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Katsuki grumbled, hands in the back pockets of his uncomfortably fitting jeans. Their color hurt his eyes, looked like every generic blue crayon melted together and poured onto him like a punishment. He wished they were black, or red…actually, he preferred not to be roaming the streets at all, looking like a goody-goody, hair gelled back and shirt tucked in like a god damn hero's pet. Interning under Best Jeanist was a mistake. Had he known the experience came with a makeover, he would've rather been mentored under Deku.
Well, maybe not that far.
His walk was nonchalant, but his ears were tuned the unmistakable sounds accompanying a villain. Although that wasn’t the goal of this “patrol,” but rather him walking the streets was a part of Jeanist’s master plan to defeat criminals with...style? His nice, neat clothes were an approachable outfit, but his facial expression was still the antithesis of welcoming. He would send people screaming in fear if the villains wouldn’t.
I don't look like a hero. I look like I was dropped onto the street after being elected chess club president.
He suddenly heard a yell and whipped around, thinking it was his time to finally shine – or explode. He was yearning for action, couldn’t take all this boring. He’d start getting edgy, meaner than usual (if it was that much of a difference). Eyes meeting the source of the yell, his mouth twitched at the familiar face jogging over to him from across the street.
"Bakugo!"
Kirishima sounded so happy to see him, never anything but genuine emotions on display. To him, they were an explosive duo. To Katsuki, the friendship was welcome at the least. Uncomplicated and effortless in a way he didn’t have to even think about, it was just there. Katsuki was suddenly hyper-aware of his ridiculous clothes. They weren't him. He didn't think self-conscious was even in his vocabulary until he saw the cheeky expression on Kirishima's face.
"I was wondering why the choir boy across the street looked so familiar," he began, playful smile taking over, "I wouldn't have recognized you without the scowl."
As if to prove Kiri's point, his frown deepened and blood red eyes narrowed. His mouth could spit fire.
"Did Lida offer you t’shop in his closet?"
He was already feeling pissed enough, he didn't need this. Especially from the one person he actually enjoyed talking to.
"Shut. Up." Bakugo leaned forward, teeth set and clenched. He could kill Kirishima, if only from embarassment. He could kill himself for not saving his dignity and blasting out of the pro-hero's office the second this outfit was laid out. Katsuki looked like a cruel joke, and no amount of overcompensating with his anger could change it.
"You out on patrol?" Kiri asked, seemingly giving up his biting remarks. He took a quick look around the barely populated streets. In the distance, a car alarm began to sound.
"Mm," Bakugo grunted in response. He still burned at the hero's comments. A wish abruptly appeared - wanting to be in his legitimate hero outfit, a menace on display solely to impress Kirishima.
"So, ya save anyone?" Bakugo gave him a pointed look, returned with a grin. "Like from their math homework, or..."
Kirishima's smile continued to prod at him. He could feel a fist start to form, a gut reaction to a temper that only took a rogue spark to ignite.
"Damnit, I didn't have a choice in my outfit! Leave it alone before I really get mad, hedgehog head."
A sparkle flashed in Kirishima’s eyes as he suggested, "you could always take it off."
The comment left Katsuki choking on his next threat. Another car alarm began playing its annoying wails.
"You make such a pretty nerd, Baku." Kirishima couldn't finish without laughing. He felt his cheeks burning with both embarrassment and annoyance. Felt the need to shoot back with a threat before he took the comment too sincerely.
“Oi, rocks for brains, my quirk hasn’t changed. I could still blast you to the stratosphere.”
“Blast me hard, I dare you,” he countered, innocent smirk in place.
Is he…
“Don’t tempt me,” Katsuki snarled.
“Am I that tempting?”
The response compounded on all the others was too much. His playful comments never got to him like this, never had quite this kind of bite. Katsuki felt an urge to push him, ask what in the world he was getting at. But before he had the chance to think further, he heard another yell directed at him. Without a doubt real this time. Frantic, even.
"Someone help!"
Kirishima and Bakugo both turned at the same time to see someone running on the other side of the street ahead of the scream, backpack in one hand and a... spear in the other? Kirishima took his pager out almost immediately, sending out a request for backup from the pro-hero agency he was under.
Katsuki, however, had something to prove, and all the impulsiveness that came with it. He let out a yell, sprinting towards the thief full force, hands sparking with every pounding step. Ready to blow. His clothes were alien to his quick movements, restrictive even, but he pushed through. As he neared the man, he noticed more spikes. They were protruding from the back of his arms, legs and even spine. Black body and barbed white tips like..
Quills?
The villain turned, the threat of being caught causing more spikes to erupt from his skin with a disgusting rip. What Katsuki had thought a spear, he now realized was actually a thickened quill - a makeshift weapon.
And he was quick.
Before Katsuki had a chance to stop and detonate his explosive punch, the porcupine-like villain wielded the spike like a sword. He slashed it at him in an instant, Katsuki barely having a second to dodge backward. He took a few breaths once there was distance between them. Felt the warmth of dripping blood from his cheek and cursed.
"Bakugo!" Kirishima yelled, already halfway across the street racing after him. He ignored the car slamming on its brakes to avoid him, determined to reach the other side. His quirk was active and raging, arms shaped into crystalline shards. Hard as diamond. Katsuki's head turned to respond to Kirishima's call, a mistake he shouldn't have made - wouldn't have made normally.
"MOVE." Kirishima yelled, reaching Katsuki and knocking him out of the way with a hard bash from his shoulder. The villain's quill had been aimed like a spear, and its serrated point would've pierced his abdomen if Kirishima hadn’t…
Saved me.
He watched, dumbfounded and sitting on the sidewalk from the push, as Kirishima slashed the quill in two. It played out in slow motion, reflected in his widened eyes. He looked unstoppable. And didn't halt his advances like heroes in training were supposed to.
“Do not engage villains directly. Only use self-defense. Wait for legitimate heroes to arrive, or for their permission to use your quirk.”
Engulfed in the mad fury his quirk seemed to always chain into, Kirishima pummeled the villain with his steel arm. The man flew backward into the nearest building, leaving a dent in the concrete from the brute force of the impact.
Incredible. You’re incredible.
Kirishima was breathing heavily, making sure the villain was knocked out before turning to Bakugo.
"Are you okay?" He was too worried, too protective. It made Katsuki want to prove himself even more. He could've taken the villain himself, no way he needed Red Riot to jump in like a lunatic and steal his glory (or put himself in danger like that). He ignored the arm outstretched as an offering.
Katsuki scrambled to his feet. Took one last glance at the villain - completely unconscious, decimated so easily. Kirishima was powerful. He forgot that sometimes, when normally the only time he saw him in action was at the gym or stabbing at boulders to build his stamina. It was almost fitting that their quirks cancelled out, wasn’t it? Kiri could pacify Bakugo’s fiery spirit, nullify the figurative and literal bombs he set off using his hard shell.
"I'm fine," Katsuki said stubbornly. He rubbed the small pebbles from the sidewalk off his palms.
"You're bleeding," Kirishima sounded sorry, like it was his fault. It took him a second to realize he was talking about the gash on his cheek. Droplets fell onto his shirt sleeve, each one seeping outward in the material like scarlet tears.
"It's fine. And I didn't need your help." Katsuki blinked, seeing a flashback of the quill coming for him, so close to piercing his skin. He tried to push the image from his head. He was the best, on his way to being number one, no way he would've been injured by such a lowly villain.
“Sure about that, Baku?”
Kirishima walked closer to him, eyebrows furrowed, stopping a foot away before reaching out to touch his face. His spiked arms finally morphed back to normal. Katsuki tried to smack his hand away, but Kirishima dodged the rejection. He wouldn't let up.
"Just lemme see it..."
Groaning in annoyance, the blonde hero relented and looked anywhere but Kirishima's face while he inspected the wound. Pretended not to notice the way he bit his lip in concentration, sharp teeth peeking out of his mouth. Or how smooth his hands felt now when they were the consistency of a rough metal just seconds ago.
"You're so stubborn." Kirishima let go of his chin, but not before tracing his thumb across the blood seeping down from the wound. Katsuki winced but not from the pain.
"Well you're so stupid. Didn't you page Fourth Kind? He'll be here soon, and he'll know you used your quirk," Katsuki realized out loud, motioning to the beaten villain laying broken on the ground. He noticed onlookers getting curious about the scene too.
This is bad…we’re going to get reprimanded for sure.
But something danced across Kirishima's eyes.
"I don't care," He said, dead serious. Katsuki read into his words, his fond and determined expression. Kirishima didn't care about the punishment for knocking the villain out. He had rushed in without a second thought for himself - would do it again a thousand times over. Would probably do anything for Katsuki. The sudden perception made the back of his neck tingle.
"Let's get out of here," Kirishima declared, taking one last look at the porcupine quirked villain who wasn’t waking up anytime soon.
Without warning, he grabbed Katsuki's wrist and together they ran from the scene, Kiri dragging him behind almost frantically. But this wasn’t like him. Red Riot was chivalrous - should be the last one to run away from facing consequences for his actions. Was he…protecting him? Katsuki didn’t know how that thought made him feel.
He let himself be led, hooked on the small contact between palm and forearm. His hair was finally unraveling from the gel, most of it sticking back up from the wind. A thrill pulsed through him from the encounter with the villain, and now from going rogue with Kiri. It almost made him feel like himself again. Feel alive. He was itching for something more to continue the sensation.
The destination turned out to be a small apartment, a place for Kirishima to stay while he was mentored in the city away from his home. They heard sirens in the distance and both tried not to think the worst of them.
"I have butterfly bandages," Kirishima offered, digging for a key in his pocket with one hand. He hadn't let go of Katsuki with the other, and the blond finally shook out of his grip now that they were stopped. Pretended he didn’t mourn the loss of connection.
“I don’t need that shit,” he tried to sound confident, but his wound was beginning to sting now that the adrenaline rush had drained out of his body. A quick glance down at his shirt showed that it hadn’t stopped bleeding, either. Whether he was stubborn about it or not, his gash needed attention.
“Man, you’re making a puddle of blood on my front step. You do.” He twisted his keys in the door handle, stepping up and pushing the door open with the side of his arm. Held it open for Katsuki like he knew he’d give in.
The injured hero huffed and stepped inside.
“I’ll be right back. Try not to bleed out on me, eh?” He pursed his lips and eyed Bakugo until he got a nod in response.
Katsuki used his sleeve to press against his wound, hissing when it made contact. He looked around the tiny room and chose a comfy looking armchair to plop down into. It was a relief to finally relax, even with his stinging cheek still open and raw. He wondered what would happen to them, to Kirishima. Fourth Kind would have to know they used their quirks. The fallout wouldn’t be easy.
And he did it for me.
Bakugo let the thought settle into his mind - take root like a weed that was unwanted but bloomed nicely all the same. He hated being shown up, but with Kiri it was almost forgivable. Almost. He hadn’t done it on purpose, only interjecting when Katsuki was wounded. Like he said, Red Riot had chivalry - a boldened valor that was hard not to respect.
“You still alive?” Kirishima called out ahead of rounding the corner. He had a handful of wound care supplies, looking downright excited at the prospect of being a nurse.
“Obviously. And I can do it myself, just set the stuff down and get me a mirror or something.”
“It’ll be faster if I do it,” Kirishima insisted, sitting down on the end table in front of Katsuki’s frustrated frown.
“Kiri-“
“Move your hands, explodo,” he ordered, opening the disinfectant bottle and pouring some onto a cloth. He was a familiar breed of stubborn, and Katsuki felt like he owed him for what happened with the villain. He hated being in debt. Scooting closer to the edge of the seat with a sigh leaving his mouth, he uncovered his face, sleeve soaked crimson.
“Jeez, I might have to amputate,” he smirked, the first one since they arrived. Katsuki welcomed it.
“My face? Shut up.”
“For real though, this is gonna sting,” Kirishima warned as he leaned closer, holding the side of Katsuki’s face gently. But he was too distracted by the rush of heat in his chest to notice any discomfort. Their knees touched as the redhead continued wiping around the slash on his cheek. Kiri was concentrating hard, expression unreadable, too focused on fixing the wound (or keeping himself distracted). Was he affected at all by this? Their skin’s contact felt rough, which suited them both. Anything less would be fake.
“Hakamata-sensei is gonna be pissed I stained his jeans,” Katsuki said out loud, just for something to break the silence, “probably names each pair like they’re his children.”
Kirishima let a loud laugh escape as he turned to grab the small bandages. Katsuki bathed in its sound.
Grabbing a clean cloth, the redhead pressed it against the wound after the area around it was wiped free of blood. “Hold this here to stop the bleeding some,” he directed. He let Katsuki’s hand link against his own for a few short seconds before sliding it away to get the butterfly bandages opened. He swore on his life that Kirishima’s cheeks reddened from the contact, from their closeness.
“It’sa good thing girls like battle scars,” Kirishima commented offhand. It was a familiar sentiment, but the words sounded wrong coming out of his mouth, like he meant it to be an encrypted message.
“Yeah, good thing...” Katsuki pulled the cloth away and saw the slowed seepage of blood. Kirishima was good at this, at taking care of him. It was an unfamiliar feeling to Bakugo but he let himself be stitched up all the same. One by one, Kirishima squeezed the gash closed with the small bandages, neat and white like a row of teeth on his cheek. Katsuki winced occasionally, but never said anything else about it. He was too tough, too headstrong. Tense as well, feeling like he was holding himself back this whole time, but from what exactly he couldn’t pin down.
“I can autograph it if you want. I’m sure my initials would fit somewhere.” His sense of humor was a breath of fresh air, a counterpart to Katsuki’s sarcasm and occasional vitriol. Kirishima finished placing the last makeshift stitch and purposefully trailed his fingertips down the injured hero’s jaw before letting his hands fall to his lap.
“Uhm,” Katsuki cleared his throat, needing a second think. Every touch had felt a tad too long, but he was sure he was grasping at something that didn’t exist. Did he want it to?
“Actually, hold on a sec. I’ll get you a shirt,” he said nonchalantly, and when the other began to protest, “If you walk home now people are going to think you murdered someone.”
It made sense, but the prospect of wearing Kiri’s clothes felt too intimate. A step forward he invented in his head and now wasn’t ready to take. But he pressed his mouth in a line and found comfort in being thought of. He couldn’t argue that the idea of wearing his shirt was soothing. One last bandage he needed to stop himself from imploding.
A few seconds later, Kirishima walked back into view emptyhanded, embarrassment on his face. “Well I was going to do laundry tonight, so no clean shirts left…ehm-”
“It’s fine, I should go anyway. Best Jeanist expected me back by now.” Katsuki stood up and looked out the window at the darkened sky. His comments today had all been unemotional, but he wasn’t sure how to properly convey what was digging at his brain like dull knives.
“Bakugo,” he heard, and felt something soft hit his chest. He blinked and instinctively went to grab it. “Just take mine. I know how big Best Jeanist is on looks, and I don’t think blood stained shirts are part of his style.”
And I don’t know if any of this is part of mine.
Kirishima’s bare torso was muscular and toned, a lethal combination Katsuki tried not to focus on as he unbuttoned his soiled shirt. He hoped the knots in his chest stayed there and didn’t flush his skin hot and betray him. The shirt smelled so much like the redhead, he was engulfed by it. A plume from a volcano. He shrugged out of his button-up and pulled the tee down around his head, realizing that he didn’t even try to reject the help this time - wondered if that meant anything.
“Eijirou,” he began, startling Kirishima with how he addressed him, “thanks, really.”
Katsuki wasn’t one to give thank you’s away so easily. Kirishima had to read into it like a puzzle to realize the thanks was for everything, not just the shirt.
“You know I’d do anything for ya, Bakugo,” he replied wholeheartedly. Anything? Katsuki was startled by the sentiment. He never knew anyone so willing to overlook his harshness - to embrace it, even. The blond’s gratitude wasn’t thrown around lightly, and Kiri had returned in kind.
You’re really something, red.
Katsuki began walking to the door, stained shirt balled up in his fist. He brushed past Kiri’s torso, let the back of his hand ever so slightly etch a passing touch into his skin. He sighed inside and out. He needed to get away from him, go home and take a cold shower or punch his boxing bag a few times. Escape whatever muddled mess of toxic emotions he felt boiling under the surface.
“Bakugo,” Kirishima suddenly blurted out like an untold secret. Katsuki felt a hand on his shoulder whip him around, and the other grasped at his neck lightly. Kirishima’s lips brushed his wound before pressing against his mouth - a forbidden drink. It was too painfully short for contact he realized he'd been craving, and he lamented feeling Kirishima pulling away altogether after only a few seconds. It was over so quickly he felt dizzy, caught in a whirlwind under his unsteady feet. He still felt the imprint against his lips, covered them with his fingers to hold it there a little bit longer.
That didn’t just happen. That wasn’t even in the realm of possibility.
Bakugo stared at him intensely, waiting for something more to happen. Desiring – needing it more than the air he struggled to breathe in and out. Finally, the other cleared his throat and spoke.
“Uh, good luck. With Jeanist, I mean,” Kiri said apprehensively, trying to negate what he just did with placeholder words. Embarrassment was plastered on his face, one which usually held unbridled confidence. It was a strange look on him. Bakugo wanted the dauntless smile back, it was the only familiar thing he could think to latch onto. He tried to bring it to the surface so he could absorb it again.
“I’ll come back tonight,” Katsuki assured without allowing himself to think, handing him an unreadable half-smirk, “to give back your shirt, I mean.” Katsuki used his words against him - hoped he interpreted it as the furthest thing from rejection.
Kirishima’s sharp smile returned at last, and the click of the door closing behind Katsuki wasn’t of regret, but a promise.