Archive of Our Own

Kirishima Eijirou was twenty-six years old, and for once, the year had been kind to him. However, despite passing nearly a decade’s worth of time since he graduated high school, he had still picked up none of Kaminari’s tips regarding good dress. In fact, he seemed to be aggressively rejecting them.

“It’s not gonna go any tighter,” he told Kaminari, who was standing behind him, struggling to tighten the strap connecting the back flaps of his waistcoat. They both faced the full-length mirror on his closet door, and Kirishima watched the lightning bolt in Kaminari’s hair quiver and bounce with each of his struggling movements.

Behind him, he felt the strap tug and snag. Kaminari grumbled in exasperation, “Who fitted you for this? It’s shaped like a Pringles can.”

“Uh, myself? At the mall? I don’t have money for a tailor,” Kirishima replied. Well, okay, that wasn’t exactly true—this year he had earned a promotion to construction site manager, so he probably could have shelled out enough to get his sides taken in. He just felt like spending that money on, y’know, gym equipment, and live wrestling matches, and goukon. The important things in life.

“I know you got a waist in there somewhere,” Kaminari muttered, pulling the strap back so far that Kirishima could hear it straining.

Kaminari braced a foot against his back, causing him to stumble forward a few steps. He grunted, “You’d be the first to find it. Better call in an archaeological—oof— !”

The strap—much to Kirishima’s chagrin—suddenly cinched him in a vice. He heard Kaminari cry out in triumph, rushing to feed the elastic through the back loop and safety-pin the loose end. He stuck Kirishima’s back in his haste.

“Woops,” Kaminari commented unapologetically. He straightened, resting a hand on Kirishima’s shoulder, and admired him in the mirror. “See? Told you. You’re like a walking Dorito.”

“Thanks?” Kirishima laughed, not sure how to take that. The hand on his shoulder was a comforting weight and Kaminari left it there even as he lost focus and began preening himself in the mirror. He pushed small wisps of hair back and forth, and then back again. Kirishima offered, “Wanna borrow my gel?”

“Nah, I don’t think that’ll help,” Kaminari sighed in frustration. “I just—y’know, people like Bakugou and Todoroki can roll up wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt and everybody will think they’re cute as hell. Meanwhile, we have to do actual maintenance.”

In Kirishima’s opinion, Kaminari actually performed too much maintenance on his personal appearance. Tonight was a special occasion, of course, which meant that Kaminari spent the entire day at Kirishima’s house asking his opinion on every single clothing choice. He requested fashion advice via unintelligible abstractions, such as, “Which do you think says ‘I’ve got my 401-K but I’m still humble’ better?” and “Would houndstooth make me seem like I’m fancy and I have my shit together?” Kirishima didn’t even know what houndstooth was, though he was sure Kaminari had shown him that same pair of pants five years in a row and asked him the same question. He yearned for the classic dilemmas, the yes or no questions, such as “does this make me look fat,” to which the answer was always no. Especially for Kaminari, who even after all this time was still built like a steel pipe.

Eventually, Kirishima convinced him into a black, high-necked sweater and slacks. And because Kaminari could never be satisfied with a simple ensemble, he buttoned up a gold shirt over top, threw on a couple silver bracelets, and buckled the world’s gaudiest rhinestone-studded belt around his waist. And at that point, Kirishima again wished that Kaminari would just ask simple questions, because if he had asked whether he looked nice enough, Kirishima could have said yes. Maybe that would have made a difference.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, at least Shinsou always looks like shit. Even when he dresses up,” Kirishima joked. When Kaminari froze he felt a brief surge of panic, kicking himself for touching a sore spot.

Then Kaminari relaxed and mumbled, “Yeah, that does make me feel better.” He pursed his lips, staring at himself in the mirror, and then furiously ruffled his hair with both hands. “You know what? You’re right! I could roll out of bed and still look better than that dude.”

Despite his burst of confidence, only a few moments later he was rifling through the bag of clothes he’d brought over, digging out bracelets, necklaces, and earrings. He pensively stared at each, his mouth moving in silent, half-formed words. Kirishima put both hands on his hips, scolding him with a curt, “Dude.”

Head jerking up, amber eyes widening in surprise, Kaminari asked, “What?” When Kirishima gestured accusingly toward the jewelry in Kaminari’s hand, he pouted and countered, “What? I’m just weighing my options.”

Kirishima groaned and rolled his eyes. “You just said— ”

“My options, bro!” Kaminari exclaimed petulantly, and Kirishima could only sigh in response.

Back when they first met at U.A. High School, Kirishima never could have known that Kaminari Denki, goofball extraordinaire, put any thought into what he looked like. Especially when he turned up at all casual outings in thrift store shirts and cut-up jeans. Took until after graduation for Kirishima to realize that Kaminari never left his wrists bare, never missed an opportunity to tack on a new set of earrings. Accessorizing was a compulsion, and a balm to feelings of inadequacy.

To this day, Kirishima could still remember the black choker Kaminari had worn two years ago when he told Kirishima he was going to “talk to” Shinsou. Since then, Kirishima had never seen it again. There was something so immensely sad about the casual way that it disappeared, and the fact that neither of them ever spoke of it.

Kaminari approached the mirror, roughly unhooking the small diamond-shaped crystal studs in his ears. Putting a hand over his to stop him, Kirishima gasped, “Hey, no, not the studs! You love those. I love those. Everybody loves those. Last year I thought Jirou was gonna murder you for them.”

“Ugh, you’re right. They’re awesome,” Kaminari admitted, lower lip puffed out in pensive frustration. His brows knitted together in concentration—a resource he saved only for the most precious of tasks. “I dunno, I just feel like I’m missing something.”

Kirishima squatted down on the floor, rifling through Kaminari’s bag. As beads, string, silver bangles, and baubles passed through his hand, memories associated with each bubbled up in his mind. They reminded him of the chaos of high school, and the carefree time he had spent with Kaminari as a kid, as well as with Bakugou, Sero, and Ashido. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Hey, what about this?” he piped up, standing straight. He held out a silver pin that was shaped like a lightning bolt. “You wore this at graduation, remember?”

“Oh shit! I haven’t seen that in forever,” Kaminari chirped. “Uh, so like, on my shirt, or—?”

“Um.” Kirishima walked around to Kaminari’s front, peering at his ensemble. After a few moments of thought, he stepped in close and carefully pinned the lightning bolt to the collar of Kaminari’s black undershirt, right near the swell of his throat. He moved out of the way so that Kaminari could see himself in the mirror, throwing an arm around his shoulders and leaning on his side. “There! Whaddya think?”

Kaminari craned his head back and forth, examining the new addition from different angles. When the light hit the pin with a subtle yet dazzling twinkle, a gentle smile sparked at his lips. He wasn’t paying attention. Kirishima prompted, “Kaminari?”

“What?” Kaminari answered, hands coming up to fiddle with the pin.

“Stop that. It’s fine,” Kirishima laughed, batting his hands away. “I’m glad you like it. Are you satisfied now?”

Humming distractedly, Kaminari adjusted the collars of both his shirts, fidgeting with the bracelets on his arms. Kirishima watched him in the mirror, seeing his amber eyes trip over imagined bumps in his appearance, only half-focused. Absent thoughts animated his face in a variety of microexpression. Only after Kirishima rested his head on Kaminari’s shoulder did he glance up and realize that he’d been asked a question.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Kaminari asked, and before Kirishima could answer, he added, “You look super good, dude. Maybe if you wore a tie more often, you wouldn’t be single.”

“We both know that’s not why I’m single,” Kirishima replied in a lighthearted tone. However, his smile faltered in the mirror, and unfortunately, Kaminari was finally paying attention. Somehow he always managed to keep focus whenever Kirishima mentioned, or even alluded to, a certain asshole friend of theirs with ash blonde hair and a chronic inability to be polite.

He playfully elbowed Kirishima’s side. “Who knows, maybe Bakugou will decide not to show this year. He keeps threatening never to come back.”

“Ah man, that’d be sad, though. You haven’t seen him in, what, almost half a year?”

“That’s because he never texts me back!” Kaminari complained noisily, throwing his hands up. “I can only get a hold of him if you’re texting him for me.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Kirishima commiserated, “Yeah. That’s just how he is.”

“Eight years! Eight years since we graduated, Kirishima, and that jackass hasn’t changed a bit. I’ve wasted some of my best emojis on him.” Kaminari crossed his arms over his chest, and despite his whining, he wore a bright, wide grin that warmed Kirishima all the way to the tips of his toes. “I hope he comes. Sero and Ashido said they could come this year, so if he does, we’ll have the whole gang back in one place.”

Kirishima smiled too, the full top row of his pointed teeth showing. That sounded nice. After high school, everyone had become consumed by college and career life, and the longer time stretched onward, the harder it grew to get together as a group. Adulthood seemed such a cheap imitation of the golden days, back when life was no easier, but filled with a sense of purpose and an unbridled joy for the present.

At least, though, this hadn’t changed. He and Kaminari were the only ones who had not aged each other, or matured each other, or lost something of their friendship to life’s changes. For that, Kirishima was grateful.

Pulling his arm away, Kirishima checked his watch and announced, “We gotta leave in ten minutes. Wanna split the cab fare?”

Mouth stretching into a thin, sheepish line, Kaminari argued, “Don’t you owe me? For getting you ready, and all.”

“So you want me to pay for it?”

“Well, since you’re offering!” Kaminari insisted cheerfully. He clapped his hands together and bowed his head. “Thanks, man! You’re so generous.”

Shaking his head, Kirishima pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number for the cab company. As Kaminari returned to scrutinizing himself in the mirror, Kirishima absently watched, indulging in the peace that he knew would be followed by a storm of emotions once they reached the party.

Honestly, he really did owe Kaminari—just for literally everything else besides his fashion advice.

◊ ▪ ◊ ▪ ◊

Securing the U.A. Premiere Ballroom each year was a piece of cake—at least when Yamada-sensei was pulling the strings. The ballroom’s construction had been funded by U.A. High School’s staff and administrators, and Yamada-sensei was responsible for leading the fundraising. Kirishima was sure that he hadn’t intended to lead it, but his reputation as famous nighttime radio-host Present Mic preceded him. From the moment he casually asked his listeners to make a donation, the money had poured in. So much, in fact, that once construction of the ballroom had finished, Yamada-sensei had to go through hell to figure out what to do with the rest of the money. The school hired him a lawyer just to determine which of their options were actually legal. 

Now, the ballroom hosted all of the city’s biggest events and performances. And, with the help of Yamada-sensei’s persuasion, one tiny annual high school class reunion.

The cab reached the ballroom faster than they expected, and Kirishima and Kaminari found they were the first guests to arrive. Except Iida, who was already present and issuing directions to the venue staff and caterers. Though, Kirishima felt that Iida could hardly be called a “guest” because he was completely unable to stop taking responsibility, even at his own reunion.

When he saw them walk in, he gave a curt order to a few exasperated, aproned caterers and strode over with his signature clipped step. His clear voice rang out, “Kirishima! Kaminari! I am so pleased to see you again.”

A smile softened his face as he held his hand out to Kirishima for a shake. Instead of taking his hand, Kirishima leaned in and wrapped both arms around his broad shoulders, enveloping him in an embrace. “You’re so formal! If you missed me, you should hug me like a man.”

“You’re right,” Iida chuckled, and then suddenly he was squeezing Kirishima so tight that his feet hung a few inches off the floor. Kirishima cackled with delight—at least, as much as he could while wheezing out his last breath. Releasing him, Iida turned to Kaminari with another attempt at a handshake, only to be mercilessly hugged once more. “Kaminari, I heard that you are enjoying great success as a technician.”

“Don’t you talk to me about success, Mr. Police Chief!” Kaminari laughed, smacking Iida’s chest.

Coloring in embarrassment, Iida asked, “Who told you? I was waiting until the party to break the news to everyone.”

Kirishima rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, that was me. I got excited and told him. Which he was supposed to keep a secret,” he reminded Kaminari, shooting a pointed look in his direction. The bastard merely shrugged his shoulders.

“That is unfortunate. So long as you don’t tell anyone else, I’ll let it slide. However, this year, I finally have a shot at being the coolest one here. If you ruin my dramatic reveal …” Iida became contemplative, stroking his chin with a hand. He sighed, “Well, I suppose I would have to forgive you, but it would be difficult!”

Kaminari gave him a 13-gigawatt smile and a pat on the shoulder. “You’ve always been the coolest one, Iida. I’m sure everyone will be super jealous. How many thousands are you making now?”

“That is hardly an appropriate question,” Iida chided, mouth twisting in a frown. He turned to Kirishima, exclaiming, “Oh! You two might like to know that Aizawa-sensei will be attending today. He finished grading all of his papers early.”

“Hell yeah! I haven’t seen him in forever!” Kirishima cheered, fists clenching.

Iida nodded in agreement, his smile so wide that Kirishima could see all of his teeth. “He might be a bit late. The last I heard from him, he had called to tell me that he was still struggling to get Yamada-sensei out of the house.”

Oh, geez. They really would be late, then. Funny, Kirishima had always expected that Aizawa-sensei would be the one prone to tardiness, since he seemed too lazy to do much besides teach and sleep. Present Mic, however—“fashionably late” was his middle name. So was “unfashionably late,” depending on how much time he wasted gelling his hair.

“What about All Might?” Kaminari inquired hopefully. His face fell when Iida merely shook his head. Their beloved former gym teacher rarely had time or energy to attend their reunions, thanks to all the intense rounds of chemotherapy. Kirishima made a mental note to bring Kaminari with him to pay Yagi-sensei a visit in the near future.

“Do you need help with anything?” Kirishima asked, but Iida shook his head.

“There is not much to take care of. We’ve set up a few tables and chairs, and the caterers are finishing their spread. Speaking of, if you will excuse me—”

He whipped around and strode over to a concession table where he gestured to the aproned workers with one stiff, fully-extended arm. It was hard to make out what he was saying to them, but Kirishima knew from their exasperated expressions that Iida had probably issued a long string of orders in the space of a few mere seconds.

When he turned to make a remark to Kaminari, Kirishima realized he had strolled away toward the empty guest tables. A white, lace-trim tablecloth adorned each one, along with a potted poinsettia as a centerpiece. Kirishima followed Kaminari and sat down in the seat next to him, watching him reach out to run his thumb along the red leaves of the table’s poinsettia.

Leaning his chin in his hand, Kirishima mused, “Can’t believe Iida’s Chief of Police, now. Like, I guess I should have expected he’d be good at that kind of thing, seeing how he acted as Class Rep—”

“Yeah,” Kaminari responded absently, before giving the red leaf a tug. “You think he’d care if I stole one of these? Like, just one leaf.”

“What are you gonna do with one poinsettia leaf?” Kirishima asked, voice rising in disbelief. As usual with Kaminari, he never really got an answer.

“Seriously though, fuck him for doing so much better than us! I should’ve become an electrician, not a technician. No one’s gonna give me accolades for repairing old people’s air conditioning units,” Kaminari groaned, though there was no malice in his words.

Kirishima deflated against the backrest of his chair. The one downside of the annual U.A. High School reunion was the competition. Old rivalries still held fast. Everyone still wanted, as Iida had phrased so eloquently, to be “the coolest one.” After the first reunion, though, Kirishima and Kaminari had discovered that they were on the bottom rung of the achievement ladder in comparison to most of their former classmates. Maybe that was part of the reason their friendship had remained close, even when other relationships drifted away with the passage of time.

“At least we’re above the poverty line,” Kirishima offered, and it felt good to say ‘we.’ Felt good to know someone else had turned out just as normal as he had.

“Yeah.” Kaminari shrugged and sank moodily back into his seat. A few moments later he perked up, leaning forward on the table with a smug grin. “Hey, though, no matter how much money he makes, he still has to join us for the Singles’ Dance.”

At the mention of its name, Kirishima gave a shudder. The Singles’ Dance—a staple event at every reunion, and the only rung lower than that which Kirishima and Kaminari occupied. Many U.A. students launched straight into long-term relationships right after high school. Within two years of graduation, Jirou and Yaoyorozu were married. Tokoyami had moved to a completely different prefecture to be with Koda, where Kirishima had heard they started an animal sanctuary. Then there was that period of several months where Kirishima spent almost every night texting Midoriya for hours, listening to him wax on about Todoroki, trying to convince him to just ask the guy out. He never did, but luckily for him, Todoroki had the balls to make his own move. So, they too were hitched in all ways except legally before anyone from their class had entered their senior year of college. That left a handful of them who were lonely, serial daters, or—like Mineta—just plain unlovable.

Yamada-sensei had thought it was funny. He must have forgotten that he, too, had once been twenty-six and shit out of luck in love. And that’s why at the first reunion, he started the tradition of the Singles’ Dance, to honor the lonely, bleeding hearts in their midst. This was a dance that could cast any former U.A. student in a commoner’s light, no matter the breadth of their other successes. After all, what was a dream job worth, or a nice apartment, with nobody else to share it with?

“D’you think we’ll even have it this year?” Kirishima hummed, pulling nervously at one ear. “There’s not many of us left. Ochako’s got a girlfriend now, and Shoji and Ojiro never show up … Maybe Hagakure?”

“Does Hagakure ever have time to come?” Kaminari countered. His leg started bouncing violently. “Sato got a girlfriend this past month, right? So that leaves … well, shit. You, me, Iida, Tsuyu, Sero, Mina, Aoyama, and Mineta. And I guess whoever else from class 1-B decides to show.”

And Shinsou, Kirishima thought, but kept this to himself out of courtesy. That guy didn’t feel the need to participate in their traditions, anyway.

In the half a second that he zoned out, Kirishima realized Kaminari was trying to pluck a leaf from the poinsettia. He shoved Kaminari a little too hard, almost knocking him out of his chair. When Kaminari recovered he shoved Kirishima back, starting a quarrel that eventually devolved into a slapfight. Kirishima held up his arms to block an incoming slap aimed at his head, crying, “Not my hair, you jerk!”

“No wonder you’re still single; you’re a walking bulldozer,” Kaminari mocked, giving him another solid push for good measure. When Kirishima’s chair almost toppled backwards, they both let out a yelp and Kaminari lunged forward, grabbing both of Kirishima’s arms to stabilize him. ”Shit! Sorry!”

Kirishima righted himself with a grin, retorting, “You say that, but you’re lucky I am. Or else you’d have nobody but Ashido to dance with when the time comes.”

“I’d dance with Sero and Iida!”

“Yeah, but they don’t do it well,” Kirishima pointed out, snickering as Kaminari grimaced. Presumably he was imagining them, each with their own set of two left feet, totally bereft of rhythm. “I’m tired of being the underdog. We should go wild this year. Really show everyone up, and make them regret not dating us.”

He didn’t have to clarify which “them” he was talking about. And he was happy to see the flash of determination in Kaminari’s eyes, which matched the fire in his own heart. Kaminari lifted one hand in invitation, echoing that old mantra: “Let’s go Plus Ultra, bro.”

Kirishima clasped his hand, squeezing tight. “Plus Ultra.”

That hand felt so familiar, even more so than the face of the man whom it belonged to. Kirishima knew every line, every callus, the coolness of his palm. He was more afraid than excited at the prospect of seeing their classmates again. But holding that familiar hand, he could face the memories with less trepidation. Especially when the expression on Kaminari’s face shone brighter than the silver pin on his collar, his eyes crinkling with mirth, one small wrinkle for each year he’d spent smiling for the sake of somebody else.

◊ ▪ ◊ ▪ ◊

Kirishima had no idea when exactly he and Kaminari became friends. He remembered introductions on the first day of their first year, and thinking that Kaminari’s hair was cool. He also remembered asking how Kaminari had dyed the bolt in his hair such a perfect shape. Kaminari had offered to show him, but quickly forgot. After that, he and Kaminari would chat leisurely before class and see each other sometimes at lunch or during gym. And then, before he realized it, Kirishima got caught up in the whirlwind that was Bakugou. 

He did remember, though, the first time he had really noticed Kaminari.

U.A.’s baseball team was conducting an extra practice session before the annual sports festival, and Kirishima and Bakugou had stopped to take a break. Actually, they were forced to take a break, because Bakugou had been throwing too many balls upwards of 70 miles an hour and the coach was afraid he’d hurt somebody. So, a number of players on the field rotated out, leaving Kirishima and Bakugou to lounge in the dugouts.

Another teacher called the coach to come back into the school building, and before he left, he put one of the upperclassmen in charge. Of course, as soon as the coach was gone, that student started slacking off, spending the time chatting up his friends instead of keeping an eye on his charges.

Kirishima leaned forward on the bench to watch the practice while Bakugou slouched and leisurely tossed a baseball in his hand. His sharp profile, outlined by the warmth of the afternoon light, held Kirishima’s attention for just a second too long.

“Oh hey, look! Kaminari’s pitching,” Kirishima noted in surprise.

“Who?” Bakugou grumbled. He glanced up to see Kaminari taking the pitcher’s mound, slipping his catcher’s mitt onto his right hand. “Pikachu? And?”

“He’s usually playing umpire, or a baseman,” Kirishima explained, but could practically hear the whoosh of his words rocketing through one of Bakugou’s ears and out the other.

Bakugou scoffed, “Why should I give a shit? Nobody pitches better than me.”

“I dunno, he seems like a cool dude,” Kirishima suggested. By the time the sentence left his mouth, Bakugou had stopped listening, his eyes instead flying to the other infielders—particularly Midoriya, who happened to be playing the umpire this time, and who infuriated him merely by existing.

Well, that was just Bakugou. But Kirishima, for one, was curious to see Kaminari’s throwing arm. 

One of the upperclassmen, some long-legged guy that Kirishima didn’t know well, stepped up to the plate. As he readied his bat, Kaminari kicked up thin clouds of dirt, loosely twisting his baseball in his bare hand. The warm springtime sunlight beat down from above, making the golden hue of his hair almost too bright. His eyes flickered over the dugout, the basemen, and the umpire as he impatiently waited out the seconds it took for the batter to get ready.

And then, in the blink of an eye, he yanked back his arm and flung the ball with such force and speed that Kirishima could hear the crack of the impact against Midoriya’s catcher’s mitt. The batter looked back and forth between Kaminari and Midoriya, confused. Forget missing the pitch, he hadn’t even seen it coming.

An awed noise escaped Kirishima’s throat and he hunched closer to the field, fists tightening. He called to Bakugou, “Did you see that? That was crazy fast!”

“All I saw was how shitty Deku fumbled that fucking ball,” Bakugou griped, still tossing his own baseball in the air. What he meant by “fumbling” was unclear, since Kirishima thought Midoriya had done just fine.

Speaking of Midoriya, he tossed the ball back to Kaminari, who wasted no time in winding back again and throwing a deadly-sharp curve at the plate. It was like the pitch exploded out of him, like he just couldn’t wait, his eyes wide and his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth. The sun bounced off his crystal earrings in tiny sparks. This time, the batter swung, but completely whiffed.

Midoriya did actually fumble the ball this time—following impact, the ball rebounded off of his glove because he did not close his palm quickly enough after catching it. He scrambled to retrieve the ball before it rolled out of his reach, then tossed it back to Kaminari.

“What are you doing, you asshole? You wanna try being a pitcher with those butter fingers?” Bakugou shouted angrily at his back. Midoriya froze but didn’t turn around, squatting down to take his position.

Kirishima kicked Bakugou in the foot. “Midoriya’s doing his best, man! I don’t see you giving him any advice.”

“I’d rather die than give Deku tips,” Bakugou spat out. The steady smack of the baseball hitting his hand stopped and he added with a growl, “Look at him! His footing’s all wrong. How does he expect to catch a pitch that fast without falling over?”

A smirk grew on Kirishima’s face. So, he had noticed Kaminari’s speed. Eyeing Bakugou’s scowl, Kirishima thought there was something so manly about the way Bakugou couldn’t keep from spilling accidental kindnesses, no matter how many layers of brick and mortar he built around him. An ember glowed in Kirishima’s chest.

While he was distracted, he heard the smack of the last strike hitting the umpire’s glove, and turned to see their upperclassman throwing down his bat in disgust. Shit, Kirishima had missed it. He saw Kaminari raise his arms in a celebratory gesture, sharing cheerful banter with one of the basemen.

The upperclassman stomped toward the dugouts in frustration, abandoning his bat in the dirt. Midoriya picked it up and hurried over to return it, crossing the field in Kirishima and Bakugou’s direction. As he neared them, Bakugou stood up and yelled, “Hey, shitty Deku! Switch out with me!” To Kirishima’s shock, Midoriya kept walking, head down. He only paused when Bakugou lunged for the metal partition that separated the dugout from the field. “Don’t fucking ignore me!”

Though Midoriya kept a safe distance at more than a few feet away, Kirishima fisted one hand in the back of Bakugou’s uniform, holding him steady. The guy seemed ready to scale the partition and run Midoriya down right there on the diamond.

Kirishima cupped his free hand around his mouth and shouted, “You’re doing fine, Midoriya! You caught that first pitch perfectly.”

“Were you even watching him, Shitty Hair?” Bakugou seethed, shoving at his face with one hand. Bakugou’s palm mashed his nose in, drawing out a pained grunt. “Don’t praise him! That idiot already thinks he’s a fucking savant at everything.”

Midoriya’s fists clenched and he blurted out, “Kacchan, if I’m doing poorly, it’s only because you won’t stop yelling at me! How am I supposed to concentrate?” At the end of his outburst his eyes widened and he covered his mouth in response to an expression Bakugou had made that Kirishima could not see. “Oh—no, I didn’t mean—forget that I—!”

“Shut up, you fucking nerd!” Bakugou roared, lobbing his baseball at Midoriya. Though the throw came from an awkward position and certainly was not released at full force, Kirishima could hear the wind screeching as it whizzed out of his palm. He watched in horror as it flew right at Midoriya’s face, directed at the caged front of his umpire helmet. Luckily, Midoriya dropped to the ground just in time for the ball to zoom overhead, blazing a trail toward the infield. Kirishima’s terror deepened as he realized who was the next victim in the path of Bakugou’s manmade bullet.

“Kaminari, duck!” Kirishima screamed.

The man in question was still carrying on his conversation with the baseman. He turned at the sound of his name and opened his mouth to say, “Huh?” which Kirishima hoped would not be his last word, because that would be the dumbest, most embarrassing way to go out. And then the ball struck him in the temple, bounced off with a hollow sound, and he fell flat on his back. His head lolled to the side, unmoving.

“Oh fuck,” Bakugou and Kirishima cursed in tandem, leaping over the barrier to rush out onto the field. Already a couple of other teammates were leaping to Kaminari’s rescue, though many others just stood there, stunned, unaware of what had happened.

Kirishima was the first to reach him, skidding onto his knees beside Kaminari’s prone body. His eyes were still open—thank fuck—but blinking slowly, blearily absorbing the world around him. Kirishima breathed out in abject relief, “Oh God, he’s alive.”

Letting out a garbled string of sounds, Kaminari tilted his head up, gaze unfocused. Bakugou and Midoriya joined the small crowd of concerned players. Bakugou held up four fingers and demanded, “Yo. Pikachu. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Fing … ers ...?” Kaminari gurgled, which made Kirishima and Bakugou turn to each other with pale-faced expressions.

Midoriya crawled up beside Kirishima, near Kaminari’s head, and asked, “Can you tell us your name, your year, and where you’re from?”

All they received was a weak, confused noise, something that sounded like, “Wheyy,” which made Kirishima’s stomach do flips, because that was an even worse last word than “huh.”

“Oh fuck, I’ve made him soft,” Bakugou gasped, pushing his hair back with both hands. Even when he was afraid, his eyebrows cut furious lines in his forehead. “Where’d I hit him? If it’s the prefrontal cortex, it’s all over. He’ll never be the same.”

Midoriya had yanked off his umpire helmet and was chewing his nails, muttering to himself an unending string of sentences so pessimistic that they seemed like the script for a hex. He told Bakugou, “Kacchan, go get the nurse—she’ll know what to do.”

“I don’t take orders from you, dipshit!” Bakugou barked.

“What if Kaminari has a concussion? We have to act fast! And you’re faster than me, Kacchan. You’re faster than all of us. Please,” Midoriya begged him, hands clasped together, big green eyes watering with worry.

Bakugou shared a look with Kirishima. He seemed to be searching for something in Kirishima’s face, but all Kirishima could give him was fear. He nodded at Bakugou and insisted, “You heard him—you’re the fastest! Go, go, go!”

Reluctantly, Bakugou got to his feet and bolted across the green like there was fire at his heels. He was through the school doors in a matter of seconds, when it would have taken anyone else a full minute, and if he hadn’t just put a dent in Kaminari’s head, Kirishima would have admired how manly that was, too.

“Let’s get him out of the sun,” Midoriya suggested, feigning confidence that he obviously did not feel. “Don’t lift him too quickly, or he’ll pass out for real.”

They carefully pulled Kaminari into a sitting position, giving him a few seconds to adjust. This time, he managed to groan out, “ Fuck, I’m gonna hurl—” Luckily he didn’t, but they gave him a bit to sit back on his hands, chin tilted up toward the sky, eyes closed. Once his stomach steadied, they helped him wobble to the shade of the dugout, where he sat folded in half on a bench, head between his knees. Kirishima sat beside him, resting a comforting hand on his back.

A few feet away, Midoriya paced back and forth, back to his nervous muttering. Other team members filtered in and out of the dugout, hovering over Kaminari, trying to get him to talk. He gave a few short responses, which gradually became longer and more coherent.

A couple minutes later, Nurse Shuzenji emerged from the school building and onto the field, following behind Bakugou, who was racing back to check on Kaminari’s condition. Kirishima gave up his seat on the bench so that Nurse Shuzenji could rest while she made her examination. She felt around Kaminari’s head, asked him questions, and shined a light in his eyes, all while listening to Kirishima and Midoriya, who relayed their observations of Kaminari’s condition. After nodding to herself sagely she stood and announced, “He probably does not have a concussion. The dizziness and the incoherence are likely due to the rapid shift in his balance. He is now speaking normally, so that is a good sign. How are you feeling, Kaminari-kun?”

“Like I’ve been hit in the face by a freight train,” Kaminari supplied, gingerly cradling his forehead, where a knot had already begun to swell up.

The nurse nodded again, her smile soft and patient. “Well, I definitely think you should take it easy for today. You should come with me to the nurse’s office and remain there until it’s time to go home. We’ll keep an eye on you, just to make sure there are no other problems.”

She took him with her back into the building, enlisting Midoriya to support Kaminari as he walked. Almost as soon as they left, the coach returned, only to discover what had happened in his absence. Team practice was dispersed and the coach took Bakugou by the arm, leading him to the principal’s office.

Shit, that sucked. Kirishima probably wouldn’t see Bakugou again today. Might not see him tomorrow, either. Nearly knocking out another student was a big offense. Worry swirled in the pit of Kirishima’s stomach. He promised inwardly that he would text Bakugou after school if he hadn’t seen him by then.

The last classes of the day trickled by slowly, with no sign of Bakugou—or Midoriya, Kirishima noticed, which made him even more concerned. Could Midoriya have gotten in trouble too? Before trying to get in touch with either of them, though, he rushed out of his classroom to pay a visit to Nurse Shuzenji’s office.

The nurse was at her desk when he walked in, and she grinned once she saw him. Pointing over her shoulder toward the curtain that enclosed one of the room’s beds, she chirped, “Hello, there. I believe your friend is already here.”

“My friend?” Kirishima asked. He peeked behind the partition and discovered Kaminari, sitting upright on the bed, chatting excitedly with Bakugou, who was sitting on a stool nearby. They both looked up when he came in. “Oh, you’re both here! Bakugou, you were visiting Kaminari?”

“The principal told me I had to. Said I had to apologize or I’d get suspended,” Bakugou muttered, turning his face away.

“How considerate of you!” Kirishima laughed, grinning so wide his face hurt. He plopped down beside Kaminari on the bed, dropping his bag on the floor. The poor guy was holding a cold pack to his forehead, red and purple bruising winking out from underneath like splatters of paint. “Damn, dude, that’s an ugly bump. You still dizzy?”

Kaminari shrugged, bright eyes focused and calm. “Not really. Sometimes a little, if I stand up too quick, but it’s fine.”

Letting out a gust of a sigh, Kirishima said, “That’s such a relief. You scared the shit out of us. I thought you’d died, and that your last words would be ‘wheyy.’”

“Ugh, forget you heard that! Please!” Kaminari groaned, sliding back against the wall. “I must have looked so stupid. In front of our senpais, too! The first time I try to play anything except the umpire and I get totally knocked on my ass.”

“That’s what you get for not paying attention,” Bakugou retorted. Kirishima kicked him in the shin and he grunted in indignation.

Ignoring him, Kirishima assured Kaminari, “You were really cool before that, though! I’ve never seen you pitch until today. You were, like, almost as fast as Bakugou.”

“Uh, not really. Bakugou’s way faster,” Kaminari replied sheepishly. And of course, Bakugou huffed in the background, never one to pass out compliments willingly. Kirishima kicked him again, and this time received a shove in return.

He remarked to Bakugou, “Did you see how mad that upperclassman got? Throwing his bat and shit? That was so funny! It’s his fault for underestimating us first-years.” Smiling at Kaminari again, he added, “I wish the coach had been around to see. You should pitch more! Maybe you can show me sometime, too.”

Before Kaminari could respond, Bakugou interjected, “Don’t bother.” He waved a dismissive hand in Kirishima’s direction, shooting him a glare. “I’ve tried showing this idiot. He’s unteachable.”

“I am not! You just gave up on me too quickly.” Kirishima countered. He grasped Kaminari’s shoulder, giving him a shake. “So? You’ll show me, right? I wanna pitch like you.”

Dipping his head, Kaminari glanced away and answered, “Sure.” The smirk on his mouth and the tilt of his chin almost seemed shy. “As long as you show me how to hit home runs like you do.”

Bakugou got up from his chair, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “You losers do whatever you want. I’m gonna head home. The principal called my parents, so now I’ve got that mess to sort out. Shitty Deku is always getting me in trouble.”

“You’re the one who threw the ball, though,” Kirishima pointed out, only to be flipped off in response.

“Whatever. Get better, Pikachu,” Bakugou mumbled before stalking off behind the curtain and out of the office.

Kirishima narrowed his eyes at Kaminari. “Did he actually apologize to you? Or did he just say, like, ‘sorry you got hurt,’ or something?”

Laughing brightly, Kaminari answered, “A little bit of both. He said, ‘Sorry you almost got knocked out. I didn’t think Deku would duck.’ And something about it being Midoriya’s fault, since the helmet would have protected him.”

“Ah, man, that jerk! I’m so sorry about him!” Kirishima whined, bowing his head and pressing his hands together, as if in prayer. “We’ll make it up to you, I promise. Anything you want, just name it. We owe you that much.”

“Okay.” Kaminari nodded. His sheepish grin grew mischievous, a glimmer in his eyes that was almost as warm as the sunlight filtering in through the window. The rays turned the darker tones of his hair to a honeyed gold.  “Man, I can’t believe Bakugou owes me. I’ll have to think of something good.”

At the time, that had sounded threatening. But in the end, Kaminari’s devilish idea turned out to be a simple dinner together on Bakugou’s dime. He invited Kirishima, too, whom Bakugou also wordlessly paid for. They laughed, ate, commiserated together over their upcoming assignments, and it felt like Kaminari had always been there, nestled between the two of them, cracking stupid jokes.

Later, Kirishima would remember the necklace Kaminari wore out to that first dinner. A plain strand of silver with one tiny gem embedded in the center. And every time Kaminari wore it in the following years, he’d think fondly of its humble shine as it draped across the curve of his thin neck.

◊ ▪ ◊ ▪ ◊

“What do you mean you’re going out?” Kaminari and Kirishima shrieked in tandem. The former grasped desperately at Sero’s suspenders, and the latter clung to the collar of Ashido’s dress. The party was already in full swing, all their classmates milling about to exchange greetings, while others continued trickling into the ballroom. As Kirishima stared into Ashido’s dark, guilty eyes, the horrifying reality began to seep in.

“Sorry, we didn’t get the chance to tell you! It all happened kind of suddenly—” Sero rushed to explain, wringing his hands with his signature awkward, toothy smile plastered onto his face. “We’re just as surprised as you are—”

Gently pushing Kirishima back by the shoulders, Ashido exclaimed, “Yeah, I didn’t think I’d be going out with this guy! Not in a million years!”

“Hey,” Sero snapped, his confidence wilting.

Kirishima backed away from them in shock, and Kaminari stumbled after him. Leaning against Kirishima’s side for support, he wheezed in agony, “You’ve abandoned us. You’ve left us to die.”

A furious blush rose to Ashido’s cheeks. She crossed her arms defensively. “C’mon, you guys, we thought you’d at least be happy for us.”

“I am, I just—I can’t believe Sero hooked up with somebody before I did,” Kirishima fumed, mimicking Ashido’s defiant pose.

Scowling, Sero pointed at Kirishima and threatened, “I’m gonna let that slide, but only ‘cause I’m just as surprised as you are. And anyway, Kirishima, with all the goukon you go to, if you don’t have a date tonight, it’s your own damn fault!”

Ugh. When Sero was right, he was right. Head sinking in shame, Kirishima whimpered, “I’m sorry, dude, it’s just such a bummer! I’m gonna miss that single solidarity. But I guess it makes sense—if you got with anyone but Ashido, you’d be such a loser. A loser forever.”

“You’re the loser!” Sero grumbled, pulling Kirishima into a headlock and kneading a fist into his red spikes. “Find yourself a man before you start firing shots at me!”

“Agh!! Why does everyone go for the hair?” Kirishima wailed, struggling in Sero’s grip. He beat Sero’s chest until the grip on his neck loosened. After that, they came together for a proper hug, which Ashido and Kaminari joined, all of them carousing and clawing at each other like boys in a backyard brawl.

Kaminari asked, “When did this even start? How did this start?”

“Last month,” Ashido answered timidly, exchanging a fond glance with Sero.

“Last— ” Kaminari grabbed her hands and shook them furiously. “Minaaaaa! Why didn’t you tell meeeee? When we graduated, you said you’d share everything with me!”

“Yeah, like, stuff! Like, jewelry, and food, and stuff! If I shared all my feelings with you, you’d just tell Kirishima and then you’d both make fun of me. Especially Kirishima! He’d tell me I was too unmanly,” Ashido laughed, pushing Kaminari away.

Kirishima stammered, “W-what? No I wouldn’t!” Everyone merely laughed at him, and he couldn’t help but sulk, bottom lip pointed out stiffly. Though, he guessed he understood. That fear was the exact same reason that Kirishima refused to talk openly about his feelings for Bakugou.

As if sensing his discomfort, Kaminari slid an arm around his back, squeezing his arm. He insisted, “Don’t be a coward, Mina! It’s even less manly to hide something like that from us. Right, Kirishima?”

Kirishima felt a pang of guilt deep in his chest. “Yeah. I guess so,” he replied, and if Kaminari noticed, he didn’t do anything except pull him closer. The heat of his side, wiry and firm, was comforting.

“Ugh, fine, whatever,” Ashido groaned, throwing her head back. “We’re telling you now, so what does it matter?”

Sero casually rested a hand on her waist, grinning with every one of his too-straight teeth. “You guys are gonna hate our love story. It’s so boring. Like, boy meets girl, boring.”

“This is also why I didn’t wanna tell you,” Ashido griped, covering her face with a finely-manicured hand. “Hanta thinks it’s funny, but it’s just disappointing! I had such high hopes for myself!”

“‘Hanta? ’” Kaminari gasped painfully. He bent in half, hands braced on his knees, and heaved. Sero had to physically restrain Ashido from clobbering him. Her arms and legs flailed in the air, lashing out like cobras.

“Why don’t you guys go grab us a table? We’ll bring some drinks,” Sero offered.

They let Sero drag Ashido away until they were obscured by the silhouettes of a few other graduates in line at the drink table. Many were folks Kirishima knew—Tsuyu, Ochako, and Iida, for starters—and others were less-familiar additions from Class 1-B. Or, he guessed, they stopped being “1-B” after the first year of school, but that was how he always remembered them. He even saw Hatsume, who he was certain had attended only to show off that she’d become a CEO of a tech company. A few students from the other classes tagged along with her, and though Kirishima had never learned their names, he knew their faces.

As he and Kaminari secured a table, he searched every corner of the room for Shinsou. Nowhere to be seen, but like a lost tack, he’d turn up underfoot eventually. Kirishima honestly liked him a lot, and got to talk to him often once he had transferred classes. He originally thought that this would become one of those unlikely friends-for-life relationships. But it was hard to act casual with him, knowing how Kaminari reacted after he came back from their “talk.”

“I can’t believe they ditched us. For each other!” Kaminari hissed. His leg started bouncing again, heel audibly smacking the ground.

“I see new people. They can’t all be shacked up,” Kirishima suggested hopefully.

“Yeah, but 1-A won’t care about new people. Now it’s just you, me, Aoyama, Tsuyu, and—ugh, Jirou’s gonna have a field day with me. I promised that this year, I’d bring somebody with me.”

Offended, Kirishima pointed to himself. Kaminari snickered, “What? You think that would impress Jirou?”

“Dude,” Kirishima sobbed, fist clenched to his chest. His pride had never been more thoroughly crushed.

Kaminari held his hands up in surrender. “All I’m saying is she’d see right through it! If she saw you on my arm, she’d think I put you up to it. But hey, the night is still young, right?”

The clever save did nothing to ease Kirishima’s hurt. By now, he was accustomed to the flirtatious lines, and heard all the sweet cover-ups Kaminari could think up. He huffed, “The night was young, until now.”

“Aww, don’t be like that,” Kaminari hummed, his smile growing apologetic. He fidgeted with his own fingers, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth, and mumbled, “If you want, I’ll—”

Behind him, Kirishima heard a youthful voice cry out, “Eijirou!” There was only one friend who called him by that name.

Kirishima whipped around, greeted with the sight of Midoriya. He was all green curls and messy freckles, swimming in a suit two times too big. He seemed not a year older than sixteen: always a walking time capsule. Seeing him catapulted Kirishima back through time, in a way that shook his bones. Approaching with a shy, friendly grin, Midoriya chuckled, “Oh man, is it really you? I feel like the last time I saw you was—”

“Months ago! You never come by when I’m at Bakugou’s apartment,” Kirishima scolded. Gesturing to Kaminari with an arm, he continued, “You’ve missed this guy, too.”

“I have, I have!” Midoriya yelped. He quickly embraced each of them in turn. “Wow, I text you two all the time, but seeing you in person feels like being in another world. I never thought I’d be this busy in my life.”

That was unsurprising. Over the past year, Midoriya made his debut as a professional boxer. His star was rising, and camera crews loved him. Kirishima and Kaminari both nodded politely, happy for their friend. Left unsaid were all the agonized complaints about how they wished they could have become popular pro athletes, surrounded by flashing lights and the smell of leather equipment.

“How’s the championship going?” Kirishima inquired, blood pumping in excitement. He’d have been lying if he claimed he didn’t live vicariously through Midoriya’s boxing matches.

“Really well, actually!” Midoriya said, and began relaying the step by step process of his current professional tour. He explained everything, down to the daily protein he consumed and the individual minutes on his itinerary, including each time he took bathroom breaks. Kirishima ate up every word. He didn’t realize that he had tuned out the rest of the world until he saw another familiar figure approach and a pale hand perch atop Midoriya’s head.

“Shouto!” Midoriya beamed, reverently taking Todoroki’s hand. A pink blush dusted his cheeks, as if this were still the first, precious time that he had laced their fingers together.

With his free hand, Shouto lifted two cans of beer. Though his expression held no trace of pleasure at reuniting with his classmates, it was not cold. “I brought drinks. And friends.”

Ashido popped out from behind Todoroki’s back, carrying an armful of cans. She sashayed over to the table, stole the seat closest to Kaminari, and began doling out beer like poker chips. Sero followed close after, dropping unceremoniously into the chair beside her. Of course, Kirishima didn’t miss the way Sero’s hand snaked around her back. God, they were gonna make him sick by the end of the night.

The seat next to Kirishima squeaked, and he turned to see Midoriya settling in beside him, as natural as if he were a tree that had always been rooted in that exact spot. He gave Kirishima a brief, innocent grin, and Kirishima felt a fond sense of dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. He liked Midoriya. He really did. He wished that stupid bullshit feelings wouldn’t get in the way of him enjoying Midoriya’s company. Kirishima never had this problem with Todoroki, so why should Midoriya be any different? He knew the answer, but still, he just—he just needed to—

In the time that his attention wavered, he realized that Sero had asked Todoroki a question, and he had missed the answer. Midoriya clapped his hands together and chimed in, “Oh yes, we’re so proud of Shouto! The ice sculpture from that competition actually got moved to another location for extended viewing! I’m going to pay it another visit next week.”

“You’ve already gone three times,” Todoroki remarked, a touch of exasperation in his tone. Affection sparkled in his blue eye.

“I know, but—let me show you all the pictures. When you see it, you’ll understand.”

As Midoriya pulled up his phone and started scrolling through his camera roll, Kirishima saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He craned his neck to see a caterer carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres toward the buffet table.

Jumping out of his chair with a clatter, Kirishima gasped, “Oh shit, Iida ordered the same finger sandwiches as last year! Hold on, I gotta snag some before everyone else gets to them.”

Kaminari eagerly raised his hand. “Bring me some too!”

The salute Kirishima gave him tickled the whole group. He strolled toward the buffet table with a bounce in his step. Good food could put him in a party mood like nothing else. He reached the table and loaded up a plate. Four sandwiches for him, and six for Kaminari, who he knew from experience would complain if he brought back any less, even though he didn’t actually have the room in his stomach for that many. So, of course, Kirishima would end up eating whatever was leftover, like a human trash compactor.

He paused in the middle of reaching for a sandwich, fingers poised on the decorative toothpick that pierced through the middle. Maybe he had gone to too many parties with Kaminari. 

Near his hand loomed a metal serving trough, the lid closed, condensation brimming from the seams. Heat rolled off the silver chassis in waves, and Kirishima thought that dinner couldn’t come quickly enough. He would really have to thank Iida for the years of dedication and catering that really made their reunions worthy of U.A.’s well-worn motto.

Hatsume saw him and stopped by to brag about her new credentials (as expected) and introduced him to some of the folks she had been talking with earlier. He was half-turned, plate held carefully in both hands, patiently listening to her rattle off the digits of her six-figure earnings. Behind her, several dozen feet away, was the entryway to the ballroom. Movement from the archway caught his attention, and after a moment of confusion, he froze.

Slouching there, dressed in a black silk button-up and pants, was the ache of Kirishima’s life. Bakugou’s head swiveled, revealing that chiseled profile Kirishima had seen brooding in the dugouts, frowning pensively in class, and dozing in his room during high school study sessions. Kirishima felt that familiar yearning press jagged, porcelain shards against the walls of his lungs. Of course, the bastard was just as sharp as ever, woven entirely from lean muscle and distaste. 

From this distance, Kirishima could see Bakugou’s lip curling into a snarl, anger his default defense against uncomfortable social situations. Kirishima could read him like an open book, knew him, and the knowing filled him with a bitter pride. There was only one person who knew Bakugou better than him, and that person waited back at the table, excavating pictures of his other boyfriend.

He couldn’t do this. Kirishima’s stomach tried to invert itself as he gazed on, not hearing a word of Hatsume’s business talk. He couldn’t do this. But he had to. He took a deep breath that smoldered inside his ribcage. C’mon, Kirishima, he told himself. Just be normal. This is normal. How many years had Bakugou been taken, but they were able to chill at his house just fine? This was different, though. Now, he would have to see Bakugou and Midoriya together, along with Todoroki, and that was so goddamn hard. It was harder than the thought of just Bakugou and Midoriya together.

A sudden flash of hate twisted Kirishima into knots. Then, guilt, like smoke, choked the chimney of his throat. A desperate need filled him, paralyzed him with fear, made him think for a moment that the ground beneath his feet was the hard tiling of U.A.’s classroom floors, and he wanted to be back there. He needed to be back there, where he could feel the pain and the thrill of his youth all over again. Where he could meet Bakugou again for the first time.

And then, Bakugou turned and met his eyes. The red irises were two menacing pinpricks of light that shone as beacons across the ocean of old friends. He scowled at Kirishima with that particular brand of hostility he reserved only for those he respected, and Kirishima felt something snap back into place inside of him. The fear and longing crawled back into the folds of his muscles, lying dormant. The only sign of their presence that remained was the tension in his spine.

Hatsume seemed at the end of her interest with Kirishima, and they bade each other goodbye for the moment. Lucky for her, too, because Bakugou was fording the thin streams of partygoers to reach Kirishima, and he couldn’t imagine either of them would be thrilled to see each other.

Kirishima greeted, “Bakugou! There you are. I was starting to wonder, since you didn’t come in with your, uh, usual suspects.”

“My what?” Bakugou asked, narrowing his eyes. Kirishima jerked his chin in the direction of their table and Bakugou scowled. “Ugh, of course. I take five minutes to park the car and they jump on my classmates.”

“Classmates,” Kirishima thought, biting back a retort. He wondered how many years it would take to be upgraded to “friends.” “We were their classmates too,” he pointed out reasonably. “I think it’s nice.”

Rolling his shoulder, Bakugou groused, “I just get sick of dealing with them all the time. Can’t get away from them, even at my own reunion.”

“Says the guy who’s moving in with them at the end of the year.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He stepped into Kirishima’s personal bubble, leaning in over the plate of sandwiches. The muscles in his neck were charged with breathtaking fury. He rumbled, “Midoriya told you,” and Kirishima thought that perhaps it was meant to be a question, but it came out as a statement.

Accustomed to treading the wire, Kirishima fearlessly jabbed, “Aw, don’t say it like that. I think it’s cute.”

“Fuck you.”

“Feels like just yesterday that you wouldn’t even let Midoriya step inside your college dorm, and now you’re all going to share an apartment, and you’ll sit under the kotetsu together in the winter, and you’ll be all lovey-dovey, and all you have to do is move all your shit— ”

“Shut up,” Bakugou insisted, delivering one of his classic kicks to Kirishima’s shin. “Do you know how much shit I have to get rid of? Todoroki won’t give up a goddamn thing because it’s his apartment, and shitty Deku has like, three whole shelves of collectible figurines that he just has to keep. I asked him to put one shelf—just one—in storage, and he almost cried. And so of course Todoroki told him he could keep everything. God forbid that half-and-half bastard be on my side for once.”

“Really?” Kirishima’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Pursing his lips, he asked, “His place is pretty big, right? What do you even have that you can’t fit in there?”

“My workout equipment, for one,” Bakugou sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can’t even bring my weights because Todoroki said it’d mess with the fucking, atmosphere, or whatever. I’m gonna have to pay for the gym now.”

Kirishima winced in sympathy, for both Bakugou and future members of whatever gym he planned on frequenting. “That’s rough, dude. You can always come over and use my stuff whenever you want! I’ve still got the elliptical.”

“They’re also making me get rid of my manga. Half my clothes, too. You’re keeping all of that for me,” Bakugou commanded, tilting his chin defiantly, as if Kirishima would ever say no.

Kirishima grinned and nodded. “Okay. But I’m keeping some of your tees.”

Lip curling, Bakugou said, “What? No. They’re mine.”

“You’re not gonna wear them that much if you keep them at my place! You might as well let me keep them.”

Brow quirking, Bakugou pried, “Why do you even need another t-shirt, Shitty Hair?”

“For my collection! You got the limited edition ones from all the old pro fighters’ most recent tours. Like, Crimson Riot! You said you were gonna give me the tee from last year’s championship match, remember?” Kirishima reminded him, knowing that Bakugou could never forget Crimson Riot, Kirishima’s favorite wrestler of all time. “You’ve also got some band tees that Kaminari would like.”

“If Pikachu wants my shit, he should ask me himself,” Bakugou sniped, baring his teeth again. The fact that he hadn’t said “no” made Kirishima’s heart swell anew. Bakugou’s scarlet eyes bored a hole into him, hollowing two tunnels through the inside of his skull. Jerking his head toward the table full of their friends, Bakugou asked, “Why are you still standing here like an idiot? Are we gonna go sit with them or what?”

If Bakugou had just gone straight to sit at the table, they would both be there by now, melding into the friendly conversation. But instead, he had intercepted Kirishima, stopped to say hi to him before anyone else, even his boyfriends. He had asked Kirishima to keep his belongings. Spoken like they were a “we,” an “us,” two limbs attached to the same body. It was a stupid thing to be happy about. That didn’t stop Kirishima, though.

He carefully balanced his plate in one hand and reached out to pat Bakugou on the back. Smiling wide, he divulged, “Kaminari’s going to chew you out, you know. He’s been texting you for weeks.”

The response was predictably dismissive. “Well, I haven’t received a goddamn thing. Tell him to get some decent fucking cell service.”

“You could’ve texted him first! Man, he’s gonna be pissed that you didn’t tell him about the move—”

Bakugou fisted a hand in his shirt, and suddenly they were nearly brushing noses, Bakugou’s breath bouncing against Kirishima’s chin. The minty smell of toothpaste drifted up, burning Kirishima’s eyes. Bakugou threatened, “You’re not gonna say a fucking word about that. To anyone. Understand? I don’t wanna hear people go on and on about it.”

“Sure, sure,” Kirishima replied, dazed, and when Bakugou let go, he still felt drawn to him with the force of a magnet. Bakugou shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked off toward the table. All Kirishima could do was trail along after him like a puppy.

As they neared their friends, Midoriya twisted in his seat, green eyes sparkling with joy. “Kacchan! What took you so long?” Todoroki turned, too, but Kirishima had never been able to read his impassive expressions very well. He did wave at Bakugou, though.

Yanking out the chair next to Midoriya, Bakugou grumbled, “This idiot held me up.”

“That’s Eijirou’s seat,” Midoriya pointed out timidly. All the same, he slid his hand over Bakugou’s, the same way he had done with Todoroki.

“Do I look like I care?” Bakugou snapped, lounging shamelessly in Kirishima’s spot. One of his knees jutted out like a weapon, lurking dangerously close to Midoriya’s thigh. The familiar dread rose in Kirishima’s throat.

Pale fingers covered his wrist, rough tags of skin on their undersides, warm and a touch prickly. He almost didn’t realize who the hand belonged to until his eyes followed the slim line of the forearm, up to Kaminari’s face. He was staring straight through Kirishima, an inscrutable depth to his pupils.

He seemed so serious. Kirishima should’ve known better, because the next thing out of Kaminari’s mouth was, “You can sit on my lap if you want.”

For a moment, Kirishima gaped in shock, and then he was cackling. He didn’t dignify that with a response, instead leaving to retrieve an empty chair from a nearby table. As he walked back, carrying the chair in one hand, he saw Kaminari had turned around and was smacking both of his knees with furious intensity. Behind him, Sero and Ashido had joined in, hooting and hollering to egg him on. On the other side of the table, Midoriya stifled a snort with his hand,  making the back of Kirishima’s neck flare up with heat.

“No, dude,” Kirishima chuckled awkwardly, his cheeks burning. He plunked the chair on the ground with a metal thunk, sitting down. Kaminari smacked his knees again and Kirishima shoved him. “No!”

“But you’re my date, bro!” Kaminari whined, and Kirishima realized what was happening. Kaminari was trying to make him feel better about earlier. Was he serious about telling Jirou that they were going out? Though it was obviously a joke, and everyone would be able to see that, the thought made the fire in Kirishima’s cheeks flare brighter.

He heard a scoff and glanced over to see Bakugou, the severe line of his mouth turned up almost imperceptibly at one corner. He taunted, “You losers couldn’t find anyone else?”

That fucking bastard. Grinning tightly, Kirishima teased, “C’mon, Bakugou, most people aren’t lucky enough to find one partner, let alone two.” Bakugou’s brow furrowed in suspicion. Kirishima spoke to everyone else, gesturing with one arm toward the three boyfriends on his side of the table, “Speaking of, you guys will never guess what these guys are doing soon—!”

It was like a semi-truck crashed into his chest. Bakugou had lunged across the table, grabbing him by the vest, and hissed, “You motherfucker—!”

He was too late. The whole table had already erupted into a flurry of curious questions, which Midoriya and Todoroki seemed all too ready to answer. A few more moments elapsed, containing only the sensation of Bakugou’s hands, his glowering expression, and his minty breath. All Kirishima could do was beam at him.

Man. No matter how much time passed, he still loved Bakugou.

◊ ▪ ◊ ▪ ◊

Yellow beads, segmented by orange fissures. Tiny black circles separating each bead, aligned in short rows on the elastic. This was how Kirishima remembered one of the worst days of his life.

They were third years at that time, living in U.A.’s dorms. The lazy evening was catching up to the sky, pulling the sun behind the clouds. Kirishima, Bakugou, and Kaminari sat in Kirishima’s room, crowded around his tiny dining table. Bakugou had graciously offered to tutor them in math, but he only managed to hold their attention for an hour. Then Kaminari’s mind had begun to wander, and his mouth along with it, until Bakugou gave up trying to get him to be quiet.

Now Kaminari was showing Kirishima a new bracelet he had gotten the week prior on a trip back to his hometown in Hokkaido. Kaminari allowed Kirishima’s curious hands to twist his wrist back and forth, examining the bracelet under the light.

“Whoa, this is pretty sick. You said you got it for three-hundred yen?”

“Two-hundred and fifty, actually,” Kaminari corrected, glowing with pride. “The lady who made them is a friend of my mom’s, so she gave me a discount.”

“A fifty-yen discount,” Kirishima repeated, mouth curling in amusement.

Kaminari shrugged, leaning back on his free hand. “It’s a fifty-yen friendship.” He made no move to pull away from Kirishima, though, and in fact, Kirishima could feel rough fingers start to fidget with the skin on his forearm.

“If it were my shop, I’d give you the bracelet for free. We’ve got at least a three-hundred-yen friendship,” Kirishima promised.

“Dude,” Kaminari gasped, eyes shimmering with emotion. He squeezed Kirishima’s arm. “I feel the same.”

“Hey Bakugou, come take a look,” Kirishima said, holding Kaminari’s arm out to their friend.

“It’s a fucking bracelet,” Bakugou ground out. He didn’t look up from where he was writing equations in his notebook.

There was a tense brooding in Bakugou’s expression, one that had been present all evening. Kirishima had been trying to disrupt it for hours. He shook Kaminari’s arm in Bakugou’s direction. “Yeah? So? Only takes a second to look.”

Heaving a mammoth sigh, Bakugou glanced at Kaminari’s wrist for half a second before returning to his work. He grunted, “Looks like a three-hundred-yen bracelet.”

“That I got for two-hundred and fifty!” Kaminari exclaimed cheerfully. He seemed not at all perturbed by Bakugou’s flippant dismissal. He pulled away from Kirishima and pushed himself onto his feet, stretching out his back. “I brought back matching ones for both of you, too! There’s a red one and an orange one.”

“Really?” Kirishima’s eyes widened. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time a friend had gotten him a souvenir. Though, to be fair, real friends had been in short supply until now. Rubbing the back of his neck, he mumbled, “You don’t have to do that,” but he couldn’t hide the excitement on his face.

“Yeah! Uh, shit, they’re in my room though. Hold on, let me go get them.”

“That’s okay, we can get them la—he’s gone,” Kirishima sighed as Kaminari rocketed out of his room and down the corridor. Given that Kaminari’s room was on the opposite end of the floor, and the fact that these bracelets were likely buried in a random corner, he could be gone a while.

The silence he left behind was thick and humid. Where normally Bakugou might insert a caustic comment about Kaminari’s cheerfulness, there was only an absence in the shape of a pocket knife pressed against Kirishima’s throat.

“You’re quiet,” he offered, testing the waters.

Bakugou retorted, “You fuckers are just noisy.”

More silence. Kirishima leaned forward on his elbows, staring at the wood grain of the table. He knew why Bakugou was mad. He wished he didn’t. And the way Bakugou bled waves of anxious consternation, he must have known that Kirishima knew.

“I saw Midoriya and Todoroki today. On the baseball field, after school.”

Bakugou said nothing. His hand tensed, the plastic of his mechanical pencil creaking. Neither of them looked up. Eventually, he bit out, “And?”

“I know you saw them,” Kirishima told him.

Bakugou’s teeth were on edge, the powerful muscle in his jaw flexing. “And?”

Frowning, Kirishima hazarded, “I know it bothers you. Them being—”

“It doesn’t bother me, Shitty Hair. I hadn’t even thought about it until you brought it up,” Bakugou insisted, but Kirishima knew he was lying. He had been there, when everyone packed up and left the field, when Midoriya and Todoroki thought nobody was looking. He had seen Bakugou on the other side of the dugouts, crouched behind the barrier, eyes wild with the fear of getting caught.

Kirishima had seen the look on Bakugou’s face when Todoroki touched Midoriya’s cheek, asking him the question, and Midoriya said “yes.” Until that moment, Kirishima thought that the worst pain he could feel was living without Bakugou. Seeing Bakugou’s face, he realized he was wrong.

Kirishima sat up and stared straight at Bakugou. “That’s bullshit. You’ve been avoiding Midoriya ever since.”

Throwing him a glare, Bakugou growled, “So what? We’re not friends.”

“Yeah, but you normally at least yell at him. You fucking iced him today, dude.” Kirishima’s mouth tightened in a thin line. “You iced both of them.”

“You better get to the fucking point, Kirishima,” Bakugou demanded, and though the words came out in a snarl, Kirishima’s heart tore at the hint of desperation contained within.

“You can talk to me. About anything,” Kirishima told him, pouring every drop of his soul into that promise. He rested one hand on Bakugou’s forearm, stomach twisting into bitter knots at the sensation of his skin.

Bakugou gave him a wide-eyed glare that seemed filled with as much fright as it was anger. He jerked his arm away and shouted, “There’s nothing to talk about.” Kirishima’s simmered in his veins, and he just wished that for one second, Bakugou would stop being so goddamn difficult.

Voice rising in volume, he blurted out, “Really? There’s nothing about this that you want to say? Nothing about Midoriya?”

“This isn’t about him—”

“You think I don’t know it’s about him? Everything’s about him,” Kirishima yelled. A sudden silence followed, and his frustration echoed in the void left behind. His hands curled into fists on the table, and he forced himself to lower his tone. “I know. We’ve been friends for three years, Bakugou, and I pay attention. I’m not fucking stupid, so don’t lie to me. It hurts worse when you act like you don’t care. Because if you don’t like Midoriya—”

He stopped, covered his face, and took a deep breath. No. He had to stay calm. This wasn’t about him. Why did he have to make this about himself? It was Bakugou who was in pain, who had just had his heart ripped out of his chest, and here Kirishima was, only able to think of the ache in his own pride.

Bakugou sensed his moment of weakness and practically leapt at the chance to exploit it. He murmured lowly, suddenly calm, “We’ve already talked about this, Kirishima.”

“I know,” Kirishima whispered, screwing his eyes shut.

“I already told you, I can’t love you back. I’m never going to,” Bakugou reminded him, and somehow he managed to sound both gentle and stern at the same time.

Kirishima’s nose burned. He repeated in a thick voice, “I know. This isn’t about that. I just want you to be happy. ‘Cause when you hurt, I hurt. And you can say whatever the fuck you like,” he ground out, speech stilted, “but I know Midoriya hurt you.”

Silence filled the air again, weighing heavy on Kirishima’s shoulders. There was a vulnerable timber to the sound, as if maybe, just maybe Bakugou was giving his words some thought. And there, that was just another part that Kirishima loved about him so desperately. It almost made him brave enough to uncover his face.

“If you wanna make shit work with me, you gotta stop projecting. That shit’s annoying.”

There was ice in Kirishima’s veins. Tiny crystals, radiating through his body, making every hair stand on end. He pulled his hands away from his face and looked Bakugou dead in the eye. Though he could feel the tears pooling, just a hair’s breadth away from spilling over, he didn’t care. Bakugou’s eyes widened even further, and that fear was more powerful than ever, and Kirishima didn’t care.

He spoke in a hushed tone. “Get the fuck out of my room.”

And then Bakugou’s expression melted into offense, and pain, and Kirishima hurt so much. He’d fucked up. He shouldn’t have said that. He ruined everything, even though Bakugou had been nice enough to stay friends with him despite knowing how he felt. He had fucked up, and he knew it, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it back.

Bakugou stood, snatched up his notebook and his backpack, and stormed out of the room. As he opened the door, Kirishima heard a sharp, hollow thunk, and the sound of stumbling footsteps. He and Bakugou froze as they saw Kaminari standing in the hallway, cradling his head. Bakugou was only stunned for a moment, though, before he roughly shouldered past. He thundered down the hall, and then a door slammed, and all was quiet. Kaminari stood there staring at Kirishima like a deer in headlights.

Fuck.

Kirishima rapidly wiped the tears from his eyes, turning his gaze back to the table. He half hoped that Kaminari would excuse himself in a hurry and return to his dorm room. But Kaminari was too nice for that. Kirishima heard him close the door and pad inside. His jeans scraped the carpet as he knelt to Kirishima’s left, right beside him.

“How—” Kirishima cleared his throat to chase away the knot. “How long were you standing at the door?”

“A while. You were yelling and I didn’t know if I should come in,” Kaminari explained quietly, sounding apologetic. “I’ve—never heard you yell at him before.”

“I shouldn’t have. I’m a fucking idiot,” Kirishima breathed out, and he pressed his lips together tightly as another wave of tears gathered in his eyes. He brushed them away with the back of his hand. “Sorry. Your bracelets. We were supposed to—”

“Yeah,” Kaminari said, and Kirishima heard the clack of wooden beads knocking together. Thin fingers brushed over his wrist, finally drawing his attention. He saw Kaminari slide a red bracelet onto his wrist, the rough palm gliding over Kirishima’s fingers in the process. Instead of retreating once he was finished, Kaminari gripped his hand, thumb stroking over the back of his palm.

Kirishima lifted his head. Kaminari’s amber eyes were cast down, watching where their hands met as he rubbed comforting circles into Kirishima’s skin. A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows, at the corners of his frown. Fuck. Kirishima couldn’t cry.

On the table, a few inches away from their joined hands, another bracelet lay abandoned. One that was orange, black ink stains swirling across the surface of each bead. Somehow, out of everything that had happened today, the sight of that ownerless accessory filled him with the greatest amount of sadness.

“What about Bakugou’s? He left without it,” he asked, failing to keep his voice steady.

Grimacing in disgust, Kaminari released Kirishima and grabbed the remaining bracelet. He stretched the band between his fingers and bit down, tearing open the circle. He collected all the orange beads in one hand and hurled them at the trash can in the corner of the room. Most of them landed in the bin, while a few others bounced off the wall and rolled across the floor.

Kaminari sat back, taking in heaving breaths that made his whole torso shake. “He can have a new one when he apologizes.”

“Kaminari?” Kirishima breathed. He wanted to reach out and ask for forgiveness, or comfort him, or something. Explain that it wasn’t Bakugou’s fault. The words remained caught in his mouth, wedged in the thin gaps between his gritted teeth.

Kaminari grabbed him by the upper parts of his arms. Each finger was a drink of water in the desert, pressing just a bit too hard. Kaminari demanded, “Why aren’t you mad? You should be angry.”

No, he shouldn’t. But man, Kirishima wanted to be. He was . He was so furious, and he couldn’t stop the tears from scalding down his cheeks in thick streams. Fuck. He didn’t want to cry in front of Kaminari. He knew how he looked when he cried—face puffy and scrunched with sorrow—and he hated the thought that he had just shown Kaminari how unmanly he really was. He was so fucking selfish.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffled, wiping his eyes with his forearm. Every time he did, another river sprang up over his eyelashes. He barked out a curt noise that was halfway between a laugh and a cough. “I’m sorry.”

Kaminari dove for him, wrapping him up with strong, wiry arms. One hand pushed Kirishima’s face into his shoulder so hard that it was almost a headlock. The other hand clutched at Kirishima’s shoulder with similarly bruising force. Kaminari’s chest was unyielding, warm, and yet pliant as Kirishima sank into him. He was so fucking strong, and Kirishima was kicking himself for not appreciating this earlier.

Though Kirishima could no longer see his face, Kaminari was still there, a voice murmuring against the shell of his ear. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay to cry.”

And so Kirishima did.

◊ ▪ ◊ ▪ ◊

Yamada-sensei waited until the middle of dinner to waltz through the archway. And he must have done so deliberately, because he was decked out from toe to tip in white leather, which he surely never intended to wear to a meal that he actually planned to eat at. Following at his heels was Aizawa-sensei, unkempt in his half-tucked button-up and black jeans. Without knowing those two personally, nobody would assume they were together. In fact, Aizawa-sensei’s disgruntled, red-eyed glare gave the impression that he was a hostage, held captive by Yamada-sensei’s hand, which clutched his unwilling fingers.

All eyes leapt to them as they entered. And of course, that meant that everyone’s attention also flew to Aizawa-sensei’s son, Shinsou, who trailed behind them with his thumbs tucked into his pockets. His dark stare floated effortlessly over the partygoers, landing on Kirishima and Kaminari. He lifted one hand in a wave, making an attempt at a smile. They matched his gesture before watching him stalk off to another table that was filled with his old classmates. Kirishima could practically feel Kaminari vibrate with unspoken thoughts.

Yamada-sensei jogged to the far end of the dance floor, where Iida had already kindly prepared all of his equipment. Taking his place behind the soundboard, he threw his hands in the air with a dazzling smile.

“Yuu-ei!! How dare you eat without your precious senseis? You’ve made me so sad, you know?” He planted a hand on one hip and shook a finger at everyone, shouting so loudly into the microphone above his soundboard that a trace of feedback came through the pair of speakers that flanked each side of his setup. “But not as sad as your beloved Aizawa-sensei! He said, ‘I can’t wait to eat with our kids! I hope they have weenies!’”

“I didn’t,” Aizawa  drawled from over by the buffet. A ripple of childish giggles sprang up from the other tables.

“I heard it with my own two ears!!” Yamada-sensei keened, cupping each ear in demonstration. The corners of his mouth stretched wide, teeth bared in a grin that always, always got the U.A. students pumped. “Well, we hope you kids didn’t stuff yourselves too much! ‘Cause I’ve got some delicious beats for you, and once you start dancing, you won’t be able to stop! Try not to throw up, okay?”

A few students cheered, while numerous others groaned in disgust. Yamada-sensei announced the first song on his playlist and, after hooking a pair of headphones around his ears, let out an enthusiastic “Yeah!” and raised the volume. Nobody yet dared to venture onto the dancefloor, but they would. They all would, eventually.

“If I’m gonna dance, I need to be drunk,” Sero declared. Ashido, Kaminari, and Kirishima all nodded in agreement.

Hooking an arm around his neck, Ashido complained, “Just drinking is boring though.”

Without warning, Kaminari vaulted up from his seat and tore ass across the room, back toward the drinks table. A few seconds later he had scurried back with a giant stack of solo cups. “What are you doing?” Sero asked, but Kirishima realized as soon as Kaminari pulled out the first cup.

“Beer pong?” he asked, to which Kaminari hummed his assent, deftly arranging ten cups into a pyramid on one side of the table. He ran around the table to repeat the process on the other side and Kirishima added, “Uh, isn’t this table a little small for that?”

“Just makes it easier to get sloshed,” Kaminari shrugged. He caught Kirishima’s concerned expression and laughed, “Relax! All we got is beer, and we can just fill up the cups, like, a third of the way.”

“What the fuck do you want to play beer pong for anyway, Pikachu? Some of us are still trying to fucking eat,” Bakugou growled, stabbing his fork into his half-full plate.

Kaminari had by now finished setting up the game. He briefly looked at Bakugou, and then shot a sideways glance at Kirishima. Throwing up a hand sign, he grinned and replied, “Plus Ultra, dude!”

A spot in Kirishima’s chest tenderly gave way. There was that feeling again, like they were the only two rejects in the whole world, and he knew he should feel inferior but the warmth of Kaminari’s gleaming smile was all that filled his chest.

He was right, though. Beer pong at a stuffy high school reunion was about the Plusest Ultra they could get.

“What about the tablecloth? It’ll get dirty,” Midoriya noted, his brow furrowing in concern.

Kaminari answered simply, “Then we won’t miss.” That statement multiplied Midoriya’s hesitation tenfold. He turned to Kirishima, eyes pleading, who definitely pitied him. But not enough.

“I’ll grab the beer,” Kirishima declared. Bakugou made a disgruntled noise, lifted his plate, and kicked his chair back so that he would be somewhat out of the splash zone.

◊ ▪ ◊ ▪ ◊

It took Iida thirty minutes to notice their setup. He must have been busy with something else. Now he was standing by Kirishima’s side, holding his head in horror at the yellowish beer stains flecking the tablecloth. Kirishima could hear Midoriya talking him through his anxiety attack in low, hushed tones, but was just a bit too tipsy to pay attention to anything besides Kaminari at the other end of the table.

“This is too easy, dude,” Kaminari whined, leaning on his hands. “Why’s this table so short?”

“Because it’s not meant for this!” Iida cried incredulously. He brought one hand down in a swift chop on the table, making Kirishima’s cups rattle. “Do you know how long it will take to clean these?”

Midoriya said, “At least they moved the centerpiece,” and Kirishima thought, yeah, he really wouldn’t want to see how mad Iida would get if they knocked potted soil all over his white tablecloths.

“Where did you even get a ping pong ball from?” Iida insisted.

Holding up the ball to show him (but not so close that he could snatch it away), Kirishima explained, “It’s a white bouncy ball. Tsuyu had one.”

“A what? Do you have any idea how dangerous— ”

“You’re no fun, Iida,” Kaminari groaned. He smacked the table with both hands, calling joyfully to Kirishima, “Hey! I bet you I can catch it in my mouth! If I do, you gotta drink all your cups.”

“You cannot,” Ashido gasped in disbelief, standing with Sero on the sidelines. Those cowards had waited out every turn at a safe distance.

Laughing loudly, Kirishima pulled his arm back and told Kaminari, “Go long!”

Taking off at a jog, Kaminari fled more than fifteen feet away where he stopped in the middle of the ballroom floor. A few other students stared in confusion as he waved his arms and yelled, ”Do it!”

Kirishima launched the ball in a wide arc, watching it gradually descend. The trajectory aimed a bit higher than Kaminari’s mouth and he stretched his neck, mouth open wide, and caught the ball fast between his teeth. He and Kirishima both threw their hands in the air at the same time and Kirishima cheered so hard he was almost screaming, which was only partially due to the minor intoxication.

When Kaminari ran back to the table, Kirishima shook him by the shoulders, grinning so wide that his face hurt. “That was fucking awesome, bro! I can’t believe you caught that!” 

“I fucking told you! I’m the best!” Kaminari howled. He reached over to the table and began triumphantly slamming back all of his drinks.

Kirishima grabbed his arm, trying to stop him. “Wait, wait, I’m supposed to drink!”

“Oh. Right,” Kaminari replied. After a pause he dissolved into a fit of giggles and leaned into Kirishima to push his forehead against his chest. And he leaned hard, most of his weight, so that Kirishima almost stumbled in an effort to support him. “I’m dumb.”

Only the bridge of his nose and one closed, crinkled eye were visible from that angle. Maybe, if Kirishima stared hard enough, he could find the line of his smile just below those features. One of Kirishima’s hands rested on his back, a dull heat burning against his palm. The line of Kaminari’s spine was lithe, relaxed—trusting.

Kirishima had the sudden thought that Kaminari was the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

Fuck. He couldn’t do this. His heartbeat picked up speed and at that moment Kaminari chose to open his eyes, as if he could hear. A band of bright yellow surrounded the black pit of his pupils, sparkling under the fluorescent lights. His gaze darted around Kirishima’s face in slight jerks, like he couldn’t stop on just one feature—and he was always that way, always thrumming with life.

His gaze was quizzical. Kirishima cracked an uneasy grin and teased, “Wheyy.”

“You asshole, ” Kaminari groused, giving him a shove. The smile still lingered on his face. “That was one time!”

“Sorry, it was just so funny. That isn’t even a real word,” Kirishima retorted.

He thought that maybe Kaminari would have another comeback for that, but instead, his friend shifted onto one foot, mouth open as if to ask a question. While they stood there dumbly, Iida strode over and snatched the white ball out of Kaminari’s hand.

“Hey! Class Reeeeep,” Kaminari pleaded.

“Don’t start with me,” Iida ordered, glaring him down. He held the ball up between his thumb and forefinger. “This is a hazard, and quite frankly, unsanitary.” Not content that they had suffered enough, he began gathering up the beer cups too. “And these—you have lost your alcohol privileges. I’ll be placing an attendant at the drinks table, and I’ll give them your photos.”

He spoke matter-of-factly, as if describing an appointment or recounting a funeral. Neither of them would be able to lay hands on an alcoholic beverage for the rest of the night. Perhaps that was for the best, since Kirishima had been thinking something totally stupid when Kaminari was propped against his chest. Though, he would be lying if he claimed he never had that thought while sober.

As Iida somberly trudged toward the trash can with a few red solo cups, Kaminari, Ashido, and Sero rushed to follow, begging him to reconsider. Kirishima stayed behind, watching Kaminari’s back in silence.

It was just a thought. Still, he felt himself swallowed whole by a wave of deja vu: Humid silence. A door banging open. Anger, fear, hurt, and the crushing weight of years of emotion.

Rough hands on his wrist.

◊ ▪ ◊ ▪ ◊

There was one small secret that Kirishima had kept from Kaminari. Something that happened last year, after the reunion ended. And it was so tiny, so miniscule, that Kirishima felt no need to inform Kaminari.

That year, Yamada-sensei blessed all the attending U.A. graduates with a full bar, including hard liquor. He wanted to celebrate his ten-year anniversary as a radio host, and as he did with the ballroom and all his other accomplishments, he shared the fruits of his celebration with his former students. This time in the form of alcohol.

Kirishima and Kaminari stayed long after most of their close friends left. They sang all the songs, danced all the dances, until Yamada-sensei had no more tracks left to spin and Aizawa-sensei kicked them out. After that, they hailed a cab back to Kirishima’s apartment and stumbled inside. Thankfully he lived on the ground floor—otherwise, they would have never made it up the stairs.

He locked the door, kicked off his shoes, and gingerly made his way into the kitchen, leaning on any wall, counter, or table he could find for support. He poured himself a glass of water and drank half of it before turning back toward the door.

“Kaminari, do you want—” he started, then realized Kaminari had disappeared. Maybe he went to the bathroom? Kirishima padded out of the kitchen, glancing at the bathroom door. It was open, and the light was off.

When he surveyed the rest of the apartment, he saw that the bedroom door was open. He staggered into the room, still clutching his glass of water. There, splayed face-first on the bed, was Kaminari. A few rays of moonlight brushed the tufts of blonde hair poking out from the back of his head.

“Dude! Get out of my bed,” Kirishima groaned. The only response he received came in the form of incoherent mumbling. He knelt on the bed, shaking Kaminari with his empty hand. “Kaminari. You didn’t even take your shoes off, dude.”

Kaminari’s head lifted and he squinted at Kirishima, eyes slowly focusing. After a moment, a light of recognition came to his face and he murmured, “Oh. Wait. This isn’t my room.”

“No shit!” Kirishima scoffed. His heart softened as he watched Kaminari’s eyelids flutter shut. His lashes were so delicate, painted against his cheek in thin ochre brushstrokes. “Sit up and drink some water.”

Nodding, Kaminari grabbed onto Kirishima’s shoulder and pulled himself into a sitting position. He couldn’t get up all the way, so Kirishima helped him, supporting the back of his neck with a hand as he drank the rest of the water from Kirishima’s glass. The skin of his nape burned hot against Kirishima’s palm, so much so that Kirishima felt a pang of worry.

Kaminari tilted his head, eyes falling closed as he pressed back into Kirishima’s touch. “Your hands are nice.”

“Really?” Kirishima’s face flushed. “I’ve got so many calluses, though.”

“Yeah. They’re cool. Like pebbles,” Kaminari hummed, and Kirishima was so glad that his eyes were closed, because Kirishima’s face was on fire. He knew Kaminari was just naturally affectionate, but the alcohol made it harder not to read too much into the compliment. Kaminari leaned more heavily into his hand and asked, “Can you scratch?”

Wordlessly, Kirishima rubbed the back of Kaminari’s neck with his thumb and forefinger, scratching tenderly at the hairline. Kaminari breathed a quiet sigh and bent his neck forward, letting Kirishima rub up the back of his skull to draw gentle zigzags into his scalp. They sat there for a while, silent except for their short breaths and the scritch, scritch of Kirishima’s fingers. The blood pounding in Kirishima’s ears slowed down, calmed by the distant sensation of Kaminari’s soft hair. 

Soon he pulled away, moving his hand to Kaminari’s shoulder. “Alright, come on, time to get up.”

“What? Why?” Kaminari asked, eyes narrowing in exhaustion.

Kirishima frowned. “Because this is my bed, and I don’t wanna sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t wanna sleep on the couch either. What’s the big deal? There’s enough room for both of us,” Kaminari huffed, defiantly flopping back down on the bed. He closed his eyes again, one hand resting over his stomach, which rose and fell with each slow breath. The moonlight kissed the curves of Kaminari’s chest, his abdomen, and the gentle angles of his slender legs. Kirishima couldn’t help but stare.

The panic flew back into Kirishima’s throat, along with the fire in his cheeks. This was normal, right? Friends slept in the same bed all the time. Honestly, on any other day, he would have thought nothing of it. He was just being weird.

“Fine. Move over, then, and don’t hog the blankets,” Kirishima muttered.

Kaminari made a half-hearted attempt to scoot closer to the wall. Sighing again, Kirishima climbed into the bed, pushing and kicking with his feet until he made enough room to lie on his back. The fit was tighter than he expected—Kaminari’s arm, his hip, and his feet were all warm, constant presences lining the side of his body. Though Kirishima’s pulse hammered in his throat, his muscles began to gradually relax. Above him, the ceiling lilted in dizzy half-circles until he could look no longer. He shut his eyes.

He was unsure how long he spent drifting in and out of sleep. Just as soon as he almost slipped off into a dream, Kaminari would shift and bring him back to partial awakeness. After multiple instances of this, Kirishima was ready to throw Kaminari out of the bed. Especially when Kaminari fully sat up and started fumbling with his shoes, which he still had not taken off.

“Kaminari,” Kirishima warned.

“Sorry,” Kaminari replied. He unbuttoned his overshirt and wiggled out of it, tossing it over the foot of bed. He added, “Shoes,” as if Kirishima needed explanation.

Kirishima grunted in response, too tired to bicker. Hopefully now, Kaminari would settle down and he could—

Something solid and warm draped over his chest and shoulder. Blinking his eyes open blearily, Kirishima glanced over to see that Kaminari’s head was resting on his chest. He suddenly couldn’t feel his heartbeat anymore.

“Kaminari?” he whispered, afraid his voice might break.

Kaminari craned his neck, one amber eye giving him a dazed look. “What? You feel good.”

The shadows on his face carved a map of all his features, especially his soft cheeks, and made the golden ring around his pupils glitter. His face was so close. Their noses almost touched, Kaminari’s hot breath puffing out against Kirishima’s chin, just shy of his lips. He smelled like alcohol. Desire curled in Kirishima’s stomach like a fist, leaving him desperate to memorize the face of this person, this special man who had held him when he cried, had taken his side over Bakugou’s, had given him over a decade of laughter and loyalty. He would never see this face again—not this way, watching him in the low light like he was a place Kaminari could live inside. Like Kirishima was a person he could come home to.

“Not okay?” Kaminari asked in a faraway voice. A few tiny, jerky movements drew Kirishima’s attention to his hands, which were pinching away dry tags of skin.

It shouldn’t have been okay. Maybe on a different day, maybe in the past, it could have been, but not now. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be, and Kirishima felt guilt pool in his stomach. Kaminari was just drunk. He probably wouldn’t even remember this later. 

Kirishima replied, “It’s okay. Go ahead.”

He saw Kaminari’s gaze soften, almost as if in relief, a hint of a smile playing at his mouth. His cheek returned to Kirishima’s chest as he nestled effortlessly into him, like he had always been just another fold in Kirishima’s shirt. Before long, Kaminari’s breathing eased into the familiar pattern of sleep, and Kirishima could only stare blankly at the ceiling. His mind swam.

After an hour or two, he carefully extracted himself from Kaminari’s grasp and climbed out of the bed. He silently left for the living room and crashed on the couch, his nerves alight and his body suddenly cold. He didn’t sleep.

The next morning, he acted like nothing happened. At breakfast, Kaminari apologized for taking the bed, making no mention of the previous night’s events. When Kirishima heard this, all of the tension unspooled from his muscles. So, Kaminari really didn’t remember. Or, if he did, he just didn’t care.

That was a huge relief. There was also disappointment, sure. But that was just his loneliness. And Kaminari had already shouldered enough responsibility for Kirishima’s heartaches.

◊ ▪ ◊ ▪ ◊

Thanks to Iida’s interference, nobody was able to get plastered this year, but Kaminari was just tipsy enough to fulfill his earlier promise.

He and Kirishima had returned to laughing and making jokes, the awkwardness from before dissolving. That was when Jirou and Yaoyorozu finally approached on their long victory lap of visiting the tables of their old classmates.

Kirishima and Kaminari exchanged a glance, their noses crinkling. They could almost smell how rich Yaoyorozu and Jirou were. Jirou’s pinstripe suit and Yaoyorozu’s modest, burgundy evening gown alone probably cost a year’s worth of clean water for an underprivileged village in an unmarked country hidden in Eastern Europe. They were an example for lesbians everywhere.

“Yo, dumbass!” Jirou called out to Kaminari, who rushed to meet her. They executed the most elaborate secret handshake Kirishima had ever seen. Beside Jirou, Yaoyorozu politely covered her giggle with a hand.

“Took you two long enough to get over here! I thought you forgot about me,” Kaminari told her with a pout.

Smiling softly, Yaorozu explained, “Jirou-chan spent a great amount of time bragging to Monoma-kun about her platinum album.”

Hands on her hips, Jirou affirmed smugly, “Sure did. Fuck that guy. Thought he was so much better than us, but look at where he is now?”

“To be fair, you two set the bar pretty high,” Kirishima pointed out.

“I feel bad for making you wait, Drooly, but I’m sure you weren’t too lonely, since you have a date tonight—wait.” Jirou’s eyes widened comically. She bent forward, squinting her eyes, and made a show of searching the room. “Where’s your date, Kaminari? You told me you’d have one this year. You weren’t lying, were you?”

Oh geez. Kirishima was about to open his mouth and beg Jirou not to be too mean when he felt an arm snake around his back. One of Kaminari’s hands rested on his hip, pulling him close, and the other hand pressed flat against his chest.

“Aw, Jirou! Don’t talk about him like he isn’t even here.”

Kirishima was currently flatlining in mind, body, and soul. His gaze drifted up to Jirou’s and then Yaoyorozu’s surprised expressions. They were never going to believe this. He and Kaminari were going to look like idiots.

Jirou’s mouth opened and closed. Eventually, she replied, “Oh. Really? Huh.”

Wait. What?

“I thought you two were just friends,” Yaoyorozu breathed in awe, putting a finger to her chin. “What changed?”

“Uh,” Kirishima replied intelligently, looking over at Kaminari, who seemed equally shellshocked by the response.

“Ugh, shit,” Jirou groaned, smacking her palm against her own forehead. “Of course! It makes sense. Drooly fucking tricked me.”

Kirishima almost squeaked, “What do you mean it makes sense?”

“You hear that, Kaminari? Even he doesn’t know why he’s dating you,” Jirou leered, pointing at Kirishima. “I bet you whined and begged until he caved.”

Cheeks reddening, Kaminari spluttered, “I didn’t—! I’m not—!!”

“That was a joke! We’re not actually dating,” Kirishima wheezed.

Somehow, Jirou and Yaoyoruzu seemed even more surprised to hear that. They both asked in tandem, “Really?”

“Really. Just best buds,” Kirishima insisted.

Unfortunately, Kaminari had aims besides clearing his own name. He jabbed a finger into the lapel of Jirou’s suit jacket, complaining, “What makes you think Kirishima wouldn’t ask me out, anyway? I’m cute!”

“Yeah, and that’s about all there is to you. By the way, you owe me three thousand yen, since you couldn’t get a date after all.”

Grumbling, Kaminari pulled out his wallet and paid off his debt. Soon after that, the lesbian power couple moved on when Midoriya spotted them, calling them over. They promised to come back and spend more time with Kirishima and Kaminari once they finished making the rounds.

As soon as they left, Kirishima jabbed an elbow into Kaminari’s side. He hissed, “I can’t believe you actually tried that!”

The bastard had the nerve to look delighted. A dusting of pink spread across his cheeks. “I can’t believe they bought it! They actually thought we were dating.”

“Yeah, for like, five seconds,” Kirishima muttered, scrubbing his face with one hand. “Because you put your hand on my—” He felt three fingers slip into one of his pants pockets, and every nerve in his lower back lit up. “Hey!!”

“Is that your wallet in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” Kaminari joked.

“Dude, shut the fuck up,” Kirishima bit back, but he couldn’t keep from laughing. He pulled Kaminari’s hand out of his pocket and turned back toward their table, saying, “Let’s just go back before you embarrass yourself again.”

When he tried to walk away, however, two fingers hooked in one of his belt loops and yanked him backward. He yelped and stumbled into Kaminari’s chest, who giggled from the pit of his stomach. “Come on, dude, don’t say that! I’m your date—you have to be nice to me.”

“I’m always nice to you,” Kirishima argued, struggling to escape. Kaminari gripped another of his belt loops to solidify his hold and their game devolved into staggering and shoving and wheezing laughter. Before Kirishima realized, every thread of tension in his body unwound, and he only felt the burn of breathless exertion. Kaminari’s chest bumped against his back and he cackled into Kirishima’s ear, too close.

The music in the air shifted abruptly and Yamada-sensei’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Everyone, this party is so dead! Why are you always so boring? Where is your spirit?” He splayed his hands, shouting, “As your beloved English teacher, I am assigning you all to get down on the dance floor, and liven things up! Okay?”

With that, entire tables of people stood up and headed for the middle of the room. Kirishima, too, felt drawn to join them. He knew from previous years that this was the warmup, and the time for the Couples’ Dance was fast encroaching. And after that would come the dance that they had been fearing, which separated boys from men, and losers from winners.

Releasing Kirishima, Kaminari rested both hands on his shoulders and suggested lightly, “Hey, why don’t we just join the Couples’ Dance this year? If Jirou and Yaoyorozu couldn’t tell, no one would be any the wiser.”

Kirishima genuinely considered this. For a few moments longer than he should have. But, of course, he said no. And damn if Kaminari didn’t look disappointed, and Kirishima had no idea how to handle that.

◊ ▪ ◊ ▪ ◊

Honestly, it was Kirishima’s fault that Kaminari didn’t have a date this year, or last year—that he wasn’t doing the Couples’ Dance with Shinsou. Maybe if he had realized earlier, things would be different.

But two years ago, on the day that Kaminari “talked” to Shinsou, there was no way Kirishima could have known.

Kirishima had helped Kaminari get ready. All those familiar questions, about which pants made him appear svelte, the abstract emotions he wanted to exude—Kaminari asked all those questions and more, buzzing with excitement. He checked himself from all angles in the full-length mirror on the back of Kirishima’s closet door, looking cute as hell, sleek, and tucked in all the right places, like a skinny little goldfinch. 

Though he and Shinsou had only recently begun working together at the same repair company, they had known each other all throughout high school, and they got along famously. The cautious flirting Kaminari initiated was often received with a smile, and sometimes reciprocated. If Shinsou thought Kaminari was cute in his raggedy work jumpsuit, both of his eyeballs would roll out of his head when he saw Kaminari now.

He was going to nail this. There was no way he couldn’t. Kaminari wasn’t a super successful boxer, or a police chief making six-figures, but he was a catch. And Kirishima had worked hard to psych him up to the point where he’d take a chance.

Kaminari’s phone beeped in his pocket. He hastily pulled it out, shutting off his alarm. “Shit. I gotta call the taxi, or I’m gonna be late. Do I look hot enough?”

Finally, a simple question. Kirishima beamed. “Smokin’. Shinsou won’t know what hit him. And when you take off that jacket, it’s gonna back up and run over him again.”

Letting out an uneasy chuckle, Kaminari fiddled with his earrings and all his various accoutrements. Of course, that included his beautiful, black leather choker, connected in the middle by a clear, transparent stone. “I dunno. He’s gonna see this from a mile away, right? Going to dinner with him, getting dressed up—”

“Man, I hope so. If not, he needs to get his eyes checked.”

They called the taxi and while waiting, Kirishima walked Kaminari through breathing exercises to calm down, hyping him up for the night ahead. When they heard the honk outside, Kirishima took Kaminari’s head in both hands, thumbs stroking comfortingly over his temples.

“Whatever happens, you’re gonna do great.”

Eyes darting away shyly, Kaminari took in a deep, shaky breath and answered, “Yeah. Okay.”

As he left Kirishima’s apartment, he promised to call later. Kirishima stood on the side of the street and waved while the taxi drove off into the evening sun. His nerves sang with excitement, and yet he couldn’t help feeling a sense of loss. Things would change, now. For the better, of course, but life would be different. Kaminari would spend fewer nights at his place, and more at Shinsou’s. He would reply to texts less often. There would be a slippage in their closeness, and now there would be a new person whose counsel Kaminari would come to value more than Kirishima’s. But he would be happy. And Kirishima would be happy for him.

When Kaminari neglected to call later that night, Kirishima was unsurprised. He only began to get worried when he received a text from a mutual friend the next evening asking why Kaminari hadn’t come into work.

After finishing up his own shift, Kirishima texted Kaminari at about 7:00 p.m.

you skipped today? things go that well?

No response. Kirishima waited about fifteen minutes while he changed out of his work clothes into a tee and sweatpants and visited the bathroom. Getting back to the kitchen, he checked their chat again and frowned. Usually Kaminari responded immediately. He tried again.

you’re spooking me, dude

shinsou didn’t murder you or something, did he

This time, after a brief pause, he saw Kaminari start typing. But then he stopped, still leaving the chat bereft of a reply.

i saw you typing, dude

And this time, Kaminari did respond.

shit, yeah, u right

That made Kirishima laugh a bit, though the unease in his stomach grew. He texted back.

you never miss work, dude. You ok?

The reply was almost immediate.

yeah, just tired

was it honda who txted you?

hes been blowing up my phone all day

Okay. There was definitely something wrong. The dread in Kirishima’s chest was so thick he was afraid to try and take a breath. He asked:

want me to call?

For a full minute, he watched the three little bubbles on Kaminari’s end flicker in and out of existence. Eventually, his phone buzzed with the most disheartening message thus far.

dont wanna talk rn

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was bad. Kaminari always wanted to talk. Kirishima leaned on his counter, staring hard at the phone, leg jiggling. He typed back, firing off messages in quick succession, before Kaminari could refuse.

can i come over?

don’t have to talk. Just want to see you

don’t want you to be alone

i’ll bring ramen, and mochi

He waited for hours in the space of about thirty seconds, heart thudding in irregular beats.

The reply made him nearly collapse in relief.

bring the good stuff

Kirishima stowed the leftovers back in the fridge, but didn’t bother putting up the skillet. He left it on the stove and hurried for the door, slipping his shoes back on.

be there in 30.

And he was exactly on time, because Kirishima was nothing if not reliable. He climbed the stairs to Kaminari’s apartment, takeout bags in hand, and knocked once, twice, three times before the door cracked open. He slipped inside, closed the door behind him, and turned his head just in time to catch sight of Kaminari’s back as he disappeared into the bedroom.

“Kaminari?”

“Sorry, I’m set up in here,” Kaminari told him, and while his voice was calm and bright like normal, there was an absence to its tone. “Watching movies on my laptop.”

The “setup,” Kirishima found as he entered the room, was a mountain of lumpy pillows and a thick blanket that Kaminari now sat against with his legs folded under himself. Not a single light in the room was on besides the blue glow of the computer screen. He wordlessly patted the spot beside him, a strained quality to his smile.

Kirishima crawled into the bed next to him. When one end of the blanket was offered to him, he pulled it around his shoulder. He set the takeout bags between them. “Brought chopsticks. And napkins.” 

Kaminari’s smile eased a fraction. 

The usual chitchat came easy, especially as the movie dragged on. Kaminari was already halfway through by the time Kirishima arrived, so he had to explain everything. Comprehensive synopses were not his forte, and so Kirishima made confused commentary for the entire rest of the movie until Kaminari loosened up. The next movie was animated—some old film they used to watch back in high school. They spent the whole time slurping ramen, arguing about which character was the best.

By the end of the movie, their argument had grown to the point of yelling. Kaminari was the first to grab up a pillow and beat Kirishima across the face. Kirishima snatched another pillow and returned fire and they beat the stuffing out of each other until they accidentally upturned the box of mochi onto the floor. Spatters of flour stained the carpet.

“Aw, man, look what you did,” Kaminari whined. He lay on his stomach on the bed, reaching out to pick up one of the forsaken mochi. 

Kirishima warned, “Don’t even think about—groooss,” he groaned, pulling a face as Kaminari popped the entire mochi into his mouth.

Still chewing, Kaminari’s lip turned up and he goaded, “What? You gonna tell my mom on me?”

“No, but I might tell Bakugou,” Kirishima threatened.

The grin faded from Kaminari’s face. He rolled over so that he hung half off the bed, upside-down, hair brushing the floor. His hands clasped together over his stomach, thumbs twiddling.

“Hey, Kirishima?” he murmured, so quietly that he might as well not have said anything at all. He waited a few moments until Kirishima grunted in acknowledgment. “I wanna ask you a dumb question.”

“So, nothing new,” Kirishima joked, but Kaminari didn’t laugh. He sat up and settled back against one of his pillows. His golden eyes darted over the blanket of darkness above them, staring at something beyond what Kirishima could see. He picked at the black beads of his bracelet, snapping the elastic against his skin.

“Forget it. It’s dumb.”

Kirishima’s chest tightened in alarm. He blurted out, “Well, I’m pretty dumb. So, I’m sure I could answer it for you.”

Surprised, Kaminari tilted his head to meet his eyes. He smirked a little and his characteristic mirth bled back into his face. “You are really dumb.”

Kirishima punched him in the shoulder. “Uh huh. So, ask away.”

“I just … I’ve been thinking. You … really, really like Bakugou. And I guess I just … don’t understand it. I mean, I think he’s cool. He’s like, one of my best friends. He’s funny, and I guess—I guess he’s cute? Personally I think he looks like a Chia pet, but—”

Kaminari trailed off, fidgeting with his bracelet, and then the skin of his wrists. Another encouraging pat from Kirishima reinvigorated his focus. He craned his head back toward the ceiling, gnawing on his lower lip.

“I guess I just thought love was supposed to be nice. Everyone always says that it’s happy words, and compliments, and date nights. But Bakugou’s always yelling at you, or trying to kick your ass, or trying to kick somebody else’s ass, and I just—wonder. What that feels like. To love somebody who’s like that.”

Silence blossomed between them. Eventually, Kirishima sighed, “Wow. Huh.” 

“Told you it was stupid,” Kaminari muttered self-consciously.

“Well, yeah, it is stupid. My feelings, I mean.” Kirishima crawled over and nestled against the wall to Kaminari’s right, leaning on one elbow. He stared absently at the ribbed collar of Kaminari’s shirt. “I guess I should want somebody who’s kind. But a kind person never says what they really want to say. I mean, just think about Midoriya. He’s so nice, and he bends over backwards to help his friends, but sometimes it’s like he cares more about doing the right thing than he actually cares about you. You know?”

To his surprise, Kaminari nodded in agreement. He closed his eyes and affirmed, “He means well, though. He does actually care.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t. I’m just saying—Bakugou isn’t nice. He doesn’t say shit just to make people feel good. So, when he says something, you can believe him. There’s so many things he’s said about me that I couldn’t believe until I heard it from him.” Kirishima opened and closed his mouth, unwilling to speak further, but desperate to get the words out now that he had the chance. “When it comes to him, I—I feel like I’m living in a huge house, and he has a room there, but the room has no door. Sometimes he’s quiet, and sometimes he’s so loud I can’t stand it. But I always know he’s there, and I can’t close the door. Even when I really want to. Even when I know I should. That’s what it feels like.”

For another agonizingly long moment, Kaminari was quiet. Throat tightening with panic, Kirishima was afraid he had said something wrong, acted in an unmanly way, shown Kaminari that, in reality, he was still just a fucking nobody who couldn’t even fall in love the right way. He tensed as Kaminari rolled over, mimicking his position, and remarked, “That sounds so sad.”

“Yeah, sometimes. But it’s a happy feeling, too,” Kirishima replied. Chewing his bottom lip with sharp teeth, he asked in a distant voice, “Is that weird?”

Kaminari answered honestly, “I don’t know. I think I understand, though. What you said about the house. I guess I feel that way about Shinsou.”

The fear in Kirishima’s body began to dissipate. He had no idea why he had been so worried. Of course Kaminari would back him up. Everything with Kaminari was so easy. He was just like that, without even trying, and Kirishima envied him for that. “What happened with him, Kaminari?”

There was that uncharacteristic silence, and Kaminari closed his eyes in pain. He bit his lip, softly at first, and then harder, until Kirishima could see wrinkles form above his chin.

“He didn’t believe me.”

“He—what?” Kirishima’s thoughts stuttered. He sat up further, staring at Kaminari, who still had his eyes closed. “He didn’t believe you? What do you mean?”

“I mean—the date went well. Really well. We had a good time, but he was—being weird,” Kaminari explained haltingly. His eyes opened again, but they were unfocused, roaming over memories Kirishima couldn’t see. “I thought, like, maybe I had fucked up, or something. So, at the end of the date I said I liked him, a lot, but if he didn’t like me back, that was okay. And I asked if I could see him again. And he—”

A sharp breath whistled through Kaminari’s nose. He curled in on himself slightly, the muscles in his face twitching. Desperate to do something, Kirishima instinctively reached out and touched Kaminari’s arm. This seemed to ground him, bring him back to the moment. He was trembling.

“He said that it was a ‘nice thought,’ but he didn’t want to date a man who was already taken. And I asked what the hell he meant by that, and he repeated himself, and I said, ‘I’m single. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ And then he rattled off the name of one of my friends, and I said, ‘You think I’m dating that guy?’ and he said, ‘No, but he’s the one you’re really into.’”

The admission tumbled out with barely a pause for breath, and now breathing seemed to be all he could do. He was hyperventilating, releasing a sharp, urgent noise on each inhale, and his entire body began to shake. When Kirishima reached for him again, Kaminari shoved his arm away, but kept a hand clamped around his wrist.

“You asked him out, though,” Kirishima said, dumbfounded. “What the fuck does he mean?”

“I don’t fucking know! And he kept acting like there was something wrong with me. I tried to tell him, ‘No, I’m into you, you fucking jackass,’ but he wouldn’t listen to me. I got so upset I started yelling, and he told me to be quiet, that it wasn’t a big deal, and I just exploded. He called me stupid and I—”

“You’re not stupid,” Kirishima hissed through clenched teeth.

Tears welled up in Kaminari’s eyes, dripping onto the covers. He clenched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and struggled to take in air. He shook violently, pained noises falling from his lips. He choked out in a swollen voice, “Liking someone is supposed to be nice! I thought Shinsou was nice! He has no fucking idea—!”

The first sob leaked from his throat. Kirishima felt like he was breathing fire. He practically lunged for Kaminari, wrapping him up in both arms, holding him to his chest. He heard a few more sobs, half muffled, punctuated by desperate gasping. “It’s okay. Breathe for me, Kaminari. Try to breathe.”

He tried. Kirishima could hear the air rushing in and out of Kaminari’s lungs, his whimpers growing in volume. At one point, he completely stopped crying, silent except for the sound of his hyperventilating. Cold terror gripped Kirishima’s stomach.

And then, Kaminari buried his face in Kirishima’s chest, clawed at his side, and screamed. It was like a gunshot, louder than any sound Kirishima had heard a human make before, and over in an instant. Kaminari heaved a few more breaths and Kirishima could feel his mouth open, teeth baring against the fabric of his shirt, frozen in a silent scream. Soon after, a real one came, brutally torn from his throat. His hands fisted in Kirishima’s shirt, pulling with such force that Kirishima could hear the fabric strain. The back of his neck stung from where the collar of his tee now bit into him.

Kaminari was shouting words Kirishima couldn’t hear. And Kirishima wanted to listen, but he was too terrified to let go, clutching so tightly at Kaminari’s back and shoulders that it might have been painful. He didn’t know what else to do.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he repeated in a whisper, pressing his forehead against the crown of Kaminari’s skull. He threaded one hand in Kaminari’s hair, rubbing comforting circles there, repeating assurances over and over until the yelling subsided into sobbing. The fury was gone, replaced by an honest hurt that wracked Kaminari’s body in shudders.

They lay there for a long time, Kaminari crying and whimpering apologies, and Kirishima whispering anything, everything, every nice word he knew. When he said, “There’s nothing wrong with you,” the sobbing started afresh, and helpless anguish tightened Kirishima’s ribcage in a crushing grip.

Eventually the crying stopped, leaving Kaminari drained and unmoving. His eyes and nose were swollen, angry red, splotchy marks dotting his cheeks. Kirishima asked him a few questions, to which he provided one- to two-word answers. Kirishima didn’t need words to understand, though. The lack of respect, the rejection, the humiliation—he’d experienced all of this before, and had poured that emotion out into Kaminari’s arms. Hard to believe that now, only a few years later, he would have to repay the favor.

They returned to watching movies when the sorrow had mostly passed, but Kaminari soon fell prey to his exhaustion. All Kirishima could do was move the laptop, tuck him in, and clean up the forgotten mochi mess. That night he slept on the floor beside Kaminari’s bed, wishing he could have done more.

The next morning, Kirishima made sure Kaminari woke to omurice and more of the previous night’s mochi. Though it didn’t make Kaminari happy, it seemed to make him feel better. The crisis passed, and life continued on.

Months later, Kirishima would learn the truth. He had completely cut off contact with Shinsou, but one of their mutual friends tricked him into visiting a park where Shinsou was waiting to ambush him. Kirishima had no idea how he restrained himself from caving Shinsou’s head in, but he did, and they had the chance to talk.

Shinsou told him some of the things he had said to Kaminari. Things that Kaminari had conveniently omitted. This was how Kirishima learned that the man Shinsou thought Kaminari was dating was himself. The two of them had been friends for almost a decade, he said. Almost ten years. They were so close, so friendly, so physically affectionate—it made sense. There was nothing else Shinsou could have thought. And so, thinking he was getting in the way, Shinsou had wanted to step aside.

At that time, he apologized to Kirishima, seeming properly melancholy about the whole situation. Kirishima retorted that it wasn’t him Shinsou should apologize to. For what it was worth, he did eventually ask for Kaminari’s forgiveness. But he never returned Kaminari’s feelings, and Kaminari never asked him out again.

Kirishima decided not to tell Kaminari that he knew. He was sure that Kaminari meant to protect his feelings. Just another in a line of secrets Kirishima kept, hoping to preserve this friendship. That was a harder secret to keep, though, because he wanted so badly to apologize. That terrible night, the following months of sadness, and the scars that Kaminari carried with him—they had all been Kirishima’s fault. And all Kaminari had ever done was help him.

Some friend Kirishima was.

◊ ▪ ◊ ▪ ◊

When Yamada-sensei announced the beginning of the Couples’ Dance, only six people departed the dance floor: Kirishima, Kaminari, Iida, Tsuyu, Aoyama, and Tetsutetsu. And Tetsu wasn’t even technically single—it was just that Kendou had a business trip and was unable to attend. The five remaining singles and their honorary sixth hovered in a loose patch at a nearby table toward the back of the room. The only person they were missing was Mineta, who had—thankfully—suffered an acute bout of gastrointestinal distress and left early.

Oh, and there was Shinsou, but he had refused to join in the dancing at all. He was protected from mandatory participation by Aizawa-sensei, who silently drank a mug of tea beside him, and whom Yamada-sensei could not bully into submission.

Once, while he and Kaminari chatted with the others, Kirishima noticed Shinsou glancing over at them. Kirishima shot him as nice a smile as he could muster. All in all, Shinsou wasn’t a bad guy, even if he had done a terrible thing, so Kirishima didn’t want to be mad at him.

“We’re pretty pathetic, huh?” Tsuyu intoned, wearing her usual blank expression. Her hands hung limply at stomach level, two marble statuettes jutting out from the baggy, moss-green sleeves of her turtleneck. “I mean, I’m not surprised Aoyama is single, but you two aren’t bad.”

Kaminari narrowed his eyes in offense. “‘Aren’t bad?’”

“I’ll have you know that I have high standards,” Aoyama cooed, posing with one hand pressed to his chest. “I am not single for lack of waiting bachelors!”

Eyes swiveling toward him, Tsuyu deadpanned, “Maybe you should consider lowering them, then.”

Kirishima covered his mouth to hide his amusement, but not fast enough. Aoyama squinted at him for a moment before waving away the comment with a perfectly-manicured hand. “Nonsense! All that matters here is appearance, anyway. Single or not, it will do merely to have someone on your arm.” He pressed his hands together, sending a smile Kirishima’s way that was tacky with lipgloss. “I’d be happy to allow you to be my accessory tonight, Kirishima.”

It was hard to tell whether Aoyama was serious or just being ridiculous. At his back, Kirishima could still feel Shinsou’s dark, keen eyes watching. Without thinking, he laughed and hooked an arm around Kaminari’s waist, feeling his back stiffen.

“Sorry, but I’m Kaminari’s arm candy tonight,” he boasted. 

Tsuyu tilted her head. “Aren’t you every year?”

“You think so? It’s so funny, Jirou said something like that, too. She actually almost thought we were going out,” Kaminari chuckled nervously.

Remembering his place, Kirishima retracted his arm and rubbed the back of his neck, grinning abashedly. “Yeah. Pretty funny. Should have seen the look on her face.”

“Yes, very ,” Aoyama huffed, rolling his eyes. He quickly directed the conversation back to himself, which Kirishima was eternally grateful for.

Tsuyu and Aoyama soon became wrapped up in whatever discussion Iida and Tetsu were conducting a few feet away. That left Kirishima and Kaminari in awkward silence, watching the Couples’ Dance pick up steam. Yamada-sensei had prepared an entire playlist of romantic songs, from the slowest slow-dance songs to the most energized tunes, for all the betrothed to dance to. Jirou and Yaoyorozu swept across the floor, twirling each other in a waltz. The fumbling in Jirou’s steps brought back fond memories—she learned how to waltz and tango for their wedding. That was six years ago, but Kirishima could easily remember that day. He and Kaminari had acted as groomsmen for that wedding. They went stag then too, of course.

His eyes found Ashido and Sero, who were apparently bumping into as many people as humanly possible. They were also arguing, if their open mouths and exasperated expressions were any indication. Nearby, Midoriya and Todoroki did the two-step, the former giggling like an idiot and apologizing because he kept treading on Todoroki’s toes. He broke away from the dance briefly to retrieve Bakugou, who had refused to dance and was moping at the table they all shared earlier. Dragging Bakugou onto the ballroom floor, Midoriya forcibly linked their hands, as well as Bakugou’s and Todoroki’s. The formation resembled a game of ring-around-the-rosie, wherein Bakugou was bitching constantly, and Todoroki just barely held his smug smirk in check.

They looked happy together. Soon, they’d be starting a new chapter of their lives, too. They had come so far. Bakugou had come so far.

He felt Kaminari’s shoulder bump against him. Kirishima turned and their eyes met. He was arrested by the naked concern he saw there.

“I’m okay,” Kirishima assured him, and he was.

“You say that, but you’re still in love with that jerk,” Kaminari murmured, remorse creasing the edges of his frown.

Kirishima looked back at Bakugou, who was now being pulled into a whirlwind of a jig by Todoroki, shouting and cursing the entire time. He shone bright, wound tighter than a twister, the garnet pinpoints of his stare catching the light in a way that filled Kirishima’s chest with the old wound of need. But that was a memory. Those eyes were now jewels inlaid in past experiences. Kirishima had grown, too. They all had.

“I don’t think you ever fall out of love with a person,” Kirishima declared softly. “They just get a little quieter inside you, and then you fall in love with someone else.” He gave Kaminari a sheepish smile. “Y’know?”

Kaminari was silent. And really, what more could he say? Kirishima knew that his feelings for Bakugou were weird. But none of the U.A. students were normal, and Kaminari would never judge him. Because wherever Bakugou struck Kirishima’s life like a hailstorm of coals, Kaminari had soothed the impact with a wealth of affection.

Kaminari’s mouth opened and closed a few times. Then his chest puffed out and he promised, “I’ll kick his ass for you. Anytime. You just say the word.”

There was no way Kaminari could beat Bakugou in a fight. But the depth of his amber eyes, the intensity of his conviction, the memory of strong hands cradling Kirishima’s head—they made Kirishima believe he could.

In that moment, meeting Kaminari’s stare, Kirishima knew.

There were so many ways he needed to thank Kaminari, and thousands of words he might never be able to say. There was a new ache in his chest, so familiar in its loneliness. And he was so lucky to feel that again. So lucky to be hurting for someone who was so kind.

“Kaminari, I have no idea what I would do without you,” Kirishima admitted, but what he wanted to say was, I want to do everything with you.

And though Kaminari didn’t smile, his golden irises sparkled like crystals. That expression made Kirishima feel like if they had wasted the past eight years heading nowhere in life, he’d be happy if they could waste another eight more together.

The couples’ playlist faded out into silence. Yamada-sensei’s voice rang out over the speaker, harsh and tinny. “I just love all our high school sweethearts! Y’know, your two favorite teachers had a high school romance, too. To think, Aizawa-sensei tolerated me back then! Oh, I know passion burns away with time, but I can’t help looking back with a sigh.” He clasped both hands over his chest and crooned, “How intimate! Makes me want to scream, ‘yeah!’”

Kirishima didn’t have to look at Aizawa-sensei to know that he probably looked physically ill. Well, nobody’s fault but his own that he let Yamada-sensei wear him down.

“But your time is up, lovebirds! Get off the floor—go on, shoo!” When a few students continued to linger on the floor, Yamada-sensei got up from his station and chased them off. He returned to his spot behind the turntables, hands splayed wide. “Now, we all know that some of us here have not secured their place in the gene pool, or the extended family tree. Remember, we are not here to shame! Even if it is pathetic that they couldn’t even get a date to their high school reunion!”

A peal of goodnatured laughter rippled through the crowd. A few assholes even clapped, including Monoma, who had narrowly avoided the Singles’ Dance this year. His boyfriend of several weeks sat beside him with an awkward grin.

“Get out here, you losers!” Yamada-sensei called out, feedback screeching through the speakers. “Report to the floor for the Singles’ Dance!”

As the leftover students trudged to the middle of the ballroom, derisive hoots and cheers erupted on all sides. On the sidelines, Kirishima could see Bakugou vengefully whistling at him. Of course, Kirishima flipped him off.

They gathered in front of Yamada-sensei, who leaned forward and hummed, “Oooh? We have a new face, for once! Tetsu, you have some trouble in paradise?”

“I’m just here for emotional support,” Tetsu answered with a shark-toothed grin.

“How kind of you! These idiots definitely need it.” Everyone tensed, waiting to see who Yamada-sensei would go for next. Thanks to the sunglasses, they couldn’t see the path of his gaze. He rounded on Kirishima next, tutting, “Kirishima. Eijirou. Baby. You’re up here every year. How can you spend so much time at the gym and still completely bite the dust when it comes to love?”

“I’d like to know that myself, sensei!” Kirishima joked, and a roar of laughter rose around him. Using humor helped, though his ears still burned with embarrassment.

Guffawing, Yamada-sensei replied, “How earnest! At least there is hope for you. On the other hand, Aoyama here has much room for improvement, and no capacity to do so!”

This time, the entire room fell out, including the other singles. Except of course Aoyama, who squawked in offense, rattling off an excuse no one could hear. In typical fashion, Yamada-sensei roasted the remaining singles until he had thoroughly berated their lack of romantic prowess before queuing the first song on his playlist.

“Well, you might be lonely losers, but that’s also a reason to celebrate! The world is open to you, so put your hands up and enjoy it while you can!” Yamada-sensei’s teeth flashed, and though he always had that manic attitude, his face did not lack compassion. “Now, let me see you dance like nobody’s waiting for you at home tonight! Go wild! Plus Ultra!”

They were all terrible dancers. But when Yamada-sensei said “jump,” a U.A. student’s only response could be to leap into the clouds. The six of them absolutely broke it down on the dance floor—in fact, Iida did the mashed potato so hard he almost broke a bone. Tsuyu stomped and hopped between everyone, tongue sticking out of her mouth with the effort. Despite being the only committed man in the group, Tetsu got so into the dance that he picked Kirishima off the ground and spun him in the air. The cheering from their fellow classmates was almost deafening, punctuated by claps that followed the energetic rhythm of the song Yamada-sensei chose.

And then, there was Kaminari, who never strayed far from Kirishima. His expression was slack with joy and adoration the entire time, teeth glinting as he shouted the lyrics at the top of his lungs. There was not a rhythmic bone in his body, but Kirishima could feel each of Kaminari’s steps pounding in his veins.

As the playlist dragged on, they sang all the songs, danced all the dances, and they both sang every word at each other, even when they remembered the wrong lyrics. Kaminari was a mess of flailing limbs and odd angles, and he was so alive, and so goddamn beautiful. More than once, he collapsed against Kirishima in a fit of giggles. The weight of his body held Kirishima’s focus completely, muting the shouts of other partygoers into white noise.

At the end of the playlist, Yamada-sensei allowed the rest of the students back onto the dancefloor. Undeterred, Kirishima and Kaminari kept dancing, jostled about in the lake of bodies until they had jived their way close to the outer perimeter of the crowd. That worked fine for them, because they had more room to go Plus Ultra, like Yamada-sensei had asked them. They swung each other around, hands grasping and playfully punching at each other’s limbs, and Kaminari was laughing, laughing, always laughing.

The next time Kaminari stumbled into his chest, Kirishima’s hands reflexively came to rest on his back. He opened his mouth to tease Kaminari about his clumsiness, but stopped when Kaminari slung an arm around his neck and shoulders. He pulled Kirishima close, and the point of his nose nuzzled into the crook of Kirishima’s neck. At first, Kirishima thought nothing of it—just an affectionate embrace among best friends—until he realized Kaminari was not letting go. Jagged breaths bounced against the shell of Kirishima’s ear, rising in volume. Their faces were so close together, almost touching, and though Kirishima tried to steady his breathing, he knew Kaminari could hear. The sound seemed louder than a jet engine during takeoff

Fuck. Kaminari would know. There was no way he wouldn’t. Fear gripped his lungs and made the ragged breaths come quicker. Yet, Kaminari didn’t pull away. And he was doing it too, letting out hot puffs of air against Kirishima’s collar. This couldn’t be happening. Maybe Kaminari was just breathless from the exertion of dancing. Maybe he would think the same thing about Kirishima, too. But they weren’t really dancing anymore, just swaying absently to the music, holding onto each other for far too long, and—he had to know . He had to know that Kirishima’s heartbeat was racing through his veins in an electric pulse.

Kirishima tightened his arms around Kaminari, testing the waters. Their chests pressed together, hips moving in time, occasionally bumping together. Fingers moved to stroke up the short hairs at the base of Kirishima’s skull, and suddenly Kaminari sounded like he was running a marathon.

Oh fuck. Oh shit. This wasn’t real. There was no way.

Kaminari whispered, “Kirishima ...” His arms were shaking.

Pulling back, Kirishima caught a glimpse of Kaminari’s face. His cheeks were ruddy, eyes glowing like liquid resin before it hardens into amber. Desperation and fear twisted his features.

Kirishima kissed him. Almost a little too hard. He nearly crushed their faces together in his haste, and as he started to berate himself for his foolishness, Kaminari surged against him. He clutched Kirishima’s neck with almost painful force, skin tags scraping the flesh and sending shivers down his spine. Kaminari’s other arm wrapped around his waist and then he was fervently kissing back.

The lack of air made Kirishima dizzy. However, the urgent press of Kaminari’s open mouth tugged at all the threads of Kirishima’s attention until he forgot about breathing entirely, save for the swelling pressure in his throat. And then Kaminari ran his tongue along the seam of Kirishima’s lips, and that brought the current situation back into sharp focus.

“Wait,” Kirishima gasped, and Kaminari’s tongue slipped into his mouth. His head swam with a rush of vertigo, and he indulged for a couple of seconds before he cupped Kaminari’s cheeks in both hands and pulled away. “Wait, we should—”

He took Kaminari’s wrist and led him out of the crowd. A few students shot them scandalized looks, whispering to each other, but Kirishima ignored them. Just a tiny bit of privacy—that was all Kirishima wanted.

They left the ballroom and Kirishima guided Kaminari through a few short corridors. Several changing rooms branched off from one hallway, where all the guests had left their belongings. Kirishima pulled Kaminari into the room that had the least amount of shit in it, in the hopes that this lessened their chances of being interrupted.

Almost as soon as Kirishima closed the door behind them, Kaminari was pushing him against a wall, picking up where they left off. His panting breaths cut the silence of the dressing room with a knife’s edge of desperation, and he kissed Kirishima hard, hands roaming his sides and chest in a flurry of firm presses. Groaning in relief, Kirishima pushed fingers up the swell of Kaminari’s throat, traced his jaw and cheeks, threaded a hand in his soft hair, and he delighted in every shudder. He had touched all of these places before, but this time was different—this time, he was allowed to want it.

They broke the kiss for a moment and Kaminari rested his forehead against Kirishima’s, nosing him with closed eyes. “Shit. Kirishima—”

“I like you so much, dude,” Kirishima blurted out, eyes screwed shut. He clung mindlessly to Kaminari’s face and hair. “I’m sorry.”

Kaminari gave a hysterical wheeze of a laugh. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I know you still haven’t gotten over Shinsou, and—I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to take advantage, or that I’m only nice to you because I like you, ‘cause you’re my friend and—”

Kaminari’s hands fisted in his shirt, yanking them together for another long kiss. When Kaminari released him, Kirishima was silent, staring at that beautiful face in a daze. His blonde eyebrows were knitted together and, oh man, Kirishima wished he could smooth them out with his fingers.

“That’s just how you are. You’re so nice that it makes me sick sometimes. You won’t stand up for yourself, and you won’t ask for what you want,” Kaminari panted, his voice pained.

“I want you to like me,” Kirishima pleaded. “So much.”

Wetness rimmed Kaminari’s eyes, pooling in the corners. He buried his face in Kirishima’s shoulder and squeezed him tightly, hands stroking at his back the same way they had so many years ago.

“You could’ve done so much better than me,” Kaminari choked out. “Won’t I just be, like, a backup?”

Kirishima’s voice broke. “What are you talking about? I wouldn’t have made it here without you. You’re so goddamn strong, and you make me laugh harder than anyone else.”

A shudder wracked Kaminari’s body and he made a wet, sniffling sound. He stood upright, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve, but the tears kept coming. He let out a derisive chuckle. “I’m a nobody, though. The best I can hope for is middle management and a two-bedroom apartment. All I ever do is watch dumb movies, and eat junk food, but you—”

“I’m the same way. And that’s part of why I like you—because you understand me. You understand how that feels.” Kirishima smoothed his thumbs over Kaminari’s cheeks, wiping the tears away. His face was a mess, already covered in red patches, and Kirishima wanted to kiss him all over. “I feel like somebody when I’m with you.”

“Dude, don’t say that,” Kaminari pleaded in a broken tone. He pressed his wet nose into the crook of his elbow. “Fuck.”

“Please. Kaminari, do you like me?”

The look he gave Kirishima was broken down, vulnerable, filled with a lifetime of disappointment and hurt. And Kirishima felt that agony keenly. He knew how hard it was to believe that he could be good enough. But he wanted to make Kaminari believe. He wanted to show him.

That desire must have come across. Because Kaminari wiped his eyes again and bravely met Kirishima’s eyes, brimming over with the sweetest kind of pain. “Fuck, Kirishima, of course. I love you.”

The earth stopped spinning beneath Kirishima’s feet. He grabbed hold of Kaminari and didn’t let go until the last of Yamada-sensei’s songs faded, and footsteps clicked through the corridors.

They left without saying goodbye to anyone. And Kirishima took Kaminari home, where he belonged.