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You’re spiraling down, down, into the dark.
Kirishima slumped against the kitchen doorframe and watched as Bakugou scrubbed at a saucepan like it had personally offended him. Considering Bakugou, it probably had.
It was a strange scene, the dark kitchen, the three am moon filtering through the windows, the silvery light sparkling on the soap bubbles like stardust, Bakugou’s face contorted into a furious grimace; he might have looked more terrifying if not for the heavy shadows pooling beneath each eye.
This wasn’t the first time Kirishima had found him in this state. It had started when he’d walked in on Bakugou unfolding and refolding towels during a midnight bathroom run. Bakugou had yelled at him, chucked the half folded towels into the closet, and stormed out.
Two weeks later, Kirishima had, literally, stumbled into him mopping the dining room in complete darkness. One step across wet wood floors had sent him sliding straight into Bakugou. Kirishima had come out with a scorched tank top and a wet ass, and Bakugou had disappeared into the elevator.
It had been three months and Kirishima was no longer surprised to find his temperamental best friend cleaning in the wee hours of the morning. He’d figured out a while back that it was a defense mechanism; a way for Bakugou to ignore the nightmares and panic attacks that plagued him and drove him from his bed. Kirishima had tried to bring it up at lunch once, to be a supportive classmate and friend, to give Bakugou an outlet outside of becoming the resident insomniac janitor; he’d had to eat the rest of his charcoaled meal alone.
The crack of metal on ceramic shook Kirishima out of his tired thoughts. Bakugou was staring at him. No, Bakugou was straight up snarling, as if the intensity of his scowl could cover up the bloodshot eyes and tear tracks. Kirishima’s heart clattered into his throat. He hated the pain his friend was in, the fatigue and the strain he saw daily in class, hidden behind coarse words and crackling palms.
His socks shushed against the cold floor as he crossed the kitchen. He wrapped strong arms around the man, wished they were strong enough to fight off the demons that terrorized his mind. Bakugou went rigid against him, one arm poised to punch him in the ribs. Kirishima held him tighter, dipped his head, and placed a whispering kiss in blonde hair. Then another, and another, one hand joining to smooth down the sleep messed tangles.
He felt more than he heard the hesitant hiccup against his chest. Then another, and another.
Bakugou swarmed closer in a frantic rush, clung to him, twisted soapy calloused hands into Kirishima’s t-shirt, and cried. His choking anguish was loud in the darkness, with only the moon to play witness. Kirishima peppered feathery kisses against his forehead, stroked his hair, held him close, safe. Wracking sobs slowed to silent weeping; violent shaking calmed to the gentle push and pull of exhausted breaths.
Eventually Bakugou leaned back. Kirishima expected him to run or yell or pound an explosion into his face. He expected denial, hostility, and anger. Fear and pain tended to bring that out of people.
He did not expect the questioning trace of Bakugou’s lips on his; the hesitant, hopeful look in his raw, open, red gaze.
Kirishima felt the ocean swell in his chest, rise through his throat and lungs, and land heavy in the corners of his eyes. He smiled, small and rapturous, and met Bakugou’s kiss. It was shy, full of tearful laughter, and it was perfect.
So I’ll fall with you, forever, into the dark.