, or spandex. He pairs this with his Red Riot hoodie, burgundy track sneakers, and his black winter coat. His shoves his undone hair under a black beanie. The crocs wouldn't be a good choice for mid-winter in Japan and he knows those shoes are the bane of Bakugou's existence.
He skips through the living room, which normally would be a gigantic mess with Kaminari's pillow forts that he thinks are integral to the foundation of the dorm. He's been occupying Sero's dorm this week, apparently constructing some Engineering project there. He says a silent goodbye to the dorm. It's a wonder that he isn't jumping and kicking his heels together in excitement all the way there.
The sky is clear and looks like a velvet sheet bedazzled with stars. Dorms are adorned in fairy lights. This weekend will begin the string of holiday parties across campus before everyone goes home for winter break. An early snowstorm has left about a foot of powder on the ground. On the way to the Fine Arts building, Kirishima thinks about how Bakugou's cheeks and the tip of his nose always turn rosy in the cold. During the first cold snap in November, they'd gone out for tea and to run an errand for Bakugou to get some developer. He remembered how his blond hair had been shoved under the grey wool beanie, making him look like younger and somehow gentler. It had done things to Kirishima's heart, causing it to beat against the bars of his chest like a trapped exotic bird. He made it to the Fine Arts Building quickly, realizing he hadn't asked Bakugou for the room number.
Kirishima [7:24pm]: Hey I just got here but where do I meet you
Bakugou [7:26pm]: Just come in the building. I'll come get you.
He waited in the lobby jigging from one foot to the other. Bakugou came down the hall, looking positively glorious. He always did, but today the expression on his face and his outfit seemed to make him glow even more than usual. There he was, bedecked in a honey colored turtleneck, leather pants, his Doc Martens, and a charcoal parka. Around his neck hung the silver baby ring he always wore. He was smiling right now. A real smile, which pulled across his face and communicated all the expectation that he always seemed to have around his art. His eyes were keen, looking at and through Kirishima. Eijirou didn't even realize that he'd started walking towards him, holding out his hand. Katsuki took his hand readily, as he'd done before. The fingers slotted like they were going to be bound together. He was lead to the exhibition hall. "So, it is a show?" but the blond shakes his head. They stopped for a moment while the lights were flipped on. What he was presented with caused all his breath to get caught in his throat and his eyes to burn. "We have a show next Tuesday night and I was asked to put together an exhibition. Come, see,".
It's unbelievable. Kirishima knows a little bit about artists and their muses, especially from the exposure to the art world that he's gotten in spending time with Katsuki. He knows that muses become the focal points of an artist's work and inspiration. It's clear who Bakugou's muse is.
In the center of a wall set in the middle of the hall is an oil painting of Kirishima, He's shown from the hips up, nude (which causes a bit of blush to rise in his cheeks), with his head leaning on the arm of the couch in the Figure Drawing class. His teeth are showing and the bruises that had marked his arm that week are shown too. He's trying to take it all in. He wasn't looking at Katsuki in that moment, so it's like a candid shot. Surrounding it is a series of sketches and photos showing a number of things. Eijirou fighting, studying, his wrapped hands from his fight, a photo from the first night they went out to dinner of their bowls. "I call it The Fighter." He's smiling up at the collection of works, still holding Kirishima's hand.
He starts crying and wiping his eyes with his free hand. "It's m-more than I could ever ask for. Katsuki, th-thank you," he squeezes out. He's the muse. He's the inspiration. He knows Bakugou is turning towards him and he's waiting for the Shitty-Hair comment, but it doesn't come.
A hand comes up to wipe his tears and cup his jaw. "I can do more, Eijirou." The use of his given name causes a shiver to move through him. "I heard you that night. I know what you said." They face each other, shifting feet and hands. It's confusing for him. Why didn't Katsuki say something that night? The thought must translate somehow to Eijirou's face, because he gets an answer.
"I'm not good with my words, but I knew I had to show you. If you'll have me...I'm yours." He looks between Katsuki's softened rust-red eyes and his art exhibit, steadying his breath before leaning down to kiss him as gently as he can. His chin is still being cradled, as if he's made of glass. The space between them doesn't need to fold anymore; they can pull together freely now. He pulls back momentarily to whisper against the blond's mouth.
"As if you didn't have me already."