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Kirishima can't quite put his finger on it, can't exactly point out when the feeling first made its lasting impression on him, when it settled into being a part of his routine without him even noticing - he'd think that he'd at least have a clue by now. It ghosts along his skin each time he picks up his bass, lets out a low grumble and shakes his very core with each casual pluck of the strings. It never simmers down for at least a few days afterwards - and it hasn’t since he was sixteen, he knows that.
Sure, it lifts the hairs on his arms, practically turns his blood into thick, bubbling syrup, and the cheap stage lights that bore down on him at no matter what bar they’re playing at is nothing short of headache inducing - but it brings a sort of unrivaled comfort that Kirishima has always found easy to fall into when on stage.
It’s like a warm hug that maybe lingers for a second too long, but it’s pleasant, and even with the stuffy air of the bars that he and his friends always get gigs at, he could never get sick of it.
He’s content after each and every show he plays. No matter how many complaints they may get from lingering families that stay after hours - when the music switches to entertainment instead of lazy background noise, no matter how sweaty and gross and ready to crash onto his old dusty couch he is by the end of the night, Kirishima wouldn’t trade it for the world.
The feeling remains even after he’s packed up and ready to head back home with his friends, even when the Fall air hits his nose and his friends call him ‘Rudolph’ for the third time that week.
The first time that he sees Bakugou Katsuki play, the feeling is a little similar- and it sure as hell doesn’t simply fade away after a few days.
☾
Kirishima doesn’t particularly love crowds.
Sure, he’s never hated them either, and was definitely known as an extrovert back in highschool, but that doesn’t mean he wants to be in a tightly packed room such as this.
It’s the middle of October but it feels and smells like a scorching July, his movements stuttered and his feet already sticking to the floor despite the fact that the night’s just begun.
The first few thunderous beats of the kick drum pulsate throughout the room, and Kirishima feels it bang on his chest too, feels the sudden rush of excitement wash through the crowd as they push and pull to get a glimpse of anything at all; of the back of Kirishima’s head, or the blinding stage lights up front that he has experience with first hand.
It’s not like the mosh pits of sold out concerts held in the city, and sure as hell isn’t even a mosh pit, but Kirishima gets the sudden entrancement, he understands it - and he refuses to even twitch under the pressure of it all.
So he stands his ground, fully aware that he’s lost sight of his friends and one hundred percent ready to deal with that when the situation arises - but currently attempting to dig his heels into quicksand, everyone around him moving as forcefully as relentless ocean waves.
Though, as soon as the energy picks up, it dies down just as quickly when people learn that no one’s trying as hard as they had originally thought to get into their personal space - and Kirishima finally has room to breathe.
Breathe he does, but his breath is knocked right out of his chest the next time that he looks up.
Without people knocking into him every second and himself trying to keep track of the jacket that had once been tied around his waist, Kirishima’s line of sight allows him to look over the heads of the crowd, right at the group playing up front.
He feels as if he would fall forward if it weren’t for the people in front of him, he feels sixteen again, he feels like he’s watching something that he wishes he had for himself, and it’s cathartic - intimidating, but cathartic.
Bakugou Katsuki, the drummer - Kirishima doesn’t know anything about him beside the name that Ashido had mentioned a few hours prior with a tone of disdain, but he looks vaguely monstrous from a distance. Each time he screws his eyes shut and opens them up again to keep track of himself, it’s like watching the fall leaves outside fall one by one. His skin looks like it’d burn anyone who dared make contact with it, and he himself burns a bright yellow, seamed and sewn together with fiery passion that Kirishima can not only hear in his playing, but see in the enthusiastic bounce of his movements.
He sees the rest of the band members faces glow pink and white and purple and they all look so satisfied with themselves, just as content as he feels.
If Ashido were still by his side, there’s no doubt in Kirishima’s mind that she would shout in his ear about how they only look that way because they’ve managed to steal what would’ve been their gig tonight, and maybe she would be right, maybe not.
Kirishima doesn’t really mind, he decides.
☾
If later on that night, he drags himself outside to meet his friends who had left early to get the weekly groceries without him, and he’s hiding a black cotton t-shirt behind his back; then that’s no one’s business but his own.
He’s just lucky that none of his friends will be able to see the bands print behind his apron at work the next morning.
☾
October is a long month.
It’s a long month with even longer mornings, but lucky enough for Kirishima, he’s always found himself to be a morning person.
He feels for his coworkers, his friends, who have to drag themselves out of their beds extra early every morning this month, but the fact that the vast majority of them do so with a smile on their face lifts his spirits, just as it does his hand as he waves them inside each day.
Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline from the night before that makes him especially rowdy this morning; tipping over plastic cups stacked atop each other, pouring steaming coffee as he hums a familiar tune and cracking a genuine smile at each and every customer he meets eyes with. But in his defense, he hasn’t seen a show quite like last nights in a while.
His energy keeps up for the rest of the day, and when he gets out of work, it’s pouring, rain littering the streets in its dusty scent and soaking Kirishima inside out, ricocheting off his back as he struggles to keep the weight of his backpack over his head while rushing down the street taking two steps at a time.
It’s not unwelcome rain, but it couldn’t have come at a worse time - because of course he hadn’t brought an umbrella with him, and of course the bus wasn’t meant to arrive for another two minutes.
Two minutes isn’t a long time in retrospect. But in public transport translation that means about five minutes, and Kirishima doesn’t want to have to peel off his already drenched t-shirt he had bought only the night before.
He reaches the bus stop with a minute left to spare, and his breath is drowned out by the rain as soon as he lets it go, hands resting on his knees.
Everything is washed away, his energy, his breath, his once spiked up hair - it’s all lost to the skies bruising, angry fit of impromptu rain.
If Kirishima closes his eyes - and he does - the rain hitting the road and the shelter of the bus stop sounds like a waterfall, or the roof of his childhood home on sick days spent inside.
His cheeks burn red hot, and his nose has gone numb and tingly.
Just as his panting begins to fade out, Kirishima’s eyes burst open at the sound of shuffling next to him.
Another pair of eyes meet his own, and Kirishima’s breath is not only dampened by the rain, but practically punched right out of his gut as recognition hits him.
It's a familiar face, along with a familiar (slightly uncomfortable) feeling in his stomach.
Only this time, the face that he’d perceived as passionate and fiery last night, is scrunched in confusion, or maybe a little bit of surprise, and his hair’s damp and slightly flattened from the rain.
What really catches Kirishima off guard though, is the familiar logo sat right in the middle of his hoodie.
It’s really familiar, almost like the logo that he chipped in to help print onto hoodies and t-shirts and stickers to sell after shows with his friends just a few months ago.
Kirishima swallows the growing lump in his throat, stands up straight, and follows Bakugou’s gaze, currently tracing over Kirishima’s own soaked t-shirt with wide eyes. He looks back up at him after a second or two, and his signature glare is back in place as soon as Kirishima grins at him.
“Cool hoodie, dude.” Is all Kirishima manages to say.
The rain is still hitting the top of his head and dripping down his shoulders and arms. There’s enough room to fit at least five other people under the shelter, but Kirishima’s not quite sure any of his limbs would work right now, he's not sure if the quiet lingering between them would fit under the shelter as well as himself and Bakugou.
His words bounce off every surface near the two, only reaching the others ears after being drenched in the rain to echo a chorus of awkward compliments given by a stranger - and that’s exactly what it is.
Bakugou just huffs a half-assed laugh.
“Nice t-shirt - if it wasn’t fucking soaked.” Comes his response, and Kirishima finally catches his breath.
☾
Ashido is fast asleep on the couch when Kirishima arrives home, busy taking her weekly afternoon nap.
There’s a pile of shoes by the door that’s been never picked up no matter how many times either of them used to complain about it, but it’s exactly that; they’ve mostly gotten used to it by now.
Though, Kirishima still trips over it as he makes his way inside, flailing about as he attempts to grab onto the wall next to him for stability and keep his volume at a low.
Other than that, the trip to his bedroom is made with little to no noise - only the odd creak of the floorboards here and there, and when he finally clicks his bedroom door shut, and twists his hands into his hair and tugs at the strands, he tries his best not to scream.
Kirishima’s face must look like a balloon with how red and puffed up his cheeks are, but he doesn’t care.
He fails to suppress his inner conflict when he throws himself down onto his bed, stuffing his face into his pillow and screaming until his throat burns, raw and red hot.
He rolls around, giggling and kicking his feet at absolutely nothing, and vaguely registers how he just can’t stop smiling, and it’s starting to hurt a little.
As Kirishima had stepped out of the rain, Bakugou had lifted his hoodie over his head, and his shirt rode up a little before Kirishima looked off to the side; at the intriguing street full of grey and reflections of orange car lights in puddles that he’d no doubt see every other day this month.
When Kirishima looked back though, the hoodie was in one hand, and that hand was held out to him in silent offering.
Kirishima had taken it eventually, after first taking in the sight Bakugou, who he’d seen destroy himself over the drums just the night before - and couldn't quite process the fact that he was standing in front of him the next day, seeing him flush a bright red.
“I’ll obviously want it back, but if your dumbass got sick and missed a gig then it’d be on me.” He grumbled, and Kirishima wished his voice sounded as cool as Bakugou’s did when he was obviously embarrassed and trying to justify himself.
Though, Kirishima had just smiled sheepishly, rubbing a hand behind his neck.
“No I-”
“You can just give it back at one of our gigs, it’s fucking fine.”
A grin broke out onto Kirishima’s face at that, and he nodded, shoved the hoodie over his head without another thought and dismissed the flush in Bakugou’s cheeks as the season simply playing with his heart.
It had always seemed to have a personal vendetta against him.
Now, after having rushed home and rolled around in his bed for who knows how long, the inside of Bakugou’s hoodie feels like an inferno.
But it’s soft.
But it’s Bakugou’s.
But it’s Bakugou’s and it's merch from the band that he is in.
Kirishima wonders if Ashido would still say any of that stuff about Bakugou’s band if she knew that their drummer had merch of their band in his closet, and that he willingly gave it to Kirishima upon spotting him soaked in the rain.
Probably not.