Chapter Text
tomorrow comes too soon—
& the end is in full bloom;
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(A)
Kirishima sometimes wonders about what Bakugou thinks of him.
It’s a swarm of thoughts that come to him, sometimes out of nowhere—like right now: he’s doing laundry with earphones in, and then Bakugou pops into his face, startling and of nowhere in all his golden glory—and then he’s, sort of, uh, lost.
Maybe Bakugou thinks of him as a really clingy puppy, with toothy grins and too-spazzy eyes, kind of a try-hard or whatever. Maybe Bakugou sees him as someone who is confident in others, and draws confidence from that—what he really is. Maybe, maybe, maybe Bakugou looks at him and, and, and. And possibly, maybe respects him. Maybe—even more unlikely, but—maybe Bakugou finds him admirable, desirable, all kinds of ables and someone to adore or treasure or. Or somebody who's possibly, maybe attractive. Or—like, you know—something. Maybe.
Kirishima doesn’t know and it’s just a tangent of thoughts that he wanders down. Subsequently, he takes forever to find his way back to the core.
But when he does, the core is of a gut-wrenching, boring old reality.
Kirishima sighs as pulls out the last sock from the washer and hangs it on the drier. There’s some foreign pop singer humming in his ears about a bad a bad romance or something equally stupid.
And it’s goddamn pathetic.
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(B)
The first time Kirishima finds out about the existence The Book is on the bus. They’re riding back from their soccer game, and the whole place is fucking stinky with the smell of sweat burning into his nostrils and it’s rudely hot with the sun streaming through the bus windows.
And Kirishima steals a glimpse of The Book. In his head, Kirishima plots a tiny ‘TM’ sign up in the corner as superscript, because it’s everything a typical diary full of dreamy thoughts should be—suspicious and charming and hidden. Except, Bakugou doesn’t seem like the type to keep that kind of diary—like that Jewish girl, ol’ what’s-her-face, the one who called her ‘friend’ Kitty—Bakugou seems to be the type to make year planners in a diary. Neat, bland, prim and proper date-and-time orderly sort of notes with goals that he sets to meet. Kirishima imagines him writing out ‘Saitama Prefecture Summer Tournament Preliminaries’ for today’s game. Maybe stuff about the PSATs that he’s always taking.
The Book. TM. It’s brown, it’s leather bound, and it has a little red ribbon sticking out for bookmarking. The rule-type is a grid, from the look of it—Kirishima could see the square blocks peeking through Bakugou’s fingers. There, between his pinky and ring finger was a little wedge of a sea of boxes.
He’s writing something, and seeing as the bus ride is terribly bumpy and not a place that Kirishima would recommend for writing. So that meant he was writing that couldn’t wait, something he needed to do right now. Maybe homework? Again, Bakugou never seemed like the type.
So Kirishima leans past Sero his arms bumping into his lanky head—“Watch it, bro!”—and looks at Bakugou, smiling his megawatt smile.
Bakugou doesn’t really notice.
Now Kirishima has a better view. He’s writing slowly and deliberately, thinking before his pencil touches the paper. He’s clutching an eraser, hard—Kirishima bets his palms are sweaty against the rubber; after all he’s the sweatiest after any game (but he’s never smelly for some reason, he has this pleasant caramel smell about him)—and his brows are pinched together, meeting a tiny dimple at the middle of his furrowed forehead. He purses his lips.
The sunlight that slants through the bus windows falls on Bakugou’s face. The light is a square and it cuts a corner at Bakugou’s neck and spills across the slopes of his skin. Passing trees and buildings and cars tear their shadows across his face. The gold of the sun lights up his cheekbones, butters his sweat-gleaming neck and offers a little triangle shadow at his Adam’s apple. The sun tangles honey into his blond hair and, everytime Bakugou blinks, there’s yellow circles that catch in his eyelashes.
Bakugou is a sight of waxy yellows and daffodil and canary and the colour of bumblebees and lemons and butterscotch and pineapples. And at some places of the counterpart shadow, his hair is dusted with flaxen. His skin is milky pale yet flushed a pretty peach from the game and his eyes are a stark, stark red of dried-out cherries and chewed pomegranate seeds.
Kirishima grins ever-wider. “Hey, Bakugou,” he sings, voice dragging up into falsetto as he drawls. “Whatcha doin?”
And then suddenly like a spell breaking Bakugou slams his book shut with the audible ruffle of pages. His eyes blow wide and he unzips his bag, stuffs in the book. Zips it back. He then, and only then, fixes Kirishima with a death glare and clenches his hand into a quivering fist. “Fuck off, Kirishima! Your defence was weak, today.”
“Hey!” Kirishima immediately protests, forgetting about The Book. “Not cool! Bro, you didn’t manage a single assist.”
“I made two goals, fuck you!”
And then they’re off biting and quipping and tumbling into an irrelevant tussle of bickering.
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(C)
Kirishima doesn’t see The Book for quite some time after that.
The preliminaries wrap up and they qualify. Obviously. The first few games of the actual tournament are a breeze, and the semi finals are extremely hard, but they make it. Of course they do. They have the best strikers, Izuku and Bakugou. Deku has these hard, powerful goals that he can make even from the half line. Bakugou has the best impulse reaction and a right hook that sends the ball nestling into the goal, and looking as if it’s about to burst.
And today? It’s the night before their finals, and he sees The Book.
They’re at the dorms, and not many people have been able to sleep. Their next and final game is with Shiketsu High, their arch enemy.
Their managers, Momo and Ochako draw up video clips of their games. Their main player is a mid-fielder, surprisingly. He’s a tall buff and bald guy named Inasa with long passes that are guided by the literal wind.
There’s pressure on Kirishima to take possession and get the ball rolling.
Which is why Kirishima restlessly practices his traps instead of lying in bed and trying to catch some shut-eye. He’s lost in thought, tossing up the ball, catching it with his foot, watching it spin in place till it stops dead as a rock. Then he kicks it up again.
Bakugou’s on his futon, and there’s The Book kept in front of him. There’s a blank page opened up, crisp, grey lines criss-crossing. There’s a pencil and an eraser resting on either side.
Bakugou crosses his arms, though. Idle. Considering. Lips twisted up in thought.
Kirishima kind of wonders about it—but he doesn’t.
There’s a big game tomorrow. His defence is good; it’s grown over time to become a hard, rocky, solid and towering wall. And sometimes he falls in this trance and then their defence is unbreakable, with Kirishima’s eyes fixed on the ball and clearing it out every time an enemy comes close. No ball can even reach the keeper. Sero usually starts to fly, then.
Kirishima hopes he can find it in himself tomorrow, to go back to that kind of zone.
He continues to trap, tossing up, stopping the ball, tossing up.
He’s lost, and he doesn’t hear Bakugou the first time he says, “Stop.”
He blinks, traps the ball, faces his friend. “What?”
“Kirishima,” his voice is high, gawkily. He winces as if realising and brings it back down as he echoes, softer this time, and somehow with more edge, more raw: “stop.”
“What. What, uh, what happened, Bakugou?” Kirishima says, and he tosses up the ball once more.
Then Bakugou’s on his feet, coming in front of Kirishima. Angling his foot above Kirishima’s and trapping the ball with sudden effect. Flawlessly. Then he kicks it up and it flies into his hands and he holds the ball between them.
“I told you to fucking stop.” His fingers dig into the ball, hard. His fingers press ten dents across the black and white hexagons and pentagons. (Kirishima recalls from their Chemistry tutor sessions that this structure is similar to the carbon allotrope Fullerene.) His eyes are shut, squeezing and twisted up in a collection of wrinkles. His brows knit up and his teeth are gritted.
“Uh—” Kirishima swallows. There’s merely a football’s distance between them. “Yeah, Bakugou?”
“Could you. Will you.” Bakugou rarely stumbles over his words, he’s usually adept in hand-picking a curse word to express his reaction to any conversation. But now, he’s hesitating. “Can you do something for me.”
Kirishima smiles, not that wide, but with all the warmth in his heart. “Of course, Bakugou. We’re friends.”
Bakugou meets his eyes, finally, and his red eyes are a stewing broth. Kirishima can see himself in those eyes, warped into the shape of the iris. Kirishima dearly wants to know what Bakugou thinks of him, he does. He really, really does.
Bakugou says, “Could you sit. Sit still for me. You can sit anywhere, but just—sit still.”
“Sure?” It’s an odd request, mind, but Kirishima is willing. He settles on the futon and Bakugou follows. He toes off his crocks and kicks them to a side, and then crosses his sock-clad feet. Bakugou mirrors, sitting cross-cross-applesauce a little away from Kirishima and then he picks up The Book.
Kirishima straightens as Bakugou eyes him with a studiously focused gaze. Then he picks up his pencil and starts to work in his notebook.
Kirishima finds that the air in the room is so hot that it’s frozen and unmoving and so still that it’s unbearable. Kirishima starts to count his breaths, in a nervous spur, and thinks of fidgeting with the dog tags on his neck but doesn’t want to move, either.
At first Kirishima thinks Bakugou’s drawing, but then the guy tips forward a little, dipping into the mattress and Kirishima finds a glimpse of kanji lining up neatly in Bakugou’s hard, impression-leaving script.
So a question tumbles out his mouth, “What’re you doing?”
Bakugou pauses and purses his lips and there’s a moment of silence before he says, “I’m writing something.”
“Oh. What?”
“It’s about—” Bakugou never lies. He’s the biting, harsh, jagged truth, spat through a taut cage of teeth. He’s true as the day, bright and powerful and red and orange and yellow. “It’s about you.”
“Oh,” Kirishima says, again; he doesn’t know what to say, scratches his ratty Scooby Doo tee shirt, the one he wears to bed and plucks at a few lose threads in his black boyshorts. “Could I see?”
“Fuck no.” Bakugou says, immediately. He stops his writing, circles his last full stop and then closes the notebook, presses a little strap over The Book and buttons the thing shut.
“Oh.” Really, Kirishima needs a dictionary.
There’s a little pause with them looking at each other, quite nothing to say. Then Bakugou gives this little dismissive gesture, flicking his wrist. “Now you can fuck off. Don’t give a rats ass what you do. Just let me sleep.”
Which is just how Bakugou is. He just admitted something like I write stuff about you in this ominous little diary, and followed it up with a now go do jackshit. Which is just how he is.
Kirishima chuckles a bit, and shakes his head. Then he gets up, swinging to a stand. He nudged the ball around, now, from left leg to right leg, practising control.
He wants to see what’s in that diary, The Book with something written about him. What does Bakugou think of him? It’s all in that diary. Kirishima just has to turn around, pick up the diary, pop open the tiny button and flip to the latest page.
But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
The ball is deftly obedient under Kirishima’s toes.
#
There’s only four hours left till the sun. Kirishima hasn’t slept.
The night casts a blue-black glow over the room, tinged with a moonlight hue. Everything, everyone is dull and all colour bled out, leaving nothing but muted shades of grey. Kirishima speaks to the ceiling, breaking the night’s silence. “Bakugou?”
Bakugou always sleeps on time. Tonight he seems to be jittery too, however. “The fuck, Kirishima?”
“I, uh,” Kirishima swallows, thickly. There’s a thousand things that he could say, but none really form coherent phrases in his head. There is one, though—of a pressing matter. “We have our finals tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Bakugou says. His voice is quiet.
Kirishima bites his lips, timid habit. “Hey.” There’s a tiny, nervous, full and preganant pause full of croaking crickets of summer nights and the sound of their teammates snoring away, having collapsed and tired out.
But Bakugou and Kirishima are awake. Which is odd, really because Kaminari calls Bakugou a grandpa for his traditional sleeping habits: sleeping on the dot of eight thirty and rising with the sun and all. But tonight he’s awake.
“Hey,” Kirishima rolls into his side—the blankets rustle and stretch, their folds and crinkles grow longer, mould to his twisted torso—and faces Bakugou.
Bakugou’s eyes are red as ever in the dark and there’s a shadow caught in the apple of his cheeks and there’s moonlight poured over the sheets with little shadow-lakes and light-hills and everything blends in and mixes, light in dark. But his eyes are still red and striking, despite the dread of shadow, and he looks as beautiful and handsome as ever.
“Hey,” Kirishima whispers, this time. Voice soft, painstakingly small. But it’s still certain and unwavering. He leans towards Bakugou. “Do you want to practice?”
#
So they’re in the park.
The street lamp flickers and thrums and clicks and a pair of moths twirl around it, and there’s the incessant buzz of insects and the goddamn crickets don’t fucking stop. Kirishima and Bakugou had dressed up.
Bakugou wore his favourite footballer’s jersey—Toshinori Yagi, the big yellow and blue and red jersey bright and just really not Bakugou’s style but he wears it nevertherless. Kirishima has his black spandex shirt and a battered down Spider-Man tee over it. The two of them sit in the dew-damp grass, pulling on their stockings and tying up their studs and then, they stand up.
They play a simple passing game.
It’s music.
The beat of the ball: the kick, the trap, the kick. The melody of crickets and bugs. The whistle of the wind. The tempo of their feet, studs chipping up clods of moist soil and shuffling in the grass and crunching dried out leaves. Their bursting, cluttered and shallow breaths—hah, hah, hah. It’s beautiful. Whistling of winds and howling of the neighbourhood dog mix in and find their place.
Kirishima breaks a sweat and then they switch it up. Kirishima places his backpack on the ground and Bakugou sets down a waterbottle and it makes a makeshift goal. Kirishima gets in the D, hands planted on his knees and Bakugou walks a few paces away.
“Ready?” Bakugou asks, as he plants the football in the dirt.
Kirishima nods, red eyes steady.
Bakugou takes a run up, and Kirishima watches where is foot spots—it lands beside the ball, pointed slightly left—and kicks the ball, hard—with the metatarsal bone of the foot.
So it’s going left and to the top. Kirishima lunges.
The ball smacks against his palm, burning, falls to the ground. Kirishima lands on his side, crushing the few husked leaves under muscle, and can merely watch as the ball unceremoniously rolls into the goal.
“Heh,” Bakugou says, grinning broad and wide, the flat of his teeth glistening in the moon. His eyes light up. Kirishima groans, rubs the grass off his elbows.
“I almost had you,” Kirishima says, getting up. He passes the ball to Bakugou.
“A miss,” Bakugou quotes, stopping the ball; “is as good as a mile.”
Kirishima groans some more, but then readies for the next penalty shot, hands spread out. The ball bites his palms everytime and he wishes he had stolen Sero’s gloves or maybe just Kaminari’s tape. But he. He kind of. He kind of likes it.
His skin has always been hard and Bakugou’s shots have always been explosive and there’s nothing new. And Kirishima kind of likes it. It feels odd, it feels exhilarating, it feels new.
It feels good.
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(D)
Extra-time in a game always burns hard and fast. It’s thirty minutes but it feels like so little and yet like so much.
Everyone is tired and sweating buckets and everyone just wants the game to be over, stamina pushed to its limits and knees buckling and head boiling from the heat.
But Kirishima doesn’t let his guard down for a second of it. Shiketsu has three goals and UA has only two.
They were dragging out the game, passing leisurely but. But UA is restless. Everyone is on their toes, necks perched forward, hands fisted, muscles coiled up, eyes torn wide.
Todoroki attempts a slide tackle—risky, a card would waste precious time. However, he’s always good at balancing such things. He steals the ball smothly, passes to Kaminari.
Good choice; Kaminari has these lightning fast passes that start a conduction thread. The ball zips to Kirishima and to Tokoyami. Tokoyami has the longest, airborne passes ever—the ball sails to Izuku.
He gestures to Bakugou with his fingers: one, two. The most basic formation that you learn as one of the very first tactics: a pass; a pass back; and a goal.
Kirishima watches Bakugou hesitate a little. The one-two formation meant Deku was finishing, making the goal, getting the cheer.
But Bakugou hesitates only a little. He’s grown so much. He’s no longer that skin-kneed, spitting and angry middle schooler. He knows how to work like a team, like organs of one body. He knows now, he’s grown now.
He nods at Midoriya, and the goal should be easy, except—
“Izuku! Man on!” Kirishima bellows, at the top of his lungs. An opponent had run in, and dropped to their knees and.
Foul. The referee blows his whistle. Seconds pass, tick, tock, tick, tock.
The referee pulls out a yellow card, uncaps a Sharpie, and the little whore of an opponent puts on a little show full of bullshit like “that wasn’t a foul! damn it! oh no!” The goddamn son of a bitch.
Kirishima feels a bead of sweat make its way down the side of his head and to his chin. It lingers there for a second—the anticipation rises, with every beat of his heart, the referee tells the opponent to shut up and continues to fill in his name on the card, pockets it, pauses a bit before blowing his whistle—and then the sweat-drop falls to the floor.
There’s fifty-seven seconds left. The referee sets down the ball for a free-kick.
Izuku takes it, doesn’t waste any time, ignores the defence wall Shiketsu had made. He spots and swings his foot. It hurtles to Bakugou.
Fifty-four seconds.
The same fucking whore attempts a second slide tackle. Bakugou jumps and the guy steals the ball. At least there isn’t another foul.
Kirishima ambles forward now, breaking formation because. Because goddamn it, nothing matters anymore.
He takes possession of the ball, easy, and then runs past the half line and then. His eyes immediately search for Bakugou.
Forty-seven.
Bakugou is covered. There’s Izuku, though, and Kirishima makes a wide pass.
But Deku reaches it, anyway, takes the ball and then everyone, everyone is yelling.
Forty.
Todoroki, who’s usually reserved, is screaming. He’s red in the face and the wind pushes his hair apart and you can see his burn-mark and he’s screaming with his teeth bared and his hands fisted and he's keening forward with the exertion and he's screaming.
Kirishima’s shouting too, Kaminari is whooping and Sero’s voice can be heard from this far.
The loudest is Bakugou. He’s a fucking siren, voice booming and rattling and reverberating in your chest with the bass and the effort. “Fucking Deku!” Is what he yells, and it echoes and rings in everyone’s ears.
Midoriya dances a little, twirling past defenders and zipping past the second last defender—he looks around himself to judge the Off Side and then—and then—
And then he makes the goal and the shouting rises to something incoherent and loud and akin to bass and everyone jumps on poor Izuku, pouncing and wrapping their arms around him and taking running starts and then the whole team collapses in a pile of flailing sweaty limbs.
They’ve only drawn, though.
The referee declares penalty shoot-outs. Best of five. Everyone pats Sero on the back, wishes him luck.
#
The ball is set on the ground. The strikers and wingers line up behind the ball and the referee blows the whistle. They start to jog. Tokoyami jumps over the ball, Kaminari jumps, Deku jumps, Bakugou jumps, Todoroki kicks the ball. Goal.
Shiketsu’s turn.
Sero dives, deftly. The ball hits his palms and he hugs it like goddamn tape and sticks to the ball, cradles like its his baby.
Ten times, the ball is set on the white spot. Each team makes three goals each. Tie.
“Difference of one,” Referee says, blows his whistle. Everyone is on the edge of their seat, clutching fists, holding their breath, muttering prayers.
Inasa goes first. Miss. He clutches his bald head and moans and the whole team heaves a collective sigh because that's just how the dude is.
Bakugou sets the ball down.
Kirishima watches him, as he draws back to suck in a breath. His face is set and his face looks angular and harsh in the sun. The sun cuts tiny shadows everywhere and brings out Bakugou's set, perfect features. He's beautiful.
There’s a lull, and everyone holds their breath and crosses their fingers.
Kirishima imagines yesterday: Bakugou with his cocky, self-absorbed smiles and the music of their feet and of the night. He imagines the way that they had practiced, finding themselves lost and forgetting time in and of itself, being with each other, riding out muscle memory and finding rhythm and pace and harmony here, somewhere in the middle of the dark.
So the referee blows the whistle and Bakugou approaches the ball. He spots with his left. His leg points left and he hits with his metatarsal bone.
It hits the goalie’s palms and rolls into the goal and Kirishima is running like the wind spurring on speed and he throws himself at Bakugou and wraps his legs around his hips and his arms around his neck and they’re sweaty and they collapse to the floor and the world is fucking cheering with all their heart and the whole team follows and.
And Kirishima whispers into the shell of Bakugou’s ear, inaudible under the chaos around them— “I like you. I like you, I like you, I like you. I like you, Bakugou Katsuki.”
Kirishima knows it can’t be heard and so he finds comfort in that and repeats it over and over. Every repetition makes the syllables bleed together and become less and less coherent but it's okay because he's able to say it, he's able to let the tension in his shoulder-blades ease out. And it can't be heard but that's what makes it so easy to say. I like you.
It can’t be heard, but Bakugou hugs Kirishima back and his grip grows tighter. Maybe he doesn't hear it, but he feels it. Maybe. How Kirishima hopes.
I like you, I like you, I like you.
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(E)
The feeling of victory is so powerful. It's warm, it's lively, it's overwhelming. It's like a bundle of nerves and a rush in the head, and Kirishima finds himself smiling so hard that his cheeks sort of ache. His chest hurts but in the good way. Their captain, Deku, takes the trophy by one hand, and offers the other hand of the thing to Bakugou.
Kirishima knows there's a history there. But when Bakugou and Deku stand side-by-side, holding up the cup, laughing and smiling broad and wide, there's a feeling of acceptance and of mutual respect and of moving past their plagued history.
Kirishima finds himself digging his hands into his jersey—obviously, he tore off his shirt to celebrate, and yeah, you can get a card for that stuff but not when the game is over—his fingers trace the kanji of his name, press into the stretchy nylon fabric, and he wrings out his sweat. He finds looking at Bakugou, the lovely way that he just is, the charming way that he sings the song of victory, the way he—the way he smiles. Oh.
He's smiling at Kirishima.
Oh. Kirishima twists his jersey more, feeling his cheeks catch fire. The way he fiddles with his shirt doesn't do justice to the way his belly is scrunching up. Kirishima winks at Bakugou, and he goes red, too.
He whips his head around, to face the trophy—bad move, now Kirishima can see his strawberry face in the reflection. His face is warped and cast over in gold, now, but Kirishima can see him nonetheless.
Kirishima grins. Wow, his cheeks hurt.
#
The awards ceremony makes Kirishima swell with pride.
They're standing in line, and it's supposed to be height order. It is supposed to, that's what Momo had told them. She was tapping at her Management files with her pen impatiently and all. He pony was drawn specifically taut and she'd been tapping her gym shoes on the ground, too. The spitting image of a lady who means business. It's supposed to be height order, but everyone is too giddy to care. Even Yayurouzu, apparently.
So there's Bakugou beside him, and they're this close. Kirishima could lean a bit and they'd be pressed against each other. He could budge his studs a little to the left and he'd be stepping on Bakugou's shoelaces.
Kirishima thought realising his feelings would make it easier, more sort out. Oh, it's the fucking opposite, actually. His thoughts are a jumbled, steaming mess and his insides melt and he's oddly conscious of Bakugou beside him. When Bakugou accepts the certificate, his elbows dig into Kirishima's side, and when he bows, there's the feeling of cloth sliding against cloth.
They all have the wrong certificate so they have to shuffle around to find theirs afterward, and though it takes long, Kirishima doesn't really mind not standing in height order. Because it's worth it. It's alright and it's worth it.
(F)
Practice for the Autumn Tournament starts almost immediately, and now Kirishima is really conscious of Bakugou. They're in these tiny shorts, showing off cords of muscles in the thighs and powerful calves. And, after all, and they always took off their shirts when playing shirts VS skins, and it leaves little to the imagination. Except.
Except, well. Everything, actually.
#
It's after one of the games that they're in the change room and Bakugou has The Book out, again. He's leaning against his gym bag, reclined lazily. He's barefoot—Kirishima notices that he's almost allergic to shoe-socks, and pulls it off whenever he gets the chance, stretches out his feet and wriggles his toes—and he's got this thoughtful look on his face. He's looking at Kirishima.
So of course, Kirishima pulls off his shirt—you could say he's allergic to shirts, then—and steps into rubber flip-flops, readying up for the baths. "Writing about me again, are you, Bakugou?" (Kirishima makes sure everyone's busy with Kaminari and Sero's bullshit, and that nobody listens to them. He doesn't know why, but he's certain that Bakugou wouldn't like it if someone else heard about his diary, his journal, his whatever.)
Bakugou glares up at him. "I am," he admits.
Kirishima sits down beside him, and the way that Bakugou slowly closes The Book isn't lost on him. The way he doesn't move away from when Kirishima's leaning into him isn't lost on him, either. "Do you need any help?"
There's a beat of silence. Bakugou seems to take in Kirishima's form now, glancing him up and down. Then there's this moment, where his face dawns, sort of—like, he comes to a kind of realization, or something. He flushes, a bit. A very little bit, but Kirishima can tell. Bakugou's ears go pink and Kirishima can always tell.
Then Bakugou looks back down at The Book—now latched shut—and then clears his throat. "Fuck off, Kirishima, you stink."
"Aww, come on, man," Kirishima says. "You were going to say something right there, weren't—"
"I told you to fuck right off," Bakugou echoes, and there's an edge to his voice. It's mellowed out but it's still there, and Kirishima knows when to take and when to give. He pats Bakugou on the knee, once, twice, and then draws his towel around his neck. He offers a tiny smile and then jogs to the washrooms.
#
During matches amongst their team, the self-play games, Kirishima is against Bakugou.
And it's wonderful. Bakugou's the striker and Kirishima's the defender so of course they're interacting the most. Kirishima rarely gets to watch Bakugou up close mid-game, he's always a distant figure in the field. But now, Kirishima can see him up close.
And it's a dance, their interaction. Bakugou dances the most, he rolls down to the D with the ball between his feet, nudging it, and the defense drops away as he spins. Kirishima approaches and then they're lost in this, in this—in this endless game of trial and error and pushes and pulls. Bakugou tries to power forth but Kirishima is unforgiving in his advance and Bakugou tries to go around and Kirishima plants his feet wide but not wide enough for a nutmeg and Bakugou tries to chip it over Kirishima's head but Kirishima recieves with his chest and the ball falls to his feet and he traps it perfectly and he's about to pass it away, clear it off.
But Bakugou comes back twice as hard and takes his chance and steals the ball and Kirishima watches as he cages the ball between his feet and flicks it up and executes a beautiful rainbow and it arcs over his head and he's smiling, wildly as he starts to move ahead.
But Kirishima gets in with a shoulder push, paired with his elbow and they both are skin against skin, sweat against sweat and Kirishima's hair is falling apart but he doesn't care, all there is for him is just Bakugou and the ball. They both fight and fight and fight and finally Bakugou gets the ball and he kicks it away but Kirishima juts out his knee and the ball is out of bounds and the two of them—
The two of them fall to the ground and they're laughing and they're tumbling and there's flashes of the too-green AstroTurf and the blue, red, white of their UA High jerseys and of Kirishima's orange bib and the sky and there's blond and red.
It's a brilliant, brilliant mix, a never-ending blur, a blend of a thousand shades and colours and laughter.
#
They sit close. It's not that close but it's not far either and they're sitting after a game, sipping Gatorade and they're both bone-tired. But Kirishima still feels tiny shocks and stirs of electricity in his belly as they press against each other in the tiny bench and Kirishima can feel Bakugou's chest rising and falling and so he unconsiously staggers out his breathing to match his and it's dumb.
It's stupid, it's really useless and crazy but they're perfectly just coexisting here, and they're pressed against each other and they're too tired to do much else. Kirishima finishes up his Gatorade and still, he stays then Coach Aizawa calls him over and the moment is over.
Kirishima feels as if he's lost something important, something worthwhile. But he's not sure what because nothing actually happened.
(D)
Something odd happens, and it raises a question.
Actually it raises ten questions, hundreds, maybe a thousand—and they all swarm in Kirishima's heading, neverending and unstoppable and cluttering and buzzing and bumping, and it's all a tiring, draining mess because none of the individual questions can be taken out and read as a sentence because it's just a jumbled mass of phrases and words like what and why and how and it's all wrapped up in a big, fat question mark, imposing and large, like a flail.
Kirishima's leaning towards Bakugou and Bakugou's leaning towards Kirishima and it's this irresistable, unavoidable, imminent pull. It's mutual and it's powerful like gravity, akin to Saturn and her rings and they're forehead-to-forehead.
Kirishima's hair is damp from his shower and it hangs lose, frames their faces, and in their periphery it's just red. Kirishima closes his eyes, breathes it all in—there's Bakugou's smokewood and pine grove and singed caramel earthy scent and there's the smell of shower jell and the fresh, watery smell you get of pink, clean skin after a bath. There's nothing that happens, they're just leaning against each other.
Kirishima takes a fistful of Bakugou's jersey at his belly, and his hand is in a ball between them and Bakugou slowly, hesitantly, deliberately, gently plants one hand on Kirishima's back.
There's a deafening, omnipotent, all-powering silence.
#
When the tournament comes, the red and yellow and brown leaves crunch under Kirishima's sneakers.
The wind starts to get icy and Kirishima notices that Bakugou's nose is a little pink and his hair presses into his forehead because of his beanie and he constantly rubs his palms together. They're walking up the tiny hill out back of the last block at school—that everyone called the Mountain for some stupid reason and it just caught on—to eat lunch. Kaminari and Sero link their arms and add a dance and a jump in their steps, while Mina sings one of those popular English songs and it's a good feeling.
They hike up to the top and settle down.
"So," Mina says, as she pulls out her phone and steals a chip from Kaminari's lunch— "So, I wanted to ask you guys. You've never invited me to your games."
"Well that's because you always end up coming anyway," Sero says, through a mouthful. Mina pinches him in the knee.
"It's kind of true though," Kaminari says, rubbing a little circle into Sero's knee to soothe the pinch out. "It's obvious that you're going to come, so why bother?"
Mina pouts and puffs out her cheeks a bit. "What I meant was that a lot more people want to watch your matches. And I wanted to do the cheer-team kind of thing. So I made this shirt kind of thing," she turns her phone around and both Sero and Kaminari crowd around it.
Kirishima and Bakugou just sort of eat their lunch, aside. There's silence on their part, until Kirishima asks, "So what do you think?"
Bakugou swallows his rice, raises an eyebrow. "About what?"
"Are we going to win this one, too?"
Bakugou gets this look in his eyes and he points his chopsticks at Kirishima, grins broad and wide and flat-toothed. "You bet your ass we will."
#
They lose the first match.
Everyone is disappointed, most of all Aizawa. This was the first game, they were supposed to nail this. But the lanky man just tightens his rough bun, sets down his formation clipboard, lets out a sigh. "We'll get the next one."
"Yes, sir," everyone choruses.
Bakugou's jaws are tightly set and Kirishima slowly slips his fingers into his. He thinks that the two of them are actually just crybabies because his eyes are prickling and unpleasantly hot and he can spot a familiar glimmer in his eyes. Which is really dumb because it's just the first match, this doesn't matter, it's going to be okay, what the fuck.
But Bakugou doesn't leave his hands and it's a warm lace and join of fingers.
#
Afterward, they stay back in the locker room. Everyone else files out, Ochako gives them a knowing look asks them to switch off the lights when they're done. Done with what, Kirishima wonders, but he says yes anyway. She nods, closes the door behind her.
"I broke," Kirishima says, quietly. His voice crackles out and it's the dry, dusty kind of voice—which is odd, because his throat feels wet and sticky and way too thick and full.
"What?" Bakugou says, looking more curious than defeated for a second.
"My defence," Kirishima clarifies and he clenches a fist, tight. "I let two goals in."
"What do you mean," he doesn't get it.
Kirishima's fist starts to shake and he squeezes his eyes shut and tears pour through and it's really, really stupid and dumb and unfair and irrational. "My defence broke, I let two goals in, Bakugou, my defense broke, it broke and I'm so useless, I deserve to be on the bench, I—"
"Kirishima, you blocked four on-target shots after that, didn't you. And you tackled out about fourteen advances," Bakugou states, and he's no longer defeated, he's standing tall and there's a set in his jaws again but it's a different kind, it's more sure and he looks down at him from the corner of his eyes and his lips press in a thin line. And about his observation, Kirishima is surprised he noticed.
"Yeah," Kirishima blinks a bit. He's rather confused. "Because I couldn't just, like. Go down, or something—"
"If you refuse to go down," Bakugou puts in, and he pushes his chin up, fixes him with that all-knowing scarlet gaze; "it means you're stupidly strong."
Everything around Bakugou kind of fades out, loses colour, lacks vibrance and he's a glowing figure amid it all, pretty red eyes and pretty blond hair and pretty, perfect cream skin and the set of a jaw.
Oh, Kirishima thinks. Oh.
#
Kirishima blocks every single advance in the next game and Sero is jobless.
#
It's on the fourth game that Bakugou gets hurt. It's just a sprain, and one of the subs fill in, obviously. They win the match, nevertheless.
Afterward, back in the rooms, Bakugou is livid. His foot is bandaged up and he asks Kirishima if he's going to go practice with him or not.
"Dude, you're hurt," he says, picking up one of his dumbbells. His eyes are sort of wide with concern and question. "Why would you—"
"Just a question, Shitty Hair," Bakugou spits. "I'm going with or without you."
Which is when Kirishima sets down the pair of weights and gets up to yank Bakugou to sit back down on his ass and locks the door in a swift motion.
Bakugou is livid. He's spluttering and fuming and he tries to get up again but fails because, (a) his leg is sprained; and (b) Kirishima was holding onto his shoulders, keeping him put. "Let me go, you fucking bastard, I'll blow you up—"
"With what," Kirishima challenges, and then pockets the keys.
"I. Shut the fuck up, whore—" Bakugou kicks and punches and shoves but Kirishima is merely unimpressed and sits down beside Bakugou, picks up another dumbell lazily. When Bakugou continues to swear Kirishima laughs.
"Kirishima, give me the keys." Here, Kirishima glances over. Bakugou's voice had that familiar edge, when he was more than just annoyed. "I'm going to practice."
"Bakugou, can't you just take two, maybe three days off?"
"No. Kirishima, give me the bloody keys—"
"What happened," and he makes sure that his voice is low, soothing.
Bakugou purses his lips, chews at the edge of a little dry skin on his mouth. "You guys won," he comments, voice tight.
"We—yeah, I guess."
"Without me," he says, and his voice sounds too cramped, like a choked metro bogie, brimming to the seams with people and not enough place to breathe, much less move.
Kirishima sets down the dumbell, now, takes Bakguou's face in his hands. The skin of his arms is rough against the softness of Bakugou's cheeks. His index slips past Bakugou's ears and into his hair. "Hey," he says, softly. "You're a wonderful player, Katsuki. You're best striker I've ever seen."
Bakugou shoves his hands away, but not too far. "I'll win the next one," he promises.
"I'm sure you will," Kirishima returns, firmly.
Bakugou doesn't say much about the fact that Kirishima called him by his first name.
#
When they kiss it's like scoring a goal, a baseball bat hitting squarely in a ball, a bowling strike. It's like coming back home, stacking shoes up in a rack, like the feeling of the sun on your face on the first day of summer break.
It's odd, he can feel the curve of Bakugou's teeth, a presence, and there's the warm, wet press of lips and it's weird but a good kind of weird. There's a twist in his stomach and it kind of grows as Bakugou places two fingers into the side of Kirishima's tummy. Kirishima's arms, though, they envelope Bakugou, push him impossibly close.
When they part, Bakugou's cheeks are alight with red, a beautiful rosy blush. "I guess I can finish it, now."
Kirishima wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Finish what?"
Bakugou reaches to his gym bag—which is uncomfortable because he twists over and Kirishima has to let go of his waist, something he does not want to do, not in a million years—and pulls out The Book. He shifts backwards, makes space between them—another thing Kirishima doesn't want—and places the diary between them.
There's section header pages, each of a different colour-marker, and the tags there are the different senses written out in Bakugou's clean kanji. Sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste. Kirishima leans forward with interest, "What's this?"
He briefly rifles through the book and Kirishima can see the neat pattern and formatting of his words, short phrases and sentences of uniform length and flips to the last marker, taste. He writes one word, right in the center.
Warm.
"What is this?" Kirishima asks again. "Poetry?"
Bakugou nods, mutely. Shuts the notebook, puts it back in his gym bag.
"You wrote poems, Katsuki?" Kirishima says, voice drawn out in wonder. "About me?"
He doesn't meet Kirishima in the eyes. "Volumes, Ei," he admits, closing his eyes. "Volumes."
i want to be consumed,
& to love in quiet rooms.