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Bakugou’s heard the endless jokes about his sweaty hands — and it’s true. His hands are sweaty due to his quirk, but you’ve never felt sweaty hands in your life until you’ve had Deku’s tight as fuck grip on them. It’s like he thinks that you’ll disappear if he lets go — which he probably does, the bastard — so he holds you and holds you and holds you until you’re yanking your hands out of his grip to wipe them on your pants. Jesus fucking Christ.
Bakugou’s also seen the rumors about how Deku’s curls keep secrets in them. About how it’s so big ‘cus there’s decades worth of secrets built up in ‘em. And Bakugou knows that’s bullshit. He knows it’s bullshit because Deku’s never been fucking good at keeping secrets, and Bakugou knows because Deku obviously keep his secrets tight in his hands.
And Bakugou knows ‘cus Deku’s grip is always fucking suffocatingly tight whenever he’s got a new secret to keep. When he knows he can’t tell it.
Deku’s grip on Bakugou was real fuckin’ tight when Bakugou kissed him under the bleachers for the first time, too.
It’d been in middle school — the first time Bakugou kissed him. Some stupid dare taken too far, taken too seriously to make Bakugou stop dead like he should’ve. Some double-triple-quadruple dog dare with words too big and insincerity taken too seriously for the pride of a twelve-year-old.
Deku’s eyes grew big and wet and round and panic had taken hold of Bakugou’s heart, until he swore an empty threat around the taste of Deku’s mouth: “if you tell anyone, I’ll make you fuckin’ regret it, Deku.”
He wouldn’t. Bakugou knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He knew he was blushing hard enough to make his blonde hair clash with his tomato cheeks and he knew that he looked like a goddamn mess. His voice shook under the bleachers — unsure of himself and what he was saying.
Deku nodded along though, sure enough. “I won’t,” he had said. “I won’t, Kacchan.”
And he didn’t. He never did. Bakugou never spoke a word about it, either. Not when they kissed under the bleachers, not when Bakugou would roll up his sleeves and push Deku into chain link fences in front of Bakugou’s friends, not after.
Deku would rub his bruises, the spots where he’s been kissed, over and over, but it never made him feel any better.
They still don’t talk about it, now, years later. Out of middle school, out of high school, out of all the sidekick roles and agencies they didn’t like. Now they’re just solo heroes fighting for the same crowns. The same rank in the billboards.
And Deku holds his secrets in his hands. All those years, all those secrets — a thousand more than anyone should have to hold.
Bakugou likes to slip his hand into Deku’s. Makes the burden a little lighter.
“You’re affectionate,” Deku usually remarks in a delighted tone when Bakugou does intertwined their fingers. “Any reason for it, Kacchan?”
“Y’look tense,” Bakugou says, entirely honestly. “Thought it might relieve some of that tension you’re keeping prisoner in your fuckin’ shoulders.”
“Prisoner?” Deku asks, the delighted tone mixing into his incredulous shock. “That’s so harsh!”
Bakugou sees the tension leave Deku’s shoulders as he laughs. Bakugou holds Deku’s knuckles with his calloused fingertips. “That’s me,” he says. “Harsh as fuck.”