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There were days when everything went right—the missions where everything fell into place, where the heroes were exactly where they needed to be at just the right time, when they saved everyone and no civilians got hurt and the villains were handed over to the police easily. There were days when it was like a storybook, when they caught the bad guy and everyone got a happy ending.
Kirishima knew that this wouldn’t always be the case—he knew all too well from his time at Yuuei that this happened even less than he’d hoped it might. Still, that didn’t seem to make it easier on the days where no matter how hard they tried, things just didn’t seem to go the way they should. The failed rescue missions, the villains who escaped, the disasters and tragedies… none of those ever weighed any less on him, never got easier as time passed.
It was a war of good versus evil that raged on every day. He had to look at it that way—to see that one lost battle didn’t mean their cause was lost. It helped him keep hope, to keep fighting until the day when they were truly triumphant.
(He tried not to think of the fact that the world would always need heroes because the world would always have villains, tried not to think about how the fight would never really end.)
Kirishima checked his phone, sighing at the time that lit up his screen, well past one in the morning. He felt drained and his whole body ached. He’d only suffered a few minor injuries, but that didn’t make it any easier.
He pocketed his phone once more, sliding the key into the lock of the flat, turning it and opening the door as quietly as he could. He toed off his shoes after closing and locking the door behind him, padding softly into the living area. The only light in the room was the glow of the television, volume set so low that Kirishima almost couldn’t hear it. And there, dozing on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and illuminated by the television screen, was Bakugou.
Kirishima’s lips twitched into the tiniest of smiles as he approached the other man, crouching before him, his knees and back cracking in protest as he did. He reached a hand out, gently pushing a few strands of blond hair out of Bakugou’s face. His smile grew as he did, still strained and tired, but genuine and full of insuppressible affection.
“Hey, Katsuki,” he murmured, letting his hand cup the other man’s jaw, skin smooth under his touch. “Katsuki.”
He watched as the blonde’s brow furrowed, leaning away from his hand for just a moment before his eyes snapped open. He blinked at Kirishima for a moment, then was quickly struggling to sit up, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes, the action a little more aggressive than was necessary.
“Come on,” Kirishima said, hissing a little as he pushed himself back up to stand. He held his hand out for Bakugou, and the man took it without hesitation, yawning as he let Kirishima pull him to his feet. Kirishima reached down to the coffee table and grabbed the remote, clicking off the television. He set it back down, then gently tugged Bakugou toward their bedroom.
Bakugou, already in his sleep clothes, sat on the edge of the bed, waiting while Kirishima hastily pulled on a pair of sweatpants before climbing onto the mattress. Bakugou took the blanket and threw it over their bodies, and at last Kirishima felt this body begin to relax. He let his eyes fall shut for just a moment.
When he opened them again, he realized that Bakugou was looking at him critically, concernedly. Kirishima did his best to give him a smile in return, even though he knew it fell flat. Still, the ‘tch’ of annoyance under Bakugou’s breath only amused him.
The touch of Bakugou’s lips against his a moment later was soft as thistledown, just a feather-light, barely-there pressure against his mouth. His eyes closed instinctively, even as Bakugou pulled back a minuscule distance. The touch was replaced a moment later by Bakugou swiping his thumb against his bottom lip; Kirishima kissed his thumb in turn, fully expecting the ‘idiot’ whispered under Bakugou’s breath. Still, he didn’t open his eyes, instead reveling in just the feel of soft skin against his, gentle touches reserved only for him, only for these moments.
It hadn’t always been like this.
He remembered so clearly the first time they’d both been involved in a dangerous mission, shortly after they’d awkwardly stumbled over confessions of their true feelings. He remembered the anger that had flashed in Bakugou’s eyes, could practically still feel the way that the boy had slammed him into the wall, his body already covered in cuts and bruises and now aching from the impact. He remembered Bakugou’s hands finding his face, remembered the way he’d desperately found his mouth and kissed him until he was gasping for breath.
He remembered how he had only then noticed the blonde boy trembling.
It took time for both of them to grow out of the post-battle fear and desperation. But slowly, reunions became less of a frenzied clash of teeth and tongue, hands clutching frantically at each other’s clothes in an attempt to prove the other was still there, still breathing, still alive—instead, they were now hushed moments like this, soft touches and gentle kisses that so starkly contrasted the battlefield.
Kirishima let himself lose himself in the sensations, let his mind focus on every gentle touch of Bakugou’s hand instead of drifting back to everything that had gone wrong that day. Instead, he mentally followed where the man’s fingers traced, his palm against his cheek, fingertips gently brushing against the soft hair of his undercut. He felt Bakugou’s thumb sweep over his cheekbone, felt as his other hand found his chest, instantly resting over his heart.
Kirishima shuffled forward, moving impossibly closer, knees knocking into Bakugou's, wrapping his own arms around the other’s waist. He nuzzled into the crook of his neck, pressing his nose into his shoulder. It was only for a few moments before Bakugou lifted his chin, mouth again finding his.
It was always rare to experience Bakugou like this—Kirishima felt so used to the other man being explosive in every way; he always saw him fighting, saw his determination to win and succeed at everything he did—that was what he fell in love with, after all. But instead of using his hands as weapons to take down villains, there he was, using them to comfort Kirishima, grounding him, anchoring him to the earth and that moment.
Kirishima loved it all the same.
He sighed against Bakugou’s lips between kisses that kept the same slow pace, never growing in their neediness. Instead, they were just assurances, the equivalent of the whispered words Bakugou was no good at coming up with. Still, they served the same purpose, letting Kirishima know that he was there, that he always would be.
Each touch was like a tiny stitch that mended the chasm in Kirishima’s chest, filling the emptiness, brightening the darkness. Every kiss was a silent promise that everything would be okay.
And they both believed it.