Work Text:
Kirishima sits in front of the apartment door, watching joggers run by and stray cats dig through trash for half-eaten takeout boxes as he counts the passing hours.
It's a chilly fall day, the sky clouded over, threatening to cry rain. Wind shakes tree leaves of stunning vermillion orange and howls against rooftops and chimneys. Kirishima's nose twitches. The moist air smells of damp tree bark and wet sidewalk.
He twiddles his fingers together, trying his best not to get too impatient. He counts the hours he's been waiting... two, four, six, eight... he's already waited eight hours, no good to get impatient now... besides, it should be any minute now.
He taps two fingers at his shin, leaning elbows on knees. His eyes wander a bit, scanning pointlessly over the other apartment complexes. The doors are spread about fifteen feet apart, the walkway between them decorated with potted plants lining the sides of the building and towels hanging over the safety railing. It's not the most visually appealing surrounding- messy and plain- but after staring at all the succulents and drying laundry for countless hours everyday, it's become a familiar sight to Kirishima, the whole apartment complex has. He even knows some of the neighbor―not by name―but they've passed by where he sits and waits every day enough times that he's got their faces engraved into his head.
Thunder cackles from a distance away. Kirishima likes the sound of thunder, it's fun to listen to, but it's been overcast and rainy for so long that's it's become nothing but white noise. He just hopes it doesn't start pouring rain. There's a strong metal overhang above the terrace, but that wouldn't be enough to protect all the hanging laundry and stray cats from getting miserably soaked.
Footsteps sound from somewhere down at the bottom of the cement stairs that lead up to the second floor of apartments, army boots clipping on damp concrete. Kirishima perks up, back straightening and brows unfurrowing themselves.
The familiar footsteps approach and finally a tuft of frizzy blond hair peeks over the top the of steps. Then a whole head of unbrushed hair. Then a face. Kirishima uncrosses his legs and jumps to his feet, a grin at his lips.
Bakugou's not a fan of the cold, so he's bundled up with two big puffy jackets and a fuzzy scarf, a lavender one that wraps all the way around his nose and mouth, collecting his hot breath. His cheeks are bitten pink by the shrill cold, but his eyes are toasty and warm, a firey red like caramel apples and October sunsets.
Kirishima swoons.
Bakugou Katsuki―he had Kirishima wrapped around his finger from the moment he laid his ruby eyes on him. The others living in the apartment complex call him nasty and problematic with his easy to prompt bad attitude and tendency to yell, an aloof neighbor it would be best to steer clear of, but Kirishima knows his complexity is just easy to mislabel. You could say he's misunderstood, but Kirishima's seen enough of his personality, the one he usually hides under layers and layers of misleading frontiers, the one that doesn't shine brightly save for the comfort of his apartment, where he lounges lazily on couches with Kirishima at his side, nobody around who he feels like he has to put up a façade for, to know that he's mountains more than what meets the eye.
Bakugou doesn't speak as he nears the door to his apartment where Kirishima beams in silent greeting. His expression doesn't change in the slightest, piercing gaze fixed on the door, no opportunity for wandering eyes.
Kirishima stands in front of said door, wishing more than anything he could reach out his arms and give the blond a tight hug; he looks like he needs one. Work has been rough on him- Kirishima doesn't miss the smudgy eyebags.
But no matter how hard he wishes, or hard he tries, even if he were desperate enough to attempt it, he can't.
Bakugou takes another step forward, rubber heel of his boots skidding on the concrete, and he phases right through Kirishima, like he's a hologram, like he's imaginary,
Like he's a ghost.
He unlocks the rust red door labeled with steel numbers two and three, keys noisy in his hands, and steps inside, letting out a long-held huff of breath and stomping his muddy feet on the genkan doormat. Kirishima follows suit, floating in with half-lidded eyes, tranquil in the apartment.
It's a homey and familiar place. There's a worn, comfy teal couch, a wooden shelf loaded with cookbooks, framed pictures of Bakugou with his friends, and a hundred other little things that brings so much personality―and even quirkiness―to the tiny living space that greets the pair every day.
It always smells like roasted garlic and cinnamon- an odd couple that work surprisingly pleasant together- in the apartment, the strongest scents from Bakugou's frequent cooking staining the couch cushions and olive paint coated on the walls. The floors creaked in some places, and the carpet has a few coffee stains, but the flaws only made it more perfect.
It's home, something Kirishima feels so very lucky to have again.
After kicking off his shoes, letting them join the hill of other unorganized footwear- some not even Bakugou's, just miscellaneous sandals and tennis shoes left behind by his visiting friends- Bakugou makes a beeline straight for the thermostat, cranking up the heat and letting out yet another huff as he peels off his lavender scarf, letting his suffocated neck finally breath. Next he unbuttons both of his puffy winter jackets―but not the sour apple candy-colored sweater he'd had underneath―and lazily tosses them over one of the wooden chairs of his four-seat dining table.
The sofa welcomes him with open arms. Eyelids fall shut as he rests his head on the teal cushion backing, so suddenly still he almost looks asleep. Kirishima sits next to him. He has to concentrate a bit on not phasing right through the couch, but manages, straightening his back and pressing his feet firmly to the carpeted floor. He looks at Bakugou with somewhat concerned eyes.
It's like his usual livid spark has been snuffed, leaving behind just a worn out shell of melted wax. Kirishima's noticed it, it was hard not to, how the past few days he'd been more sluggish and unlike himself, less energetic, like his batteries are running low and desperately need to be replaced. Kirishima has a feeling―actually more than a feeling―that it all has to do with his job, which Bakugou complains about to friends every chance he got, Kirishima lending him an unknown ear... but the sickening part is that there's nothing Kirishima can do to help him.
He's a ghost, dead, just the essence of his past self, hardly even real anymore. He can't talk to Bakugou, he can't touch him, he can't give him advice or anything. All he can do is watch.
And it hurt... made his chest―right where his beating heart would be―sore even though he knows it's not possible for him to feel pain in his state.
The clock on the wall ticks, sparing the room from uneasy silence. There's no movement besides Bakugou's rising and falling chest for a good ten minutes.
It's more unnerving than anything else. Kirishima doesn't like how Bakugou just lays there, like he's unconscious, unmoving and silent. Usually, after he gets home from work he'll make himself a meal, and Kirishima will watch, laughing at the silly offhand comments he'll make to himself, or, on days when he's feeling extra bored, he'll put on a movie―never romance of course―and scream at the characters for every stupid mistake they make.
But now he just lays there, tiredly draped over the sofa.
Kirishima wishes one his friends, the ones who call every morning and visit him on the weekends were there. They would be able to comfort Bakugou. Kirishima can't.
He's never felt to useless.
▵▵▵
Kirishima has tried many times to grab the attention of Bakugou... it's a task much easier said than done.
Making contact with physical objects and being able to move them is a hard eared trait for spirits and took decades, maybe centuries, to perfectly master. Kirishima, who has only been dead for going on two years, has almost no hope in catching Bakugou's attention in that way. Even that one time when he was able to shift a roll of paper towels on the ledge of the kitchen counter just enough to get it to fall off and bounce across the floor, all Bakugou had done was sigh and pick it up, not suspicious of a ghost at all.
So Kirishima had to try other tactics. There are dreams, lucid dreaming more specifically, that could provide Kirishima contact with Bakugou and there's nothing he wouldn't give for a single night of the bliss, but, seemingly because misfortune loves to tail Kirishima, Bakugou isn't one to lucid dream. Kirishima usually doesn't spend the night in Bakugou's room because he feels it wrong in a way to watch him sleep, but he knows well enough that the blond isn't exiting his body in the night or anything like that.
There are handful of other things like Ouija boards, but that's instantly out of the question. Could you imagine someone like Bakugou Katsuki fooling around with a Ouija board?
So Kirishima doesn't really have anything going for him... and that's kinda okay.
He's been haunting Bakugou for nearly eight months, ever since the day he'd spotted him sauntering down the street with hands stuffed in pockets, followed him home on a whim, and decided he never wanted to leave... and in that time, he's become accustomed to his daily pattern. Wait for Bakugou to wake up, watch Bakugou leave for work, wait for Bakugou to come back, watch Bakugou make dinner and watch television with him, say goodnight to Bakugou even though he never got anything in return, repeat.
It's not as depressing as it sounds, promise. An average ghost's existence entails a whole lot of nothing. They can't sleep, they can't eat, they aren't visible to any living beings (save for a lucky cat or two), and they can't suddenly cease to exist, no matter how bored they got, they couldn't do anything about it. Which is why just being around Bakugou, even if the blond doesn't so much as know he exists, is good enough. It brings so much more cause into the (non-living) life he's forced to endure.
That's why most hauntings happen, in fact. Save for a couple vengeance oaths and family vendettas, most ghosts stick around a certain household for no reason more than the fact that being dead is lonely.
Which is why not being able to get noticed by bakugou isn't as terrible or as frustrating as it may initially seem, because as long as he isn't lonely anymore, he has foundation... and besides... even if Kirishima did somehow manage to raise Bakugou's brows in surprise after knocking a plastic bowl off a counter or turning on the faucet, he wouldn't know what to do next. What if he just freaks Bakugou out and he put up sage―which makes ghost noses burn like hell―to get rid of him? That'd be a million times worse than never getting noticed.
So on to the rinse and repeat with him.
It's noon on yet another rainy day, and Kirishima is in his usual spot, leaning against the door of apartment 23, watching the neighborhood strays stroll by and listening to the distant thunder boom.
His most anticipated event is Bakugou's return, but there are a number of other small little things he counts down as he waits. For example, the mailman, who shows up at just around 1:15 every weekday 'cept for Friday- he's usually whistling a song and Kirishima likes to see if he can guess which one.
On Mondays, two giggling twins come to visit their aunt and play rock-paper-scissors in order to determine who gets to enter the passcode on the gate. Kirishima always roots for the girl, her brother's a bit of a bully.
A tall pretty lady comes home to her apartment three down from number 23 every day at 2 with either a bag of groceries or a stack of papers clamped in her arms. Kirishima chuckles at her amusing offhand comments about the weather and how she greets her barking dogs like she hasn't seen them in decades.
But currently what Kirishima is waiting for, just one of the little things that keep his day until Bakugou returns from being completely uneventful, is the alarm that goes off in the apartment one to the left at the same time every day.
It's a real alarm clock, not from a phone, an almost painfully loud blaring one. Based on the occasional muffled words Kirishima's hears through the thin walls, the alarm is to remind one of the apartment occupants to take his meds.
It's not a special alarm. It doesn't provide Kirishima with much entertainment or make him laugh or create a little game for him... But it's evoking.
Kirishima doesn't remember how he died. He doesn't know when his life met death, what he did on his last days of life, what time it was, anything. Heck, Kirishima didn't even realize he was dead for the first week or so. One day... he was just suddenly a ghost, all the aspects of life he so took for granted torn from his grip without a shred of explanation.
But that alarm...
That alarm, the repetitive blare that sounds every day at 12:30, it makes Kirishima's head sear with a stinging prod of familiarity. Every time the sound reaches his ears, he's overwhelmed with memories that bob just under the surface of his mind, trying to rise to the top, but has always ever been met with frustration when he's unable to put his fingers on said memories before the alarm falls silent.
But every time, though he usually disappointed, he feels so, so close to remembering his death, like the memories are dangling just out of arm's reach and with every day, with every alarm blare from the apartment one to the left, the answers drift a bit closer, almost brushing against his reaching fingers.
That's why, besides Bakugou's return, the alarm from the apartment one to the left is what he anticipates most in the day.
And it should be coming any minute.
He doesn't know the exact time, he obviously can't wear a watch and there aren't any clocks near where he sits, but he has a grasp of it. He can always feel it building up when Bakugou is about to return or when the alarm is about to go off, like the suspenseful filling of a balloon before it explodes.
Thunder crackles. Kirishima's chest builds up with anticipation, waiting for the alarm to start blaring... waiting, waiting, waiting.
But time is interrupted. Before the alarm can go off, frenzied footsteps approached up the concreate stairs, snatching Kirishima's attention. His head whips to face whoever is approaching so suddenly and angrily almost, like they're shakily stomping their feet.
Keys jingle in Bakugou's tight clamped fist, that's what Kirishima notices first, then, his eyes dart up to Bakugou's face. Kirishima's startled by how furious he looks.
It all happens within the span of ten seconds, Bakugou suddenly appearing at the top of the stairs even though he isn't due home for hours, him unlocking the door with livid, trembling fingers, and him disappearing inside with a violent slam of the door, leaving Kirishima stumped and startled, still sitting, in front of the apartment.
He doesn't know what to think. He unfolds his legs from under him and steps through the closed door cautiously, phasing right through it.
The inside of the apartment is eerie in the dark. Long, weeping shadows cast across the carpet and ceiling, looking almost like ominous screaming faces to a squinting eye. Bakugou stands in the small tile genkan, shoulders hanging. He's breathing heavily―almost wheezing―and his cheeks are stinging red, like he'd sprinted home from where he worked. Kirishima only stares at him with wide eyes, confused, unsure, and in no way able to voice the questions swarming through his head to the blond with glossy eyes and a seemingly pained grimace.
He doesn't know what it was that had made Bakugou so distraught, provoking him to leave work so abruptly and gotten him so riled up, but he figured it was something pretty bad since Bakugou usually always, besides being prone to some frustrated yelling, kept a collected head.
Kirishima wishes he could ask him what had happened in a soft voice, wishes he could snake his fingers between Bakugou's and squeeze his warm, living hand. He wants to comfort him in all the ways a living person could.
And even with that being said, he still can't. He'll never be more than just a useless witness to what's happening before him. He has no say, he can't advice Bakugou.
He knows all the things he would say, all the consoling whispers and assuring smiles, but he'll never be able to put them to use.
Bakugou brings up a hand, trebling a tad as he stares at it, tightening his fist so hard that his knuckles run white. Before Kirishima can even register what he's doing, he plunges it into the drywall next to him, a punch worth a dozen frustrated screams, with a loud, strained grunt, biting at his bottom lip. If Kirishima still had lungs, his breath would have caught in his throat.
Thunder sounds from outside. The pitter-patter of soft raindrops dance at the window which overlooks the street below, pawing at the glass, begging to be let in. When Bakugou pulls his fist away, after a painfully prolonged moment of apprehensive stillness, there is a fist-sized dent in the olive-colored wall.
"Baku...gou..." Kirishima whispers. He know the blond can't hear him, but he can't help but let the name escape his lips. He's worried... He's never seen Bakugou act so... distressed.
There's a dim flash of light and a crackle of thunder at the window. Autumn leaves shake violently on their branches. The clock on the wall ticks repetitively, hypnotizing and sinister in the darkness of the apartment.
Bakugou stares at his fist, eye twitching. His knuckles are red and sore, but Bakugou shows not a drop of remorse. He punches the wall again, letting out a tattered grunt and creating a bigger dent in the wall.
"Bakugou, stop," He can't help but instinctively reach out his hands to grab at Bakugou's. His ghostly fingers slip right through.
He can't do anything to stop Bakugou from making a series of holes in his innocent wall, just flinch with every punch, head filled with the growing patter of rain, brows unturned and concerned.
When Kirishima was alive, he was good at this kind of thing. He was able to talk almost anyone through any problem; his superpower as many old, still living, friends had put it before, always knowing just the right thing to say.
Now he's trapped, unable to talk to Bakugou at all, unable to meet his eyes properly, unable to hug him, unable to run consoling fingers through his hair.
Bakugou looks like he needs all of the above as he leans his back against the wall he'd just pummeled, sinking to the title genkan bottom with downcast, wobbly eyes, fists clenched and lips tight.
Bakugou has always remained one of the toughest, manliest person Kirishima has ever come across. He holds on to his confidence with a grip of steel and is always pushing forward. He doesn't let anyone in and he doesn't let anything out... it's kinda a bad habit because now, while he sat slumped against the wall in his dark apartment, looking to be almost on the verge of exasperated tears and screams, he wouldn't let anyone help him.
After sticking to him like a stubborn band-aid for months, a conjoined ghost twin, Kirishima has come to know Bakugou like the back of his hand... it wasn't hard, his thought patterns were simple enough to memorize, and Kirishima knows, he's absolutely positive, that Bakugou would be suffering through his problems alone, too stubborn or prideful, or whatever it is that hangs over his head like a burdening cloud, to call any of his friends for comfort.
All he has is Kirishima, and Kirishima is about as useful as a carpet stain... but be damned if you think he's not going to try his best.
He lowers himself carefully next to Bakugou, who has his head between his knees, unmoving, like an anguished statue. With every crackle of thunder, the room seems to get darker, weeping gray clouds rolling over the sky. Kirishima brings up his arms awkwardly and attempts to rest them atop Bakugou's still shoulders. If he held them up, let them hover just above Bakugou, It's kinda like a hug... the best hug he can manage. Even if it doesn't feel right, fake almost, like he's just trying to photoshop himself into the picture, it's better than nothing.
He leans forward. If he were tangible again, he would have pressed his forehead against Bakugou's, but now he'll have to make do by letting his head hover over his shoulder, sinking halfway through.
It's all he's got to offer.
Bakugou doesn't eat dinner that night. He doesn't watch TV or scream at the people on screen. He doesn't skype his friends or mess around with his phone. He just sits hunched against the wall for another hour or two, terrifying Kirishima with worry, before he finally pulls himself up and stumbles into his bedroom.
Kirishima follows. He's never been a fan of the old "Edward Cullen"―watching someone sleep without their knowledge- but this time is different. It's like Bakugou's an entirely different person, left in the dryer for too long, all his color stripped away, and Kirishima can't help but want to stick to his side and watch over him.
If he could tell him one thing, get one single simple message across, it would be to quit his job. It's obviously taking a mental toll on him and Kirishima almost can't stand to sit by and watch any longer, especially when it's gotten this bad, Bakugou coming home drained and almost soulless. Of course... even if Kirishima did somehow manage to get a message through, the chances that Bakugou would actually oblige are slim... but that doesn't matter because no matter how hard Kirishima wishes, he'll probably never be granted such an opportunity.
Bakugou lays in his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling for a while, not even bothering to tug off his jackets or wipe off his eyeliner. His eyes are dull, as if the popcorn ceiling is hypnotizing him, stealing his soul through the eye-contact. Kirishima does nothing but watch, that's all he's ever done, and it's kinda sickening in a way. I mean, it's not like Kirishima could actually feel sick, his stomach and other organs are all long gone with his body, wherever that may be... but, it's unpleasant in his gut and overall a nasty feeling.
Kirishima feels like he's a bad person, yet another wicked-headed that would stand by and view people suffer around them, but do nothing.
There's a sharp inhale from Bakugou and Kirishima shifts his head to get an eyeful of him, not startled per say by the sound he'd made, but more hopeful if anything. Even though he subconsciously knows that Bakugou can't possibly talking to him, he can't help but think..... guess he still isn't used to being dead.
"Fuck life." Bakugou spits out.
Everyone has those thoughts sometimes. It can be morbid, a crave for death to escape it all, or just a declare of frustration, fed up with all the inconveniences life comes with. It's a thought that possibly everybody has at one point or other, Kirishima sure had thought it a lot before... of course, now... it's a bit different. Now Kirishima would gladly put up with all the inconveniences in the world if it meant he had purpose other than just drifting around and watching again.
It's kinda repugnant, but Kirishima doesn't mind. Because for a second, as the phrase falls from Bakugou's lips, there's a familiar spark in his carmine eyes and he looks like himself for a moment before his eyelids fall shut and his breathing evens.
He finally rests.
And ever since then, when Bakugou punched a handful of holes into the wall and acted almost possessed, though he returned to his normal self within the next following days, Kirishima is... scared.
Because he'd never wish what he called ironically calls his "life", upon anyone else. It's bearable when you have someone like Bakugou, but it's far from satisfying―depressing almost.
And what if Bakugou decides to take "fuck life" to the next level?
▵▵▵
Bakugou doesn't quit his job. He also, despite plenty of friends coming over to visit him throughout the next month, doesn't talk about his problems like Kirishima wishes he would. The redhead ghost knows just talking it out with someone would do wonders for him, liven him up and put him in the path of returning to his regular, less depressed self.
Once or twice, Kirishima considers leaving because there's nothing he can do and watching him jut sulk around hurts him more than it should have.
Kirishima is empathetic, it was one of his most prominent traits in life. If a friend cried, he'd probably get misty-eyed as well. If a relative was feeling down, Kirishima would be right there with them. Heck, he was even effected by strangers on the street. And so in Bakugou's case... well, It's not hard to imagine. Kirishima would be lying if he said he doesn't have the biggest crush on Bakugou―maybe even more―which is a love that can't seem to get more tragic. It's like, in Bakugou's case, Kirishima's empathy levels are cranked on full blast, and he's figuratively aching inside. If he just... drifted away perhaps, maybe found somewhere else to haunt, then this ache will go away... he's always quick to bash such thoughts down to where they came from. Kirishima knows that if he left, he'd quickly regret it because watching Bakugou sulk would probably be just as painful as saying goodbye.
He's become dreadfully attached to that blond...
There was just something about him―if that isn't too cliché―that drew him in so sufficiently, something that had grabbed his attention from the very start and compelled him to stick around, go so far as to develop feelings for him, but he could never figure out what.
Maybe he has an aura that Kirishima finds subconsciously pleasing or maybe it has something to do with his life before he died―there are things that Kirishima still doesn't remember about his last days spent alive- though he kinda doubts it has anything to do with Bakugou.
Kirishima does believe in soulmates... but that can't possibly be the cause here. He was dead before he ever laid eyes on Bakugou... So Kirishima's left in the dark, not that it bothers him too much, there are lots of puzzle pieces missing that Kirishima would possibly never locate and be able to clip into the large puzzle that is everything he has an understanding of. He has a general idea what the picture is, so he's not gonna ponder, giving himself a headache even though it's something not possible for ghosts.
All he knows is that Bakugou, without a doubt, is the most important thing to him in death. If Kirishima had been lucky enough to meet him while his heart was still beating, he has a feeling he would have been one of the most important things to him in life as well.
Which is why, about a month and a half after Bakugou's stress breakdown, when he's a whole two hours late to return home, Kirishima is livid with worry.
He paces in front of the apartment door, counting to keep his mind from drifting to bad scenarios. He counts the seconds passing by. He counts the booms of thunder in the distance. He counts the cracks in the worn concrete of the second floor.
But the counting doesn't do much for him.
He knows he shouldn't be so worried, that Bakugou probably just got caught up in work, that it's not normal for a spirit haunting a residence to be so seemingly obsessed with the one living there, but those thoughts would never be enough to keep his anxiety at bay.
He likes Bakugou a lot. He has plans to stick with him for a long time, follow him from apartment to house, watch over him like a guardian angel, except a useless one, for years and years, comfortable with his schedule of waiting and never getting answers from him. With him being the most important person to him, since he has no friends in death, who he's laid his entire foundation around―of course he's going to worry about every little thing.
If Kirishima were tangible, he'd probably have worn a hole into the cement by now with his pacing, going from the front of the door, to the steel railing where he did a squat or two, and back to the wall again, over and over, going in pointless circles that served no purpose but to spare him of unbearable jitteriness.
The radio from the apartment two down of Bakugou's blares the jabber of a radio, the stations changing every few moments, like the individual living there can't seem to decide which to settle on.
"-rainy for the next week. The thunder has been-"
"Sale on all Summer clothes! Co-"
"We advise individuals do not leave their house in the region of-"
"Sweet salty rivers of yesterday, build a dam and lock those tears away-"
"Police are still searching for the culprit of this crime in-"
And Kirishima can't take it any longer. He jumps off the side of the railing and falls to the ground like a leaf from an autumn tree. He phases right through the locked metal gate and heads left, walking by oblivious people and getting barked at by a startled dog. He hasn't been on the sidewalk, around so much commotion, in a long time, not since he moved in with Bakugou, so it's a bit startling.
Blinking traffic lights and honking car horns, clipping of boots and high heels on the concrete, meows of stray cats and the jibber jabber of people all mixed with the steady sound of thunder on the cloudy afternoon? It's downright chaotic, but Kirishima bites down on his bottom lip and heads on, just managing to stay focused.
All the new sights and people give him a burning sense of nostalgia, the memories of days he'd walk down busy roads on cloudy days nipping his ear. It's almost like he's forgotten that all this exists, like his world has been cut off, revolving around nothing but Bakugou and that tiny apartment complex.
It's stimulating... but also terrifying.
As a ghost, Kirishima's senses are dulled, not just taste and touch, which were completely stolen from him along with his body, but also things such as sense of depth, time, and most critically damaging, direction.
There's a reason Kirishima hadn't initially gone to his friends or family after he had died, why he hadn't settled on haunting them even with their familiarity and how badly he misses them. It was because he simply can't find them. Suddenly, he wasn't able to remember the way to where he had lived, streets all blend together, the town he was in appearing to be a foreign stranger. Even when he first started haunting Bakugou, it took him a whole few days to memorize his way around the tiny apartment.
So now, as he ventures into unknown territory, he's scared he won't find Bakugou and terrified he won't be able to find his way back. He already can't remember how many lefts he's taken or how many stop signs he's passed. His elbows quiver a bit with anxiety, but it's too late to turn back now. He treads ahead, walking through crowds of people who wait at stop lights, armed with bright raincoats and colored umbrellas.
Kirishima was never much of an overachiever, but he'd gone up and beyond in accepting the fact that he's ghost. His motivation is almost as dead as he is. He has no sense of adventure anymore. Every day is the same and, while Kirishima could never get bored of Bakugou, the uneventfulness he's achieved is record breaking. This time he's not gonna pointlessly stay put and wait out the storm. He's got to find Bakugou himself.
Even if it scares him... It will keep him from going insane.
The clouds deepen, like another blanket is being pulled over the sun―wherever it way be, lost in the brewing storm.
Kirishima doesn't know what he's going to do if he finds Bakugou- no, when he finds Bakugou... he definatly will... wherever he is, somehow so late when he always makes a point to leave work as soon as his schedule allowed it. He'll probably just follow him home again, relieved that he's okay.
He makes his way to the end of the street and has to pause for a moment to think. Which way is it that Bakugou's works again? Kirishima's never followed him, finds it much more appealing to wait at home to greet the blond when he returns. That's how he would have wanted it if he were alive too. Sometimes he'd fantasize about a reality where he was... working from home and greeting Bakugou every day. Maybe he would have been able to talk Bakugou into quitting his job and finding one that is much kinder on his mental health.
If he were alive... what would he be to Bakugou?
Would Bakugou maybe view Kirishima in the same way he did?
Could they maybe go somewhere?
...That's painfully off-topic.
Kirishima's does an entire 360, searching for anything familiar that could lead him in the right direction of Bakugou's workplace. There's an unfamiliar, closed café with mossy plants lining it's large windows. There are road signs, but none of the names, mulberry, Hyde, Vanch, strike a chord of recognition within him.
So his attempts appear fruitless, but he refuses to get too frustrated, he's a ghost, so he can't breathe in and out slowly to calm himself, but he tries his best, mind working to come up with a solution.
He takes a left, simply praying that it's the right way, reading and memorizing street names so his pitiful sense of direction won't prevent him from finding his way back on his own if needed.
He dips into a string of houses, all lined with white fences and stained sidewalk. There are no visible lights on in the houses. Curtains are pulled shut and doors are locked. Nearby stores and cafés are closed, vacant and silent. There are no children riding scooters with bright yellow raincoats wrapped around them.
Kirishima's feet become heavier with every step. There doesn't seem to be anything on the road―he must've taken a wrong turn.
He's about to turn around when a slight commotion catches his eye. Just around the corner, movement filters through the trees on clamped shut houses' lawns.
He shuffles his way around the corner and takes in the sight with two wide eyes.
With a stroke of luck or a coincidence, Bakugou is there. He's standing with arms crossed, tapping his foot on the sidewalk as a striking large crowd of people work around him, talking loudly with each other, voices too conjoined for conversation to be made any sense of.
And Kirishima is washed over with relief. He finally realizes how damn ridiculous he's been. Bakugou's a grown up, he can take care of himself, he certainly doesn't need a ghost to look out for him... but nonetheless, Kirishima is glad he came looking for him.
The trip away from the apartment was... refreshing... in a sense, a wakeup call maybe.
Though he's confused by the hoard of people and cars gathered around, he doesn't pay them much attention. He's too busy looking at Bakugou, faint smile of solace on his lips.
Of course, Kirishima's ready to head back now, watch Bakugou cook for himself and wind down for the night. He's ready to fall back into his daily schedule, go back to what he's become comfortable with and-
"Hey, red-head!"
And like a shattering mirror struck by a livid hammer, Kirishima's thoughts are broken.
Bakugou stares right at him with a scowl at his lips. He repeats, "Shitty-hair, red-head, you!"
Kirishima peers over his shoulder to see if there's someone else sporting red hair behind him, but there isn't. He whips his head back, gawking. "M... Me?"
"Yes, you."
It's the most startling thing in the world. Kirishima is so dumbfounded, he can't move or say a word, but rather, have his insides explode into an unsure frenzy.
Bakugou sneers and gabs a pointing thumb over his shoulder. "Can you tell me what the fuck is going on?"
Kirishima, still stuck like a deer in headlights, shifts his head the slightest and lets his eyes fall upon the group of vehicles and people, finally taking in the details he failed to before. They're mostly police officers, illuminated by the bright flashing reds and blues of the two police car Kirishima doesn't know how he hadn't noticed until then. People take pictures with large cameras and news reporters are shooed away by agitated supervisors. It's chaos to say the least, a tangled mess of loud and unruly people.
And Kirishima doesn't know what to tell Bakugou, who he can't seem to wrap his head around how he's talking to him, he doesn't know what this commotion is about either.
But then he spots it.
The center of attention, what the police woman scribbling notes looks down at grimly, what the reporters strain to get a good look at, what the neon yellow tape reading in bold letters, "POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS" surrounds. It's a thin white sheet stained with popping, wet crimson. It drapes delicately over a body that lays on the concrete, hidden to the public to its best extent.
"Murder," he hears an officer mutter to another, "stabbed and robbed,"
And it all finally clicks.
Kirishima is snapped out of his haze and his shoulders jump up as his head whips to stare at Bakugou again. His carmine eyes are hard, staring with annoyance, but his brows are upturned slightly, confused.
Kirishima can't really contain himself from sprinting to him.
The way that his pupils trail him would have sent shivers down Kirishima's spine if he were alive. The feeling of being looked at, visible to another person... it's exhilarating, almost world-shattering to Kirishima, who's so used to being ignored. Kirishima's hands quiver slightly as he makes a grab for Bakugou's.
He half expects them to phase right through like they always do, slip through items that should have been tangible like he's a pitiful hologram, but they don't. His fingers skim across smooth skin, fingernails, knuckles, before he clamps palms together and it feels so real, like Kirishima's heart is beating again.
Bakugou doesn't make an attempt to tear his hands away, just watches Kirishima with a somewhat questioning glare. Kirishima squeezes his hands, amazed that his fingers don't slip right through.
"Hey..." Bakugou lets out in a somewhat gruff, "Are you gonna tell me what the fuck is happening or..?"
And Kirishima will... when he finds the right words. It's kinda hard when his chest feels so light and his head is so clouded.
If ghosts could sleep, he'd be convinced it was all a dream. For what seemed like forever all he's wanted was to be able to talk to Bakugou, make eye-contact with him, touch him, and now that it's all being so suddenly thrown at him, he's overwhelmed to say the least.
...And guilty. The utter guilt of being so happy about this all, the place where his heart would be singing, smashes him down. He shouldn't be so happy that Bakugou is... that he's dead. He should feel terrible for him, aching because he's lost everything. His friends, his parents, his hobbies, and all the joys that having a beating heart and breathing lungs came with, it's all gone to him without warning. Kirishima shouldn't be nearly quivering with jubilation.
But he just can't help it. It's a slightly sorrowful bliss that completely consumes him.
"Bakugou," He lets through at last. The blonde's left eye twitches at his name coming from... well, a stranger. Though they've technically been together for months and months, this is the first time they're actually meeting.
"What?" He mutters.
There have been so many times when Kirishima had addressed Bakugou but never gotten an answer. Now, when he does, his words directed at Kirishima, who is so close, and he could feel him, it's kinda like a punch in the gut... but, y'know, a good one.
"There's a lot to explain... and it's kinda, uhm, a bit overwhelming..."
"Fuckin' okay?" His eyes leave Kirishima's for the first time since he'd so suddenly swept forward and taken his hands. He stares at the crowd of police. "You'd better make sense of this all... uh,"
"Kirishima."
"You better make sense of this all, Kirishima." He nods in reply and Bakugou's hand tightens around his, subconscious probably, as his gaze touches the sheeted body lying on the pavement. "Until then, I'm sticking with you like a fucking fly on honey."
And Kirishima wouldn't have it any other way.