Work Text:
The curtains are closed, and Kirishima is sixteen.
His pulse tears through him with every beat of his heart, keeping a nasty headache alive; the fever hasn’t gone down in hours. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, his body like burning ice, and sitting up in bed is whiskey thrown on coals: sizzling, hissing, sharp to the tongue and smoky to the eye. Every sensation’s out of place – the air’s thick but his own blood is thicker, gooey as syrup, loud in his ears. It’d be an interesting feeling if he wasn’t drowsy on it. Sometimes the room spins for a couple of seconds, the ceiling losing its angles, melting without moving – then he snaps out of it. Kirishima stares at the walls mindlessly. Faint rays of a dull afternoon filter through the drapes, painting the bedroom with desaturated reds.
The curtains are closed, but the door is open.
They come in rounds and walk in when he’s not sleeping. Some only check, some say a few words – most stay, bringing in sweet whispers of comfort with them. They keep him out of the fog of the fever; he likes the hands in his hair and the lingering knuckles against his cheek, the slow blinks and the hushed voices. He likes these who sit and wait, sit and chat for a minute or so even though none of his sentences make sense. He likes their weight making the mattress dip and the warmth of their presence, the softness of their touch; sometimes he blinks and they’re gone, but they leave medicine, water, and the intoxicating feeling of being cared for.
The curtains stay closed, and Kirishima’s awake when they bring dinner together.
The bed being just big enough for one doesn’t stop them from finding room for five; climbing all over each other is easy, and legs get lost in careful tangles. The soup doesn’t spill – Bakugou would never let it happen – and they distract him with stories of the outside. The headache still pulsing between his temples makes their voices meld into one another, harmonic through the fog. They laugh in slow motion; night has fallen but the colors they bring to the room vibrate with the energy of summer.
Kirishima blinks, and they stay. With every word, and every gentle touch, and every dedicated attention, they anchor into him a feeling the fever could not make him hallucinate – chosen, chosen and loved, chosen and cherished.
He only stops smiling when he’s asked to open his mouth; it’s hard not to grin around the spoon, and he forgets how the fever feels.
Night falls fast in October. With the arrival of fall, the days blend into each other in shades of brown, and that’s okay, that’s what routine feels like. It’s good news. Still, Kirishima knows he should find time for himself somewhere in the middle of the month, but routine isn’t merciful enough. School and training keep him so busy he only finds himself alone with his thoughts once the sun has set, after the cherry red trees turn to cold rust. He runs, keeping count of the laps, and sweats the day away.
Morning brought a few texts, a few phone calls. Family, mainly, old friends too. He received polite wishes in class as well, contained and civil. It’s just another day for everyone else and he’s almost used to it by now; maybe that’s it, maybe growing up means letting go of yourself, maybe it’s letting brown days melt into browner days in the cold of October.
Kirishima should have been born in summer. At least the nights would be warmer.
He keeps at it until his legs are imploring him to stop, until his lungs are cramped, until he can’t remember his own age. What matters is the drops running down his back, his breath puffing up into clouds with each exhale, and his hungry stomach begging for dinner. The day is over, he’s sweated it all away.
But a chorus of voices sings his name when he comes back to the dorms and suddenly Kirishima is seventeen.
They don’t let him cool down – surprise, they cheer, surprise! And they have cake and a neatly packed gift, and all the warmth that comes with it; they bring ribbons, smiles and hands all over his sweaty, flushed shoulders, and they call his name in every sentence, their voices bouncing off each other’s. Before Kirishima can blink, Midoriya hugs him with a strength he didn’t have earlier this year, and Jirou beams with pride just looking at him, and they all gather, vibrating around him like a crowd of small suns – Kirishima, they all echo in the dead of October, Kirishima!
It’s warm in here, between all these pairs of arms spread open. It’s good to have routine broken and find some bright ruby in between brown days, carefully placed just for him by people smiling when they chant his name.
Hugging Midoriya back, Kirishima decides October is a summer month after all.
In the pictures, Kirishima will forever be eighteen.
He’ll forever be standing straight for the fluttering cameras, his ironed uniform hiding the bruises of yesterday; his smile will forever be perfect, practiced yet genuine, handpicked. It took three years to earn these pictures after all, and he makes sure his diploma is visible in most of them.
His heart feels floaty, soft and not quite in the right place, like his whole body’s a liminal space. He swallows around a dry tongue; it’s not fear or stress. It’s just the taste new things have. There’s a whole new kind of unknown past the school gates after all, waiting for him – and for Uraraka, smothered under her parents’ hugs, and for Iida, pushing his brother’s wheelchair, and for Asui, guiding her siblings through the crowd. A chapter’s finally complete but the aftertaste is bittersweet. Kirishima learns melancholy under the cherry trees; he knows he should be happy, and he is, he is, of course he is.
But he learns details as well, colors and memories growing into a list of what he’ll miss, and breathing stings a bit more with every new line.
Yaoyorozu laughs somewhere in the crowd and it sounds like home – Kirishima’s heart pinches, impossibly squeezes; it’s one of these details. He’ll miss her laugh and the way it echoes in the common room, and he’ll miss Ashido’s bed head on Saturdays and Kaminari’s shower singing. He’ll miss it all.
Yet he knows he’ll remember it all, and the thought alone makes him hold back tears. He’ll remember the first time Todoroki laughed and the first time Tokoyami sang, and all the other times as well. He’ll remember everything precious, for he lived them with the intensity of a fever dream he didn’t want to be woken up from – now his eyes are open, and they can’t stay dry. He’s happy, he is, he is, but it’s all behind him. It’s all his to come back to – pictures will help, so he has to smile.
He’s not crying, of course he’s not crying, but Bakugou joins him under the cherry trees and his voice is low, his touch gentle. Kirishima knows he won’t have to miss this but it hurts all the same, and they hide from the crowd so he can close his eyes and commit more to memory.
The dust doesn’t fall back down entirely, as if immune to gravity. It hovers at knee height and it’s all that’s left. The curious masses have already scattered. There are only remnants of what used to be, wrapped in the damp smell of dirt and concrete; the rain falls in a light shower but the sun’s out too, turning each drop into a prism. Kirishima lets his body cool down and sinks into the moment, head tilted back to stare at the sky – he knew he’d be fine, experience taught him that, but he likes to wait until the dust settles, even after all these years.
He’s lucky. He knows it.
Things could have gone differently but he chose this life for himself, and he chooses it again every morning. This and all the dirt, and the pain some days, and these fleeting pearls of time crystallized in the rain – he’s lucky to have it.
Bakugou’s arm falls around his shoulders and pulls him in, and Kirishima’s eyes leave the sky. He’s lucky to have of all it.
He knows this tired grin, and he knows everyone else’s; he knows the warmth of their hugs and the ring of their laughs, and he never stops looking forward to the next time he’ll hear it. They’re chosen, these things, they’re in his life for two reasons: because he wants them there, and because they chose him too. It’s flowers picking flowers, letting each other bloom and thrive in the same garden to revel in complementary splendor. It’s what allows him to stand even after falling many times, it’s this cultivated beauty that carried him through winters past, that will push him through all winters to come.
Kirishima leans against Bakugou’s shoulder and they glow golden in the rain; they take a minute to breathe and stand in strength, in dedication, in love for the thousandth time.
Dust settles, and Kirishima is ageless.