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They’ve got their legs folded together in a way that looks unpleasant, yet the two haven’t moved a muscle in over an hour. Over an hour of being pressed up against Bakugou, in Bakugou’s bed, with Bakugou’s lips fluttering along the expanse of Kirishima’s neck. It’s overwhelmingly addictive, so—yea, Kirishima’s legs have been uncomfortably asleep for a while, but god fucking knows he wouldn’t move for the world.
“Eiji, pass the bowl over, eh?” Bakugou doesn’t even spare him a glance as he asks, his voice a good hundred decimals lower than any UA student had ever heard. Well, except Kirishima.
And good god if that gentle voice isn’t the most heartwarming shit.
A goofy smile plasters itself over Kirishima’s face, and he’s too high to give a shit about how “obnoxious his heart eyes are” as he lets himself stare at the blonde for a few blissful moments. Bakugou’s face is inches from his own, features slack and wiped of their usual angry tension. He looks peaceful. Kirishima treasures it, wants Bakugou to know that. Kirishima leaves a kiss on the boy’s nose and hopes that conveys the message.
He’s mumbling a soft “yea, course,” as he shifts a bit to sit up in the bed, Bakugou’s bed, their legs untangling in the process. Kirishima has to shake his head a bit to get his heavy lidded eyes to focus on the task at hand. Weed, right, yea. He can do that.
It’s not hard for him to spot the sparkly red bowl sitting on the bedside table— it’s bright and obnoxious and Kirishima loves it, loves the look Bakugou gives him every time he pulls the obscenely vibrant thing out. Kirishima grabs it and the simple black lighter beside it, pressing the end of the glass pipe to Bakugou’s lips with a soft tut of “inhale,” flicking the lighter to life and holding the flame against the charring marijuana leaves.
Normally, Kirishima would be getting a smack to the back of the head for telling Bakugou what to do. But stoned-out-of-his-fucking-mind Bakugou doesn’t raise a hand, just parts his lips and inhales fully the second the flame is born. The blonde pulls back after a few seconds of gathering the smoke into his lungs, and Kirishima is transfixed as he watches the boy in front of him— red eyes bloodshot and heavy-lidded, blonde hair disheveled, a soft pinkness to his cheeks, his even pinker lips parting to exhale a wave of smoke that crashes into the air, quickly dissolving into the already foggy room.
It’s beautiful, really. He’s beautiful.
“You’re staring again, idiot,” Bakugou clicks, his eyes finally climbing up to meet Kirishima’s, a bemused grin on his lips, “they’re gonna nickname you the AirHead Hero if you don’t stop it with that spacing-out shit you do.”
“I can’t help it—”
“Don’t you dare get sappy with me right now.”
“—you’re just so nice t’look at, you know?”
Bakugou groans in reply, one hand coming up to push into Kirishima’s cheek, and he’d love the touch if it were a bit gentler, but he’ll take this anyway, take Bakugou pushing his face away and acting all put-off by gentle words. But Kirishima caught the way Bakugou’s cheeks flashed red when he said that, he always catches it.
“Hey.”
It’s soft, a whisper, Kirishima almost misses it.
But it’s coming from Bakugou’s mouth, so how could he ever miss it?
“Yeah?” He’s asking just as gently, scooting down in the bed to bring himself closer to Bakugou, two sets of hazy red eyes meeting inches from each other.
“You uh— tch,” there’s a soft grumble, a pause, “you know I love you, and all that, right?”
It’s not the first time Bakugou’s said it. It could be the twelfth, maybe the fourteenth, but it’s not the first. That’s what Kirishima’s (exasperatedly) arguing with himself over as the words hit him just as hard as they did the first time he got to hear them. Bakugou loves him.
Ain’t that fucking something.
“Yea, I know, ‘Suki. I love you too, with all I’ve got.”
Kirishima couldn’t give less of a fuck about the dopey smile he’s got plastered on his lips, or the matching heart-eyes that wouldn’t stop watching Bakugou’s face for the world. Bakugou’s too busy being a blundering wreck to notice the ridiculous look on Kirishima’s face anyway, his cheeks a red that burns way too close to the shade of Kiri’s hair. The blonde brings his (sizzling, Kirishima notes bemusedly) hands up to push at the redhead again, grumbling that emotionally-stunted grumble he always does. It’s endearing— worrying, and unhealthy, because why the fuck did Bakugou have to grow up with the idea that vulnerability was anything other than a sign of strength, of manliness, and— but it’s endearing nonetheless, because, well. Right now, it’s Bakugou, and yeah, Kirishima will work on it gradually, work on letting this high-strung boy let loose. Hell, he got him into smoking weed, didn’t he? Baby steps.
“And you’ve left the planet again. Christ, shitty-hair,” but Bakugou’s combing gentle fingers through that same hair as he speaks, and Kirishima grins because actions speak louder than words, “we really need to work on that focus of yours.” It’s said as a gentle hum, less an insult and more a mental note, and Kirishima already knows that focus-driven exercises have been added to their joint training.
“Sorry, sorry. You’re just..” Bakugou raises an eyebrow, a clear challenge of try one more cheesy line, and Kirishima’s grinning unabashedly by the time he finishes his sentence, “you’re my favorite, Katsuki.”
Kirishima can hear Bakugou gulp, can hear the slight rustle of the sheets that cocoon them in as he fidgets. He’s not reacting as instantaneously as he always does, and it’s a quiet moment that leaves Kirishima’s words floating in the air.
There’s a meaningful breath in, and Bakugou’s lips part.
“You’re— fuck,” red eyes meet a matching set, and Kirishima’s so so gone for this boy..., “you know ‘m not good at this, at, at feeling and talking about that shit, but I need to suck it the fuck up and get good at this, right? Because, fuck, you’re everything, Eijiro. You deserve to know you’re everything to me, alright? I can’t— I’m no good at this, and—.” there’s a shaky breath, and it’s instinctual as Kirishima reaches out a hand to run the back of his fingers against the softness of Bakugou’s cheek.
“I know.” Another whisper, another shared look that carries everything the other needs to hear, and say.
The silence they fall into offers as much warmth as their intertwined fingers, legs, hearts.