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The first time it happens, Kirishima is blissfully passed the fuck out in the common room, legs dangling over the side of the small couch, shirt riding up a little and one sock completely rolled off his foot.
He’s dreaming about mustaches, muscles, the color red and all things he finds insanely manly when a shake, which then turns into a rocking, which then turns into a full on jarring-his-skeleton-holy-shit-is-that-his-brain-flopping-around-his-skull, rudely awakens him. He sits up with a gasp and only very narrowly avoids head butting someone. The redhead blinks a couple of times, eyes adjusting to the dark before he recognizes the familiar silhouette of spiky hair, the broad build and those thick thighs and he swears to god, he can see the everlasting look of something akin to disgust mixed with anger etched on his face.
“What the fuck?” Kirishima mumbles.
Bakugou smacks him on the head. “That’s what I should say, asshole,” he snarls, grabbing Kirishima’s collar. “Who the fuck falls asleep in the goddamn common room? I thought you were a fucking villain and I was gonna fucking murder you.”
Kirishima swats his hands away and yawns into the back of his palm, lifting his legs off the armrest and bringing them to the ground. He blinks a little more and shoots Bakugou a sleepy smile.
“Well then, thank you for not killing me.”
“Asshole,” Bakugou kindly reiterates, and maybe it’s just Kirishima’s sleep muddled brain, but the insult is softer somehow, mellow in a way that couldn’t possibly come from Bakugou-fucking-Katsuki.
“Must be dreaming,” he mumbles to himself and falls back, head lolling on the edge of the back rest.
Bakugou grabs the collar of his shirt again and brings his face ridiculously close before whispering, “Go back to your fucking room or I’m gonna actually blast a goddamn hole through your stomach.”
Kirishima groans like a petulant child but stands up, pushing Bakugou with him. They’re chest to chest now, and he’s so warm, the perfect union between a furnace and a campfire. Kirishima doesn’t even resist the urge to slump into him, putting his entire body weight on the man.
“Mmmm, toasty,” he sighs contently, and he feels Bakugou shake. Oh, he might be in a little bit of trouble. Then again, he knew he was signing his death contract with that stellar move.
“YOU FUCKING WEIRD HAIR BAS-“ Bakugou screams, shoving him away and shaking him rigorously. “Just go! Right fucking now!”
Kirishima backs up and cracks his neck before making his way to the other end of the room in a zombie trance. He’s near the stairs when he suddenly spins around, spotting Bakugou on the other side of the hall.
“Hey!”
Bakugou stops but doesn’t turn.
“Why are you down here?”
Bakugou makes a non-committal sound. “Water.”
It sounds like a lie, but Kirishima’s too sleepy to care.
~
The next time it happens is right after training, or more specifically, Aizawa sensei’s version of hell. It’s grueling to the point where Kirishima wants to throw up. He loves it, he loves that he’s getting stronger and better and he’s more emotionally attuned to his classmates and he’s so manly, but feeling nauseous sucks.
The entire class is crowding the common room but they seep out eventually, till just a few remain scattered here and there. Kirishima is plopped on the same couch as last time, and his eyes drift shut without his permission. He’s out in moments, entering that trance like state where he’s aware of everything happening around him but can’t really do anything physically.
He hears a voice suddenly, close and familiar. It’s Bakugou he realizes, recognizing that angry tone anywhere.
“Just leave him the fuck alone, Deku!”
Why is he screaming? Actually, why is he always screaming? Isn’t that energy consuming? Wait, does that mean he’ll be more powerful if he’s calm? Wha-
Kirishima’s thought process comes to a halt when he realizes that the remaining people are, in fact, talking about him.
“But Kirishima-kun might catch a cold!” Deku says, sounding worried. Kirishima wants to glomp him, the cute fucker.
Bakugou growls, “Just leave him. Aizawa was really harsh today, can’t blame the fucker for passing out.”
“Just do-“
“I’m not gonna leave him here! Just fuck off.”
Kirishima hears Deku and another pair of feet walk away, and something warm and fuzzy settles right beside his heart, just below his sternum. It beats rapidly, filling him with a heat that makes his cheeks warm and his stomach flutter.
He feels Bakugou’s back hit the couch, right in front of his mid-section. His hair tickles Kirishima’s arm but he doesn’t move it, because fucking hell Bakugou’s hair is so soft and he smells so musky and manly and jus-
“Idiot,” Bakugou whispers, and damn, he sounds worried. Kirishima, not once in his short, weird life had believed Bakugou-fucking-Katsuki was capable of feeling legitimate worry for anyone except maybe All Might.
The fuzz and the warmth intensifies, and he damn near hums.
He really doesn’t want this tiny, cheesy-ass moment to end.
~
Kirishima is a patient person, or so he likes to believe.
He’s been compared to saints, and even the Pope, and with good reason. He’s tolerant and good-natured, taking insults in stride and befriending everything that walks the face of the earth. He’s a good guy, or so he’s been told, multiple times.
Which is why it shocks him, and pretty much everybody else, when he snaps, and by snaps he means he goes ballistic, on Bakugou’s ass.
Now, Bakugou being a grade-A asshole is nothing new. It’s become routine - Bakugou pretends to not know his name, calls him weird hair guy or bastard for short, then they squabble when Kirishima corrects him, then they fight while training, then they fight while walking back to the dorms, then they argue in the common room, then they sleep and then they repeat. Kirishima’s used to it, and he doesn’t mind it at all. If anything, he’s come to enjoy it.
But there are days when even literal drops of sunshine such as himself are just off. Days when they can’t find their groove and just aren’t feeling themselves, and Kirishima’s having one of those. Bakugou’s timed insults come, but Kirishima’s witty responses never do. Bakugou, undeterred, tries again, to no avail.
He pushes and pushes, hitting a harder wall, till he goes too far. He says something about his mom (you do not talk about Kirishima’s mom) and the redhead is done.
There’s yelling and pushing, explosions and Kirishima trying his level best to stab Bakugou with his hardened hand. There’s blood and cuts and bruises that need to be treated.
It sucks. All of it.
Bakugou’s face had been painted with surprise when Kirishima had come at him, and he hadn’t breathed a word to him ever since. Kirishima refuses to cave this time, justified in his anger. Even insensitivity from Bakugou has its limits. He thinks of the man as a friend, a comrade, a partner in crime, but too much is exactly that- too much.
He goes to Midoriya’s room to rant, the flustered boy laughing awkwardly and trying to pacify him with his soothing voice and gentle actions. Somewhere between debating Aizawa’s best move and All Might’s really weird hair, Kirishima passes out, exhausted both mentally and physically.
He wakes up a few hours later, rousing from slumber with fluttering eyelids and a roll of his body in a bed too soft to be his own. He’s confused at first, because the bed doesn’t smell like him either, but then he remembers Midoriya and relaxes again. That’s when he hears voices.
“So he’s here?”
“Yeah.”
It’s Midoriya talking to Bakugou, of this Kirishima is sure. They’re talking in hushed whispers, or at least Midoriya is. Bakugou is trying, though not very successfully.
“He’s tired,” Midoriya is saying, “so let him sleep.”
Bakugou growls. “Deku, I need two minutes, get out!”
“Are you seriously kicking me out of my own room?” Midoriya sounds incredulous and annoyed. Kirishima resists the urge to giggle.
There’s silence for a beat, then the softest “Please?”
Kirishima resists every instinct in his entire body that’s screaming at him to shoot up straight and stare at Bakugou’s face because he’s a hundred percent sure his expression must be utterly priceless. Midoriya chokes, spluttering loudly.
“Kacchan? Are you really Kacchan? Am I dreaming?”
“Shut the fuck up Deku,” Kacch-Bakugou growls, before exhaling loudly. “Just please fucking give me two minutes ok?”
Midoriya chuckles. “Yeah, fine. I’ll be in Todoroki’s room, and I’m giving you five minutes, no more.”
There’s a little bit of shuffling and rustling, and then the door is shut, shrouding the room in silence. Kirishima forces himself to breathe normally, eyes shut tight, heart rate higher than usual and picking up steadily.
Bakugou paces in front of the bed, his footsteps angry and loud. Kirishima feels the heat from his body, his eternally hot (pun intended) body, and it’s oddly comforting. For all that he’s an asshole, Bakugou Katsuki has grown on Kirishima, and he hates that they’re fighting.
There’s a sudden dip in the bed, and Bakugou’s warm back is pressed into Kirishima’s abdomen.
“…’m sorry.”
It’s soft but genuine, so completely and utterly genuine. Kirishima hears him loud and clear, and he doesn’t need to look to know that Bakugou is blushing an adorable crimson. His hand, the one curled near his face, slides down slowly, till he touches Bakugou’s side. He moves it up slowly and finds Bakugou’s forearm, tightly curled over his chest and squeezes.
“’s alright.”
Bakugou grunts, and he’s even warmer than before. Kirishima’s stomach is fluttering, his heart thumping around his chest wildly, and not once in his life has he felt an urge this strong, it makes him shake with the desire to fulfill it.
The urge to kiss Bakugou-fucking-Katsuki.
They sit like that for a few minutes, till they hear the sound of the lock opening and Bakugou shoots up, yells a I’m gonna kill you tomorrow Kirishima before stomping out.
He doesn’t shake his hand off. He remembers his name.
Kirishima doesn’t stop smiling even when he climbs into his own bed.
~
There’s a beeping.
It’s consistent, it’s loud, it’s close.
And it’s fucking annoying.
Kirishima wakes up to white. White everywhere, like it’s snowed, but less pretty. The curtains are white and so are the walls, the sheets covering him, the rails of the bed, the pillow case. It’s all white, and ghastly.
It registers, slowly but surely, that Kirishima is not in his room. That the beeping is a machine sitting beside him, with red lights blinking and flashing and somehow mocking him. There’s even a needle sticking out of his hand, leading to an IV drip, and his head – oh hell – his head feels like someone’s stuffed cotton in it. It’s unnaturally heavy, and the soft strands of red from his unspiked hair tickle his forehead every time he tries to move.
With a lengthy exhale, Kirishima takes a moment to clear his head, trying to remember what happened. He’s in a hospital, this much is obvious- but why?
His eyes keep shutting so he lets them stay closed, taking a break before mustering up enough strength to open them and actually look around. A warmth, familiar and welcome, is pressing into his other hand, the needle-less one, and when he looks down, he sees a hand holding his own.
His eyes travel up, over the defined muscles and the toned mass, the curve of the person’s shoulder and the broad neck before settling on his face, and Kirishima’s breath stutters.
He’s never seen Bakugou sleep. It’s not lack of opportunity so much as it is missed opportunities, but a sleeping Bakugou looks nothing like the one awake. He’s peaceful, face smooth and eyebrows relaxed, mouth slightly parted and nose twitching every few seconds. Kirishima wishes he could take a picture or at least store this in his mind forever and ever, but he doesn’t want to move. He wants Bakugou to sleep, if only a moment longer.
Bakugou wakes up a few minutes later anyway, blinking against the sunlight filtering in. His eyebrows pinch in the middle and he squeezes Kirishima’s hand a little too hard, earning him a tiny yelp.
He jumps like he’s heard a gunshot, and his eyes go comically wide when he sees Kirishima awake.
“Y-y-you-“
“Hi.”
Bakugou’s mouth opens and closes like a fish before he stands up and rips his hand out of Kirishima’s hold, looking positively livid.
“What the actual fuck were you thinking, you asshole? Is there absolutely nothing in that big ass cranium of yours? Why the fuc-“
“Sorry to interrupt,” Kirishima grunts, “but what exactly happened? I don’t remember.”
Bakugou looks at him like he’s crazy before turning around and walking out the door, leaving it slightly ajar. Kirishima hears a few explosions outside a couple minutes later before Bakugou comes storming into the room, looking calmer and madder simultaneously.
“Uraraka was in trouble, and you tried saving her, and nearly died.”
Kirishima’s eyebrows pinch together. “Oh.”
“Oh? OH? You’ve been unconscious for nearly three days! Your quirk kicked in just before impact, but you still took so much internal damage. So many surgeries and goddamn doctors and fucking tubes. Fucki-“
“Bakugou.”
Bakugou snaps, “What?”
Kirishima opens his palm, wiggling his fingers a little. Everything hurts- his head, his arms and his legs, his stomach, his back. Even the fingers stretched open and waiting.
Bakugou doesn’t say a word, sliding back into his seat and taking Kirishima’s hand in his own. He leans forward till his head is touching the mattress, right next to Kirishima’s arm.
“…. Thought you were dead.”
Kirishima squeezes his hand, feels his heart clench.
“Can’t die just yet. Who’d take care of your crusty ass?”
Bakugou looks up slowly, and his eyes are brimming with unshed tears. Kirihshima smiles at him apologetically, sniffling a little himself.
He sighs softly. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”
Bakugou gets up slowly and gingerly sits beside Kirishima, the bed dipping in the middle. His free hand moves up to cup Kirishima’s face, tenderly, like he’s something delicate and fragile and something that deserves to be treated with care.
Kirishima’s never felt such love in his life.
“Then don’t fucking do it again.”
Bakugou leans forward till his forehead is pressed to Kirishima’s and Kirishima chuckles, wincing when his stomach pulls uncomfortably.
“No promises.”
“I hate you.”
“Me too.”
It’s not a confession, but Kirishima wouldn’t have it any other way.
~
“and then- oye, Bakugou, are you even listening?”
They’re in Kirishima’s manly room, chilling on his bed, and Kirishima’s been going on and on about crimson riot, his ultimate inspiration when he realizes Bakugou’s been uncharacteristically mum the entire time.
He looks down just when he’s about to shake him and freezes.
Mouth slightly ajar, nose twitching, eyebrows relaxed. Bakugou-fucking-Katsuki is asleep atop him, snuggling like the gigantic cuddle monster he is, and Kirishima can’t help the rumble of laughter that bubbles from his chest.
Bakugou’s sprawled all over him, leg thrown over his hip and feet tangled, arms wrapped around his waist, face on his chest. Kirishima reaches for the wall near the bed and feels around before hitting the switch, drowning them in darkness. He struggles for a little while before successfully covering them with the duvet, Bakugou still asleep. He kisses him on the forehead lovingly, whispers a soft Goodnight idiot and pulls him closer.
He’s in love with Bakugou-fucking-Katsuki, and it isn’t perfect; far from it.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.