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Despite what others often thought of him, Bakugou had no real issue admitting when he wasn’t good at something.
Of course, he would usually take that thing he wasn’t quite so good at and work as hard as he possibly could to become good—if not the best—at it. He was hard-working and driven, and he wanted to succeed in everything he set his mind to. That’s why he achieved such high grades in school, and why he had become so skilled with his Quirk.
The provisional license exam had been a wake-up call that he needed to work on the other aspects of being a hero. All the same, as much as he groaned about the training course he had to attend on weekends—with half-and-half, of all people—he accepted the challenge in stride. He was going to be the best hero, and this little bump in the road would be hard-pressed to stop him. He’d overcome, and he’d be the best—or at the very least, better.
After all, when he really tried, Bakugou knew he could succeed. That was the only option.
Which was probably what made his situation so incredibly frustrating.
Regardless of what black eyes and dunce face always said, Bakugou was actually quite in tune with his feelings. Just because he didn’t like to wear them on his sleeve like Deku didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of them. So, of course, he’d accepted for quite some time that he had not-so-platonic feelings for Kirishima. He was very conscious of how his palms would sweat in a way that had nothing to do with his Quirk, how his heart would hammer a beat against his ribs so powerful it felt as though it would simply burst right out of his chest, how it felt like a swarm of butterflies had been released in his stomach to flutter about, how it felt like he couldn’t breathe but that was okay, that was fine, because he didn’t need air, he just needed Kirishima.
Just as easily as he accepted this, though, he also accepted the fact that he wouldn’t be able to put any of it into words that the other boy might understand. There had been times when he was able to offer Kirishima some encouraging statements, something that seemed to make it through his thick skull and remind him of his own strength, but this was different. This was translating something so intangible into a few simple words, and that was more or less impossible.
Yes, Bakugou understood his short-comings.
He’d determined then that the most logical step would be to show Kirishima what he felt, if he couldn’t tell him.
They’d already planned to spend the day together—Kirishima had been begging Bakugou to go hiking together since he found out the boy liked mountain climbing, and Bakugou had finally decided to invite Kirishima along. Not as a date, he told himself for what felt like the hundredth time.
Though, if things went well, he thought that maybe he could amend that.
They had met up fairly early in the day, and Bakugou had taken Kirishima to one of his favorite trails. The redhead was ecstatic, and Bakugou couldn’t help but give a small but proud half-smile at how excitable Kirishima seemed to be—with him, on their hike, together.
But after a while, the smile slowly began to slip off of his face, and he could feel the irritation begin to itch beneath his skin. How the hell was it so damn hard to fucking hold someone’s hand?
Kirishima’s hand was right there, so close as they walked together. And yet, every time that Bakugou would try to reach out to take one of his hands in his, Kirishima would suddenly move them, to excitedly point out something to Bakugou or blow hot air against them and rub his ungloved palms together. And then, Kirishima would so easily curl his fingers around his backpack straps, hefting his bag up a little before turning to Bakugou and flashing that far too wide smile with far too sharp teeth. Bakugou's frustration would ebb away at the look.
And then, it started all over again.
Before he knew it, the boys were seated at a small table in a café, nursing ceramic mugs of hot chocolate. Kirishima kept his hands wrapped tightly around his, trying to collect as much heat radiating from the cup as he could to warm his numb fingers. Bakugou’s own fingers tapped an irritated rhythm against the table. Really, if he’d just put his damn drink down, then maybe…
“Bakugou?”
Bakugou jerked his gaze up to meet Kirishima’s. The boy had tilted his head, staring at him with curiosity. “What,” he grunted so that it sounded more like a demand instead of a question.
Kirishima raised an eyebrow at this. “You’ve been glaring for the past ten minutes,” he said.
Bakugou glanced away, grimacing. He balled his hand into a fist to stop himself from drumming his fingers against the table. “Sorry,” he murmured.
“You don’t need to apologize,” Kirishima told him simply with a bit of a shrug. “Though, I’m curious what my cocoa did to offend you so badly.”
Bakugou’s attention snapped back to Kirishima automatically at the odd statement. “Hah?”
Kirishima chuckled at this. “You were glaring at my mug, man,” he said. “Or it was in the way of what you were glaring at, at least.”
“It wasn’t the mug.” Bakugou rolled his eyes.
Kirishima frowned a little, furrowing his brow. “What’s up?” he asked. He licked his lips a little nervously, and Bakugou couldn’t help but wonder if they tasted like chocolate and cinnamon from his drink. “Did I do something…?”
“What?” Bakugou snapped. “Of course not, hair for brains. Just—ugh.” He gritted his teeth. “Give me your hand.”
“What?”
“Your hand, shitty hair.”
Kirishima’s frown deepened, but he relented. He set his drink down on the table, holding out his hand without further question. Immediately Bakugou threaded his fingers through his, pressing their palms together. Bakugou gave his hand a small squeeze, feeling the warmth of Kirishima’s palm, the cool touch of his fingers.
“Fucking finally,” Bakugou muttered.
It seemed as though the action had done nothing to quell Kirishima’s confusion, however. He looked at the blond boy questioningly.
“Bakugou?” he said. “What…?”
“I’ve been trying to do this all day,” Bakugou said, huffing out an annoyed breath. “You haven’t been making it easy, shitty hair.”
Kirishima blinked at him, lips slightly parted so he could just barely see the points of his teeth. Bakugou watched the delicate rosy color bloom along Kirishima’s cheeks as the realization suddenly seemed to set in. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Bakugou said. “Oh.”
“You could have said something,” Kirishima muttered sheepishly.
“I just did, didn’t I?” Bakugou said.
“Before that, idiot,” Kirishima responded, but the insult held no malice. “Like when we were hiking.”
“Tch.”
“It would have been nice,” he continued, curling his fingers more tightly around Bakugou’s. “You could’ve kept my hands warm.”
“Shut up,” Bakugou said, and he could feel his own face heat up, sure that his blush matched Kirishima's. He looked down at where their hands were joined, then back up to the other boy’s face. “Is… This is okay, right?”
Kirishima beamed at him. “Of course!” He slid his other forearm up across the table, taking Bakugou’s empty hand in his. “I’ve kind of liked you for ages and I’m assuming this means you like me too. Which…” His smile softened into something that made Bakugou’s heart flutter, made his pulse jump. “That is definitely more than okay.”
Bakugou glanced back down at their hands and the way they fit together so easily, as though they’d already done it hundreds of times before. He wondered how different it might be after they had done it hundreds of times, what Kirishima’s hands might feel like then, how well they’d slot together. The idea set something alight in Bakugou’s stomach.
Yeah, Kirishima definitely had it right—this was more than okay.