Work Text:
Oh, it itches. It feels like individual ants crawling across his body, little tickling beasts of torture. His shed flakes away in agonizing patches, floating behind them like a trail of breadcrumbs, catching on branches and stone and grass. It’s a constant ache, an uncomfortable tremor across his whole body, and it’s worse in human shape, somehow, like he’s trapping too many layers under the guise of soft brown flesh.
Kirishima is desperately grateful when they stop by a little lake. The water’s barely deep enough to fit his warm body and he wiggles into cold, sloppy mud, turning circles until the entire surface has gone brown with stirred up dirt. Feels good, though; cool slush against his stomach and the setting sun warm along the glittering spines that streak across his drying back.
Bakugou stomps along the shore, his boots perched precisely underneath the cloak that hangs across a tree branch above. His pants are scrunched past his knees, and he grumbles noisily to himself as he splashes through mud.
Kirishima watches him; watches his jerky, bold movements as he tries to catch fish with his bare hands. He might get one, if he’s lucky. He might manage to get his fingers around a slow moving catfish woken by dragon feet, and he’ll crow proudly when he does, gleeful. It’s about the challenge, after all, because they’ve got food enough packed away that Bakugou can afford to waste this time messing around in the water.
He looks angry and fierce, but Kirishima knows him well enough to understand that he’s having fun in his own loud, wild way.
Tonight’s a break between self-inflicted wars, and a chance to finally pause and rest and rid himself of the terrible drama that is a dragon’s shed.
It peels off of him in patches, thin enough to see through but thick enough to glob chunkily in the water. Fish nibble at it as he scrapes off what he can reach, thick claws rending old, out-grown scales. His tail is easy, and so are his legs, his hands, his nose- but the length of his back and the spurs of his brilliant wings drip wetly with off-white.
They’ll come off eventually, Kirishima thinks, blowing a breath underneath the surface of the water carelessly. Any relief is enough for now, and he hauls his body from the lake and sprawls himself out across the grassy shore. This is the warm season, the fat season; the time after the rains but before anybody starts thinking about winter, and it’s nice. The sunlight warms his back and reflects red off the water, outlining Bakugou’s lithe form in a well-deserved halo.
Kirishima curls his tail around his feet, spreads his wide wings to dry, and doesn’t resist the lure of falling eyelids.
When he wakes, the sun is still there but barely, shifting picturesque shades over the lake.
“Move your damn wing,” Bakugou grunts, and Kirishima shifts it back, thinking his friend is trying to bed down underneath his warmth, but Bakugou slaps his haunch and says, “The other way, idiot.”
Kirishima pulls his wing away and curls his neck to watch Bakugou climb roughly up his leg, unafraid of falling, his hands reaching for jagged scales and then for the spines of the dragon’s back. He swings himself upwards in practiced movements, and Kirishima swivels his head to watch.
“Are we moving?” he asks, his draconic voice thick and heavy, warm like the call of fire.
“No,” Bakugou answers, walking across his back like he belongs there (and he does). “This shit’s been bothering you all day. I’m sick of it.”
Bakugou is human. He doesn’t understand the rituals behind a molt; he doesn’t know how personal it is to help a dragon shed its own skin, and he wouldn’t care even if Kirishima told him. He doesn’t bother listening to ‘stupid lizard nonsense’ and he doesn’t bother respecting the intimate rituals of the ancient, fading species.
And even if he did, Kirishima isn’t sure that he could bear to spill the beans.
Bakugou shuffles along his back peeling stuck skin with rough hands, and it feels so good. He sets off crackling explosions against impervious scales, crumbling what he can’t get at with his fingers, and it feels even better.
Kirishima rests his head over his clawed hands, tilting his chin to watch, and feels a clinging warmth rumble through his chest. “Thanks,” he says.
Bakugou burns another patch of molt away and shouts down, “Whatever.”
--
Bakugou doesn’t shed.
Well, obviously not. He’s a flimsy little human thing with a big bark.
But he doesn’t molt, which means Kirishima’s got no way to make it even between them. Theirs is a partnership worth putting down in writing; they are not master and slave or pet and keeper. They share meals and battles and rewards with an unspoken agreement.
But they can’t share this, and it itches at Kirishima’s brain like unshed skin. His scales shimmer like ruby red in the morning sunlight, and he cannot repay this favor by doing the same; Bakugou shines enough all on his own.
He’ll just find another way to thank him, Kirishima decides.
The nearest town is hosting a spring market, and when Bakugou leads them among the rising crowds, Kirishima grins to himself. Here he will find something perfect; something worth his friend’s time. The question, still, is what?
Purchasing him something secretly is out of the question. Bakugou keeps the money on his person- not because he is keeping it for himself, but because Kirishima’s prone to eating coins.
He could simply ask for currency.
“Can I borrow gold?” he tries, gripping Bakugou’s armored wrist and leaning close. The market’s noisy and bright this summer morning, filled with the aroma of fresh baking and the cries of new lambs, and Kirishima enjoys the crushing crowd in human shape. “Just a few?”
“What d’you want?” Bakugou asks, distracted by a noisy bard’s irritating tune but still reaching for the purse hidden at his belt. His fingers close over it and he turns to look at Kirishima’s bright eyes. “I’ll come with you to get it,” he decides.
“No, I don’t know what I want, yet,” Kirishima says, which isn’t an untruth. “Just give me a few for later.”
“Don’t be dumb. You’ll give it all to the first stupid beggar that asks for it,” Bakugou argues, dropping the pouch.
“That happened once,” Kirishima says, flushing.
“Are you hungry?” Bakugou asks him, already turning towards the rows of food stalls.
Kirishima hangs after him, afraid to lose him despite his plan of sneaking off on his own. “I dunno.”
“Stop being stupid, then,” Bakugou decides abruptly. “If you want something, we’ll buy it. Quit being weird.”
“Yeah,” Kirishima agrees, wincing.
Bakugou grabs his wrist and pulls him willingly along, and Kirishima scratches that plan off the list.
He doesn’t have to have coins to take something, though. Kirishima understands currency, but as a dragon he also understands the value of keeping what is yours and acquiring what isn’t. Gold and silver trading is one way to do that, but nimble claws and quick feet are another.
Bakugou’s never been very thrilled when he tries to take things without offering compensation. He says they aren’t ‘useless, good-for-nothing street-scum’ and that they can ‘participate in stupid society no matter how trollshit the rules are’.
Kirishima is pretty sure it’s a pride thing.
But it’s a dragon thing to claim what he wants with the strength of his own hands, so if he finds something very shiny and pretty and good for crunching, then two-foot society had better be prepared to adjust for his winged tendencies.
Unfortunately, that still doesn’t answer the question of what to take. Bakugou already has everything he needs, and there’s not much he wants. He wants freedom and power and renown and they have all those things- they aren’t things Kirishima can present on a platter, either. Bakugou’s boots are new and his cape is fresh with furs and the jewels he wears are not decoration but are trophies with value and inspiration.
“Would you like me to carry the bag?” Kirishima asks as the midday summer sun greets the marketplace.
Bakugou shuffles the hanging bag once more behind his cloak, sweat slipping under the straps and letting it swing too free in the crowds. “No,” he says, “I’m carrying our things.”
Kirishima ducks a tiny human hatchling running barefoot down the dirt paths and scrambles to keep up with his friend. “But my claws are free,” he points out, stretching his fingers forward, dark nails on display. “And I am stronger than- I am able to lift more than you.”
“You’re too much of a target,” Bakugou snorts, waving him away. “You’ll attract thieves like flies.”
“Me?” Kirishima looks down at his hands like natural daggers; his thick, muscular arms. They are nothing compared to his more honest form, but against the darting tricksters with blades in their hands to cut purse strings, he is well-fed and dangerous. His hair is bright and draws attention from the crowds and his teeth curve sharp over a sly tongue. He has never considered himself a target in a city market before.
Bakugou pauses in the street and turns, his gaze flicking over Kirishima’s body from vibrant hair to metal-studded toes. He grunts and lifts one hand, raising his fingers to Kirishima’s face. It seems for a moment that he might pet him softly, and Kirishima leans towards the warm touch, tilting his chin- but Bakugou finishes with a firm slap against Kirishima’s cheek, and says, “It’s that damn soft expression, lizard brains. You smile too much.”
Hmm, Kirishima thinks, scrubbing the barbarian’s easy sweat from his face, sometimes a smile can be a weapon, too.
Oh, a weapon? Metal reflects the sun in jangling waves across the market, glinting from displays promising death and wealth all at once. Bakugou is a fan of weapons, Kirishima thinks, watching as he stops near a working forge to eye a set of carved daggers. He lifts one and tests its weight on his practiced fingers, sharing a few sharp words with the large man behind the curtains as Kirishima waits patiently. As usual, Bakugou leaves without trading anything, a prideful smirk across his thin lips.
Bakugou likes blades, but he likes his own most of all. There is a story behind the blade that he’s not yet ready to share, though Kirishima thinks that time might come soon. On clear nights, when they sit together in comfortable silence underneath the sea of trees, Bakugou will ease out his sword and whet it against the hard scales of Kirishima’s dragon forearms. The steady noise is soothing to them both, and sometimes Bakugou will part his lips to speak only to close them with a grunt and keep working.
They’ve both got stories to share and plenty of time to share them. For now, Kirishima’s content to focus on making their own new story, together.
Kirishima finds himself later with a pretty stone between his fingers. He isn’t sure if he had picked it up from the ground or swiped it from a table, but there is a glittering shine behind the dark earth that settles a craving within his chest. His claws scrape over rock and ground dust falls away, and he wonders for a moment if he could shape this little thing into something worth gifting.
Bakugou doesn’t care for trinkets, but he does like memories. He wears them around his neck proudly; beads from his youth and teeth from his hunts. He has hung three of Kirishima’s shed hind-fangs among the rest, dyed a sea-brine blue that could put oceans to shame. Are those trophies, too? They’re Kirishima’s, if so: he had lost them within the flesh of a sea-spirit, his jaw locked within its tangled arms while he refused to allow himself to be drowned beneath the waves.
Maybe that was why Bakugou had dyed them blue, Kirishima realizes. Blue like the sea and blue like the poisoned blood that tried to tease the air from his wide dragon lungs. Maybe they are Kirishima’s trophies, and Bakugou is simply carrying them for him.
The stone gives way under Kirishima’s claws, crumpling to shards in his hands. It’s for the best, he thinks, letting the destroyed stone trail onto the pathway behind them. He could have done a rabbit- their first shared meal together, caught by the same snare that’d snagged Kirishima. A dog for the beast that had hunted them both for the rabbit’s blood. A little boat to represent their journey? Another bead to add to Bakugou’s neck?
He could have shaped the stone into a thousand different ideas, but none of them would have truly given the little trinket any value. Kirishima leaves it behind in pieces and continues down the market with his partner.
When the sun starts to set and the sounds of the market shift from business to pleasure, Bakugou leads them southward towards a little tavern. Kirishima follows, content as always to walk behind Bakugou, guarding his back and watching the shadows of the warm sun whisper goodbye to the beautiful gold in his hair.
The two of them come across a small tavern they’ve never visited before, and the inside is warm and inviting. A fire roars despite the summer heat, ready for nightfall, and the scent of roasting fats draws drool over Kirishima’s eager teeth.
He thinks of giving his meal up to Bakugou, as thanks, but he isn’t strong enough to resist the chunky stew and crunching bread they’re served.
A noisy bard sings absent requests in the corner, and Kirishima wonders what it would cost to pay the yellow canary to regale Bakugou- to trill tales of his dangerous adventures and cunning. A few coins or a gentle threat… but no, Bakugou has sat them in the dark corner and leans low over his food, quiet. He wants peace after the busy market, focused on his meat and the tap-tap-tap of Kirishima’s metal boot against the floor, in time with the rowdy music.
Their room in the inn is small but nicer than most. It has an open window, one that Bakugou stares out of as he tumbles out of his cape and drapes it loosely over a chair. As he undresses, Kirishima can’t help but think that the moon loves his partner even more than the sun, dusting his pale skin in silver drops of glitter kisses.
Bakugou, exhausted, pours himself onto the straw bed and grapples with the light furs. Kirishima makes to join him, his eyelids already heavy, but maybe, he thinks at the edge of the old mattress, maybe a night in a real bed all to himself will be an easy gift to gift his partner. It’ll work, he decides, and Kirishima steals a pillow and retreats from the bed.
Kirishima tucks the pillow into a corner of the room and settles down onto it, his palm sliding down the brick wall with a gentle clicking of his claws. He leans back, bending his legs as comfortably as he can, and lets the back of his skull fall quietly against the wall. He can sleep like this, he thinks. He’s slept in worse places and in less comfortable positions, and from here he can see both Bakugou and the door.
Bakugou shifts underneath the thin blankets, turning. The moon is high and bright, shining long silver shadows across the room. Bakugou’s sword shimmers on the table and his cape casts bold shapes underneath the chair it hangs on. Kirishima’s gaze drifts up towards the clear night skies, and as his chin slowly falls against his rumbling chest, he is glad that this is where his life so far has taken him.
It won’t last forever. Nothing in life will ever last: this is the truth that all dragons learn. It’s a lesson taught by the shifting of seasons and the cycles of the sun. Every scale that drops, every tooth caught in the skin of prey and regrown- all of these things are a reminder that life is always shifting.
The sword on the table will rust someday, no matter how well it’s kept oiled. The cloak will reach a point when it is too full of holes to repair, its beautiful collar matted and worn.
Bakugou will die, someday. Not soon, Kirishima thinks fervently. There are too many things left for him to accomplish- too many chapters of their story that have yet to be written. Life runs hot in the barbarian’s blood; life like fire in his veins.
But all fire burns out eventually, and someday Kirishima will bury his friend within the cloak that’s always kept them both so warm, and he will watch as time rebirths him into something new.
Kirishima unfolds his arms and brushes a finger over the wetness of his cheek. Nothing lasts forever, not even for dragons.
Isn’t it stupid, then, to sit here in the corner alone? What kind of silly gift is a lonely bed?
Kirishima’s knees creak as he stands. He’ll figure something else out, but this is not an even trade. Pillow in his hands, he creeps quietly towards the bed. Bakugou hasn’t even taken up the empty space left for him, and Kirishima slides himself back onto the hay mattress with a gentle sigh. The bed is warm and softer than the earth outside, and Kirishima nestles underneath the shoddy blanket with relief.
He tries to be quiet, but the bed is made of lumpy straw and Bakugou’s eyes slowly open. His tongue flits over his dry lips and he grunts his displeasure at having been woken. “Mm,” he grumbles, “what’re you doing?”
“I thought to sleep in the corner,” Kirishima answers quietly, “but I came back.”
“Why?”
“I like to be next to you,” Kirishima says. He does not say that he wants to count the heartbeats they’ve got left- that he’s gotten himself nostalgic for time that hasn’t yet passed. He can’t help but slip a hand from under the blanket and reach to curl his claw against Bakugou’s warm cheek. The moonlight makes the color of his skin look too pallid and he’s struck with the urge to remind himself that blood still flows strong beneath it.
“No, stupid,” Bakugou grumbles. He grabs for Kirishima’s hand and pulls it from his face, but his fingers stay warm over Kirishima’s against the mattress. “Why were you in the corner?”
“You helped me molt,” Kirishima says. “You cleared by back of old scales.”
The edge of Bakugou’s mouth quirks upwards. “This some stupid dragon shit again?”
Kirishima nods once.
“I did it wrong, then?” Bakugou asks.
“No.”
“M’too tired for this, lizard.” Bakugou lifts his hand to cover a noisy yawn, but it falls back over Kirishima’s palm once he’s done. “Don’t sleep on the floor when I’ve paid for us to have a dumb bed.”
“I’m trying to make us even.” How can he explain this? It’s difficult to put this compulsion into words, but he tries. “I can’t help you preen.”
Bakugou blinks at him tiredly. He’s not doing a good job of explaining this. Kirishima bites his tongue, thinking.
Bakugou talks before he can, his voice gruff with sleep. “We’re even,” he tells him, clearing his throat heavily.
“How?”
Bakugou sighs with an irritated noise. “You stirred the mud and woke the catfish I caught,” he says.
Kirishima frowns. “We both ate the fish.”
“Fine, whatever. You watched my back in the market, then.”
“You told me that I was the one who looked like a target,” Kirishima points out.
Bakugou closes his eyes, and it isn’t until Kirishima suspects he may have fallen asleep again that he opens them once more. He lifts his hand from Kirishima’s and reaches instead to press his fingers against the dragon’s strong jaw. His rough fingertips feel warm against Kirishima’s scaleless face, and he can’t help but lean forward into the touch.
“We’re even,” Bakugou says once more. He says it with a conviction that Kirishima doesn’t think he can fight anymore. “We’ve got too much shit going on to try and figure out a back-and-forth for stupid stuff like that.”
Life is short and time doesn’t stop. Kirishima nods slowly.
“That’s not why I did it, anyway.” Bakugou tilts his hand until he’s cupping Kirishima’s chin within his palm. “It was bothering you. We’re partners, or whatever.”
Or whatever- Bakugou grunts again, a rough noise in the back of his throat, and then he shifts forward on the bed and presses his lips to Kirishima’s. It’s not very gentle; Bakugou’s never been good at doing anything with patience or softness. It’s fast and hard enough that Kirishima feels his teeth press against the back of his lips, but the sincerity behind it burns brighter than the glimmering moon.
“What,” Bakugou mutters as he pulls away, “dragons don’t fucking kiss?”
“Uh-”
“Well, shut up,” Bakugou adds before Kirishima can remember how to make the human language work again, “if I have to deal with your stupid dragon shit then you’re gonna have to learn to survive my stupid human shit.”
“I love your silly human shit,” Kirishima tells him, the warmed edges of his mouth curving happily. “I love your wild quickness and your eager loudness.” Humans live a life so short but they live it with all the strength they can muster. Kirishima yearns to emulate that, to be as brave and bold and strong as the humans who dare to challenge the passage of time. He clings to that ideal of bravery and pushes up on his elbows, breaking again the distance between them on the bed.
Humans and dragons are very different, but Kirishima knows how to enjoy a human kiss. He relishes the soft touch of Bakugou’s hand slipping upwards to grip him, and the salty taste of their dinner still lingering on his tongue.
This is new, and yet it feels as familiar as the crash of explosions blowing away old scales. That’s how every moment of his years spent with Bakugou always feel- new and familiar.