Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tugging at the tight collar of his crisply pressed dress shirt for the umpteenth time, Kirishima Eijirou tried to shoot his father another harrowed glance. But, as always, his father was leaned back into the church pew with his eyes closed in reverence for the organ music filling the chapel. The sounds, however beautiful, were just noise to Eijirou. It was noise that filled every gap in his ears and drove him crazy. What was driving him even crazier was the sudden realization that he couldn’t move his toes in his shoes. Why couldn’t he move his toes in his shoes? Peering down at the shiny, brown loafers, Kirishima tried to focus all his energy in the muscles of his sock-covered toes, but it was no use. His toes were stuck. And so was he. He was stuck in this church service where, pretty soon, he’d need to stand up in front of everyone and sing. There were many things he hated his father for, but this had to be the cherry on top.

Kirishima Eijirou had a nasty habit of disappearing. Without warning, he’d get so overwhelmed so quickly to the point where his brain felt like it would explode if he didn’t become entirely invisible. When he was a kid, he’d let these feelings overtake him, not sure what else there was to do to make himself feel better. But his father wasn’t a fan of such avoidant behavior. Every time he’d lose his cool in the grocery store or during Sunday School or at the playground, his father would take him home to scream at him for a bit then lock him in his room for as long as he saw fit. Eventually, Eijirou decided that it’d be better if he stopped talking altogether, and he did just that when he turned fourteen. Now, over four years later, he refuses to speak more than one word to his mother or his father or anyone, for that matter. If he didn’t let himself speak or feel, and his father might finally stop screaming at him.

And it was in moments like this that Kirishima had to sit in the ocean of his own bubbling anxiety. He willed the feeling down through his body and hoped it would disappear altogether before he had to go up to sing. He didn’t like singing during the service, but it seemed to be the only thing that came out of his mouth that his father would listen to. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad singing one song every Sunday if it meant his father sitting there in acceptance the entire time. The organist droned on towards the final verse of the hymn. The signal sent chills through Kirishima’s arms as he rubbed his sweaty palms together. They were always so sweaty, and at times it was entirely unbearable. He tried to wipe his palms discreetly on his nice church pants, even checking for his father’s hawk eyes in the process. The organist concluded her piece with an out-of-tune chord and the congregation sat in uneven unison, accented by shuffling bulletins and the occasional sniff. Once the entire congregation had found their spots on the pews, Kirishima’s father strode up to the podium with a wide grin.

“Grace and peace to all who are gathered here,” he called out to the crowd.

Churchgoers murmured in agreement. Against the white walls of the chapel, the people looked like pasted-on blobs of soft pastels and stark black. Children were squished between their mothers and fathers wearing half-undone ties and fiddling with their gelled hair as the minister began to speak. A few woman had fashioned their bulletins into makeshift fans to create a bit of breeze near their face. The chapel was uncharacteristically hot, a convenient reminder of the start of June and the inauguration of summer. If you payed attention to the gaps of sound where silence resided, you could hear the bugs buzzing outside the building, especially because the church ladies had opened some of the windows before the service. If Kirishima’s dad had enough money, he would’ve installed an air conditioning unit a long time ago. His wife complained enough that Eijirou thought he would’ve done it by now, but the man was so stubborn, choosing to save as much money as he could to keep up on the rent, instead. Kirishima supposed that there was no point in buying a conditioning unit for a building he couldn’t even afford to keep. And he’d said something once about the heat reminding us how near we really are to hell—Kirishima stopped listening halfway through.

“It’s good to be in the house of the Lord on this fine June day, is it not, church?”

The crowd agreed with the minister in little affirming murmurs. Some coughed instead. Kirishima swears he can sometimes hear Death’s rattle in some of the old folks’ throats when they hack and choke during service. If he pulled something like that, his dad would spray him with the hose when they got home in his nice church clothes then tell him to lay out in the sun to dry. Yes, it was better to stay silent than poke the bear. Kirishima scanned the small choir sitting up behind his father on the little stage. There were only fifteen or so of them, give or take, and Kirishima knew almost every single one of them. In particular, he glanced over at Tamaki Amajiki. If there was anyone in this church who was even shyer than Kirishima, it was Tamaki. The boy, only one year older than Eijirou, had let his black locks grow long enough to cover one of his eyes; he’d told Kirishima that he did it so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact with people so much. His father left when he was young, so Tamaki was raised by his mother, a mousy woman who was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia a few years back. Whenever the Kirishima household received a midnight call, it was always her ranting on about how the government is watching her every move or that demons had been following her around the produce section. Despite his endless Bible education, Kirishima’s father was never trained in convincing a woman in her fifties that every car that drives behind her isn’t Satan himself keeping close watch on her. Kirishima assumed that she kept Tamaki inside most of the time, the ghostly pale state of his skin was telling, in that regard. Sometimes he’d show up to choir practice looking like he hadn’t slept a wink. One time, it was because Tamaki had to search for his mother in the middle of the night who was browsing a rice field claiming that God had left something for her in the reeds. At least, that’s what Kirishima overheard.

But despite his mousy and ghastly appearance, Tamaki wasn’t so bad looking. Kirishima liked his high cheekbones and porcelain skin. He was always cold, so he’d wear these large knit sweaters to morning service, even in the summertime. His lips were pale pink and thin, but they looked so soft and gentle. Tamaki didn’t smile very often, and Kirishima thought it was a shame. He’d like to see the boy smile more often. Kirishima’s father must’ve announced the Bible verse for the day since the entire crowd of churchgoers began to rifle through their personal copies to follow his lead. Tamaki glanced over and locked eyes with Kirishima who had forgotten entirely that he was staring. Immediately, Tamaki’s cheeks flushed bright red and the round tip of his nose was smattered with the same shade. He blinked a few times, unmoving, neither boy breaking the eye contact. He and Kirishima had met in Sunday School years ago and bonded over crazy parents and preferring to be invisible. They would walk home from school together before Tamaki graduated and left for college. He only stayed in university for one semester before his mother begged him to come home. After Kirishima graduated in May, he hadn’t seen much of Tamaki. Even if the interaction was brief, Kirishima was more pleased to see Tamaki’s cheeks flush so quickly than he’d like to admit.

Cute, he thought.

Tamaki Amajiki was the first to look away. He was far more aware of the momentum of Kirishima’s father’s sermon as it droned on endlessly. He’d sat through enough of his dad’s talks that he’d become an expert in tuning him out. It was the same skill he’d use when his father would scream at him. In the front row of pews sat his mother. She was a portly woman approaching fifty who always sat with her purse attached at her hip and her Bible clutched close to her chest with white-knuckled fingers. Kirishima looked more like his father than his mother and he cursed that very fact every time he looked in the mirror. His mother was so beautiful, and all Eijirou had inherited was her thick, black hair. Hers reached the middle of her back while Kirishima’s father wouldn’t let the boy’s hair touch his ears. He’d always say that if he grew it out too long, he’d look too “girly”. So now he had a close-cropped cut that only left a good bit of hair on top. And every morning, his father would check if it was gelled to perfection; perfection being identical to his father’s signature look.

As Kirishima ran his tongue nervously over the sharp points of his canines, he tuned back into the sermon to gauge when it was time to get really anxious. And, just his luck, his father was giving his closing remarks with a good bit of fervor. Had Kirishima really been distracted for that long? Or maybe he’d just gotten really good at the whole “tuning out” thing. When the minister’s closing prayer finally began, Kirishima checked his body for the familiar sensations he’d get every single week, without fail. First, his feet would always go numb, assuring that he tripped on his way up to the microphone. Next, his hands would start to tingle, and his fingers would shake uncontrollably. Afterwards, his chest would always get uncomfortably tight and any sort of deep breathing would only make him more nervous and jumpstart his kettle-drum heart.

“And now, as always,” said his father, “I’d like to invite my son up to perform our closing hymn.”

God, please help me, Kirishima prayed in his mind, I can’t do this anymore.

Through his bleary vision, Kirishima watched his father step away from the podium and turn towards where his son was seated. His face was soft and personable, but there was always a twinge of threat in his twitching brow. He refused to take his eyes off of Kirishima until he stood woozily to his feet and steadied himself on the organ shelf. As sick as he felt, Kirishima couldn’t quit now that he was trudging his numb feet towards the podium. The churchgoers waited expectantly, a cough and a sniffle here or there reminded Kirishima of his present reality. Once he reached the microphone, he gripped the sides of the podium as hard as he could to try and keep himself upright. He felt a bead of sweat fall down his back; it would be the first of many. His lips trembled as the accompanist’s music began to swell from the piano off to his right.

The audience started to swim in Kirishima’s vision. Even his mother’s face had gone blurry, and she was sitting so close to him. In the breath that Kirishima always took before he began to sing, he’d formed this little habit of saying a prayer. And it was always the same prayer, some variation of “Please let this be the last time I sing, Lord”. But the Lord never answered his prayer since he always found himself back at the microphone every single Sunday. Maybe God was getting tired of his prayers, maybe he wasn’t asking for the right thing. Kirishima’s brain couldn’t think of anything else to ask other than “save me”. As he inhaled, the thought entered his mind:

Lord,
send someone to save me.
Send anyone to save me.
It doesn’t even have to be an angel.
Just send me someone who will save me from this nightmare.

And with his “Amen”, Kirishima began to sing. The notes felt like individual bouts of torture in his throat. His stomach burned with a nausea and his heartbeat right at the edge of his chest where everyone could see. He heard himself slip up a word at one point and go sharp on a few notes of his song. Each mistake sent a jolt of fear right to his already ailing stomach; he stocked them all up so he could prepare for his father’s critiques when they got home. As he entered the second verse of the song, Kirishima focused on the back door in desperation as he tried to stay grounded. If he looked at the crowd while he was singing, Kirishima would probably just melt from all the eyes on him, so he had chosen a spot at the back of the church to stare at which would help him pretend that there was no one there and he was singing all alone. The church doors always remained unmoving, especially now that they’d been propped open to allow the occasional summer breeze to infiltrate the chapel. Kirishima stared at the constant structure and the barren street right outside the glass.

Shoot, he thought.

He’d forgotten the first words of the third verse. Kirishima searched frantically in his head. It had to be in there somewhere, his father made him practice this song for at least an hour each day that past week. How could he be so stupid? Stupid people forget the first words of the third verse of a hymn everyone already knows. Kirishima felt his knuckles going white as he gripped the podium tighter and tighter. His eyes trailed up for a moment as he scanned his entire memory for the lyrics. If he got this wrong, there would be hell to pay. It was a miracle when the right words came rushing to the forefront of his mind just in time for the piano’s cue. His eyes fell back down to their favorite spot, hoping to see the familiar doorway and empty street.

But there was someone in the doorway.

There was a boy in the doorway.

Kirishima kept singing. There was a real boy in the doorway of his father’s church, just standing there. He was a little too far to the left, so Kirishima could only see part of his body, but even his blurry vision could spot a mess of spiky blond hair and an outfit that was all black. With the distance and Kirishima’s poor eyesight, he couldn’t see any more details apart from those. He tried to peer discreetly, but it was no use. The boy was too far away, just a beige blob covered in black and topped with bleach blonde locks. Kirishima’s heart tightened. What if the boy saw that he was staring? What was he doing there, anyways? He hadn’t been there before unless Kirishima was really seeing things this time. Questions buzzed around the boy’s brain as he sang the final lines of his hymn. The faster he could get the song over with, the quicker he could find the boy behind the door and get a good look at him. When the dreaded thing did finally end with a concluding chord, the audience clapped politely, just like they always did. Kirishima stood for a moment in reverent appreciation for the applause before returning to his seat. But before he did, he took one final glance back towards the doorway.

With a flash of blond, the boy had disappeared.

Kirishima’s heart sank. He tapped his foot impatiently while his father ended the service as slow as he possibly could. Kirishima wrung his fingers together as the final farewell was shared and the crowd finally began to stand and disperse. Chatter amongst the churchgoers rose as Kirishima stood diligently. He glanced out the door again, but the boy had left. Kirishima tried to look from all the possible angles, thinking he might just be hiding behind the wall, but the boy was really gone. Kirishima sighed.

Despite his disappointment, Kirishima wasn’t one to relent when things got hard. Rather, he kept looking around for the boy as he accompanied his mother in greeting various friends and acquaintances after the service. He continued his search as the crowd shuffled into the adjacent room for a measly lunch of sandwiches donated by the nearby supermarket and potato salad left over from Wednesday quilting circle. Even in his dad’s old car, Kirishima kept an eye out for another blob of blond or black strolling along the side of the country road. Every pothole they hit would jerk Kirishima back to reality. Their house was far in the country, so Kirishima had lots of time to rest his elbow at the window and think and search, but he was only disappointed at the end of it. His father pulled into the driveway just as the sun was peeking out from behind their one-story home and Kirishima was forced to relinquish his valorous mission.

The house wasn’t anything impressive. It was a little country home far enough away from their neighbors that it was easier to go to the store than ask to borrow anything from nearby homes. The living room and the kitchen were basically one room and they’d shoved a little plastic dining table in the center of it all where the Kirishima family would share nightly dinners together, usually in silence. The TV was small and worked eighty percent of the time, and Kirishima’s room was the size of a postage stamp. He could barely fit his bed, bookshelf, and desk in there, but he’d managed somehow. He’d rearranged many times since he spent so much time in his room at his father’s demand. There was one window on the west-facing wall that let him gaze out to the plain countryside while he sat at his desk. He loved his little window. Though it took a little maneuvering to open, it reminded Kirishima that there was someplace to go that wasn’t his home where his father would probably live forever.

When he stepped foot into his room, Kirishima threw his body onto his creaky mattress. His eyes blurred as he stared at the popcorn ceiling above him. It was peeling in some places. They couldn’t afford to get it fixed. Kirishima thought about the boy in the doorway. He thought about the boy’s black clothing and strangely shaped hair. Questions of why he was even there floated aimlessly around Kirishima’s head, he couldn’t focus on just one of them. Perhaps he really had just imagined it all. Maybe he was really going crazy after not talking for so many years that his mind was trying to conjure up false hope for his dire situation. It was hot and sticky in his room just like it was in the church. The setting sun streamed through the windowpanes, painting the floor and the surrounding furniture in bright orange hues. That was another thing Kirishima liked about his room: the window made sure he knew exactly when the day ended and when darkness would descend. Kirishima was scared of the dark, after all.

The forceful throwing open of his door snapped Kirishima from his daze and coaxed him upright.

“Change out of your church clothes and come set the table for dinner,” his father commanded gruffly.

While Kirishima would much rather watch the setting sun, it didn’t matter what he wanted. And it already felt like darkness had descended anyways.

The smell of freshly shampooed hair wafted around Kirishima’s head as he sat in bed with his knees pulled up to his chest and a thick book resting atop his knees. He slid his finger behind the current page he was reading so he was ready to flip it and not miss a moment of the following phrase. He’d turned off all his lights except for the dim lamp on his nightstand which gave off just enough light to allow him to read the small, black print. He wore his oversized science fair shirt with his ratty, old pajama pants that had once belonged to his father when he was much younger and thinner. As he read, Kirishima moved his toes freely in between the creases of his comforter. His tongue ran over his sharp canines before he sunk his front teeth into his lip. When he was focused on something, he was always either chewing on the inside of his cheek, biting his bottom lip, or playing with the soft ends of his hair. When he was in church, his father would always slap his hand down or tell him to close his lips and stop showing his teeth; the time he spent in his bedroom was reserved for these comforting behaviors.

He was so engrossed in the current story that he didn’t even notice the aching skin of his lip. It was some C.S. Lewis book that his mother had bought him for his eighteenth birthday a few months ago. His father only let him have books that were “aligned” with their faith values, so there wasn’t much to read other than The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe or the Bible itself. Even when Eijirou was forced to read secular books for his English class, his father would grumble the whole time and make it seem like Kirishima constructed the entire reading list or had any sort of control over his teachers. He’d read the dangerous books but try to forget it all after he did, wanting nothing more than to remain in his father’s good graces.

Kirishima glanced at the alarm clock on his desk. It was 9:00. His parents were probably already asleep, and they probably thought Kirishima was too. As long as he stayed in his room, his parents would never suspect that Kirishima stayed up until 10 and, sometimes, 10:30. He wasn’t sure how mad they’d be, especially considering that he was eighteen now, but he wasn’t going to test their patience and lose his bedtime privileges again. He lifted a thumb to his mouth to bite on the nail after flipping to the next page. The room was shrouded in silence. Faintly, Kirishima could hear crickets chirping outside his window and the occasional whistling breeze. When his father wasn’t yelling, Kirishima’s house was eerily quiet. The appliances would hum lowly during the night, but it’d all become background noise to the three of them. Kirishima enjoyed silence. It wrapped around him like a warm, heavy blanket. When rooms would get too loud, he’d feel like his head was filling up with sound to an unbearable degree where his body would start to rock and shake without his prompting. In silent moments like these, he could exist fully without the fear of crumbling in front of everyone.

With the soft rustle of pages as he flipped to the next set of words, Kirishima yawned. He thought about going to bed and drifting off to sleep and waking up early the next morning to go to the grocery store then maybe the lake, unless it was too hot of course—

BAM.

Kirishima jolted awake. His eyes widened as fear coursed through his entire body. With his breath hitching in his throat, Kirishima felt his entire body go dry.

BAM BAM.

His heart rate picked up immediately. Even if Kirishima wanted to speak, he couldn’t. He couldn’t speak because someone, in the dead of night, was knocking at his window. His body might as well have been paralyzed. His fingers were digging holes into the edges of his book and all his muscles ached from the sudden burst of adrenaline.

What if it was a robber?

Or a murderer?

Or Jesus?

He wasn't ready to meet Jesus yet. At least, not in his tenth grade science fair t-shirt.

“Oh my gosh,” Kirishima whispered faintly to himself.

With slow hands, Kirishima closed his book and set it gently beside him. He tried to move slowly so that whoever was outside his window would think there was no one home, but like an idiot he’d left his light on. Obviously there was someone home if the light was on. The headboard of Kirishima’s bed was against the wall where his window was, so all he had to do to see out of it was look to his left, but he didn’t dare. What if he looked outside and the murderer was wearing a mask and he screamed and woke up his parents and then the murderer was gone and then they killed him for waking them up for nothing? Scenario after scenario raced through Eijirou’s mind, and all of them ended in disaster or his father waking up, which was sort of the same thing.

Kirishima swallowed hard. He slowly extended his legs out down the bed and squinted his eyes to say a short little prayer for protection. Considering there was nothing remotely resembling a weapon anywhere in his room, Kirishima would have to fight the intruder with his own strength. And considering that Kirishima had never fought anyone in his life, he’d surely lose. But it was better than waking up his father.

BAM BAM.

The intruder was relentless. Kirishima’s entire body trembled at the knocking sound. He had to do it, he had to look. Preparing himself for almost anything, Kirishima’s head began to swivel towards the window, eyes pressed shut. Once his entire head was facing his left, he opened his left eye slowly, then his right. There could’ve been anything out there in the dark, he couldn’t imagine all of the possibilities. All he could do was look.

And looking back at him was a familiar blob of beige,

topped with a flash of blonde and dressed in all black.

Chapter Text

If the boy really was an angel, he certainly didn’t look the part.

Even through the soft distortion of the window’s warping glass, Kirishima could clearly see the boy’s general appearance from the shoulders up. His blonde hair was spiked up in all different directions and both of his ears were decorated with a collection of messily done piercings. From these holes hung all sorts of things that Kirishima never would’ve thought to be earrings: safety pins, small cross keychains, and even pin like the ones his mom used when she sewed. At the very tops of his shoulders, Kirishima noticed a row of silver studs glinting in the moonlight. Though all the surrounding features would suggest a frightening appearance, the boy’s face was made of surprisingly soft edges. His jaw was defined, yet thin. His skin was adorned with only a few fading scars and his thin, hard-set lips were a deep shade of rose. It was his eyes that made Kirishima’s skin crawl; they were piercing things, sharp as daggers at the edges and gleaming crimson at the iris. The boy’s gaze was always hooded, lined with a neat row of short blond lashes. As his brow settled overtop the lids, his gaze darkened as Kirishima’s eyes met his.

Kirishima swallowed hard. His body, alight with terror, was paralyzed on his bed. He tried to twitch a finger, but it felt as though all his individual limbs had been injected with pure gold that weighed him down against his sheets. Each breath that fanned his lips was shaky and broken. But he couldn’t tear his eyes from the boy’s intense gaze, it was a fierce magnetic pull that Kirishima had no leverage against. He listened closely for the rustle of his parent’s sheets or his father’s telling footsteps against the hardwood, he was sure that they’d heard the incessant rapping at his window like he did. But the house was still shrouded in silence, only the old appliances humming happily outside his door. As Kirishima eyed the boy at his window, he watched the blonde’s shoulder begin to move, eye contact never breaking. What if he knocked again? What if he had a gun in his hand and Kirishima was his only target?

He didn’t have time to imagine all the possibilities before the boy’s beefy, ringed index finger came into view through the glass. He turned it so his closed palm was facing towards the sky and the finger was pointing right at Eijirou. With a beckoning curl, Kirishima noticed his stubby nails painted with black polish. And as he kept curling the finger, motioning, it was entirely clear what he was asking.

The boy wanted Kirishima to come to the window.

Instinctively, Kirishima shook his head. He felt like a wind-up doll who only had one action in their programming, and the boy at the window had been winding him up ever since he appeared. Just as Kirishima’s head stilled, he watched the blonde’s head move in a slow and intentional nod. He beckoned with his finger again, his gaze still unchanging. It was so authoritative, even though there were no words exchanged. It was clear that Kirishima had seen him, so he couldn’t sit there and ignore the boy. And it was also clear that he would find some way to get Kirishima’s attention, no matter how much he wanted to disappear. Kirishima swallowed again, trying desperately not to hurl all over his comforter.

If someone had asked Kirishima to give a reason for treading slowly to the window, he probably would’ve told them that he didn’t want the boy to knock again and awaken his parents, but that was only half-true. Even amidst his pounding fear, the curiosity was eating away at Kirishima like a parasite. The boy had seen him and affirmed that he was who he was looking for; what could he possibly want? It would’ve been foolish to continue sitting on his bedspread like a statue when he had an opportunity to shoo the boy away for good. So, as his soft feet pressed against the cold hardwood, Kirishima shivered in half-fear, half anticipation. When he did approach the window, he felt his body paralyze once more.

If the boy’s appearance had been jarring from a distance, Kirishima hadn’t prepped himself at all for what he’d look like up close. Every feature that had once appeared in a blur became a chiseled line. His nose was flat and wide with only the slightest curve where he’d probably broken it years ago. Sticking out from his bottom lip was a small safety pin that he must’ve stuck in there himself—Kirishima winced at the thought. His gaze, which was once a simple peering at Kirishima’s form, became a hypnotizing force that he couldn’t snap himself out of. Kirishima didn’t know if it was the moon or the light streaming from his room, but a soft halo of light curved around the boy’s head, illuminating the features which protruded and painting gray shadows over the sunken facets of his appearance. At certain angles, he looked like those oil paintings his father had hung up in the chapel, the ones where Jesus was sat in the center surrounded by light and painted with the artist’s greatest precision. His eyebrows were a few shades darker than the hair on his head; Kirishima wondered if it was dyed, or if it had always been that way. Kirishima was just a tad taller than the blond who he assumed was standing at his full height, too.

The boy’s finger had stopped beckoning now that Kirishima stood face-to-face with him at the window. Instead, he’d flipped his palm and stuck the tip of his finger onto the pane of glass. He tapped once with a muted thump. A chill ran down Kirishima’s spine. He tapped again, his lips parting just slightly.

“Open the window,” he mouthed, exaggerating each syllable.

Feeling his body wind up once more, all Kirishima could do in response was shake his head. What sort of crazy person opens the window when they’re told to, especially by some stranger dressed like he was? Kirishima was no fool, except that he hoped foolishly that his shaking head would coax the boy away into the night. But the blond was relentless, as expected, his finger tapping against the glass a few more times.

“Open,” he mouthed again, flashing his uneven row of unkempt teeth.

Kirishima’s heart thrummed hard against the edge of his chest. His mouth filled with saliva, usually his first warning that he was about to vomit. His hands felt ice-cold propped at the windowsill. The boy tilted his head, his gaze intensifying on his prey. His lip quirked up to reveal a particularly sharp canine which he sucked on with the front of his tongue.

“Do it,” he mouthed, his head tilting back upright.

Kirishima was crazy. He was certifiably insane. There was no reason for his hand to float towards the window clasp, unhinging it shakily. He had no defense for the way he wriggled his fingers beneath the metal and pushed the end up as quietly as he could. And there was certainly no good reason for him to open the window all the way, revealing the full human face that stood before him.

“Thank god,” the boy grumbled, “I was about to grab a rock and smash the shit myself.”

Kirishima’s body flinched when the boy cursed. He’d heard kids at school say it, but he’d never said something like that himself or had friends that made a habit of it. Hearing it fall so cleanly from his mouth felt strange in Kirishima’s ears. And his voice was low and grumbly, even as it crackled and broke on certain words.

“I wasn’t sure you were gonna play nice, so I brought my own rock—just in case.”

The only way Kirishima could describe his voice was that he sounded like he was perpetually on the verge of losing his voice from strep throat or something. Perhaps the boy shouted a lot. There’s the first thing he and Kirishima didn’t have in common. In one swift motion, the blond planted his hands on the windowsill so his polished fingers would spill over into Kirishima’s room. He was wearing rings on every other finger and a chain was dangling from his wrist. If his dad were to describe the way the boy dressed, he would’ve only used one word—satanic.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

It was pretty polite for a boy who looked as he did. He could’ve demanded that Kirishima let him in, but he asked, instead, even if it was in his deep, grumbly voice with his crazy intense crimson stare. Again, Kirishima became the wind-up doll he was familiar with, shaking his head furiously.

“Fine,” the boy sighed, “then I’ll ask you from here.”

When he blinked, Kirishima watched the boy subtly roll his eyes. He seemed more inconvenienced than frustrated by Kirishima’s unwillingness to play along, but he must’ve caught onto the green shade of his face and the look of terror in his eyes.

“My name is Bakugou,” he hummed, “Bakugou Katsuki.”

Every ‘k’ in his name clicked against the back of Bakugou’s throat like an unlocking door. With his greeting, Bakugou picked up his right hand and extended it to Kirishima. A handshake? Damn, Kirishima was no good at these. He picked his own hand up hesitantly, observing the shake in his fingers almost immediately, and pressed it to Bakugou’s. The surface of his palm was calloused and warm. Against his own palm, Kirishima felt his cold rings rub against his skin and send jolts up his wrist. Bakugou took the lead, shaking their palms together twice with force. When their hands finally separated, the cold breeze nipped at Kirishima’s new exposed skin.

After a pause, Bakugou furrowed his brow, “Now’s the part where you tell me your name.”

With a hard swallow, Kirishima parted his lips and willed for some sort of sound to come out of them. His own name felt trapped up in his chest, a silent prayer for the Bakugou’s attention.

“Kirishima,” he whispered shakily.

“Kirishima,” Bakugou repeated, resting his elbows on either side of the windowsill and laid his hands down between them.

Coming out of Bakugou’s mouth, his name sounded entirely different. In his voice, Kirishima’s name sounded real and alive, full of something of substance. It wasn’t the airy quality his mother always gave it or the ominous shadow his father had made his name out to be. When Bakugou said it, Kirishima’s name had a heartbeat.

“I saw you singin’ in church today,” said Bakugou, tilting his head, “you do that every Sunday?”

Kirishima nodded subtly. Bakugou looked pleased.

“You’re good—well,” Bakugou shrugged, “you have potential.”

Kirishima furrowed his brow. Had Bakugou really come to his window in the night just to give him a compliment?

“T-thanks,” he stuttered through a whisper.

Bakugou leaned in a little bit closer. His nose was only a pencil’s length from Kirishima’s.

“I’ve got this band, just me and my friends fuckin’ around,” said Bakugou, “and we need a lead singer.”

Kirishima took half a step back from the casual expletive, his hands still poised on the windowsill.

“I think you’re that singer,” the blond crooned.

With his mouth agape, Kirishima took another half-step behind him, harrowed by Bakugou’s request. Sing? In front of other people? In a punk band?

“I—” Kirishima stuttered, “I couldn’t—I d-don’t—I don’t think—”

He must’ve sounded like an idiot. He couldn’t even get a proper word out. Discreetly, Kirishima wiped his clammy hands along his old pajama pants and licked his fast-drying lips in desperation. The corner of Bakugou’s mouth turned up just enough to be considered a smile. If anything, he was amused by the other boy’s stammering.

“So, you won’t do it?” Bakugou asked.

“I—I wouldn’t be—any good,” Kirishima’s voice kept cracking at the vital words.

“How do ya know?” he asked, squinting his eyes teasingly at Kirishima.

How did he know? He had eighteen years of life to teach him that he’d never be cut out for crowds or leather or spikes or safety pins or anything else Bakugou was toting on his body. Kirishima couldn’t imagine what Bakugou saw in him while watching him sing in his clean button-down and brown slacks at the podium of his father’s church. What of such a sight screamed “punk frontman” to the boy? Maybe he really was insane.

“I just—don’t think I’m c-cut out for punk,” Kirishima reasoned, glancing down at his tangling fingers.

“Fair,” Bakugou pouted in thought.

“A-and my dad would—oh, my dad would kill me,” he whispered, his eyes still avoiding Bakugou’s gaze.

“Maybe,” the blond replied.

“I really only sing—” Kirishima looked back up at Bakugou, “in church.”

Bakugou’s face softened. He still looked so bemused by Kirishima’s ramblings. This guy was definitely off his rocker.

“But you kinda wanna do it, don’t ya?”

His casual tone kept throwing Kirishima off. His father would never let him get away with cutting the corners of words like that. Maybe it was a punk thing. Kirishima shot Bakugou a quizzical look.

“I know it’s true,” Bakugou leaned in further, “because you haven’t told me ‘no’.”

With their faces just inches apart, Kirishima’s heart thrummed so loud that he was afraid Bakugou could hear. But the insanely dressed blond was right, all he had to do was say ‘no’. If he did, Bakugou would go away and probably never come back. Isn’t that what he wanted?

Oftentimes, Kirishima would talk about his life like a wet baby blanket. There was a period of time where the way he lived, the way his father wanted him to live, brought him comfort and warmth. He would always fit neatly under the blanket’s arms and, when he wasn’t sleeping, he’d carry it around by the corner for everyone to see. And he’d always thank his dad for the baby blanket, he would be so cold without it. But, one day, Kirishima woke up with cold toes and he realized that he wasn’t small enough to fit under the blanket anymore. And he kept growing, day after day, his limbs would keep extending past the edges of the ratted, rotting piece of fabric. Now he had to carry that damn tear-soaked blanket everywhere he went because Lord forbid he learn how to live without it.

It sopped from his hand. It weighed his entire body towards the floor. When would he shed such a treacherous thing? If he told Bakugou ‘no’, he’d be going back to what he’d always done, he’d be answering to the blanket once more. He’d be buried six feet down with the thing gripped in his cold, dead fingers.

“Y’know what,” Bakugou leaned back, “think about it.”

Kirishima nodded. Bakugou leaned down towards his pants and struggled to tear something from them. Okay, this was definitely a gun.

“Here,” Bakugou said, handing some piece of cloth to Kirishima.

Kirishima took it gingerly and observed the intricate features. It was a patch, a piece of black fabric with something painted on it in white; the paint was faded and chipped, but Kirishima could just make out a man’s face and a word—RESIST. Kirishima ran his finger over the crusted block letters and the tattered edges which probably tore when Bakugou took the thing right off his own clothing.

“When you see that patch, you think about what I asked you, okay?”

Glancing back up at the angel on his windowsill, Kirishima nodded instinctively. With the smallest smirk, Bakugou patted his hand on the edge of the windowsill and turned his body to leave. After only one step, Bakugou turned his head back to get another look at Kirishima. It was the first time Kirishima had caught a glimpse of his full body. The rest of his outfit was as ragged and black clad as his upper half. He’d thrown a studded leather jacket over a purposefully tattered black tee with some band on it that Kirishima had never heard of. His black skinny jeans were covered in a collection of colorful patches and pins, spare one bare square where the patch he’d handed to Kirishima must’ve originated. His feet were decked out in stompy, black boots tied up with bright yellow laces. Bakugou’s form nearly disappeared against the inky night sky, but it looked more to Kirishima like he was a perfect fit. It was like the nighttime was made for Bakugou alone.

“By the way,” Bakugou called over his shoulder, “I think your dad looks like a real cock-sucker.”

The urge to giggle and the urge to gasp from the expletive flooded through Kirishima’s mind at the same time. It was a cruel cocktail that only let him widen his eyes and let out one soft snort in response. When he looked back out the window, Bakugou’s form was getting smaller and smaller as the boy walked away. Once he’d disappeared completely, Kirishima closed his window softly and peered down at the black patch he was unconsciously gripping in his fingers.

Think about it, huh?

For all his life, Kirishima had seen the night as the simple absence of daytime, a period of waiting for the sun’s reprise. But now, the night had substance and form.
And it’d taken form in Bakugou Katsuki.

The second night that Bakugou Katsuki knocked at Kirishima’s window, the poor boy nearly peed his pants. Bakugou had never said that first night when he’d return to gather Kirishima’s answer, but he never expected it to be the very next night. He’d been sitting at his desk for ages, pouring over a new hymn that his father wanted him to sing at next week’s Sunday service. Just as his eyes roamed to the second verse, he heard the familiar tapping at his window. When he turned to see Bakugou’s smug face, he wondered if he was going crazy or if he was dreaming it all. Kirishima glanced over at his nightstand to see the black patch sitting where he’d left it before falling asleep the prior day. All throughout the day, he’d taken every possible moment to look at the patch and think about Bakugou’s proposal, just like he asked.

If looking at the patch was frequent sips of water during the long, hot day, seeing him at his window was an unstoppable flood.

“What are you doing here?” Kirishima whispered, pushing the window back open so the boy could lean even further into his room.

“Just thought you’d have an answer for me,” Bakugou said seriously.

“It’s only—it’s only been one day!” hissed Kirishima.

“Yeah,” he replied, “I thought you’d be quicker about it. Since you’re so high-strung ‘n all.”

Kirishima was taken aback, even though Bakugou was right.

“I’m not high strung.”

It sounded as much like a lie on his lips as it did in his head.

“Alright, Rock Solid, I believe you,” crooned Bakugou.

Rock Solid? What kind of nickname was that?

“The rocks,” Bakugou pointed to a shelf behind Kirishima, “you’re into all that geology stuff, right?”

“Y-yeah,” Kirishima stammered, surprised that the boy would pick up on such a small detail.

Despite the fact that Bakugou had even gotten Kirishima to speak to him, he still didn’t have an answer for the delinquent. He thought he’d have more time to think, but Bakugou was before him, waiting expectantly. But now, he felt like he was drowning in all the expectation. He kept swallowing buckets of salty seawater, choking on his own words and feelings. It was all too much, too overwhelming. It was almost enough to make him say no. But there was a sincerity in Bakugou’s eyes that Kirishima couldn’t shake the memory of—could it be that this boy wasn’t mocking him like all the other kids did? Did he mean it when he asked Kirishima to join his band?

“Then ta-da, you’re Rock Solid,” Bakugou gestured casually, “I think it’s a kickass name.”

There was a ghost of a grin on Bakugou’s face as he said it. Kirishima felt his face grow hot. He’d never had a nickname before—probably because he’s never had any friends before. But was Bakugou his friend? Or did he just want something from Kirishima?

The third night that Bakugou Katsuki knocked at Kirishima’s window, Kirishima didn’t want to admit that he’d been waiting. There was a subtle fear that haunted him all day which told him that last night was just a fluke, he’d never show three days in a row. So when the fateful knock did echo through his room at 9 pm, like clockwork, Kirishima was flipping mindlessly through a book he didn’t really care about so he could steal occasional glances to the glass. As he opened the window, he saw a mess of eyeliner smudged under Bakugou’s eye and a bubble of blood dribbling from a split in his bottom lip.

“What happened?” Kirishima asked, terrified.

“Can’t tell ya,” Bakugou replied, wiping haphazardly at his injury.

“Why not?” Kirishima interrogated, itching to reach out towards the boy’s face.

Bakugou looked down at the mess of blood on his thumb, “If I tell you, ya might not wanna be my friend, anymore.”

Even though Bakugou didn’t laugh, Kirishima could tell that he was amused by his own joke.

“Anyways, are you gonna join my band or what?”

Kirishima scoffed softly.

“I’m not telling you anything until your lips stops bleeding,” he told the boy, “I’ve got band-aids in my nightstand.”

Bakugou quirked his eyebrow, “Is this you inviting me inside?”

Kirishima’s body arrested again with fear. He wondered how deep Katsuki had to read into his words to come to a conclusion like that.

“I—w-well—” Kirishima sputtered, frozen in place.

“Kidding,” Bakugou interrupted, “just get the band-aid.”

He obeyed, trudging to his nightstand to fish out a small band-aid from the collection he used for his acne. When he picked at a spot so much that it began to bleed, he’d stick on a little band-aid to ensure that his face wouldn’t stain his pillow while he slept. He stuck his hand out the window and offered the tiny package. As Bakugou accepted the offering, the rough tips of his fingers rubbed against the tops of Kirishima’s. He tore the package with his teeth and unwrapped the sticky part of the bandage. In a silent moment of focus, Bakugou felt around for the wound with his index finger and lowered the bandage slowly onto the place where the skin had split. For that silent moment, Bakugou’s intense gaze softened slightly and he winced subtly when he poked his own wound.

When Bakugou had first appeared at his window, Kirishima had been nothing short of terrified. Bakugou always seemed like the brightest angel, an unstoppable force, something Kirishima would eventually drown in. But as the boy’s consistency became more apparent, he began to look more like dry land than he looked like the merciless ocean. Bakugou handed the garbage from the bandage wrapping to Kirishima wordlessly. He pressed the spot a few more times to ensure that the bandage was stuck on for good. As he did, he eyed Kirishima curiously.

“You just think I’m some punk kid, don’t ya?” he asked.

Kirishima pulled his lips in between his teeth.

“Aren’t you?” he asked quietly.

Katsuki scoffed.

“I guess so,” he said gruffly.

All of Bakugou’s words were vague. They were ghosts of what he truly wanted to say which haunted his mouth. The only thing he ever said in certainty was the one question Kirishima had hoped he’d forgotten.

“So, yes?”

The fourth night that Bakugou Katsuki knocked at Kirishima’s window, Kirishima hoped it wasn’t so obvious that he was very blatantly sitting near the window as the clock ticked closer and closer to 9 pm. He’d spent the majority of the day sitting in his father’s Bible Study, but he didn’t focus on a minute of it. Every time his fingers would search for a book in the Bible, his mind would wander to Bakugou and what he’d say that day. The thought that he’d give up after only three days seemed ridiculous now, he was far more persistent than that. So, when the clock struck 9:12, Kirishima’s heart tightened and his mouth filled with a sour taste.

Bakugou had forgotten about him.

Tears pricked Kirishima’s eyes. He really was an idiot. He was an idiot in an old track t-shirt and boxers waiting at the window for a boy who was never gonna show. If anyone could see him, he’d melt from the embarrassment. He’d missed his chance to give Bakugou an answer and now he was never going to see him again. Kirishima stood and brushed his hands on his shirt, realizing how small and uncomfortable it really was. He eyed the black patch which was still resting atop his nightstand. He’d had a few scares with his parents barging into his room and his mom deciding to clean the entire house that very morning, but Kirishima had gotten skillful in tucking the piece of cloth under his pillow before either of them could see it. He picked it up gingerly and felt hot tears start to well in his eyes. He swallowed the knot in his throat as he swung open the drawer on his bedside table and tossed the patch inside. He looked at it for another moment in hope.

But when he closed the drawer, the noise of wood was much louder than usual.

Probably because someone had knocked on his window at the same time.

When he turned, Bakugou was in the window just like he had been all those nights before. In a bit of a huff, Kirishima sucked in his welling tears and opened the window. He hoped Bakugou couldn’t tell how relieved he was.

“Sorry I’m late, Rock Solid,” he said lowly.

Kirishima pursed his lips and let his brow hang heavy over his eyes.

“Don’t be like that,” Bakugou grumbled, “did ya really think I’d forget about you?”

His face pinched when he spoke as if he was asking the question genuinely and not as some mockery of Kirishima’s obvious breakdown. Maybe he’d watched him throw the patch into his bedside table and slam the door closed with gusto. Kirishima’s face flushed at the thought and he wanted nothing more than the crumple into the corner.

“Hey,” Bakugou commanded, “do somethin’ for me.”

Kirishima peered at him, “What?”

“Stick your head out the window for a minute, I need ya to look at somethin’.”

As he planted his hands on the windowsill, Kirishima ran through all the possibilities of what Bakugou could want from him. Perhaps he’d constructed a guillotine to chop his head clean off the minute he poked it through the convenient opening. It would’ve made sense if he could come up with a single reason that Bakugou would want to kill him. He eventually obliged, leading his head slowly out the opening in the wall. Katsuki took a step away to point to something in the sky.

“Ever seen the stars like that?” Bakugou asked gruffly.

Kirishima looked up into the night sky to see a mess of stars glittering in the crystal-clear sky. To be honest, he really hadn’t ever seen the stars like this. Usually, in the countryside, it was too cloudy this time of year to see all the stars, but the sun had been out all day and brought about a clear night.

“Are you going to ask me to join your band while I’m looking at the beautiful night sky?” Kirishima asked in a near whisper.

“Well, I was gonna wait for the right moment, but you’re onto me.”

There was a new irritated gruffness in his voice. Kirishima wondered what Bakugou was like with people he didn’t want to get something from.

“I’m still thinking about it,” said Kirishima, his eyes still scanning the smatterings of stars in awe.

Bakugou grunted. It wasn’t like Kirishima had lied; he was still thinking about it. But there was something new in the way it felt to be at the window. Looking up into the night sky, Kirishima was beginning to see the possibilities in the star that had been covered in clouds before.

The fifth night that Bakugou Katsuki knocked at Kirishima’s window, Kirishima had been observing a bird who had taken up refuge on his windowsill. It was pure white, probably a dove. Kirishima had never seen one in real life; he’d only seen illustrations in Bible storybooks about the Creation of the earth. It was much more beautiful in person, glinting pure white in the moonlight and glancing every once in a while at Kirishima through the window. Even though it fluttered away when Bakugou sauntered up to the glass, Kirishima wasn’t so disappointed.

“So, you always sit here birdwatching at night?” He asked gruffly when Kirishima opened the window.

“No,” Kirishima retorted gently.

“Are you gonna join my band?”

He always asked it in the same tone with all the same inflections. He still sounded inconvenienced rather than mad and he always dropped it when Kirishima failed to answer. As much as Kirishima wanted to give him a straight answer, there were so many questions he still had pent up in his body that he was afraid to ask in fear of looking stupid.

“Tell me what I can do that’ll make up for you singing in my band,” growled Bakugou.

Kirishima thought. Was there anything Bakugou could do for him? Well, there was something. Perhaps it wasn’t something for him as much as it was something for his father.

“The church is struggling—financially, I mean,” the words flowed from Kirishima’s mouth, “My dad needs money.”

“Done,” Bakugou said flatly, “I’ll get your dad the money when you help me play the venue I’m tryin’ to get to.”

“You don’t have to—” Kirishima began.

“If it’ll get you to sing,” Bakugou insisted, “I’ll do it.”

Like the bird, Kirishima had always dreamed of having the freedom to fly away when he pleased.

But he felt indefinitely chained to his home and his father’s will, even when Bakugou kept showing him his way out.

The sixth night that Bakugou Katsuki knocked at Kirishima’s window, he’d caught Kirishima looking in the small mirror above his dresser. What had begun as a nightly picking at his acne spots had become a dragging and poking at his face. Sometimes, Kirishima’s brain refused to interpret everything around him as something real. When he’d get in these moods, he’d have to sit with his eyes closed and think of all the things he could hear, all the things he could touch, and all the things he could smell. If he failed to put himself through the routine, he’d feel like he was floating around in a dream. He’d touch his own face and feel his hand go through completely like he was some sort of hologram. His body, in particular, had never felt very real to Kirishima. At least, it didn’t feel very real until he glanced at the patch which now sat on his dresser and thought: He perceives me.

When Bakugou came to his window that night in the same fashion to ask the same question as he did all those nights before, Kirishima couldn’t help but focus on Katsuki’s intense gaze directed towards him. For the first time, someone outside of Kirishima’s tiny bubble was perceiving him simply to see him rather than control him, manipulate him. Perhaps that’s why his body had felt so real these past few days. Bakugou had assured him that he existed outside the oppressive gaze of his father.

And the seventh night that Bakugou Katsuki knocked at Kirishima’s window, he wasn’t playing nice anymore.

“Just tell me why you won’t say ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” Bakugou commanded.

Kirishima’s lips parted, but he didn’t have any words to say. He’d thought about the proposal non-stop for an entire week, but he still had nothing to tell the boy. He’d sung in church with his eyes trained on the door where he’d first seen Bakugou the week prior, thinking about what to tell him. Surely Bakugou wouldn’t bother for much longer if Kirishima wouldn’t tell him anything concrete.

“What’s up your ass?”

“My dad—he—he—” Kirishima stuttered.

“Who?” Bakugou asked aggressively, “The cock-sucker?”

“—Yeah,” Kirishima replied hesitantly.

“What’s with you letting your old man make all your decisions for you? You’re 18, aren’t ya?”

Bakugou was right. The boy had planted his hands even firmer on the windowsill and was leaning towards Kirishima with a new insistency. His gaze burned holes into his head. He’d never seen Bakugou like this.

“I can’t—I can’t do something he doesn’t like—”

“Why not?” Bakugou interrupted sourly.

“Because—” Kirishima hesitated, “because—”

“Listen here.”

Bakugou leaned towards Kirishima, their noses just inches away from touching. At this distance, Kirishima could nearly feel Bakugou’s hot breath fan across his face. The boy’s brow was set hard at the crease of his eyelids and his lips had fallen into a straight line. Kirishima could smell the faintest notes of cigarette smoke in his breath.

“As I see it, you’ve got two ways of living,” Bakugou held up two fingers of his right hand, one adorned with a thick silver ring, “You can either live for everyone else like a fucking prisoner,” he lowered his fingers to, instead, poke into the center of Kirishima’s sternum, “or you can realize that the cell door has been open your whole goddamn life, and you’ve just been too dumb to see it.”

With each breath Kirishima took, he could feel the hard tip of Katsuki’s finger piercing into his chest. His glare never let up even as Kirishima’s eyes scanned around his room in an attempt to avoid it.

“The only thing I hate more than Bible-thumping old cock-suckers” Bakugou hissed, “is the spineless nerds they call their sons.”

As the phrase tumbled from Katsuki’s lips, Kirishima’s gaze fell to meet his. Kirishima wasn’t one to get mad over little things or take on innocuous challenges, but there was something sour about Bakugou’s words that slipped over his bones like acid. He was a spineless nerd. He’d always been a spineless nerd. And he’d let it go on for so long believing that, one day, his father would tell him how proud he was. Kirishima’s eyes darted to the door of his bedroom outside of which his parents slept peacefully down the hall. Despite all he’d done, they were never pleased, they were never satisfied. How long had he been sitting in this prison cell? Had the door really been open all this time?

When he thought about it, Kirishima could only notice how tired he really was. All his muscles tingled with fatigue from carrying all the expectations he was supposed to embody. He was exhausted from being a disappointment to everyone: his father, his mother, God. But here, in this moment, he had a chance to not be a disappointment to someone.
There was something he could say that would make Bakugou not disappointed in him.

It hung on the tip of his tongue. It was such a simple word, he should’ve said it ages ago. He was tired of fighting. So, on the seventh day, Kirishima rested.

“Yes,” he muttered.

Bakugou’s eyes widened slightly.

“You’ll do it?” he asked seriously.

Kirishima, like the wind-up doll he was, couldn’t help but nod his head in response to Bakugou’s inquiry.

And for the first time since they’d met, Kirishima watched Bakugou crack into a smile. It only curved half of his mouth so it was more of a smirk, but it was a smile, nonetheless. A sinister, knowing smile. His crimson eyes glittered. His hand fell from Kirishima’s chest and he extended his palm flat and open, the smile still spread across his face.

“Come with me,” he said, “I’ve got some people you need to meet.”

Chapter Text

“Wait,” Kirishima sputtered, “right now?”

Bakugou’s hand was still outstretched, “Well, yeah.”

Suppressing a laugh, Kirishima took a decisive step back from the window and Bakugou’s invasive, offered hand.

“I can’t—” rambled Kirishima, “I can’t just leave!”

“Why not?” Bakugou asked plainly.

Kirishima’s mouth hung agape. When he’d decided to say yes, he didn’t expect for the whirlwind of Bakugou Katsuki and his band to start at that very moment. At least he thought he’d get a good night’s sleep beforehand.

“What if my parents wake up and I’m not here?” he asked worriedly.

“I promise I’ll have you back before the sun rises,” Bakugou swore.

Even if it was a bold-faced lie, Kirishima was already buying into it as he felt his gaze lock endlessly with Bakugou’s. His eyes, though devoid of most emotion, dripped with sincerity.

“Swear?” Kirishima asked, his hand itching to meet Bakugou’s.

“On my life,” Bakugou muttered.

With a quick glance to his left, Kirishima took note of the state of his desk and the little things his parents had permitted him to decorate it with. There was a photo of the three of them that the church had taken a few years ago and a collection of Kirishima’s favorite rocks that he’d found at the lake they visited each summer. That was all, though. He didn’t have a single other item on the desk that was telling of who he was or what he wanted to do with his life—as if he had either of those things figured out at all. Like the surface of his desk, he felt bare. He was nothing special to behold, there was no mystery lingering beneath the surface of his skin. And he’d go like this for the rest of his life if no one tried to tear him away.

Could this be—

Could this be his only chance?

Kirishima was no stranger to prayer. It wasn’t so much the spiritual experience everyone else saw it to be, it was more so a form of communication for him so, in those isolating moments, he’d feel less alone. It was all words thrown aimlessly to the sky; Kirishima could only hope that something would stick and that the Lord would gaze favorably upon him. And so was the nature of his prayer that night: a faint “don’t let this be a mistake” chucked into the stratosphere with all the hope Kirishima had left.

Please God, he prayed in his mind,

don’t let this be a mistake.

And as his soft fingers slid along the grooved palm of a boy he’d met only one week ago, there was no turning back—even if the Lord willed it. Bakugou was quick to wrap his fingers around Kirishima’s hesitant hand as if they were already late. Hasitly, Kirishima turned off his bedroom light and slid his feet into the nearest shoes without checking to see what they were. Bakugou pulled him urgently towards the window, coaxing him to climb out. But Kirishima had never climbed out of a window. How do you even begin?

“Just hunch over and plant your feet on the sill,” Bakugou commanded, reading Kirishima’s mind word-for-word.

And Kirishima did just that, hunching as far over as he could at reaching his foot up as far as it would go to dig his heel into the windowsill. The closest shoes had been his church loafers, so he’d slid those on without thinking as Bakugou’s grip kept pulling him out of the house. When he finally pressed himself through the small opening, Kirishima nearly tumbled face-first into the wet, damp grass below. It was sort of a miracle that Bakugou was still holding his hand tight enough to steady him to his feet. Seeing Bakugou’s full body was a jarring shift from the profile he’d gotten used to, framed by the wooden windowsill. He was still a few inches shorter than Kirishima, but he was stockier than he seemed before. His outfit was as torn and adorned with chains as ever before, and when he moved, all the pieces would tap one another with satisfying clinks. He had this pleased yet determined look cemented onto his face, and it was all directed at the bumbling boy he was holding onto for dear life.

“Nice, Rock Solid,” Bakugou muttered.

But he wasted no time on praise, already tugging Kirishima away from the house.

“Wait!” Kirishima whispered, “I gotta close the window.”

With his gentlest fingers, Kirishima used his free hand to unlatch the window and pull it down, securing it at the bottom as soft as he possibly could. Once the dark room had been completely abandoned, a sick sensation pooled in Kirishima’s stomach.

He was crazy.

“Wait—” he said again.

“No time,” Bakugou cut him off, “my car’s just down the road.”

Bakugou dropped Kirishima’s hand mercilessly and shook the hem of his ripped-up, patch-covered pants down over his ankles; the chains on his pocket tinkled against one another as he did.

“C’mon,” Bakugou got himself into position, “I’ll race ya.”

Kirishima was almost ready to laugh at Bakugou’s joke, but his eyes communicated a very serious intention. So, he meant it.

“Three, two, one—go!”

Before Kirishima could gather himself, Bakugou had already gone racing off into the shadows of the cool summer night. If he’d had friends, then Kirishima would probably be far more familiar with races through the grass, but he didn’t know the rules or the prize. Was he just supposed to run?

He didn’t even have time to think about it, he could barely see Bakugou’s body as it grew smaller and smaller down the country road. Kirishima said a quick prayer for his nice church loafers before bolting off in the same direction in pursuit of the angel who’d begun to fly away. Kirishima’s body felt awkward as it broke into such an unexpected run. His bones felt like they were knocking together, and his sleeping muscles refused to awaken at his request. He must’ve looked stupid running so unskillfully through the field. He looked down at his feet and watched his loafers flop on and off his feet with every step he took; the sick feeling in his stomach only grew as he swallowed pools of sticky June air. He could already feel a few beads of sweat dribbling down his spine.

In desperation, Kirishima lifted his head with every intention to yell to Bakugou that he couldn’t do it. Then he could stop, take a few deep breaths, and walk the rest of the way to whatever vehicle they were approaching. But as his gaze tore from his shoes, he looked directly at Bakugou, who was still a good distance ahead of him. Against the inky sky, every feature glowed, every piece that dangled from his appearance shone distinctly against the blank canvas of the night. Every movement was bold and broad, his boots crunched unapologetically against the earth and flew through the air as if they’d been made to do so. Kirishima’s body felt so heavy and unruly, a burden he’d have to bear only until he died.

But Bakugou—

he knew how to fly.

Seeing the boy glow in the moonlight filled Kirishima’s weary bones with a new energy, a desire to get closer, to run faster. As his flopping loafers hit the ground faster and faster, Kirishima was afraid that he’d lose his footing and trip on his own feet; he’d embarrass himself right in front of Katsuki. He kept running, shoving each insecurity beneath the sole of his shoes as Bakugou’s body grew larger and more in focus with every yard he traveled. Kirishima was so focused on him that he never even saw the old car in the distance. Bakugou was the first to reach the car and slam his hand on the top, taking a moment to catch his breath before Kirishima could join him. Once Kirishima’s hand was planted atop the old thing, he hunched over and felt heaving breaths escape from his mouth without warning. He wheezed and hawed, hoping that Bakugou wasn’t watching him in a silent mock.

“I win,” grumbled Bakugou.

He smiled dully. It was a genuine smirk of achievement, one of knowing that he was still the best. As his chest heaved with hot breaths, Bakugou watched over Kirishima as he nursed his aching chest and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow.

“Get in,” he muttered, tearing the car door open with great force.

Kirishima took a chaste glance behind him. His house had become a simple square seemingly miles away from him. He couldn’t have run that far, right? In any case, there was no way out anymore, no way for him to excuse himself back to the warmth of his bedroom. He had already crossed the threshold that had held him back for so long—this was no time to ask for forgiveness or second chances. Kirishima rounded the beat-up, silver sedan that was dented on all sides and had a long, black scratch mark all along the right side. Both of the sideview mirrors had been secured with many layers of silver duct tape and when Kirishima first pulled the passenger side handle, he was afraid that he would rip it right off. Hunching all six feet of his body down, Kirishima climbed onto the torn fabric seats and settled his legs uncomfortably under the dash. Bakugou was already sticking the key in the ignition and starting the car with a concerning rumble that growled from the front of the vehicle.

Instinctively, Kirishima’s hand reached up to find the seatbelt which hung beside him, but his body lurched forward into the dashboard as Bakugou put the car in drive and sped down the country road with reckless abandon. Peering over at the driver, Kirishima noticed that he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, probably because it would’ve hindered the lounging stance he’d posed himself in—one hand was resting on the dash between the two seats, his head was flush against the back of his car seat which was leaned as far as it would reach, and the other hand was gripping the side of the worn steering wheel. Kirishima let his hand fall into his lap. If he put his seatbelt on, then he’d definitely be the spineless nerd that Bakugou probably already thought he was. Kirishima laced his fingers together at the junction between his legs and his torso, sitting as he usually did while he waited anxiously for his father’s sermon to end. His seat, too, was lounged back, but when he let his back fall flush, it was like he was lying in bed or something. So Kirishima engaged his core and sat with his head just a few inches up from the headrest.

“Roll your window down,” barked Bakugou.

Kirishima sat up. His shaking fingers trailed over the buttons on his door, trying to find the button for the window. Only a few seconds passed before Bakugou spoke again.

“Damnit,” he hissed to himself.

Reaching over across Kirishima’s lap, Bakugou gripped the handle of the roll-down window tightly. The car was still hurtling down the dirt road with only two cheap headlights to help them see. And now, Bakugou’s body was draped over the center console and his arm was pressing into Kirishima’s thighs. Even though he was clad in a thick jean jacket, Kirishima could feel how impossibly big and firm his arms were beneath the clothing. Maybe he hadn’t been kidding about the fight thing all those nights ago. Kirishima’s face flushed, his body entered paralysis as Bakugou rolled the window down, his arm pressing up and down on Kirishima’s thighs. He wanted to help, but he was scared to ask. Instead, Kirishima sat with his hands folded and watched the top of Bakugou’s head, even though he should’ve been focusing on the road instead.

Once the window was fully down, Bakugou leaned up and adjusted his car back into the middle of the road from which it had deviated a few hundred feet back. He used his right hand to steer while using his left to roll down his own window. If the gale force from his own side hadn’t been enough, the combination of both windows being open created a fierce crosswind that whipped Kirishima’s hard around his head mercilessly. He flinched when Bakugou slapped the front of his radio with a resounding boom. It whirred to life and picked up in the middle of whatever song he’d been blasting when he drove to Kirishima’s house. The song was loud and—busy. Kirishima’s body lit up at the first power chord that rang from the crunchy speakers that surrounded him. He wanted to cover his ears, but he didn’t want Bakugou to think he was some kind of wuss. He’d just never listened to music so loud. The singers were screaming, and all the instruments sounded like they were playing different songs entirely from one another. Kirishima leaned his head slightly out the open window to focus on the whistling wind and drown out the music. He closed his eyes to try and focus even harder on forgetting where he was and what he was doing.

What was he doing?

“Get me a cigarette from the glove compartment,” Bakugou grumbled.

It was just a faint voice in Kirishima’s left ear, but he’d definitely picked up Bakugou’s tone amongst the mess of noise that was filling his car. Kirishima opened his eyes and leaned back fully into the car. His hands fiddled with the handle of the glove compartment and he kept having to shift his knees to get the thing open wide enough. His fingers shook anxiously as Kirishima waited for Bakugou to reach over and do it himself just like last time. But Bakugou was focusing on the road and bobbing his head just slightly to the song—or, at least, that’s what Kirishima gathered from the corner of his vision. He peered into the glove compartment and saw a mess of everything but cigarettes: lighters, napkins, dollar bills, safety pins. With tender, cautious fingers, Kirishima rooted through the dangerous object and praying that he’d come across a pack of cigarettes sooner than later. When he spotted it, he pulled the package from the disarray, careful not to let any of the sharp objects fall into his lap.

When he turned, he saw Bakugou’s right elbow planted on the center console and his index and middle finger poised for a cigarette. Kirishima was no stranger to smoking, his grandmother on his mother’s side would always smoke out on the porch while he visited. So, when Kirishima placed the cigarette the right way around in Bakugou’s fingers, he looked almost as impressed as when he saw how quickly Kirishima ignited the lighter and lit the end. Bakugou hesitated for a moment, his eyes scanning Kirishima’s wide eyes and disheveled hair before he pulled the cigarette to his lips and sucked in a long inhale. They reached their first red light when Bakugou decided to exhale, the sign that they’d entered civilization and escaped the country road successfully. The large cloud of smoke that tumbled from Katsuki’s lips created a haze in the windshield. Kirishima blinked the burning sensation out of his eyes and began to lean back towards the window, desperate to drown the sound and smell of Bakugou’s car from his senses.

His mind raced. What was he thinking? How did he get convinced to climb out of his window and get into some junker car with some kid he barely knew? Kirishima could imagine the headlines already: “Idiot Pastor’s Kid Falls Victim to New Kidnapping Scheme”. What if Bakugou was planning to kill him? What if this drive was just him getting Kirishima to some secondary location where he could hack him to death and throw his bits in the river? With every dangerous turn the car took, Kirishima’s stomach would lurch and the nauseous knot in his throat would get bigger and more tangly. The song had changed, but it was still so loud and clashy that Kirishima couldn’t head his own thoughts anymore. The sounds filled his head, stacking up one after the other, putting pressure on all sides and edges. As always, Kirishima felt tears start to well in his eyes. He was getting overwhelmed. But unlike every other time, he had no escape. A ball of panic grew and grew in the center of his chest. His brain entered its manual functioning, reminding him every few seconds to breathe in and breathe out. Another puff of smoke from Bakugou’s cigarette floated over to Kirishima’s nose right as he took a manual breath in. His lungs burned as he held in a hacking cough. His fingers tugged and rolled the hem of his worn sleep shirt, his feet tapped endlessly against the car’s floor mats.

He could roll out. He could open the car door and roll out. That’s what he’d do. Kirishima’s fingers started to rise towards his head. He had to plug his ears, he couldn’t take any more noise or his head was going to explode. They were almost there, they were so close when Bakugou ripped the car in front of a dilapidated old building and swiftly pulled the thing into park. The sounds and smells still continued, and Kirishima’s fingers were almost plugging his ears entirely. He could hear the blood rushing in his head and the muffled screams of the man on the radio. He squished his eyelids closed and prayed that Bakugou wasn’t pulling a machete out at that very moment.

“What’s going on?” Bakugou asked gruffly.

Kirishima couldn’t answer him. He was too busy remembering how to breathe.

“Hey,” said Bakugou, flicking the bud of his cigarette out his open window.

Feeling his body begin to rock, Kirishima searched his mind desperately for any way to self soothe. He wanted to be anywhere but here, but no amount of thinking would fix that.

“Too loud?”

Though he didn’t have time to read the tone of his question, Kirishima nodded furiously in response. Yes, yes, it was far too loud. And almost immediately after he did so, Kirishima heard the clashy music fade out. Finally, he could open his eyes and lower his hands from his ears, even if his body was still rocking gently back and forth. He glanced over to Bakugou who was leaning towards him, his eyes observing the subtle tells in Kirishima’s face.

“Go inside,” he motioned towards the rundown building, “it’ll be quieter in there.”

It wasn’t so much an invitation as it was a command. Kirishima used his eyes to plead with him for a moment, hoping the boy would take even more mercy on him and drive him right back home. Instead, Bakugou furrowed his brow at him.

“Y’came all this way,” he grumbled, “just gonna sit in the car the whole time?”

Kirishima shouldn’t have expected anything different to come out of his mouth. As always, he was right and rude all at the same time. As his rocking slowed, Kirishima began to take stock in his surroundings. The building looked like one of those old factories with lots of floors and small, broken windows, but there was no sign to prove or disprove Kirishima’s suspicions. All he could really see in the darkness of night was a large front door right in the middle, undoubtedly where he was supposed to go.

“I gotta check a tire, something felt off on the drive,” said Bakugou.

Yeah, either that or you’re a terrible driver, Kirishima wanted to reply.

With unsteady fingers, Kirishima unlocked his door and let himself out as Bakugou did the same. Sure enough, the boy rounded the car to look at a back tire, squatting to get a better angle on it. Kirishima took hesitant steps away from him, waiting for him to say something more or tell him that he was walking towards the door wrong. But the blond was too engrossed in the wellbeing of his old car to notice Kirishima tiptoeing towards the monstrous front door. The night air had grown cold since they’d raced towards the car, it was more breezy than sticky and Kirishima found his lungs being cleansed from the toxic fumes Bakugou had filled his car with. He pulled the handle with all the strength he had left in his noodly arms only to reveal a short, dark hallway. He didn’t have the best vision, but he was almost sure that there was a door at the end of it.

With squinted eyes, Kirishima placed his hands out before him and felt around for any obstacles or, God forbid, people. He felt nothing and saw even less as he took careful, counted steps down the echoey hallway. It was breezy, probably the fault of an air vent that was hidden somewhere in the darkness. When his hands did finally brush against the door on the other side, his skin jumped at the cold metal. As he pounded his palms lightly against the thin metal to find the handle, each sound echoed and rang through the hallway. He kept palming the door in different places hoping to find a handle or a lever or something. When he did find a new piece of metal, he pulled instinctively down on the long, tall piece. It functioned similarly to the doors of walk-in fridges he’d seen at churches where they were wealthy enough to have their own kitchens. With a resounding clunk and an even louder scrape of metal, Kirishima pulled the heavy door towards him to let a pool of orange light flood into the pitch-black hallway.

As the light nearly blinded him, Kirishima squinted his eyes in self-defense. Even as he shimmied himself through the opening and into whatever room the portal led to, he was preparing his vision for the brightness and whatever may be staring him down. He began with his right eye, only catching blurry blobs of what was before him. It wasn’t until he fully opened his left eye and blinked a few times to readjust that he realized what he was really looking at.

Kirishima was looking right down the barrel of a gun.

He had never seen a gun in real life. And, because of his mother’s censorship, he hadn’t even seen one on TV or in a movie. The only time he’d seen a clear picture of a gun was in a sociology textbook that he had to hide under his pillow, especially because there was a picture of two men kissing at a pride parade in the last chapter. He used to sit in his bed at night and study the picture, mesmerized that such a small thing could kill someone with one shot. And if he could’ve curated his first encounter with a gun, he probably wouldn’t have chosen something so—intimate.

His body thankfully worked faster than his brain; flinging his hands up in the air, Kirishima’s mouth began to babble some sort of nonsense. A voice interrupted his mind’s racing.

“You’ve got five seconds to give me a good reason to not blow your head off.”

The end of the gun was mere centimeters away from the space between his eyes. Kirishima’s blood rushed through his body and pounded in his ears. Only five seconds? He needed five seconds to catch his breath alone. He saw the edges of the gun wielder's appearance poking out from the corners of the barrel, but the center was blocked by the weapon itself.

“I—I—” Kirishima eked out.

The gun neared his head. He could nearly feel the cold rim touch his skin. Every hair on his neck stood on end. He was going to die. Kirishima was going to die here, and he only had five seconds to accept his untimely fate. The fright wracked his body so violently that he was losing control all over. He seriously felt like he was going to pee his pants, and he hadn’t done that since Kindergarten. Kirishima was going to pee his pants and then die.

“Put the gun down, Kyouka,” a familiar voice called from behind him.

In the rushing blood of his ears, Kirishima hadn’t heard the creaky door behind him bust open to reveal his savior clad in leather. The gun-wielder obeyed, lowering the weapon cautiously as Bakugou walked around him and snatched the gun from the girl’s hand.

“You shouldn’t be touchin’ shit like this anymore,” Bakugou grumbled, tucking the revolver in his jacket.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Kyouka hissed.

Kirishima knew it was rude to stare. His mother had told him that fact ad nauseum when they were at church and at restaurants and at the movies. But as he lowered his hands and took his first real look at the girl who’d threatened his life just seconds before, he couldn’t help but gape.

Her hair was shaved completely on the sides and what was left of it on the top was dyed a deep violet and stuck up with what Kirishima could only assume was an abominable amount of hairspray. She’d missed two spots in front of her ears where the remaining hair hung down in little tendrils framing her face. The face which the pieces of hair framed was cast with a heavy white sheen that made her almost look dead, especially since her lips were painted a deep blood red. There was soot-black eyeshadow rubbed over her eyelids and on her under eyes which melted into thick black liner that rounded her entire eye. A collection of chokers hid her neck almost completely from view, one of them clad with large silver rings while the others were adorned with chains that hung nearly all the way down her torso. She, like Katsuki, wore a black t-shirt of a band that Kirishima didn’t recognize and she sported two torn-up fishnet sleeves that hugged around her thumbs at the end.

As Kirishima’s eyes trailed down her body, he couldn’t even focus fully on her black denim skirt covered in glinting chains or her holey black tights because something seemed off with it all. The fabric was distorted or something, but Kirishima couldn’t figure out why.

“Bad Jirou!” A voice shouted from the back of the room.

A new figure stormed over to where Jirou was eyeing Kirishima with a deadly glare. Through her intense liner, the deep brown of her eyes seemed even more brilliant. His look wasn’t nearly as eccentric as Jirou’s, he was dressed more akin to Bakugou. But while Bakugou always wore a heavy jacket over his clothing, this other guy chose to expose his bare arms with a ratty tank top that was cut unevenly right at his navel. And if the tight blank tank top beneath it was a few inches longer, it would’ve covered his stomach completely, but it seemed like he’d cut that too. The shirt was a bright yellow that matched the dye job on his mohawk. The only neutral-colored thing about his head was the two black lightning bolts that were dyed into his shaved sides. As he walked, his sagging belt clinked against the chain on his acid-wash jeans and his shiny black boots which laced up to the middle of his calf crunched against the brick floor beneath him.

“Pregnant women don’t handle guns!” he cried, pulling Jirou away from her spot in front of Kirishima.

When she turned, sure enough, Kirishima caught sight of her bulging stomach, stretching her punky denim skirt as far as it would go. She didn’t look big enough to be full-term, but considering the way she waddled, she wasn’t as small as she used to be. Jirou ripped her hand out of the boy’s grasp.

“Fuck you, Kaminari, I can do whatever the hell I want,” she sneered.

Kaminari raised his hands in surrender as Jirou stomped off to the other side of the room, her silver adornments clinking against each other as she did.

“Hi!” Kaminari cried after catching sight of Kirishima, “I’m Kaminari Denki.”

Kirishima met him in a handshake, feeling wildly underdressed in his plaid pajama pants, oversized sleep shirt, and too-big church loafers. Kaminari seemed too preoccupied with meeting him to judge his outfit too harshly.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Though he should’ve planned what to say in response, Kirishima hoped that Bakugou would jump in before he said a word.

“I—I’m—” he sputtered.

“He’s our new lead singer,” said Bakugou, sauntering over to Kaminari’s side.

Kaminari’s eyes got wide just as a smile stretched across his face.

“Real shit?” He asked loudly, taking a few excitable steps towards Kirishima.

Kirishima took two distancing steps back. He was still stuck on the gun thing, to be honest.

“Give him a minute,” Bakugou grumbled, his hand pulling Kaminari back by the shoulder.

For the first time since he entered the building, Kirishima got a good look at the space. The walls and floors of the medium-sized were made completely of red brick. In the center was a couch and the smallest TV Kirishima had ever seen. Off to his right was a fridge and one countertop that didn’t seem to match the furniture anywhere else in the room. Somewhere near the ratty, stained couch was a crude collection of dirt-covered lawn chairs and dingy plastic folding seats that looked like they’d been fished out of a dumpster. And the table they surrounded wasn’t in any better shape—there was a book underneath one of the legs to stabilize the entire thing and the only item on the surface was a tattered deck of cards. Everything was shrouded in a dim orange light that flowed from some bulbs screwed crudely into the ceiling which seemed much brighter when Kirishima had first walked through the door. Directly across from where Kirishima stood were three doors and he spotted one on the adjacent wall. He wasn’t sure where any of them led until another figure came barreling out of what Kirishima assumed to be the bathroom.

“Did you say lead singer?” The voice screeched.

As she ran closer and closer, Kirishima caught sight of her heels and was silently impressed that she could move that fast or at all without twisting an ankle. Her hair was a bright pink, cropped short at her chin and cropped along her forehead to create a small row of bangs at the crown of her head. Her leather jacket, the sleeves and lapels of which were baby pink, was covered in studs and pins of all colors and shapes. The shirt she wore underneath was a small, cheetah-print number that Kirishima could only see as she ran and her jacket moved around. Her small, black skirt which ended in a ruffle just at the tops of her thighs fluttered as she took Kirishima’s shoulders in her hands. Kirishima resisted the urge to lurch back at the sudden contact, not really one for touch, but the girl’s smile was genuine enough to calm him down. Her makeup was sparkly and pink around her eyes while being heavily lined like Jirou’s. Her lips were a deep hot pink shade and she’d drawn a beauty mark on her cheek.

“I’m Mina!” She said through a smile.

Kirishima nodded. Who nods when someone tells you their name?

“And you must be Kirishima,” she said in amazement.

Mina’s manicured fingers took up residence hastily along the line of Kirishima’s jaw which she grasped and turned his entire head to the right. When she was done observing, she jerked his head in the other direction and repeated the same routine.

“There’s definitely potential,” she said.

Her voice was cutesy and high-pitched, unlike Jirou’s low, velvety tone or Kaminari’s crackly lilt.

“Y’know Bakubro over here wouldn’t stop talking about you,” Mina said quickly, “I was hoping you’d impress when you actually showed up.”

“Hey,” Bakugou threatened from the side where Kaminari was punching his arm like a boxer and Katsuki looked largely unfazed.

Mina rolled her eyes, “Sorry, big guy,” she groaned to Bakugou.

“What’s all this ruckus, I’m trying to nap out here.”

In Kirishima’s quick analysis of the room, he somehow hadn’t caught the sliding glass door to his left which led out to a little porch area that was lazily fenced in. The figure that had just tumbled from it was holding a smoking blunt in their hand and sauntered slowly towards where everyone was congregating. Even Jirou had returned to stop Kaminari’s boxing routine and lean subtly on his arm. When the new person finally approached Kirishima, they scanned their eyes all over Kirishima’s face and body, taking small steps to observe him from different angles.

“Where’d you find this one, Kat?”

If their appearance hadn’t been any help in deciphering their gender, their voice wasn’t helping Kirishima very much either. They had a slim, masculine jaw and deep-set, hooded eyes that were always half-lidded. But their eyelashes were long and thick, and their lips were shaped like a woman’s. Kirishima even swore that they were wearing makeup—an eyelid full of shadow, a swipe of liner on the top and bottom, and a sheer black balm along their lips. A soft black mullet was chopped onto their head which gave no stark indication of being a boy or a girl. Their shirt was the same tank top shape as Kaminari’s, but it was tucked into a skirt like Jirou’s, secured with a big leather belt. They had two tight-like gloves gracing their forearms and hugging around each of their black-nailed fingers. Their black platform boots gracing the end of their spiderweb tights ensure they were almost as tall as Kirishima. But glinting in the center of their chest was a cross necklace, a rather ornate one. Were they religious like Kirishima?

When he was growing up, Kirishima tended to ask inappropriate questions. It wasn’t like he meant to, he was just awful at reading how everyone was feeling all the time and filtering himself before the words would escape. He’d been spanked many times by his father for speaking out of turn that, one day, he decided to stop talking altogether. But Kirishima’s body was alight with overstimulation and the desire to sit down for a moment, so the words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them.

“Are you a boy or a girl?” Kirishima asked.

As he realized what he’d asked, Kirishima’s mouth hung agape. A quick hush had fallen over the room. Kirishima studied the figure’s face as they took in the question, and he was entirely grateful when they smiled and giggled before taking a long drag from their blunt. Kirishima had never seen one of those in real life, he’d only been told about them by angry men who came to his school. But the smoke they blew from their mouth was sweeter than the cigarette smoke that he hated so much. As the smoke clouded Kirishima’s vision, the figure neared him until their noses were nearly touching.

They tilted their head as if to kiss Kirishima.

“I’m whatever you want me to be, baby.”

It could’ve been the crooning voice or the sheer distance between the two, but Kirishima felt his entire face flush hot and red. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing would come out, and all he could do was feel their hot breath against his tongue. Kirishima doesn’t know what he would’ve done if someone didn’t pull them away from his face.

“Leave him be, Sero, he’s terrified,” Mina said.

Sero took another hit, still eyeing Kirishima seductively. Kaminari was the first to take another step towards Kirishima, peering at his head in particular.

“But what’re we gonna do with his hair, Bakugou? He doesn’t really look the part yet,” he said.

“Wait,” Kirishima eked out, “Look the part? Right now?”

Bakugou took a few steps forward so he was standing right in front of Kirishima, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket and a smirk pasted along his face. Kirishima swallowed hard.

“Well, yeah,” he said gruffly, “we’ve got a show tonight.”

He tilted his head.

“And you’re our lead singer, aren’t you?”

Chapter Text

“What?”

Kirishima felt his eyes go so wide that the thin layer of moisture dried up almost instantly. Sweat started to pour from the open glands in his palms and his stomach sunk further and further towards the stained concrete floor.

“N-no,” he stuttered in a near whisper, “I couldn’t—I can’t—”

“Why not?” asked Bakugou lowly, his brow dropping.

In a flurry, Kirishima tried to organize the words in his head to give a proper defense to the stocky boy. There were plenty of reasons for him to say no: he’d never sung punk music before, he had to be home as soon as possible, and for Christ’s sake he was still wearing his plaid sleep shorts and nice church loafers. He couldn’t go on stage, he absolutely couldn’t.

“That’s why I brought you here,” Bakugou grumbled, “we have a set to do tonight.”

“T minus three hours, actually,” Jirou chimed in.

Kirishima must’ve looked as pale and flushed as he felt. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Mina’s face contort into worry at the sight of him swaying back and forth. Kirishima felt woozy, his head was filled with cotton, his hands had gone entirely numb—he was going to pass out.

“Don’t worry about the songs,” Bakugou continued, “I’ll play you some of our stuff, but you’re really just here to adlib and get the crowd into it.”

“Are you sure, Bakugou?”

He couldn’t turn his head, but Kirishima heard Mina’s high-pitched voice call out to Bakugou, pleading.

“I mean, look at him,” she added, “he looks like he’s gonna hurl.”

Oh, so that’s how he looked. It was as good an assessment as any, especially considering that the remnants of Kirishima’s dinner had grown tired of sitting in his stomach and were now somewhere in his throat. The same dull ache pounded in his chest that always returned when he was about to crash onto the floor. When he first joined the church children’s choir when he was seven, he’d pulled every stop to get himself out of it, but his parents wouldn’t budge. Onstage, he felt his body go numb and woozy and didn’t know what to make of it until he was falling face-first from the riser. To make the whole situation worse, nine-year-old Tamaki who was standing right beside him was so wrought with shock that he threw up then passed out immediately after. Children’s choir at the church took a bit of a hiatus after that.

And now it was all returning, those familiar feelings that Kirishima spent most of his existence trying to avoid. But unlike all those other times, there was nowhere to run from the expectant gazes of Bakugou’s friends and the heavy expectations that had landed right atop Kirishima’s shoulders. His brain couldn’t do much besides utter one single word, a lone idea that made enough sense to Kirishima for him to follow it’s command. It chanted over and over, waiting for his reply.

Run, it said.

And he did. With a quick hand slapped over his mouth, Kirishima darted towards the bathroom door, the edges of which were hazy in his vision; he hoped that it was the same door he remembered Mina walking out of earlier that evening. But as the heel of his loafers rubbed against the raw skin of his heel and slapped loudly against the concrete, Kirishima didn’t have time to catastrophize the situation. All he could do—all he could think to do—was run. And as the heel of his hand pounded against the wooden door until it swung open, Kirishima’s vision and body began to go haywire with the anxiety. It wasn’t just the request that put him on edge, it was the semblance of expectation that he couldn’t handle. The look that Katsuki gave him when he refused was just like the one his father would give him when he’d try to explain why he just couldn’t. His father never understood, and there was only a very slim chance that Bakugou would.

What Kirishima had expected to be a simple bathroom with one toilet and one sink was, instead, a public-style bathroom with three stalls to his right and what seemed to be a crude shower in the far corner blocked off with a thin curtain. There was a row of sinks on the opposite wall where a mirror large enough to span every spigot was hanging. Kirishima knew that if he threw up, he’d feel infinitely worse, so he planted his back against the junction of two stalls and slid down until his butt touched the cold tile floor and his knees were pressed up against his chest. The hand that was plastered over his mouth moved to card through his black locks and grip hard. He felt his body begin to rock. Back and forth, back and forth, Kirishima felt the lines of the tiles press against his backside through his thin sleep shorts, but the solid ground beneath him was comforting as the rest of his body felt like it was floating away. His other had had migrated to his leg where Kirishima picked at the little hairs, pulling them painfully out of his skin. Tears were creeping up his throat, but Kirishima was breathing too shallowly and too frequently for any real cries to come out of his mouth. He didn’t usually cry when he panicked.

There was a shuffle on the tile coming from Kirishima’s left. The hinges of the old wood door had creaked, but he didn’t dare open his eyes or lift his head which was burying his face in the space between his knees and his chest. After all, it could be Bakugou. Kirishima could imagine the deep disappointment on his face. What if he hit him like his dad used to? What if he kicked Kirishima out and forced him to find his own way home? Kirishima’s hand which picked at his leg hairs balled into a hard fist and started to hit the side of his leg.

Stupid, stupid, he thought in time with each punch.

If he wasn’t so stupid, he wouldn’t have disappointed Bakugou like this. Kirishima was a stupid, stupid boy who would never amount to anything—

“Oh, baby,” a soft voice said.

Kirishima kept rocking even though he knew it definitely wasn’t Bakugou.

“Oh,” the voice whispered as Kirishima felt a body sit beside him; whoever it was smelled of heavy, floral perfume with hints of cigarette smoke woven throughout.

As his eyes blinked open, Kirishima saw the corner of a bright pink acrylic nail planted onto the floor beside him. The familiar frill of Mina’s skirt was splayed along her thighs and the silver rings which hung from her boots were clinking lightly against the tile as she folded her legs to the side and inched herself towards Kirishima.

“Baby, it’s alright,” she hummed quietly.

Kirishima coughed out an exhale. Having Mina beside him had strangely begun to help him ground himself. He became more aware of the cold tiles beneath his body and the hard-plastic frame of the stall digging into his spine. His breathing evened as he observed the intricate rings on Mina’s fingers one-by-one, starting with the little butterfly on her pinky and ending with the simple silver band on her thumb. He started over and looked at each of them again, memorizing the order.

Butterfly, heart, smaller heart, crown, silver band.

Butterfly, heart, smaller heart, crown, silver band.

Butterfly, heart, smaller heart, crown, silver band.

With every repetition, Kirishima felt his beating heart slow. His lips had unconsciously begun to form around the words even though he spoke them in a near inaudible whisper.

“Kirishima?” Mina coaxed with a gentle tone.

He responded. His gaze rose slowly towards the girl sat beside him who sported sad, downturned eyes and a concerned frown. When she finally saw his face, Mina’s tongue clicked against the back of her front teeth like his mother would when she’d find him curled up underneath his bed as a child.

“Oh,” she sighed at the sight of him.

If he squinted, Kirishima could almost envision the comforting arms of his mother on each side of Mina’s body. It was so hypnotizing, it looked so real. He should’ve felt more embarrassed about crumpling right into her body, his cheek buried in her chest, but she looked so much like his mother that he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

Mina’s body went stiff as Kirishima’s head crashed into her chest and his knees felt hard onto the tile floor as his entire form began to cave in on itself. His breathing became sputtered and short once more as Mina wrapped one arm around to rub circles on his upper back while the other carded warmly through the close-cropped hair on the back of his head. The smell of her floral body spray and cigarette smoke was even stronger now, engulfing all of Kirishima’s senses. He felt his body convulse beneath Mina’s comforting touch, the choking tears in his throat finally surfacing in the form of hot droplets trailing down both cheeks.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Mina asked, Kirishima nodded and felt his cheek rub against the edge of Mina’s studded leather jacket, the cold line of a necklace pressing against his temple.

“B-Bakugou,” Kirishima stuttered through tears, he sniffed hard, “will be—mad at m-me—”

He couldn’t even finish his words before the sheer thought sent another shockwave of anxiety through his body. Mina held him a little tighter.

“No, no,” she reassured, “Bakugou isn’t mad at all.”

She ducked her head just slightly to try and catch Kirishima’s eyes.

“I know he looks big and scary,” she said, “but he’s not a bad guy, not at all.”

“B-but,” Kirishima sputtered, “he’s disappointed, right?”

From beneath his cheek, Kirishima felt a chuckle travel through Mina’s chest. She laughed a little more, gentle little giggles.

Mina whispered, “Bakugou doesn’t rely on anyone other than himself, so it’s literally impossible to disappoint him.”

After a particularly long, loud sniff, Kirishima looked up at Mina with glassy eyes.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Mina, her hand leaving his hair to press against his dampened cheek.

Kirishima’s lip started to quiver again.

“What if my dad finds out?” He asked, the fear shuddering through his limbs, “He’s gonna kill me.”

Mina grinned a bit, her other hand travelling to Kirishima’s other tear-stained cheek.

“Well,” she hummed, “you saw Jirou with that gun. I think you’re in good hands.”

Kirishima released a short chuckle at the memory of Jirou’s gun kissing the space between his eyes. And he almost laughed out loud when he thought of that same gun pointed at the bewildered face of his father. Even though Jirou was probably a whole foot shorter than the man, she was way scarier upon first glance than he’d ever be. Mina’s thumbs rubbed back and forth over the cluster of acne scars that littered Kirishima’s cheeks. She smiled so genuinely, her hot pink lips giving only a glimpse of her straight, white teeth. Her skin was such a rich brown and smooth all over, Kirishima wanted to reach out and feel it, but his mom had told him very early on that touching people’s faces without their permission wasn’t allowed. So Kirishima resisted the urge, choosing instead to gaze upon the way the deep hue glittered beneath the flickering lights on the bathroom ceiling.

With a swift creak of the hinge, someone stocky barreled into the bathroom, their boots pounding against the tiled floor. It wasn’t until the figure had squatted inches away from Kirishima’s still crumpled body that their identity was apparent. Bakugou tilted his head to look Kirishima in the eye. Mina’s hands hand abandoned his cheeks; one stretched across his shoulders to rest on the furthest side while the other rubbed calmingly on his left upper arm. There was no telling emotion in Bakugou’s face. He didn’t look particularly happy or particularly angry. He was just—determined.

“Listen, Kirishima,” he said lowly, “I don’t care what you decide to do—stay, leave, whatever, it doesn’t matter to me.”

His voice was still gruff and grumbly, but he’d lowered his tone significantly because they were so close to one another. Or, perhaps, he could read Kirishima like a book and was having a cruel flashback to his episode in the car. Either way, both Bakugou’s eyes and words were low, yet insistent.

“But I’ll tell you this,” he muttered, “The only way you’re gonna know how freeing it feels to stick it to your cock-sucker dad is if you do what I ask you.”

Kirishima swallowed. Bakugou’s brow lowered slowly.

“And doing it is one thing,” said Bakugou, “but meaning it is another.”

While Mina’s crouching body beside him had been a source of comfort, there was nothing settling about Bakugou’s balance on his toes or the broad nature of his shoulders hunched over his knees. It cast a shadow on the tile and the lower half of Kirishima’s body.

“It won’t work if you don’t mean it.”

Bakugou let his tongue dart out between his lips to wet them.

“I know you didn’t come here to back out like some pussy,” he growled, “Like I said—”

He leaned in just one inch further. Kirishima’s heartbeat began to quicken and he gritted his teeth in expectation.

“—I hate spineless nerds.”

There was something about the natural tone of Bakugou’s voice and the way he carried himself, even while crouched on the bathroom floor. His existence felt like one big challenge, and whomever dared to enter his domain was subjecting themselves to that very challenge—it was the sort of thing people did when they wanted to see who would endure and who would flee. It was such a tall order that Kirishima’s first instinct was to cower, hoping that Bakugou would simply walk away and forget about him. But there was something about the angel boy that suggested a strong memory and a focused gaze. No matter how Kirishima wanted to play it, he knew he’d find himself right back where he began—staring at Bakugou wondering what could be if he just said yes.

Perhaps that’s why it was all he could think to say.

“Fine,” said Kirishima.

“Fine?” asked Bakugou.

“Yeah,” Kirishima repeated, “fine—I’ll do it.”

The same smirk melted over Bakugou’s face. If anything, he knew he’d won, and that made him at least a little bit happy. Kirishima’s body flooded with a new, anxious energy, but he didn’t even have time to process such a sensation before he was being whisked back into the main room where the rest of Bakugou’s friends were already bustling.

Mina grabbed Kirishima’s hand and tugged him insistently over to a chair where Jirou was fussing with a collection of clippers and hairbands and goop in bowls. Once Kirishima had been shoved into the seat, Jirou hunched over to get a good look at him, her eyes eventually scanning the entire circumference of Kirishima’s head.

“What color were you thinkin’?” asked Jirou.

Color? Kirishima’s brain panicked.

A firm hand gripped the back of Kirishima’s chair. Bakugou leaned in towards the table of hair supplies until his shoulder was mere centimeters from Kirishima’s cheek.

“Red,” he grumbled.

Jirou laughed, “Man, you’re so right. He’s a natural red. Can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”

“N-natural red?” Kirishima asked meekly.

His question didn’t hit Jirou’s ears before the cold goop hit his head and made him shiver. With impossible speed, Jirou’s ungloved hands worked the bright red stuff that was sitting on her table through each individual strand of Kirishima’s hair. Kirishima sputtered, his hands flew to Jirou’s wrists.

“Wait!” He cried, “You can’t dye my hair, my parents will see!”

Jirou quirked an eyebrow.

“Wear a hat,” commanded Bakugou with a firm slap to Kirishima’s shoulder that nearly sent him toppling from the chair.

Kirishima wanted to protest, he could already feel the nausea rising back up within him at a dangerous rate. His mouth went dry as he tried to form his lips around all the words he wanted to scream.

“Denki!” Jirou shouted, “Mirror!”

“Coming, my love!”

And as quick as lightning, Kaminari appeared in front of Kirishima with a handheld mirror that sported a single hairline crack that spanned from one side to the other.

“Kneel,” Jirou ordered, Kaminari complied, “and stop calling me that,” she grumbled.

Every once in a while, Kaminari would look up from his cordial kneel to gaze at Jirou who was hard at work on Kirishima’s hair. There wasn’t much of it to cover, so once she’d wrapped his head a little too tight in saran wrap, Kaminari was relieved from his post as mirror holder. The dye burned against his scalp, all the hairs that had been collected beneath the plastic grew impossibly hot, Kirishima felt like he was holding his head next to a stove burner. He lifted a tentative finger to the wrapping to feel the heat radiating off before a swatting hand stung his skin.

“Don’t touch, you’ll fuck it up,” said Jirou.

Kirishima nursed his reddening hand while he watched Jirou hobble back over to her table to get a good look at Kirishima’s face. He’d flinched a bit at her casual expletive like he had with Bakugou a few nights ago. A passing fear ran through his mind of whether he’d have to curse to sing the songs for the band. Kirishima’s knuckles went white with his vice grip on the chair’s arms. Even though his father was miles away, Kirishima was sure that if a single curse fell from his lips, his father would hear and employ super speed to run to wherever Kirishima was and damn him to hell on the spot.

“Mina!” Jirou called out.

The girl bounded over to join Jirou in taking a close look at Kirishima’s face. They muttered to each other in low voices that Kirishima couldn’t make out. His eyes looked from one girl to the other as they murmured.

“Eyeliner?”

“No,” Mina hissed, “that’s too much—maybe just leave him as is.”

“Boring,” Jirou replied, “you never let me play with my face paint anymore.”

“We’re not all into deathrock like you,” Mina mused.

“Your loss,” Jirou muttered as she hobbled away, a steadying hand on her lower back.

Mina planted her hands on either side of the chair and leaned in close towards Kirishima’s face.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered, “I just saved you from a full face of makeup. Thought the hair would be enough for you, tonight.”

Kirishima heaved a sigh of relief. Mina smiled and pushed herself away from him, striding to the other wall with elegant, languid steps. She walked dutifully, yet stunningly, like she was always on stage giving a performance. Kirishima was mesmerized by her expertise walking in such tall heels, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the heels steady encounter with the floor, one after the other. Bakugou’s body was the first thing to block Kirishima’s vision and break his concentration on the bright pink shoes.

“Here,” he huffed, handing a pair of over-ear headphones to Kirishima.

Bakugou squatted back onto the floor like he had in the bathroom. In his hand was a Walkman with a tape already loaded in the dock. Kirishima took the headphones gingerly and began to turn them over in his hands; he’d seen other kids at school wearing the headphones, but he’d never worn them himself. If he’d asked either of his parents for a Walkman as a birthday gift, they’d undoubtedly ask him what sort of music he could possibly need to listen to that he couldn’t hear at church or on the local radio station. And they were right, he didn’t have much music to listen to that wasn’t sanctioned by his parents. So when he slipped the headphones over his ears with Bakugou watching on intently, he felt his body fill with sound at the sensation.

The song felt familiar to the crashing, clanging music he’d listened to in the car. There was a squealy sound somewhere in the mix that Kirishima couldn’t make out. The lead singer was using a gruff, scratchy tone to basically scream into the microphone. A drummer in the background was going bananas, playing a beat that the other instruments were forced to keep up with. Kirishima tried to hide his genuine fear, knowing that Bakugou was studying every ministration of his face. He stifled a gasp with a polite nod as a string of curses fell from the singer’s mouth. Kirishima gripped the arms of his chair even tighter.

With Bakugou looking on in expectation, the weight that Kirishima had taken upon his shoulders began to feel heavier than before. His breathing was labored, a conscious string of inhales and exhales.

Butterfly, heart, smaller heart, crown, silver band.

Butterfly, heart, smaller heart, crown, silver band.

“I don’t care much if you don’t know the songs,” said Bakugou, “Mina and Sero will carry vocals. But what you’re gonna do is different.”

Kirishima leaned forward and willed his body not to hurl right into Katsuki’s lap.

“You sing when it feels right, and scream the rest of the time,” Bakugou told him.

“What?” gasped Kirishima, his brow curling in confusion.

Bakugou nodded firmly, “Yeah, get the crowd into it. Make them feel what we’re feeling, shit like that.”

Leaning back in his chair, Kirishima’s gaze fell to the concrete floor beside where Bakugou was squatting. He swallowed a pocket of fear.

“Scream?” Kirishima eked out.

“Scream,” Bakugou repeated.

“A-about what?”

“Whatever you want,” he stood slowly, “scream about shit that makes you mad.”

Things that make him mad—there wasn’t much Kirishima could think of. Sure, he didn’t like how there were always so many people at the food mart when he and his mom would go Saturday afternoon. He didn’t like when people walked across the street without waiting for the pedestrian crossing symbol to come up on the traffic light. He didn’t like how apples used to be one dollar a pound but sometime last March, March 23rd to be exact, a pound of apples suddenly cost one dollar and thirty cents. These were all things that bothered Kirishima, but none of them made him angry—certainly not angry enough to scream about it.

“C’mon, it’s in you,” said Bakugou, “I guarantee.”

“But, Bakugou,” Kirishima’s voice fell to a whisper, “I can’t—I don’t think I—well—”

The more he sputtered, the narrower Bakugou’s eyes got. He didn’t have many more words left until the narrowed gaze would become a sharp glare that pierced right through his tender heart.

“I can’t—” Kirishima eked out.

“Can’t what? What can’t you do?” Bakugou barked.

“I can’t—” Kirishima leaned in, his lips chapped and cold, “I can’t curse.”

When he leaned back, the look on Bakugou’s face was twisted with a sort of malicious confusion. His deep, brown eyes glared up at Kirishima from beneath a heavy, dirty-blonde brow.

“Huh?” Bakugou grunted, his lip quirking to bare a sharp canine.

“I—” Kirishima began, “I don’t curse.”

“Why not?” He retorted immediately.

“Well, because—”

“It’s just a word,” said Bakugou bitingly.

Bakugou hovered over his body now, inching closer with every challenging step. Kirishima could smell the smoke that’d soaked into his clothing and the spot of cologne that was somewhere in the mix. With Bakugou’s firm face gazing down at him, the shadows made him look even more menacing. Kirishima felt his body start to shake from the sheer terror.

“I just can’t—I can’t say it!” Kirishima pled.

“Say ‘fuck’.”

The word began at the meeting of Bakugou’s bottom lip and front teeth, and it traveled like a sip of bourbon over his tongue where he caught it with a click at the back of his throat. The word was easy, seamless feeling in his mouth, but he was enunciating just for Kirishima. If cursing was some sort of drug, Bakugou was trying to show him just how good it felt.

“No,” Kirishima muttered.

“Say ‘fuck’,” Bakugou repeated, his eyes widening just slightly.

“I can’t—”

“Say ‘shit’.”

“Bakugou, really I—”

The blond hunched even further over. His eyes kept widening to the point of looking like a madman. Kirishima felt his body plaster to the chair, his fingers wound tightly around the arm.

“Say ‘fuck’—just once,” Bakugou begged sinisterly.

“I can’t!” Kirishima cried.

“It’s easy, four letters—” Bakugou reasoned darkly.

With a tilt of his head, Bakugou’s eyes refused to peel from Kirishima’s terrified gaze.

“C’mon,” he said, “for me?”

A pang of sickness hit Kirishima right in the center of his chest. Fingers of buzzing numbness traveled through his arms and legs, crawling and rushing. He felt a wave of heat creep up his neck and wash over his cheeks. Kirishima’s eyes darted from Katsuki’s brow to the piercing in his lip to the tip of his tongue that was sucking on the edge of a tooth. If there was anything Kirishima liked in the world, it was making other people happy. He’d played every character his father requested of him because, in the end, he might be happy with his son. He’d always done the dishes and folded the laundry and washed the windows whenever his mother asked because she’d always hug him and smile when he was through. And the thought of making Bakugou happy flooded Kirishima’s mind with the same feeling; it was such a simple thing that would bring him joy, why won’t he just do it?

Kirishima’s lips moved slower than ever, forming hesitantly around the first syllable. Bakugou’s eyes began to narrow as he did, anticipation building.

“Alright, that’s enough from you.”

With a push from an adorned hand, Bakugou was sent stumbling back a few steps from where Kirishima was sat, his face beet-red. Sero appeared before him, tugging a beat-up rolling rack of clothes behind them. They shot Bakugou a harrowing glance before the blond retreated—but not before flicking Sero off.

“And he calls me theatrical,” Sero teased.

“Hey!” Jirou cried from somewhere behind the chair, “At least let me rinse out his hair before you start playing dress-up.”

Sero groaned again just as Jirou’s hand patted Kirishima’s upper back, coaxing him out of his seat. The pair sauntered out through the sliding glass door which led to the little, moldy patio. On the side of the building was a spigot where Jirou pushed Kirishima’s head down—a little forcefully, in his opinion—and began to scrub her fingers viciously through his locks to rinse out ever last drop of hair dye. The only sight Kirishima caught before he had to close his eyes was a growing puddle of deep red water beneath him. His heart pounded at the end of his throat. What was he thinking letting them dye his hair? Was he supposed to wear a hat the entire time he was around his parents? What would he do at dinner when his mother asked him to take it off? As Kirishima hunched over beneath the icy cold spigot water, there was only one cohesive thought remaining in his head:

He’d screwed up.

Big time.

As Jirou tugged him back up, she nearly smothered him with a ratty towel from which threads dangled, tickling the end of his nose. She rounded him a few times, moving the wet hairs with her fingers and looking for any spots that were reminiscent of the Kirishima who’d stood there just one hour ago. He supposed that he’d passed the quality check when Jirou was tugging him back inside and handing him off to Sero who was perusing through the rack of clothing.

“Ooh,” he hummed, “the red is hot. Nice choice, Jirou.”

As she walked away, Jirou bent over in a clumsy, exaggerated bow which was partly her personality and partly her oversized belly that was getting in the way of most things, even if she’d never admit it. Sero took one lounging step over to Kirishima; their eyes began at the soaked locks of his hair and trailed down every line of his clothing and body until they rested at his feet.
“As much as I love this ‘Ferris Bueller is a camp counselor who got up in the middle of the night to catch a frog in the boy’s cabin’ look, it’s not gonna fly on stage.”

Instinctively, Kirishima crossed his arms over his shirt to try and hide the shame that had taken the form of a hyper-specific label. With just one look, Sero had read him like a children’s book. Kirishima wondered what else they already knew, just by glancing at him.

“Off,” commanded Sero with a flick of their finger in the general direction of Kirishima’s shirt.

His hands shook as they grazed the cotton hem. Kirishima couldn’t remember the last time he’d been seen without a shirt on by someone other than his mother. Whenever his mom would cave and take him to the public pool as a kid, she’d always make him wear a shirt which would only get sopping wet and drag his gangly body down under the water. Hands fiddling awkwardly with the fabric, Kirishima wracked his brain for any time he’d seen other men take their shirts off; he didn’t want to look awkward, especially in front of Sero. It took a few extra seconds of maneuvering and a pang of fear when the sleeve got stretched and stuck on Kirishima’s right elbow, but the shirt was soon in a wrinkled heap on the concrete and the chills on Kirishima’s bare skin were immediate.

His body wasn’t anything impressive. He’d always been thin as a kid but a few years ago, he’d filled out a bit, now sporting a pudgy stomach and soft chest. Kirishima always thought that his arms looked stick-thin next to the proportions of his body, so he had to wrestle between covering his stomach with them and exacerbating such a difference or letting his torso lay bare before a literal stranger. Even as they got a good look at Kirishima’s exposed body, Sero’s gaze never changed. They were observing—thinking. Kirishima wanted nothing more than to know what was going through Sero’s head. As they stepped up closer to Kirishima, he felt his body stiffen. Sero reached out take hold of the silver cross that hung from a chain that Kirishima kept perpetually hidden beneath his shirt. For only a moment, Sero’s fingers grazed the skin of Kirishima’s sternum before they turned the cross over in their hands a few times. Their usually intense eyes softened slightly.

“Beautiful,” Sero whispered, “is it yours?”

Kirishima nodded.

“My—my dad’s,” said Kirishima, “he gave it to me when I got confirmed in the—in the church.”

Sero hummed. Swiftly, their fingers trailed up the cold chain and slipped the thing seamlessly over Kirishima’s head. They took a second to observe the thing held up in the air before sliding the chain over their own head, letting the charm clatter against their other pieces of jewelry. Looking down at their chest, Sero traced the vertical line then the horizontal line with the tip of their finger.

“Don’t worry,” they teased, “I’ll give it back.”

With their parting phrase, Sero spun gracefully towards their rack of clothing and began to flit through the pieces with careful fingers and observant eyes. They pulled a shirt first, a black piece cropped unevenly which cut through whatever design was printed on the front. The next victim was a pair of low-cut, torn-up black jeans like the ones Bakugou always wore.

“Shoe size?” They asked.

“Um, size thirteen,” muttered Kirishima.

They looked back for a moment, an eyebrow quirked.

“Same as Bakugou,” said Sero, “but don’t tell him I told you that. He always claims to be a size fourteen but I’m the one who buys his clothes and I know better.”

With a clang, Sero pulled a belt off of the rack’s metal bar and kicked a pair of boots behind them towards where Kirishima was shivering. Sero spun back around and strode towards Kirishima, handing him the pile of clothes they’d accumulated in their arms.

“Put on, please,” they requested, already moving on from the situation.

And Kirishima obeyed. He shimmied the shirt on first, noticing almost immediately how the hem fell just above his bellybutton, exposing the pudge he always fought to hide. As he pulled the pants over his sleep shorts, Kirishima battled the hole where his foot refused to pull through. He was getting frustrated at the sensation, feeling heat gather in his body and blood pound in his ears. The shoes were even more frustrating, thick leather pieces that were well-worn, but still tough and heavy. He tied them with hot, unstable fingers. And when he stood, Kirishima wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around the exposed sliver of his stomach forever and ever, especially when he noticed Mina watching on. Her eyes went wide as she gasped audibly.

“Look at you!” She shrieked.

Kirishima’s face flushed. He gave a sheepish smile as Mina clapped excitedly. A firm hand carded through the damp strands of Kirishima’s freshly-dyed hair before pulling—hard.

“Ow!” Kirishima hissed.

“Sit,” Jirou commanded, pushing him back down into the chair where she’d last put him.

In her opposite hand, Jirou was wielding a hairdryer like a revolver. With a quick glance behind him, Kirishima could barely trail the extension cord which powered the machine and led to seemingly nowhere. Jirou turned the dryer on and the loud hum surrounded Kirishima’s head in a bubble of inescapable noise. So, as Mina and Bakugou walked up to him, he could only guess what words they were saying to each other and to him.

“Huh?” Kirishima asked.

They continued to talk, but Kirishima could only see their lips and hear the occasional syllable. Mina leaned towards Bakugou to ask something excitedly. He stood there for a moment, arms crossed and brow heavy in thought, before nodding decisively.

“Can I...your...?” Mina shouted to him over the dryer’s hum.

“What?” Kirishima shouted back.

“CAN I....YOUR...?”

Kirishima’s head was wrenched back and forth by a merciless Jirou. He tried desperately to hear over the dryer’s noise.

“Can I PIERCE your EARS?” Mina shouted.

And it would’ve been loud enough to hear over the noise, but Jirou had turned the machine off right as she started screaming. Kirishima’s ears rang as he recoiled a bit in his seat.

“Can you—what?” He asked, stunned.

“Pierce your ears,” she repeated, “it’ll take, like, one second.”

Kirishima’s mouth hung agape. Up until now, he hadn’t had the balls to say no.

“I—you can’t—I can’t hide pierced ears from my parents,” he stammered.

“He’s right,” said Bakugou over Mina’s shoulder, “the hair is enough for tonight.”

Mina pouted. Reluctantly, she handed the open safety pin back to Bakugou and stuck the lighter out towards Sero. Bakugou took the open safety pin with one hand and used the fingers of the other to feel around the skin beneath his lip. When he found the piercing, he pushed the open pin carefully through the hole before snapping it shut and adjusting it a bit with his tongue. Sero took the lighter and shoved it in their pocket. Kirishima took a hesitant hand to his hair, still unsure what color he’d see when he looked in the mirror. It felt crunchy, straw-like. Jirou had probably bleached his hair before attacking it with the bright red dye.

“I opened the doors,” said Kaminari, bumbling in through the door which Kirishima assumed led to a whole other part of the dilapidated building.

“People?” Mina asked excitedly.

“Fuck ton of ‘em,” Kaminari replied.

A wave of fear arrested Kirishima’s body. He couldn’t move, his hair was dry and heavy, there was a draft travelling up his shirt and tickling the skin of his chest, and he could almost feel the sensation of a safety pin sticking through the soft skin of his earlobe. His mouth went dry as he imagined people, real people, who had come to see him onstage. It wasn’t like church where he was expected to sing and appreciated after the fact no matter how well he did. This was a crowd who didn’t know a thing about him and would judge his every move. What if they hated him? What if they laughed? What if his father was in the crowd, waiting to kill him?

The next thirty or so minutes were no help. In between Mina’s yapping, Bakugou kept sticking the headphones of his Walkman over his hair, playing one song after another and trying to give tips that Kirishima would surely forget. Sero had slipped a few rings over his fingers, but most of them were too loose and kept falling off and clattering onto the ground. After she’d wrestled the headphones off of Kirishima’s head and shot Bakugou an icy glare, Jirou got to work spiking up Kirishima’s hair. There wasn’t much of it, so the spikes didn’t reach nearly as high as Kaminari’s, but they certainly weren’t as scattered and small like Bakugou’s. Kaminari kept egging him on, trying desperately to get Kirishima to let them pierce his ears. Kirishima kept giving reasons that it simply wouldn’t work but, in all honesty, he never did say no. And just as Bakugou had capitalized upon that inability, Kaminari wasn’t letting up.

“Just put—bandages over your ears or something,” he suggested.

“They’ll think I got into a fight,” replied Kirishima.

“Then—” he began, “I don’t know, put cross earrings in or something? They won’t be so mad then, right?”

Kirishima sighed, “You’ve never met my parents.”

“Allow me to apologize for the brainless father of my child,” Jirou lamented, her hands still working dutifully at Kirishima’s hair.

“She’s right,” Kaminari conceded, “if this baby comes out with any ability to read, it’s all her.”

He placed a gentle hand on Jirou’s upper back and gave her a short, yet tender rub. She glanced at him, but not nearly with the same amount of virile that she’d given the rest of the group. If Kirishima hadn’t been looking at that particular moment, he might’ve left the hideout thinking that Jirou hated Kaminari, and that was it. And at some point, the energy in the hideout shifted amongst them all. It was probably prompted by the growing volume from the voices in the adjacent hall. While the entire group seemed to get more amped, Kirishima couldn’t match their energy as hard as he tried. They all changed their outfits only minimally. Bakugou kept fighting Kaminari for time in front of the handheld mirror that Mina was reluctantly holding for them. Sero excused themself to the patio for a spell. And when Jirou finally finished Kirishima’s hair, she wrenched the handheld mirror from the bickering trio and held it up so Kirishima could finally see himself.

Sure enough, his hair was a bright, fire-engine red that showed no semblance of his former shade. The entire thing had been gelled up in a spiky style that formed a sort of fauxhawk that traveled from the crown of his head to where his undercut began in the center of the back. In the front, however, Jirou had taken two pieces and spiked them up separately to create a distinct set of horns. And with his red hair they almost looked like something Kirishima wouldn’t even allow himself to think of.

“You like?” Jirou asked, appearing over his shoulder in the mirror’s reflection.

Quite honestly, he did. A new sensation began to tingle throughout his body where fear had settled not long before. He’d never looked so different, so unlike himself; there was something about his appearance that was chillingly wonderful. For the first time in Kirishima’s entire life, he was stricken by his own beauty.

Though he’d never admit to such a self-centered thought.

Soon enough, Kirishima was being tugged by a bubbly Mina and pushed by a rampaging Kaminari out to the door which led to the hall. They all slipped into a small backstage area that was closed off with just a curtain. It was nothing impressive, just a couple lawn chairs and a wooden table that looked like it was stolen right from the park. Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima watched Bakugou dig around in a drawer of drumsticks. Most of them had been snapped in half given the splintered wood on the ends. When he found a good, unbroken pair, he twirled them instinctively around his fingers once or twice. Mina grabbed an electric and tossed the other dangerously to Kaminari which he caught by just a hair.

“Why do you always have to throw my shit?” He yelled.

“Well, you’ve always caught it, right?” Mina replied teasingly.

“Let me play, Bakugou!”

Jirou stamped over to where Bakugou was tapping his drumsticks rhythmically against the looted table.

“You can’t reach the bass strings anymore,” Bakugou grumbled, “what good’ll you be? And Sero can play the bass just fine.”

Sero shot them a look, bass in hand.

“Don’t you dare get nitpicky about my performance,” they threatened, “I’ve only been playing for a few years.”

A few years? Kirishima thought. If being inexperienced in this group meant only spending a few years learning something, then Kirishima was undoubtedly the most unprepared out of them all. Sure, he’d sun in choir for most of his life and had gone every Wednesday night to the music director’s house to take private lessons, but that was all for church music. He’d never prepared for something like this.

He was going to fail.

He was going to fail Bakugou and all his friends.

“Shots!” Bakugou called out to the group which had scattered around the makeshift backstage area.

With a hard clunk on the table, Bakugou had pulled out an almost full bottle of some liquor that Kirishima didn’t recognize. The cups came next, but they were just red plastic cups that Kirishima remembers being used at his church’s potlucks. Bakugou flicked open the bottle masterfully and began to pour a bit of the liquid into each receptacle. Kaminari snatched his up immediately. Sero grabbed one for themselves then handed another to Mina. Bakugou took another cup which left only one remaining on the table. Jirou eyed him, knowing that it damn well wasn’t made for her. Bakugou must’ve noticed the harrowed look on Kirishima’s face.

“You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to,” he muttered, “it’s just for nerves.”

Kirishima had never had alcohol before. The only time he’d gotten close was a chance encounter at a church where his father was guest preaching while their original pastor recovered from surgery. Everyone drank from this one big communion cup which, when Kirishima approached it, smelled like rotting fruits with a hint of vinegar. He only had time to grimace before his father yanked him out of the line and berated him later for trying to take a sip of wine. Kirishima claimed he thought it was grape juice since that’s what was used at his father’s church, but he couldn’t convince him that it wasn’t a lie. He got grounded which would’ve felt more like a punishment if Kirishima had anywhere to go.

Sero elbowed him gently, the leftover cup of alcohol in the hand where their own drink wasn’t.

“Again,” they said, handing the cup to Kirishima, “only drink it if you want to.”

Kirishima gazed down at the amber liquid in the bottom of the cup. It looked like he could drink it in a single sip, if he wanted to. He folded his lips in between his teeth.

“Y’know,” Sero said lowly, “Bakugou doesn’t just go around choosing anyone. This band is his life, he’s anything but reckless.”

Even though Kirishima knew that it was supposed to make him feel better, the pressure only surmounted with Sero’s words. Kirishima distracted himself by running his tongue over each of his teeth and every nook and cranny of his gums. Sero coughed dully into their elbow. It wasn’t so much of a smoker’s hack (which Kirishima knew well) as it was a genuine, sickly cough. They rose back up with a sniff and a pained swallow.

“Kiri, babe.”

Kirishima turned to Sero who still wasn’t looking at him. Instead, they were staring right ahead with unfocused eyes.

“None of us know how much time we have left,” they said, “and most of us will spend all those days doing shit we’re not interested in. And in the few moments where we let ourselves rest and enjoy ourselves, we criticize and berate ourselves for letting it happen.”

Their tone was low and serious. With a final swig of alcohol, Sero emptied their cup.

“Tomorrow is an idea, not a guarantee.”

With this, they looked up at Kirishima. Sero’s face was gaunt and sunken, yet their eyes were sharp and pointed towards Kirishima himself.

“Do you need to die first before you find out how good it feels to do what you want?”

It seemed so simple in words. It seemed even simpler in the way that Sero said it. But Kirishima’s psyche wouldn’t budge. Still, he gripped the wet blanket of his childhood, the gift from his father that he’d been too afraid to refuse. He wanted to fly like Bakugou had in the field outside his home. He wanted to glide across the room like Sero always did. He wanted to go out on stage and make Bakugou proud. He wanted to take a sip of alcohol.

And he did.

It burned. Bad. It tasted even worse. Kirishima grimaced hard, but the pain of it all seemed to float away when he opened his eyes to see Bakugou smiling dully, a gleam in his eye. Immediately, the warmth hit Kirishima’s stomach as he took a steadying step back. When he smacked his tongue, he could still taste the sour liquid; he wished desperately for the toothpaste taste he’d had before.

But before he could register it all—the crowd, the lights, the size of the stage—Kirishima was being pushed onstage.

“As fascinating as this story is, I’m really more interested in hearing more about your father.”

“I’m getting to it, I promise, this story is important if you’re going to understand what happened.”

“Mr. Kirishima, I understand, but—”

“Trust me. Understand this, and everything will fall into place. And I’m paying for these therapy sessions so—really I can talk about whatever I want.”

“I suppose. And this, er, Bakugou—have you two kept in touch?”

“Well—not particularly.”

“No?”

“Something happened a few months after that show and—and—I’ll get there, I promise.”

“Interesting. Go on.”

“So I step onstage, right?”

Chapter Text

Kirishima wasn’t one for stages.

And a stage, to him, wasn’t confined to a heightened surface shrouded in blinding floodlights. A stage was anything: the front of a classroom, the space in front of a large choir, his seat at the dining table. Whenever he’d step into these spaces, he’d somehow forget his own name and where he was so violently that he wouldn’t snap out of it until he was back in his seat and the whole ordeal was over. Only a few times had he snapped back sometime during the actual thing, which led to him puking all over the floor on its first occasion and led to even worse the few other times it’d happened. Kirishima didn’t like to be looked at almost as much as he didn’t like to be touched. He hated other people’s voices and faces. So, as he walked out onto the stage, the liquid courage already sweeping through his bloodstream, Kirishima’s entire chest arrested in fear.

There were people. Lots of people. Lots of big, tall people wearing outfits that made Katsuki and his friends look right at home. For those who weren’t as tall as the others, they made up for it by spiking their hair as high as it would go; every head was doused in some garish color—crimson, violet, emerald. Strangely, it made Kirishima feel less out of place in his uncharacteristic outfit which tugged uncomfortably at certain creases of his body. The crowd shouted as soon as the band members appeared on stage. Kirishima flinched for a moment, his hands itching to cover his ears, but he didn’t want to look like a child in front of all these people he didn’t even know. The sound easily filled the crammed, little auditorium that was lined with the same brick wall and concrete flooring as the adjacent room. Immediately, the sour stench of sweat and smoke hit Kirishima’s nose, making him pucker his lips in disgust. Where there wasn’t shouting or clapping, there was mingling and chatting amongst the concertgoers.

Off to Kirishima’s right, Sero was plugging in their bass and plunking out a few test notes that rang heavy through the room. To Kirishima’s left was Kaminari doing the same with his electric but choosing instead to strum out a few power chords that silenced the audience momentarily. Mina was a few paces behind him, attaching herself to a separate amp and searching around her space for her pick, which she was unknowingly holding between her teeth. Kirishima turned a hair towards the old, beat-up drum set that was sitting behind him; the seat was vacant, and Bakugou was nowhere to be seen. Kirishima swallowed hard. Had Bakugou abandoned him? He was backstage, wasn’t he? Kirishima’s eyes darted all around as he tried to figure out where Bakugou could’ve gone in the three seconds that he wasn’t looking. More people were filing into the venue, only intensifying the stuffiness of the air. Kirishima felt his lungs contract around the sudden lack of air. If people kept filing in like this then, soon, he might not be able to breathe at all.

Before Kirishima could give the situation another thought, Sero was plunking out a more intentional bassline, prompting Mina and Kaminari to join after a few messy counts. Kirishima glanced behind him once more to only see the seat behind the drum kit still empty.

Where was Bakugou?

It took a few dozen measures before Kirishima caught on and realized that they were playing one of the songs Bakugou had made him listen to while he was getting ready. They were playing the first song in their set and Kirishima didn’t even have a microphone. His head spun fast as lightning towards Mina and Kaminari who had a stand mic that they shared. He turned next to Sero, who had a stand mic all their own. Kirishima glanced down furiously to his empty hands. His stomach plummeted to his feet. Glancing up at the crowd, he saw that most of them were jamming to the song’s intro while others were still talking to one another, but Kirishima saw one man in particular in an outfit most akin to Jirou’s getup that had set his gaze on Kirishima. The man’s face was flat, yet stern, like he was mad that Kirishima had no idea what he was going. Feeling his mouth go dry with utter panic, Kirishima did another once-over of the bandmates on stage, hoping that one of them had noticed his predicament. But Sero had their eyes closed as they plucked out a masterful bassline, Mina was toeing the edge of the stage to get up close and personal with some girls in the audience, and Kaminari was already jumping around like a lunatic.

Kirishima had no mic, no balls, and no Bakugou.

That is, until, a rough hand wrapped around the junction of Kirishima’s head and neck. Using the index finger to push Kirishima’s chin up, Bakugou forced the boy to look at him. He was taller now, significantly more so. He must’ve put on some platform boots because he definitely wasn’t this tall before. But he towered almost half a head over Kirishima, enough that Bakugou’s entire face needed to bend down to get right up in Eijirou’s. A shudder traveled through Kirishima’s spine at the sight of Bakugou’s trademark stern brow and chronically quirked lip. From this distance, however, Kirishima could feel Bakugou’s hot breath fan his face. His hand around Kirishima’s neck tightened just slightly, the middle finger poking right into his jugular; Kirishima wondered if Bakugou could feel his quickening pulse. Kirishima’s body sparked with all sorts of electricity. Katsuki neared him just half an inch more before he spoke.

“Get mad for me, and I’ll make sure your cocksucker dad gets all the money he needs, ya got that?”

His voice was low and growly, but it was just loud enough to register in Kirishima’s overwhelmed ears. When Kirishima swallowed, he felt his Adam’s apple scrape against the callouses on Bakugou’s palms. Kirishima nodded as best he could in Katsuki’s vice grip, after which Bakugou shoved a corded microphone in his hand and sauntered off towards the vacant drum kit. The rest of the band was still vamping, apparently waiting for Bakugou’s grand entrance just like Kirishima was. The microphone in his right hand felt like a ten-ton weight, Kirishima could feel his feet melting into the floor already.

The only thing that could jolt him to life was the merciless pound of Bakugou’s drumstick on his snare. Immediately, the beat from the kickdrum rang through Kirishima’s feet and threw his entire body off balance. Avoiding what would’ve been a mortifying face plant onto the stage, Kirishima steadied himself and took another longing gaze out to the crowd who was definitely paying attention now that Bakugou had sauntered out onto the stage. To be honest, in the flurry of the entire evening, Kirishima had totally forgotten about Bakugou’s promise to him about his father and the money.

“Is that why you did it, then?”

“Well, partly. I thought that it would mend things between me and my dad if I were the one to save his church from financial ruin. I think it all began as wanting to please my father but, eventually, it became about that and also pleasing—”

“Bakugou,” Kirishima shouted back in a crackly voice.

He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t. Even as he tried to imagine his father being happy about the money and maybe being happy with him for once, it wasn’t enough to convince him that this wasn’t crazy. Kirishima had to get out of here, and he had to get out of here fast.

Bakugou glanced up from his drumming and almost snarled at Kirishima. A glowy sheen of sweat was already glinting off his brow and his entire body had gone a shade pinker. He shot Kirishima a menacing glare. Kirishima opened his mouth and willed the words “I can’t” to come out of them, but they just wouldn’t. The words were caught somewhere between his head and his mouth. He opened his mouth a little more to try and say it, but it was no use. How could he tell Bakugou that he quits right when everything was beginning? What sort of twerp does that?

Turning back a hair to the crowd, only a couple of them were focused on Kirishima’s obviously out-of-place appearance in the group. He must’ve looked as disheveled and confused as he felt, and the thought made bright red splotches creep up to his cheeks. He was caught in a perpetual limbo between the confused crowd and an insistent, probably lethal Bakugou. The song began and Mina and Sero, like Bakugou predicted, carried the majority of the vocals. But as Kirishima caught sight of a couple concertgoers thrashing around in the audience like crazy people, he wanted to shout back to Bakugou that they were fighting, and they had to stop. Some of them were throwing their heads towards the floor so violently that Kirishima was surprised their heads didn’t just pop off and roll along the concrete floor. Kaminari had now moved to the end of the stage where he was keeping the rhythm with his electric and slamming his head down in time with all the others.

Just as expected, the music was clangy and clashy and far too loud for Kirishima’s taste. The same feeling he’d experienced in Bakugou’s car returned with a vengeance, starting at the tips of his numbing toes and crawling slowly up his buckling legs. He recognized the song from Bakugou’s lesson an hour or so ago, but he also saw what he meant when he said that screaming would contribute somewhat. The people in the crowd were obviously angry, or so Kirishima assumed, so maybe they come to hear someone else scream so they, too, would feel free to scream. All Kirishima had to do was find something that made him so angry he couldn’t contain himself and the scream would come right out.

The thing is, Kirishima didn’t get angry.

Sure, he got overwhelmed, but that was when he was around loud noises and bright lights and lots of other people. Yet, he never got angry. He could never seem to achieve the type of angr that would make someone yell or throw something. He’d watch his father come close, but Kirishima’s mother would always explain to him that his father’s anger was righteous, and that whenever he did get mad it was because he had every right to be so. Kirishima would remind himself of that fact when his father would grip the back of his shirt collar mercilessly or throw his shoes in his general direction. But anything that made Kirishima just the tiniest bit angry never seemed righteous enough, at least, not as righteous as his father’s. So, he would take the angry feeling and shove it as far down as it would go and lock it away for later. Like his mother taught him, things die when you don’t pay attention to them for long enough.

But now, by some act of God, Kirishima was being asked to get angry. Did it have to be a righteous anger like his father’s? Or could it be the flimsy, throwaway anger he kept locked up in his chest? Kirishima panicked as the song raged on and he was still standing there like a damn fool. He had to do something—anything.

In a last-ditch attempt, Kirishima looked back to Bakugou whose glare was even meaner than before. If the boy wasn’t so occupied with playing the drums, Kirishima believes Bakugou could’ve and would’ve killed him with his bare hands.

Get angry, Kirishima’s mind screamed, c’mon Eiji.

“And one day, my father just demanded that I sing every Sunday. I hated him for it, he didn’t even ask me what I thought, he just decided like he himself was God. He threw me into the whole ordeal with no prep and no encouragement, I just had to figure it out.”

“And singing for Bakugou’s band felt--?”

“Yeah, a little too similar.”

With his eyes still trained on Bakugou’s glare, Kirishima felt a hot knot pound in the center of his chest. Just one week ago, the same boy had been perched on his windowsill, asking him to sing in his punk band. He knew how hesitant Kirishima had been, so why would he be so insistent that Kirishima perform that night? Could it not have waited some other night? He glanced down at his own clothes—the tight pants and the shirt that was riding up uncomfortably high and the boots that made his feet feel like lead weights—he’d never looked more unlike himself. A pang of fear shot through his stomach when he remembered that his hair was fire engine red. They hadn’t asked his permission, the bastards. They’d just gone ahead and done whatever they wanted with Kirishima.

That’s all anybody ever did, they only did what they wanted with Kirishima. No one cared how Eijirou felt, no one gave a damn. He was a doll, a doormat, a plaything that people discard when they’re tired of it. And he’d let it happen. He’d let Bakugou drag him out to god knows where to do something he’d rather die than do just like Kirishima had let his father toss him onstage every Sunday morning to perform a hymn.

God, it made his blood boil. Heat rose through every appendage, the microphone felt miraculously light in Kirishima’s hand. He wanted to throw it, he wanted to throw the microphone. He wanted to grab Katsuki’s collar and drag him offstage and give him a piece of his mind. He was—he was—

angry.

“Fuck,” Kirishima whispered, his lips barely gracing the edges of the word.

With the inside of his lip pressed firmly against his front teeth, Kirishima said it again.

“Fuck,” he repeated, a little louder.

With another chaste glance back to Bakugou, he felt the word overtake any part of his brain that would’ve inhibited him from something so crude. Kirishima had never felt his body vibrate like this. It was hot and sweaty and coiled and about to explode.

“Fuck you,” he said to Bakugou.

The blond craned his neck to get closer to Kirishima, an exaggerated “what?” falling from his lips. Kirishima let the light microphone in his hand fly up to his mouth. He pulled the thing close, letting the grid pattern of the metal leave indents in his shaking lips.

“Fuck—you,” Kirishima said deliberately, loudly, and pointedly.

Bakugou’s face did nothing at first. Kirishima’s hot breath rattled around in his chest as he itched to say it again. It was surely hellfire that was licking at his bones and making him feel so hot. But soon, Bakugou’s eyes softened from their intense glare into something of—amusement. And then he smiled. He smiled menacingly, but it was the biggest smile Kirishima had ever seen grace his face. He wasn’t mad at all that Kirishima had just said “fuck you” right to his face, he was exhilarated.

And if Kirishima wasn’t so full of fire, he would’ve stopped to appreciate it for a moment longer, but he had a lot more left in him that would make sure Bakugou kept smiling. Turning to his left Kirishima caught Kaminari’s eye.

“Fuck you!” He cried, remembering how Kaminari didn’t give one shit about Kirishima’s personal space when they first met.

Kaminari reeled back for a moment, steadying himself on his foot, before his eyes widened in pure, unadulterated joy. He turned to Mina who was standing only a few paces away from him.
“And fuck you too!” Kirishima shouted at Mina.

She hadn’t really done anything wrong, but Eijirou was on a roll.

When he finally turned to the audience, the few that had been watching him were peering closer, nodding slowly as they watched Kirishima lose his mind onstage. Why wouldn’t they just shut up and leave?

“Fuck you all, too!” Kirishima cried over the crashing music, his right arm gesturing wildly over the entire crowd.

A faint “yeah!” was shouted from somewhere in the back of the room. Kirishima heard a girl shout “fuck you, too!” at him in a gravelly voice that reminded him of Jirou. The music beneath Kirishima’s shouting had increased in volume and intensity just enough for him to need to saunter to the edge of the stage where people were banging their heads and slapping the wood of the makeshift stage. When he reached the people in front, Kirishima squatted and leaned down to hover over them, the microphone still pressed hard to his lips.

“That’s what they do,” he shouted, “they take advantage of you—the fuckers!”

The word still felt so unnatural on his tongue. When he really listened, Kirishima didn’t even hear his own voice anymore. What in the world was he doing?

“All these—cocksuckers,” Kirishima spat, feeling saliva coat the end of the microphone.

It was the only two curse words he knew, and he only knew one way in which to use them both. But anger was still bubbling up in his body at rapid rates. Some people in the crowd had grabbed onto each other’s clothes and were jostling around, bumping shoulders and slamming their backs against anyone who happened to be around them. Kirishima wishes he was down there with them, it seemed like the best way to get all this heated frustration out of his system. But, alas, he was relegated to the mic and the few curse words he knew.

Doing it is one thing—meaning it is another.

With Bakugou’s words ringing clear in his ears, Kirishima scoffed.

“That’s what th-they fucking do” he stumbled on his words a bit, hoping his usage wasn’t as clunky as it felt, “they use you.”

A couple girls right at the edge of the stage were responding with a chorus of shouts and heavy beats of their hands against the stage while people behind them jostled around to the music. As Kirishima stood to his feet, he felt his mind go a bit fuzzy to the point where he had to take a stabilizing step back to keep himself from passing out completely. When he caught another glimpse of Mina and Denki, they were jumping around even more than before, cheering Kirishima on with everything they had. Bakugou wasn’t doing the same, but his drumming had definitely gotten louder since the song began. Now, the entire crowd was moving in some way, either knocking into their neighbor or banging their head with their entire upper body, instead.

As far back as Kirishima could remember, there was only one moment where he couldn’t help but feel that his father’s anger wasn’t as righteous as his mother had said. He was young, seven or so, lying in bed reading a picture book when he heard the screams coming from the living room. They weren’t exactly screams as much as they were strained whispers in his parents’ attempt to not wake their son. But Kirishima was reading sneakily beneath his covers by the light of a little flashlight Tamaki had lent to him, so he heard every word, especially when he pressed his ear up against the thin wooden door.

“He’s your son,” he heard his mother cry.

“I don’t give a damn,” his father hissed back.

Righteous anger, Kirishima reminded himself, that’s all it was.

“We can’t change him,” his mother replied.

“Well, I’m sure as hell going to try.”

Kirishima had never heard his father use the word hell outside of his sermons. Was it a bad word?

“It’s a developmental disorder,” his mother hissed, “you can’t change it.”

“Watch me,” his father said, his tone rising just a bit.

Seven-year-old Kirishima didn’t know what was going on at the time, only half of the words made sense. But he locked as much of their conversation away in his mind to await the day where he would understand and could make it all better.

And now, it was all unrighteous anger that was seething in the center of Kirishima’s chest. He hadn’t felt this way ever before in his life, but he felt his body go weightless with each passing moment. His organs were floating towards his head which felt like it was about to explode. He wanted something to say, something that sounded as unrighteous as he felt, something filthy that would coat his tongue and leave an unpleasant taste for the rest of the week. But all he could think of was the one thing his father shouted to his mother in an extremely clear voice that Kirishima hadn’t been able to forget, even after eleven years:

“Then take your goddamn half-brained son and get the hell out of my house, you whore!”

When the final word tumbled from his lips, Kirishima heard the crashing music fizzle out as the song reached its end. For a moment, Kirishima couldn’t look up from the floor; his chest burned with the intensity of his shout and his mind grew weary of thinking. Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima watched the crowd cheer, obviously unfazed by what he’d said, but when he finally tore his gaze from the ground, he saw Mina’s soft, concerned expression. Kaminari wasn’t far behind her, sporting a similar quizzical look. It seemed that the only people who had heard Kirishima’s odd words were the people on stage—all the crowd had heard was more frenzied shouting.

The unrighteous thing had been said. The only words his father had ever uttered that Kirishima had sworn to keep inside his heart for the rest of his life were now laying limp on the stage floor. And it tasted as sour as he expected. The coating on his tongue made him feel sick, and the weightless feeling of his organs wasn’t much help. Kirishima felt his throat start to close up, his stomach was clenching over and over—he was about to be sick.

With a rehearsed hand, Kirishima covered his mouth and dropped the microphone to the ground with a clatter that became a piercing whir of feedback. He raced offstage as quickly as he could without tripping over his giant boots. His vision was fuzzy, so he was really hoping that where he was running was offstage and not right into the crowd or something. That was the last thing he needed. Which meant it was insanely reassuring when he felt a pair of arms practically catch him as he disappeared from the view of the crowd. He shut his eyes and let his body crumple into whoever had caught him. Registering the sensation, he felt a belly press into his torso.

It must’ve been Jirou that hauled him over to the nearest trash can where he vomited once and then another time, just for good measure. His breath was labored as he hovered over the can which now reeked of sour alcohol and a hint of mouthwash. When he finally blinked his eyes open, he saw Jirou beside him rubbing a comforting hand between his shoulder blades.

“You killed it out there,” she said in a low voice.

Coming from Mina or Kaminari, Kirishima might’ve shrugged off the comment, but coming from Jirou, he knew it was sincere. She didn’t seem like one to waste her breath on things she didn’t mean.

“I don’t know what came over me, but it was the only thing I could think to say.”

“And you remembered it for that long?”

“Word-for-word.”

Eventually, Jirou shoved a chair underneath Kirishima who was staying near the trash can just in case another disaster came his way. His head lolled from one side to the other as Kirishima tried to refocus his eyes. His lungs felt like they were going to slip right out of his mouth and his heart was just starting to come down from the adrenaline rush of being so loud for so long.
It wasn’t until an extremely hot and sweaty pair of hands grabbed each side of his face that Kirishima’s eyes would finally focus on the sight before him.

“Are you okay?”

Bakugou’s gruff voice pierced through the flood of blood that was rushing through Kirishima’s ears.

“Yeah,” he eked out, paired with a nod.

“Are you sure?” Bakugou spat.

“Uh-huh,” Kirishima grunted, willing the color back into his face.

Bakugou’s tongue darted out to wet his lips before they curled into a devious smile.

“Then I can tell you that was fucking incredible,” he hissed.

Kirishima closed his lips to prevent himself from barfing on Katsuki, but he managed to flash a smile of his own at the compliment. His body tingled with warmth. He loved making people happy and getting complimented afterwards was just a perk.

“When you’re feeling better,” Bakugou added, “you go back out there and do it again, yeah?”

It was worded like a request, but Bakugou spoke it more like a command—an expectation. Kirishima nodded weakly, knowing that he would never feel well enough to pull something like that again, at least, not that night. But Bakugou took the bait and laid a firm slap to Kirishima’s shoulder before stomping back onstage. Kirishima’s face went cold at the absence of his hands, the sweat drying on like a crust against his scarred skin. Maybe it’d cost him his dinner and his general sanity, but Bakugou was happy. In some strange, twisted way, Kirishima had succeeded in making Bakugou happy, despite all the potholes he should’ve fallen into along the way. Kirishima smiled meekly knowing that Bakugou wasn’t just pleased, he was pleased with him.

What more could Kirishima want?

Chapter Text

As much he might’ve loved to run back onstage with all the confidence that the single shot had given him only an hour or so earlier, Kirishima knew that just one spell of nausea had a habit of leaving him practically bedridden for the rest of the day. Although, he didn’t mind Mina’s soft fingers carding through his hair as he reclined on a ratty couch that they must’ve drug in from a landfill and balanced a water bottle between his sternum and his lips. He still looked as green as he felt, and he knew that because Kaminari would make some sort of off-hand comment about the shade of his face every five minutes. Mina had pounced on the opportunity to care for Kirishima because it got her out of the clean-up that Bakugou, Sero, and Jirou were doing begrudgingly in the adjacent room. Kaminari had tried to valiantly volunteer in Jirou’s place, but she looked like she’d rather die than sit on that couch next to Kirishima for one minute more. She admitted that throwing up made her uneasy, which made Kirishima feel like pure hell.

“I mean, for the song you did before you ran off stage to barf, it was really good!” Mina cheered, her long nails grazing Kirishima’s scalp and sending pleasing shudders all down his back.

“I particularly liked the part where you told Bakugou to go fuck himself,” Kaminari crooned.

“I didn’t say that!” Kirishima retorted weakly.

“I mean, ya said something close to it,” said Kaminari.

To be honest, Kirishima hadn’t thought much about what happened onstage, his brain was too busy reminding his body not to throw up again. He remembered bits and pieces, snapshots of music and faces in the crowd and—the cursing.

“Oh my gosh,” Kirishima groaned.

“What?” Mina asked, a strain of concern weaving through her voice.

“I cursed.”

“Well,” Mina chuckled, “that’s okay, right?”

“What if—” Kirishima sniffled, “what if God smites me?”

It sounded ridiculous coming out of his pouted mouth, regardless of how serious it felt in his heart. Kaminari snorted once before burying his face in his hands to muffle the following laughter. Even Mina let out a few high-pitched giggles.

“I don’t think God is gonna smite you for saying ‘fuck’,” Mina reassured.

Kirishima pouted, “But what if He does?”

“Then I’ll tell God to meet me behind the 7-11 and show me what he’s made of,” Kaminari declared, cracking his knuckles.

“Spoiler,” Mina said, “Kaminari is made of a tube of yogurt and two stray cats in a trench coat.”

“I have fought and defeated many a foe,” he replied, pairing his bold words with a pointed finger.

“Remember that one time that Bakugou snapped you so hard with a dish towel that you woke up with a giant bruise on your thigh?” Mina chuckled.

Kaminari turned up his nose, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Mina leaned in to whisper in Kirishima’s ear.

“They say the brain blocks out traumatic memories.”

“I can hear you,” Kaminari spat over to the giggling pair.

As Kirishima felt the corners of his mouth start to turn up, he pulled his lips between his teeth to suppress it. It felt good to exist at rest with Bakugou’s friends, but something still felt off. What was it?

“I declare that Mina and Kaminari have to clean the auditorium all by themselves next time,” said Sero dramatically as they burst through the door.

Sero was gripping an overflowing trash bag in one hand while Jirou held a stack of red plastic cups that were dribbling with some sticky-looking liquid, and Bakugou was trailing just a few paces behind with a handful of what looked like cigarettes. Sero let the trash bag crash to the floor, out of which a strange variety of broken items tumbled out of the opening. Jirou squatted down as best she could to set the tall stack of cups right beside it.

“I swear,” Bakugou growled, “if I have to pick up one more cigarette butt, I’m gonna ban them from my shows.”

“Then you can kiss three-fourths of your audience goodbye,” Jirou said flatly.

“Three-fourths of my audience can fuck off,” Bakugou bit back.

Sero plopped themselves onto the couch beside Kirishima and pulled a lighter from their back pocket.

“Someone take this lighter from me, I’m not smoking till Wednesday,” they announced.

“Bullshit,” Mina replied, tearing the black lighter from Sero’s hand.

“Doctor’s orders,” they groaned while shimmying further into the torn couch cushion.

“Can I use it?” asked Mina.

“I don’t give a damn what you do with it,” Sero lamented, “commit arson with the thing for all I care.”

Mina flicked the lighter on, “Was one of the doctor’s orders being a bitch?”

“No, but one of them was hanging around an insufferable one,” they replied, “good to know I’m getting a head start.”

Mina shot Sero a cold glare to which their mouth stretched into a flat smile.

“Stop bitching over there, I’m thinking,” Bakugou grumbled, pacing a mote into the concrete floor.

“That’s a first,” Kaminari blurted out.

Jirou smacked the back of his head, “Says you.”

“Hey!” Bakugou barked.

Kirishima felt his body tighten as Bakugou’s booming voice echoed through the tiny room. Jirou’s hand that was tugging on the back of Kaminari’s hair stilled and Mina flicked the lighter closed. Sero was the only one who seemed unaffected by Bakugou’s volume—Kirishima wishes that his body wasn’t so sensitive to yelling.

“It’s Moth Ball or bust, okay?” mumbled Bakugou.

“What’s Moth Ball?” Kirishima asked Mina in a whisper.

“It’s a punk show,” Mina replied softly, “a bunch a’ bands from all over the area get together and perform. You get money to play it, so it’s a pretty sweet deal.”

Bakugou cracked his knuckles, then his neck on one side and the other.

“We need that money,” he announced grimly, “and the only way we’re playing that show is if we blow the Moth Ball guys outta the fuckin’ water at our next show.”

Taking a languid sip from his water bottle, Kirishima prayed that when he looked back up, Bakugou wouldn’t be staring right at him. But there was something about Bakugou’s gaze that felt like two beams of fire shooting right through Kirishima’s skull; he didn’t need to look to know it was there.

“Rock Solid here is the only way we’re gonna get there,” said Bakugou through gritted teeth.

“We’ve never gone to Moth Ball in the past,” Jirou said, “what makes you think some abandoned puppy you found on the street is gonna change that.”

Kirishima sunk into his seat at the rate of his heart. As impressed as everyone might’ve looked after his performance, he knew that he still had a long way to go.

“Because I’m never wrong,” Bakugou spat back, “and I know what I’m doing.”

Jirou’s brows lifted in subtle disbelief. Sero took a deep breath before placing the ice-cold palm of their left hand on the flabby side of Kirishima’s upper arm. He jolted slightly at the gentle touch, but Sero’s firm grip was more reassuring than anything. Perhaps Kirishima really was just an abandoned puppy hoping to be pet and told that nothing was wrong.

“Welp,” Kaminari broke the sacred moment with a peeling voice, “it’s three AM. Jirou and I are gonna search for some dumpster food behind that ramen place.”

Ah. So that’s what felt so wrong.

“Three AM?” Kirishima cried, his body jolting up from the cushion.

The same flood of fear that had just recently subsided from Kirishima’s body returned with a vengeance, numbing the tips of his fingers and doubling the rate of his heart.

“Oh my gosh,” he mumbled to himself, “my dad must know I’m gone, he has to have found out. Oh, I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m screwed—”

“Calm down,” Bakugou muttered, “I’ll take you home. I’m sure your old man is sleeping like the dead.”

Kirishima buried his face in his hands, but he could feel Bakugou’s heavy, booted steps shaking the floor beneath his feet. And as he felt the large body get closer, Kirishima lifted his head from the dark cradle of his palms.

“C’mon,” Bakugou commanded with a flick of the head.

Soon, Kirishima was reliving the events of the night with his body shoved into the passenger seat of Bakugou’s junker car. He’d bid goodbye to Jirou and Kaminari before they left to dumpster dive, Mina had wrapped him in an impossibly warm hug, and Sero had given just a soft smile before swaying off to bed. They did look tired, after all; their dark, sagging, post-show under eyes were the biggest tell. Mina had handed him his old clothes to change back into, even though she lamented the loss of his stage look the entire time he was in the bathroom stall. When he stood before her in his old t-shirt, sleep shorts, and loafers, Mina just sighed and pouted. And as Bakugou lit the ignition and started to back out into the road, Kirishima stuck his head just slightly out the window to get another look at the front of the building where he’d just spent a good portion of his night.

The drive felt shorter than it had the first time. The turns felt familiar to Kirishima now, and he found himself noticing signs and billboards he’d classified and tucked away in his mind to distract himself from the loud music on the way there. But there was no loud music playing this time around—Bakugou hadn’t even reached for the radio. Instead, he stuck his head slightly out his own open window and let his elbow hang dangerously out of it. He kept biting at his lip with his sharp incisors. The area where the tooth landed was rubbing a tender red and Kirishima even noticed the beginnings of blood dripping from a split in the skin.

“Your lip,” Kirishima blurted out.

He hadn’t thought to say it. If he had, he wouldn’t have said it at all.

“Huh?” Bakugou grunted, his head snapping to his right.

“Nothing,” mumbled Kirishima.

Bakugou stopped attacking the skin with his tooth, now soothing it with the end of his tongue. It was a familiar spot to Kirishima; it looked like the same spot Bakugou had to bandage while loitering at Kirishima’s window.

But as the car turned onto the country road where Kirishima’s house was, his body prickled with anxiety. Kirishima imagined every scenario: the car being gone from the driveway, all the lights being on in the house, his mother on her knees wailing at the end of the driveway. He swallowed thickly as they passed all of Kirishima’s neighbors. Perhaps they would watch him get out of some stranger’s car and tell on him to his dad. Maybe they were crazy neighbors who were awake at 3:17 AM and peering out their window to spy on the neighbor’s kid. But as Bakugou shifted and parked swiftly along the line of the grass, Kirishima’s body heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of his house just as he left it. The only light on in the entire place was the porch bulb and his father’s car was sitting idle in its original spot in the driveway. Once Bakugou had turned the car off completely, the two of them clambered out of the tiny vehicle and sauntered softly towards the window which Kirishima had left cracked. He’d made sure to leave enough room for his fingers to wriggle under the wood but not so much space that the whistling wind would awaken his parents and show them an empty bedroom.

Even though all seemed well and quiet at the house, Kirishima heart was beating wildly. He tried his best to shimmy through the window silently as Bakugou watched him struggle. Kirishima could almost feel him smirking—he was probably enjoying watching Kirishima fear for his life and try to fit all six feet and two inches of himself through the tiniest window known to man. Eventually, Kirishima had shoved his whole body through and landed on the wooden floor with a non-existent thud. Kirishima extended his hands for a moment to balance himself on the new surface before turning back towards the open window. Bakugou had draped his arms over the windowsill like he did when he was begging Kirishima to join his band just one week ago. His brow was low and serious, but his mouth wasn’t as frowny as usual. He was probably tired, too.

“If you’re waiting for me to tell you that you did a good job, you’ll stand there all night,” Bakugou grumbled.

Kirishima’s body froze. He swallowed a sharp sick feeling at the onset of Bakugou’s words. His heart still beat so quickly and irregularly that Kirishima could feel his stomach churning in an unsavory manner.

“You’ve got a long way to go,” Bakugou continued, “but you showed potential tonight. That’s why I made you do it.”

It didn’t make much sense. Lots of things Bakugou did probably didn’t make any sense, but Kirishima kept taking his word as truth so naturally because Bakugou never said anything with a dash of uncertainty or doubt. Had Bakugou really put him through hell just to see if he had the guts to become a better performer?

It wasn’t the craziest idea.

“Get some sleep,” Bakugou commanded softly, his right hand thumping once against the wooden sill, “and—don’t forget to wear a hat.”

Kirishima pulled his lips between his teeth and ran his fingers through the straw-like, dyed portion of his hair. His heart thrummed as he watched Bakugou give a small nod of approval before turning around and sauntering back to his car, his hands shoved in the pockets of his ragged jeans.

Perhaps it was leftover adrenaline from the night he’d had or the fact that Kirishima had thrown up everything he’d eaten for the past twelve hours, but it was a miracle that he could sleep at all with his relentless, racing heart.

Adjusting the collar of his polo once again, Kirishima eyed the baseball cap sitting at the corner of his dresser. It was the only hat he had; he’d gotten it on a tour of this community college that he’d agreed to take classes at the summer after he graduated. The hat adorned with the school’s emblem was the only evidence he’d gone at all, especially considering that the application which was due months ago was shoved in his sock drawer unfinished. As far as his parents knew, he was going to classes three times a week. It was his only verifiable excuse for leaving the house at odd times and not being expected back for a while. Kirishima picked up the gray cap and placed it on his head, careful to tuck all of the red strands until they were completely out of sight. Jirou had been kind and left the shaven portions of his hair untouched so, to the untrained eye, it looked like Kirishima’s hair was completely normal. He checked in the mirror countless times to make sure that you couldn’t see any bright red pieces poking out from the back. His fingers ran under the hem of the hat over and over again to the point where he felt like he was hallucinating the red strands rather than them actually being there.

For the first time in his entire life, Kirishima had stared helplessly at his closet. He never debated on what to wear before, he only owned a wide selection of colored polos, a slim selection of dress shirts, and as many khakis as one man could own. Before, he’d just wear some variation of those because the only people who were going to see him were his parents and the people at church. But now, he felt Bakugou and his friends’ oppressive gazes even when they weren’t around. Every outfit he put on seemed like the wrong one. He’d stand in the mirror and point out all the things that they’d make fun of right off the bat. Maybe they’d let him change right when he got there. Maybe he could call Bakugou and ask him to bring him some clothes so he could change in the car. But he doesn’t have Bakugou’s number, and he’d be damned if he used the landline in front of his parents to ask some random boy for clothes. Kirishima wasn’t that stupid.

Eventually, he’d landed on a black polo shirt that his mom always said made him look too drab and a pair of khakis that he’d grown out of a long time ago but never had the balls to throw away. He had one pair of Reebok sneakers that he’d had to beg his parents for at the beginning of his junior year. They eventually obliged, getting Kirishima an all-white pair that he wore to school every day for almost two years. Now, they were battered and dirt-stained, but it was the coolest pair of shoes Kirishima had. There was nothing about his outfit that made any sense together but as long as his hair was tucked away, it didn’t matter how he looked. Bakugou had said he’d be at the end of the road at two o’clock—Kirishima only had five more minutes to successfully escape his house without making his parents too suspicious.

Thus, with another check of his hat in the mirror and a backpack slung over his shoulder, Kirishima tiptoed out the door into the hallway at the end of which stood the fateful front door. He passed the hallway’s opening the led into the living room as silently as he could.

“Kirishima,” his father called from the couch.

His father’s glasses were pushed to the end of his nose which meant he was reading. In his hand was some theology book and on the table was a mess of papers sporting unreadable cursive. They were his sermon notes; Kirishima had never seen his father’s notes look any other way.

“Where are you going?” He asked firmly without glancing to the side.

Kirishima hesitated for a moment. He’s never lied to his father, not once.

“Classes—” he sputtered, “I have college classes—in a little bit.”

His father nodded slowly, his eyes still trailing over the words of his book.

“Fine,” his father said flatly, “but under no circumstance may you miss dinner. Be back before six.”

Kirishima’s chest fell in relief. His body still pounded with the adrenaline of fibbing to his father for the very first time. And he actually bought it. Kirishima smiled.

“Of course,” he said a bit breathlessly.

After making sure his father was well engrossed in his book, Kirishima darted towards the door and let himself out gently to not cause a stir in the house upon his great escape. Once the door had clicked behind him, Kirishima’s eyes trained up towards the sky where the afternoon summer sun was hanging high and hot. He inhaled the muggy air and let his mouth crack into an even bigger grin. After slipping his other arm into the sagging backpack strap, Kirishima hooked his thumbs beneath them and began to walk. With every step Kirishima took off the porch, over the driveway, and down the road, he could feel his shackles shedding one after another and cascading to the dirt road. He kept walking faster and faster, feeling lighter than ever before. And as he turned the corner and spotted Bakugou’s old car sitting on the side of the road, Kirishima’s heart thrummed once more.

Bakugou was lounged in the driver’s seat, a cigarette in his left hand and the fingers of his right hand drumming along on the dashboard to the music he was blasting over the radio. He had one leg propped up beside the steering wheel to widen the expanse of his lap and make sitting in such a clunker more comfortable. He didn’t react to seeing Kirishima round the corner, his eyes simply followed the boy until he was at the passenger side door. Kirishima slid the backpack from his shoulders and shoved himself into the car, settling the bag between his feet on the car floor.
“So what’d you tell him?” Bakugou grumbled before taking a long drag of his cigarette.

“That I had college classes,” Kirishima replied, “but I have to be home before six for dinner.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes very obviously. He extracted his foot from the dash of the car, held the cigarette firmly between his teeth, and finally put the car into drive. He rolled the windows down like the times before. Bakugou even put his cigarette out on the side of the car.

“Can’t send you home smellin’ like smoke,” he mumbled before flicking the butt onto the dirt road.

Kirishima noticed every familiar sign and turn. It sent a flood of warmth through his body that he’d been sorely lacking on the drive the night prior. Everything had been so foreign, Kirishima couldn’t help but shake in the chilling unknown. But now, sitting beside Bakugou and speeding down the city’s main road, Kirishima could finally breathe freely. And as they pulled up to the building he’d only seen against the backdrop of the night, Kirishima felt his heart race at the thought of seeing everyone again. In the light of day, the front of the building looked entirely different. The red-brown brick was more vibrant and the windows were noticeably more cracked and broken.

Bakugou let himself out of the car wordlessly and sauntered towards the big, heavy door with Kirishima trailing a few paces behind. His backpack was slung back over his shoulders, but he felt a little stupid with it, like he was Bakugou’s kid walking into a parent-teacher meeting to talk about his “innate inability to make friends” or something. The blond heaved the first door open, traveled down the little stretch of hallway, then kicked open the second door. Kirishima smiled dully at the memory of walking through these doors himself only to be greeted by the barrel of a gun on the other side. Bakugou must’ve told them that he was coming back with Kirishima because there was no pregnant defense squad standing at the entrance.

“He’s here!” Mina cried from the couch.

Kirishima smiled weakly at her. The sunlight was streaming through the dirtied, cracked windows that lined the main room; the rays glinted off of dust particles that floated through the air and created perfect orange squares on the cement floor. Sero had dragged their chair into one of these pools of light. They had a bundle of some kind of fabric in their lap and some sort of string in their hand. Mina and Jirou had cozied up on the moth-eaten couch and were pouring over a small book with a bright pink cover. Kaminari was all the way off to the side stood on a five-gallon bucket. He was messing with some lightbulb that was hanging from the ceiling by a wire.

“C’mere, c’mere!” Mina called to Kirishima with an inviting gesture.

Dropping his bag at the entrance, Kirishima joined Mina and Jirou at the couch by standing behind them and peering at the book they were reading.

“What’s that?” He asked softly.

“Baby name book,” Mina chittered, “we’re trying to make Jirou choose but she’s being a butt about it.”

Jirou shrugged, “I’m picky.”

“This is the fifth baby name book I’ve stolen from the store,” Mina complained, “you’re gonna have to choose one before I get arrested.”

“Well,” Kaminari shouted from across the room, “If Jirou had liked my original idea, then you wouldn’t have to steal the books at all.”

“I’m not naming my baby Clash,” Jirou spat.

“I don’t know why you’re so agai—OW!” Kaminari shouted and shook out his hand viciously, “Mother of God.”

Mina leaned in towards Kirishima, “He’s been trying to fix that lightbulb all day. That’s electrocution number three.”

When Kirishima looked back, Kaminari was sucking on the tips of two of his fingers with a furrowed brow. He shook the hand once more and returned to the task.

“Well, he’s licking his fingers then touching exposed wire,” Kirishima explained, “that’s probably why he’s getting shocked so much.”

“Really?” Mina squeaked in disbelief.

“Yeah,” replied Kirishima, “water conducts electricity—”

“Hey, dumbass!” Jirou shouted to Kaminari, “wipe your fingers on your damn pants and stop touching the wires with wet skin.”

Kaminari sighed in defeat, “Yes, dear.”

“Amber!” Mina called out, her finger pressed against a name in the book.

“Hell no,” Jirou replied.

Sero was the next to join the baby-naming group with a piece of clothing tucked under their arm.

“Here,” they said, shoving the thing in Mina’s face, “I attached all those patches you wanted. Gimme a couple days before you ask for any more, I’m drawing blood like a nurse.”

They sucked on the red, irritated tips of their fingers for a moment before checking the state of their nail polish.

“Eee!” Mina squealed while holding the jacket up to get a good look at it, “Look Kiri, it’s my battle jacket.”

“Your what?” Kirishima asked, peering at the denim jacket covered in endless, colorful patches.

“It’s a punk thing where you wear a jacket covered in patches that let people know exactly what you stand for,” she explained, “so, like, here—”

Mina pointed to a patch that was bright pink and read, in big black block letters, “Smash Capitalism! Smash Patriarchy!”

“This tells people that I won’t fuck with them if they’re dirty capitalist pigs or misogynists,” she said brightly.

“Oh,” Kirishima whispered.

“And this one says “Mother Earth is not for sale” because—y’know, environmentalism n’ stuff,” said Mina.

Kirishima pointed to a patch on the sleeve that was the shape of a cat head and had a little kitty face painted on the front.

“What does that one mean?” He asked softly.

“Oh, that one’s a cat,” Mina replied, “I thought it was cute.”

“You all have jackets?” Kirishima inquired.

“Yup,” said Sero, still attending to their fingers, “it’s like a punk rite of passage or something.”

“Alright, move it extras.”

Bakugou addressed the group rather gruffly but with a bit of strain considering that he was hauling what looked like the heaviest boombox known to man in one hand and a tall stack of cassettes in the other. He set the boombox onto the floor with an echoing clunk and set the tapes down next to it before plopping himself into a lawn chair.

Sero sauntered off without a word to any of them. Their brow twitched in gentle annoyance, but they didn’t wander too far from the conversation. Bakugou’s eyes immediately locked onto Kirishima’s, and intense glare keeping the boy frozen in his place.

“Your performance last night wasn’t bad,” he grumbled, “but it left a lot to be desired.”

Kirishima shivered a bit. He knew it was true, but hearing it come out of Bakugou’s mouth hurt his chest more than he’d like to admit. With the rush of the prior night wearing off, Kirishima felt vulnerable to any sort of disapproval.

“But that’s why I’m gonna educate you,” he said, putting the tape on top of the stack into the boombox.

The song began, another loud and clashy number that almost made Kirishima want to plug his ears. The drummer had set an impossibly fast beat which the lead guitarist followed to a tee. It was a little more put together than the stuff Bakugou’s band had played the night prior.

“The Ramones,” Bakugou said, “early shit, they thought rock n’ roll was too much, the common man couldn’t touch the gods like Jimi Hendrix, so they were the first to make music that anyone could play.”

Mina tugged Kirishima onto the couch. He sat and shimmied himself closer to her as he listened to the music that blasted from the boombox. The names that Bakugou was spouting sounded like gibberish to Kirishima, he’d never heard of any of these people.

“Any band that came after them just took what The Ramones did and made it more—nasty,” Bakugou ejected the tape as the song faded off and shoved in another tape.

The next song that played was heavy on the electric guitar and even heavier on the vocals. The entire sound was wobblier and fuzzier than the band before. Bakugou actually smirked a bit while listening to this particular song.

“The Clash,” he said.

“Bakugou loves The Clash,” Jirou mocked.

“Yeah,” Bakugou spat, “because they changed punk forever.”

“And because he thinks the lead singer is sexy,” Mina joked to Kirishima.

“Shut up!” Bakugou shouted to the three of them, “Don’t listen to them,” he commanded to Kirishima.

Kirishima stifled a small laugh even though Jirou and Mina were losing it on either side of him. But the music that was playing was still far more melodic than anything Bakugou had played for him the night prior. How punk could music get?

“The Clash took what the Ramones did and made it a million fucking times better,” said Bakugou.

“And their lead singer is sexy,” Jirou mumbled under her breath.

“Keep this shit up and I won’t play Buzzcocks,” Bakugou threatened.

Jirou rolled her eyes and kept flipping through the baby name book, her mouth curling into a grimace every so often. When Bakugou finally conceded and changed the tape, the music that followed was far more similar to the sound of the band. The guitar was slightly off the entire time, the vocals were more focused on shouting that singing actual notes, and there was considerably more cursing.

“Sex Pistols were one of the first to talk politics,” Bakugou leaned over to rest his elbows on his knees, “they got a lot of shit for it from the British government, but if The Man isn’t getting pissed listening to your music, there’s no point in making it.”

“The Man?” Kirishima asked.

“Society,” Mina chimed in, “The Man is governments, capitalism, religion, pretty much anything that tries to tell people what to do.”

“And—we don’t—like The Man?” He asked innocently.

“Why would we like The Man?” Bakugou hissed back with narrowed eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Kirishima whispered, reeling back into his seat.

They listened to a few more songs, mostly at Jirou’s request.

“Play ‘God Save The Queen’ already,” she groaned.

“Can it,” Bakugou spat.

“When’re you gonna play him Black Flag?” Kaminari shouted from his position at the lightbulb.

“I’m not a fucking jukebox,” Bakugou yelled.

He did eventually change the tape to one that had a small white piece of tape with “Black Flag” scribbled on the front. Out of all of the tapes Bakugou had played for him, this one sounded the most similar to the band’s. It was the Sex Pistols with even more shouting and crunchy guitar noises. Kirishima’s ears weren’t as overwhelmed by the music now, especially because he’d been right in the center of it on stage just last night. In fact, he was kind of enjoying the song.

“Black Flag is our biggest inspiration,” Bakugou growled, “and Kaminari’s got some kind of hard-on for them.”

“Whatever,” Kaminari scoffed from across the room.

“I—I like this,” Kirishima mumbled.

“Huh?” Bakugou grunted.

“I—like this song. It’s good,” he repeated.

Bakugou furrowed his brow and half-smiled.

“Y’think you could sound like him?” he asked Kirishima.

No, Kirishima wanted to say. There’s no way he could sound exactly like the guy on the tape, his voice wasn’t low or gravelly enough, and if he yelled like he did last night every single night, he’d lose his voice forever. He could try, that was about it. Would Bakugou be happy with him if he said he could only try? Or would he be happier if he said—

“Yes,” Kirishima blurted out.

Bakugou’s mouth stretched into an even bigger, more menacing grin. The tip of his tongue darted out to wet the part where he’d split the skin with his teeth. His gaze fell heavy onto Kirishima who felt himself sinking further and further into the couch cushions. The lead singer of Black Flag was shouting in the background against a legion of power chords and drumbeats. There was no way he was gonna be able to replicate that, no way in hell. But seeing Bakugou smile filled Kirishima’s chest with such a warm, happy feeling that he couldn’t care.

“You’re gonna get us into Moth Ball,” Bakugou said lowly, “then we’re gonna get that money and I’m gonna give you every cent your dad needs, okay?”

Kirishima almost felt obligated to nod. He wouldn’t dare say no to Bakugou.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bakugou shouted to someone beside him.

Sero was hunched over the boombox with another tape in their hand.

“I was gonna play Circle Jerks,” they said matter-of-factly, taking the old tape out and tossing it onto the couch.

“Get the hell away from my boombox!” Bakugou growled.

Sero rolled their eyes before setting the tape back on the stack. They lounged themselves onto a nearby lawn chair and fiddled with the mass of necklaces that was slung around their neck.

“So—do we practice now?” Kirishima asked meekly.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Bakugou muttered, “I got a bunch more shit to play for you before I let you sing anything.”

And he was true to his word. For the next few hours, the five of them listened to song after song with Bakugou’s occasional interjection about the specific quality of the singer and the pacing and some other things that went right over Kirishima’s head. Sero kept groaning and begging Bakugou to play Circle Jerks, but he pretended like he didn’t even hear them, choosing instead to ramble on and on about Bad Brains and Minor Threat and a bunch of other two-word bands that Kirishima would’ve never known otherwise. Kaminari eventually abandoned his project and joined the group’s listening session. He looked a little frazzled and when he got close to Kirishima, he smelled smoke emanating from the man’s skin. Jirou, at some point, had struggled out of her seat to whip Kirishima’s hat off and check the state of his dyed hair.

“You got it past your dad?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Kirishima replied, “he’d kill me if he saw it, though.”

“Mm,” Jirou hummed, running her fingers through the dry strands over and over.

“Kat, remember we gotta get that form to the Moth Ball guys before sunset,” Kaminari mentioned off-hand.

“Sunset?” Kirishima perked up in a panic, “What time is it?”

“Er—” Kaminari checked his watch, “5:45?”

“No!” exclaimed Kirishima, “I have to be home for dinner in fifteen minutes.”

Panic pinched at Kirishima’s insides as he scrambled to tug the hat back on and search frantically for his backpack.

“Calm down,” Bakugou groaned, “I can get you there in ten.”

“But I have to go now!” Kirishima shouted back to the group as he tore the backpack from the cement floor.

“Seriously, Rock Solid,” said Bakugou, “Calm the fuck down. We’ll leave now.”

The panic hadn’t subsided, not even with Bakugou’s reassuring words. Kirishima’s mind flipped through all of the terrible things his father would say if he showed up late. He’d probably ask a bunch of questions that Kirishima wouldn’t know how to answer, and he’d surely choke up and tell him the truth which would undoubtedly get him grounded for life. He had to give the shortest of goodbyes to the remaining four before darting out the heavy front doors.

As Bakugou and Kirishima piled into the car, Kirishima pulled the sunshade down to get a good look at himself in the grimy little mirror. He spent the first half of the drive tucking every last strand of red hair back under his cap and smelling the collar of his shirt over and over to make sure he didn’t reek of cigarette smoke. Bakugou held up his end of the bargain by driving twenty over the speed limit and running some insanely risky yellow lights. Once Kirishima had fiddled with his hat and clothes enough, he had no choice but to slam his back into the passenger seat and try to still his fast-beating heart.

“Rock Solid,” Bakugou broke the silence.

“Huh?” Kirishima turned his head.

“My friends,” Bakugou grumbled, “whaddya think of ‘em?”

Kirishima squinted.

“What do I—think?”

“Yeah,” Bakugou grunted, “you like ‘em?”

Feeling his posture improve upon instinct, Kirishima fell deep into thought for a moment. He’d only known Bakugou’s friends for less than twenty-four hours, but it already felt like a lifetime.

“They’re—nice,” replied Kirishima, “but I guess I’m confused on how you all met. Were you friends before or—”

In the reflection of Bakugou’s softening eyes, Kirishima watched the colors of the sunset dance. His eyes were a reddish-brown that tended to reflect clean images when in the right light, especially when he let his brow lift from its permanent scowl. His chest rose with a deep inhale, and he released it like he was savoring a drag of his cigarette.

“You’re gonna have to ask them about that yourself,” he said lowly, the growl dissolving a bit from his voice.

Soon, the car returned to a familiar corner, around which Kirishima’s house was bustling with dinner prep. Kirishima swallowed nervously and grabbed his bag. He let himself out the car door and shut it behind him with a gentle thud.

“Hey,” Bakugou called out the open window.

Kirishima turned back around. He hunched over slightly to get a good look at Bakugou through the window. In the pinks of the nearly set sun, Bakugou’s rough skin was painted in a comforting glow. The light bounced off the sharp edge of his jaw and made him look younger than before. Kirishima had done the math and made an educated guess that Bakugou was just newly nineteen, but he looked so much older than Kirishima. Perhaps it wasn’t so much his appearance as much as it was his resolve; he knew what he was doing in his life while Kirishima could only flounder.

“If your cocksucker dad gives you any real trouble,” Bakugou hummed, “you come get me. I’ll kill him for you.”

In response to Bakugou’s fighting words, Kirishima could only chuckle nervously. Sure, it was a pretty threatening thing to say, but his tone was low like it was more of a promise than anything. He wouldn’t really kill his dad—right?

“I know,” Kirishima muttered in response, “I’ll see you soon—Bakugou.”

The last time Kirishima had said Bakugou’s name was in some fit of panic onstage, and he couldn’t think of any time before then that he’d said it so intentionally—so clearly. It fell from his lips like a familiar line of a hymn, one he didn’t have to scour his brain for to reach. Kirishima felt the name hang on the tip of his tongue as he turned the corner and heard Bakugou’s engine rev and speed off into the distance. As he trudged down the road, Kirishima watched the dirt cloud around his old Reeboks and listened to the crickets chirp in the nearby field. He shimmied through the front door seemingly just in time. A huge waft of pork chops and a kind of greens invaded his nose. When he checked the clock on the wall, a wave of relief shuddered through him as he watched the minute hand turn just past the 55-minute mark.

“Eijirou?” his mother called from the kitchen over the sizzling of food.

“Yes,” he replied while shoving his shoes off in the entryway.

“Wash your hands and come set the table,” she requested gently.

Kirishima obeyed. He trudged down to the hallway bathroom, the walls of which were painted a garish green that he’d always hated. He stuck his hands beneath the running faucet and gave them a good scrub with the bar soap; as he did, he glanced at himself in the mirror. His jaw was just as sharp, if not sharper than Bakugou’s and he stood almost half a head taller than him, but he still looked so young. The baby pudge in his cheeks hadn’t faded in high school like his mom promised it would and he still got spots of acne all along his chin and forehead. Kirishima pursed his lips as he dried his hands on the decorative towel and took one last good look at himself.

There were many nights where Kirishima would sit in front of the mirror and pray for God to let him wake up as someone else. He thought it was because he didn’t like his hair or his nose and he just wanted to look like someone else for a little while, but it was more about escape, than anything. If Kirishima woke up looking entirely different, his father and mother wouldn’t have recognized him, and he’d finally be free. Looking at his face now was just a reminder of his perpetual purgatory. He would always look the same, wouldn’t he?

Eventually, Kirishima was placing silverware and plates onto the small, metal table his mother had thrifted years ago which was surrounded by cheap vinyl chairs, the same ones that were used in the back of the church when there weren’t enough pews. The window behind the box TV was opened halfway to let the warm, evening breeze in, accented by chirping crickets and buzzing junebugs. It was a silent moment until Kirishima’s father rushed in with his sermon notes in one hand and his reading glasses in the other.

“Dinner?” He asked gruffly.

“Pork chops,” Kirishima’s mother replied softly, “and collard greens.”

Kirishima’s father grunted in subtle disgust.

“The collard greens were on sale at the supermarket,” she replied in an even lower voice.

“Fine,” his father snapped back.

Kirishima slid into his seat and watched his mother carry each steaming pot over to the table, serving hearty scoops onto each plate. She gave Kirishima one extra scoop of collard greens.
“So you can grow up big and strong,” she whispered as she did.

That’s what she always told Kirishima as a kid when she’d put extra greens on his plate. Suppose it was sort of a habit, by now.

She waited until Kirishima’s father returned to sit and place her napkin in her lap. He pulled the chair out and sat dutifully in the seat while eyeing his dinner. Kirishima sat up a little straighter, aware of the wool he’d pulled over his father’s eyes earlier that afternoon. And he was subtly proud of how well it worked. That was, until his father’s hands stopped just short of the table as he caught sight of Kirishima.

“No hats at the dinner table,” his father grumbled, “take it off.”

And for a moment, Kirishima nearly followed his father’s request blindly—
because he’d almost forgotten what he was hiding underneath.

Chapter Text

“I never lied to my parents. The church always makes you feel like you’re gonna burn in a pit of flames if you ever lied, even just once. And I was so sure that that was true, that I had never even lied by omission, especially to my dad.”

“No hats at the dinner table, take it off.”

Every tendon of Kirishima’s muscles tensed. He felt his knuckles flush white as the grip he had on his fork tightened endlessly. His lips crashed together in a pursed line, afraid that the truth would just slip out if he didn’t. Kirishima’s eyes dried out as he stared anxiously at his collard greens.

“I can’t,” said Kirishima in a broken whisper.

His eyes flickered up to his father. The man’s brow was settling hard along the top edge of his eye and the characteristic twitch of his lips was already making its appearance.

"Excuse me?” He said low and languid.

Kirishima’s jaw went slack. Sweat started to pour from his palms so much so that he felt the fork start to slip from his vice grip.

“I can’t,” he whispered again.

Kirishima’s father leaned forward only slightly. His eyes went dark.

“You can’t—what?” He hissed.

“Take off the hat,” Kirishima said in a wavering tone.

His heart was in his throat now, thrumming and beating so loudly he was convinced that everyone on the street could hear. With their eyes caught in a battle across the dining table, Kirishima’s father leaned even closer. Kirishima suppressed a shudder.

“Why not?” His father asked, each word akin to the sound of a sizzling branding iron hitting the flank of a cow.

Kirishima’s jaw bobbed up and down as he simultaneously thought of what to say and tried not to cough up his heart onto the table. His mother hadn’t moved a muscle since the altercation began and her gaze was set firmly onto her dinner which was quickly growing cold.

“Take it off,” his father commanded again, this time in a low grumble.

“I ca—”

“Take if off!” He shouted.

With his words, his father’s palm slammed down onto the surface of the table, a resounding thud echoing through the room. Kirishima flinched at the noise. Now both the inside of his mouth and the surface of his eyes had gone nearly dry, so much so that he couldn’t have cried in response to the loud noise even if he wanted to. Kirishima’s lip trembled as he thought of all the things he was about to lose: his freedom, his new friends, Bakugou. It was too much to think about. Kirishima felt like he was mourning things he hadn’t even lost yet, and all the while his father was fuming just a few feet away from him.

Kirishima knew that he could prolong the conflict as long as he wanted, but it wouldn’t do him any good other than give him more time to bask in the secret parts of his life that he so adored. But, eventually, his father would reach across the table and take the hat off himself, and everything would crumble faster than Kirishima could even imagine. Perhaps if he were the one to take off the hat, he would have more leverage to plead for his life. So, with trembling fingers that resembled the shivering reeds in the field out back as they succumbed to the summer wind, Kirishima reached up to the bill of his hat. The threading burned along the pads of his fingers as he waited for another moment to say a silent prayer and, of course, a silent goodbye to the angel at his window.

He pulled the thing off like a band-aid, feeling like his very chest was opening to expose his bloody heart. Once the hat was off, Kirishima felt the warm summer wind blow through the strands of hair which were, undoubtedly, still red. His gaze followed the direction of the hat in his left hand as it descended into his lap. His eyes may have been cast down to his knees, but Kirishima could already feel his parents’ burning stares as his bright red hair was on display.

“After all those years, why did you finally choose to lie?”

“Before then it’d only been my mother, my father, and me—they were all I had to lose. Now I had something else. And the thought of losing Bakugou and his friends was too much to bear. I had to lie.”

Kirishima didn’t have to even look up fully to feel his father’s red-hot stare at the top of his head. When he did finally raise his head enough to make eye contact with his father, Kirishima let out a shuddering breath that mimicked the rattling of his bones against one another as they, too, shuddered in fear of what was next.

“Eiji,” his mother whispered.

The characteristic twitch of his father’s lip was now showing itself in full force. His eyes flickered to all sides of Kirishima’s head as they burned with pure hellfire. Kirishima watched his right hand clench into a fist while it rested atop the table. His lips moved to form a word that Kirishima could already hear, but he couldn’t let it be said. The words were bubbling up inside of him, it was the only lie he could think of in his eighteen years of never lying even once right to his parents’ faces. Thoughts of what Bakugou and his friends would do raced through his head. He had to come up with something before his parents even got the chance to think ill of him.

“I can explain!” Kirishima shouted.

His father’s face never changed, but the man straightened his posture menacingly slow, crossed his arms, and leaned into the back of his chair.

Honestly, the words had escaped Kirishima’s mouth before he actually had an explanation, so the panic returned quickly and settled into his shivering bones. There had to be something he could use, something his parents valued more than anything else in the world. Church was a bust because there was no verifiable reason that his father’s own church would ask him to dye his hair. But, perhaps—

“I-it’s for school,” he stammered.

Eyes narrowing, Kirishima’s father refused to tear his gaze from the boy just across the table. His lip had stopped twitching, but his appearance was still as menacing as ever before.

“F-for college, remember?” Kirishima continued in a crackly, wavering voice, “I’m taking—a science course.”

The words tasted phony. There was no way his father was going to buy it, right?

“And we were doing this experiment that had to do with chemical dyes and—” Kirishima hesitated, “I drew the short straw.”

A slow exhale fell like steam from his father’s nose. His eyes narrowed even further like he was searching each of Kirishima’s words for lies.

“Whichever team gets their dye to stay the longest gets a 100 percent.”

It was the final blow of Kirishima’s now elaborate lie. If there was anything his parents really cared about, it was his grades. The better he did in school, the better off he’d be in life. They refused to let him leave the house in high school unless his grades were top-notch. If that didn’t work, Kirishima didn’t know what would. Even so, Kirishima’s heart was beating at the base of his throat and his ears rushed with blood as his eyes flickered between his mother and his father.

His father pulled his lips between his teeth, brow furrowing even more. His fiery gaze trailed all over the exposed parts of Kirishima’s body as he sat at the dinner table—judging, investigating.

“You drew straws?” He growled.

“I asked them not to but, once I lost, it felt underhanded and—dishonest to ask someone else to do it.”

Dishonest, huh? How rich coming from Kirishima.

“God hates liars,” his father hissed, his jaw barely moving.

An icy wave traveled down Kirishima’s back. Invoking God meant that the situation was serious. But if God hadn’t sent hellfire down on him him yet for lying, maybe it wasn’t so serious a sin as he always thought. Perhaps God wasn’t watching—or maybe God wanted Kirishima to see Bakugou again just as much as he did.

“I know,” Kirishima replied with a gentle nod.

His father did another once-over of his entire torso and head, grimacing when his eyes fell onto the bright red strands.

“Fine,” his father grumbled, “but you shave it right after you get the grade, and you won’t sing in church until then.”

“Yes, sir,” Kirishima whispered.

“And you wear a hat to all your classes,” he continued, “and to Sunday service. No son of mine will be seen with hair like that.”

His father’s voice was low and threatening, but Kirishima couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit relieved. Somehow, his hair had gotten him out of the thing he dreaded most each week.

“Yes, sir,” Kirishima repeated, suppressing a smile.

Without another word, Kirishima’s father grabbed his fork and stabbed a large collard green. His gaze immediately affixed onto the chilled dinners as he shoveled angry bites between his teeth. Kirishima was slower to return to his dinner, watching for his father’s piercing gaze to maybe return and call him out for such a blatant lie. For so long, Kirishima’s father had toted himself as some sort of automatic lie detector, and when Kirishima finally started in on his own dinner, he felt his mouth turn up into a small smile. Sure, he’d just told a bold-faced lie to his father, but hadn’t his father also been lying to him all this time about the “burning in hellfire” thing? Even as he began to take bites of his dinner, Kirishima’s smile persisted, especially when he thought about how proud Bakugou and his friends would be.

As clunky and disjointed as the lie was, Kirishima had pulled it off.

And he probably had his parents’ worldly ignorance to thank for it.

“And he bought it?”

“Yeah,” Kirishima nodded.

“AH!” Mina squealed, squirming around happily in her seat, “You’re aMAZING, Kirishima.”

“It’s not exactly an air-tight lie,” Jirou added while flipping to another page in her magazine.

Kirishima folded his hands in his lap.

“I know,” he said, something sour spreading through his chest, “but it was all I could think of. And as long as they think I’m going to school, then they don’t really care what comes of it.”

“And you’d never lied to them before?” Mina asked, leaning towards Kirishima’s face.

“No,” he said, “my dad said I’d get sent to hell if I lied.”

It was sort of a joke now, but also sort of not.

“Heaven sounds boring anyways,” Kaminari droned while standing behind Jirou and wrapping his arms around her neck.

His cheek rested on the top of her head. Jirou’s fingers brushed along the back of Kaminari’s hand which was splayed out on the upper part of her chest.

“Angels singing shit while everyone else walks around in white dresses? No, thanks,” he said, “If I can’t smoke in the afterlife then I’m coming back as a housecat.”

“The best thing you’re gonna get reincarnated into is an earthworm,” Jirou grumbled.

“Uhh and help the earth with my composting power?” Kaminari defended himself facetiously, “Absolutely.”

Jirou scoffed. Kaminari planted a firm kiss to the crown of her head. A blush dusted along her cheeks somewhere beneath the hordes of white makeup as she flipped another page of the magazine.

“So, you finally lied to your old man?”

Bakugou settled himself into the cushions across from where Kirishima was sitting with a hard thud. He lounged with his legs spread before lighting a cigarette.

“I did,” Kirishima replied.

Bakugou grinned subtly. He took a drag from his cigarette to hide it.

“Good,” he grumbled, “I thought that was the last time I’d ever see ya.”

Something warm and happy spread through Kirishima’s chest. The thought that Bakugou might’ve been worried about Kirishima or maybe as eager to see him as Kirishima always was to see Bakugou. But he knew he was going too far, he’d only known Bakugou and his friends for a little while. He was probably more bent up about losing a member of his band than anything else.

“Still can’t believe he bought it,” Kirishima whispered, shaking the residual anxiety from his body.

“Your dad thinks we’re some kinda study group now, huh?”

Kirishima smiled, “Basically.”

Bakugou let one chuckle slip from his chest. It was low and barely there, but Kirishima watched his chest heave with amusement. He placed the cigarette between his lips and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Are you gonna tell him yet? You’re killing me here,” Sero whined from some yards away.

Soon, Sero had approached the couch and was lounging themselves in the open space, their shoulder pressing up against Bakugou’s and head lolling towards the crook of his neck.

“I was gonna,” Bakugou spat in return, now supporting the weight of Sero’s entire body.

Kirishima looked around to everyone, waiting to get clued in on what the plan was.

“Rock Solid,” said Bakugou through a cloud of smoke, “how do you feel about getting initiated tonight?”

“Wait, really Bakugou?” Mina chirped excitedly.

“Shut up, I wasn’t askin’ you,” Bakugou grumbled and pointed the hot end of the cigarette towards Mina.

“Initiated?” Kirishima asked weakly.

“Yeah,” Bakugou replied casually, “take you to a special location and officially make you a member of our group.”

"Oh,” Kirishima straightened his posture.

“You in?” Bakugou grumbled.

“I—” Kirishima stammered.

Jirou sighed, “Are you gonna tell him that the special location is an abandoned building or were you just gonna let him have a panic attack when we got there?”

She didn’t look up at all from her magazine as she said it or even when Bakugou shot her an icy glare.

“Oh,” Kirishima said more hesitantly, “I don’t know if I can—”

“It’s not a toxic wasteland,” Bakugou cut him off, “just an old building.”

“W-what if something happens?” Kirishima asked warily.

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” groaned Bakugou.

Sero chimed in, “Not like that one time where we saw some witchy stuff on the ground and Mina passed out?”

“There were rat chunks on the ground,” Mina whined while shuddering at the memory.

“Rat chunks?” Kirishima whispered, eyes going wide.

“There are not going to be any rat chunks at the abandoned building,” Bakugou said.

“Or like when Kaminari found that gun then touched it and almost got convicted for a murder he didn’t commit?” Jirou chuckled lightly at the thought.

Kaminari stood up, “Okay, that is not as funny of a memory as you make it out to be,” he pointed at Jirou, “you were the one who told me to pick it up!”

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” Jirou replied through giggles.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Bakugou,” Kirishima shook his head.

Bakugou groaned, “There will be no murder guns and no rat chunks. These idiots don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Kirishima sunk a little into his seat. Hanging out with Bakugou and his friends at the old building where they lived and performed was one thing but going to a witchy murder abandoned building at night was another. What if Kirishima got injured so badly that he had no choice but to tell his father everything? Or what if they get arrested and he has to call his father to come bail him out?

“We’ve been to this place a million times,” Bakugou leaned forward and softened his voice a bit, “you’re gonna be just fine.”

It was like Bakugou could both sense Kirishima’s panic and hear the questions that were buzzing around in his brain. Kirishima wrung his sweat fingers together in thought. He met Bakugou’s eyes for a moment; the boy’s gaze was rather mean and stony like always, but they also pled. And Kirishima was in the business of making Bakugou and his friends happy. That was why he kept coming back again and again.

“Okay,” he said lightly, almost too quiet for anyone but Bakugou to hear.

“If I see a single chunk of rodent out there, I’m killing you, Bakugou,” Mina hissed, “and I’ll use Denki’s murder gun to do it.”

“It wasn’t my gun!”

Despite the wild plans that he’d made for the night, Kirishima still had to race home and enjoy a wordless dinner with his family. Every time his father’s eyes would graze over his hair, he’d grimace and look like he was going to be sick. Kirishima had a hard time keeping his body still as he thought about what Bakugou and his friends could possibly have planned for him that night. He kept glancing at the clock as it moved sickeningly slow from one hour to the next. Even after the sun set, Kirishima found himself waiting in agony for the hour to arrive.

Sometime after dinner, Kirishima had excused himself from the main room to ‘get ready for bed’ which really meant that he was going to lay on his bed and stare at the ceiling until Bakugou arrived. And, eventually, he was doing just that. His back was pressed against the cool surface of the quilt and his eyes were affixed on the white plaster ceiling above him. Kirishima’s body lit up all over with the excitement of getting to leave his home once more and doing something daring while he was at it. He still couldn’t tell the difference between mild excitement and moral dread, but Kirishima just interpreted it all as nerves, in the end. Every minute felt like an eternity. He stood up and walked around the room to pass the time, but quickly got tired of it and started fiddling with the rocks he had displayed on shelves above his mostly barren desk.

Soon, his brain got tired of rocks too, so Kirishima stared at himself in the mirror instead. He pulled at his bright red locks of hair and tugged at the skin of his cheek to try and will the acne scars away. He picked at the edges of his eyes and ran his finger over all of the blackheads in his nose. He imagined himself with a piercing in his bottom lip like Bakugou had. He envisioned the open safety pin glinting in the light of his bedroom lamp. But there was no lie good enough to tell his parents that would ever let them allow him to have such an atrocious thing. Kirishima’s fingers pinched and tugged at the soft space of his earlobes. He imagined studs in them, particularly the ones he’d have if he’d let Mina pierce his ears that one night. The entire night was sort of foggy and hard to remember, but he had this vibrantly clear image of Bakugou taking the safety pin back from Mina’s hands and sticking it through the hole below his lip. If he’d let Mina stick that through his skin, he probably would have contracted some ancient disease and died. Not that Bakugou had some sort of ancient disease, but Kirishima would think about it so much that he’d manifest something fatal all on his own.

It was only a matter of time until Kirishima got tired of looking at his face too. He glanced at the clock right as it struck nine. He stopped moving and listened intently for the footsteps of his parents and their general shufflings which would indicate that they were getting ready for bed. Like always, he heard his father mumble to himself as he trudged down the hallway towards the bedroom. He heard the faucet turn on as his mother washed her face then the creak of the floorboards as they each climbed under the covers. By the time the light clicked off, the clock read 9:13. Kirishima’s parents went to bed at the same time every night, so he’d instructed Bakugou to show up around ten just to ensure that both of his parents were fast asleep when he snuck out the window. He’d also told Bakugou not to come to the window anymore and just to wait in his car around the corner at the end of the street. It might make too much of a ruckus if Bakugou showed up at his house every time he came to collect Kirishima.

He still had nearly three-quarters of an hour to wait, so Kirishima flopped himself back onto the bed and stared up at the familiar ceiling. With the knowledge that the moment was closer than ever before, Kirishima’s stomach did flips that sent waves of nausea all up and down the rest of his body. It got so bad at one point that if Kirishima didn’t take a Tums, he was definitely going to throw up the minute he stood. So, with a gentle opening of his nightstand, Kirishima searched around for the little baggie of Tums that Tamaki had given him once during a church service. Kirishima’s mother didn’t really believe in the medicine you could buy at the grocery store, so Kirishima had to get all his stomach pills and pain reliever from Tamaki whose mother basically had a pharmacy inside of her house. And Tamaki always kept a stash of Tums on him anyways for his nerves, so it was no great loss to pass some to Kirishima who threw up more often than he’d like to.

Kirishima’s hand dug around the drawer blindly, listening for the crinkle of a little plastic bag. But, instead, he felt a corner of fabric. He dug it out and looked at it for a moment.

It was the patch that Bakugou gave him when they first met, the one he tore from the barrage of patches on his pants and handed to Kirishima. It was back when the band was something he could only ‘think’ about, now he was knee-deep in the whole thing. Kirishima traced the bold white lettering with the tip of his finger and felt the fabric curl against his skin. He thought about everything that had happened since Bakugou had appeared at his window all those nights ago. Kirishima had broken more rules in the last two weeks than he had in his entire life. He’d always feared that lying and cheating his parents would lead to an indescribable weight resting on his shoulders, that the Lord would admonish him and punish him for such an act. So why did his body feel so light? Why did he feel so free, all of a sudden?

The thought was enough to distract him until the minute hand of the clock was dangerously close to the top of the circle. Kirishima hopped off of his bed, fought off a wave of nausea, and shoved the patch into his pocket. Carefully, Kirishima shuffled over to the window, making sure to shut off his light, and pushed it open just enough for his body to fit through. The action was more familiar now, the way he had to crouch and plant his foot outside then swing the rest of his body through. Once he was standing firmly on the soft grass, Kirishima inched the window closed silently until just a sliver was left beneath which he could shimmy his fingers when he returned. His eyes did another once-over of the house, listening for a rustle of sheets or a mumble from his father sauntering down the hallway. The night was endlessly quiet except for a faint whistling in the warm summer breeze. Kirishima backed away slowly from the dark, quiet house as if he was waiting for the roof shingles themselves to stir. Once his house had grown significantly smaller in his vision, Kirishima turned and started down the rest of the road.

With every beat of his foot against the ground, Kirishima felt his chest open up, allowing him to breathe better than before. An instinctual smile spread across his face as he glanced up towards the twinkling stars and listened to june bugs buzz beside his ear. He checked the side of his pocket to feel the bump of the patch, just to make sure it was there. The reeds shuffled against one another at the mercy of the wind, their rubbings creating soft symphonies of whispers. All his life, the road on which Kirishima lived had felt like purgatory. It was the thing that led to the house he hated so much, and his only sense of freedom came on the days where his mother would let him play in the reeds in the field out back. When he was young, he was small enough to be engulfed by the tall grass and disappear from view entirely. But, now that he was grown, Kirishima stuck out amongst the grass and his parents could always see him, no matter what. He wished he was small again, small enough to become a bug within the reeds with no expectations or people to please.

The corner grew larger and larger in Kirishima’s vision as he took striding steps towards the end of the lane. As he turned it, Bakugou’s car was sitting in its usual spot, running with a low hum of the engine that was masking the buzzing bugs. Kirishima rounded the car and let himself into the passenger seat all while Bakugou watched him from the driver’s side.

“Didn’t think you’d have the balls to show up if I didn’t come to your window,” Bakugou mumbled as Kirishima cozied himself into the seat.

It was crazy to Kirishima at face-value that he’d think twice about joining Bakugou and his friends that night, but Kirishima from two weeks ago would’ve had a genuine crisis at the thought, so it wasn’t that out-of-character for Bakugou to think he’d bail.

“I’m actually—excited,” Kirishima told him.

Bakugou’s eyebrows rose, his mouth curled into an amused grin.

“Look at you all ready to trespass,” Bakugou joked.

Kirishima let out a breathy chuckle. He glanced down at his lap where his hands were folded and chewed at the inside of his cheek. Bakugou started the car with a roaring hum of the engine and started down the street on their familiar route. Kirishima watched the scenes change outside his window, waiting in anticipation for the turn that would deviate from its usual routine. His heartbeat raced with every red light they stopped at and every roar of the engine once the light turned green. In the cover of night, Kirishima almost missed the moment where Bakugou turned down a darkened road rather than continuing down the main street like he always did. Kirishima licked his lips before continuing to chew on the loose skin inside his cheek. Bakugou had turned the music up just enough to hear, but not so loud that Kirishima would feel overwhelmed. But when Kirishima listened closely, he heard a song he recognized. It was the Sex Pistols.

With a small grin, Kirishima looked back out the window and loosened the vice grip he was holding on his fingers. This new road was winding, growing darker with every mile they traversed. When he glanced over at Bakugou, the blond’s face was set like he knew what he was doing. Kirishima focused his attention back out the windshield and hoped that he was correct in his assessment. There were trees lining the road, beyond which must’ve been a more expansive forest. The road eventually got choppier—the car would hit a pothole every three minutes instead of every five minutes. The old, beat up vehicle struggled against the rough terrain, but Bakugou’s face was still confident and sure, even as the two of them went airborne on a particularly cracked and bent portion of the asphalt.

Kirishima kept watching and waiting for the corner of a building to poke out from the edges of the trees or a light to show at the end of the dark tunnel, but unruly lines of trees were the only thing lining the edges of the road and the only thing seemingly up ahead. Kirishima swallowed thickly, pushing all his nervousness back down towards his feet. Admittedly, the drive was making him a little carsick, but he wasn’t going to tell Bakugou that.

And even if he wanted to, Bakugou pulled over to the side of the road with a sharp nudge of his wheel before any word could slip from Kirishima’s mouth. He parked swiftly and surely, turning the engine off in the very next moment. Kirishima’s eyes roamed the scene around them.

“Where are we?” Kirishima asked Bakugou who was already climbing out of the car.

Bakugou planted his hands on the top of his car and bent over to lean in through the opening of his car door.

“We’re close, we gotta walk the rest of the way,” he said.

“What?” Kirishima’s trembling hands fumbled with the seatbelt before he, too, climbed out of the car.

“Can’t park too close or someone’ll see,” Bakugou hummed as he began his pioneering trudge down the dark stretch of road.

“Bakugou, what do you mean someone will see?” Kirishima raced after him.

Bakugou shoved his hands in the pocket of his jean jacket, the one covered in fraying patches. He half-turned towards Kirishima and flashed a small smile.

“The cops,” he said, “you don’t wanna get caught, do ya?”

A chill ran through Kirishima’s body. Getting caught? Didn’t Bakugou say nothing bad was going to happen? Kirishima couldn’t run from the cops, not in his khakis and Reeboks, at least. They eventually reached a steady pace at which both of them could keep up with one another. While Bakugou was decidedly strong than Kirishima, Kirishima had longer legs and, thus, a much longer stride. Bakugou was rather stocky, his height coming from his torso rather than his legs.

“Where are the others?” Kirishima asked.

There was still a seemingly endless length of darkness before them. Kirishima really hoped that Bakugou knew where he was going.

“They’re already there. They walked.”

“The whole way?” Kirishima asked.

“Think they all fit in my car?” Bakugou asked, narrowing his eyes at the man beside him.

Kirishima shook his head and glanced back down to his feet. His body was still shaking, but it was more excitement than nerves, now, even as the rows of trees seemed to go on and on forever. Every once in a while, Kirishima would glance over at Bakugou whose eyes were steady on the path before him and whose stride was filled with sureness and pride. Though they’d spent a good amount of time together, Kirishima didn’t know a single thing about him; everything he felt like he knew had come from Mina or pure speculation. Kirishima always felt so exposed around him, like Bakugou knew all his business without even having to ask, but Kirishima wished he knew Bakugou in the same way. Maybe he just had to ask. He’d never thought to ask.

“Bakugou—” Kirishima began.

“There it is.”

Sure, Bakugou interrupted him, but it was for a good reason. They had apparently shuffled down a long enough stretch of road to reach the abandoned building they’d spoken about earlier that day. It was the biggest building Kirishima had ever seen, a big bulky concrete frame overtaken by weeds and vines from the surrounding trees. Each of the windows had been busted out to leave rings of razor-sharp glass, the shards of which littered the ground and shined in the moonlight. A good portion of the concrete was crumbling, succumbing to the forces of nature which have tossed it around in its abandoned state. Kirishima was frozen with fear at the sight of it, but Bakugou was already walking ahead of him towards the building’s large and obvious entrance.

“Wait!” Kirishima whispered, running after the persistent figure.

With every step they took closer to the building, Kirishima’s heart edged another inch towards the edge of his chest. Kirishima crossed his arms tightly, afraid that letting go would let his heart fall to the ground. The building grew increasingly larger as they neared it, Kirishima’s neck kept craning further and further up to keep an eye on the top floor. Pieces of glass and cracked rocks clattered together and crunched beneath Kirishima and Bakugou’s footsteps as they left the surrounding glass and entered into the perimeter of the structure.

At the door, Bakugou gave the rusted metal piece a harsh pull. It didn’t budge. He placed both of his wide, thick hands around the handle and pulled again, only to be met with the smallest scrape of metal and a shower of rusted shards floating to his feet. So, he pounded on it.

“I know you fuckers are in there!” Bakugou shouted through the metal door.

If the echoing thud of Bakugou’s strong palm hitting the door hadn’t made Kirishima jump out of his skin, the booming resonance of Bakugou’s voice certainly did the trick. Kirishima swallowed nervously as Bakugou banged on the door once more.

“I know you fuckers locked this fucking door, I swear to fucking god,” he bellowed.

“Bakugou,” Kirishima whispered.

Just when he thought he’d gotten used to everyone cursing all the time, Kirishima felt his chest tighten at the sound of every word, especially a name he could never bring himself to utter in such a foul phrase.

“I’m coming, god,” Jirou sighed from the other side of the door.

With a click, Jirou unlocked the door and swung it open to allow the boys inside.

“Why’d they send you all this way to open the door?” Bakugou asked gruffly.

“They didn’t, I volunteered,” Jirou bit back.

Bakugou scoffed, “That’s why it took forever.”

 Jirou landed a hard punch to Bakugou’s arm, but he didn’t even flinch.

“This way,” Jirou mumbled, already leading the pair of them into the dark building.

Besides the moonlight streaming through the busted windows, there wasn’t a semblance of light anywhere in the structure. It smelled like old, wet concrete and rust. In the distance, Kirishima heard a steady drop of water fall to the ground with an echo every three seconds, like clockwork. The only sound besides the dripping water came from the footsteps of the three of them venturing down the long corridor. Kirishima’s mouth went dry. His mind raced with all the things they could find in the hallway alone. He kept checking the floor obsessively for a gun or a mutilated rat tail—the stories Kaminari and Mina had told refused to leave his brain, especially in that moment.

“Ah!” Kirishima yelped, a skitter of mice feet running somewhere behind him.

Bakugou turned sharply to him. Even in the spotty moonlight, Kirishima could make out the stony disappointment in his expression.

“Sorry,” Kirishima whispered.

They continued their trudge down the concrete walkway. It almost felt longer than when he and Bakugou had been walking in the forest. But, eventually, Kirishima started to hear voices speaking softly in the distance, and when they turned a corner, the room that the hallway fed into was covered with a glowy, golden light.

Sero, Kaminari, and Mina were all sat in the rather expansive space. There were broken windows lining all the walls and, in the center of the concrete floor, was a makeshift collection of candles which created the comforting light that the entire space was now filled with.

“Oh, thank god,” Mina sighed, “I thought there was some crazy guy yelling at the door.”

“Maybe if ya hadn’t locked it, I wouldn’t have had to yell,” Bakugou grumbled.

“Hi, Kiri,” Mina said sweetly to the boy that was shuffling into the room, “you know, Bakugou, you don’t have to yell all the time.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Bakugou asked bitingly.

Jirou lowered herself carefully onto the floor with Kaminari on her left and Sero on her right. Mina was sat to Kaminari’s left, and she patted the free space on the other side to invite Kirishima to come sit. He obeyed, settling himself onto the cold concrete beside her. He sat criss-cross, but just because he didn’t know how else to sit. He probably looked like a kindergartener.

Bakugou eventually settled himself onto the ground beside Kirishima, his legs tucked up to his chest and his feet planted flat onto the floor. Sero, who was sitting to his left, was leaned leisurely on one of their arms, hand firm against the ground.

“Kept us waiting there, Katsuki,” Sero crooned.

"It’s a long walk,” Bakugou hissed.

“Who cares, anyhow?” Mina chirped, “You’re here!”

“Can we get started already? These candles are giving me a headache,” Kaminari groaned while rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger.

“Get over it,” Jirou mumbled, laying a sharp slap to the back of Kaminari’s head.

His mouth formed around a silent ‘ow’ as he nursed the back of his head with the same hand that had once been nursing his aching head.

“Can I—” Kirishima began, immediately calling the entire group to attention unintentionally, “Can I ask what we’re doing?”

His voice echoed through the concrete block in which they were sat.

“We,” Bakugou said, “are killing Kirishima Eijirou.”

Now the sensation of excitement in Kirishima’s body turned to ice-cold horror. His mouth fell agape, and he had to blink a few times just to make sure he was really there and that he’d really heard Bakugou right. They were going to kill him. Of course this had all been a game, they had just been lying to him all this time. But why would they want to kill him? What would they gain from it? What had he done to deserve such an awful fate in such an awful little place?

“What?” Kirishima eked out.

As Kirishima’s heart leapt back up to his throat, he thought about running. If he was fast enough, maybe they wouldn’t be able to catch him. He was taller than all of them, after all, and he was the only one wearing shoes sensible for running.

“Stop scaring him,” Mina commanded from Kirishima’s right.

She turned to him, an apologetic expression gracing her features.

“He doesn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, I do,” Bakugou replied.

“He’s telling a joke,” Mina said to Kirishima.

Kirishima glanced over to see a rather mischievous smile pasted over Bakugou’s face.

“C’mon, Bakugou,” Kirishima sighed in relief.

He laughed, “I’m just messin’ with you.”

Kirishima buried his face in his hands for a moment, desperately trying to shake the rush of adrenaline from his body. It would make him feel sick to his stomach, otherwise.

“I mean,” Bakugou continued, “sorta.”

He reached around to where Sero was sitting and pulled a piece of paper and a pen off of the ground. He set it decidedly in front of Kirishima and looked up at him.

“Write your name for me,” he commanded.

Kirishima nodded slowly and reached down for the pen. He paused for a moment with the tip poised over the paper. In the general silence, Kirishima could only hear the soft flicker of the candles in front of him. He tried to steady his hands long enough to scratch out his name, the sound of the pen against the paper echoing through the room. When he dotted his final ‘i’, Bakugou snatched the paper from him and folded it up.

“Okay, is everyone ready to say goodbye to the old Kirishima?” He asked gruffly, the paper now a small square between his fingers.

“What?” Kirishima asked.

“We’re all gonna say goodbye to the old you,” Bakugou replied, “unless, of course, you wanna be the old you for the rest of your life.

Kirishima’s lips parted to reply, but he wasn’t sure what he would say. It was true that Kirishima could divide his life into Kirishima Pre-Bakugou and Kirishima Post-Bakugou, but he didn’t realize how heavy his old self had been, especially as he hauled it around all day and night. But was he ready to kill his old self? To be rid of him forever?

“Goodbye Old Kirishima,” Bakugou muttered, “You have a cocksucker dad and made me come to your house seven fucking days in a row before you said yes to being in my band.”

Kirishima’s posture straightened. Were they all going to talk about him like this?

“Sero,” Bakugou grumbled, handing the paper off.

Sero took the paper haughtily and held it to their chest.

“Old Kirishima,” they said languidly, “you were wonderful, but it’s only fun for so long to watch you go fire engine red every time someone even subtly flirts with you. And I’m sorry I told you I’d give your necklace back, that was a lie.”

With their parting phrase, Sero pulled the paper to their lips to plant a gentle kiss against it. When they passed it to Kaminari, Kirishima caught a glimpse of black gloss staining the white sheet. Kirishima blushed and pulled his knees up to his chest, not realizing that they’d all be talking about him.

“I am sort of a little bit going to miss you, Old Kirishima,” Kaminari began, the paper held tight between his fingers, “I liked how scared you got when Jirou pointed a gun at your head and you actually gave good advice about the electrocution thing. But other than that, I think you’re gonna be a lot happier once you stop worrying about making everyone else happy and just start doing shit you like to do.”

Kirishima flushed an even deeper shade of red and hugged his legs tighter into his chest. Was it that obvious that he loved to make everyone around him happy?

“I am going to second Kaminari and say that it was very fun to scare the shit out of you with a gun,” Jirou said flatly, the paper balancing in the palm of her hand, “but I am also going to apologize for holding said gun to your head. You looked like you were going to throw up and I felt a little bad afterwards.”

Her tone didn’t change much as she spoke, but Kirishima could only interpret her words with a wealth of sincerity.

“I think that Old Kirishima is cool and all but he needs to die and be buried six feet under to make space for the actual Kirishima I think is hiding somewhere in there,” she added.

With that, Jirou handed the paper to Mina. Kirishima felt his body relax as she began to speak. Mina had always been kind to him since the very beginning.

“Old Kirishima was alright, I guess, but New Kirishima has much better style and is way more relaxed,” she said brightly, “and I like to see my friends chill out.”

She was gazing at Kirishima and flashing him a soft smile.

“And I know that Old Kirishima is screaming and clawing trying to keep himself afloat but—dude you gotta kill that motherfucker, he’s holding you down so much it’s insane. And I also like that New Kirishima says ‘fuck’.”

As Mina shared, her shoulders began to relax at her sides. Her words were like a breath she’d been holding for far too long, the kind that makes your face turn blue until you absolutely have to give in. And she was right. Old Kirishima was rather precious to him, it was who he’d been for eighteen years. What business did he have killing the self that’d kept him alive for so long?

Even as Mina slipped the paper into his hand, Kirishima wondered if he wanted to participate at all. The weight of his name felt heavy in his palm, especially now that Bakugou and his friends had already bid adieu to it. Kirishima gazed longingly at the folded paper, Sero’s lipstick stain barely visible on the front. Tucking the paper further towards his body, Kirishima glanced back up to the group who was watching him expectantly.

“Old Kirishima—always wanted to make people happy,” he said in a barely-there voice.

Even with his heart in his throat, Kirishima continued to speak.

“He—he didn’t care about what he wanted—he couldn’t,” Kirishima said lowly, “and he was always so scared. He was so scared of everything that he never tried anything.”

Kirishima’s eyes were affixed on the hand which held the paper close to his chest. He didn’t dare meet the gaze of anyone who sat around him.

“Old Kirishima would never lie to his parents. He would never climb out his window in the middle of the night to hang out with strangers,” Kirishima chuckled softly at the thought, “Old Kirishima wouldn’t have even thought of it.”

Every one of his words seemed to bounce off of the cold concrete walls and floors. His words were not simple utterances anymore but resounding statements that traveled beyond his immediate form. The candlelight emphasized the contours of his own hands. He was holding on so tightly, and for what?

“But I’m tired of him,” Kirishima whispered, “I’m so—so goddamn tired of Old Kirishima.”

When he looked up, Kirishima noticed that every gaze was trained on him as they watched his thoughts unfold. And when he turned, Bakugou was leaned towards him, candlelight dancing in his crimson eyes.

“Ready to kill this motherfucker?” He asked with the ghost of a smile gracing his face.

Feeling the corners of the paper pinch his palms, Kirishima hesitated for a moment. He wanted to kill him, he wanted Old Kirishima dead so badly. But what if he let his old self go only to become something far worse? What if all the things his father had told him were true—that the Lord would punish him?

"I didn’t ask the Lord for many things. Whenever I prayed, I always just sorta sat there and waited for God to see me and maybe tell me something. I left all the asking to my father and other people in the church. This was the first time I’d ever asked for something.”

"And what did you ask for.”

Lord, Kirishima prayed inside his head, please don’t let this be a mistake.

Then, Kirishima nodded.

Not a moment later, Bakugou was digging in his pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. When he’d retrieved them, he stuck the cigarette in his mouth and lit the end masterfully. He inhaled slowly, then let the smoke billow out his nose and mouth. When he stuck the cigarette back in between his teeth, he leaned even closer to Kirishima.

“Burn that shit on the end,” he motioned to the red-hot butt of the cigarette, “right there.”

Releasing his vice grip on the paper, Kirishima pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He leaned back towards Bakugou only until their faces were just a pencil’s length apart. Kirishima’s senses were invaded by the hazy cloud of smoke that surrounded Bakugou’s head, but he could still feel Bakugou’s breath fanning the expanse of his face.

“Put it between your teeth,” Bakugou commanded in a whisper.

“What?”

“The paper,” Bakugou hissed, “put it between your teeth.”

Kirishima obeyed hesitantly, biting the corner of the folded paper only slightly so the majority of it was outside of his mouth. Without a word, Bakugou motioned Kirishima to get closer to him and light the edge of the paper with the hot end of his cigarette.

A shudder fell down Kirishima’s back. Even so, he slowly obeyed, leaning towards Bakugou with the paper held firmly between his teeth. He tilted his head only slightly, lining himself up with the cigarette’s end. He tried to keep his gaze fixed on the paper rather than looking right into Bakugou’s eyes. Kirishima didn’t think he could handle the intensity. When the edge of the paper finally touched the end of the cigarette, Kirishima nearly jumped at the slight resistance. Bakugou pushed in a bit further to really get the hot part on the paper. Kirishima’s heart thrummed at the edge of his chest and all his limbs ignited with anticipation. He had never been so close to someone else. Even his own mother seemed to hug him from a distance. He’d never felt like this before, so alert. He was so close to Bakugou, he could almost—

Kirishima’s eyes flickered up. Sure enough, he met Bakugou’s intense gaze. But at this new distance, he didn’t look nearly as scary as he usually did. In fact, his hooded gaze looked—sad. His expression was something soft, something pointed, made only for Kirishima in that moment.

You could say that Kirishima was a little disappointed when the edge of the paper finally ignited and he had to back away. He snatched the thing quickly from his teeth before it could burn his lips and he held it by the furthest corner from where the flames were engulfing the paper. It ate away so quickly at it, turning to ash before Kirishima’s eyes. Soon, he had to drop the fiery piece onto the concrete floor and watch it disappear completely in red-hot flames. He could only sit and watch his old self burn into mere ash. When the flame finally went out, Kirishima looked back up to the group.

“Finally,” Sero groaned out, lying on the floor in fake exhaustion.

“Yeah, good riddance,” Jirou spat at the burnt-up piece of paper.

“Bakugou, I wish you’d made me put the paper between my teeth,” Sero complained.

“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou mumbled gruffly before inhaling another massive cloud of smoke.

Mina was the next to perk up.

“Oh my god!” She cried, “I almost forgot.”

Reaching behind her, Mina grabbed a mass of fabric that was folded up rather neatly. She unfurled it to reveal a black denim jacket with four patches scattered around it.

“We made this for you!” She chirped, nearly bouncing from the excitement.

Kirishima took the thing gingerly in his hands. When the entire jacket was finally splayed across his lap, Kirishima could run his fingers over the worn seams and the bronze buttons. He glanced over at the patches—one on either side of the chest, one on the sleeve, and one on the back—before looking back up.

“Is this—” he began to ask.

“Battle jacket,” Kaminari interrupted, “and it’s all yours.”

“Really?” Kirishima whispered, his fingers already working over the bold lettering of each patch.

They all said some different phrase that Kirishima didn’t know the meaning of or had some picture that was decidedly angry, but Kirishima could stop drinking in the sight of it with his eyes.

“We each took a patch from our own to start off your collection,” said Sero.

Oh, Kirishima had almost forgotten what was in his pocket. He tugged it out without another thought and smoothed it out with his hands over the empty space at the front of the jacket.

“You had that in your pocket?” Bakugou asked, watching the jacket intently.

Kirishima looked over at him.

“I must’ve put it in my pocket when you gave it to me and forgotten about it,” he fibbed.

Man, he was getting pretty good at this lying thing.

“Y’can stick it on with safety pins,” Bakugou muttered.

“I’ve got some in my pocket, I think,” Sero added, already digging around in the pocket of their skirt.

Kirishima palmed over the patch over and over to try and expel the wrinkles that had formed in the fabric when it was shoved into his tiny pocket.

“Damn, I only have three,” Sero lamented while handing the safety pins to Kirishima.

“Here,” Bakugou promptly tugged at the pin in his lip, slid it out, and handed it to Kirishima.

It took Kirishima a few seconds to work up the courage to take it, but Bakugou was looking at him so seriously that it couldn’t have been a joke. He took Bakugou’s safety pin then got to work attaching each corner of the patch onto the jacket. Without even looking, Kirishima felt Bakugou’s body lean towards him. His face was right next to Kirishima’s ear, close enough for him to hear Bakugou’s impossibly low whisper.

“You never take that patch off as long as you live, okay?”

Kirishima’s breath arrested at the proximity, feeling Bakugou’s breath against the shell of his ear. But he nodded succinctly, hoping it wasn’t too obvious how caught off guard he really was. His breath reeked of smoke, but Kirishima didn’t care much.

“Well, put it on!” Mina motioned to the jacket.

Breaking himself from his dream-state, Kirishima slipped his arms into the jacket sleeves and let the cool fabric rub up against the skin of his arms which had been covered in goosebumps since the moment he laid eyes on the abandoned building. It felt so cozy around his body, it seemed to fit perfectly around his torso and hug his shoulders in a calming way. Kirishima glanced down each sleeve of the jacket, letting a smile creep up to his face.

“Do you love?” Mina asked.

“Yeah,” Kirishima replied, “it’s really nice.”

For a moment, Kirishima could finally breathe easy, giving his brain enough space to take in the world around him. The candles had melted down a few centimeters, but the golden light they emitted hadn’t dulled one bit. Jirou, Kaminari, and Sero were enraptured in some conversation while Bakugou listened on. He was still working on the old cigarette, but it wouldn’t last much longer. Mina was looking around the room, possibly thinking the same thing as Kirishima. It was a good moment—it was their moment.

At least, it was until Jirou shushed them all.

“Hey, I was talkin’,” Kaminari complained.

“Shush,” Jirou hissed, “D’you hear that?”

Kirishima tuned his ears to any distant noise. He listened hard, trying to block out the chirping crickets and general tree-shuffling.

But he did hear it, eventually. It was faint, distant, and barely there, but there was one thing that was entirely unmistakable. The sound was coming right for them. Kirishima turned back to watch Jirou as the sound got steadily louder and closer and louder and closer.

“Shit,” Jirou cursed under her breath.

Kirishima wished it had been anything else. He would’ve preferred to hear death’s call. But it was unmistakable. Jirou was the first to say what they were all thinking.

“Police sirens.”

Coming right towards them.

Chapter Text

“By now, I knew that I was safe around Bakugou and his friends. In some way, I’d become one of their own. But it was right when I felt accepted by them that I discovered how rejected they were by everyone else. And now, by association, how rejected I was, too.”

“How so?”

It was immediate, the rush of panic that flooded through Kirishima’s body. He lived his life in a constant state of diluted panic, but this was different. Perhaps it was the rising volume of the sirens or the vulnerable, terrified looks that had befallen Bakugou’s usually stoic friends, but Kirishima’s entire body felt paralyzed. He could almost envision the future: the police catching them and throwing them into the back of the police car, getting thrown in some dingy cell, and having to call his father to come pick him up. This was the night he was going to get arrested and then die.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jirou said in a panicky voice.

Like bugs that were about to be fumigated, everyone began to move decisively. Mina threw her own jacket back on, Sero put out the candles with the pads of their fingers, and Bakugou raced over to a window which he used his boot to smash an even larger opening into. Kirishima almost stopped to cover his ears at the peeling sound of glass shattering and crashing to the floor, but he didn’t have time—Kaminari had grabbed his arm and was pulling him towards the now gaping hole in the window. The police sirens grew louder with every passing second.

“Go!” Bakugou called from the other side of the window to the lollygagging crew.

Sero was the next to climb through, offering a hand to Mina who followed close behind. Kaminari helped Jirou through carefully while checking behind himself like a madman. Once Jirou was safely on the other side, Kaminari climbed through with little regard for the sharp pieces of glass poking at his arms. Kirishima inched towards the window and tried to find the best place to put his feet. His mouth was filling with sour bile and his body was moving like he was encased in old, dried clay. Kirishima’s heart, which had leapt to his throat, was beating so fast he was afraid it would fall right out of his mouth. He planted one foot on the windowsill, but could decide where to put his hand, so it hovered over one place then another on the side.

“C’mon!” Bakugou barked.

Bakugou wrapped his large, sweaty fingers around Kirishima’s wrist and yanked him all the way through the window. His body tumbled and fell hard onto a patch of overgrown grass. Before Kirishima could even scramble to his feet, the group was already starting into the woods that laid before them.

“We gotta run,” Sero said frantically to Bakugou.

“What about your car?” Kirishima asked once he finally stood all the way up.

“Leave it,” Bakugou grumbled before wrapping his hand once more around Kirishima’s wrist.

It was just as Kirishima felt his entire body being yanked towards the dark forest that he heard the shouting voices coming from behind him. With a chaste, panicked glance, Kirishima saw a squadron of at least seven shadowy figures rushing towards the abandoned building with flashlights in hand. It was faint, but Kirishima could hear staticky police chatter crackling over their radios. Kirishima swallowed and allowed his body to be pulled into the darkness, away from the building and the policemen.

“Run, idiot!”

Sero’s words called Kirishima’s head back forward. He was still being pulled by Bakugou, but the rest of the group was well ahead, weaving through night-shrouded trees and tall grass.

“Better keep up, Rock Solid,” Bakugou called to him.

In the very next moment, Bakugou’s hand abandoned Kirishima’s wrist. With the pulling gone, Kirishima felt his body start to go slack. He never ran, he didn’t know how. But the adrenaline was already pumping through his body, what else was he supposed to do? The police chatter behind him rose and the crunching of leaves and rocks beneath combat boots trailed in front of him. It wasn’t until Bakugou’s body disappeared behind one of the shadowy trees that the familiar pang of fear shot through Kirishima’s stomach.

So, despite everything his body wanted to do instead, Kirishima ran. His feet pounded hard and untrained against the uneven ground. Every rock he stepped on felt like it would send him sideways, but some force of nature kept him upright. Kirishima didn’t dare look back, instead choosing to speed up as much as he could to at least catch up to Bakugou and the others. His breaths became jagged and strained, his lungs already burned with overexertion. Kirishima sniffled in some snot every once in a while and choked back a handful of tears when he ran further and further but didn’t see or hear any of the others. As the police chatter grew behind him, Kirishima felt like crying, he felt like stopping and crying and getting arrested.

“But I couldn’t, it wasn’t about just me anymore. My entire life, I’d been alone, and all my mistakes were my own. But now I had people to protect, people who trusted me. It was the only reason I could keep running.”

Kirishima’s entire body was covered in flaming tongues of pain. The muscles in his leg clenched and threatened to stop working altogether. A line of tears fell from the outside corner of his eye, he couldn’t hold them back anymore. No matter how many trees he passed by, they all looked like the last—he might as well have been running in circles. And still, there was no sign of anyone. Kirishima was alone, just like he always was.

“No,” Kirishima whispered to himself, feeling more tears trail down his cheek.

His battle jacket rubbed up against his bare arms and he felt the back fly behind him as he raced through the dark forest. Kirishima’s eyes scanned all over, but there was nothing but leaves and rocks. They had to be nearby, this just couldn’t be the end.

“Bak—ugo,” Kirishima’s lungs could barely produce the sound, and he was planning for it to be his very last word before he stopped and gave in to the pursuing authorities.

Kirishima closed his eyes, preparing his body to quit and collapse to the floor. But right as he caught sight of the inside of his eyelids, Kirishima felt a familiar set of fingers wrap tight around his wrist. Except, it wasn’t his wrist. It was his hand.

“Hey, slowpoke,” Bakugou grumbled breathlessly.

Kirishima’s eyes shot open right as Bakugou started to tug him further in the direction he was already running. He wanted to ask how Bakugou found him or how far back they were, but his lungs were too preoccupied with keeping him upright, at the moment. Bakugou’s hand was slick with sweat, but the likelihood that he’d lose his grip was low considering how tightly he was holding on and how quickly Kirishima’s fingers were turning blue. They wove through a few more feet of trees. As the sound of their shoes grew louder than the police chatter behind them, Kirishima felt the weight on his chest lift just a bit.

Now, his chest was light enough for him to take note of the moment. The summer air felt tacky against his skin, but Kirishima couldn’t help but smile at the sensation. Running no longer felt like a clunky, unrehearsed dance, it felt more like—

like flying.

It might’ve been the loose ends of their jackets that gave the impression or the speed at which they were dashing through the dark forest, but Kirishima couldn’t help but feel as though the ground weren’t even beneath him anymore, that he and Bakugou were simply flying. When he’d first watched Bakugou run down the street all those years ago, Kirishima could only dream of feeling so free. Could it be that he was dreaming? Or was this realer than any other moment he’d lived before? Kirishima’s ears pounded with rushing blood and his entire body still felt like it was pinching in on itself, but Bakugou’s hand wound tightly around his was grounding enough to make it all moot.

Kirishima had tried to hold in the sensation, the creeping sound that had appeared in some depth of his chest. He didn’t do it very often, and when he did, it was small and unobtrusive. His father liked when Kirishima did things quietly, so he never dared to let it rise above a giggle.

That was all Kirishima did. He laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made your jaw hang slack and rumbled up from your diaphragm. The sound echoed through a small part of the forest. Kirishima couldn’t stop laughing, his chest felt unrestrained and his entire body felt like it wasn’t even touching the ground. With the fingers of the wind carding through his hair, Kirishima felt like he was on a rollercoaster. He could run like this forever. Bakugou glanced back at Kirishima as he laughed, a sort of content look melting over his features.

It wasn’t long before the police chatter died almost entirely and Kirishima spotted the line of the forest which he felt like he’d been running through for ages. Sero and Mina were just a couple feet ahead of them, nearly collapsing at the wire fence that stood tall and stretched for miles in each direction. Jirou and Kaminari hobbled in from another part of the forest and stopped to catch their breath. Jirou gripped her stomach and winced while Kaminari squatted and planted his head in his hands, his back heaving with painful inhales and exhales.

“If we hop the fence—” Bakugou said breathlessly, “then we can get behind that wall and hide.”

Kirishima glanced over to the other side of the fence where, sure enough, a tall wall had been constructed beside a crumbling set of building parts. It looked like it used to be a sort of shed or storehouse, but it was their only option.

“The police are pretty far back, but we can’t run forever,” Bakugou hissed.

“Fine,” Mina said flatly.

She wrapped her fingers inside of the fence’s wire rungs and planted the toe of her boot inside another one of them. Before she hauled herself up, she shot a smirk back to Kirishima.

“Watch and learn,” she crooned.

In the next moment, Mina was pulling herself up hastily against the chain-link fence as it clinked against itself. She used her other hand to grab on and searched for a place to put her toe. It was masterful, the movements of her hand and the placement of her toes in the open spaces of the wire. In no time, she was pushing herself over the top and falling onto the other side with a thud. Kirishima had been so focused on watching Mina’s skillful climb that he didn’t notice Sero on the fence until they were crashing onto the other side with a practiced thud. But right as they crashed to the ground, Sero’s body folded all the way over and they coughed. It was a wet sort of cough, like there was something trapped up in their throat even though the sound rang from the bottom of their chest. They coughed over and over, their torso folding further with each exertion. Mina hurried over to them and asked some mumbled variation of “are you okay”. Sero waved her off and nodded, even though they were coughing the entire time.

“Now or never, Rock Solid,” Bakugou grumbled with a firm slap to Kirishima’s shoulder.

Kirishima’s entire body lurched with the impact. It brought him a few inches closer to the fence which looked a lot taller now that he was at the base of it.

“Just get your toe in there, then pull yourself up with your arms,” Bakugou informed him.

Kirishima nodded and wet his lips. As he slipped his hot fingers in the opening of the fence, the cold wire dug into the soft parts of his skin. Still, Kirishima pushed on and dug the toe of his Reeboks into the fence. He wriggled it around to try and get more of a hold, but nothing seemed to work. Bakugou was already scaling the fence and shaking it all around—Kirishima knew he only had so much time to theorize. With his heart beating erratically at the base of his throat, Kirishima pulled himself up by the thin wire where his fingers were planted. Immediately, his forearms burned, and his legs begged for a moment of rest. He must’ve just run a few miles and now he was making himself scale a fence that had to be at least ten feet. Even so, Kirishima pulled his lips in between his teeth and reached towards a higher run of the fence with his right hand, searching frantically for a place to stick his toe.

“Faster, Rock Solid,” Bakugou commanded from a foot or two above him and to the right of him.

Kirishima gulped and pulled himself up even further onto the fence. He was lucky that he was taller than the rest of the group, but what they lacked in height they made up for in experience. Kirishima’s arms and legs started to wobble—half from the overexertion, half from the fear. Even as he reached for another rung, he watched his fingers tremble. Wrapping them around the thin wire, Kirishima ignored the searing pain, squished his eyes shut, and heaved himself up.

“Just one more,” Kirishima whispered to himself.

He looked up and saw the top of the fence. Bakugou was already swinging his leg over it. Kirishima pursed his lips and reached up once again.

Just one more, just one more, he reminded himself.

When Kirishima had hauled himself up just enough to peer over the top of the fence, he opened his eyes to see Bakugou’s hand outstretched to him. Kirishima glanced at his expression, intense and determined. He didn’t have time to think about it. So, Kirishima reached out and grabbed Bakugou’s hand to let the man hoist him up to the top of the chain-link fence. Kirishima let out a sigh of relief when he could finally swing his leg over.

“Ready?” Bakugou whispered to him.

Kirishima didn’t nod or give any indication that he was, but Bakugou still slipped his hand out of Kirishima’s grip and hurtled feet-first towards the ground. Kirishima watched as he hit the dirt floor with an audible crunch and looked back up to Kirishima still waiting at the top. With his eyes shut and a silent prayer hanging on the tip of his tongue, Kirishima swung his other leg over and let himself careen towards the hard ground.

The summer breeze ruffled up through his clothes as he fell. The moment felt caught in time as the wind brushed through the loose strands of red hair that were attached to Kirishima’s scalp. For a few seconds, it felt as though the ground would never come, as though he would fall like this for the rest of his life. But, as it must, the ground appeared beneath Kirishima’s feet. He wished he could land gracefully like all the rest had, but he lost his balance and tumbled onto his side. When he opened his eyes, Kirishima scrambled to his feet and rushed to join Bakugou, Mina, and Sero behind the tall wall. He only took a quick glance back to see Jirou and Kaminari halfway up the fence going rather slowly.

“Be careful, Kyouka,” he heard Kaminari warn in a small voice.

Kirishima was pulled behind the wall by some hand and he crashed into the empty space beside Bakugou. The rest of them had pressed their backs flush to the concrete and were holding their knees to the chest, so Kirishima followed suit. Through his jeans, Kirishima felt his heart thrum against his kneecaps. He also felt the rub of Bakugou’s jacket against the side of his arm as they inched closer to make space for the final two.

Jirou and Kaminari were taking their sweet time, but for good reason. But the group knew they should’ve gone first when the familiar police chatter began to rise in volume once more.

“C’mon!” Mina hissed to the struggling pair from around the corner.

Kaminari looked back with a panicked expression, Jirou was too busy regulating her breaths as she climbed a few feet above him. Kirishima had to turn back and stare at his knees, he couldn’t bear to watch any more. He counted the seconds and listened closely to the rising voices.

Ten.

“C’mon, baby, you’ve got this,” Kaminari encouraged.

Nine.

The fence still rattled against the metal posts.

Eight.

“C’mon,” Bakugou whispered to himself.

Seven.

“Throw your leg over, there ya go,” said Kaminari.

Six.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Mina whispered in a breaking voice.

Five.

“Take my hand, okay? There, that’s it,” Kaminari told Jirou.

Four.

The fence still rattled. Kirishima swallowed something sour.

Three.

“They’re not gonna make it,” Kirishima whispered to himself.

Two.

“Ah!” Jirou cried before a hard thud hit the ground.

One.

First, Kaminari appeared. Then Jirou. Kaminari pulled her to the ground behind the wall and covered her mouth. Kirishima glanced over to see tears trailing down her face, faint whimpers coming from behind Kaminari’s thin hand.

The police chatter came closer than ever before. The flashlights shone all around them, catching just at the edge of the wall and leaving the six of them shrouded in darkness. Kirishima held his breath and pulled his lips between his teeth as the officers spoke to one another in muffled, unintelligible voices. He felt Bakugou stiffen against his side, probably holding his breath, too.

“They’re not here,” an officer called out, “let’s go back and check the other directions.”

Kirishima let out a long exhale, but Bakugou’s left arm came up to bar across his chest and keep him from getting up. They all froze and listened closely to be sure that the officers were really leaving. The flashlights turned back towards the forest and the police chatter died down gradually as they retreated. Even so, they waited just a little longer to make sure they were all gone. Kaminari was the one who checked around the corner and confirmed that there was no officer left to patrol the area.

Bakugou’s arm retreated from Kirishima’s chest just as Kaminari dropped his hand from Jirou’s mouth. But her entire face was slick with tears and she had her right arm wrapped across her stomach, hand clutching her side.

“It hurts, Kami,” she said in a quiet, teary voice.

Kaminari’s expression shifted from one of contentment to one of pure fear. He picked up Jirou’s arm by the wrist and turned her hand. The entire thing was covered in bright red blood that dripped down her forearm.

“No,” he whispered to himself.

Instantly, Kaminari crawled over to the other side of Jirou’s body while the others crowded a little bit closer. He untucked the hem of her shirt and pulled it up gently. When he saw it, his face flushed white.

“Fuck,” he whispered, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“What is it?” Bakugou asked gruffly, crawling over to the other side of her body where Kaminari was.

Bakugou’s face didn’t go pale when he saw it, but there was a definite break in his expression that Kirishima had never seen before. Jirou writhed only slightly, a steady stream of tears trailing down both cheeks. The curiosity was killing him, he had to see what was going on. Thus, Kirishima crawled over to the other side and joined Kaminari and Bakugou.

“It’s gonna be okay, baby,” Kaminari’s voice was broken and teary as he cradled Jirou’s head and pushed strands of hair out of her face, “it’s gonna be okay.”

When Kirishima first saw it, he felt like he was going to pass out right then and there. A deep, bloody cut trailed from the center of Jirou’s ribcage down at least three inches, pulled in every direction by her growing stomach. It twitched and moved as the pain shot through her body. Bakugou tore a patch from his jacket and pressed the fabric quickly against the wound. It was barely enough to cover the entire thing, and Kirishima watched the cloth soak quickly with blood.

Sero and Mina were still on the other side, but they were holding Jirou’s head and giving affirmations just like Kaminari was. But Kaminari kept looking back to the wound even after Bakugou had covered it. With Jirou’s head in his hands, Kaminari’s body rocked back and forth to try and soothe both her pain and his own panic.

“Bakugou,” Kaminari whimpered, “we have to take her to the hospital.”

“No,” Bakugou hissed.

Kirishima looked over at him like he was crazy.

“They probably know one of us is injured, that’s the first place they’ll look,” Bakugou continued.

Kaminari’s brow curled and he shook his head in disbelief.

“You’re worried about getting arrested?” Kaminari spat at him.

“I’m worried about you getting arrested,” Bakugou replied curtly.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Kaminari hissed lowly, “I would die for Jirou, I would fucking die for her.”

Bakugou pressed harder into the wound to try and stop the blood flow. Mina wiped tears from Jirou’s cheek with her knuckle and whispered into her ear. Jirou would nod every once in a while.

“If she dies—” Kaminari choked up, “it’s all my fault—and I’ll never get to see my baby.”

“Yeah, and if the police catch you, they’ll run one search, you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison, and you’ll never get to see your baby then, either,” Bakugou retorted.

Sero shed their black mesh overshirt and handed it to Bakugou with a concerned look. Bakugou took it and wrapped it tightly around the wound.

“Then what the fuck do you suggest we do?” Kaminari said darkly.

“Our place is close,” Bakugou stared out towards the field before them which was bordered by a lonely road, “can you carry her?”

“Not alone,” Kaminari replied.

“Then you carry her upper body and Kirishima will carry her lower body,” Bakugou commanded.

The group responded accordingly. Kaminari took the top of Jirou’s body gently in his arms while Kirishima slipped his arms under the bend of her knees. With both of them holding on, Jirou wasn’t very heavy, but Kirishima could tell how difficult of a job it would be alone.

“Sero’s got all that first aid stuff, we’ll work on her there,” Bakugou grumbled.

But Kaminari wasn’t listening. He had his lips buried in the crown of Jirou’s hair, whispering and kissing against her skin. The tears had begun to dry against her cheeks, but she still whimpered and winced at the pain with every step they took. Kirishima used one of his hands to hold the crude wound dressing in place, feeling a thin sheen of blood spread over his palm. He kept swallowing back pockets of nausea as the image of the injury looped endlessly in his mind. Mina and Sero led the way and Bakugou trailed close behind, checking in every direction for any officers or suspicious figures. When they finally reached the road, Kirishima breathed a sigh of relief. They were no longer in the woods, but they still had a ways to go before they’d hit civilization again.

Bakugou was right, their place was close, but it was still a trek wrought with fear of being followed and fear of losing Jirou halfway there. Kaminari was probably talking to her so often in an effort to keep her awake, but all she could do was nod and shake her head in response. Her right hand was clutching at her stomach while the other was wrapped along the back of Kaminari’s neck. Every once in a while, her fingers would squeeze, and her nails would graze against the skin. Kirishima had never seen Kaminari’s face so pale and gaunt; it seemed like he, too was on the brink of death.

“Don’t die, baby,” he would whisper, “you can’t die, not like this.”

Even Kirishima felt his heart squeeze at the thought of losing her. He’d only known her for a few weeks, yet it seemed like he was feeding off of Kaminari’s affection for her. He couldn’t help but say the same things in his head.

God, please don’t let Jirou die. She can’t die, not like this.

When the familiar brick building finally came into view, Kirishima’s entire body flooded with relief. Mina rushed towards the front door to unlock it and hold it open. Kirishima and Kaminari sped up a bit, but still kept a watchful eye on Jirou’s winces of pain. Bakugou stepped aside as they shimmied through the first door, then the second, and raced along the great expanse of the common room.

“Take her to Mina and Sero’s room,” Bakugou barked.

Kirishima and Kaminari obeyed, racing towards the door that Sero had already opened and was waiting at. Kaminari hoisted Jirou up further against his body as they reached the entrance to the room and shuffled in. It was a small concrete-covered room with two rickety looking beds, one adorned with a mass of tattered black blankets and the other sporting a slightly stained pink comforter. There was a dresser between the two which was bulging with a mass of clothes and topped with a dingy mirror and a massive collection of makeup products. Kaminari led the way to the bed with the black blankets and set Jirou ever so gently atop the mattress. Sero kneels down right in front of the wound while Kaminari kneels right beside where Jirou’s head was placed. He laced his fingers through hers and wiped sweaty strands of hair from her forehead. Kaminari whispered something to her, but Kirishima couldn’t hear what it was.

In fact, Kirishima was too busy watching Sero pull what could only be considered the biggest first aid kit out from under their bed. It was bigger than Kirishima’s head by almost three times and when they unzipped it, Kirishima’s eyes didn’t know what to focus on first. There were tweezers and gauze and bandages and ointments and wraps and needles and a host of other things that Kirishima couldn’t recognize. Even under their bed was a small army of pill bottles, some white and unassuming while others were the characteristic translucent orange. Kirishima’s mother took something in one of those bottles, but he’d never asked her what it was. It was just one of their Saturday errands, they had to go pick up the orange bottle in the while paper bag. Why would Sero need so many?

Sero made quick work of peeling the mesh fabric and cloth patch off of the wound. Even they winced at the sight, the wound now smeared with drying, darkening blood. The thing was deeper than Kirishima remembered. His stomach started to do flips, the familiar nauseous taste returning to his mouth. Kirishima gulped and grimaced as Sero dunked a clean white piece of cloth in some liquid and wiped around the edges of the wound.

“Ow!” Jirou cried as the cloth hit her skin.

Kaminari’s hand tightened and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Kirishima winced, his stomach flipping even faster. As Sero cleaned the blood away, the wound only got clearer and more gruesome. Kirishima had to press his lips together in fear of actually throwing up in front of all of them. He crossed his arms to try and steady himself, but the feeling was unmistakable. He was going to vomit, pass out, or both.

“Excuse me,” Kirishima muttered.

Before the words had even fully left his mouth, Kirishima had dashed out the door and raced towards the bathroom door which he’d rushed into a few weeks ago, a very similar sensation rushing through his body. Kirishima banged the bathroom door open with the side of his body and threw himself over the sink, his hands gripping the cold porcelain sides of the sink. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few moments, desperately trying to get his stomach to settle and will the color back into his face.

“Y’alright, Eiji?”

Mina’s voice floated into Kirishima’s ear. She was somewhere to his right, walking towards him. Her cold, soft hand rested gently against the shaved part of his hair and her fingers scratched lightly at his scalp. Kirishima nodded. He wasn’t really alright, but he would be, eventually.

“Jirou’s gonna be fine,” she whispered reassuringly.

Kirishima nodded again, but he wasn’t even sure if Mina knew how bad the wound was and how much blood had seeped from it. Even when Kirishima looked at his own left hand, the sight of the blood nearly sent his body flopping to the ground.

“Here,” Mina said.

She turned on the faucet over which Kirishima hunched and pulled his hand under the water. Her slim fingers worked over the places in his palm where the blood had dried, pressing and wiping all the evidence down the drain. All Kirishima could do was watch the pink-tinted water swirl around in the porcelain bowl as she kept working against his skin. Kirishima sighed in relief, feeling his stomach finally settle back into its original place.

“Mina,” he said lowly.

“Yeah, hun?”

“Why does Sero have all that stuff?” He asked, “All the pills and—first aid things?”

Mina didn’t respond very quickly. She turned off the faucet and squeegeed the rest of the water off of Kirishima’s clean left hand. When Kirishima glanced up at her, her mouth was in a straight line.

“Sero is—sick,” she muttered.

Kirishima had never seen her sport such a somber expression before.

“What kind of sick?” Kirishima asked plainly.

Mina’s eyes fell to the floor. Kirishima dried his hand against his pants and stood up completely, even though he was still feeling a little bit woozy. Mina wiped her own wet hands on her skirt. She looked up with a rather pained and tired look. Her hair was all out of sorts from running and her outfit was smattered with dirt and grass. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and lowered her brow.

“You’re gonna have to ask them about it yourself,” she said, “it’s not my place to tell.”

Kirishima looked down at his shoes, feeling a spot of shame. It was like he’d looked inside of a drawer he was never supposed to open, and now he couldn’t unsee what was inside. Mina wasn’t mad at him, but it didn’t seem like a topic she wanted to talk about; Kirishima wished she would explain, but her lips were sealed indefinitely. As she sauntered out of the bathroom, she let her hand drag gently and lovingly against the expanse of Kirishima’s shoulders. Kirishima followed her out the door with his gaze but decided to take one moment more in front of the mirror. His face was still a ghastly shade of pale, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his hair was a matted mess atop his head. Kirishima felt like he looked different every time he looked in the mirror now, like his face had gotten wider or he’d gotten taller. But it was day-by-day he felt like this, there was no way his body was changing that quickly.

With a calming sigh, Kirishima turned and walked out of the bathroom. Across the room, Sero was standing right outside their door with bloodied hands and a fatigued look on their face. Kirishima walked towards the room as they walked towards the bathroom, no doubt to wash their hands. As they passed each other somewhere in the middle, they both slowed down.

“She’ll be fine,” Sero muttered.

Kirishima could only nod in response. His heart felt a million times lighter hearing Sero say it. They resumed their normal speed in opposite directions. And once Kirishima reached the door of Sero and Mina’s room, he paused for a moment. There was no sound coming from the inside, but the door had been left open just a smidge. Gently and quietly, Kirishima pushed it open and peered inside. All of the first aid things lay strewn around the floor, but Jirou’s body was now pushed closer to the side of the bed that was pushed against the wall. Kaminari had climbed beside her and laid on his right side facing her. His left hand had come up to meet her right hand which was propped up next to her face. They were both fast asleep, deep breaths of slumber rising and falling simultaneously through their bodies, but Kaminari’s fingers were still laced within Jirou’s, holding on for dear life.

The other hand was splayed on top of her stomach.

“I eventually concluded that Bakugou and friends all lived in the same building where they held their shows. Sero and Mina shared a room, Jirou and Kaminari shared another one, and Bakugou had a room of his own. But it was more of a hideout than anything. Most of them had criminal records and warrants that meant they had to keep a low profile.”

“How did they make money?”

“They didn’t. They stole food and clothes and other necessities. But they were living with the bare minimum. All they’d talk about was how hungry they were. I felt like I had to do something for them—to help.”

“For a—study group?”

Kirishima’s mother eyed him suspiciously.

“Actually, it’s the same group that I’m working with in that science class,” he fibbed, “we are competing in a science competition and meeting up all the time, so I thought I’d bring them lunch.”

Kirishima was presenting the idea to his mother before she left for her weekly grocery shopping trip. It was a total lie, but he thought that the fact that he was bringing food to his hungry friends would cancel out the sin part of it. She looked pretty convinced, but she didn’t expect her son to lie ever. Kirishima was basically taking advantage of that trust.

“Would sandwiches be alright?” She asked.

“Sure!” Kirishima replied, “with ham or turkey, maybe. A-and also hard-boiled eggs—maybe some cheese too!”

“How many people are you trying to feed?” His mother asked through a giggle.

“Just a few,” Kirishima replied sheepishly, “but they’re really hungry.”

“Boys your age always are,” she smiled, “I’ll get what I can. Sweep the porch for me while I’m gone, will you?”

“Of course,” Kirishima replied through a grin, “thank you.”

His family didn’t hug much but, in that moment, Kirishima felt like wrapping his mother up in his arms from the sheer gratitude. She shot him a strange look before walking out the door and shoving herself into the old car on the driveway. Kirishima had never grabbed the broom so quickly.

And that was how he ended up in Bakugou’s car the next day with a backpack slung over his shoulder (so as to keep the college lie alive) and a large paper bag filled to the brim in his arms. Bakugou eyed the bag as Kirishima climbed into the car.

“What’s that?” He asked gruffly.

“You’ll see,” Kirishima replied, a buzzing anticipation rushing through his body.

Bakugou looked at him disapprovingly for another second before giving in and racing down the street in his car.

“How’d you get the car back?” Kirishima asked.

“Walked back to get it. Idiot cops didn’t even think twice about it,” he grumbled.

“Is Jirou alright?”

“She’s fine. Still in a little bit of pain but—she’s alive.”

Another sigh of relief fell from Kirishima’s lips. Despite Sero’s reassurance, he’d had trouble sleeping the past few nights thinking about how bad Jirou’s injury was and how likely it might be that she wouldn’t wake up the next morning. But it had been a few days, now, and she had to be doing better by now. Kirishima’s fingers curled around the stiff brown paper as they made a pretty sharp turn onto another street. Bakugou took one more glance towards Kirishima and the large brown bag but must’ve mentally decided to drop the subject before it was even brought up.

With his new battle jacket wrapped around his body and Bakugou seated beside him, Kirishima felt his first twinge of normalcy. For the past few weeks, everything with Bakugou and his friends had been so new and jarring, Kirishima was afraid the panic that rushed through his body would never stop. But there was nothing strange about the silver pin in Bakugou’s lip or the clashing music coming from the car’s speakers. Now, Kirishima felt like a stranger in his own home, one that had red hair and a secret life that his parents could never know about.

When the car swung in front of the building, Kirishima’s body started to beat with a sort of anticipation. He let himself out of the car, ignoring Bakugou’s air of suspicion, and sauntered confidently to the front door. When they’d shimmied themselves all the way through, Kirishima was met with Jirou lounging on the couch, a doting Kaminari carding his fingers through her hair and making her giggle with some stupid joke. Mina was sitting on the ground near the wall with a little mirror placed upon a stack of books and boxes so it was perfectly at the height of her face. Her fingers were stretching the corner of her eye as she slowly and carefully drew a line of black liquid right along her lash line. Sero was nowhere to be seen, but Kirishima would catch sight of them later sitting on the back porch, a cloud of smoke hovering above them.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Mina chirped to the pair as the metal door screeched along the floor.

Kirishima grinned, “Hi, Mina. Jirou—”

She glanced over at him, face round and full of color.

“Hi,” he said sheepishly.

“Sorry you had to carry my legs,” she said flatly, “what a drag, huh?”

“It—really wasn’t,” Kirishima replied sincerely.

“Hey,” Kaminari whined, “I was the one who had to carry the rest of your body.”

“Shut up,” Jirou landed a harsh slap to Kaminari’s exposed bicep.

“Owie,” Kaminari’s face scrunched up as he nursed his red arm.

Jirou smirked dully, “What’s in the bag?”

Kirishima had almost forgotten about the heavy bag in his arms. He glanced down at the opening that he’d folded down to keep everything inside, then looked back up at the group.

“I brought food.”

It took a few seconds for the group to register such a simple sentence, but it was glaringly obvious when they did. Kaminari’s jaw went slack, Jirou’s eyes grew wide as saucers, and Mina’s hand had frozen in the middle of doing her eyeliner.

“For real?” Kaminari eked out.

“Yeah,” Kirishima said lowly, “It’s not much but—”

It was Kaminari who lurched out of his seat and rushed towards the doorway where Kirishima was frozen like a statue. Kaminari grabbed the folded part of the bag and flipped it open, desperate to peer inside. Even though his nails were painted a bright green, Kirishima could see caked dirt and blood nestled between the nail and the skin of his fingertip. As his face got closer to the contents of the bag, Kaminari’s eyes went wide and glassy. And when he looked back up, Kirishima had to swallow a gasp.

“Is it—really for us?”

His usually crackly, excitable voice had gone soft and small. He seemed to regress in age right before Kirishima’s eyes. The question dripped with the desperation of a child who simply cannot believe that a good thing has come to them without any doing of their own.

“Well—yeah,” Kirishima replied softly.

In the very next moment, Kaminari had wrapped one hand around the opening of the bag, snatching it from Kirishima’s arms, and wrapped his other hand around Kirishima’s wrist, pulling him over to the couch.

“Sero, get in here!” Kaminari shouted to the sliding door.

“Wait, there’s really food in there?” Mina asked, racing over to the coffee table where the bag had just been placed, make-up still only half-done.

“No fucking way,” Jirou whispered in disbelief as she craned her neck to peek inside.

Kaminari reached greedily in through the top and began to pull out all the things Kirishima’s mother had packed earlier that day. He pulled out sandwich after sandwich, enough for each of them to have two, then a Ziploc bag full of hard-boiled eggs sliced in half. Jirou snatched the bag instantly, holding them to her chest.

“Fuck, I’ve been craving eggs like crazy!” She cried.

It was more emotion than Kirishima had ever seen from her.

“What’s going on?”

Sero peered over from behind the couch. When they saw the food, their eyes widened just slightly, lips parting in shock.

“Here,” Kaminari handed three bags of carrots and celery to Mina who looked like she was about to drool just at the sight of them.

Once all of the vegetables had been taken out, Kaminari pulled out five or so bags of chips. They weren’t the good kind—Kirishima’s mother could never afford to buy branded food—but they probably couldn’t tell the difference.

“Jirou,” Kaminari handed two of the sandwiches to her, followed by a bag of chips.

Mina tossed her a bag of vegetables before snatching two sandwiches for herself from the pile on the table. Sero reached over Kaminari’s shoulder and grabbed a bag of chips and took the two sandwiches that Jirou was handing to them. Hungrily, they creeped over to where Mina was plopped in a lawn chair and grabbed more food from her side.

They did most of the exchanges in silence, too mesmerized by the bounty of food that lay before them. To Kirishima, it wasn’t anything impressive. There was nothing hot to eat and most kids would grimace at hard-boiled eggs and vegetables, but all of them didn’t seem to mind at all. Their eyes went glassy. It was like they hadn’t seen food like this in ages. Could it be true?

Kirishima didn’t even have time to blink before all of them were settled into seats, tearing open the packages of food and taking hesitant inaugural bites. Mina was the first to sink her teeth into a sandwich; she held her mouth on it for a moment, eyes fluttering closed with gratitude, before she let herself chew the bite she’d taken. Jirou was staring intently at the white of an egg, breaking it in half with her unkempt thumbnails. When it opened, Kirishima watched her mouth hang agape, unable to tear her eyes from the bright yellow middle. Kaminari was already halfway done with his sandwich. He attacked it from every angle, not even waiting for his previous bite to disappear before diving in for another. Sero was considerably slower with their eating, savoring one carrot after another. Kirishima sat on the floor and watched it all happen, even though he had to listen to the chewing noises he hated so much.

But something was missing. Even though they all seemed content, tucking in with their first proper meals in probably forever, something wasn’t right.

Kirishima peered back to see Bakugou standing with his back leaned against the wall, arms cross tight in protest, watching his friends eat with a dark expression. Kirishima tilted his head, unable to read the exact emotion that Bakugou was emitting. He couldn’t possibly be mad about this, right?

The longer Kirishima watched him, the narrower Bakugou’s eyes got. Kirishima’s first thought was to invite Bakugou to join them, considering that there was plenty of food left for him to eat, but his stature and expression didn’t give off the vibe that he was at all interested. When Kirishima had first met him, he’d looked gruff and intense, but he didn’t look like that now. He looked—mad.

A shiver ran down Kirishima’s spine at the realization. He gulped and wrung his clammy hands together. Even looking back at the rest enjoying their food didn’t quell the fear that was pulsing through him. When Kirishima looked back to Bakugou, he was on the move, sauntering towards the sliding door that led out to the little concrete porch. He turned his head, ensuring that Kirishima caught sight of his seething glare, and tilted his head roughly towards the door, directing Kirishima to follow him. Well, more commanding than directing, it seemed. Kirishima gulped again, excused himself from the rest, and stood up as steadily as he could. The eating group didn’t care, they were too invested in the food to be concerned with whatever Kirishima was doing.

He didn’t run or anything, but Kirishima made quick work to catching up to Bakugou who was already slipping out the open sliding door. Kirishima mirrored him and let himself out into the muggy afternoon air before shutting the door behind him with a click.

Before Kirishima could say a word, he felt the collar of his shirt tug against the back of his neck and lurch his body towards the brick wall right beside the glass door. His head hit the hard surface first, followed by the broad expanse of his shoulders. It was then that he could see Bakugou clearly, face inches away from his, angry air puffing from his nose like a bull who’d just seen a flash of red. Kirishima wished he’d worn his hat, right about now.

“Why’d you do it, huh?”

Bakugou’s voice was lower than ever before, reduced to a mere grumble. His brow obstructed the view of his eyes which were glowing bright red with fury and his lip quirked to flash his ultra-sharp canine. Kirishima’s body froze at the contact of Bakugou’s hands wound tightly around his shirt and his hot breath fanning along his face. His own shuddering breaths felt cold and shallow in comparison.

“W-what do you mean? Do what?” Kirishima stammered.

“The food, you fucking idiot, why did you do it?”

Kirishima’s brow knitted. His lips formed around words he wanted to say, but didn’t know if he could.

“You—you all said you were hungry last time,” said Kirishima lowly, “I thought, maybe you’d—”

“Thought you’d pity us?”

Bakugou, whether intentionally or unintentionally, spat right in Kirishima’s face when he spoke. The word shot from his lips like a bullet, aimed at the most vital parts of Kirishima’s body.

“No,” Kirishima retorted, “I just wanted to do something nice.”

“We don’t need your goddamn charity, alright?” Bakugou seethed, “We’re fine on our own.”

Bakugou moved an inch back from Kirishima, but he didn’t dare unfurl his hands from his shirt.

“It’s not charity—” Kirishima began.

“Like hell it isn’t,” Bakugou barked.

Kirishima’s eyes narrowed. He’d been pushed around all his life, but this was the only time he knew he was in the right.

“What’s your problem?” Kirishima asked lowly, “First the hospital, now this.”

Bakugou’s face fell, but it seemed to only get angrier. Now that Kirishima could see his eyes fully, he got the full effect of the fire that raged within them.

“You’re so stubborn,” he continued, “Jirou could’ve died.”

The blond’s lip quirked even more like he was going to bite Kirishima and rip his throat right out.

“You don’t tell me how to look after my family,” Bakugou replied in a seething whisper, his fingers curling even tighter around the fabric of Kirishima’s shirt.

“Your family is hungry,” Kirishima doubled down.

Before the words had even had time to settle, Bakugou had pushed Kirishima back up against the wall hard enough to bruise the back of his head and released his grip on his shirt.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, taking a step back.

“I was just trying to help,” Kirishima leaned towards him and felt his voice begin to rise.

“Fuck your help!”

“Just—” Kirishima reached for Bakugou’s wrist, “listen to me.”

The moment Bakugou caught sight of Kirishima’s hand, he wrapped his strong fingers around his arm and twisted it so his palm faced up. Kirishima’s knees buckled as the pain shot through his arm and shoulders. When his body folded to the side, Bakugou leaned in close enough for Kirishima to feel each breath against the tip of his nose. Bakugou’s eyes bore into Kirishima’s.

“Get out,” he whispered curtly.

“Bakugou—” Kirishima’s voice strained against the pain.

“Get out!” Bakugou barked.

It was then that Bakugou let go of Kirishima’s arm and released him back towards the slider. Kirishima was quick in opening it and shooting Bakugou one more seething glare. The anger that bubbled up within him was reminiscent of how he’d felt on that stage—so vulnerable and dejected. Kirishima slammed the door behind him to try and channel some of the anger out of his body then stomped across the cramped little room towards the bathroom where he’d taken refuge many times before.

“Eiji?” Mina’s soft voice called out to him.

But he couldn’t be so weak as to look back. He couldn’t look at Mina or Jirou or any of them because he’d start crying. His vision had tunneled on the bathroom door, he didn’t dare look anywhere else. When he reached the wooden door, Kirishima slapped his hand over it to swing it open. The impact stung all over his palm, undoubtedly turning the entire thing a deep shade of red, but he couldn’t care—there was too much red-hot irritation coursing through his bloodstream.

What kind of idiot gets mad when you bring food to his hungry friends? Bakugou had to be some special kind of stupid to think that Kirishima was doing any of it with ill-intention. Weren’t they friends? Had Kirishima been fooled all this time into thinking that they were all friends when they really weren’t? Perhaps he was just a pawn in the band and nothing more.

“Kirishima?”

Jirou was stood at the sink beside him, wiping her hands dry on her skirt. Her eyes were devoid of any sort of pity or fear, but she looked intently at him and waited for a response. Kirishima clutched the edges of the sink with his fingers and bowed his head towards the bowl.

“Am I allowed to be angry right now?”

The question was, in some ways, for Jirou, but it was more a question to God than anyone else. Kirishima hadn’t felt like this since he was standing on that stage, given every permission to go wild. But this wasn’t a performance, this was real life, and he needed someone to give him the go-ahead before he let himself loose.

“Sure,” Jirou replied.

“Bakugou is—how could he—fuck,” Kirishima spat, slapping his hand against the side of the sink.

He hadn’t said the word either since he was on stage. Even Jirou flinched just slightly at the expletive and the sharp sound of skin against porcelain.

“He’s stubborn,” Kirishima hissed, “He’s the most bull-headed guy I’ve ever met. He thinks every nice thing someone does for him is pity.”

Jirou didn’t respond. Kirishima’s eyes were still enraptured with the drain of the sink, anyways.

“All I want is for him to trust me, t-to fucking give me a chance, for once!”

One hand abandoned the sink to drag along the length of Kirishima’s face. The anger was subsiding quickly with every line he shouted towards the faucet. Jirou just listened on in silence. Kirishima couldn’t take it anymore, he had to look at her face. The words hung heavy on his tongue, he had to say it.

“I just wanna—”

Jirou knitted her brow. She was leaning on the sink with one hand and had the other draped along the shelf of her stomach.

“Wanna what?” She asked.

Kirishima’s lips parted to say it, but he couldn’t get the words quite right.

“Nevermind,” he muttered, burying his face in his hand once more.

“You wanna take care of him?”

How did she know?

Kirishima glanced up at her with a worried expression. Could Jirou read minds? No, no one can actually do that. Unless—

“Bakugou’s done so much for you that all you want is to do something for him in return, right?”

He had to look away in shame. There was no way Jirou could be this perceptive. Could she also see the blush that was creeping up on Kirishima’s cheeks? She took a step towards him, still leaning against the sink. Kirishima looked up and tried to hide his new reddened complexion with his hands.

“Bakugou doesn’t like to be looked down on,” she said flatly, “it’s a whole thing. But, usually, if he feels like someone is pitying him, he just cuts ‘em off.”

Kirishima swallowed the thick knot that had tangled in his throat. Jirou was looking all too knowingly at him.

“I’ve never seen him go apeshit like that on someone he doesn’t care about.”

If his face wasn’t red and hot before, it surely was now. The blush had gone from a steady creep to a crashing wave. Kirishima didn’t have enough hands to hide it all.

“B-but he wouldn’t take you to the hospital, if he cares so much—” Kirishima began.

“Bakugou has—” Jirou cut him off, “a thing with hospitals. He doesn’t like ‘em. I understand why he didn’t take me.”

“What happened?” Kirishima asked sincerely.

Jirou’s expression fell. She glanced at the floor, then at herself in the dingy little mirror.

“Not my place to say,” she mumbled.

“Secrets. That’s all there was between Bakugou and his friends. There were all these secrets that I could never be clued in on unless I proved myself or found out all on my own. That was partly why I kept pressing. I just had to know.”

“And if you really like him, you just need to keep working at it, he’ll come around one day,” Jirou said casually.

Kirishima’s brain lit up with life. His hands started to fall from his burning cheeks as Jirou spoke.

“Like him?” He eked out.

“Yeah,” Jirou eyed him suspiciously, “you like him, don’t you?”

Kirishima’s body buzzed. He liked Bakugou just fine, they were good friends and Bakugou had broken him out of his shell. That’s what she meant, right?

The longer Kirishima stood there in thoughtful silence, the more pointed and knowing Jirou’s gaze became. Her mouth curled into the smallest smile she could muster.

“Don’t you?” she repeated.

Kirishima’s body flooded with panic. He wished he knew the nuance of others’ words like everyone else seemed to. God had simply forgotten to program that part of his brain before plopping him down on earth.

“Like—how?” Kirishima pled.

“Any way you want,” Jirou replied casually, her eyebrows teasing along her forehead, “I mean if you like like him, that’s a different story.”

Kirishima’s jaw went slack as his lips tried to find the right words to protest. His stomach was doing flips and his limbs burned with panic. Even his heart had moved right to the edge of his chest, thrumming like a drum.

“But—” Kirishima shook his head with a flippant grin, “Bakugou’s a boy.”

Jirou’s brow furrowed and she shrugged.

“And?”

Kirishima looked to his left, then to his right. It was obvious, wasn’t it? Did Jirou not understand that there was only a limited range of ways that Kirishima could like Bakugou? Even so, Jirou peered at his flushed appearance and panicked stance with a casual grin still pasted over her face. She leaned in a bit closer, looking right into Kirishima’s eyes.

“Eijirou,” she hummed, “have you ever liked someone?”

He swallowed thickly, staring at Jirou with some ignorant, empty gaze. But, in fact, his brain was going wild trying to find the proper answer. Had he every liked anyone? He never really thought much about love or relationships, he didn’t have the time. And, after all, no one would like him that way.

“Like,” Jirou leaned in further with a grin, “looked at someone and thought that they were nice to look at and you’d just love to hug them or—kiss them?”

Well, when she put it that way, sure. But amidst everyone Kirishima had met, there was a group that he thought was nice to look at, a handful he’d be okay hugging, but only one that he’d ever wondered how their lips felt. Not as any sort of desire, but just an admiration for how incredibly soft it must feel and how intriguing it was to imagine trying. He tried to think it away, at first, but he had no reason to lie to Jirou.

“I guess—my friend, Tamaki,” Kirishima replied.

Jirou’s brows rose even higher.

“And Tamaki is—” she prompted.

Oh.

All the chaos in Kirishima’s body finally ceased, becoming a buzzing pool of senses instead. He was almost tempted to say the thing that would send him hurtling right into Jirou’s trap.

“A—boy?” He squeaked.

Jirou scrunched her face up, just waiting for the realization to hit him. When it did, Kirishima could only think to shake his head.

“No,” he whispered, “I can’t like boys.”

“Why not?” Jirou retorted immediately.

“Because—”

That’s where he got hung up. He’d always heard that he couldn’t, but he’d never heard why.

Why not? Looped endlessly in his mind, why not?

Kirishima’s eyes darted all around for an answer, something to tell Jirou that would answer her burning question.

“I—” he stammered, “I can’t—”

“I think you can like whoever you want,” Jirou said plainly.

With that, Jirou strutted out the bathroom door, comforting Kirishima with just a simple pat on his shoulder. He couldn’t even quiet his brain down long enough to say goodbye. When he was finally alone standing at the sink. Kirishima glanced up at himself in the mirror. His face was stretched in horror. His knuckled had gone white from their relentless grip on the sink. His cheeks were flushed a deep red that went even darker than his hair and his lip trembled only slightly.

He’d never thought about liking boys, not even once. Sure, he’d stared at Tamaki for long periods of time, but he was only admiring the shape of his face and the softness of his hair. He might never have liked any girls in his class, but that was only because he’d been so busy with his schoolwork, right? He’d never thought about kissing or dating or, God forbid, anything beyond that.

But as he imagined it to try and see how it felt, he couldn’t just imagine some faceless man. Kirishima couldn’t imagine the sensation without someone very particular being on the other side. He thought about the flutter of his heart at the windowsill and every moment he’d wished he was by his side. When Kirishima had been lying in bed, wishing he was beside him, should he have known? Were these the signs of liking someone or just the signs of being a nervous wreck?

“Really, I should’ve known long before, but this was what it took to give me a wake-up call that I so desperately needed. If I had never had that conversation or met them in the first place, I think I would’ve gone the rest of my life assuming I just wasn’t like everyone else. I think I would’ve been really lonely.”

“So, did you like him?”

“I did—in a way that was buried beneath a guise of wanting to make him happy and just enjoying being around him. But I didn’t know that yet.”

No, it had to be some trick of the mind, a vortex in his understanding, a misread of all the signs. Of all the men he’d ever met in his eighteen years of living—

why could he only imagine kissing Bakugou Katsuki?

Chapter Text

“And you had never been in love before this?”

“I’d never even gotten close. My parents had succeeded in sheltering me so well that I never got to know another person well enough to develop any kind of feelings for them. This was the very first time so, naturally, I forgot how to function.”

Kirishima stood in the bathroom for a little longer than most people do. Jirou had vacated the little room to rejoin the rest of the group now passed out on the couch after a filling lunch. And for as long as he could stand it, Kirishima looked at himself in the mirror and thought back to every conversation he’d ever had, every interaction he’d engaged in with anyone he’d ever known. There had to be a spot of evidence somewhere, a telltale sign that it was true all along.

For if that little fact was true, that these feelings were what Jirou said they were, then Bakugou—

“Hey,” Mina called from the doorway of the bathroom.

Kirishima choked on his own breath and turned haggard towards Mina. She looked him up and down and let her face curl into a worried expression at the sight of him.

“It’s almost 6. Bakugou has to take you home for dinner.”

All Kirishima could do in response was nod. His mouth was insanely dry, and his hands were pouring sweat like they had some sort of quota to fill. Mina did one more worried once-over of Kirishima’s state before shuffling out the door and saying something lowly to whoever was on the other side. If it was about Kirishima, he’d never know. His brain was rushing with so many thoughts that he couldn’t hear anything apart from them. For now, his only task was peeling his hands from the sides of the sink and trudging out the door all whilst willing the color in his face to disappear somewhere in there. With a thick swallow, Kirishima shoved himself out the bathroom door and made immediate eye contact with Kaminari. He was a little dazed and had a sleeping Jirou tucked under his arm.

“Y’alright?” He asked Kirishima.

No. Kirishima was not alright, he was anything but alright. But Kaminari didn’t need to know that.

“Yeah,” he replied in a whisper.

Kaminari nodded, but his expression was still uncertain as he drank in Kirishima’s frazzled state.

“Bakugou’s in the car,” Kaminari phrased it almost like a question, his concern growing for the boy standing near the door.

“Okay,” Kirishima whispered, jetting off towards the door as quickly as he could.

He exchanged no farewells with the group in the main room. His heart was beating too fast and too loudly for him to focus on anything else but the sensation of his feet taking one step, then another, then another, then another—

“Ow!”

It was his forehead that smacked against the heavy metal door. He’d been so focused on his feet and the direction he was walking in that he’d missed the door completely, and now there was a bright red spot on his forehead that stung with pain. Kirishima’s hand flung up instantly to nurse the wound.

“Are you alright?” Mina called from behind him.

Kirishima didn’t respond, he couldn’t. Now they had to know how out of it he truly was. Instead of trying to justify himself, Kirishima pulled open the door and raced out of the building as quickly as he could. As he crunched along the gravel that spanned the space between the road and the building, Kirishima said a series of silent prayers that all revolved around a simple theme:

Please don’t let Bakugou talk to me during the drive.

Please don’t let my face be so red.

Please make him drive as fast as he possibly can so I can get home and die peacefully.

When he finally reached the old beater of a vehicle, Kirishima’s hands were trembling so much that he struggled to open the passenger side door. Bakugou didn’t pay him much mind, however, as he was too busy flicking his cigarette out the window and turning up the music on the radio. Kirishima settled himself into the seat and made it a point to stare directly at the floor. Yet, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bakugou’s hand then Bakugou’s wrist as he went to grab the gear shift. Kirishima squished his eyes closed, desperate to forget that Bakugou was even there.

In all the commotion of his feelings, Kirishima had nearly forgotten that he and Bakugou had fought. Perhaps that was why the silence that pervaded amidst the blasting music was so tense and thick. Kirishima eventually opened his eyes and found some piece of garbage on the floor of the car to focus on. All the while, he willed his cheeks to stop burning and swallowed so many times that he felt his throat starting to go hoarse.

Bakugou’s driving was more aggressive than usual. His turns were hard and sharp and when he stepped on the gas pedal, everything in the vehicle—including Kirishima—seemed to lurch forward a foot. It wasn’t until Kirishima had settled his racing thoughts that the reality of their prior altercation settled into his mind. Kirishima’s body flooded with a sort of melancholy. Bakugou was his first real friend, and now they were fighting. Did friends usually fight? It’s not like Kirishima would know.

Kirishima had to look up. He had to assess how Bakugou was feeling about him, but the only way to do that was to look at his face. Kirishima was never the best at reading people’s facial expressions, but if Bakugou were growling or sitting with an overexaggerated grimace, then he would know that he was angry. At least, that was what his father looked like when he was mad.

It seemed to take all the strength in Kirishima’s body for him to pull his head up. It took all the courage he had to look to his left.

And it was precisely when he did that all the feelings that he’d spent the last hour burying deep down bubbled to the surface in a sort of explosion that Kirishima couldn’t contain.

With the sunset blazing in the background, fingers of golden light shone over the lines of Bakugou’s profile, particularly his jutting, curved nose, dangling from which was a glittering septum piercing. The light shone equally off of the hairs on his heavy brow, the same one that weighed low upon his eyes from which two rows of luscious blonde lashes glowed orange against the setting sun. His lips had been pulled into a thin, irritated line, but Kirishima could still make out the particular slope that ran from the base of his nose to his cupid’s bow. The same old safety pin was sticking out of his skin, catching the light every once in a while, and sending a beam of light right into Kirishima’s eye. Bakugou swallowed. His sharp Adam’s apple bobbed against his tanned skin. Kirishima’s entire chest started to cave in on itself.

“I spent much of my childhood trying to imagine what God looked like. And I had this sense that once I saw it, I would know.”

“And did you ever figure it out?”

“The church always tells you that humans are made in the image of God. I didn’t believe it until I saw Bakugou.”

Despite his worst fears, Bakugou’s face wasn’t twisted in those haunting expressions of anger that his father would sport. Rather, his face looked as it always did, bar maybe a lower brow than usual. He hadn’t said anything to Kirishima since they’d gotten in the car. Kirishima itched to tell him something, he wanted to apologize and make the entire thing go away. He hated when people were unhappy with him. He would do absolutely anything to remedy the situation. But perhaps there was no remedy.

Kirishima’s heart sunk. He turned back to the floor beneath his feet and tried to erase the stunning image of Bakugou that was looping in his mind.

“Get me a cigarette out of the glovebox,” Bakugou commanded lowly.

The voice broke the thick silence and caught Kirishima completely off guard, so off-guard that he had to freeze for a moment in order to process what he’d requested. When he glanced over, Bakugou’s eyes were glued to the road. Kirishima scrambled to obey, pulling the glovebox open and starting to shuffle through a mass of papers and garbage and empty cigarette boxes. He pulled his lips between his teeth and felt as the adrenaline coursed through his body. Bakugou talked. If he talked, he couldn’t be that mad, could he?

Eventually, Kirishima found a nearly full box of cigarettes and pulled one out, placing it quickly between Bakugou’s fingers. He didn’t light it, however, he just held it between his teeth. He had promised to never smoke with Kirishima in the car so as to not rat him out to his parents with the scent, and he was still making good on that promise no matter how angry he might’ve been with Kirishima. Heaving a short sigh of relief, Kirishima moved to shut the little box just as he spotted a polaroid shoved behind it. Curiosity overtook any sort of sense he had as he pulled the thing gently out of the glovebox. He tried to be discreet as he flipped the picture and peered at the image printed upon it.

It was a bit blurry and obviously old, but the figures were still distinct. It was two young boys who couldn’t be older than ten sitting at the line of the creek that was flowing behind them. The one on the left was holding a kid-sized fishing rod and flashing a thin, toothless smile to the camera. His blonde hair was cropped short but still retained its characteristic spikes, and his face was spotted with dirt and grime. The arm which was holding the fishing rod was adorned with brightly colored bandages all over.

The boy on the right was much smaller than his friend. His limbs were long and gangly as they held a tacklebox in one hand and a small fish in the other. His smile, compared to the other’s was large and toothy, showing off the gaps he sported proudly. His hair was a strange shade of brown that nearly looked green in the sunlight and the curls were so massive that they nearly covered his entire face which was also spattered with mud. But his nose was decorated with a herd of dark freckles that traveled all across his cheeks and even to the tops of his shoulders. He was much tanner than the other boy and seemed much friendlier than him, too.

Kirishima peered even closer at the picture. In the corner, someone had scrawled ’84 in pen onto the white part of the polaroid. Perhaps the year the picture was taken? That would’ve been ten years ago.

But why would Bakugou have this picture in his car? Unless—unless it was—

“Put that back!”

Bakugou’s growling voice tore through the silence that had fallen once again, this time, directed at Kirishima. Eyes snapping to Bakugou, Kirishima felt his body start to buzz with fear as he saw Bakugou’s face start to tint red with fury. His eyes were flickering between Kirishima’s face and the picture. But Kirishima was frozen in place, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t put the picture back like Bakugou asked.

When they finally reached a stoplight, Bakugou reached over and wrenched the picture from Kirishima’s fingers, threw it into the glovebox before shutting the compartment with the loudest thump Kirishima had ever heard. Right as he did, the light turned green and Bakugou swung his hand back to the steering wheel.

Kirishima plastered his back to the seat of the car, nearly shaking from the fear. He pulled his lips between his teeth and tried his best not to cry. He couldn’t cry in front of Bakugou, not like this. And for the rest of the drive, they sat in the stewing, seething silence. Kirishima wanted nothing more than to rain apologies down on Bakugou and beg him for forgiveness but he felt that it wouldn’t do any good. And otherwise, it wasn’t like he could bring himself to say anything now that his mouth had gone dry and his brain was all cottony. Amidst it all, Kirishima’s brain was reeling about the picture he’d seen. Was the kid on the left really Bakugou? Then who was the kid on the right? Why would he keep something like that in his glove compartment? Kirishima wanted to ask, but it seemed like the opposite of the right time.

At last, the car pulled up to the curb of Kirishima’s road. Bakugou parked the car and let the entire thing lurch forward with the impact. Kirishima made quick work of gathering himself and reaching for the handle. It was probably best that he give Bakugou his space.

“I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you,” Bakugou said lowly, “for the food.”

Kirishima turned back to see Bakugou’s face gleaming in the golden light of the sun that was kissing the horizon. His eyes were forward, unfocused, but his mouth was sporting a soft line.

“I shouldn’t have—yelled at you,” he continued.

It was a rather veiled apology, but it seemed like the best Kirishima was going to get out of the stoic man. He wondered if he had the ordeal with the photo to thank for the sudden change in demeanor.

“Go,” Bakugou grumbled, “you’ll be late.”

He was right. Kirishima only had about two minutes to race down the road and make it home in time, even though he’d much rather sit and look at Bakugou for as long as possible. He didn’t even give Kirishima a chance to apologize before he was booting him out of the car. Kirishima let himself out wordlessly and bolted towards the corner. Yet, just as he was about to turn, something poked at him to look back—to get one more look at Bakugou before he left.

When he did, he watched Bakugou open the glovebox and gaze softly at something inside of it.

Kirishima suspected that it probably wasn’t the cigarettes.

“From that moment on, I suppose I was in a daze. Even when I was suffering through grueling dinners with my parents, I would think of Bakugou and everything else would just melt away. I didn’t care if my father was mad at me or if my parents were catching on to my little ruse, I was too enamored with him to care. I’d never felt this way before, a way where I could sit in the field behind the house and think for hours without growing bored.”

“It was love?”

“It was—something. Infatuation? All I knew was that there was no way how I felt about Bakugou was how he felt about me. So every time I would think of him, the giddiness would be replaced with sadness knowing that I’d never stand a chance.”

Kirishima’s “college” cover didn’t work so well on Saturdays and Sundays, so he was subject to grocery trips with his mother and Sunday service just like before. But even these activities were improved by the sheer thought of Bakugou. Kirishima would find himself waltzing blindly through the produce section, his mouth curling into a smile when he thought of Bakugou smiling and praising him after that first show. The Sunday service seemed to fly by in seconds when he played the moment from his initiation over and over in his head, the piece of paper caught between his teeth and Bakugou’s face being so close. His mother had shot him a strange look during the service, probably because he was smiling while his father rambled on about hell, but she never seemed to mind otherwise, and she certainly didn’t find enough reason to ask.

By the time Monday rolled back around, Kirishima was positively buzzing with the thought of seeing Bakugou again. He bounded down the street with a backpack in tow (a necessary addition for tricking his parents) and felt his heart start to flutter as he got closer and closer to Bakugou’s car. Once he saw it, Kirishima peered through the windshield to catch another glimpse of him. Sure, he looked as he always did: spiked blonde hair, a mess of piercings, and a permanent scowl, but Kirishima swore that there was a halo around his head now that made him look like an angel.

Or, maybe it was all in his head.

That seemed far more likely.

When he settled back into the seat, Kirishima couldn’t look over at Bakugou without the familiar red, hot splotchiness spotting over his cheeks. So, he looked at his shoes as the car started and sped down the road. Bakugou had rolled the windows down and was lounging with one hand draped on the wheel and the other poking out into the air. Kirishima’s heart kept stopping and starting and making him feel a little ill. He wanted to look at Bakugou’s face, but what if Bakugou looked back? There’s no doubt that Kirishima would just die on the spot.

But, of course, the melancholy had to settle in just like it always did. No matter how much Kirishima liked him, there was no way Bakugou would ever feel the same about him. And he didn’t even know if Bakugou liked boys. Perhaps he would always see Kirishima as his friend.

Kirishima shook his head. He was being ridiculous. Thinking as if any of it was real, he had to be crazy. He must’ve inhaled too much cigarette smoke or eaten something past its expiration date to be having these kinds of delusions.

They didn’t speak the entire drive, but the tense silence of their prior exchange had dissipated. Both Bakugou and Kirishima seemed to settle into their normal routine which got them to the building in what felt like a blink of an eye. As they tumbled out of the car, Kirishima slung his backpack over his shoulders while Bakugou gave him a narrowed look.

“Whaddya need that for?” He asked gruffly.

Kirishima blushed. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

“My parents—” he blurted out, “they think I’m going to classes so I—”

“Oh,” Bakugou grunted, “right.”

He shrugged off the interaction and turned back towards the front door. Kirishima shook the buzzing feeling from his hands and followed close behind. The closer he got, the more he was reminded how much taller he really was than Bakugou. Even so, there was something about Bakugou’s presence that made him seem like he was taller than anyone in the entire world, it was a presence that scared the shit out of Kirishima sometimes. But he did enjoy looking down a tad when he was this close to him. Kirishima’s father was nearly a head taller than him, so Kirishima didn’t do much looking down.

Right when the pair entered the house, Mina was all over them. She was pulling Bakugou the moment she saw him, begging for his help on something.

“You know I can’t do it with my nails,” she whined.

“Get the idiot to restring your guitar,” Bakugou growled.

“Kaminari and Jirou left to find stuff in the dumpsters,” she pouted, “and Sero won’t come in from the porch.”

Bakugou glanced at Kirishima, then at Mina. He scowled, rolled his eyes, and conceded.

“Fine,” he sighed.

“Yay!” Mina cheered while already pulling him to another spot in the room.

Thus, Kirishima was left alone standing awkwardly at the doorway. Without Kaminari and Jirou there and with Sero outside, the place seemed eerily quiet. In the early afternoon haze, the dusty furniture glowed yellow and the concrete floor was painted with stretched sunlit window shapes. Kirishima felt his chest settle at the sight of it. It was a nice place to be, now. Certainly didn’t feel that way when he’d first entered and been met with a gun to the head, but it felt so familiar now that Kirishima concluded he could spend the rest of his life in the dingy little abode.

On the left side, Kirishima watched Sero’s body shift against the sliding glass door. There was smoke trailing from their face up into the bright blue sky. Considering that Bakugou was pulled into other obligations, Kirishima traipsed over to the door and let himself through.

Sero glanced up at him upon hearing the door click. They smile dully as Kirishima stepped out onto the porch.

“Look who it is,” Sero said slowly and sweetly.

They were smoking something that looked like a cigarette at first but, upon closer investigation, was a little smaller and more pinched at the ends. The smell that rose from it, however, was much better than the smell of cigarettes in Kirishima’s opinion. It was sweet and earthy. It was the scent that Sero sported every so often when Kirishima would visit.

“Sit,” they ordered, patting to the concrete spot right beside them.

Kirishima obeyed, sliding right in next to Sero. They cozied in closer so Kirishima’s arm was brushing up against theirs. Three weeks ago, the touch would’ve sent Kirishima into a frenzy, but it wasn’t so bad now.

Sero took a long drag from the little thing in their mouth before letting it out slowly. Kirishima was mesmerized by the way their lips formed so perfectly around the wisping smoke and how relaxed they looked after the fact.

“What is that?” Kirishima asked.

Sero turned and grinned.

“Blunt. Want some?”

Casually, Sero held the thing between their pointer finger and middle finger and extended it in front of Kirishima’s face. The end of it was burnt and it smoked even when no one was using it.

“Uh—no thanks,” Kirishima sputtered.

Sero wasn’t fazed. Instead, they shrugged and took the thing back between their teeth, just letting it sit idle for a moment.

“Can I—can I ask you a question?” Kirishima asked meekly.

“Sure,” Sero replied through a cloud of smoke.

“Are you really sick?”

Sero sighed and settled further against the wall.

“Yup,” they said casually.

“What kind of sick?”

He really hoped Sero wasn’t bothered by all the questions, but they were itching his brain so bad that he had to at least try.

“Cystic fibrosis,” Sero told him.

“What’s that?” Kirishima asked sincerely.

Sero chuckled darkly and took a slow drag from their blunt. They turned towards Kirishima with a sort of melancholy look, one not too different from their usual demeanor.

“I get fluid in my lungs that won’t come out, and I’m just generally sick all the time,” Sero shrugged like it wasn’t a huge deal.

“Oh,” Kirishima replied, his back hitting the brick wall once more, “are you gonna be okay?”

When he asked, Sero was blowing out a cloud of smoke as slowly as they could. Their eyes trailed up to the sky and swam with the subtlest sadness. Or was it acceptance? Kirishima couldn’t tell the difference.

“Not really,” they said lowly, “I’ll probably make it to thirty—thirty-five if I’m lucky.”

Kirishima’s heart sank. Sero had to be telling a joke, right? You’re not supposed to die when you’re thirty, you’re supposed to die when you’re eighty or ninety. Sero had to be telling some kind of sick joke.

“It’s not something to be sad about,” they said, “I’ve had it my whole life.”

Maybe Sero wasn’t joking. But aren’t hospitals supposed to help people not die? Had Sero been to one of those? Maybe they could do something that would make it all go away. Kirishima was just about to ask when Sero got to it first.

“Can we talk about something else?” They asked.

Kirishima conceded with a nod. He had a feeling that they were going to change subject whether he wanted to or not. Sero pursed their lips and hesitated to put the blunt back in their mouth for a moment.

“Can I ask you another question?” Kirishima prodded.

“Sure,” Sero replied with a new streak of joy.

“How did you meet Bakugou?”

The question tumbled out like it was rehearsed. Kirishima had been itching to ask it of all of Bakugou’s friends, but he’d never been able to find the right time. Sero’s brow knitted, then melted into a soft line. Their mouth curled into a small smile as their eyes went bleary and unfocused towards the sky.

“I met him at a bar.”

Kirishima almost mimicked the casualness with which Sero shared the information, but only until the word “bar” finally registered.

“It was about a year ago, maybe less,” Sero continued, “I thought he was cute, so I tried to talk him up.”

Kirishima fiddled with the hem of his shirt while he listened.

“But when he invited me back to his place, I didn’t think it would be for me to play bass in his band.”

Sero chuckled lightly at the memory. Kirishima, however, couldn’t feel so free about it. If Bakugou would take Sero home, then maybe he did like boys. But Sero wasn’t a boy. Well, they weren’t a girl either. They were—something in between? Kirishima’s brain started to hurt with all of the mental hoops it was leaping through.

“Anywho,” Sero sighed, “we became friends and—I ended up here.”

Sero accented the end of their story with a long drag from the blunt. They smiled as they blew the smoke out, remembering what had to be a fond moment in their past.

“Y’know,” Sero chuckled, “I didn’t really go to gay bars to get roped into bands but—c’est la vie, je suppose.”

There. That was the word that made Kirishima’s heart stop working. His lips parted and his mouth went dry.

“A—what?” He asked sheepishly.

“Gay bar?” Sero looked at him quizzically, “Oh, shoot, you probably have no idea—”

Sero trailed off into a bolder laugh. As they giggled, spurts of smoke billowed out into the air.

“You see,” Sero leaned in, “when you’re gay, going to a regular bar is going to get you either hit on by the wrong gender or get you beat up in the alley by some repressed brute. Alas, the gays woke up one day and said ‘fuck it, we’ll build our own bar’ and they did.”

Kirishima nodded in understanding.

“So—Bakugou is—” he eked out.

“Gay? Oh my gosh, yes,” Sero rolled their eyes and flopped back against the wall, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him even look at a woman.”

Kirishima’s mind went into overdrive. Every voice in his head was screaming so loudly that he couldn’t hear one over the other. He took a rattling breath in, held it, then released it back out in an equally trembling exhale. His hear was right against his sternum, thrumming erratically. He was afraid that the thing would fall right out if he moved his body just one inch. Kirishima must’ve looked endlessly stressed compared to Sero whose eyes looked like they were about to seal shut at any moment, red-rimmed and glazed over. Maybe it was the thing they were smoking, maybe that was helping them calm down so much.

Kirishima glanced back into the main room. In the far corner, shrouded in darkness, he saw Bakugou slaving away over Mina’s guitar while she looked on. Bakugou was inevitably going to come get him, or they would have to converse at some point that afternoon. How was he going to do it when his entire body felt like it was going to fall apart? Kirishima swallowed thickly then took another look at the blunt in Sero’s hand.

“Can I—try that?” Kirishima muttered.

Sero’s head moved slowly. They looked at Kirishima like he was absolutely bonkers. And maybe he was. Maybe Kirishima was batshit crazy for asking and thinking any of it was a good idea. But he couldn’t think of what else to do. He was so anxious he felt like he was going to explode. Sero’s expression eventually melted into something soft, excited even.

“Sure. You want me to teach you?”

Kirishima nodded gently. Sero reached their hand over to offer the blunt to Kirishima. He took it clumsily, trying to position it in his fingers like Sero held it and not send it crashing to the concrete. Once it was secured in his fingers, Kirishima glanced anxiously over to Sero who was watching intently.

“Okay,” they instructed calmly, “all you’re gonna do it put your lips around that end—”

Kirishima followed, curling his lips around the end of the paper. Upon first contact, the taste was sort of pleasant. It was sweet like some kind of fruit—was it the paper or the stuff inside? Kirishima couldn’t tell. And his heart was beating far too fast for him to reasonably ask.

“There ya go,” Sero hummed, “now take a breath in, a big deep breath.”

Kirishima swallowed all the nervousness that had built up in his throat. He squished his eyelids closed, said a chaste and silent prayer, then took a large breath in. As the smoke raced down his throat and into his lungs, Kirishima immediately felt like he was suffocating. The smoke stung the edges of his lungs and burned going down his throat; it felt like he was choking on nothing, like when food or water went down the wrong pipe.

“Hold it,” he heard Sero command from beside him.

Kirishima wanted to obey, but it hurt so bad. He wanted to cough. He wanted to cough and sputter and hack until it was all out of his lungs. Kirishima felt his face curl into a grimace as he held all the smoke inside, finally tasting the sweet and earthy values for himself.

“Okay,” Sero crooned after a few long moments, “let it go.”

As badly as Kirishima wanted to let it go as smoothly and languidly as Sero could, all he could do was cough. And the smoke left his throat in a series of loud hacks. Kirishima’s hand flew to his chest to give it a few good pounds, just to be sure all of the smoke was coming out. When he looked up, he watched the cloud of smoke he’d hacked out dissipate right before his eyes. He coughed again, the tickle in his throat relentless with its prodding.

Sero chuckled. They laid a comforting hand onto Kirishima’s left shoulder as he sputtered out the lasts of the smoke. Once it was all gone, Kirishima’s mouth formed into a grimace. He’d probably made a fool of himself in front of Sero.

“It’s okay, babe,” they said sweetly, “everyone coughs after their first hit. You just gotta get used to it.”

Kirishima was relieved to hear that that was the case. Maybe he hadn’t made a fool of himself; but he certainly would if he refused to keep working at it.

“Try again?” Sero asked.

Kirishima nodded and, with trembling fingers, pulled the blunt back between his lips. The second inhale still stung and burned, but not as bad as the first. He held it inside of his lungs for a second longer than the first time before letting it all out with another series of coughs. In between two hacks, Kirishima tried to hand the blunt back to Sero politely.

“That one’s yours, you can keep it,” they said, “I’ve got another one right here.”

Soon, Sero had a fresh blunt pinched between their teeth and they were igniting the end with a lighter. Kirishima went in for a third try, this time feeling the smoke travel more smoothly and, on the exhale, he only coughed once. Perhaps he was getting better or whatever he was smoking was dulling the pain. After his third hit, Kirishima started to feel his heart slow. It was a huge relief considering how fast it was beating before. He even felt his mind start to drift away from the elephant in the room.

“Good job,” Sero whispered to him through a cloud of smoke.

Kirishima’s body flooded with warmth as he heard the praise. He smiled, the smoke making his insides feel all gooey and soft. He wanted Sero to say it again, so he took another hit, making it a point to hold it a second longer than before and not cough even once on the exhale. But Sero was already slipping into another dimension, their eyes unfocused on the bright afternoon sun.

“I’ll be honest, this was one of my poorer choices I made in the time I spent with Bakugou and his friends. Not because there’s anything inherently wrong with smoking but because I still had to go home and have dinner with my parents. In the midst of all my infatuation and nervousness, I’d forgotten about that little obligation.”

There came a time between Kirishima’s first hit and his thirtieth that he lost count. More so, there was a moment where he blinked and the sun was in a different place in the sky. Kirishima peered at it. How did it do that? Did the sun always move like that? And why couldn’t Kirishima open his eyes? He felt like he was looking at everything through window slats.

“Sero,” he felt his mouth say.

Whether Sero replied or not, Kirishima couldn’t tell. All he could see was half of Sero’s face through his slitted vision.

“I can’t—” his voice felt like honey dripping from his lips, slow and syrupy, “can’t—open my eyes.”

Sero giggled, “They’re already open.”

Whatever honey was dripping from Kirishima’s tongue was also pooling in his ears since Sero’s voice sounded like they were trying to communicate underwater. Nevertheless, he registered what they’d said after a few long, very thoughtful moments.

“Oh,” Kirishima giggled.

That was the thing, Kirishima couldn’t stop laughing. He had to clip all of his sentences because if he made them any longer, he’d start laughing at the end of them and he wouldn’t be able to stop. Everything was just funnier than before, particularly this bug on the other end of the porch that was crawling up a pole. Kirishima felt his eyes glaze over as he watched the little guy creep over the ground then climb dutifully up the metal post. His lips were parted as he watched, his mouth going insanely dry from being unable to close it. At some point, he blinked, and the bug was gone.

“Aw,” Kirishima whined when he could no longer see his friend.

“What?” Sero asked him.

“The—” Kirishima pointed lazily toward the metal post, “my friend is—he left—”

Sero sniggered, “W-who?”

Kirishima sniffled, “My friend.”

Sero laughed. Kirishima joined him. It was like his body was made to laugh. He couldn’t get enough of it. Friends with a bug? Silly.

“I can’t—” Kirishima squeaked in between giggles, “can’t open my eyes, Sero.”

Sero laughed even harder and leaned into Kirishima’s left side. Kirishima used his right hand to muffle the sounds leaving involuntarily from his mouth. He just had to stop laughing, that was all.

“Okay, okay,” Kirishima whispered to himself.

They sat in silence for a chaste moment before both breaking into another fit of laughter. Kirishima snorted, Sero held onto his arm and nearly flopped into his lap. Kirishima’s insides had gone almost completely liquid and they all seemed to move in slow motion. His heart only beat twice every thirty seconds—at least, that’s what he’d counted—and his brain was too full of cotton and gunk to think about anything other than the bug on the post and whatever was making him giggle.

Kirishima could’ve sat there forever feeling this way. He was—happy. That was it. He was really happy just sitting there and staring at the sky. Besides the chirping birds, it was quiet and peaceful in the small yard. Kirishima settled himself further into his seat and hummed in contentment.

“Sero,” he slurred out.

“Hm?” they replied.

“I have—a secret,” Kirishima mumbled.

There was a very small part of him that was screaming, begging him to stay quiet and abandon the whole thing. But his lips were so loose, and his mind was letting things slip one by one. What’s the worst that could happen?

“What is it?” Sero asked whispered.

“Y’know Bakugou?” Kirishima muttered.

He felt Sero nod against his arm.

“I think I—”

He was cut off by the sliding door beside them opening with a sweeping motion. It took Kirishima a couple seconds, but he eventually looked over to see, through his slitted vision, Bakugou standing in front of the pair.

“Oh,” Kirishima whispered, then grinned.

“Hi, Bakugou,” Sero giggled.

“What the fuck have you done?”

Bakugou’s booming voice tore through the pleasant little buzz that had settled in Kirishima’s brain. He was startled for a moment, but the calmness set in just as quickly. He couldn’t stop his mouth from turning into a smile or his heart fluttering at the sight of him.

Bakugou was looking right at Sero with a furious glare.

“We were just having fun,” Sero slurred to him.

“Yeah, but now Kirishima’s gotta have dinner with his parents stoned,” Bakugou hissed.

Now, if Kirishima was sober, this would’ve sent him into the biggest frenzy ever. And it did prod a little more at his mind than anything else, but it was hard to get his body to respond properly.

Dinner, he thought.

Dinner—with—

dinner...?

Next thing he knew, Kirishima was being pulled up from the ground by two strong hands planted underneath his armpits. Once he was standing, Kirishima realized how liquidy his insides truly felt. He could barely keep himself upright.

“Fuck, Sero,” he heard Bakugou growl just as a strong arm wrapped around Kirishima’s upper back.

And when he looked over, Kirishima was struck with just how close he really was to Bakugou. Their faces were just a handful of inches away and the right side of his body was pressed right up to the left side of Bakugou’s. Kirishima’s went wide and he leaned his body further into the touch.

“Who’m I having dinner with?” He asked Bakugou very slowly.

Bakugou looked over at him with a mean glare.

“You’ll pay for this,” Bakugou spat at Sero who was having far too much fun sitting on the concrete.

Kirishima had no say in the matter as his body was lugged through the sliding glass door and towards the entrance.

“I’m leaving, Mina,” Bakugou barked, “Gotta take care of some bullshit.”

Kirishima gasped when he saw Mina across the room.

“Bye, Mina!” He called out to her with a goofy grin.

Mina waved goodbye, but her face was frozen in some perpetual confusion at the sight of him.

“Bakugou,” she shouted, “is he—”

Mina didn’t get to finish her question. Or, if she did, neither Kirishima nor Bakugou could hear from the other side of the closed front door. Bakugou lugged him towards the second door and pushed that open too, subjecting Kirishima’s sensitive eyes to the blinding light of the setting sun. Kirishima hissed upon the contact and squinted his eyes.

“Bakugou?” He hummed to the man carrying him.

Bakugou looked over and grunted.

“Are—are my eyes open?”

Kirishima felt his head lolling every which way. It was far heavier than he remembered. Why was his head so heavy?

Bakugou scoffed and shook his head, resuming his trudge towards the car. He used his free hand to open the passenger side door and shoved Kirishima in as gently and as efficiently as he could. He made sure to sit him upright and buckle the seatbelt, just so his entire body didn’t fold over and flop into the center console. The entire time, Bakugou was sighing and murmuring to himself, sprinkled with the occasional expletive.

By the time Bakugou was settled into the driver’s seat, Kirishima was able to open his eyes a little wider. As Bakugou started the car with a grumble and started down the road, Kirishima’s brain started to light up.

“Woah,” he hummed with a grin.

“Everything’s—” Kirishima giggled, “so big—an’ going so fast.”

It was true. The buildings were much taller and fatter than Kirishima remembered and the road seemed to hurtle towards them like they were riding a cheetah through the Serengeti. Kirishima couldn’t seem to focus on anything, it was all moving by so quickly. He laughed again. It was funny, after all.

“Bak-ugo,” he huffed out, “you’re going—really fast.”

His words were so slow and articulated like he was a child who’d just learned how to speak. Why couldn’t he talk any faster? Or maybe he was talking faster but his brain was making it seem slow. Yes, that had to be it.

“Are...my...eyes...open?” Kirishima asked Bakugou again, this time slowing down so his real voice would be the perfect speed since it only got slow in his head.

“Fucking hell,” Bakugou groaned and planted his head against his seat.

Are my hands still there?

Kirishima’s hands shot up into his vision as quickly as the road was rushing towards them. They were still there, thank goodness, but they looked strange. They were moving but Kirishima wasn’t the one making them move.

“Who’s moving my hands?” He whispered to himself.

His judgement was, one might say, clouded. Especially when he reached over to grab Bakugou’s right hand from off of the steering wheel to see whether it was just Kirishima’s hand that was moving suspiciously, or it was the same for everyone. He’d grabbed him firmly by the wrist and jerked his hand towards his lap.

“Hey!” Bakugou grumbled, trying to pull his hand out of Kirishima’s grip.

“Wait,” Kirishima pled.

He studied the hand for a moment. Kirishima trailed his fingers up to the junction of Bakugou’s thumb and his wrist to press into the mass of muscle that collected there. When he pushed on it, Bakugou’s thumb moved. His other hand trailed up the side of Bakugou’s hand that attached to his pinky. The skin was rough and calloused and impossibly warm beneath Kirishima’s clammy skin. How big were they?

Hesitantly, Kirishima lifted his left hand and hovered it over Bakugou’s to try and match the fingers up. He closed one eye to try and peer closer, but his hand kept dropping further and further. How would he be able to tell whose hand was bigger unless they were touching?

But he never got the chance to know. Bakugou took advantage of Kirishima’s lax moment to tear his hand out of his grip and set it back onto the steering wheel. Kirishima pouted and glared at Bakugou. Even through his slim vision, Kirishima swore he saw a tinge of pink on his cheeks. He’d embarrassed Bakugou, hadn’t he?

The car stopped. Why would Bakugou stop the car in the middle of the road? But they weren’t in the middle of the road, they were at the curb of Kirishima’s street.

“What?” Kirishima whispered in amazement, “We’ve only been in here for like—four seconds.”

Bakugou was wasting no time in rounding the front of the car and pulling Kirishima from his seat. They returned to the old position with Bakugou’s arm hooking around his back and Kirishima leaning all his weight into the man’s side.

“Hey,” he said gruffly, “you’re a good church boy, right?”

Kirishima nodded, “Yeah?”

“Then you’d better pray that no one sees me carrying you to your fucking house.”

“What?”

It wasn’t until they were rounding the corner and familiar houses were popping into view that Kirishima understood what he’d said. A ways down the road, he spotted his own house.

“Hey!” Kirishima pointed languidly, “That’s my house.”

It was the funniest thing ever, in that particular moment. Kirishima sniggered and giggled all the way there. Bakugou grunted with frustration and also the strain of having Kirishima’s entire body weight leaning against his stocky form. Kirishima’s house just kept getting bigger and bigger as they walked, and he was amazed that it could do something like that. Kirishima furrowed his brow, turned his head, and leaned towards Bakugou’s ear.

“Did we walk all the way here?” He whispered harshly into the man’s ear.

“Alright,” Bakugou groaned and picked up his pace just a tad.

“Wow,” Kirishima said to himself in wonder.

When they reached Kirishima’s house, Bakugou pulled him over the grass to his window on the side. He used his free hand to shove beneath the little crack Kirishima always left and opened it as quietly as he could, knowing that both of Kirishima’s parents were probably awake and walking around.

“Okay,” he sighed, “you gotta climb in yourself.”

Kirishima scoffed. He’s done this a bunch of times before, he’s a pro now. But there was something about the state of his body that mixed up all of Kirishima’s limbs. His hands became his feet and his legs were suddenly his arms, and he was only halfway through the window when he realized this.

“Uh...” Kirishima muttered in thought as he stared at his hands, waiting for them to stop being feet so he could use his leg hands to climb in before his hand feet.

Right?

“Oh, for the love of god,” Bakugou hissed.

It wasn’t until Kirishima’s back was hitting the wood floor with an obnoxiously loud thud that he realized he’d been pushed in. He giggled at the sensation, there were only tingles where the pain should be. But the thud must’ve been louder than intended.

“Eiji?” His mother called from somewhere in the little house.

Bakugou was halfway in through the window when he heard it. His eyes flew open and he stared expectantly at Kirishima. They both sat there, staring at each other for what felt like an entire hour.

“Say something,” Bakugou mouthed harshly at him.

“Uh—” Kirishima sputtered, “yeah.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. It was a pretty stupid thing to say, but he couldn’t think of anything else. Bakugou grumbled lowly as he climbed through the window entirely and helped Kirishima up to his feet. Even though he’d sobered up a bit on the drive, Kirishima was still having a hard time standing, so Bakugou helping him to his feet turned into Bakugou standing and Kirishima hunching and leaning against his chest for support.

“We gotta get you changed,” Bakugou hissed to him.

“Why?” Kirishima asked.

“Shh!” Bakugou shushed him, “Because you reek.”

Kirishima’s face curled in confusion. He didn’t smell, he just showered last night. In any case, Bakugou was shuffling over to Kirishima’s dresser with insistency, opening the top drawer and pulling some random shirt out of it.

“What’re you—”

“I need you to snap out of it,” Bakugou whispered to him, “you need to have dinner with your parents in five minutes, do you understand that?”

Sure, Kirishima understood it, but he didn’t realize why Bakugou was so worked up. Kirishima felt fine.

“Here,” Bakugou hissed.

In an instant, Bakugou had leaned Kirishima onto his right shoulder so he could dislodge both his hands and run them under the hem of Kirishima’s shirt. With skilled hands, Bakugou bunched it up and slipped it over Kirishima’s head while coaxing him to lift up his arms. Once the shirt was discarded onto the floor, Kirishima flopped back onto Bakugou’s strong form.

It took a few seconds, but Kirishima eventually realized that he wasn’t wearing a shirt and he was hanging off of Bakugou like that bug on the metal pole.

Immediately, Kirishima’s mouth went slack. His eyes started to dry out from how wide they’d flown open and his heart started to flutter in that way that made him nauseous. Bakugou looked at him for a moment, the new shirt already prepped in his hands. Kirishima felt his face go hot as the realization settled in. It was sobering enough to remind him how to stand upright.

“Put your arms up,” Bakugou commanded in a clipped whisper.

Kirishima stood up and obeyed, lifting his arms and letting Bakugou slip a clean shirt over his torso. As he tugged the fabric down over his body, Kirishima felt his fingers graze the planes of his stomach. His breathing started to quicken and the old face flush returned with a vengeance.

“Are you sober enough to take your own pants off?” Bakugou hissed at him.

No, Kirishima wanted to say.

“Yeah,” he said instead.

As Bakugou rustled through the remaining drawers, Kirishima slipped his pants off and kicked them towards where his shirt was lying. It wasn’t until Bakugou turned around with a fresh pair of pants in his hands that Kirishima was acutely aware of his underwear—the underwear that Bakugou was seeing him in.

He wanted to die. He wanted to curl up into a hole and never come out. How did he even get into this situation? Everything from the past day was turning into one big watercolor mess. And now he was standing in front of Bakugou in his bedroom wearing an old science fair t-shirt and his briefs.

But Bakugou didn’t seem to mind much. He handed the pants to Kirishima while keeping pretty steady eye contact with him. Kirishima cursed the shade of his face and slipped the pants over one leg then the other clumsily.

“Eiji?”

It was Kirishima’s mother again. But this time, she was walking down the hallway towards his door with soft, even footsteps. Kirishima had just gotten the pants fastened around his hips when Bakugou dashed towards him and covered his mouth with his hand.

Bakugou’s hand was warm and rough against Kirishima’s lip. He tried desperately not to move any part of his mouth as Bakugou leaned in and glanced towards the door, listening for more footsteps. Kirishima could feel his heavy, focused breaths brushing against the point where Bakugou’s fingers met his cheek. Kirishima’s heart skipped a beat.

“Eiji, are you in there?”

Bakugou shot an insistent glance towards him. His eyebrows lifted so as to say ‘reply, idiot’. Tentatively, Bakugou hinged his hand off of Kirishima’s mouth.

“Yeah?” Kirishima called out.

Right when he was finished, Bakugou placed his hand back over his mouth.

“Your father just called and said he got held up at the church, so I’ll just leave your dinner at the door,” she said, a soft clink sounding from the ground.

“I thought you might be tired after school, so you can eat it whenever you’d like then go to bed,” she said softly.

Bakugou tore his hand from Kirishima’s mouth once more to prompt another response from him.

“Okay,” was all he could think to say.

With a chaste farewell, Kirishima’s mother retreated into another part of the house. When she was finally gone, Bakugou dropped his hand from Kirishima’s mouth and heaved a voiceless sigh.

“You got damn lucky this time, Rock Solid,” he whispered.

Bakugou’s hands had taken up residence on either side of Kirishima’s shoulders. They stared at one another for a moment, Kirishima’s heart going wild at the edge of his chest. Bakugou’s eyes trailed all over his face, probably trying to assess his state of soberness. Kirishima was definitely feeling better than before, but he wouldn’t have been able to survive an entire meal with his parents, that’s for sure.

“C’mon,” Bakugou hummed as he started to haul Kirishima to another part of the room.

Eventually, Kirishima felt his knees hit the edge of his bed and his butt thudded against the mattress.

“Just—” Bakugou whispered, “sleep this off. Don’t talk to anyone until tomorrow morning, alright? I’ll take your clothes with me and clean ‘em at the house.”

Kirishima nodded. Bakugou was still holding onto his shoulders and leaning in close to ensure that Kirishima understood his every word. At this distance, Kirishima couldn’t see anything except for Bakugou’s face; his hot breath kept tickling the tip of his nose. There was a moment, just one moment where Kirishima imagined it. The simple tilt of his head, the meeting of their lips—it would be so easy. The gap was small enough to close within a second and the real thing would only last for a moment. But what if Bakugou was mad at him for it? What if he tried and then he lost Bakugou forever?

“Go to sleep,” he commanded with a pat to Kirishima’s right shoulder.

With his parting words, Bakugou stood upright and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He took three soft steps towards the open window before pausing. Kirishima watched closely as he turned, a serious expression pasted over his face.

“Since your memory is shit right now, I’ll tell you,” he grumbled.

Kirishima’s back straightened. He listened closely.

“Izuku,” he muttered.

“What?” Kirishima coaxed quietly.

“That was his name, the boy in the picture.”

Before Kirishima could ask for anything more, Bakugou was climbing expertly out the open window. His lips parted to say something when Bakugou turned, but he was too quick in pulling the thing closed.

Picture?

What picture?

Before Bakugou walked off and disappeared, he turned back to the window and met Kirishima’s gaze.

God, Kirishima prayed that he’d remember it all—

especially since it was the first time Bakugou had ever smiled right at him.

Chapter Text

In the two weeks that followed Kirishima’s stroke of luck, Bakugou and his friends had awoken from their lounging laze to prepare for the show that was set for Saturday night. Kirishima’s afternoons were filled with band practice and watching the group gorge on lunches that Kirishima’s mother prepared for them. Once, he watched Bakugou slip a sandwich from the bag and shove it into his jacket pocket, no doubt planning to eat it out of sight from the rest. Kirishima fell into a pleasant sort of routine with Bakugou picking him up at the same corner at the exact same time every weekday and dropping him off just as the sun was setting. Now that band practice was in full swing, there was something to talk about during the quick drives. Bakugou would grumble about some punk frontman he admired and Kirishima would take mental notes with hopes of integrating all of Bakugou’s favorite things into his next performance.

Yet, every time Kirishima would find himself in front of the microphone, he would be struck with memories of his prior performance, the fear of losing complete control rushing back through his body. None of his new friends had questioned what he’d said during that performance, but he assumed it was because they’d forgotten it completely. Either that or they were allowing Kirishima to keep his secret like they all were keeping theirs.

That day with Sero out on the porch had disappeared almost entirely from his memory. Anything that happened after his third hit was shrouded in a mysterious sort of fuzz; sounds, images, people all blended together in a weird watercolor painting that Kirishima chose to shove in the back of his mind. All he remembers is waking up in his bed with his stupid little sleep shirt on and a pair of pajama pants hanging lazily from his hips. With groggy eyes, he glanced around his room for any sort of clues to how he got there, but everything looked normal, as it always did. The only evidence that remained from the day was a throbbing headache and an impossibly dry mouth.

Well, except for one thing.

It was a word—a name.

Izuku?

Whenever Kirishima was with Bakugou at the house, the word seemed to slip from his mind. He was always either engrossed in practice or staring at Bakugou while he drummed, all coherent ideas seemingly disappearing from his mind as he did. Even when the rest agreed on a break, Bakugou would sit at his drums, hacking away at some beat he could never seem to get right. He would work up a mean sweat, especially on the palms of his hands, which would eventually result in the sticks flying from his hands when practice started back up.

“Fuck!” He would shout as the stick clattered against the back wall.

“Here,” Kirishima shoved a towel into his face, one that he’d smuggled from his bathroom, “for wiping your hands off.”

Bakugou craned his neck to look up at Kirishima after shooting a menacing glare to the old white towel. His chest heaved with heavy, labored breaths and the sweat dripping down to his brow glistened in the dull light of the house. After a few seconds of staring at Kirishima with an unreadable expression, his glare softened and he took the towel, using the surface to wipe hot sweat from his palms.

He didn’t say ‘thank you’ so much as he grunted in some sort of acknowledgement that Kirishima had done something for him. It indicated the smallest ounce of progress, Bakugou from two months ago would’ve rejected the offer and continued to fling drumsticks against the walls for the rest of the day.

It became a strange daily routine, Bakugou losing a stick and Kirishima handing him a fresh towel, and it wasn’t until the second week rolled around that Kirishima could look at him and actually think clearly. And when he did, there was only one word flashing at the forefront of his mind.

Izuku.

It was a cloudy Tuesday afternoon when Kirishima found himself on the couch with Mina while she messed with her guitar, tuning it as best she could by ear. Kirishima was lounging on the other end, sipping on a bottle of something that Kaminari had handed him when he came in. It was sour and bitter, but it warmed the edges of his stomach so well that Kirishima couldn’t stop drinking it. Perhaps that was the thing that lowered his inhibitions enough to ask Mina the question that burned within him.

“Mina,” he turned.

“Yeah, babe?” Mina replied with a glittering smile.

“Can I—ask you a question?”

Mina’s smile never faltered. She slipped the guitar strap off of her shoulders and set the whole thing onto the coffee table.

“Of course, my love,” she chirped.

“Do you know anything about an—” Kirishima’s mouth paused without warning, “an—Izuku?”

He hoped he was saying the word right. Even more so, he hoped that the word was just some gibberish his inebriated brain had come up with and Mina would laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

Instead, the moment the word left Kirishima’s lips, Mina’s dazzling smile melted into a thin, harsh line. Her eyes went narrow and her brow knitted.

“Where did you hear that name?”

Her voice had dropped nearly an entire octave, it became a low hiss that Kirishima could only hear if he really listened. It sent a shudder down Kirishima’s spine. He’d never felt so scared of the girl that sat just a foot away from him. Her glare was almost as icy and menacing as Bakugou’s.

“I—” Kirishima stuttered, “I don’t remember—I j-just heard it somewhere and—I’m sorry.”

The apology slipped easily from Kirishima’s lips. Mina looked angry—what would she do? Would she scream at Kirishima? Would she hit him? Kirishima’s body braced itself for any outcome, particularly the very worst of them.

“Izuku,” Mina’s voice trailed.

She glanced to the table where her electric guitar sat. Her eyes went soft and downturned.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Kirishima whispered.

“He was—” Mina muttered in a shuddering voice.

Yet, the words seemed to get all caught up in her throat. She couldn’t stop shaking her head, like it was some unbelievable thing, a secret lodged so deeply that even she couldn’t grasp the entirety of it. Eventually, she conceded, softening her face and turning towards Kirishima with a blithe smile.

“Just know that it makes sense,” she hummed.

“What does?” Kirishima leaned towards her.

“That Bakugou chose you.”

Kirishima’s posture straightened. His chest went tight at the idea. Chose? Bakugou chose him? Sure, the curiosity still ate away at him, but the thought of being chosen by Bakugou was enough to tide him over. Mina swiftly changed gears back to her old, bubbly demeanor and the conversation was forgotten just as quickly as it had arisen.

“If we wanna impress the Moth Ball guys, we gotta do something really daring, something that’ll get their attention.”

It was Thursday already, and the bright summer sun streamed through the windows and glittered against the dust that floated through the air. Bakugou was grumbling to the group that was standing at attention, instruments in hand, but he was refusing to make eye contact, instead tightening his drum kit and continuing to mumble to himself between each phrase he shared with the group.

“Loosen up, Katsuki,” Sero groaned, “we’ll be fine.”

“Fine isn’t good enough,” Bakugou hissed.

Sero rolled their eyes and turned back to the front.

“I’m not playing sex appeal, FYI,” Mina said from the left, “it’s not my fault I got kicked out of my house for promiscuity.”

She said the word in a mocking sort of voice, the same one that kids on the playground would use when they teased Kirishima. But he knew the word from somewhere else—from his father.

“God, if my father liked to bark about anything from that pulpit, it was promiscuity. He never really defined it, so I thought for a long time that people who were promiscuous were just people who had sex. I didn’t realize until much later that, in order to have me, my parents would’ve had to—y’know.”

“Understood.”

“There are much more promiscuous activities than sleeping with a married man,” Sero said bitingly from the right side.

“Not according to my parents,” Mina chirped.

Kirishima decided to tuck the story away to ask about later.

“It’s played out anyways,” Bakugou waved the idea off, “we either need to do something completely new or bring back something that people have forgotten about.”

Dutifully, Kirishima wracked his brain for any ideas, but he conceded when he remembered his extremely limited knowledge of punk.

Since that day with Sero, Bakugou had been bringing back VHS tapes every once in a while.

“Here,” he shoved the tape in Kirishima’s face, “recorded performance of an old band, watch it.”

Kirishima took the tape but was left to look around helplessly for some way to watch it. Thankfully, Kaminari was already dragging out an old, 70s style wooden TV that was covered in years worth of dust.

“Found this behind a Sears,” he said excitedly while plugging the thing into the wall, “well, actually, Jirou found it, but I was the one who had to lug it all the way back here.”

With a few swift slaps to the top, the TV buzzed on and displayed a fuzzy screen of static. Kaminari had to fiddle with the thing for at least thirty minutes before he got any real picture to show up, and he shocked himself at least three times in the process.

“Maybe there’s a reason this thing was left behind a Sears,” Kaminari mumbled while sucking on his ailing fingers.

Kaminari snatched the tape from Kirishima’s hands and messed with it for a few more minutes to try and get a clearer picture on the screen. Eventually, the people on the stage in the swaying, homemade video came into view with crisp lines and even crisper sound.

“Booyah!” Kaminari shouted, “call me Jesus ‘cause I’m performin’ miracles in this bitch.”

Kirishima flinched at the casual use of the name but seeing the excitement in Kaminari’s face was enough to elicit a smile from him. Kaminari abandoned him a few moments later when Jirou called for him from another room. It was like Kirishima wasn’t even there when she beckoned him, there was nothing more important than appearing at her side as quickly as possible. Kirishima watched with a trailing gaze as he disappeared behind the door. Kirishima could only imagine being loved like that.

He could imagine—

A loud noise from the TV broke Kirishima from his daydream. He watched the frontman of the band hunch over the audience and begin another song with a gravelly yet shriek-y sort of voice. Kirishima had to kneel in front of the TV and peer closely at the screen to get any sense of what was actually happening on the tape, but he found a distance that was just perfect to take in the entire screen while focusing on the signing man right in the middle. At one point, he climbed onto the speaker with two booted feet, one clunking after another. He continued his song, bending backwards until Kirishima swears he watched his hair tickle the backs of his knees.

Kirishima’s eyes went wide as he watched the feat. There was no way he’d be able to do that—maybe if Kirishima was some sort of gymnast he could pull it off, but the closest he’d ever gotten was stretching before gym class. And even then, he was self-conscious about the length of his shorts and the tightness of his shirt. Not to mention how much he hated changing in the locker room.

At some point, the singer relived himself of the contorting position and hopped off of the speaker just as another song started to blare from the stage. It was an even faster song, the cymbals looked like they were about the fly right off of the drumkit. Kirishima backed up a little bit to try and control the amount of noise that was flowing into his ears, but the song was loud wherever he shifted. The singer sauntered all around the stage, his arm dangling beside him lanky and languid.

Kirishima tilted his head to watch the man slide over to the other side of the stage where the rhythm guitarist was playing with his head down. The guitarists stringy, greasy hair was dangling so heavy over his face that Kirishima couldn’t make out any of his features, but he was playing so masterfully that it didn’t really matter. The singer’s free arm swung up to the guitarist’s shoulder, specifically the part where the guitar strap dug into his black mesh shirt. Kirishima peered closer as the singer’s long fingers slid up from the guitarists shoulders to the junction of his neck; as he imagined the touch on his own skin, Kirishima shuddered and shot a hand up to the place where he could nearly feel the phantom sensation.

The singer’s fingers disappeared behind his bandmate’s neck. The guitarist didn’t respond to the touch, too focused on his playing to attend to the nuisance on his left. But the singer wasn’t pleased, especially considering that he carded his fingers through the greasy hair on the back of the guitarist’s head and yanked hard. Kirishima flinched. The singer pulled the guitarists face up and over so that they were facing one another, noses just centimeters apart. His heart thrummed at the edge of his chest as he watched the singer dig his lips even further into the surface of the mic as he finished off what seemed like a repeat of the chorus.

The guitarist continued playing just as masterfully as before, even though his half-lidded eyes were trained on the singer. Before Kirishima could process the whole thing, the singer dropped the mic as the instrumental began and sealed his lips fully over the guitarists.

Kirishima suppressed a yelp of surprise. He’d seen people kiss before—just chaste, passing things. He’d never seen his parents kiss, that’s for sure, but he’d been to a wedding at the church where the bride and groom had shared a quick peck. But that was it.

He’d never seen anything like this.

The singer leaned into the connection, the guitarist’s back arched to mold into his hunching form. The singer’s head tilted one way and the guitarist’s tilted the other and Kirishima got his first good look at how deep the kiss really was. It was like the singer was trying to eat his bandmate’s lips right off of his face. The kiss as desperate, hungry, and impossibly long.

When are they gonna breathe? Kirishima thought.

In the background, the crowd cheered louder than they had during the entire set. The people in the front were slapping the top of the stage, wolf-whistling and egging on the pair. It seemed like forever until they separated just a tad, enough for Kirishima to watch the singer’s tongue push into the guitarist’s mouth.

Kirishima reeled back with shock. He’d never seen anyone kiss like this, much less two men. His body had fallen into a buzzing panic, his mouth went so dry he couldn’t even swallow without the edges of his throat feeling like sandpaper. What would his father say? What would his father say if he knew Kirishima was watching something so promiscuous, so evil? Tears started to well in Kirishima’s eyes as he imagined the screaming voice of his father admonishing him for allowing something so terrible to enter his mind.

“Ah yeah, this show.”

A crooning voice swept in behind Kirishima. With a frazzled glance, Kirishima looked up and saw Sero hunching over him with a sly smile.

“I uh—” Kirishima stumbled, “I just—”

“This must’ve been at least seven years ago,” Sero peered at the TV, “the band got super famous for this stunt they always pulled but their music wasn’t good enough to garner any longevity.”

Sero squatted beside Kirishima and smiled at him. When Kirishima finally looked back at the TV, he saw that the two bandmates had parted and begun an entirely different song.

“Are they—” Kirishima whispered in a trailing inquiry.

“Together? God, no,” Sero chuckled, “it was all just for show, an act to get attention.”

It was all for show, Kirishima’s mind chanted, all an act.

Perhaps if it was all an act, the passion and desperation and tongue pushing, then it wasn’t so bad that Kirishima wanted to rewind and watch it again. That’s what he would tell his father if, god forbid, the man was to ever find out, that it was all just a big act.

Maybe that was exactly what Kirishima had to do during the next show: act. Maybe he had to put on some unrecognizable character that had no resemblance to Kirishima who didn’t know what ‘making out’ actually entailed until he was eighteen years old. After all, they needed to get the attention of the Moth Ball guys. Kirishima secretly hoped that it wouldn’t come to that and he could get through the entire show without being relied on by the rest of the band. It always made him feel sick when he remembered that they relied on him now.

When the day finally arrived, Bakugou had arrived at the corner thirty minutes earlier than usual, so when Kirishima rounded it, he was met with a stern-looking blonde sitting in the driver’s seat with his arms crossed.

“Where have you been?” He hissed when Kirishima climbed into the passenger seat.

“What?” Kirishima replied, “This is the normal time that you pick me up.”

“Well, I’ve been sitting here for half an hour,” he grumbled while starting the car.

“How was I supposed to know?” Kirishima slipped on his seatbelt.

Bakugou growled and muttered something under his breath, but it was concealed by the loud car motor. Kirishima stared at his feet and felt the car lurch forward. When he glanced back at Bakugou, he watched the man’s knuckles go white as his grip tightened around the steering wheel. His tongue kept darting out to wet his bottom lip and his eyes trailed everywhere as he careened down the country road.

Bakugou was nervous.

Kirishima suppressed a small smile. He didn’t think Bakugou could even get nervous.

“You ready for tonight?” Kirishima asked sheepishly.

“It’s not me you should be worried about,” Bakugou muttered, “I’ve been ready for this for ages.”

Kirishima had made up some bullshit story about an all-day science competition that his professor at the community college had enrolled his group in. He fibbed that it had something to do with the hair experiment and he would have to be out all day and maybe even stay the night at the function. He’d thrown in a solid ‘maybe’ just in case he did end up sleeping in his own bed that night, but Kirishima feared that the night would get too late from the show and he didn’t want to be climbing through his window at four AM again. His father had stared at him with narrowed eyes as he explained the whole ordeal, but Kirishima was prepared. He rattled off all his ‘classmates’ names with practiced expertise and even gave them made-up facts about each one.

His mother eventually convinced his father that travelling with Preston, Richard, and Colin wouldn’t be that bad and, if he were to win an award at said science competition, it would look great on his college applications. With a seething nod, his father somehow agreed and Kirishima had to suppress the urge to fly into his room and pack his things. When he climbed in the passenger seat, Bakugou eyed the duffel bag he was hauling in with him.

“You planning on stuffing a dead body in there or something?” He’d teased.

“Had to give my parents a reason for being out all day,” Kirishima explained, “and ‘overnight science fair’ was apparently all I could think of.”

Bakugou grunted and turned back to the road. Kirishima’s body buzzed with nervous anticipation. Ever since he’s woken up, his stomach had been flipping all around and sending little jolts of nausea all over his torso. He hoped that seeing Bakugou would calm his nerves, but even his lackadaisical demeanor had been worn down by the foreboding event. Once the car drove up to the house, Kirishima’s entire body had gone numb with the nervous energy.

“Are you ready?” Mina greeted him at the door with a wide smile and two firm hands on either shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Kirishima said in a wavering voice.

“You’re gonna be great,” Mina chirped before bounding off to the other end of the room.

“I’m not saying he’s the best, I’m saying he changed the landscape of death rock forever.”

From the couches, Jirou’s insistent voice carried seamlessly.

“45 Grave was obviously much more influential on the genre,” Kaminari retorted from the other end of the couch, “you just like Super Heroines because they’re more underground.”

“The fact that their career was short-lived means that their label was desperate to destroy them knowing how powerful they would be,” Jirou spat.

“You can’t judge it just based on the potential influence,” Kaminari groaned.

“I can actually do whatever I want,” Jirou leaned back and rested a hand on her stomach.

She looked down sadly and pouted.

“I’m really tired of being pregnant,” she whined.

“I know, baby,” Kaminari leaned over and planted a kiss atop her forehead.

Kirishima smiled as he watched the fight fizzle into what it always did, a subtle display of how much the pair really cared for each other.

“Where’s Sero?” Kirishima asked, approaching the couple on the couch.

“Taking a nap,” Jirou replied.

“They weren’t feeling too well this morning,” Kaminari added, eyes downcast.

“Will they be okay for tonight?” Kirishima asked.

“Definitely,” Jirou sighed, “Sero would perform even if it meant them dropping dead afterwards.”

Kirishima’s chest tightened. Despite all the things he’d forgotten from that afternoon on the porch, his brain had latched helplessly onto the small conversation he had where Sero revealed their fatal illness. Kirishima kept meaning to research the disease, but he hadn’t gotten a chance to go to the library between band practices and long, grueling dinners with his parents. Still, the thought of death sent a shudder through his body. How could Jirou speak so casually of it?

“I wish I was taking a nap right now,” Kaminari whined.

“Lazy ass,” Jirou kicked Kaminari with the sole of her chunky, black boot.

Kirishima glanced at Sero’s door, half-hoping that they would come bounding out of it, full of life and health. But he knew it wouldn’t happen. And Sero wasn’t one to “bound” anyhow.

“Eiji, Eiji please let me do your makeup tonight,” Mina had appeared beside him once more and latched tightly around his arm.

When she looked up at him, she batted her impossibly long eyelashes and pouted.

“I don’t know—” he groaned.

“You’ll look so hot, trust me,” she persisted.

Of all of Bakugou’s friends, Kirishima liked Mina the best. She’d always seemed excited to see him and greeted him with the warmest smiles. He felt a smile spread across his face at the sight of her.

“I think the fact that I hadn’t fallen head over heels for Mina should’ve been my biggest tell that I was gay, but I hadn’t quite made that connection yet.”

“And you still keep in touch with her?”

“We talk on the phone. She’s married—little kid, I think, got her cosmetology license. And after learning what happened to her, I knew it was the life she always deserved.”

“What happened?”

The group slipped into practice just like every time before. They began without Sero, which was less than ideal, but if they wanted them for the performance that night, then they needed to let them rest for as long as possible. Whether it was Sero’s absence or simply the nervous anticipation for that night, Bakugou was on edge much more than usual.

“Damnit!” He shouted, “Play the right chords or don’t play at all.”

Kaminari turned to him with a grimace. They stood there and stared in a strange sort of silent war where it was obvious no one was going to win. Eventually, Kaminari rolled his eyes and turned back forward.

“Go again,” Bakugou mumbled.

“Bakugou, my fingers are literally going numb,” Mina said bitingly.

“Suck it up,” he hissed.

“We’re gonna practice ourselves into fucking insanity, let’s just chill and trust that being on stage will give us the boost we need,” Kaminari insisted.

“So, you’re giving up?” Bakugou retorted.

“No,” Kaminari enunciated, “I’m trying to go take a piss before we inevitably fist fight on the porch.”

“Fine,” Bakugou spat, throwing the sticks to the ground before standing in a huff.

With clunking steps, Bakugou stomped towards the sliding door that led out the makeshift concrete porch. When the door slid behind him with an earth-shattering slam, Kirishima and the others just stood there in silence.

“Not it,” Kaminari said hastily.

When Kirishima turned, he saw Kaminari had raised his hands in a mock surrender. Right beside him, Mina had her pointer finger planted onto her nose. Jirou was doing the exact same thing. Kirishima sighed, knowing what he’d just been conned into.

“Go,” Kaminari mouthed, pairing it with a pushing gesture.

Kirishima shot him a pleading expression, but the blonde was relentless, replying with a sickeningly sweet smile. With a sigh, Kirishima turned and trudged towards the slider. He braced himself for angry Bakugou and suppressed his stomach’s incessant flipping. With an even exhale and a nervous gulp, Kirishima slid open the door and tip-toed outside.

Bakugou was leaned against the brick exterior with a cigarette primed between his teeth. He dug a lighter from his pocket and didn’t pay a moment of mind to Kirishima who was leaning onto the wall right beside him. Bakugou lifted the lighter to the level of his mouth and flicked it open, but his fingers were trembling so bad that he couldn’t get the thing to light.

“Damnit,” his voice was strained and low.

Kirishima reached up to the lighter and snatched it from Bakugou’s hand. Instinctively, Bakugou held onto it and resisted the obvious assistance, but Kirishima pled with him with his expression. Bakugou released his control on the lighter and kept an eye on Kirishima while he lit the silver box and used the flame to set fire to the end of the cigarette. When the smoke started to rise from the end, Kirishima flicked the lighter closed and shoved it in the pocket of his slacks.

Bakugou took a long drag and leaned his head onto the wall to watch the smoke billow from his lips. His eyes went half-lidded, probably from the fatigue of the past few weeks, and he stared up into the sky as if it had the answer to all his queries.

“I’m gonna keep my promise,” he muttered.

His promise. Kirishima had nearly forgotten.

“I need that money, too,” he added.

“Yeah?” Kirishima half-inquired,

“Yeah,” Bakugou hummed, “I’m not being an ass just to be an ass.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Bakugou shot Kirishima a very serious, stern look, but Kirishima knew it wasn’t as serious as it seemed.

“And when we get that money—” Bakugou blew out another cloud of smoke, “you’ll have earned every cent. You worked hard for this just like the rest of us.”

Kirishima’s cheeks went pink from the compliment. He stared down at his dusty old Reeboks that had started to get ratty from kicking around the house every day.

The thought popped quickly into Kirishima’s head. The name, the one that poked and prodded at his brain at every turn. Izuku. Maybe Bakugou knew something about it.

“Hey—” Kirishima began.

“We should go back inside, finish practicing,” Bakugou said gruffly before flicking the bud of his cigarette out into the yellowed grass that surrounded the concrete slab.

And thus, with a quick shuffle to the door, Bakugou was gone, leaving a slack jawed Kirishima on the porch. Perhaps it was divine intervention that he couldn’t ask. Bakugou didn’t seem to be in the mood for senseless questions, anyhow.

They did finish practice without another fight between Bakugou and Kaminari which Kirishima considered to be an absolute win. Jirou had retreated to the bedroom with complaints of pains in her back right as Sero had shuffled out in a long, ratty t-shirt and a pair of boxers that revealed their knobby knees and thinning legs.

“How much time?” They whispered to a passing Mina.

“Three hours,” she replied with a comforting hand to their shoulder.

Sero nodded and coughed with closed lips, muffling what would’ve been a wet and thick hack otherwise. As the sound echoed in their chest, they looked up at Kirishima who was unintentionally watching on. Sero grinned subtly and cleared their throat before trudging off to the bathroom.

It wasn’t long after that Mina was shoving a stack of clothes in Kirishima’s face and pushing him into her and Sero’s shared bedroom to change.

“Sero picked it out last night, you’re gonna look great!” she chirped before closing the door.

Hesitantly, Kirishima shimmied out of his light blue polo shirt and khaki slacks, folding them carefully and setting them atop Mina’s bed. He shoved on the jeans first, black denim fabric full of tears that kept getting caught on Kirishima’s legs. He had to hold his breath while buttoning them, grimacing at the tightness. The mesh shirt came next, another feat to get over his body. When he had the thing on and finally glanced down, he felt the color drain from his face.

“Oh, my dad would have a fit,” he whispered to himself, especially when he saw the way his skin peeked through the sheer black fabric.

Thankfully, the next piece in the pile was a black t-shirt that had been cropped messily right at the level of Kirishima’s elbows, so when he put it on, he could still feel a subtle breeze brushing along his lower stomach. The sensation gave him goosebumps and threatened to make him shiver, but he wouldn’t give in. As he shoved on the boots that he remembered wearing last time, Kirishima eyed his battle jacket that was sitting at the bottom of the pile. He picked it up gingerly and took one more glance at all the patches, a smile spreading over his face. But there was a new patch now.

It was a rectangle, some sort of flag. It was a row of vibrant colors: red, orange, yellow, green. A rainbow?

“Sewed it on for you,” a voice hummed from the doorway.

There, propping open the door, was Sero rubbing their eyes and adjusting the oversized, holey shirt that hung from their shoulders.

“Gay pride flag,” they said.

Kirishima used one hand to hold up the jacket while the other touched the surface of the patch delicately.

“If I was somehow wrong in my assumption, you’re welcome to tear it off.”

Kirishima’s breath hitched in his throat. He couldn’t stop running his finger across each stripe of the flag, admiring the vibrant colors.

Gay, Kirishima thought.

Huh.

“No,” he whispered, “it’s alright.”

Perhaps he didn’t know the extent of the word, how he quite fit into the definition, but staring at the flag now plastered onto his sleeve felt righter than anything ever had in his entire life. Kirishima wondered if this was how it felt to be understood. He sighed in what felt like relief.

“Get outta my room, I need to change,” Sero muttered jokingly.

“But Mina, you said something about Mina?”

“I’m getting there.”

It wasn’t long before Kirishima found himself perched in front of Mina on the concrete floor surrounded by a barrage of makeup items he couldn’t identify if he tried. She dug around in one deep makeup bag for five minutes or so, then repeated the action on another bag for just as long.

“Aha!” She cried in triumph when she pulled the eyeliner pencil from the bag.

She set it down beside her then went on a quest through every eyeshadow palette she had to find the perfect shade.

“Mina?” Kirishima muttered.

“Yes?”

“Did you really get kicked out of your house?”

Mina was staring into a palette when he asked, and her frantic searching froze for just a moment. Though her face fell, her smile never faltered, even if it was just a subtle thing.

“Yeah,” she hummed.

She closed the palette with a click and picked up another.

“Y’know,” she glanced up, “I grew up a lot like you.”

“Really?”

She nodded, “Went to church every Sunday, my dad was sort of a big deal in his denomination, and I was his good little daughter for as long as I can remember.”

Kirishima’s eyes went wide. He wanted to suppress his surprise, but he wasn’t doing a very good job.

“You need me to recite the Lord’s Prayer to prove myself?” Mina teased.

“No,” Kirishima shook his head, “I just—didn’t expect that.”

Mina looked back down at the palette in her hand, but her eyes weren’t focused on the colors inside.

“When they found out that I had sex with a married man, they gave me twenty-four hours to get out,” she muttered.

“Oh,” Kirishima whispered.

“Not like I had much choice,” Mina’s brow knitted, “he was a lot bigger than me—and stronger.”

Kirishima glanced up just as his breath hitched in his throat. What did she mean?

“What—”

“That’s actually how I met Bakugou, in court,” she cut him off.

Kirishima shor her a bewildered look. Why would she have to go to court.

“But that’s a long story,” she interrupted the conversation before it even began.

Kirishima nodded and watched Mina’s skilfull hands pick up a makeup brush and dip it into a vibrant red shade before tapping it atop the lid of the palette.

“Close,” she instructed to him.

Kirishima shut his eyes and suppressed a giggle when the bristles of the brush tickled his eyelids.

“They thought Bakugou’s dad did it.”

She said it just as the brush left his eye. When he opened them, Kirishima watched Mina dip the brush back into the shade.

“And I told them they were wrong, that he wasn’t the guy, but they didn’t believe me,” she continued in a strained voice, “they just threw his dad in jail and that was that.”

Kirishima parted his lips to inquire further, but just one look at Mina’s downcast expression told him it wasn’t the right time.

“We met at the trial and he offered me a place to live,” she ended the story with a chaste smile, “That’s all.”

Before he knew it, Mina was coaxing Kirishima’s eyes closed and tickling the brush over the lid once more. They fell into a comfortable, mutual silence as Mina continued to do his makeup. The story didn’t sound very practiced which probably meant that Mina never told it.

Kirishima wondered what he’d done to be so worthy.

“I don’t think I’d ever felt that nervous in my life. For the first time, I sorta wished I’d had a blunt in my hand to at least make me feel like I wouldn’t throw up from just opening my mouth.”

Background noises of people filling into the venue started to rise and fill Kirishima’s ears. He stood in the corner of the small backstage area, looking down at his feet with wide, dried-out eyes. The rest of the band was milling around, fixing their clothing and pulling instruments from their stands. On the adjacent wall, Kaminari was peering at his reflection in an old, dirty mirror, using his palms to slick out the long spikes of his deathhawk. It wasn’t often that Kaminari went full force with his spikes, but Kirishima was always amazed when he committed to it. Mina was plunking out some chords and tuning her guitar. Jirou was nowhere to be found, probably still napping back in the house.

“Here,” said Bakugou while nudging a red plastic cup against Kirishima’s arm.

Kirishima flinched at the contact. Bakugou scoffed.

“Look like you’re about to hurl,” he said in a low voice.

“I feel like I’m about to hurl,” Kirishima whispered while grabbing the cup with clammy fingers.

“You’ll be great,” Bakugou grumbled.

He took a long swig from his own drink and his face twitched into a quick grimace from the alcohol’s sting. Kirishima was slower in raising the cup to his lips and taking the smallest of sips from the bitter concoction.

“This isn’t a sip-sip kind of alcohol, it’s a ‘down the gullet’ kind,” Bakugou motioned towards the cup with his nose.

“I don’t think I know how to do that,” Kirishima chuckled lightly.

Bakugou’s eyes fell from Kirishima’s face to his shoulders then trailed very obviously to Kirishima’s shoulder. At first, Kirishima was puzzled as to why Bakugou’s eyes would get stuck there, but it was only until he remembered the new patch that was pasted upon it. Bakugou’s eyes widened only a tad when he saw it.

“Um—” Bakugou closed his eyes and shook the image from his head, “th-three minutes ‘til we start.”

It was the last thing he mumbled before turning on his heel and making a beeline for Kaminari who was now winking at himself in the same dusty mirror. Bakugou turned and stared at the floor with an intense gaze. Kirishima couldn’t tell if the flush was from the alcohol or the nervousness that had settled atop each of them.

It was simultaneously the longest and shortest three minutes of Kirishima’s entire life. Thankfully, his untrained body needed just that amount of time for the alcohol to start coursing through his system, sending pleasurable little buzzes down his fingers and toes. By the time Sero was tugging him onstage, Kirishima had already begun the process he’d stayed up late at night preparing. In every rewind of the tape Bakugou had given him and every explanation he’d listened to from the experts themselves, Kirishima had finally crafted what he presumed to be the alter-ego that he would use onstage.

Kirishima was the one standing and shuddering in the corner, but the boy who walked onstage was anything but.

With the cheering crowd in the background, Kirishima sauntered onstage and made a beeline for the microphone that was right in the middle of everything else. Sero took their normal position on Kirishima’s left while Mina and Kaminari crossed to the right to plug their guitars in. At their first show, even the feedback from the plugged-in instruments had made Kirishima flinch, but the sound was so familiar now, and he could barely hear it over the crowd.

Despite his best planning, nerves still wracked Kirishima’s entire body. He felt like he was about to puke and if he wasn’t holding so tightly onto the microphone, his fingers would be trembling endlessly. He tried to take a cleansing breath, but he couldn’t do so without relinquishing his calm demeanor.

Then, he looked back at Bakugou. He wasn’t doing much, just settling into the drummer’s stool and twiddling his sticks between his fingers, but when their eyes met, Kirishima felt a flood of reassurance swell and crash through his body. Bakugou nodded decisively. Kirishima smiled.

It was then that the character he’d so long prepared began to take form. It began with a tilt of his head, like the guy in the video had done for the entire set. He let his free arm go loose, swinging confidently beside him. And once the microphone was pressed assuredly to his lips, the words came out before Kirishima even had a moment to think about it.

“Alright fuckers,” he hissed, “you’ve waited long enough.”

He’d heard the opening on one of the other tapes that Bakugou had handed to him one fateful day. He didn’t know exactly what it meant, but it was enough to get the crowd roaring in a way that made Kirishima’s chest puff with all the courage he could muster. The guitars stared, then Kirishima felt the bass buzz beneath his feet, and Bakugou was the last to enter with the crash of cymbals and the thump of the kickdrum. Kirishima was thrown into his character, alcohol and pure adrenaline coursing through his veins, thrashing his head one way then the other. A toothy grin spread across Kirishima’s face as he felt the wind whoosh through his hair, and at the peak of his joy, he shared a chaste glance with Bakugou who was hacking away at the drums.

The songs felt so familiar now, almost like second nature. In their first week of practice, Kirishima had to look at words and stumble his way through all of the songs, but now he could sing them forwards and backwards with no problem. And with Mina backing him up, he felt invincible. Kirishima swept towards the front of the stage and hunched over the crowd just like he’d seen that frontman do on that tape. He felt drops of beer and sweat hit his face, but his character couldn’t care. Kirishima, on the other hand, would’ve squirmed at the sensation.

Somewhere in the center of the crowd, the same sort of thrashing dancing was going on. When Kirishima had first seen it, he couldn’t help but wait for someone to get hurt, but now it almost seemed to egg him on.

“Don’t worry about singing pretty,” Mina had told him the week prior, “just go batshit, okay?”

And go batshit, he did. Whenever he turned to see Mina’s smile or Kaminari’s impressed face, his chest would swell with pride and he’d find his character growing bigger and bigger than he could’ve ever imagined. The people in the front pounded so hard on the stage floor that Kirishima thought his heart was rattling inside his chest.

Heat grew steadily within him. The only logical thing seemed to be to shrug his battle jacket off of his shoulders, just enough so his skin would be exposed to the minimal A/C while staying on his arms. He followed the jacket as it fell, bending backwards until his back was parallel with the floor. He kept the mic steady against his lips and felt the cold cord fall limp against his arm. Someone in the very back wolf whistled just as Kirishima’s shirt started to slip up his chest since he was bending so far backwards.

It was probably the alcohol, but the feat was a lot easier than Kirishima thought it to be. By the time his back was screaming for mercy, he’d bent back enough for the chord to flop onto the other side and all the blood to start rushing to his head. As he continued the song, he felt the surface of the microphone grow slick with spit. He wanted to cringe and wipe it with his sleeve, but there was no time to do so and that would be something Kirishima would do.

And he wasn’t Kirishima, anymore.

The song ended just as Kirishima was sure he’d pass out from the massive amount of blood rushing to his head. The thumping and cheering of the crowd below coaxed him up right and kept him from nearly blacking out as the blood redistributed. He blinked out some fuzzies before giving Bakugou the ‘look’ to start the next song. Once the black splats in his vision cleared, he watched Bakugou heave a few labored breaths, watching Kirishima with a subtly amazed expression.

The next song went just as seamlessly. The thrashing group in the middle grew as a few left with some bloody injuries and others took their places. Kirishima got even closer to the crowd this time. He even snatched a bottle of beer from one of the girls’ hand and took a giant swig; when he handed it back, her face had flushed beet-red and her jaw had gone slack. Kirishima winked as he backed away. When had Kirishima ever winked? He was going crazy, wasn’t he?

He sauntered over to Sero next, singing right to them as his favorite part of the song came around. Sero eyed them up and down before smiling with amazement. It was a stark change from a few months ago, and every band member had noticed it.

When the third song in the set began, Kirishima felt himself get into a groove. The crowd was still high-energy, and he felt like he had all the stamina in the world to continue his character. Honestly, if he stopped for even a moment, he’d probably hurl.

He visited Mina and Kaminari next while he sang. He knew that Kaminari’s solo was coming next, so he let the man take his original place to interact with the crowd below and let them ooh and aah at his skill. Mina leaned away from her mic and towards Kirishima’s ear. Her hot breath tickled against his sweaty skin.

“Moth Ball guys are here,” she whispered, “they look like they’re having a good time, but they’re not impressed.”

Kirishima glanced out into the crowd to see two men dressed most similarly to Kaminari leaning against the back wall with beers in hand. They bobbed their head along with the music, but Mina was right, they didn’t look all that shocked or impressed.

“Think of something quick, hot stuff,” she hissed.

Kirishima gulped. The thing he’d feared all along was finally coming to fruition. They were relying on him—they were all relying on him. He chewed on his lower lip as he remembered Bakugou’s face on the porch and how nervous everyone seemed before the show. He had to do something, and he had to do something quick. He didn’t have much more time to ponder before he had to start singing again.

With half of his focus dedicated to performing, Kirishima applied the other half to wracking his brain for something to do. As the song ended, Kirishima turned so he’d get a chance to squish his eyes closed and really think for a moment. When he opened them, Bakugou was leaning forward and peering very intently at him.

“You okay?” He mouthed.

Kirishima’s stomach plummeted.

We either need to do something completely new or bring back something that people have forgotten about.

God, he was insane. How could it be the only memory he had of nearly months of prep? In every consideration he’d made for his character, this was the one thing he didn’t attend to. It was staring him in the face, the necessity, the desperation. The image played over and over of the frontman and his guitarist. He remembered Sero saying that it hadn’t been done for years and while it hadn’t provided any longstanding fame, it was enough to garner a crowd.

The next song began, but Kirishima was too frozen in place by the implications of actually doing it.

But, if I do it, God might hate me.

Kirishima’s posture straightened at the thought. God wouldn’t—he couldn’t—

“Rock Solid?” Bakugou shouted over his drumming.

They were dragging out the intro in honor of him. Kirishima shook himself out of the daydream and turned to start singing, responding immediately to the chanting crowd.

But it wouldn’t be real if he did it. He was playing a character. And Sero had said the two men on the tape weren’t together, that it was all for show. Wouldn’t that make it okay?

Because it wouldn’t mean anything, not one thing. It was a performance, a show they were putting on as characters so far removed from their actual selves. There was a long instrumental coming up later in the song. It would be Kirishima’s only chance. Mina had fought tooth and nail to get her own solo and it was the only opportunity Kirishima would get to impress the Moth Ball guys.

Please, God, Kirishima prayed in his mind, please don’t hate me for doing this.

He knew the instrumental was coming up. His feet moved on their own to the time of his own singing. He was basically bounding over to where Bakugou was sitting at his drum kit.

“What are you doing?” He shouted over the music just loud enough for Kirishima to hear.

Kirishima couldn’t’ reply. His mouth was occupied with singing, but it had also gone incredibly dry. As the phrase ended, he heard Mina begin her section. It was long, they’d made it that way so the vocalists would get a break. Kirishima dropped the microphone and gulped, unable to take his eyes off of Bakugou.

Bakugou was a talented drummer, talented enough that he could stare at Kirishima with a furrowed brow without missing a beat. He tilted his head as Kirishima stepped closer, hands trembling. Bakugou’s eyes followed him as he rounded Bakugou’s stool and glanced at the spaces left in the back. Bakugou always sat pretty forward in his seat, Kirishima had taken note of that ages ago.

It was just enough space for his feet.

Kirishima planted one boot on the stool. Bakugou looked at him with a bewildered expression. Kirishima took a deep breath and centered himself before hoisting himself up with his leg and planting the other foot on the other side. Bakugou’s body was now wedged between Kirishima’s legs, his head hitting right at the seam of his jeans. The blonde glanced up with more fear in his eyes than Kirishima thought possible.

With one glance out to the crowd, Kirishima saw half of the crowd looking at him, invested in whatever stunt he was about to pull. And with Mina’s guitar blaring through the venue, Kirishima bent down and carded the fingers of his free hand through Bakugou’s hair and yanked his head so it was parallel to his.

Kirishima’s mouth went dry. Bakugou’s brow knitted even further at the sensation of Kirishima pulling his hair. What the hell was he thinking? What the hell was he doing?

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Then, he bent down and crashed his lips messily over Bakugou’s.

The first few moments were paralyzing. Kirishima’s entire body went stiff like he was some sort of statue memorialized in the local park. He’d never felt a sensation like this, another pair of lips on his. And Bakugou’s, in particular, were rough and calloused upon first contact. They were stuck like that, Kirishima folded over with his lips caught around Bakugou’s and his hand tangled through his hair while crashing music blared in the background. Neither moved.

Shit, Kirishima thought, what do I do next?

Kirishima remembered the video. He had to move—he had to do something. So he turned his head just like the frontman in the video had done.

Shockingly, Bakugou followed suit, turning in the other direction and deepening the kiss.

Now, if it was the real Kirishima kissing Bakugou Katsuki, he would pull away and crawl into a tiny hole with a tomato-red face. But he wasn’t Kirishima, right? The crowd was silent for a moment, taking in the spectacle on stage before the volume rose back to its normal rowdiness and even managed to exceed it.

He didn’t have much more time to think about the crowd’s reaction before a sense of euphoria flushed through Kirishima’s mind. He couldn’t think about anything apart from the small ministrations of Bakugou’s lips against his. Bakugou was still drumming which moved his body just the slightest with every hit and thrum of the kickdrum. And yet, his entire head and neck was engulfed in the kiss, moving desperately and feverishly against Kirishima’s.

Something hot spread through Kirishima’s entire chest. The adrenaline that had been coursing through his body during the entire show had reached its peak, making him feel more nauseous than ever. But he couldn’t even think about that especially as he felt Bakugou’s tongue shove against the front of his teeth.

Kirishima flinched. His mind went so fuzzy he couldn’t even hear the music anymore. His entire body wanted to go slack now that Bakugou’s tongue had made contact with any part of his body, but he couldn’t afford to, especially since he had to sing very soon.

Thus, reluctantly, Kirishima pulled away languidly. A thin string of spit connected one lip to the other and broke almost instantly after they parted. Once Kirishima had leaned back up enough to see Bakugou’s face, he watched the blonde’s eyes flutter open and a deep red blush smatter over his cheeks. His eyes were glassy and puzzled, trailing all over Kirishima’s face, and his lips were bright red and swollen.

Kirishima’s heart did a flip at the base of his throat when he looked at Bakugou’s expression. He almost forgot that his hand was still gripping the back of his head by his hair.

The end of Mina’s solo blared over the speakers and Kirishima had to hastily lift the microphone and start singing. He willed for some sound to come out of his chest where his heart was performing a gymnastics routine and his stomach was somewhere on the floor of the stage. While he sang, Kirishima let his fingers slip from Bakugou’s hair, but he still refused to tear his eyes away. Bakugou wasn’t faring much better, he stared at Kirishima like he’d just pulled a gun out of his pocket and was holding it to his head.

Kirishima couldn’t focus while he was looking at Bakugou like this, he had to break the interaction. And so, swiftly, Kirishima looked back out to the crowd and hopped from Bakugou’s stool to resume his place at the front of the stage. With his heart thrumming and his body quickly going numb, Kirishima reacquainted himself with his character, sensing that the façade had broken just for a moment.

It took the rest of the song and half of the next for Kirishima to break out of the fuzz the kiss had filled his brain with. Even though they’d parted long ago, he could still feel the ghost of Bakugou’s lips encasing his entire mouth. The euphoria was long-lasting enough to carry him to the end of the set. The rest of the songs seemed to exist in a vat of honey, all of Kirishima’s movements felt slow and laborious and his singing seemed to be silenced before it even hit the crowd.

Yet, by some act of God, he’d made it to the end of the set, marked by Kaminari swinging his guitar off of his body and chucking it across the stage. He was always one for theatrics.

The adrenaline fell quickly as Kirishima heaved deep breaths, the crowd roaring just feet away from him. As it plummeted to below zero, Kirishima felt the familiar sensations of nausea rising in his body. Then he thought about the kiss, and it solidified the feeling.

“Uh oh,” Kirishima whispered before slapping his hand over his mouth.

He ran next, entirely reminiscent of his very first show. It only took a few strides for him to dash offstage and hear the crowd muffle from behind the wall.

“You okay?” Jirou called from her seat backstage.

Kirishima shook his head. Making a beeline for the trashcan, he watched Jirou race over out of the corner of his eye. When the bile and sour taste entered his mouth, Kirishima was secretly grateful to have Jirou’s calming hand rubbing circles on his back.

“You did it, Kirishima,” she whispered excitedly into his ear, “the Moth Ball guys looked so fucking impressed, you’re a goddamn genius.”

If Kirishima wasn’t dry heaving, he would’ve smiled. He eventually stopped making a fool of himself with his head stuck in the trash can, but he still wasn’t feeling so hot.

“I’m gonna—” he muttered, “I’m gonna go out to get a breath of fresh air.”

“Okay,” he heard Jirou mutter while he started his woozy trudge to the back door.

He’d watched Sero and Bakugou use the door for smoke breaks, so he assumed it led to some sort of outside. With a single push to the door, Kirishima was proven right. Sure, it was an alleyway full of stacked up boxes and rolling dumpsters, but the cold touch of the outside air was too refreshing to mind. Kirishima hunched over and evened his breathing, willing the nausea to disappear.

He stood a little more upright and smiled.

I kissed Bakugou.

Well, it wasn’t exactly Kirishima who kissed Bakugou. It was whatever crazy fool Kirishima was playing on stage. But, still—

his heart was in an unending fit.

He couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. He even started to laugh. Maybe it wasn’t all an act. Maybe he—

“Hey.”

The gruff voice came from up close. Kirishima craned his neck to see two sets of black boots connected to two burly, menacing-looking men that he'd never seen before. One of them was cracking their knuckles while the other cracked his neck on one side, then the other.

“Hello?” Kirishima replied.

Well, it was all he could say before the guy on the left sucker-punched him right in the jaw.

Chapter Text

Now, it certainly wasn’t the first time Kirishima Eijirou had been punched in the face, but he didn’t like to think about those prior encounters very often. And, rather, there were more pressing issues at hand.

Before he knew it, Kirishima’s ass was hitting the hard, cracked pavement beneath him. When he steadied himself on his hands, he felt loose gravel cut up the heel of his palm, sending shockwaves of pain up his arms. He lifted one of his hands to nurse the left side of his jaw which was pounding and undoubtedly bright red, but the buddy of the guy who’d punched him was already moving in, reeling his hand up to land another punch in exactly the same spot.

“No!” Kirishima squeaked out as he saw the man’s hand race towards him.

Kirishima felt a large, firm hand pull him up by the collar of his shirt mere seconds before the hard fist made contact with his already aching jaw. The first punch had just taken him by surprise, but the second one knocked all the wind out of him, and he swore he saw drops of blood fly out of his mouth onto the street below him. He shut his eyes for a moment and coughed, tasting a wave of iron atop his tongue.

His head bobbed back forward where the man was still holding him up by his collar so that their faces were only inches away.

“You got a lotta nerve pullin’ shit like that on stage,” he spat.

Kirishima wanted to ask what he was talking about, but he had a feeling it would only make the men angrier. And his mouth was feeling so buzzy and numb that the words wouldn’t have even come out right if he tried. The man just pulled him in closer, tilted his head menacingly, and licked his lips like he was about to eat Kirishima as a midnight snack.

“Punk isn’t for bastards like you,” he hissed.

And then he said a word. Some strange word. Kirishima knitted his brow as his mind tried to piece the letters together—he’d never heard it before. But the man spat it into his face like he had cheeks full of venom; the liquid burned against the surface of Kirishima’s skin.

“Wh-?” he started to ask.

Before he could even utter the word, Kirishima felt another solid punch slam against his right jaw, this time. He careened to the side and felt a pair of hands wrap around his wrists, locking them behind his back.

If he really focused, Kirishima could feel blood dribbling down his chin and neck. Whenever he tried to swallow, all his spit tasted of iron and his throat had started to close up from the panic that was only now starting to set in. The adrenaline had unfortunately run its course and the running pace of his heart was from the sheer terror of being in such a compromising position.

As much as he tried to wriggle out of the man’s grip, he couldn’t seem to dislodge himself. Hot tears slid down both of Kirishima’s cheeks. Through the mist, Kirishima watched the man use his hand that wasn’t gripping Kirishima’s collar to pinch the corner of his rainbow patch and pull. Even amidst the rushing blood in his ears and the sounds of cars just one street over, Kirishima could hear every thread snapping as the man tore the patch from his jacket.

Kirishima shook his head, his chin now coated in a cocktail of blood and spit.

“No,” he eked out, “please—please don’t—”

The man held the patch by one corner and dangled it teasingly in front of Kirishima’s face, behind which he watched the man’s mouth crack into a smile.

Sero is going to be so disappointed, was all Kirishima could think in that moment.

Once he was pleased with his teasing, the man crumpled the patch in his broad hand and shoved it in the pocket of his jacket.

“I always hated fuckers like you,” he grumbled.

Kirishima released a shuddering breath. As he watched the man’s free hand reel back again, all he could do was turn his head and flinch, preparing himself for yet another assault to his face. He wondered if the two men were going to kill him. Perhaps he should say that prayer he was always saving for the moment he knew he was going to die. Thus, with his eyes squished closed, Kirishima prayed.

Lord,

I’m so sorry.

I could’ve been a better son—a better man.

If I had just one more chance—

“Hey!”

A deep, gruff voice called from the back door that Kirishima had tumbled out of what felt like hours ago. With his eyes still screwed shut, Kirishima felt the one man’s hand dislodge from his shirt collar seconds before the other man’s hold on his wrist was released, as well. Kirishima tensed up again, waiting for them to use both hands to continue attacking him, but nothing happened.

So, with all the courage he could muster, Kirishima opened one eye tentatively. When his vision focused and the mist of tears cleared, Kirishima could make out the new figure before him, a familiar stocky man with a mess of blonde hair gelled up to the heavens.

“Bakugou,” his swollen lips could barely enunciate.

Bakugou was stood in an open stance, a gun in his left hand pointed directly at one of the man’s heads and a knife in the other, held perfectly level with the other man’s throat. His brow was so low that all Kirishima could make out was the menacing, slitted glow of his irises as they switched between the two brutes. His lips were parted slightly as he released hot, huffy breaths like he’d just run a marathon.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he growled lowly.

“So what if we don’t?” The man replied with a hiss.

With his thumb, Bakugou cocked the gun that was aimed for the man’s forehead. His face rest unchanging while the man’s flinched in a moment of fear. Kirishima swallowed a pocket of blood as he watched the standoff linger on, neither party retreating.

“You mean you don’t recognize me?” Bakugou asked in a low yet teasing voice.

The men glanced nervously at each other. When they turned their attention back to Bakugou, their eyes went wide with sudden realization.

“There's no way—,” one of them whispered.

“You’re—” the other began.

The two men took staggering steps back just as Bakugou advanced on them a half inch or so. Bakugou’s hands were as steady around the weapons as his expression was against his face. The mens’ chests rose and fell with anxious breaths, accented by more staggering steps behind them.

“If I see you back here ever again, I’ll kill you just so I can have two new places to piss,” Bakugou hissed.

The men’s faces went dark as if they were really planning on challenging Bakugou, but the sheet-white sheen of those same faces told Kirishima an entirely different story, one that was solidified by their eventual turn and dash from the present situation. As the pounding of their boots against the pavement faded down the street, Kirishima found himself frozen against the floor. Bakugou didn’t lower his weapons until the men were definitely gone, and Kirishima noted that the gun he was holding was the same one that Jirou had held to his forehead months ago.

Bakugou sighed and peered once more down the dark street, just to make sure the goons were really gone, before turning to Kirishima who was still crumpled on the pavement. His hard-lined face softened a tad as he flipped the knife closed and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He sauntered over to where Kirishima was splayed and set the gun down a few feet away from him, crouching so their faces were level.

“They just hit you, right?” He asked gruffly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima watched Bakugou’s hand raise to the level of his jaw, the side where he’d been hit twice.

Kirishima nodded. Bakugou knitted his brow, his fingers lingering just a centimeter above the surface of Kirishima’s skin. Even though he wasn’t making any contact, Kirishima could feel heat radiating off of the tips of Bakugou’s fingers.

And if Kirishima’s mind wasn’t so occupied with what had just occurred, he would’ve been spiraling out of control with the knowledge that not an hour before this very moment, he’d had his lips locked onto Bakugou’s.

“You can’t go out here on your own at night,” Bakugou hummed.

Kirishima stifled a nod. His entire face felt like it was being torn apart by God himself and he couldn’t even feel the dribbling blood anymore with how numb his lips had gone. Bakugou’s fingers fell back down to his side before his eyes trailed to the arm of Kirishima’s jacket where a clump of threads was jutting out of the fabric. His expression fell.

“Fake ass punks, that’s what they are,” he grumbled, his eyes affixed on the empty space.

Kirishima released a shuddering breath. He nodded, but it was obvious that Bakugou wasn’t convinced.

“Bakugou—” Kirishima whispered.

“What?” He cut him off gruffly.

“They called me this—this word, I’d never heard it before,” his voice cracked and swooped, “I don’t know if it was bad or—”

Bakugou’s brow fell even lower. Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima watched him ball his fist.

“What’d they call you?” He muttered in a gravelly voice.

Eyes trailing to the ground, Kirishima pieced all the moments back together in his mind, the mere act sending a shudder down his spine. He crooked a finger to beckon Bakugou closer; he grumbled, but he eventually relented and leaned his ear towards Kirishima’s mouth. For a moment, Kirishima’s jaw hung slack, only able to fan hot breath over Bakugou’s pierced lobe.

He whispered the word with an air of uncertainty, like the word originated in some foreign language he didn’t speak and if he said it too quickly, he would say it incorrectly. Once the word slipped from his lips and into Bakugou’s ear, silence stretched tight between them, filling immediately with the distant shouts of the night and the crickets that chirped all around them.

Bakugou’s jaw rippled as he gritted his teeth. His narrowed eyes shifted down the road as if he was expecting someone to round the corner and ambush him.

“I should’ve killed those fuckers when I had the chance,” he hissed.

“I’m sor—”

“Can you walk?”

As he grumbled the question, Bakugou was hoisting himself to his feet and towering over Kirishima’s shrinking form with an expectant glare. Kirishima nodded and used his cut-up hands to push himself onto his feet, already trailing a retreating Bakugou with his eyes. Well, he wasn’t as much retreating as he was storming to the back door, his hands balled at his sides and his stance menacing.

Kirishima followed him warily, trying to peek around and get a glimpse at his expression, but every attempt was futile. It wasn’t until they’d both shuffled back into the warehouse that Kirishima could feel Bakugou’s searing gaze boring holes into the side of his head.

*

“Oh my god, what happened?” Mina cried from the couch.

“Got his shit rocked by some losers in the alley,” Bakugou hissed as he shed his patch-laden jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair.

“Better catch that drop of blood before it drips onto your shirt,” Jirou muttered.

Instantly, Kirishima’s hand flew up to the level of his chin, and when he pulled it away to look at it, there was a large red splotch dribbling down his fingers. He couldn’t even feel it, his face was so numb.

“Can’t feel my face,” he smiled weakly at the group.

“C’mon, hon,” Sero sauntered over and started to tug Kirishima by his wrist.

They made a beeline for the door that led to the part of the house where the living room and all their bedrooms were situated. Kirishima kept his hand against the place where he suspected the blood was escaping as they entered the adjacent room and neared Sero and Mina’s room.

Sero instructed him onto Mina’s bed and pulled out from under their own the same immense first aid kit that Kirishima had seen when Jirou was injured. When he lowered his hand, the splotch of blood had grown even larger than before.

“Oh, man,” Kirishima groaned, the sight of even his own blood making him a little woozy.

Sero’s hand was flying towards him in the next moment, laden with a piece of gauze doused in some liquid that stung like hell when it pressed against his lip.

“Ah!” Kirishima hissed as the cold liquid attacked the corners of his wounds.

With one hand pressed against Kirishima’s lip, Sero reached their other hand behind them to grab an ice pack from the same kit and give it a good shake.

“Hold,” they commanded, shoving the pack into Kirishima’s left hand.

Even though most of Kirishima’s face was going numb and buzzy, the memory of the man’s hard fist rest heavy on both cheeks, so he had to resort to alternating the ice pack between the two areas. Sero chucked three blood-soaked gauze pads before his face was clean, and he had only begun to apply some lukewarm goop to a split in Kirishima’s lip when everything started to go sour.

It had only begun as a small pit of nausea in Kirishima’s stomach from seeing his own blood streaked over his palm, but the feeling had only grown as Sero worked on his face in silence, the occasional tick coming from the busted alarm clock on the nightstand. Kirishima swallowed thickly as Sero applied more goop to a q-tip. His head filled with cotton, the kind that squeaks when it rubs against each other.

The cotton overflowed from his head into his mouth. His hands were—somewhere, he couldn’t move them anyhow. His eyes felt so heavy in his head like if he shifted even the slightest bit, they’d pop right out and fall into Sero’s lap. Kirishima’s mind replayed the events of the night in some disordered, convoluted instant replay that he couldn’t shut off no matter how many times he blinked.

When Sero turned to dig through their first aid kit once more, Kirishima’s chest went tight, the fingers of his ribs interlocking like lovers’ hands. Every breath he tried to take in could only attempt the impossible feat of bending bone, and every exhale had to pass through the shards of glass that lined his throat.

His jaw shuddered. His bottom lip quivered.

Two essential elements of what was going to happen next.

“Oh, baby, what’s wrong?” Sero asked.

Tears were rolling down Kirishima’s cheeks at a rate that would put Niagara Falls to shame. His bottom lip quivered so much that it was tapping against his top lip which was still achy and red; he parted them to reply to Sero’s question, but no sound would come out.

“Oh,” Sero tutted.

They raised their hand to Kirishima’s cheek, the part that wasn’t battered and bruised, and wiped the tears off with their thumb. Kirishima’s lips kept sealing and parting around words he desperately wanted to say but couldn’t bring his voice to form. He wanted to cry and wail about the feeling in his stomach right before the man punched him, everything that had happened on stage, and all the other harrowing events that had taken place since Bakugou had shown up at his window.

But there was only one word he could utter, the only thought that was clear enough to enunciate:

“My parents,” he blubbered, “they—they have to—look at my face.”

He had to stop every few words to suck in a wheezing breath, but the general message was there. Sero’s face turned down apologetically as their thumb swiped away hot tears from Kirishima’s cheekbone.

“Don’t worry, Mina has covered up many a hickey for me with makeup,” they smiled.

Kirishima sniffled, “I—don’t even know—what that is.”

The last word stretched out as Kirishima’s cried, eventually devolving into a general whine. He kept sniffling in to avoid the mass of mucus that was about to gather above his top lip and he finally mustered up the strength to wipe the tears that were falling from his right eye.

“Go wash your face,” Sero muttered gently.

Kirishima nodded and started to shift himself off of the bed. Sero was too preoccupied with packing up all their things to watch as Kirishima trudged out of the door, running his finger over the bandage covering a split in his brow.

The bathroom door was fuzzy in his vision but sometime in the past week, Kirishima noticed how familiar the inside of the house felt to him now. If it was the dead of night and not a single light was on, he would be able to navigate himself from the bedroom to the restroom without bumping into anything; not that there was much furniture to run into in the first place.

Once his hand felt the metal piece of the swinging door, he pushed it open and retracted his hands from the wound on his face.

“Lookin’ gnarly there, man,” Kaminari crooned, “like a wrestler.”

Kirishima shot Kaminari a weak smile before joining him at the sinks.

“But, like, a bad wrestler,” he added flatly.

Kirishima gave him a searing side-eye. All Kaminari did was shrug. He positioned himself in front of the mirror to get his first good look at the injuries.

He was as gnarly as Kaminari insinuated.

Sero had been successful in cleaning up any blood, but the large, yellow-purple patches on his jaws only seemed to grow the longer he looked at them. His lip was split in three different places and covered in some clear stuff that seemed to hold off the bleeding for the time being. Kirishima was almost grateful that there was a bandage over his eyebrow because seeing another wound might’ve really sent him over the edge.

“Shit,” Kirishima whispered as quietly as he could.

“Hey, cool it with the expletives,” Kaminari teased, leaning on the edge of the counter, “you-know-who’s listening.”

It was a pretty standard joke, one of the less vulgar Kaminari had told, but referring to God as ‘you-know-who’ acted as some sort of clarifying pill for his psyche. Kirishima’s eyes went wide and he craned his neck up to stare at himself in the mirror. His hair was red. His lip was busted. He was still wearing the goddamn jacket with a very special patch missing from the arm.

“Oh, no,” he whispered to himself.

Realization flooded through Kirishima. Whatever had been parting the Red Sea within him had disappeared, his body becoming a swirling vortex of water and torment. His mind flashed back to the moments on the stage, the feeling of Bakugou’s lips against his.

It was a character, he defended himself to his own thoughts.

Then why am I still thinking about it?

“Kaminari,” he turned to shoot a harrowed look at his blonde friend.

“Yeah?” Kaminari replied casually, lighting a cigarette that was clamped between his teeth.

“I’m going to hell.”

It was an admission that’d been poking at the back of his brain from the moment he willingly made eye contact with Bakugou Katsuki, but now it settled into his bones so hot and real that he couldn’t ignore it. Everything his father had told him, directly and indirectly, swirled in his mind and crashed on all the things he’d learned from his new friends in the past few months.

There were very few things that Kirishima actually knew, but he knew for certain that the Lord was displeased with him.

Kaminari chuckled, “What?”

“I’m going to hell,” Kirishima repeated breathily.

“For what?”

For kissing a boy, Kirishima wanted to yell.

“I’m—oh my gosh,” Kirishima exclaimed as he carded tight fingers through his hair.

“Chill out, man.”

“I can’t!” Kirishima shouted.

His eyes darted all around. Kaminari became a blob somewhere in the distance of Kirishima’s isolating thoughts, cold and dark and swirling.

“I gotta—I gotta get to church,” Kirishima’s hands padded all over the counter as if he was looking for something.

“It’s 2am, you’re not going to church unless you’re planning on breaking in,” Kaminari soothed.

“This is serious!” Kirishima shouted.

“I’m sure it is,” Kaminari lifted his hands in a false surrender.

Kirishima’s gripping hands slid to the nape of his neck. He’d begun pacing a circle into the dirty tile beneath his feet with Kaminari watching on from the side in amusement.

“I kissed a boy and now I’m going to hell,” the words tumbled from Kirishima’s lips before he could stop them.

“Aw, buddy,” Kaminari crooned.

It was a firm hand on Kirishima’s shoulder that halted him in his tracks long enough to catch his breath. Kirishima rubbed his eyes as far back into his sockets as they’d go while Kaminari spun him around and planted his other hand on Kirishima’s unoccupied shoulder.

“Hey,” Kaminari shook him, “listen.”

Kirishima dropped his hand and faced Kaminari with his sheet-white complexion.

“If kissing a boy is what it takes to get damned to hell, then I guess me and every other guy I’ve ever known will be there too,” Kaminari said matter-of-factly.

“What?” Kirishima asked.

“N-nevermind,” Kaminari shook the thought from his head, “I don’t even think hell is real so—”

“You don’t think hell is real?”

Kirishima felt his voice drop an octave; it was dark and rich and menacing. The sound bounced off the tile floors and echoed for a little longer than Kirishima thought possible. They stood there for a moment, the sound shuddering through both of them. Kirishima’s jaw hung slack when he realized that it was the first time he’d sounded almost exactly like his father.

“Not really,” Kaminari shrugged, “I mean, how do you know it is?”

“Well—”

Kirishima had to stop himself, mostly because there was nothing to say. He’d sat in a million church services, listened to every word that came out of his father’s mouth, he’d even attended every Bible study session just like he was supposed to.

How could it be that he couldn’t even begin to answer Kaminari’s question?

“My father had never been outspoken about his hatred for gay people, it was more of an unspoken thing, something that was seen but never discussed.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“I mean, I didn’t even know I was gay yet, but my father’s disapproval of them always felt like his disapproval of me. In that moment, the worst fate was him hating me forever, hell was nothing compared to that.”

“To me,” Kaminari leaned in, “if I die at the end of my awesome life and hell is real, then I’ll say ‘oops’ and just take it. But if I die and hell isn’t real, then I’ve lived an awesome life.”

Kirishima heaved a deep breath. If there was anything the church was efficient in, it was squashing any sort of doubt at a young enough age that you believe you’d thought that way your entire life. Kirishima had been so overloaded with sermons and Bible studies and whatever else that he had never taken a moment to think, to wonder if any of it was true.

“You do realize that all the cool, fun stuff is what gets you sent to hell, right?” Kaminari quirked a brow, “Kinda lame, if you ask me.”

Kirishima couldn’t suppress a chuckle. He never knew all the things he was told not to do were fun because he’d never gotten a chance to do them, and now that he was doing all those fun things, he couldn’t even enjoy it because his father’s voice haunted him in every decision he made. Kaminari blew a puff of smoke into Kirishima’s face, still holding onto his shoulders lazily.

“Denki!”

It was Jirou shouting from somewhere in the living room. Kaminari smiled deftly and his eyes got glassy.

“If this baby doesn’t come out of her in the next two weeks, I’m reaching in there and pulling the thing out myself,” he whispered through a feigned smile.

He patted Kirishima solidly on one shoulder before passing beside him to leave the bathroom. Kirishima wanted to stand there forever, having this crisis that he felt had been building up in his chest for far too long. But his face was starting to hurt like hell so much so that he couldn’t think about getting sent there anymore. So, Kirishima sighed once more, giving his eyes a moment to close and rest before following Kaminari back out of the bathroom.

Jirou was lounged on the couch with Kaminari helping her hoist her feet up so she could lie down completely. Once she was settled, Kaminari curled himself into the neighboring chair, kicking his weathered black boots off his feet. Jirou sighed and settled into her new position, looking far more comfortable than before, her hand resting lazily atop her stomach.

Kaminari watched on with a glassy, wondrous gaze.

“How did—where did—you two meet?”

Kirishima felt the awkward lilt of his voice, but he was desperate to alleviate the silence of the situation. Kaminari smiled and scoffed, turning his head to look in some corner of the room. Jirou glared at him with narrowed eyes.

“We met in high school,” Kaminari said, “honors biology.”

“I was unlucky enough to be his lab partner,” Jirou muttered.

“I set fire to her hair,” he added.

“What?” Kirishima asked, aghast.

“Which was awful because I used to have really long, silky hair,” Jirou groaned.

Kirishima eyes Jirou’s shaved sides, her messy, jet-black mohawk, and the two pieces she’d left hanging from her temples. Jirou quirked a brow when she noticed his staring.

“We didn’t always look like this,” she said flatly.

“Here,” Kaminari muttered, pulling a wallet out of his pocket that was hanging on by a thread.

He carded through a series of things before he pulled out a stack of five or so photos and handed them to Kirishima who took them gingerly. He peered at the first photo.

It was a guy in a blue polo that nearly drowned his thin form atop a pair of jeans that contributed to the same effect. His hair was blonde and nicely slicked back, his sneakers were clean and polished beneath the hem of his pants. He had his hands shoved in his pockets; his smile was bright and wide.

The girl beside him had hooked her arm in the crook of his elbow and leaned against him casually. Her hair was long and black, a set of straight bangs decorating her forehead. She had a baggy, colorful sort of knit sweater hanging off her shoulders and a high waisted pair of light was jeans hugging her hips. One Ked-clad foot was crossed over the other.

“This is really you?” Kirishima asked in amazement.

Jirou turned her black-lipped, pale-painted face with a jingle of her collection of chokers sounding through the room. She adjusted her mesh shirt and torn black jacket with a smirk.

“They were darker times,” she hummed.

Kaminari switched to the next photo which was the same two kids in warmer clothing, huddled together on a bleacher.

“You’re sure this is Jirou?” Kirishima asked Kaminari.

“It better be,” she cut in.

Kirishima narrowed his eyes at him before looking at the very last photo. It was still Kaminari and Jirou, but they were dressed in formal clothes, a tux and a long black dress and standing against a bright blue backdrop. Kaminari was holding gently onto her waist and smiling. On the bottom of the photo was a fanciful printed logo, indicating that it was taken in 1994, this year.

“Senior homecoming,” Kaminari said.

“I was puking the entire night,” Jirou added, “so we went to the store in our fancy clothing and got a pregnancy test and—ta-da.”

She motioned to her stomach with a flat expression.

“Our parents sat us down at this dinner and basically laid out the rest of our lives,” Kaminari recanted, “marriage, careers, 401ks, it was insanity.”

“So, we packed up all our stuff in the middle of the night and left,” Jirou shrugged.

“We went to every house of every friend we had but they didn’t have any place for us to stay,” he added, “we just walked and walked until we ended up here.”

“Bakugou was smoking out front and we told him about our situation and he said we could stay for one week,” Jirou held up a finger, “but we finessed him into many more by slowly changing our aesthetics and proving to him that our marching band experience actually did translate into playing punk music.”

“That’s the price ye must pay to remain in Katsuki’s favor,” Kaminari called out in a mock medieval voice, “shred guitar and smoke cigs.”

“Frankly, I think we look much better than in those photos,” Jirou motioned lazily to Kirishima’s hands.

Kirishima was almost inclined to agree. The people in the photos were unrecognizable, he thought that the people who sat before him looked like they always should’ve. It simply wouldn’t be Kaminari without his liberty spikes or Jirou without her face paint.

“Marching band?” Kirishima asked with a teasing smile.

“Yup,” Kaminari replied with a grin, “I played the trombone and she played the trumpet.”

Jirou nodded in confirmation.

“I was in marching band for a year,” Kirishima said, “I played the clarinet.”

“No way!” Kaminari lunged towards him.

“But then my dad pulled me out of it—said it was too much of a distraction from my studies,” Kirishima cast his gaze down to the floor.

“Your dad sounds like such a pussy,” Jirou grumbled.

He is, Kirishima wanted to say.

“I don’t know how he did it, but my dad convinced me at a very young age that he could hear me and see me no matter where I was. It was like there was God watching me and sitting right beside him was my father.”

“Did you ever figure out that this wasn’t true.”

“Sure, pretty early on, in fact, but the idea always poked at the back of my brain. Whether I believed it or not, he’d gotten what he wanted: he maintained a little bit of control over me, even when I was miles away from him.”

He knew he could never say it out loud, but the desire to let out all his pent-up anger against his dad grew with each passing day. Bakugou and his friends seemed so relaxed: they never held anything back, they never kept secrets, and when they were angry, they were honest with that feeling. It was a life Kirishima could only dream of living.

“Do you guys know anything about Izuku?” He asked, passing the pictures back to Kaminari.

Jirou became strangely focused on her nail-picking. Kaminari was taking a few extra seconds putting the pictures back into his wallet. Kirishima switched his gaze between the two and waited for the tense moment to pass.

“We’ve heard—things,” Kaminari said in an uncharacteristically low voice.

“But we don’t know the whole story,” Jirou cut in, “Bakugou won’t tell us.”

“We’ve been here only a few months longer than you,” Kaminari added.

“Oh,” Kirishima nodded.

“I know it seems like there’s a lot of secrets floating around this group but—” Jirou leaned towards him with a sincere look, “it’s just Bakugou. He doesn’t tell anyone anything. Don’t feel bad about it.”

The instruction was simple enough, but Kirishima couldn’t help but feel unsettled. He or whatever alternate version of himself he was on stage had kissed Bakugou, like really kissed him, but when Kirishima thought about it, he didn’t know a single thing about the man. The only thing Bakugou was really open about was his goals, and even then, he only shared them when he was sure he would achieve them.

“I need some fresh air,” Kirishima excused himself.

It wasn’t exactly a lie, he was beginning to feel the effects of Kaminari’s chain smoking in his throat, but he really just needed a moment of silence to clear his head. His night seemed to be one event after another: the kiss, the fight in the alley, the meltdown in the bathroom. The thoughts and worries were whizzing around so quickly that he couldn’t even feel them, his mind was just a vast blank expanse.

With his eyes glued to the sliding glass doors, Kirishima’s heart started to thrum with the anticipation of the summer breeze and the instance of silence he could indulge himself in. But when he opened the door and shimmied out, he had the smallest sense that he wasn’t alone.

Leaning against the wall with a smoking something or other in his hand was Bakugou, clad in nothing but a ratty, holey black t-shirt and a pair of boxers.

“Hey,” Kirishima greeted him awkwardly.

Bakugou didn’t say anything back, but he nodded his head half an inch which was basically a greeting in itself. He blew some smoke out into the air and let his head fall back onto the brick. Kirishima shuffled to join him, leaving a good two feet of wall space between them. Despite the added pressure of having Bakugou right beside him, the fresh air felt as nice as he expected. After all, he’d gotten used to the smell of Bakugou’s menthols.

“You put on a good show,” Bakugou muttered.

Kirishima’s entire body tightened. His mind flicked through all the moments—the feeling before he dove in for the kiss, Bakugou’s tongue pushing at the very last minute, the look they exchanged afterwards. He shivered and swallowed thickly.

Bakugou held out the cigarette to Kirishima, but he refused it. He stuck the thing back in his mouth but reached around to his left to get a plastic cup which he offered to Kirishima in a similar fashion. It looked like alcohol, the same that they would drink before shows. As much as Kirishima wanted to refuse, there was no way he was going to survive this interaction if he wasn’t at least a little bit under the influence.

“Thanks,” he muttered while taking the cup.

As he pulled his hand back towards him, Kirishima felt his pinky graze one of Bakugou’s calloused, rough fingers. The sensation made his breath hitch in his throat. He’d made out with this man not three hours earlier, why was such a subtle touch sending him into a fit?

Kirishima tipped the cup until the liquid slipped past his trembling lips. He grimaced at the taste, just as sour and pungent as he remembered, but he tried to suppress it for the sake of impressing Bakugou. Crickets chirped in the tall grass. The moon lit up the expanse of the streets on either side of them. When Kirishima looked at Bakugou, he could pick out the bumps in his nose where the moonlight caught and the places where shadows took up residence, carving out the shape of his features.

“The Moth Ball guys looked impressed,” he muttered, “you’ve improved loads since you started.”

“Thanks,” Kirishima replied softly.

He wanted to keep looking at Bakugou. He wanted to look at him forever. But his mother had always admonished him for staring in public, so he tore his eyes away reluctantly when he sensed that he’d been gazing for a little too long. Out of the corner of his eyes, Kirishima could see the patchwork of messy, fading tattoos that littered Bakugou’s legs. He wanted to ask about each of them, trace them with his fingers, but if Bakugou was so apt to keep secrets, there was a good chance he wouldn’t indulge in such an intimate conversation.

Anyhow, Kirishima would be satisfied with just getting to run his finger over Bakugou’s skin.

“I talked to Mina,” Kirishima blurted out.

Damn mystery alcohol.

“Mm,” Bakugou grunted.

“She told me—your dad is in jail,” Kirishima added hesitantly.

Bakugou’s jaw rippled. The fingers he was using to hold his menthol tensed. He gazed up into the night sky with narrowed eyes before heaving a heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Kirishima tried to alleviate the new tension that was making his heart beat erratically.

“He didn’t do it,” Bakugou cut in gruffly.

“I know.”

“Mina said he didn’t do it, they just wanted a reason to lock him up,” he continued.

“I know,” Kirishima soothed.

“His bail is some ungodly number which all those fuckers knew I’d never be able to pay,” he flicked the end of his cigarette onto the concrete.

Kirishima looked down at the floor. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt while Bakugou panted angrily beside him.

“Y’know, they said it was all over after the war, they shut down those fucking camps and gave all their shit reparations,” Bakugou hissed, “but if you asked a single fucker here to defend a Japanese person in court, they’d look at you like you just asked ‘em to pardon the Devil himself.”

Kirishima hadn’t thought much about that. They’d moved to the States when he was only three, so it was the only world he’d ever known. All the attendees of his father’s church were white, all the kids he went to school with were white, all the workers at the grocery store were, too. Bakugou and his friends were the first Japanese people other than his parents he’d seen in a long time. His name had always been ‘strange’ to teachers and friends, but compared to Sero’s and Mina’s and Kaminari’s, his name was normal.

Perhaps one of the reasons he liked Bakugou and his friends so much was because they looked like him, even in the smallest of ways.

“What about your mom?” Kirishima asked.

“Gone,” Bakugou gave a clipped response, “dropped off the face of the earth when I was six.”

“Oh,” Kirishima whispered.

“She was white,” Bakugou added lowly, “probably ran off with some other guy who had more money and status than my dad. And now I have the blonde hair just to remind me that she was ever in the picture, at all.”

Kirishima gazed up at the mop of thick, blonde hair that grew from Bakugou’s head. Against his Japanese features, Kirishima admitted that it’d always looked strange. As far as he knew, genetics didn’t really work like that, but little about Bakugou was normal or predictable. Kirishima had always known that.

“Why did they wanna arrest him so badly?” Kirishima asked innocently, taking a breath of fresh air after the fact.

“Besides the fact he wasn’t white,” Bakugou shrugged, “he was into all the normal punk stuff—hated cops, did sit-ins and shit, had some stuff on his record from anti-Vietnam war protests.”

Kirishima had only seen protestors once in his life. He and his mother were walking home from the grocery store one day when they passed a crowd of people sitting in front of the capitol building with massive signs. Kirishima had tried to read them from a distance, but his mother was quick in averting his eyes and changing the subject while subtly admonishing the protestors’ actions.

All Kirishima remembered was the crowd, mostly young men, lying on the pavement in front of the structure, holding up signs with words and acronyms he couldn’t quite make out. He wanted to ask them what was so important that they’d risk their lives to vouch for it, but he never got the chance. Maybe Bakugou’s dad had been at one of those.

“He was all I had,” Bakugou grumbled, “I had to figure everything out on my own when he got locked up.”

Bakugou’s eyes were even narrower now. His hands were balling into tensing fists, fingers rapping against the wall behind him.

“But that’s what fuckin’ happens,” he said matter-of-factly, “I care about someone, then I lose them.”

With that, Bakugou pulled another cigarette from beside him and lit it masterfully with his lighter. He seemed to shrug the whole conversation off in one phrase, but Kirishima couldn’t help but watch his lips twitch around the cigarette and his eyes glaze over and glimmer in the moonlight.

Ask him about Izuku, Kirishima’s mind pled.

But he knew he couldn’t. Perhaps the right moment would never even come. He wanted to ride this wave of vulnerability and finally gain some understanding about the boy in the picture, but Bakugou’s body language suggested that he’d moved on, that he was done with the wringer. Kirishima’s lips parted and closed so many times that he was convinced he’d catch a fly at some point.

“Bakugou—” he began.

Bakugou looked at him with a stony expression. It was the first time they’d really looked at each other since the show. Kirishima couldn’t help but let his eyes flicker down to Bakugou’s lips, thin and rubbed red. It would be so simple to do it again—

No.

It was all for show.

None of it was real.

“I can’t go home looking like this,” he said with a sigh.

Bakugou let out a clipped chuckle. He let out a puff of smoke.

“Stay here until tomorrow, you told your parents you had some school shit, yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” Kirishima nodded, “but my bruises aren’t gonna go away that fast, are they?”

“Your lip should look a lot better by tomorrow, the split isn’t bad,” Bakugou’s eyes raced all over Kirishima’s battered features, “and Mina can teach you how to cover up those bruises.”

“Guess I could tell them I fell in the parking lot somewhere and busted my lip,” Kirishima chuckled.

Bakugou’s brow fell, “They’d believe that?”

“I’m really clumsy,” Kirishima admitted sheepishly.

Bakugou scoffed.

“Really,” Kirishima assured, “when I was six, I broke my collarbone from jumping off the swings wrong.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched into a small smile.

“Broke my nose my first time dumpster diving,” he muttered, “jumped in and immediately smashed my face on the edge.”

Kirishima suppressed his smile by pulling his lips between his teeth, but he was letting out little huffs of air from his nose. Bakugou shook his head and took another drag. If Kirishima looked at his nose closely, he could locate the place where his nose stopped going straight and suddenly took a sharp right turn.

Kirishima tried to stifle a yawn, but Bakugou caught on.

“Go inside and go to sleep,” Bakugou commanded gruffly.

“I’ll just sleep on the couch,” Kirishima handed the empty plastic cup back to Bakugou.

“No way,” Bakugou retorted, “that couch is on its last fucking days. I’ve got a double bed, just sleep there.”

Kirishima shivered.

“Are you sure?” He asked worriedly, “I mean, I can sleep on the floor, too. My dad used to make me sleep on the floor next to his bed when he was mad at me, so I’m used to it.”

Bakugou turned towards him with a quirked brow.

“Kid, you’ve got one messed up family,” he said lowly.

Feeling his face flush some deep crimson shade, Kirishima looked back towards the slider and gulped.

“If I see you sleeping on the floor instead of the bed, I’ll kick the shit out of you,” Bakugou hissed.

Kirishima could only nod in response. His mouth had gone desert dry and his hands were growing clammy. Was Bakugou being serious? What if he was telling a joke? Kirishima was always terrible at knowing when people were joking and when they weren’t. Thus, he shot one more harrowed look towards Bakugou, but the man’s expression was serious and insistent. Maybe Bakugou was more like Kirishima than he thought.

Swiftly, Kirishima opened the slider and shuffled back into the main room. Jirou and Kaminari had turned in for the night, and Mina’s shoes at the door of her and Sero’s bedroom indicated to Kirishima that she, too, had gone to bed. Kirishima shook all the nerves from his hands and started to walk towards the door of the only room he’d never seen the inside of. Mina and Sero’s room was to the left of it while Jirou and Kaminari’s was around the corner on the right. Kirishima could feel his stomach doing flips as he approached the door and reached his trembling hand towards the handle.

The door was creaky. As Kirishima opened it, he feared that he would awaken the entire house. He quickly shuffled inside and shut the door behind him, taking his first look at Bakugou’s room.

It was nothing impressive. The walls were all concrete, so were the floors. There was a double bed shoved in the corner that had no headboard but was held up by some wrought iron bed frame and legs; draped across the old mattress across which a fitted sheet had been secured was a gray comforter and a loose top sheet. There was only one pillow, though, with no pillowcase. Above the bed was a window that’d been covered halfway by a piece of plywood; even so, the moonlight shone through it and illuminated the shadowy parts of the bed.

Beside his bed was a crate with a stack of magazines, an ashtray, a lamp that was casting towering shadows all over the walls, and an empty bottle of prescription pills. On the right wall of the room was a stack of similar milk crates piled atop one another, each one stuffed full of bundles of clothing. There were posters peeling off of the wall, most of them bands Kirishima wasn’t familiar with, but he was proud of himself for identifying a couple of the bands, particularly The Clash.

Kirishima peered at the poster which showed all the members of the band. He remembered Jirou claiming that Bakugou found the lead singer hot. He had dark brown hair that was shaved on each side. His face was angular and slim, and his eyes were set nicely in his face. Hanging out the side of his mouth was a cigarette. Kirishima reached up to shove around the fat on his cheeks. He felt the lines of his own thin, small eyes. Beneath his touch, Kirishima felt himself frown. He would never look like the man on the poster, no matter how hard he tried.

With a sigh, Kirishima glanced down at his outfit. There was no way he was going to be able to sleep in all this. So, he reached down and untied his shoes, kicking them off in a similar fashion to Kaminari. He tore off his shirt and peeled the mesh undershirt from his skin, suddenly becoming aware of how he was half naked in Bakugou’s bedroom.

His face flushing, Kirishima slipped the t-shirt back on, concluding that it would probably be soft enough to sleep in. He checked around frantically for something to wear as bottoms that wouldn’t be the impossibly tight ripped jeans. Shoved in the corner was a pair of sweatpants.

Bakugou will get mad if you use them, Kirishima thought.

Maybe he could wear them then pull the comforter up over his legs so Bakugou would never even see. Before he could make a sound judgement, Kirishima was shimmying out of his jeans and reaching for the crumpled pair of sweatpants. They were a little big on him, but they were much softer inside than his original pants. He pulled the drawstring and tied it as tight as it would go, even though he had to reply on his hipbones to hold it up.

Instantly, the change in clothes calmed him. In the short moment of peace, Kirishima realized how tired he really was. So, without another thought, Kirishima crawled onto the bed from the foot of it. He was careful in moving across it, feeling the springs shift and creak beneath him; he kept as close to the edge as possible, too afraid to take up actual space on the mattress. He reached over to shut off the lamp on the nightstand, relying solely on the moonlight to give him a sense of sight.

The entire room was cast in a solemn shade of blue. Kirishima felt his right arm rub up against the concrete wall as he adjusted his seat on the bed so his head would fall right at the top of the mattress. He shoved the pillow to the side. Bakugou would probably want to use it—wherever he was planning on sleeping. Without looking, Kirishima pulled the comforter up and over his legs so Bakugou wouldn’t be able to see the sweatpants he’d thieved.

Kirishima slipped his hand beneath his temple as he laid his head down onto the mattress. The smell of the bed invaded his senses. it was Bakugou’s scent—menthols and spray deodorant with a hint of sweat. To anyone else, it would’ve been a sour scent, but Kirishima couldn’t help but snuggle further into the sensation, imagining that he was on stage again with his nose pressed up against Bakugou’s cheek. He stifled a grin. Even though he was facing the concrete wall, Kirishima felt safe. The moonlight kissed the exposed parts of his faces and the noises of the street outside lulled him quickly into a state of sleep.

He awoke some time later.

There was noise happening around him, small shuffles and bumps. Kirishima was no longer facing the wall—he must’ve shifted sometime in his sleep. He opened one eye tentatively and adjusted to the new light that was filling the room. It wasn’t moonlight, but the sun wasn’t completely up either; it was most likely some early morning hour where the sun is only peeking over the horizon, casting a peachy glow all over the gray comforter. He opened his other eye to look at what was making all that noise off to the side.

Standing before the pile of crates full of clothes was Bakugou.

He was running his fingers through his hair to try and extract some of the gel without having to wash it. As he inhaled deeply, Kirishima watched his broad shoulders rise and tense. Kirishima’s heart pattered, his face running strangely hot. With a sigh, Bakugou crossed his arms and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in one swift motion.

Kirishima’s eyes went wide. He’d never seen Bakugou’s back before. Quite honestly, he’d never seen anyone’s bare back before except for his own. Bakugou wasn’t exactly ripped, but his back was broad and scarred. Spanning the entire thing was a large, dark tattoo of angel wings. When he moved to toss the shirt into the corner, Kirishima watched all the muscle in his shoulder tense beneath the thin layer of his skin, making the wings look like they were moving as he did.

If Bakugou Katsuki really was an angel, he was finally starting to look the part.

Just like before, Kirishima wanted to sit and run his finger across every line of the tattoo, watching Bakugou’s skin move as he did. Bakugou stretched his arms forward and the wings followed suit, almost fluttering and wrapping around his front.

As his body began to turn, Kirishima panicked and squished his eyes closed. The only thing worse that Bakugou seeing Kirishima in his sweatpants would be Bakugou seeing him staring when he was supposed to be asleep. He listened to Bakugou’s feet shuffle around the concrete floor and waited for the door to close, signaling his exit. But Bakugou wasn’t walking towards the door.

Kirishima didn’t connect the dots until the bed was dipping beside him.

Kirishima’s mind screamed. As Bakugou’s heavy body shuffled into bed beside him, Kirishima was having trouble stifling his panicked breaths. He kept his eyes closed as firmly as possible as he felt Bakugou’s presence settle beside him. When Bakugou’s hand wrapped around the back of his head, Kirishima could’ve sworn his entire body turned to jelly.

Gently, Bakugou lifted Kirishima’s head and lowered it back down onto something softer—a pillow. For the sake of his performance, Kirishima fake nuzzled into the plush pillow, pretending that he’d been asleep for the whole time and keeping his breaths as even as possible. Bakugou’s hand dragged over the rest of his neck and only abandoned his skin completely once the heel of his hand hit the edge of Kirishima’s jaw.

His entire body beat and buzzed. It was like Kirishima had been electrocuted—his brain wasn’t working right, and he felt like any other sort of touch would send real sparks running through his skin. Eventually, Bakugou’s movements steadied and Kirishima began to hear birds chirping outside the window, signifying morning. When he heard Bakugou’s breath grow even, Kirishima tentatively opened one eye.

Sure enough, Bakugou was beside him. What was more, he was facing him.

His face was still gruff and his brow heavy, but his lips were parted to release soft, short breaths of fatigue. He only had the comforter over one of his legs and he’d rested one hand on his bare side while the other was curled between the two of them. Granted, they were still a good foot or two apart, but Kirishima swore he could feel Bakugou’s breath fan across his nose every once in a while. Kirishima’s heart thrummed so hard at the edge of his chest that he was afraid the bed would move from the sheer force.

There was another tattoo on Bakugou’s chest. It was a fairly familiar image to Kirishima, atop which was a word spelled in fanciful letters.

It was a depiction of the Last Supper.

With his eyes, Kirishima looked at each letter, piecing the word together in his mind.

BETRAYAL, it read.

Kirishima swallowed thickly. He closed his eyes just as he felt Bakugou begin to stir. The image of the tattoo seemed to be burned in his brain. If he wasn’t so tired, he would’ve been up for hours thinking about the tattoos on Bakugou’s back and chest and the fact that the man himself was lying beside him in bed, but the sheer act of having his eyes closed was starting to lull Kirishima into another couple hours of sleep.

His last thought before drifting off was how excited he was for their next show

when he could kiss Bakugou again.

Chapter Text

When Kirishima Eijirou was three years old, his parents gifted him a little stuffed rabbit.

It was nothing impressive, a series of simple stitches through thin wool in the general shape of a rabbit with a button nose and two long ears. He’d sat with the rabbit in his hands, marveling at its beauty, mesmerized by the pale-yellow color and the gleam of its eyes beneath the lights. He had received stuffed animals before, but this one felt different; in fact, he refused to put it down.

For a few months, Kirishima carried the toy everywhere, typically by the left ear but sometimes by the right foot. When he crawled into bed at night and said his prayers, his very next thought would be of his rabbit, something he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without. If he awoke in the middle of the night empty-handed, he would flip on all the lights in a panic to search for the rabbit—it had usually just fallen off his bed, but he’d still apologize as if the toy could feel the hard wooden floor beneath its plush body.

Eventually, his mother encouraged him to start leaving the rabbit in his room, especially when they were in public, and only hold it when he was sleeping at night. It took Kirishima a long few years to break the habit, but he soon became comfortable with holding the rabbit at night, even as elementary school and middle school passed by in a blur. During those years, he watched the rabbit’s wool soak with tears and snot and pill from the wear of being held tight to his body every single night.

When he was freshly twelve, Kirishima came home to find his rabbit missing from its usual spot on his bed. He spent hours tearing his room apart, searching for the toy and holding back tears, but he never uncovered it. It wasn’t until his father came home that he learned he’d gotten rid of the rabbit for good. Kirishima pled with him, kneeling at his feet and tugging on the ends of his nice slacks, tears running down his face.

“You’re twelve now,” his father had hissed, “men don’t sleep with stuffed rabbits.”

His father’s words were no comfort. Kirishima’s mind didn’t always process what was logical and true, he was much more attuned to how he felt; why would he have any reason to act outside of his own honest emotion? Thus, he sobbed and begged. Although he knew he was twelve, almost ready to move on to high school, he felt three years old at his father’s feet, thinking only of his precious rabbit that was gone forever.

The first month that followed, he cried himself to sleep. He would awaken during the night in the same panic, his clammy hands patting around his entire bed in search of what he knew would never be there. He’d tried to hold a blanket in a bundle or any other stuffed animal he owned, but nothing felt the same. It took a few more years of semi-sleepless nights, but he eventually stopped crying and found ways to soothe himself at night, accepting that when he would wake up, he would feel as empty-handed as he did that night his father took his rabbit away.

However, the morning he awoke in Bakugou Katsuki’s room, his hands felt full and secure—

like he was holding onto his rabbit again.

The texture was different, smoother and firmer, but he felt so at peace that it might as well have been his old friend, tear-soaked and worn thin. He sensed the papery sheets beneath him and the comforter that was tossed loosely over his hip as he shifted closer into whatever he was holding. Outside the window, he heard birds chittering wildly and felt the warm summer sun poking through the cracks in the glass. Kirishima’s chest rose solely with a deep, waking breath and fell with a soft exhale.

If he simply focused on his hearing, Kirishima could imagine that he was in his room at home beneath his quilt, but the smell of smoke that lingered in the room and the sound of cars whizzing by on the nearby road resurfaced all his memories of the prior night: the show, the fight,

the kiss.

Kirishima opened one eye tentatively, tilting his head to where his hands were holding on for dear life. It was no rabbit, not even a skillfully shaped piece of blanket.

It was an arm.

Kirishima’s breath hitched in his throat. His other eye opened with a twitch and he felt his heart leap up to his throat when he saw the meat of Bakugou’s upper arm entrapped between his palms and his chest. His eyes flicked up to the man in question, who was thankfully still fast asleep, his free arm slung above his head. Kirishima’s gaze trailed from Bakugou’s shoulder down to where his hands were holding and further until he saw Bakugou’s forearm.

His eyes searched frantically for Bakugou’s hand. Kirishima could see his wrist, but he had to angle his head down a bit to see that the hand connected to the arm that he was holding onto was tucked between his legs which he’d stacked atop one another amidst assuming his usual fetal position. Bakugou’s fingers were hooked just gently around the back of the bottom leg a few inches above his knee. Kirishima swallowed thickly. When he really focused, he could feel the slight tug of Bakugou’s fingers against the fabric of his sweatpants.

It all seemed rather unintentional, Kirishima’s grip on Bakugou’s arm and Bakugou’s hold on Kirishima’s leg, like they had both been searching in their sleep for something to keep them grounded on the bed. Perhaps their minds were so afraid of losing that they subconsciously took ahold of whatever felt most real, most alive.

Now that his hands were going clammy, Kirishima knew he had to remove his hands from Bakugou’s arms before the man awoke so he could pretend it never happened. But as he shifted his fingers to pull them away, he felt the tips graze along the soft skin of Bakugou’s inner arm. Kirishima’s breath tangled up in his chest.

“My parents were never touchy people. I wanted so badly for them to hold me, pet my hair, affirm to me that I was not just something to be seen but something to be touched—that I was alive.”

“Interesting.”

“I eventually developed a sort of touch aversion after years of neglect. I hated hugs and sitting near people and everything like that, but this was the first time I had touched someone else’s skin in such a way that reminded me that I wasn’t just floating through some illusion of a life. I think the rabbit had always been a projection, a simulation where I could pour out the affection that I wanted for myself. When my father threw it away, it was like he was throwing away any chance of me receiving such tender touch in my life.”

“But, that morning—”

“It had been a long time since I’d ever held onto another person, but I think it was the very first time someone willingly held onto me.”

Kirishima’s fingers ran across the soft skin over and over, hovering just a quarter of an inch above what he believed to be Bakugou’s actual body. It was like he could imagine the sensation against his fingers even when he wasn’t touching anymore. He pressed his palm back onto the muscle and dug his thumb slowly and gently into the space right between the muscles that ran parallel to one another. When Kirishima closed his eyes and silenced his own frantic body, he could feel Bakugou’s heartbeat through his thumb as the blood rushed—a steady drum that beat and lubbed at all the right moments.

Bakugou’s fingers moved just slightly against Kirishima’s leg. He froze, waiting for Bakugou to stir awake, but the moment never came. Heaving a silent sigh of relief, Kirishima returned his attention to his fingers floating against Bakugou’s skin. As his head fell from one side to the other, Kirishima watched his gently parted lips twitch and his eyelids scrunch every once in a while. The sight of him was intoxicating, it turned Kirishima’s brain into jelly and his hands into pools of sticky sweat. Bakugou’s lashes were blonde, too—Kirishima had never noticed that.

As close as their bodies were, Kirishima couldn’t help but feel that they were two shores separated by an impossibly vast ocean; while they bordered the same body of water, they would never understand what it was like on the other side, understand each other. Kirishima sighed.

Bakugou’s lips were so close. The last time they were this close, the two of them were standing on stage. Was it really that easy? Was it so simple to just lean in and—?

“Bakugou!”

A shrill voice shouted from the door which had been flung open with a bang. Kirishima’s body flinched at the sound, his hands seemingly cemented in their positions around Bakugou’s sleeping arm.

“The Moth Ball guys just called,” Mina cried from the doorway, “we’re in!”

Kirishima’s neck craned up to see Mina’s frazzled mess of hair and half-falling sleep shirt posted in the entryway of Bakugou’s room, a bright smile spread across her face and a twinkle in her eye. Her gaze trailed to Bakugou’s sleeping form, her smile melting in the next moment. Then they moved to the side where Kirishima was sitting with a ghastly expression. His heart was rapping loudly at the edge of his chest as he watched Mina’s eyes narrow and her brow fall flat.

She sighed.

“Sero, I owe you five bucks,” she leaned back to shout out to the main room, “I thought it was gonna take months for them to have sex, but I guess you were right.”

Kirishima’s eyes flew open. Retracting his hands as if he’d been touching a hot stove, he held them out in a surrender towards Mina.

“That’s not—” he stuttered, “we didn’t—we—”

But Mina wasn’t even there to listen to Kirishima’s protests. His face flushed hotter than it ever had before as he scrambled out of the bed, almost tripping on the mess of comforter tangled at the foot of the mattress, and made a beeline for the door.

Planting his hands on the door frame, Kirishima panted and searched wildly for Mina.

“I swear we didn’t!”

His mouth had gone so dry that all the words felt sticky and awkward. Mina was sauntering back over to the couches where Sero was holding out a hand to receive their money. Kirishima bolted over to her, holding her shoulder insistently.

“We didn’t—” he protested breathlessly, “I promise we just—”

Mina looked at him like he’d gone completely bonkers. She had one brow quirked while the other rested skeptically low against her eye. Her judging gaze scraped down his face to his shirt.

“You’re wearing his clothes,” she said lowly.

“I needed something to sleep in!” Kirishima assured.

“Uh-huh,” Mina replied with an air of suspicion.

Kirishima’s body flooded with the sort of fear that washed over him when he heard something in the field behind his house when he was wading through the reeds at night. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be messing around in the field after the sun went down, so if anything were to happen during his nightly escapades, it would be entirely his fault. Even the mention of sex sent a shudder down his spine, like the word itself was some sort of expletive he’d only heard his father spit from the pulpit. While he knew it wasn’t true, the mere insinuation put Kirishima on the defense, desperate to squash the rumor before it somehow made it to his father’s ears.

“We were just sleeping,” Kirishima insisted.

“Together?” Sero chimed in.

“Yeah,” Kirishima replied.

“Sleeping together,” Mina repeated with a nod.

“Yes.”

Mina’s seething gaze switched to Sero, instead.

“I’m keeping my fucking money because I still think I’m right,” she teased.

Sero rolled their eyes and retracted their begging hand. In a huff, Mina plopped herself down onto the moth-eaten couch. Kirishima sighed and felt his adrenaline begin to calm throughout his body, and when he turned and shuffled back to the bedroom, Kirishima watched Bakugou lean against the door frame with a lit cigarette already pinched between his teeth, still clad only in his boxers.

“You’re up,” Kirishima said hastily as his body began to thrum, once more.

“Kinda hard to sleep when there’s a performance of Hamlet going on outside my door,” Bakugou grumbled in a sleepy voice, the kind that crackled like a dying fire.

“Sorry,” Kirishima apologized quietly, bowing his head.

“Whatever,” the blonde grumbled, “it’s my fault for turning in so late.”

Bakugou scratched at his bare side where his ribs jutted into his skin and flashed Kirishima a sort of knowing half-smile like he’d been watching the whole ordeal from the wings and was now applauding Kirishima for his impromptu performance. With blood-red cheeks, Kirishima shuffled past Bakugou and searched for his bag where he had brought a change of clothes for the following day. If he tried to wear his clothing from the previous day, his mother would have a million questions about the host of smells that emanated from every piece, so he agreed to leave his old dirty clothes at the hideout to change into during his visits, hence avoiding the scent issue altogether.

Bakugou padded out into the main room; Kirishima suspected that he was taking his smoke session out to the porch. Once he was truly gone, Kirishima shut the door and slapped his hands over his cheeks that’d turned to hot plates, fully convinced that he could cook an egg on the surface of them. With trembling fingers, he opened his bag and shifted things around to find his change of clothes. He kicked off the sweatpants and tore the shirt from his body, desperate to get Bakugou’s smell off of him before his head actually exploded.

Once he had the pants and polo on, Kirishima could breathe deeply again, feeling comfortable in his usual fare. Sounds of chatter had grown louder out in the main room, so Kirishima poked his head out to scope the scene before he made his presence known.

Jirou was lounged on the couch with her feet propped up on Sero’s lap. Kaminari was staring in a dingy mirror leaned against the wall messing with his hair and tidying up the edges with a rusty razor. Mina was flipping through a magazine, her feet curled up into a plastic lawn chair that had been set out recently. The sun streamed in through the tall, factory windows, casting a cool morning glow over all the old furniture and walls. None of them were wearing any makeup or fancy clothing or thick jewelry: Jirou’s face was flushed with color, Sero’s lips were thin and naturally pink, and Mina’s hair was flat against her head, two little strands sticking up on either side like horns.

As much as Kirishima admired Bakugou’s friends, there had to inevitably come a moment where he stopped seeing them as caricatures of the life he could never live and remember that they were people, themselves.

In fact, they were kids.

Eighteen, nineteen, it didn’t matter. They were kids sitting around trying to figure out what to do with themselves. For the first time, Kirishima could see how much he had in common with them all.

It was a slow morning at the hideout. They all went about their routines in near silence, Jirou and Kaminari eventually breaking off to look for free things on the side of the road in a nearby suburb and Sero walking to a corner store for the decongestants. At some point, it was just Kirishima and Mina in the main room and Bakugou futzing with some things in the adjacent stage area.

And there they sat across from one another on the couch, Mina’s makeup brush working at the large bruises on Kirishima’s neck while he held a mirror that allowed him to look on so he would know how to do it himself. She was on her third layer of foundation when Kirishima had to heave a tired sigh.

“Your lip looks much better, at least,” Mina reassured him with a gentle smile.

Kirishima pouted, “I’m so stupid, I should’ve never gone out there alone, then I wouldn’t have—”

“Stop,” Mina commanded, “this isn’t your fault.”

“If I’d just done what my dad always told me to do, I wouldn’t—”

“Stop,” she repeated with an icy glare.

Kirishima’s gaze fluttered down to the ground.

“You think everything that goes wrong is your fault, it’s not,” Mina assured him, “things going wrong is how you know you’re actually living. And most of it just happens at random.”

He continued to stare at the floor, leaning into the firm touch of the makeup sponge and the grounding sensation of Mina’s words.

God is punishing you.

That’s what he always believed. Any tragedy, any difficulty was only sent because you were straying from the path, and God needed to punish you to put you back on track. Kirishima had always believed it, and as much as he wanted to accept Mina’s words as truth, he couldn’t shake the leering gaze of the Lord—at least, the one his father had always told him about.

“There,” Mina grinned, “you’ve got an idea of how to do it yourself?”

Kirishima turned his head to gaze at the well-covered bruises on both jaws.

“Yeah,” he replied with a small grin.

With makeup in tow, Kirishima was finally ready to leave. Bakugou asked if he wanted a ride, but Kirishima denied, choosing instead to ride the bus. Bakugou interrogated him on the decision, but it seemed he along with all his friends could tell that Kirishima was overwhelmed and a nice quiet bus ride might just be the perfect remedy. So he slung his backpack over his shoulder and bid farewell to those who remained, being sure to flash Bakugou an extra smile on his way out. But he was a bit pouty from having his offer rejected, so he just turned and retreated to the porch.

The bus ride was quiet, enough to let Kirishima lean his head against the window and watch the trees and roads pass by him in a whizzing blur with no distractions. For a Saturday afternoon, the vehicle was surprisingly empty bar an old woman clutching her handbag in the front seat and another woman with a little dog. Kirishima hugged his backpack closer to himself and listened to the bus’s gears screech before speeding off down more country-looking roads.

When he finally did reach the closest stop to his house, Kirishima found that his mind was far too tired to do any more thinking, even that of taking in his surroundings. He trudged in silence towards the adjacent road which was mostly made of rubble and dirt which led to the familiar home. There were no cars in the driveway which meant his father wasn’t there. Kirishima had actually timed it that way: on the first Saturday of every month his father had to watch over the revival meeting which was only scheduled to last for two hours but always ended up becoming a day-long affair. Usually, it was Kirishima’s only day of peace. He could open his windows all the way and his mother could play Frankie Valli on the radio in the living room.

Kirishima knew that he was right as he climbed the stairs and heard faint hums of The Four Seasons floating from somewhere inside. Carefully, he turned the knob and pushed open the old, creaky door. His mother was in the living room with her sweater tucked across her chest and her nose deep within a thin paperback book. When Kirishima came in, her eyes flickered up to the door and the worried line of her mouth curled up sweetly.

“Eiji,” she whispered while hoisting herself up from her seat.

As she neared him, Kirishima watched his mother’s eyes trail instantly to the place where his lip was split. He mustered a half-smile, but her eyes were stuck, locked on the injury.

“What happened to your lip?” She asked softly.

“I fell and hit my head on a parking stump,” Kirishima replied gently.

“Again?” She groaned, her brow creasing with concern.

“It was an accident,” Kirishima reassured her.

Slowly, his mother’s hand rose to the level of his face and she took a hold of his cheek, just her palm resting gently against the skin. Kirishima tried to stifle his flinches of pain as she moved his face from one side to the other.

“He—he didn’t do this to you—did he?” She asked in a near whisper as if ‘he’ was there to listen.

Kirishima shook his head. His mother pursed her lips and dropped her hand, but she didn’t look very convinced. She ran her hand down the sleeve of his shirt and twiddled the fabric between her fingers.

“I turned off the air conditioning,” she said politely, “our bill was too high last month.”

Kirishima sighed, “What about the safe? Can’t we use any money from there?”

There was a safe tucked all the way back in his parent’s closet which housed all their emergency money. Kirishima was never allowed to see inside, so he didn’t know exactly how much was in there, he only knew it existed and his parents refused to use a dime of it.

“What do you want for dinner?” She asked flatly, avoiding the inquiry entirely.

“Anything,” Kirishima replied, already making a beeline for his door.

“You know he’s always home for dinner,” his mother called after him.

“Yes,” was all Kirishima said before slipping into his room and shutting the door behind him with a disappointed click.

It was Thursday.

Kirishima had told Bakugou that he had family things to do that day, but he’d also told his parents that he’d be in classes, neither of which were true.

What he really wanted was a day all to himself where he could finally go to the library.

Kirishima had to dig around his room a bit to find his old library card, but he’d eventually shoved the thing in his pocket and boarded the southbound bus to the public library that his mother used to take him to when she had knitting circle. The outside was familiar, the peeling paint and sickly green tone of it all. The inside, however, had been redone sometime in his absence. Even though they had new carpeting and chairs, there were none of the fancy computers with dial-up that the other libraries had, and Kirishima had only heard tales of those from nearby conversation.

He walked up to the librarian behind the help desk who shot him a quizzical look.

“Hi,” he said quietly, “could you help me?”

“Sure, hon,” the librarian set down a plastic-bound book, “what do you need?”

“I need to look through your archives,” Kirishima replied.

“Follow me,” the librarian tilted her head further into the building.

It wasn’t very big, but Kirishima felt like they walked forever. He occupied his eyes with the endless rows of books and the occasional face he saw between the spines. There was no speaking except for a low hum of existence that hung in the air, making even the walls feel like they were alive. The archives were in a dark room in the back, rows upon rows of boxes and binders filled with transcripts and news clippings and academic papers that Kirishima knew would take him a lifetime to read in their totality.

“Any letter in particular?” The librarian turned to ask.

“The letter ‘I’, p-please.”

She walked him down the corridor until they reached what Kirishima assumed to be the correct place in the alphabet.

“You’ve got IA to IM right here,” she motioned with her hand, “and IN to IZ right over here,” she motioned elsewhere.

“If you wanna read a film slide, you have to use the machine,” she pointed to a bulky looking contraption in the corner.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kirishima replied with a nod.

“Now, don’t get into any trouble,” the librarian warned with a quirked brow.

“No, ma’am,” Kirishima shook his head and followed her with his gaze as she passed behind him towards the door they’d come in through.

Even as the librarian left, she was eyeing him like she was waiting for him to commit some heinous crime—not that she’d seemed very pleased to help him find the archives at all. Was she watching him because he was a kid or because he had red hair?

But if you asked a single fucker here to defend a Japanese person in court, they’d look at you like you just asked ‘em to pardon the Devil himself.

Bakugou’s words had been burned onto the forefront of his mind. Perhaps she wasn’t just looking at Kirishima because he had the air of some punk kid, but because of features he couldn’t change. Truthfully, he’d never thought of it that way.

Shaking the idea from his mind, Kirishima turned down the archive shelves which held all documents labeled IN to IZ. He traveled all the way to the end, minding the little plates indicating which letters each shelf housed as he did. When he finally reached IZ, he took every box and binder off the shelf that he could possibly hold. With his arms full, Kirishima teetered over to the machine which had a desk and chair sitting beside it. He plopped all the things onto the table and had to wave away a cloud of dust that puffed up from it.

With a sigh, he opened the first binder and scanned the page.

He was looking for a name,

a very particular name.

There was no clock in the archive room, so Kirishima wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d begun his search. His only indicator of time was the pile of boxes sitting now on the ground, all full of records that were of no relevance to him. His eyes were rubbed red from the strain of peering into the film-viewing machine, trying to maneuver the knobs to focus on the tiny words. He’d seen seemingly every document that had to do with izars, a cotton gown worn by Muslim women of Northern Africa, and some girl named Izabel who won an inordinate amount of awards for her pageantry.

At some point, Kirishima wondered if his search was fruitless. With every binder he’d set onto the ground, he’d heave a deep sigh and consider whether he’d gone completely mad thinking he’d be able to look through all of the archives in one day. Mindlessly, he flicked through a box full of newspaper clippings, scanning each one with a tired expression.

He pulled a thin, dated clipping out. When his eyes finally adjusted, they caught instantly onto the picture at the top: it was a young boy with a mop of dark curly hair and a nose smattered with endless freckles. Kirishima’s gaze trailed down to the name in the very first sentence and his heart skipped a beat.

It was an obituary—

an obituary for Midoriya Izuku.

Kirishima’s hands froze. His eyes trailed all over the words, trying to take in as much as possible, but he had to calm himself down before any of it would even begin to make sense. Holding the paper gingerly in his fingers, Kirishima lowered himself onto the chair and peered closer at the clipping.

“14-year old Midoriya Izuku, son of Inko and Hisashi, was found dead in Skinners Creek on Sunday at approximately 4:40pm,” Kirishima whispered to himself as he read the clipping.

He swallowed thickly and continued.

“Police ruled the incident as an accident, citing slippery rocks in the creek that Midoriya might’ve tried to stand on which led to him falling and hitting his head, resulting in his untimely death” Kirishima’s whispers grew broken and breathy.

“However,” Kirishima continued, “police are still investigating a possible instance of foul play.”

Foul play?

How could some kid drowning in a shallow creek indicate any sort of foul play?

Kirishima could only scan over the next part, a paragraph detailing where Midoriya went to school and the little achievements he’d accumulated from being a rather bright student.

...Science Fair in 1985...

...upstanding member of his community...

...volunteered often for his father’s church...

Kirishima’s breath hitched in his throat. The article stated the name of the church that Midoriya’s pastor was apparently the pastor at in clear print.

It was the same church,

the one his father now led.

Mind racing, Kirishima tried to do all the math. Midoriya died five years ago, so 1989. And Kirishima and his family moved across the state for his father’s new job in—

1989.

How did he not know? How did the news of such a tragedy not reach his ears when he was just thirteen? Sure, his father had insisted they pack up everything and move in only one weekend, but Kirishima had assumed that they were just moving for money’s sake. His father said the position was an immediate need.

But how did he know Bakugou? Did Bakugou ever go to church? Kirishima’s mind spun. He took another look at the small obituary just to make sure he wasn’t missing anything, but all the words were there in permanent printed ink. Letting out a shuddering breath, Kirishima tucked the paper back into its proper slot in the box and hurriedly closed the lid as if the action would keep all the harrowing memories trapped inside.

Wordlessly, Kirishima put all the boxes and binders back on the shelf, albeit in a few too many laden trips, but he appreciated the repetitive task as it gave his brain space to process all that he’d seen. Five years ago, Midoriya Izuku was in the exact same position as him and five years ago, Midoriya Izuku was found dead in a creek that Kirishima had only been to once before—for his thirteenth birthday in 1989.

Once all the boxes were back in their proper places, Kirishima grabbed his things and raced out of the library, a million questions nearly spilling out of his mind through his ear. He wanted to go to Bakugou’s now to get some kind of answer, but he knew that the words wouldn’t come out right if he didn’t give them any time to stew. Thus, reluctantly, Kirishima took the bus back to his home where he greeted his parents, his mother at the stove and his father typing his sermon on his typewriter in the corner, and retreated to his room.

He wished he had a copy of the obituary so he could read it over and over, checking for any sort of hidden meaning or detail he might’ve missed. Perhaps it was good that he was so familiar with the church they’d printed there, the name kept flashing in front of his eyes like an apparition. Kirishima rubbed his fingers against his temples, careful to avoid the makeup that covered his wounds, and flopped down onto his bed.

He almost felt guilty for wading in that same creek, the one that Izuku’s body was found in. How long after the incident had he gone? Mere months? Kirishima couldn’t remember the exact date of the article.

He wondered, equally, if he’d seen a flash of blonde poke through the trees while he was there or if he was just making things up.

Kirishima wasn’t to return to the hideout until that Saturday, and with Bakugou sitting just a foot away from him in the car, he was almost tempted to blurt out his findings with no introduction or segue. But he kept his lips sealed as the car rumbled over the roads and Bakugou muttered to him about some new cassette he’d gotten from a friend of this band he’d never heard before. Kirishima nodded his head every once in a while, but he couldn’t bring himself to listen, his mind rushing with more information than it could handle.

“What’s up with you?” Bakugou asked him lowly as they pulled up to the hideout.

“Nothing,” Kirishima fibbed, letting himself out of the car in the next moment.

As always, he was sucked immediately into whatever nonsense Kaminari was trying to fix and whatever magazine Mina was flipping endlessly through. Jirou, however, was moving back and forth between one of the rooms and the bathroom, carrying the occasional washcloth and bucket. Bakugou had announced they’d be practicing later that night and retreated to the porch for his afternoon smoke.

“What’s Jirou doing?” Kirishima asked Mina.

Mina’s seemingly permanent grin melted a bit. Her eyes flickered between the door and Kirishima’s face as if she was trying to piece together the right words to explain it all.

“Sero isn’t doing very well,” she said quietly, “we think they caught something at the corner store last week.”

“Oh,” Kirishima replied, his eyes downcast.

As Mina flipped to the next page of her tabloid, Jirou was hobbling out of the bathroom with another wet washcloth wrapped in her grip.

“We all offered to take care of them instead, but Jirou was dead-set on doing it herself,” Mina explained, “we think it’s some motherly instinct thing.”

Kirishima nodded. For the first time in a few days, his mind was relieved of thoughts of Izuku and replaced with thoughts of Sero. Kirishima’s stomach flipped around and tightened, making him feel nauseous as if he was on the deck of a ship in stormy weather. Every once in a while, he’d look up worriedly to the same door, waiting for Jirou to come out and ensure him that things were going well or poorly, Kirishima just had to know.

At some point, Kaminari abandoned his repair project and made a beeline for Sero’s door, dragging Jirou out in the next moment.

“You need to sit down,” he heard Kaminari say.

“I’m fine,” Jirou responded.

With a gentle hand on her lower back, Kaminari edged Jirou back to the couches and when she sat, she sighed in a little too much relief.

“I’ll take care of them for now,” Kaminari insisted.

Jirou nodded, but only because she was five seconds away from falling asleep. She reached across with one hand to rub her opposite shoulder which must’ve started to ache. Kirishima watched Kaminari disappear behind the door and emerge just a few minutes later with a bowl of—something. Tentatively, Kirishima lifted himself from his seat and made it seem like he was walking towards the slider when, in reality, he wanted to get a look at Sero, especially since Kaminari had left the door ajar.

As he sauntered towards the side of the building, Kirishima took chaste glances to his right, waiting until he was perfectly in line with the open door so he could peer inside without anyone catching him. It took a few tries, but he eventually caught a glimpse inside.

Sero was lying on their side with their hands curled against their chin and their knees kissing their chest. Their white tank was soaked with sweat, now a near gray color, and their shorts were rolled up to allow as much air as possible to pass over their skin. From that distance, Kirishima couldn’t see their entire face, but their cheek alone was sheet-white, glimmering with a thin sheen of perspiration. Sero was surrounded by everything, medicine bottles and washcloths and buckets and blankets they must’ve kicked off their overheated body. Their usually silky, well-maintained hair was slicked back with sweat and splayed all over the thin pillow.

Kirishima swallowed thickly. His lips twitched against one another as he tried to hold his tongue; he wanted so badly to call out to Sero, to ask what he could do for them, but it didn’t seem like the right time. All he could do was peer through the sliver between the door and the frame at Sero who he believed to be the closest thing to a corpse he’d ever see in real life. Kirishima’s head spun. His stomach fell to the ground with a splat. If he was looking in a mirror, he was sure his face would be drained of all its color.

Kirishima had to walk, he had to move away from this image, or he might never stop staring. Mindlessly, he marched towards the slider which at one time had been his fake destination but was now his only refuge. He used his clammy, trembling hand to open the slider and let himself out onto the porch where he instantly inhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

“Tell me Kaminari didn’t slice his hand open again,” Bakugou grumbled from the wall.

Kirishima could only stand on the concrete, his lips parted to let out panting breaths, his head about to snap right off his neck.

“What?” Bakugou asked gruffly, probably catching a glimpse of Kirishima’s state.

Kirishima’s lips twitched and moved as if they wanted to speak, but his entire body had gone bone dry. The image of Sero played on a cruel loop in his mind, their cheeks and their skin and their form. Where did he even begin? What should he even say?

“Sero,” he eked out.

“Oh,” Bakugou grunted, “they’ve got the flu or some shit, I’ve had to steal from the pharmacy so many times that I’m just waiting for them to tape my picture in the drawer.”

Kirishima gulped.

“They—”

Sound just wouldn’t come out of his mouth. How could Bakugou talk so casually about it? Didn’t he care?

“If that happens, I’ll just start sending Kaminari,” Bakugou added, “he’s not that discreet but he runs faster than me, and sometimes that’s—”

“You have to take them to the hospital.”

Kirishima didn’t mean to cut Bakugou off, but he wasn’t listening hard enough to find his spot in the conversation. Instead, his body was working on its own terms away from his mind, blurting out whatever it thought necessary. Bakugou eyed him with a grimace.

“No,” he grumbled.

“You have to,” Kirishima repeated.

Bakugou gritted his teeth, evident by the ripple of his jaw. He lifted the cigarette but dropped it back to his side not two seconds after.

“I don’t do hospitals,” he hissed.

“Who cares? You have to take them,” Kirishima insisted.

“I never got into fights as a kid or a teenager. I never fought with my father because of—well, you know, and I never got into fights anywhere else because I never believed in anything enough to start an argument about it.”

“Were things different then?”

“Of course, they were. I had people to care about—something to believe in that belonged to me instead of just my father.”

As Bakugou’s head turned slowly towards him, Kirishima’s body went into some paralytic state where the only thing that moved were his own thoughts. He’d spent so much of his life ensuring that no one was ever angry with him, that he was keeping the peace no matter what. But the words felt like fire in his mouth, if he didn’t say them, they would burn him all over.

“Excuse me?” Bakugou asked, brow twitching.

“This isn’t about you, Bakugou, this is about Sero,” Kirishima’s voice began to waver from the fear.

Bakugou’s lip quirked, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

His voice was low and gravelly like a car engine running along the dirt roads. His brow had lowered so Kirishima could only see part of his narrowed crimson eyes.

“Have you looked at them?” Kirishima persisted, “They’re dying and you’re—you’re out here smoking like you don’t care.”

“I care,” Bakugou spat, “don’t ever fucking say that I don’t care about every single person in that room.”

He motioned with the hand that held the smoking stick, and Kirishima watched his fingers twitch with fury.

“If you cared then you’d get over yourself and take Sero to the doctor,” Kirishima took a step towards him, pleading with a voice that had somehow dropped half an octave.

Bakugou reacted immediately, taking half a step away from Kirishima upon his advance. His eyes widened wildly as if he was astonished Kirishima would even near him at a time like this.

“They’ll be fine,” Bakugou growled.

“How do you know?” Kirishima’s voice was rising.

It started somewhere in Kirishima’s fingers, the heat that was now racing through his body in thick ribbons, wrapping around all of his organs and choking him out right at the top of his throat. His voice was rising without his permission and his face was curling in a sort of expression he’d never used before.

“Get out of my fucking face,” Bakugou spat, his neck patching with splotches of red.

“Then fucking do something!” Kirishima cried.

It was the first time that Kirishima had said that word since the show however many months ago. It seemed to echo off of every surface around them, but Kirishima was too heated and furious to even admonish himself for using such an awful word—and, anyhow, it seemed to get Bakugou’s attention.

“You’ve been here for, what, two months?” Bakugou shouted, “Now you think you know what’s best for all my friends?”

“I didn’t say that,” Kirishima hissed.

“No, you think you’re better than us,” Bakugou bit at him, “because you’ve got money and you’re a good little church boy—we’re just scum to you, aren’t we?”

“What?” Kirishima retorted in astonishment, “Is this still about the food?”

Bakugou scoffed, “I don’t give a shit about—”

“You act like you’re the leader of everything going on here,” Kirishima began.

Bakugou cut in loudly, “I am.”

“Then act like it!” Kirishima shouted, “Take Sero to the hospital, for God’s sake.”

Jaw going slack, Kirishima had to take a stumbling step back. In the past two months, he’d said ‘fuck’ a total of seven times and dyed his hair and kissed a boy on stage while a crowd of people watched, but they were all passable, little infractions upon his clean bill with the Lord. But now he’d done the unthinkable: he’d invoked God’s name where it didn’t belong.

Kirishima’s mouth went dry as he waited for the Lord to smite him before Bakugou even got a chance.

“No!” Bakugou shouted in his face.

“Why not?” Kirishima eked out.

“None of your goddamn business,” Bakugou grumbled.

Kirishima stepped towards him, “It is my business. Sero is my friend now, too.”

Bakugou advanced back on him, their chest just centimeters away from each other. Up close, Kirishima could nearly feel the fire that was burning behind the man’s eyes; but there was a wall, a thick stack of bricks and mortar sitting between the two of them. Kirishima knew that he’d never get through Bakugou until he found a way over that wall. Would he ever?

“They won’t do shit for them,” Bakugou spat, “they never do shit for anyone at hospitals.”

“That’s not true,” Kirishima replied, feeling Bakugou’s hot breath fan against his nose.

“They’re just gonna tell you it was an accident when you know it wasn’t a fucking accident, they’ll lie to you and say he died before they got to him! They’re goddamn liars!” Bakugou shouted, his voice cracking at the very end.

Kirishima leaned back a tad, his brow falling. He? The entire time Kirishima had been with Bakugou and his friends, they’d never used that word when referring to Sero.

Perhaps,

Bakugou was talking about someone else.

“What?” Kirishima asked in a whisper.

“They’re idiots who can’t save a life even if they fucking wanted to,” Bakugou hissed, his lip trembling, “I don’t want a damn thing to do with them.”

“Izuku,” Kirishima blurted out.

Bakugou’s face dropped for a split second before hardening once more in rage, his lip trembling even more now.

“That’s why you won’t help Sero,” Kirishima said in a small voice, “because of what happened to Midoriya.”

“Get out,” Bakugou’s voice was so low that Kirishima almost didn’t catch all his words.

“You can’t let go of what happened to Midoriya so you’re taking it out on all your friends now,” Kirishima’s voice was bolder and louder than ever before.

Bakugou growled, “Get—out.”

“Because Midoriya died and everyone thinks it’s your fault. Everyone thinks you did it.”

Kirishima’s voice was clear but still shaky. The truth had been so obvious, how could he not have known it until now? ‘Foul play’ the clipping had mentioned. The men knowing who Bakugou was, his refusal to be seen in public places, camping out in some abandoned factory, everything. His friends knew nothing because he made sure of it, lest they uncover all the police reports that claim Bakugou killed his childhood friend and left his body in the creek.

Bakugou’s eyes went wide. All the crimson anger in his face dissolved to a green-white that took over all his features.

“But I don’t believe it, I know you didn’t do it, you wouldn’t,” Kirishima whispered reassuringly.

Bakugou didn’t move. His eyes wouldn’t even blink. Kirishima wondered if he was listening.

“Bakugou?” Kirishima asked hesitantly.

“Leave,” Bakugou hissed.

“Wait, Bak—”

“Out!”

For a moment, Kirishima could only stare at Bakugou, mouth agape, processing the fairly simple command. His body begged to stay, to work things out and not leave there with so much anger stretching between them, but Kirishima’s mind knew that staying would only do more harm. Bakugou was a statue atop the concrete, his cigarette turning into a nub between his fingers and his face cemented in an expression that Kirishima couldn’t even begin to read.

Thus, with one final pleading look to Bakugou, Kirishima opened the slider and marched back into the main room, walking directly towards his things at the front door.

“Eiji?” Mina asked from the couch, “Where are you going?”

“Home,” Kirishima bit back, not even bothering to look at her.

“What about practice?” Jirou called after him.

Kirishima didn’t respond, he was too adamant on reaching his things at breakneck speeds.

“Does Bakugou need to drive you?” Mina asked worriedly.

“I’m taking the bus,” Kirishima spat as he slung his backpack over his shoulder and burst through the front door without another word to any of them.

His body buzzed with fury. His head was full of some pounding, fuzzy sensation that he couldn’t shake even as he stormed out into the fresh air. Kirishima looked behind him at the heavy door, wondering what might happen if he went back inside.

No, he thought to himself, there’s no point.

Thus, Kirishima slipped on the other strap of his backpack and stomped down the road towards the bus stop, feeling the heat in his face tint his cheeks red while the late afternoon sun teased the top edges of the buildings.

He’d never met anyone as unreasonable as Bakugou.

Well, perhaps except for his father.

Kirishima was right, but he wouldn’t hear it. He didn’t take anything from anyone other than himself. The thought made Kirishima grit his teeth, all the things he really wanted to say in response to Bakugou finally popping up in his mind and teasing the surface of his tongue.

He knew that Bakugou didn’t kill Midoriya, he was sure of it. But the whole thing being an accident didn’t sit quite right with him, either. Why would Bakugou feel so guilty if he didn’t do it? Why would he even begin to think that it was his fault?

Questions poked and prodded at all sides of Kirishima’s brain as he reached the stop, already checking both ends of the road for oncoming buses. He pulled his lips between his teeth and thought.

He’d missed something—

but what was it?

Kirishima had been up seemingly all night thinking himself to death about the whole ordeal.

While the anger had fizzled sometime during the bus ride, he spent the remainder of the evening trying to figure it all out with only Bakugou’s slim showing of emotion and the newspaper clipping as his guides. He relented getting up the next morning for church right as the sun was peeking over the horizon.

He’d been standing at the back of the church with his mother for a while as people filed in. He wasn’t paying much attention, his mind too hooked on the mystery of Bakugou, yet a shudder would pass through Kirishima every so often as he remembered how angry Bakugou was; had Kirishima done something unforgivable by even mentioning his dead friend?

With a sigh, Kirishima leaned against the back wall, feeling the cool touch of the wood press through his already sweating back. He glanced up at the front to see people milling around, mostly eager churchgoers with important questions for his father who was answering with a stern sort of expression. In addition, choir members were shuffling into their seats, readying their books for whatever song they were going to sing that morning.

Kirishima wondered if he’d find some time that day to go back to the library. Maybe if he got a closer look at that obituary or brought a piece of paper and wrote the entire thing word-for-word, he’d finally be able to decipher it. Or perhaps he’d stopped looking too soon and missed another newspaper clipping or something that was in one of the two boxes he left untouched. The thought excited him, perhaps enough to get him through another one of his father’s sermons.

The beginning of the service was just around the corner which meant that the choir was fully in their stands and the remaining stragglers were shuffling in through the side doors, slipping into seats held vacant by their family members. Kirishima’s eyes trailed all over the front of the church, searching for someone very specific.

“Mom,” he leaned to his right, “where’s Tamaki?”

Kirishima’s mother glanced up at him with a sort of harrowed expression like she was caught off-guard. Her gaze flickered between the choir and the crowd but absolutely refused to look right at Kirishima.

“He must be sick,” she said hesitantly.

Kirishima lowered his brow quizzically, moving to try and catch his mother’s eye.

“Tamaki is always here, even when he’s sick,” he said.

His mother’s lip twitched, her gaze fell to the floor.

“Mom,” he repeated.

“His mother—” she blurted out, “maybe she had another episode or something, you know how she can be.”

If his mother’s words weren’t so laced with uncertainty and mystery, Kirishima might’ve believed her, but the woman looked like she was about to hurl, and she still wouldn’t look her son in the eye.

“Tell me where he is,” Kirishima demanded.

His mother released a sigh as if she’d been holding her breath for days, her body going limp. She took a longing look towards the choir before finally diverting her gaze to Kirishima’s face.

“Tamaki’s mother caught him in his room with—a boy,” his mother said softly.

She whispered the last word like an expletive; if she said it quietly enough, perhaps God wouldn’t hear her. At face value, the situation didn’t sound so incriminating, but as Kirishima watched her eyes widen suggestively, he knew what she really meant.

In his room—

with a boy.

“What?” Kirishima asked lowly.

“Because of it, the church has kindly asked him to step down from his position in the choir,” his mother explained in a teary sort of voice, “with that being said, I don’t want you talking to him anymore, alright? Just because of your father and—other things.”

He felt frozen in place just like he had on the porch. In all his years at that church, there had never been one Sunday that Tamaki hadn’t been there singing. It felt wrong, it all felt wrong, especially as the opening hymn began.

Before Kirishima knew it, his feet were carrying him out of the church, begging him to run. He glanced at his mother whose eyes were now closed in solemn singing and then his father who was far too enamored with the pages of the Bible to see him.

Thus, without another thought, Kirishima slipped out the doors to the church and began to run down the dusty road as fast as his nice church loafers would allow.

He needed to talk to Tamaki.

He needed to talk to him now.

Chapter Text

Kirishima had only been to Tamaki’s house on three different occasions, but he’d spent the trip committing the exact directions to memory, his favorite activity during car rides. So even though his mind was warping and twisting around his mother’s words as he ran, he made every turn with a sort of certainty that would make you think he was running to his very own home.

In his room—

with a boy.

Kirishima shook his head and panted, his feet hitting the dirt ground with repeating thuds. His nice loafers were rubbing against his heel and his toes were crunching against the front. The summer sun was boring down onto his back. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck and soaked into the nice cotton collar; at a crossroads, Kirishima stopped for a moment and undid a few of his buttons, taking the same moment to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow.

A rather brief, unformed thought flickered in his mind. What was he doing? Church was happening right now and he was nowhere to be found, running through town for seemingly no reason at all. But there was a reason, a deep-set reason that Kirishima couldn’t articulate yet.

He and Tamaki had something in common—

and that was precisely the problem.

He began running again, seeing Tamaki’s street come into view. As the familiar driveway appeared in Kirishima’s hazy vision, he noted that it was empty.

Shoot, Kirishima thought, his mom is at church.

If Tamaki’s mom was at church, then the front door was no doubt locked. How would Kirishima get in if Tamaki was the only one home? What if Tamaki wasn’t home?

Even with a flood of uncertainties rushing through Kirishima’s consciousness, he continued a steady jog to the barren driveway which led to a small, one-story country home not much unlike Kirishima’s own place. White baseboard wrapped around the entire exterior except for where small, four-paneled windows adorned with torn mosquito screens were wedged between the panels. A creaky weather pane spun and whined from the highest edge of the roof, the point of the arrow catching the sunlight as it responded to the eastwardly wind.

Kirishima’s eyes darted all over, looking for some point of entry or skillfully hidden spare key. He checked every edge of the screen hat surrounded the front porch and beneath the leg of a weathered plastic chair that was shoved in the corner. Junebugs flew around Kirishima’s head and stuck to his sweaty forehead as he searched, even going as far as to jiggle the doorknob.

“C’mon, Tamaki,” he whispered to himself.

Abandoning the front porch, Kirishima rounded the right side of the house, trying to listen through the whistling wind for any other noise that could indicate a way in.

Overgrown grass at the edge of the house tickled Kirishima’s elbows as he waded through them to check inside every window, carefully moving the torn mosquito screens with his fingers and avoiding the rusted bits of the metal frame.

As the wind died down for a fleeting moment, Kirishima heard a light whimpering coming from somewhere around the back of the house, one that was broken by a series of sniffs and sharp inhales.

“Amajiki?” Kirishima called out softly.

Carefully, Kirishima slipped out of the tall reeds and rounded to the back of the house where a small window had been cracked,

through which the whimpering cries flowed.

Kirishima’s heart pounded and his eyes turned down. He tip-toed towards the open window, his mind reeling with all the things he wanted to say that might appeal to his friend. Slowly, Kirishima slid in front of the window and planted his hands on the sill.

Immediately, Kirishima’s eyes affixed on Tamaki sitting rather politely at the edge of his bed with his back hunched over and his face planted in his hands. In between two of his fingers, a soggy tissue was hanging limply, and it shivered with every one of his cries. Tamaki’s large, pastel blue sweater was pulled over his hands, the cuffs obviously darkened from wiping his own tears, a clean pair of gray slacks all wrinkled and pulled tight from his sitting position. His pink-socked feet were curled against the wood floor, crossed formally at the ankle.

Even in a fit of sadness, Tamaki never lost his composure. It was almost as if he’d upheld the image of perfection for so long that he’d begun to believe it was actually his true self.

As he moved his face to wipe another tear, Kirishima caught sight of the bright red rings that rimmed both eyes and the soft, black hair that’d been tousled all about. His lips were trembling, the occasional tear slipping down over the edge and trailing into his mouth.

“Tamaki,” Kirishima whispered through the sliver of open window.

Tamaki didn’t respond. He just kept crying and wiping harshly at his already irritated eyes.

“Tamaki!” Kirishima said a little louder.

It was then that Tamaki perked up, his eyes snapping all over his room. For a moment, the tears stopped to make room for pure fear to fill his gaze.

“Amajiki,” Kirishima hissed.

Tamaki gasped and held the tissue to his chest, his eyes now trailing towards the sky.

“God?” He asked in a wavering, teary voice.

“No, numbskull, it’s me!”

Tamaki gasped again and finally looked through the window, his eyes going wide when he saw Kirishima peeking through. Almost instantly, he started to shake his head.

“No,” he whispered, “no, you can’t be here, Kirishima.”

“What?” Kirishima squinted, “just—let me in, Amajiki.”

“No,” Tamaki’s lips pursed, “you have to leave.”

Kirishima slid his fingertips under the edge of the windowpane, but it wouldn’t budge. Tamaki would have to move it from the inside.

“C’mon, Tamaki, just let me through so we can talk,” he pled.

“No!” He shouted, planting his hands in his lap, “You’ll catch it!”

“Catch what?”

“My disease, Eijirou,” he whimpered, “you can’t come any closer.”

Kirishima’s chest got tight. His mind flooded with memories of his own series of meltdowns in the bathroom at Bakugou’s place; but no matter what, someone was always there, Mina or Kaminari or Jirou, so Kirishima had to be here for Tamaki.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kirishima insisted.

“Oh, it’s so terrible,” Tamaki whined and planted his face once more in the palm of his hands to sob.

“C’mon, Amajiki,” Kirishima groaned.

All the thoughts still felt strange in his head, the things he’d learned from his time with Bakugou and his friends, and they felt even stranger in his mouth, awkwardly shaped words which he hadn’t said enough times to smooth the sharp edges. He knew it would sound clunky in any sort of phrase, but it was really his only hope.

“I’m gay, Tamaki, just like you!”

Silence followed in which Tamaki’s eyes slowly trailed back up to the window with an astonished expression.

“You are?” He asked softly.

“Yes,” Kirishima insisted, “there’s a boy I like and I’ve kissed him and slept in the same bed as him so—yeah. I am.”

As he expected it to, Kirishima’s heart rapped at the sound of his own confession. He’d never said the word out loud like that, much less in a description of himself. For a moment, he mourned the little rainbow patch that those thugs in the alley had taken from him.

Tamaki sat frozen for a moment besides his fingers that twiddled with the tissue that was already disintegrating into pieces. His lips pursed tighter and tighter while his eyes squinted thinner and thinner. Eventually, he sighed, his shoulders melting towards the bed.

“Fine,” he whined, hoisting himself off the mattress and trudging the short distance to the window.

With a straining expression, Tamaki pulled the window open, the wood scraping and creaking on all sides of the old house. When it was open enough, Tamaki took a step back and watched as Kirishima planted his hands on the sill and effortlessly climbed through the space.

“How are you so good at that?” Tamaki whispered in amazement.

“Tamaki,” Kirishima sighed once he was upright in the small room.

Instantly, Tamaki’s bottom lip trembled, and his eyes welled with more tears. Kirishima almost didn’t extend his arms in time for Tamaki’s body to flop right against him.

The moment his eyes made contact with the bone of Kirishima’s shoulders, Tamaki began to sob again, his hands finding purchase on Kirishima’s back, his fingers tightening around the thick fabric of his dress shirt. His shoulders twitched in time with his cries. Kirishima froze for a moment, never one for much physical touch, but he remembered how kids at school would hug each other as greetings or to give comfort. Hence, Kirishima knew to put one gentle hand on the back of Tamaki’s head and the other across the expanse of his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Amajiki,” he whispered.

Tamaki didn’t respond, he only cried and gripped tighter onto the fabric of his shirt. Kirishima’s heart slumped towards the floor as the weight of his friend’s body pressed closer and closer into him.

“C’mon, let’s—” Kirishima hummed, nudging Tamaki back towards the bed.

Though he had to practically drag him there, Kirishima could eventually sit and adjust Tamaki to sit beside him as his cries grew weaker and breathier. Kirishima reached over to the nightstand to grab a new tissue which Tamaki took in the hand that wasn’t grabbing the old, soggy tissue. He wiped at the space below his nose and used the sleeve of his sweater to rub fresh tears from his cheeks.

“Oh, it was so awful, Eijioru,” he whimpered, staring into his lap.

Kirishima laid a hesitant hand on his friend’s shoulder and rubbed small, soothing circles just as Mina had once done for him. Tamaki kept sniffling, but he wasn’t actively crying anymore. Kirishima suppressed the desire to sigh in relief.

“I was—I—” he stammered.

Tamaki shook his head and lifted the napkin back up to his cheeks which were burning bright red.

“For years I was so fixated on the girls in my class, I was fascinated with their voices and their hair and their relationships,” he whispered, “but I didn’t want to date them—I wanted to be them.”

Every word was a sort of struggle for Tamaki, something he had to tear from the pits of his chest and lay helplessly at Eijirou’s feet. His eyes were glassy and unfocused as he rehashed all the awful memories.

“I wanted to hold hands with their boyfriends and be told I was pretty,” Tamaki said softly, “I wanted to kiss their boyfriends under the bleachers and dance with them at prom.”

Kirishima glanced down at the floor, seeing all the images Tamaki was describing right before his own eyes. Even in high school, Kirishima never looked at girls and wished he could have what they had, not even their boyfriends, but he could admit that when he watched couples cozy up to each other in the hallway and bring each other gifts on Valentine’s Day and walk down the sidewalk hand-in-hand, he felt a sort of desire in his chest—like he was missing out on something.

“He was a football player,” Tamaki whispered, “he had soft blonde hair and th-these bright blue eyes.”

Tamaki’s voice had gone lower and sweeter, his cheeks tinting pink and his lips twitching up into a smile.

“And he—liked me and called me pretty,” he continued dreamily, “he held my hand and kissed me under the bleachers, but it was all a big secret, no one at the school could know because it would inevitably make it back to our parents.”

Kirishima continued rubbing soothing circles in Tamaki’s back. He blinked slowly and sadly, his once upturned mouth now falling into a straight line.

“When we graduated, I lied to him and told him everyone knew I was gay,” he said in a strained whisper, “but when he came over, my mom came back early from her prayer meeting and saw us—”

Tamaki’s breath hitched in his throat. His eyes welled up once more with tears, but it was as if he couldn’t even bring himself to cry again. There were sagging bags beneath his eyes and the usually porcelain-smooth skin of his cheeks had sunken into the spaces between his bones.

“He dumped me when he found out I lied,” his voice shuddered, “and now he’s gone.”

Tears fell freely from the corners of Tamaki’s eyes. His lips were sealed indefinitely with the confession lingering in the air before him. The sadness of being ousted from the church had been a loud sort of sadness, a series of cries and gasps that flowed out the open window. But the sadness of his lost love was a quiet and veiled mourning, one tear after the other dropping silently to the wood floor beneath Tamaki’s feet.

“And I miss him so much,” Tamaki whispered.

Kirishima looked down. If he lost Bakugou—he didn’t even want to think about it. What if Bakugou got mad at him and abandoned him? What if he was so unhappy that Kirishima’s parents didn’t know he was gay that he disappeared entirely?

“He’s gone—and now I’m going to hell!”

Tamaki’s subtle sorrow devolved into rattling sobs once more as he curled further in on himself with the new tissue stuck to his nose. His shoulders shook beneath Kirishima’s gentle touch.

“You’re not going to hell, Tamaki,” Kirishima hummed.

“You don’t—know that!” Tamaki blubbered into his tissue.

Kirishima inhaled. He thought back to his time in the bathroom with Kaminari and almost cracked a genuine smile.

“You’re right,” Kirishima shrugged, “I don’t.”

Tamaki’s cries came to a halt and his neck craned slowly to look at Kirishima with a downright pitiful expression.

“What?” He eked out.

“I don’t know if we’re going to hell,” Kirishima said, “I wish I did then I could—know where I was going with this.”

In his attempts to comfort his friend, Kirishima had gotten himself tangled up in a knot of words and phrases that didn’t quite go together. All the ideas he’d absorbed from his father over eighteen long years were clashing unceremoniously with all the newfangled rhetoric of Bakugou and his friends.

Hell isn’t real.

Hell is real.

Hell is—

“To me, living my life as someone I’m not would be hell in itself,” Kirishima said lowly.

A huffy breath left Tamaki’s nose in what Kirishima could almost interpret as a laugh. His thin, pink lips curled up languidly into a smile. His thin fingers curled around the now ratty edges of his tissue as he took in a long breath. Kirishima watched his Adam’s apple bob as he gulped.

“Did you really sleep in a bed with a boy?” Tamaki asked, his eyes wide and frightened.

Kirishima nodded, “Yeah.”

“Did you—” Tamaki’s mouth twitched, “you know—?”

Kirishima’s eyes flew open and he pulled up his hands in surrender.

“No! We didn’t, I swear,” he said hastily, “why does everyone think that something happened?”

Tamaki accepted Kirishima’s explanation and looked back at his own socked feet, crossing one ankle back over the other.

“Is he cute?” Tamaki asked through a small smile.

“He’s—” Kirishima couldn’t suppress his own grin cracking out onto his face.

With bleary eyes, Tamaki gazed at Kirishima and watched as the blood rushed to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Kirishima’s mind flicked through the images of Bakugou that he’d committed to his forever memory: the vision of his back in the bedroom, the look on his face after Kirishima pulled away from the kiss on stage, the sight of Bakugou’s face in his window however many weeks ago.

“He’s a little unorthodox,” Kirishima chuckled and fiddled with his fingers, thinking about the chains clinking together on Bakugou’s pants and the way he can’t sit without a yardstick’s length between his knees.

“My ex-boyfriend was Catholic,” Tamaki whispered, “I think that was my first mistake.”

“Bakugou is—the furthest thing from Catholic,” Kirishima giggled, leaning into Tamaki’s side.

“You’re kidding!”

“I think he has a tattoo of the devil on his arm,” he replied.

Tamaki gasped before devolving into more laughter, running his fingers through the stringy front pieces of his soft black hair. Kirishima’s laughter faded and his smile melted as he remembered he and Bakugou’s last conversation.

They had a show that night.

Was Kirishima still supposed to show up?

“Hey, Tamaki,” Kirishima said, an idea popping into his mind.

“Yeah?”

“I have to get back to the church before the service ends,” he checked his watch chastely, “but I’m gonna come back here—tonight.”

“W-why?” Tamaki asked, his posture straightening.

“I’ll tell you then, just stay awake and dressed, okay?” Kirishima hoisted himself up from the bed and stood before a rather terrified Tamaki.

“But—why?” He repeated.

“Don’t worry about it!” Kirishima assured with a laugh, bounding towards the same open window.

“Wait, Eijirou!”

As he planted his hands back on the windowsill and started to shove himself back out, Kirishima heard Tamaki’s footsteps coming up behind him; a smile spread across his face when his feet made contact with the grass outside. He turned, gripping the same sill with anticipation.

Tamaki was stood before him with a harrowed expression and a nervous gulp.

“Just trust me, Amajiki,” Kirishima grinned, “I’ve got some friends I want you to meet.”

The run back to the church was a little more taxing than when he’d done it thirty or so minutes before. Perhaps it was his body fatigued from the initial trip or payback from his refusal to ever participate in gym growing up, but he was wheezing and huffing just halfway through the trek.

Every once in a while, Kirishima would have to stop and lean on some tree to keep himself from hurling on the side of the road. When the church finally came into view, Kirishima’s entire chest was filling with fire and his entire back was soaked in Sunday morning sweat.

He checked his watch again to see that the service would be over in just ten minutes. Thus, with. few more gasps for air, Kirishima trudged to the entrance and made quick work of composing himself, particularly tucking his shirt back into his slacks and buttoning the rest of it back up, much to his dismay. He pawed at his red hair to try and slick it back to its original style, but the same two pieces kept popping up.

Soon, the chatter of the crowd rose to the level of the chanting organ. Kirishima’s heart rate quickened as the first patrons slipped out the front doors and greeted him with a quick polite nod. The greater bulk of the crowd started to pour out next, minus the classic stragglers that always stayed behind to prey on the leftover communion supplies and bother his father with innocuous questions. Kirishima sniffled and adjusted his clothes once more, already feeling his parents’ perceptive eyes picking his appearance apart.

“Kirishima Eijirou!” His mother’s high-pitched, hissing voice snapped.

Immediately, her firm hand was gripping his upper arm and pulling him towards her. Her expression was thin and mean.

“Where have you been?” She bit.

“I just—I—” Kirishima stammered.

“Come up with a good explanation for when your father comes out here,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

As the rest of the church crowd began to trickle out the front doors, Kirishima’s mind scrambled to come up with some good reason that he was stood outside the church, sweating bullets, and completely out of breath.

His father strode out not long after with his Bible tucked in his arm and a stern expression on his face.

“I didn’t feel well!” Kirishima shouted to him without thinking.

His father eyed him sternly while adjusting his tie.

“I was super nauseous, so I’ve been puking around back the entire service,” Kirishima fibbed.

With a quirked brow, his father’s eyes scraped up and down his son’s appearance. Kirishima willed his face to go green or pale or something or that the amount of sweat that was pouring out of his skin would be convincing enough on its own.

“Do you think it was something you ate?” His mother asked, her voice now meek and soft.

“Maybe,” Kirishima wrapped his arm around his torso and tried to look as pitiful as possible, pouting his lips and pandering to his mother’s affections.

His father didn’t say anything even as they piled into the car and raced back to the house. Kirishima curled up in the backseat to make it look like he was suffering from some fatal illness since his father was prone to peeking in the rearview mirror every so often. Kirishima’s mother stayed beside him as he fake-hobbled into the house and stumbled towards his room.

“I’ll get you some saltines, stay in your room and get lots of rest,” his mother commanded softly.

Kirishima nodded weakly and turned into his bedroom. Once he knew his mother had disappeared down the hallway, Kirishima smiled.

Bakugou would be so proud of him.

The night came swiftly.

Kirishima peered silently down the hallway to wait for the light in his parents’ room to go dim, signaling that they were both ten minutes away from being in a deep sleep. Kirishima slipped back into his room as the light was turned off and gathered his things, his heart thrumming from the anticipation.

He waited a little longer than ten minutes, just to make sure that his parents were out cold before he tried to make his great escape. When the time finally came, Kirishima slipped out his open window, pulled the screen down as far as his fingers would allow, and started down the dusty dirt road.

Kirishima broke into a rather quick walk, wanting to be as far away from his house as possible as quickly as possible. The night air felt so refreshing against the surface of his face and the hollows of his nose, every breath he took in felt like he was experiencing a brand-new rush of life. A smile broke out onto his face as he heard the crickets chirping in the distance and watched the stars twinkle in the night sky.

Yet, when he turned the familiar corner at the end of the road, Kirishima’s heart slumped to the floor, heartstrings holding on for dear life.

Bakugou’s car wasn’t there.

The space almost looked foreign without the beater sitting there, blasting some drum-heavy song that Kirishima had never heard. His smile melted into a subtle frown which Kirishima was trying to suppress for the sake of convincing himself that he didn’t miss Bakugou that much.

But it was a lie—Kirishima really missed Bakugou.

He missed him so much.

It had only been a day, and they’d gone far longer without seeing each other. But there was distance this time, an ocean between them that couldn’t be crossed. Kirishima didn’t notice how close he was holding Bakugou to himself until they were separated, his body now exposed to harsh winds of reality. Even so, he kept walking, more eager to see Tamaki than wallow in his own sadness.

It took a little longer than from the church considering that Tamaki’s house was to the south while Kirishima’s house was to the west of the old chapel. Yet, Kirishima enjoyed his night walk, the only other people being farmers coming home late from their work and the occasional animal rustling in the bushes nearby. Kirishima watched as his feet were bathed in streetlight then doused in deep, inky night, over and over as he trekked.

He was grateful that the way to Tamaki’s house was so fresh in his mind, that way he could spend the entire trip thinking. His last conversation with Bakugou haunted him, every word and phrase playing on a loop in his mind.

That’s why you won’t help Sero—because of what happened to Midoriya.

Kirishima sighed. He picked nervously at his arm as he tried to predict what Bakugou would say if he just showed up that night. Would he be mad? Would he yell?

The only other person he knew who yelled at him was—

“Oh,” Kirishima said softly, Tamaki’s house sitting right before his eyes.

Under the cover of night, the place looked almost unrecognizable, especially considering that all the lights had been turned off as per Tamaki’s mother’s insistence. Even the porch light had been extinguished so Kirishima could barely see the old Cadillac Allanté sitting in the driveway.

Quietly, Kirishima tip-toed around the house in a similar fashion to when he’d been there that morning, wading through tall grass with his hesitant hands. As he rounded the back corner, Kirishima saw streams of golden light flooding softly from the same window he’d climbed through before. He shuffled towards the wall with a half-nervous, half-excited feeling at the pit of his stomach.

When he looked through the window, the first thing he saw was Tamaki sitting in nearly the exact same position as before on the side of his bed, his hands folded politely in his lap and his feet clad in saddle shoes shifting nervously against the wood floor. He’d kept on the same pants but changed his sweater in favor of something pastel purple instead of blue. The fuzzy clothing draped low over each shoulder and encased the heels of his hands, making his thin fingers look even daintier and smoother. His hair wasn’t exactly done up, but Kirishima could tell that he’d brushed it out at some point and tucked two pieces behind his ears while letting the ones in the center brush the bridge of his nose and the curl of his eyelashes

Tamaki’s eyes were trailing around anxiously, one foot bouncing by the toe. When he caught sight of Kirishima in the window, he gasped.

“Open the window,” Kirishima mouthed to him.

With pursed lips and a reluctant sigh, Tamaki trudged towards the window. He pouted as he heaved the thing open slowly to avoid and creaks or scrapes that would awaken his mother.

“I don’t know about this, Eijirou,” he said in a soft, wavering voice.

“Don’t worry,” Kirishima reassured him in a whisper, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“But what if my mom wakes up?” Tamaki asked.

“She won’t,” Kirishima shrugged.

“How do you know?” Tamaki pled, planting his hands on the windowsill.

Kirishima leaned in, “I’ve been sneaking out of my place for weeks and I haven’t gotten caught yet.”

Tamaki glanced down and nodded in acceptance before looking back up at Kirishima with a harrowed expression.

“You’ve been doing what?” He hissed, eyes blown wide.

“Just—c’mon!” Kirishima waved him out the window eagerly.

Tamaki gripped the windowsill awkwardly, his eyes not knowing where to look and his feet not knowing where to step.

“Get your feet out first,” Kirishima instructed, his arms outstretched, “then use your hands for balance.”

Like a clumsy newborn deer, Tamaki pushed himself out the window with a series of uncertain sounds and strange positions, only emerging with a gasp and a thud against the ground.

“That hurt,” he whispered, already nursing his left arm.

“It gets easier, trust me,” Kirishima reassured him.

He turned back to close the window, his fingers sure against the rotting wood.

“Wait!” Kirishima held out his hand, “don’t close it all the way, you need to be able to get back in.”

Tamaki turned to him with a frightened expression.

“My mama always says that keeping the window open lets the Devil inside your dreams,” he said softly.

“Well—you’re not sleeping, so there’s no dreams for the Devil to enter!”

Tamaki thought for a moment before nodding slowly.

“I guess that makes sense,” he whispered.

With one last longing look to his bedroom, Tamaki began to follow Kirishima through the same tall weeds and grass that surrounded the house. As they neared the street, Kirishima got a sneaking suspicion that Tamaki was no longer following.

“Amajiki?” He called behind to the frozen figure by the porch.

“We aren’t—walkin’—are we?” He asked in a crackly, anxious voice.

“No, course not,” Kirishima replied, “we’re takin’ the bus.”

Tamaki scrambled toward him with widened eyes.

“My mama says the bus is where the perverts and prostitutes go to take the Lord’s name in vain and do drugs,” he whispered.

Kirishima quirked a brow. Tamaki was holding onto the sleeve of his shirt now, his face scarily similar to that of his mother’s: the lifted brow, wide eyes, and shaky lips.

“I use the bus all the time and I haven’t seen one prostitute,” Kirishima told him, “at least, I don’t think I have.”

“I can’t do this, I’m going back inside,” Tamaki said hastily, already turning towards the house.

“No, Tamaki,” Kirishima grabbed onto his arm and pulled his friend back.

Tamaki pouted, “Just tell me where you’re takin’ me!”

“Fine,” Kirishima relented, “but first—”

He turned, flashing Tamaki a small smile.

“we gotta race.”

“What?” Tamaki hissed.

“To the bus stop, race me to the bus stop,” he replied, “if you win, I’ll tell you where we’re going. If I win, then it’ll be a secret ‘till we get there.”

Tamaki shook his head, gulping nervously.

“I—I can’t—I don’t—,” he stammered.

“Three, two, one, go!”

Before Tamaki could eke out a response, Kirishima was tearing down the dirt road, the night wind rushing through his hair. As his feet pounded against the gravel, Kirishima smiled, fresh air flowing through his nose at alarming rates, awakening him to life once more. When he looked up, Kirishima watched the stars streak by in a flash as he raced down the road, leaving clouds of dust behind him.

Kirishima felt like he was flying. The only think that assured him he was still hitting the ground was the jolts of energy coursing through his body with every step. He looked behind him for just a moment to see a flash of purple racing clumsily after him. If Tamaki was shouting anything, Kirishima couldn’t hear him, not with all the blood and adrenaline pumping behind his eardrums.

In the distance, a flash of blue indicated the bus stop. He had to turn to the corner to reach it, but the weightless feeling in Kirishima’s body made anything possible, even reaching the sign without taking one break.

“C’mon, slowpoke!” He shouted breathlessly over his shoulder, feeling his feet turn the corner seamlessly.

With an outstretched hand, Kirishima grabbed onto the pole of the bus stop sign and stopped himself, uncontrollable laughter falling from his tight burning lungs. As he panted, Kirishima looked to see Tamaki running after him, his face twisted in desperation and his sweater hanging off his shoulder.

“Why would—you—make me—run?” Tamaki asked between wheezing breaths.

Kirishima laughed as his friend finally reached the sign, immediately hunching over and heaving again and again.

“Just for fun,” Kirishima replied with a grin.

Tamaki didn’t rise back up for a worrying amount of time. He was too occupied with sputters and coughs to protest anymore to the trip Kirishima was about to take him on. When he finally did stand upright, the pair of them were being drowned in the harsh glow of the bus’s headlights as the vehicle screeched into view.

Tamaki held onto Kirishima’s sleeve once more with trembling fingers.

“I’m not getting on that bus,” he whispered.

“Yes, you are,” Kirishima insisted.

“What if I catch a disease?”

“What kind of disease could you catch on a bus?”

“I don’t know,” Tamaki huffed, “a bus disease?”

Kirishima eyed him in a way that made Tamaki’s cheeks tint pink with embarrassment. As the bus appeared before them, Tamaki’s grip on Kirishima’s sleeve got tighter and the worried lines in his face grew three inches in all directions.

“You can do this, Tamaki,” Kirishima encouraged him, “it’s just a bus.”

The doors screeched open, signaling Kirishima’s feet to climb onto the vehicle. Tamaki followed behind timidly, his hands folded inside the sleeves of his sweater and his eyes downturned.

“He—” Kirishima turned to the bus driver, “give him a minute.”

With coaxing eyes, Kirishima glared at Tamaki whose trembling hand was hovering over the bar and whose foot was twitching to step up.

“First time on a bus,” Kirishima smiled politely to the bus driver who was eyeing him strangely.

After nearly a full minute of practically chirping to him like he was trying to coax a cat, Tamaki had been lured onto the bus and settled into a seat towards the front. Kirishima joined him. Slowly, Tamaki folded his hands in his lap and crossed his feet at the ankles. Kirishima settled himself into the seat and felt the bus lurch forward in the next moment.

There was only one other person on the bus, a man half-asleep wearing construction-like clothing with a cropped haircut. Against his shoulder, Kirishima could feel Tamaki’s shoulder trembling. When he saw his face, Kirishima finally felt a little bad for what he was doing.

Tamaki’s brown eyes were blown wide, Kirishima wondered if he had even blinked since they stepped onto the bus. His fingers were still in his lap, but they were flushed almost as sheet white as his face. Every breath entered his chest in short huffs and fell from his nose in the very next moment.

It was familiar to Kirishima—the fear. Was this how he’d looked to Bakugou and his friends all those weeks ago?

“I’m going to die on this bus,” Tamaki whispered.

Kirishima sighed, “How?”

“Spontaneous combustion,” he eked out.

“I’ll give you ten bucks if you spontaneously combust before we get to our next stop,” Kirishima joked.

He felt Tamaki’s eyes swoop towards him. Kirishima didn’t have the guts to look.

“My mama said that if I ever did anything without her knowing, the Lord would send angels of retribution to haunt me forever and ever,” Tamaki whispered.

Kirishima inhaled in preparation for some sort of response, but he let the breath go with a shake of his head.

“Okay,” he replied softly.

The bus screeched to a stop at which the half-asleep construction man heaved himself out of his seat and trudged off with a nod to the bus driver. Once the door was closed again, Tamaki and Kirishima found themselves alone.

“Amajiki,” Kirishima said.

“Yes?” Tamaki replied.

“How long have you been going to my dad’s church?”

Tamaki looked up to the ceiling of the bus.

“My whole life, basically.”

“So,” Kirishima hesitated, “you knew Midoriya?”

Instantly, Tamaki’s head snapped to the side, his brow curled in worry and his mouth in a straight line.

“How do you know about him?” He asked quickly, his voice low and breathy.

“I—read something about him at the library,” Kirishima replied.

Tamaki’s mouth twitched into a subtle frown as he gazed down at his shoes, fingers fiddling instinctively with the ends of his sweater sleeves.

“We were friends, we practically grew up together,” Tamaki said, “then we sang in the choir every Sunday, but he’d always rush off after the service.”

Tamaki shook his head as if he was still trying to piece together the old mystery right before his eyes. Tamaki’s shoulders hunched over further.

“Not sure where he always went but he never missed a Sunday, not even once,” Tamaki continued, “not until—”

“The accident?” Kirishima cut in, the sight of the obituary fresh in his mind.

Tamaki’s head turned back, his eyes insistent and shadowy with the dregs of mourning.

“Oh, Eijirou, it wasn’t an accident,” he said assuredly.

Kirishima’s posture straightened.

“It wasn’t?” Kirishima asked.

“No,” Tamaki shook his head, “it was—it was anything but an accident.”

Kirishima shook his head in disbelief. All the pieces of the mystery he was trying to solve were still scattered around his mind, but he hadn’t been able to piece them all together the proper way. Nothing fit quite right: the accident, the fact that they’d even suspect that Bakugou did it, why Midoriya’s father would disappear so soon afterwards.

“His father tried to cover it all up—making all these crazy accusations and skipping town just days after it happened,” Tamaki recalled.

Kirishima’s mind was spinning. As the night sky whooshed past outside the window on the opposite end of the bus, every possible outcome played out in his mind.

“Then—how did he die?”

“It was suicide,” Tamaki said, “Midoriya killed himself at the creek, that day.”

With a sharp inhale, Kirishima’s chest went tight. His heart was rapping against his ribs in a new way. All the pieces that had once seemed disjointed were finally starting to fall together.

“But why would he--?” Kirishima began.

Tamaki’s shoulders dropped slowly. His once wide, frightened eyes grew thin and his lips were still.

“Eijirou, think,” he insisted gently, “why would a young man in a small town with a pastor father want to kill himself?”

They stared at each other for a moment before the realization finally flooded through Kirishima’s entire body, the loose pieces finally finding their place in the massive puzzle.

“Oh,” he whispered.

“I should’ve known it long before, but I didn’t think suicide was something people actually did, especially not people who went to church.”

“Had you ever thought about killing yourself in those years?”

“Oh, constantly. But it came more in the form of wanting to move away and never speak to my father again or sleep and never wake up, veiled wishes that never even approached the word ‘suicide’ but always had the same intent—I hated my life and I wanted it to end.”

“What convinced you otherwise?”

“My new friends—my new life.”

Before another thought could enter his mind, the bus lurched to a stop. Kirishima peered out the window to see that it was the stop closest to their destination, so his brain abandoned the new revelation in favor of tugging Tamaki off the bus and thanking the bus driver on the way.

“Eijirou,” Tamaki eked out, the nervous tone returning with a vengeance, “I don’t think we should be here.”

Kirishima took a deep breath as he saw the familiar factory building in the distance, a dull orange light shining from the first-floor windows.

“Trust me, Amajiki,” he assured, “this’ll be good.”

As the pair of them walked hurriedly towards the building under the cover of night, Tamaki fiddling nervously with his sweater and Kirishima too caught up in his own thoughts to notice. All the feelings he’d experienced in the past few weeks returned in a deep wave, one that seemed to brush over every end of his fingers and toes. The same insistency he’d felt that morning at church returned, now focused on another one of his friends.

“My mama said that—”

“Tamaki!” Kirishima turned on his heel to hiss at him, “I very much respect you because you are older than me but if you bring up your mother again, I’m going to go bananas.”

As Kirishima’s harsh tone lilted towards his ears, Tamaki cowered further into himself, tucking his sweater-covered hands into his armpits. His bottom lip trembled like he was going to cry.

“I’m sorry,” Kirishima sighed, “my brain is just—”

“It’s alright,” he cut in with a wavering voice.

“No, it’s not, I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“She’s crazy, I know,” Tamaki shrugged.

Kirishima nodded, “Like—beyond crazy.”

“One time she made me bathe in milk because she said it would purify my soul,” Tamaki recalled, “I smelled like a dairy farm for a week.”

Kirishima’s mouth cracked into a smile. Initially, he felt bad laughing at Tamaki’s misfortune, but Tamaki joined in his soft laughter just moments later, his expression growing calmer and more pleasant with every passing moment.

“Hey, we gotta get inside, we’re gonna be late,” Kirishima said, glancing back towards the hideout.

“Late for what?” Tamaki asked.

Kirishima didn’t reply, particularly because he was too busy bounding towards the heavy front door and heaving it open with a grunt. Tamaki’s footsteps pattered up behind him, echoing through the little hallway that led to the second door.

“I am very nervous right now but also a little excited,” Tamaki whispered from behind Kirishima.

“That’s the spirit,” Kirishima replied, pulling the second door open with a loud creak of metal.

Instantly, Kirishima was enveloped in a tight hug.

“Oh my god, I’m so glad you’re okay!”

Mina’s silver jewelry brushed cold against his skin as she held him tighter and tighter. Her curly hair tickled his cheek as she grabbed ahold of his shoulders and pulled him back to the front.

“You just stormed out and I didn’t know how you were gonna get home, we were all so worried!” She cried.

“I’m sorry,” Kirishima sighed.

“I’m so mad at you that I need to hug you again!”

And that she did, pulling Kirishima back towards her and engulfing him in yet another bone-crushing hug. Against his shoulder, Kirishima could feel Mina’s face move in the direction of where Tamaki was standing dumbstruck behind him.

“Who’s he?” Mina asked, peeling away from their embrace.

“Oh, this is Tamaki,” Kirishima replied, motioning behind him, “he’s my friend from church, I’ve told you about him.”

“Oh!” Mina smiled, “Hi hon—”

When she got her first good look at Tamaki’s harrowed expression, her smile melted.

“Are you okay? Are you gonna puke? ‘Cause I’d much rather show you where the bathroom is than have to break out the mop,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Tamaki is a little—nervous,” Kirishima assured her.

“How nervous?” Mina asked, still eyeing the boy strangely.

“Think me when we first met times a thousand,” Kirishima replied.

Mina nodded in acknowledgement, changing her expression swiftly to something more soothing.

“Let’s sit down, baby, okay?” She motioned gently to Tamaki, hovering her hand over the outline of his arm.

Tamaki’s face was flushed white, his lips frozen in a perpetual sort of horror. His eyes were flickering all over Mina’s gaudy outfit, particularly the flutter of her short skirt and the mass of jewelry swinging at every crook of her body. He moved towards the couches like a zombie, his eyes not even daring to take in the extent of his surroundings.

“You motherfucker!”

From the patio doors, Jirou bounded over (as quickly as her stomach would allow) with her fists poised to deliver a swift punch to Kirishima’s arm. As she approached, Kirishima flinched and protected the parts of his body he felt were the most vulnerable.

Jirou’s first punch was hard but not as bruising as Kirishima expected.

“Leaving without telling anyone where you were going,” she spat.

She punched him again, this time weaker than the last.

“What if something happened to you?” She growled.

“Hey—hey!”

Kaminari appeared from the couches, his hands outstretched to peel Jirou from Kirishima’s side. He hooked his arms around Jirou’s and pulled her back despite her thrashing and kicking.

“Lemme at him!”

“You can punch Kirishima when you’re not pregnant anymore,” Kaminari commanded.

“I’m gonna—punch this baby out myself,” Jirou pouted, pushing and slapping the top of her large stomach.

“I know, sweetie,” Kaminari replied sympathetically, supporting the weight of Jirou’s body as she slumped back in exhaustion.

“How’s Sero?” Kirishima asked.

“So much better,” Kaminari told him, “we actually took them to the hospital, yesterday.”

Kirishima reeled back in disbelief.

“You did?” He asked in quite amazement.

“Yeah,” Jirou nodded, “Bakugou didn’t come with us but—he was the one to tell us we should go.”

Kirishima’s eyes gazed all over the room in search of a flash of blonde or the corner of a familiar jacket to appear in his vision. He sighed in disappointment when nothing of the sort showed.

“So they got some medicine and had an IV for a while and woke up fine this morning,” Kaminari grinned.

Kirishima sighed in relief. Once he looked back to the sliding doors, he watched Sero slip through them with a dying blunt in their hand. Their hair had been done in a half-up, half-down style that showed off the clean-shaven sides of their mullet and their eyes were adorned with a mess of smoky black makeup that was reminiscent of when Kirishima first met them. Sero’s shirt was all leather and formed neatly to their body while the skirt below was torn at the front, leaving a longer section in the back that was almost equally as tattered, all of which showed off their fishnet-clad legs and chunky black boots.

“I heard new voices,” they called from the doors.

Kirishima, Kaminari, and Jirou joined Mina and Tamaki at the couches. They were still standing, mostly because Tamaki was too nervous to sit on the couch. Sero sauntered over followed by a trail of smoke, their eyes checking the state of their jewelry and the shine of their shoes.

“This is Kirishima’s friend, Tamaki,” Mina announced.

“Well, hello sailor,” Sero said tauntingly as their eyes trailed up from Tamaki’s feet to his shoulders.

But once Sero’s eyes reached Tamaki’s face, their confident voice trailed off and their permanently flirty face melted. Tamaki’s frightened expression fell, too, his lips parting in surprise and his constantly fiddling hands finally growing still.

“Hello,” Sero said in a flatter tone.

Kirishima was convinced he’d never heard Sero’s true voice until that moment. Tamaki stuck out his hand awkwardly, thin fingers trembling. Sero was too mesmerized with Tamaki’s face to notice it, needing a full five seconds before they stuck out their own hand in response. Sero’s fingers slid down the expanse of Tamaki’s palm, the two holding onto one another for a moment in a motionless handshake.

They stared at each other for another moment, eyes glazed over yet hyper-focused on one another. When their handshake finally parted, it felt like it’d been hours since they met.

“Nice—to meet you,” Tamaki eked out, his lips barely moving.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima watched someone slip through the side door that led to the stage and into a bedroom he knew well.

“Hold on, I’ll be right back,” Kirishima told the group, abandoning them in the next moment.

He bounded towards the bedroom door, his heart starting back up in a quick rhythm that made it hard to breathe. Kirishima’s mouth felt dry and sticky as he pulled the rotting wood door open, not exactly sure what he’d be met with on the other side.

“Bakugou,” he said in his deepest, scariest voice.

Sure enough, Bakugou was there, slipping a new shirt over his head and dropping a cigarette butt into the ashtray on his nightstand. He turned towards Kirishima, but his eyes looked everyone but his face.

“Listen to me,” Kirishima insisted, taking a step towards him.

Bakugou continued to look at the ground as he slipped his arms through his jacket.

“You didn’t kill Midoriya and it definitely wasn’t an accident, either.”

Bakugou froze, but still wouldn’t respond. Kirishima continued anyways, pure adrenaline keeping him upright.

“He killed himself,” Kirishima said, “and he did it because his father found out about the two of you.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment. Kirishima forced himself to break it.

“He found out that you were in love.”

If everything around Kirishima Eijirou had been rushing like an ocean before, this was the first moment where everything stopped. As far as he was concerned, the entire world was still, just he and Bakugou at what might have seemed like odds but ran much deeper than that.

“And he tried to cover up the suicide by accusing you of killing him,” Kirishima continued, “it was just enough mayhem for him to leave town under the radar, to disappear completely.”

Bakugou’s body was still frozen in place, but his lips were twitching, and his eyes were blinking more than usual. Kirishima even watched him gulp, at some point.

“You shouldn’t have left without telling me,” he whispered lowly, “what if something happened to you?”

The question was flat and chaste, but Kirishima could feel the concern in every word, the subtle fear that if he didn’t air out even the smallest of grievances, he would never get the chance.

“Katsuki.”

Kirishima had only dreamed of using Bakugou’s first name, but as the letters rolled easily off his tongue, Kirishima wondered how many times he’d said it in his head to make it feel so natural. It was then that Bakugou looked up. Their eyes met, coaxing Kirishima to take a step forward. Once he did, their faces were just inches apart, eyes trailing all over.

Bakugou’s gaze was stony as usual, but it was laced with a twinge of worry.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Kirishima whispered, “I promise.”

Maybe it was the sheer exhaustion of the day or the flurry of emotions from finally piecing the mystery together, but Kirishima couldn’t help himself.

In one swift motion, he grabbed the back of Bakugou’s neck and pulled him close, feeling the same rush from the stage flood through him as Bakugou’s lips came crashing into view. And he almost did it, he almost tilted his head and got lost in the sensation, every bone of his body was itching to do it—

but he couldn’t.

Because Bakugou didn’t like him like that.

All the things they’d done on stage were just for show, it was a ruse to get into Moth Ball and now that they’d achieved their goal, there was no reason to indulge any further. As intoxicating as the feeling of Bakugou’s hair against his neck was, he couldn’t bring himself to close the gap, not when he knew the truth.

Bakugou didn’t love him—

not like he loved Bakugou.

“I can’t—” Kirishima whispered, tearing away in the very next moment.

He couldn’t even look at the man’s face. He didn’t want to imagine the disgust, the horror that would befall it at the thought of Kirishima even trying. He instead turned swiftly and shoved himself out the door, tears pricking his eyes.

“Kirishima, it’s been a few sessions, and I’m wondering where this story is going.”

“I’m getting there, I swear.”

“But everything seems to be going fine.”

“Trust me, it didn’t last forever. In fact, I think this was the last night we all had together before everything fell apart.”

Chapter Text

“Fell apart?”

“Yes, and it all started that very night, I just didn’t know it yet.”

There was always a strange sort of energy passing between the members of the band on show night, something electric and persistent. Kirishima always felt the slightest bit nauseous just in his normal life, so the added pressure of performing made him even more nauseous, enough to need to seal his lips until the moment to sing arrived. Thus, he sat before Mina and her makeup palette with a pursed mouth and clammy folded hands, half thinking about the show and half thinking about Bakugou.

“What’s up with you?” Mina asked while pressing the eyeliner pencil to the edge of Kirishima’s eye.

“Nothing,” Kirishima fibbed.

Mina hummed in subtle disbelief, her perceptive eyes roaming around the creases of Kirishima’s face. He’d donned himself once more in a cropped black shirt and a particularly worn pair of black jeans covered in various fabrics and patches. When he’d walked out of Bakugou’s room in his new garb, Tamaki was sat politely at the edge of the ratty couch with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes wide as saucers.

“Your father would be so unhappy to see you dressed like this,” he whispered with a knitted brow.

Kirishima nodded, “I think that’s kinda the point.”

Tamaki only stared at him a few moments more until Sero came sauntering out of their own room with a little more makeup and a taller pair of platform boots. When they finally came into Tamaki’s view, his lips parted mindlessly and his eyes glazed over, mesmerized by the sweep of their jewelry and the raven shine of their hair beneath the old, flickery lights. Kirishima eyed him strangely before abandoning the situation entirely to meet Mina on the other side of the room.

Yet, despite all the new sensations happening around him, Kirishima’s mind was stuck on the memory of Bakugou’s face as he leaned in and the unconscious freeze of his entire body halfway there. Kirishima sighed in defeat as he watched the blonde round the corner into the adjacent room towards the stage. It’s not as if he was trying to hide his sour mood, so Mina was going to pick up on it no matter what.

“I know you’re lying,” Mina told him while dropping the eyeliner pencil back into her bag.

Kirishima huffed, “I’m just—”

He inhaled, fully intending to relay every emotion he’d fel tin the past two days to Mina without another word of prompting, but his tongue tangled up behind his teeth before he could even begin. His mind spun with the truth of Midoriya’s death and Bakugou’s reluctance to even acknowledge it. The past two days might as well have been two whole months for Kirishima. Every moment felt long and dragged out, though the days ended before he was ready for them to be over.

“Have you ever been in love?” He blurted out.

Mina’s hand froze in the depths of her makeup bag, her eyes trailing to the floor.

“No,” she replied matter-of-factly.

Kirishima’s breath hitched in his throat. Mina’s mouth was a thin line cut short at both cheeks. She kept rooting around in her bag, but the action seemed rather mindless, a subconscious movement in the throes of her own thoughts.

“Oh,” Kirishima recoiled, “I’m s—”

“It’s okay,” Mina replied curtly.

Now Kirishima wasn’t one to understand subtle social cues, but the twitch of Mina’s brow and the hardening of her jaw was hard to misinterpret. They sat in another moment of silence, Mina finally locating her palette of choice. Dutifully, she dug into a bright red with her brush before her hand stilled and her shoulders slumped.

“I don’t think I’m built for falling in love,” she muttered, the brush dragging from one side of the color to the other.

Kirishima knitted his brow, “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Mina sighed.

Her eyes drooped and her once pursed lips parted in deep thought.

“Men would rather take advantage of me than love me,” she whispered, “that’s all.”

Kirishima pulled his lips between his teeth. In the flurry of the past few days, he’d almost forgotten Mina’s story: her upbringing in the church, meeting Bakugou at the trial of his father—

her unforgettable words.

He was much bigger than me—and stronger.

“How do you know?” Kirishima asked her.

Mina’s lips cracked into a quick smile. Finally, her eyes trailed up to Kirishima’s sincere expression.

“Y’know what? If I fall in love, you’ll be the first to know,” she replied softly.

“She made good on that promise—met a guy in a bar five or so years after we had that conversation, and she called me that night just to tell me that she was in love, she was sure of it.”

“Was she right?”

“Of course, she was. Mina is never wrong unless she wants to be.”

Kirishima returned the small smile, sighing in relief as Mina packed up her things and began to hoist herself up off the floor.

“But you have to do the same for me,” she commanded playfully, “I need to be the first to know when you’re in love, alright?”

Kirishima’s smile widened. The closest he’d ever gotten to love was the feeling he felt around Bakugou. But just moments after, his joy dissolved into nothingness as he remembered what he could only assume to be true:

Bakugou didn’t love him,

not like that, at least.

The time of the show approached as quickly as it usually did, the sound of the bustle of people beginning to flood in from the side door. Tamaki barely moved in the hour that led up to the fated moment, constantly checking the time on his watch and brow creasing further and further with each tick of the minute hand. The only thing that could pull his attention away from the clockface was Sero, particularly when they plopped into a nearby chair to restring their bass, nimble fingers working the thick steel and winding it around the shiny bits of the instrument. Tamaki watched on in amazement and every time Sero looked up at him, his cheeks would dust bright pink.

Bakugou was gone for most of the waiting time, futzing around with wires and cords on the stage and taking the occasional smoke break out on the patio. Kirishima offered to help Kaminari with some things backstage so he wouldn’t have to interact, instead letting his heart simply sink every time Bakugou passed by.

Jirou waddled in with a full bottle of alcohol held by her side.

“Pierce stole this from his parent’s liquor cabinet, so we owe him,” she grumbled while setting the bottle onto the rickety wooden table.

“Who’s Pierce?” Kirishima asked.

“Friend from high school,” Kaminari replied, “we took English Lit together and Jirou went to Homecoming with him three years ago.”

“We didn’t go together,” Jirou groaned, “we were in a group, I went with a group.”

“And now he’s still trying to stake his claim even though she’s literally pregnant,” Kaminari gestured towards the womb in question.

Jirou rolled her eyes and turned to Kirishima, “He’s delusional.”

“I’m perceptive,” Kaminari corrected her.

“Pierce has never hit on me,” Jirou said flatly to Kirishima.

Kirishima nodded, “I definitely believe you more than I believe Denki.”

Jirou pointed an accusatory finger towards Kaminari’s chest.

“Ha!” She shouted.

Kaminari shoved Kirishima’s shoulder, “Where’s your sense of solidarity?”

Jirou chuckled grimly once more before turning back towards door and waddling through the opening, making a beeline for the couch cushions where she could put her feet up and rest. Kaminari flicked open the cap of the bottle and started pouring drinks while muttering something about Pierce and his ‘wandering eyes’. Kirishima tuned his ears to the bustling crowd just one wall away from them, the familiar smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke wafting through the space between the door and the ground.

As it always did, Kirishima’s heart began to rise to the base of his throat and beat, making him feel sicker than before. His hands were buzzy and numb at his sides, the only sensation being the fabric of his outfit rubbing against his skin. He forced deep breaths as the remainder of the band poured into the little room, taking their respective plastic cups from the table and sipping on the stolen alcohol.

Kirishima nursed his own cup, retreating to a familiar dark corner. He watched as Bakugou took large, confident swigs from his glass and twirled a drumstick between his fingers. Only once or twice did they look at each other at the same time, eyes catching and releasing in a short panic every time; Kirishima kept chewing on his lip as he tried to focus on literally anything else.

Before he could come up with something new, the band members were sauntering out onto the stage with instruments in hand. Kirishima panicked, downing the rest of his drink and rushing towards the door which led to the open space.

His mind raced—Midoriya, Mina, Bakugou, Tamaki, it was all getting mixed up in a foul-smelling stew of thoughts. Kirishima’s fingers hovered over the door handle as he inhaled deeply because he knew that the minute he crossed the threshold, he could no longer be himself.

With the same ease as their last show, Kirishima began to don the character he’d created, the fearless and fiery self he’d curated out of necessity. If he walked out on that stage in his current state, he’d crash and burn just like he had months ago, his father’s voice booming through his mind and his body giving out as soon as he began to sing.

Thus, with an exhale, Kirishima’s brow went low and his stance straightened. He opened the fated portal to the other side with a whoosh to let the lights and sounds and smells rush through his body. With every step he took towards the center, he felt his character begin to overtake every limb, especially as the crowd below cheered and beat against the edge of the stage.

The sounds swelled his chest with pride. The corner of his mouth twitched up as he glanced out over the crowd which was significantly denser than their last show. In the very back was Tamaki with hunched shoulders and frantic eyes, taking in the absolute nonsense of his environment. He looked up at Kirishima and flashed a weak smile. Kirishima grinned back at him before lifting his head and murmuring a silent prayer to whoever was watching over him.

And with all thoughts of Bakugou out of his mind, Kirishima grabbed the mic and started the show.

There was a new ease to their set, songs flowing together so seamlessly that each of them had a chance to adlib and have fun. Ever since their acceptance into Moth Ball, the pressure of putting on a practically perfect show lifted and their practices became laxer, working out smaller kinks and polishing their transitions.

With that same ease, Kirishima slipped into his alter ego, moving his body and approaching the crowd below with a sort of intensity that he could never embody off-stage. And the response fueled him, sloshing beer soaking the toe of his boots and sweat dripping onto the wood beneath his feet as he performed.

Every once in a while, Kirishima would search for Tamaki in the crowd only to see his brow creased with anxiety and his arms crossed tight over his chest. The only thing that seemed to calm him down was gaining the courage to lift his head and watch Sero off to the left of the stage as they plucked their bass. Perhaps they were why Tamaki dared to brave the jostling crowd and the incriminating cloud of scents.

All of the members dove into the vibe of the show, playing song after song just like every time before. Yet, even as Kirishima’s alternate self took over his entire body, a pit of worry settled itself at the base of his stomach because there was a song coming up, a very particular song that he’d refused to think about till that night.

Was he supposed to kiss Bakugou again?

They hadn’t spoken once about the incident since it happened, the entire night shrouded in a sort of mysterious darkness that got shoved beneath their collective consciousness. Whenever they’d practice the song, Kirishima’s cheeks would go blood red and he’d be physically unable to look at Bakugou as he played the drums, his embarrassment only intensifying as Mina went into her solo.

To Kirishima, it had all been an act, the only way to really get the Moth Ball guys’ attention. Now that the guys weren’t watching, they had no reason to repeat the spectacle other than the faint idea that it wasn’t as much of an act as they thought. As the song neared in their set, Kirishima felt pieces of his stage persona start to slip, his words stuttering and his posture faltering every so often.

When the song finally did start, Kirishima couldn’t help but clench his fingers into fists, the crowd roaring before him much louder than they had before. Did they remember their last performance?

Were they expecting what Kirishima hadn’t dared to speak of for so long?

Kirishima shot a harrowed look to Mina who was already engrossed in the song. Kaminari was in a similar state, hitting the pedal with his foot to change the nature of his sound. Sero wasn’t paying attention either, their eyes locked on a certain spot in the crowd. For the first time since they walked onstage, Kirishima felt alone.

He tried to shake all the worries from his mind as he performed the song, focusing instead on the tone of his voice and the response of the crowd below. He looked again at Mina, hoping that she was taking a break from her playing to look back, but to no avail. Kirishima wet his lips with his tongue and felt fear shudder through his body as the fated instrumental came crashing towards him.

A roar started from somewhere in the crowd, a single word which echoed through all the empty corridors of Kirishima’s mind.

“Kiss!” They cried.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss!”

Kirishima’s lips fell open in surprise. Instantly, his cheeks flushed red and hot and any sense of swagger or confidence melted away. The crowd was egging him on towards what he’d hoped they’d all forgotten. In a fit, Kirishima spun around to see Bakugou drumming away, a sheen of pink dusting over the bridge of his nose.

“Kiss, kiss!” The crowd chanted behind him.

Kirishima’s body kept devolving into a mere pile of skin and bones, every inch of his skin heating up like the surface of a stove. Mina’s solo had already begun—

he had to do it.

But only to satiate the crowd, not because Kirishima wanted to more than anything else and had been dreaming about it constantly since their last show. It was simply a response to the incessant chanting, the demanding work of showmen.

His steps towards the drum set was accompanied by the heightened volume of the crowd, knowing that they had won. Kirishima averted his eyes so as to not look at Bakugou as he neared him, fearing the expression he might be sporting. He raced over with a feigned confidence, rounding the side of the snare. The crowd kept cheering, even as Kirishima planted one boot then the other on the leather stool where Bakugou was seated.

Bakugou’s drumming sent reverberations through Bakugou’s body and the stool below thus, by association, Kirishima’s body buzzed to the beat, his stomach and heart shaking with every hit of the kickdrum. His heart was in his throat again, soft edges fluttering against the walls of his throat. As he bent over and carded his fingers through Bakugou’s thick blonde locks, Kirishima felt each of his nerves catch fire, the feeling of their first kiss returning with a vengeance.

With his fingers wound around Bakugou’s hairs and his lungs full with a deep inhale, Kirishima pulled the drummer’s head back so they were finally eye-to-eye, mere inches apart.

They looked at each other for a moment, Bakugou’s body moving ever so slightly with his drumming. All the sound which surrounded Kirishima melted away and his conception of the crowd and their bandmates fading into non-existence. With their eyes locked onto one another, they could only perceive just that—

each other.

The kiss was almost an afterthought. Kirishima hurtled towards him, connecting their lips before his mind could talk him out of it. Bakugou responded immediately, pressing his face up into Kirishima’s. For a moment, all Kirishima could hear was silence, his mind entirely occupied with the feeling of Bakugou’s lips on his and the feeling of having him close, once more. They didn’t move in that moment, paralyzed by one another in a way neither could quite describe.

It was Kirishima who moved just enough for his lips to brush over Bakugou’s, sending them into the practiced dance of their kiss. Lips slotted seamlessly as they worked further and further into each other’s faces. Kirishima’s chest fluttered at the sensation; it was as good as the last time, maybe even better—partly because Bakugou had wasted no time in prodding the entrance of Kirishima’s mouth with his tongue.

Kirishima’s thoughts shot from his mind like ribbons, crossing and tangling within one another in such a way that he couldn’t focus on just one. Instead, he set them all free, choosing only to know the sensation currently against his lips. His heart rapped. His body buzzed.

But nothing had changed.

No matter how close their teeth inched or how insistent Bakugou’s tongue seemed in exploring every crevice, Kirishima knew that it was all an act for the cheering crowd below, a farce that everyone seemed to be in on except for him. He nearly frowned and broke the kiss early, but the longer Kirishima stayed lip-locked, the longer he could pretend, just for a little while, that Bakugou loved him.

After all, his last love died only five years ago.

That was the thought which sent a stake of pain through Kirishima’s heart. He wrenched his lips off of Bakugou’s and separated as quickly as he could, catching a quick glimpse of Bakugou’s hazy expression and rubbed-red lips. Kirishima was upright in the very next moment, looking out into the crowd from which cheers and wolf whistles were flooding towards him. In the very back was Tamaki with his jaw agape and his eyes blown wide, a noticeable blush spotting over his nose.

Steadily, Kirishima hopped down from Bakugou’s stool and made his way toward the front of the stage as Mina nodded to him, tapping him in after her solo. Before he started to sing again, Kirishima mustered the courage to glance back, just once more, to the boy he’d left behind.

The reality weighed down on him like a soaked blanket, sopping and dripping over every curve of his body. Yet, in the center of his chest, something burned—anger?

Yes, that was it.

All Kirishima had done was pour his heart and soul into Bakugou and his band and his friends, and what had he received in return? Scorn? An occasional kiss he didn’t have to even work for? And it all felt so real to Kirishima, the mere thought of it being anything less to Bakugou sent hot flames down the lengths of his arms.

Kirishima gritted his teeth and pursed his lips to which Bakugou knitted his brow in a chaste moment of confusion. Letting out a hot huff of air, Kirishima turned back, righteous anger flowing through his veins.

Perhaps, in that moment, he was more like his father than ever before.

The show ended soon after. Kirishima sauntered off the stage with less nausea than any of his previous performances, but it was still enough to confine him to the couch cushion backstage. Jirou was shoving a water bottle in his hand not long after, giving his head a firm pat of reassurance. While half of the reason he was shoving his face in his hands was the tsunamis of nausea flooding over him, the other half of the reason was that his cheeks had gone red from his fuming anger, his incessant frustration.

When he saw Bakugou’s shoes enter his field of vision, Kirishima hoisted himself onto his feet and turned before the drummer could get too close. With a tense jaw, he made a beeline for the door that led into the main house.

“I don’t know what came over me, I was just so furious with the thought of him and his apathy.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I think—I don’t know. Maybe I just measure things in love. I’d spent my whole life doing everything possible to please my parents, to convince them to love me, and it never worked. I wasn’t so much angry at Bakugou as I was angry with myself for falling for the trick again.”

Storming through the creaky door, Kirishima balled his hands into fists. He wasn’t one to get angry, the last time he could remember feeling remotely close to it was his very first performance where none other than Bakugou had lit a fire of fury in the center of his chest.

He couldn’t bear to look at him anymore now that the shame had settled in. How could he fall for it again? Had he truly believed that enough work and toil would make Bakugou love him? He was a fool, always had been.

Kirishima shoved himself into the bathroom and tugged at the silver chains around his neck, pulling them up and over his head. As they clinked against the porcelain sink, Kirishima glared at himself in the mirror for the first time that evening.

His hair was all stuck up with gel, the two front pieces mimicking little horns. The black liner was blurred and smeared down his cheekbone, the red shadow matching the rims around his eyes. Further down, his lip trembled, a strange cocktail of anger and sorrow slipping down his throat.

He swallowed back tear after tear, swearing up and down that crying would discredit any true anger he’d stored up, and if Bakugou were to walk through that door, he needed to be stoic and hardened against it all. But, in truth, that wasn’t who Kirishima was. Kirishima was soft and pliant—he cried seeing roadkill in the ditches and let bugs crawl onto his finger so he could set them on the grass outside. In some ways, his moldable personality was precisely the problem: he couldn’t tell which parts of himself were truly his and which were simply the work of his father.

And now he couldn’t tell how much of his current self was who he really was, liberated, or just the work of Bakugou and his friends.

His father always said that the Lord loves everyone just as they are—perhaps the Lord is the only one who truly knows Kirishima. What would it take for the wisdom to be imparted?

Carding his fingers through his crunchy, gelled strands, Kirishima sighed. His eyes trailed down to his outfit, every hanging fabric and torn thread. When he finally looked back up into the mirror, there was only one question echoing through his mind.

Who am I?

“Eiji, baby,” a sweet voice called from the doorway.

Kirishima tore his hand from his hair and glanced towards the source of the voice to see Mina leaning against the frame.

“It’s late, you gotta get Tamaki so Bakugou can take the two of you home,” she said softly.

Kirishima sighed again. In the flurry of his emotions, he’d forgotten that Bakugou still had to take him home. Mina lifted her brow before slipping back into the main room, her jewelry clinking against each other as she sauntered away. He didn’t dare look back in the mirror, lest the existential thoughts return to haunt him.

Thus, with the silver necklaces in his hand, Kirishima left the bathroom and began his grand search for Tamaki. Mina was disappearing back out towards the stage, probably to pack up all the cords and instruments that had been left out. Kaminari was tucked into the corner of the couch with his arm propping up his sleeping form; Jirou’s head was resting in his lap, also deep in sleep. Jirou’s hand was lying palm-up on Kaminari’s knee to give the perfect angle for Kaminari’s lazy fingers to intertwine with hers in a sort of unconscious, sleeping search for touch.

No sign of Tamaki.

Kirishima inched towards the door that Mina had disappeared behind just seconds before, but still no sign of Tamaki anywhere nearby. Kirishima knitted his brow as he peeked out onto the patio and even out the front door, hoping to see Tamaki just standing around somewhere, waiting for Kirishima to find him. But as he kept coming up empty, Kirishima’s stomach started to flip with nervousness.

Oh, gosh.

He’d lost Tamaki Amajiki.

Maybe he’d gotten swept up in the crowd of people and pushed into some mysterious vehicle. Maybe he’d gone into that back alley and gotten beat up by those thugs like Kirishima had. What if he’s lost Tamaki for good? How was he gonna explain this to his mom?

With a dry mouth and a thrumming heart, Kirishima started to check the bedrooms, first Bakugou’s then Jirou and Kaminari’s.

“No, no, no,” Kirishima whispered to himself.

In a panic, Kirishima flung open the door to Sero and Mina’s room.

In the very center of the bed was Tamaki and Sero, the latter perched on the former’s lap. Tamaki’s hands were gripping the fabric of Sero’s shirt, exploring the expanse of their back. Sero’s hands were tangled in the sides of Tamaki’s soft, black hair, tousling the strands until they were sticking out at odd angles. Their lips were locked in a desperate kiss; as they moved against one another, Kirishima caught flashes of their teeth and tongues battling between them. Huffs of air flowed from their noses, brushing against each other’s faces as their noses smushed into each other’s cheeks.

When Kirishima finally processed the sight before him, his jaw went slack and his eyes widened upon instinct. As he stuttered, his body paralyzing in its place, Tamaki’s eyes opened and trailed immediately to his friend standing in the doorway. His panicked expression broke Kirishima’s state of paralysis, making him turn and slam the door behind him.

Kirishima felt his face go hot and his jaw freeze in its open position as he held his back flush to the now closed door.

“Oh my god,” he whispered to himself.

From the other side of the door, Kirishima heard rustling and hushed voices slowly nearing where he was having a moment of panic. A few seconds later, Kirishima felt the door upon which he was leaning move slowly, prompting him to turn and see Tamaki standing right in the opening with another figure clinging to his arm.

The bright red flush on his cheeks had trailed down to his neck and the hairs on either side of his head were curled and jutting out at odd angles and his lips were already bruising. He glared down at the floor, refusing to look Kirishima in the eye. Hanging on his arm was Sero themselves, a similar state to their hair and their lips but a hazy look of satisfaction pasted over their eyes.

“It’s uh—it’s time—” Kirishima stuttered, “we gotta go.”

All the words felt clunky in Kirishima’s mouth as if he’d never said them before. Slowly, Tamaki nodded. Kirishima nodded in response, even though Tamaki wasn’t watching. They stood there for a moment of silence, none of them quite knowing what to say or do in light of the current situation. The only thing Kirishima could think to do was start walking towards the front door of the house, hoping that Tamaki would follow.

“I think Bakugou just walked out to his car,” Kaminari called groggily to the three of them.

“Thanks,” Kirishima muttered, picking up his pace towards the front door.

They pushed through the heavy metal doors, perusing the dark hallway that led out to the warm summer night. Kirishima wanted to say something to break the tension, but his tongue felt all oversized and heavy in his mouth, so he knew nothing would come out quite right.

Sure enough, Bakugou was lounged in the driver’s seat of his old car, a cigarette trapped between his teeth and some song blasting through the open windows. Sero tugged Tamaki towards the back doors, slipping into the seats with ease. Kirishima gritted his teeth upon seeing Bakugou so relaxed and apathetic like nothing had happened. Well, nothing had happened, not for Bakugou, at least.

Almost reluctantly, Kirishima rounded the car and slipped into the passenger seat, the smell of smoke and the sound of guitar invading his senses. Once everyone had settled into their places, Bakugou put the car in reverse and began whizzing down the barren, night-shrouded street.

When he peeked in the rearview mirror, Kirishima could see Sero still clinging to Tamaki’s side, their lips now glued to the column of the boy’s neck where his most vital of veins were located. As they worked over the skin with desperate, long kisses, Tamaki’s eyes lidded and his mouth curled into the smallest of smiles. Kirishima tore his eyes away and stared at his lap.

“Where to?” Bakugou grumbled to Tamaki.

“Farmington Avenue,” Tamaki replied in a broken, breathy voice.

Kirishima leaned against the passenger side door, trying his best to maintain a flat and disinterested expression. He didn’t dare look to his left, so he could only hope that Bakugou was stealing glances, taking in his sour mood. With every street he turned down, Kirishima grew more and more irritated with the pervasive silence.

Tamaki’s road was close by, and it was hard for the boy in question to mask his disappointment. As Bakugou pulled up to the end of the road, Tamaki sighed and gazed longingly down the familiar road. Sero noticed the change in demeanor and finally tore themselves from the addicting taste of Tamaki’s neck.

“I have to go,” Tamaki whispered to Sero with a pitiful expression.

Sero pouted, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Tamaki replied mindlessly.

“Then stay,” they insisted.

“I can’t.”

Sero pouted again, but relented, releasing their vice grip on Tamaki’s arm and watching him slip out the back door.

“Wait!” Sero called out to him through the open window.

While they fished around for something in their pocket, Tamaki leaned back through the window. Sero extracted a short eyeliner pencil from the depths of their clothing and held it out to Tamaki, extending their arm at the same time.

“Gimme your number,” they commanded softly.

Tamaki froze for a moment with the pencil poised in his hand, searching for the proper place to write his number on Sero’s skin. Gingerly, he wrapped his blithe fingers around Sero’s pale skin to steady the limb, starting slowly with the first number.

“Landline?” Sero asked languidly.

Tamaki nodded, starting in on the second half of his number.

“Of course,” Sero smiled flirtatiously, “good church boys don’t have pagers.”

Tamaki’s cheeks flushed a deep red once more right as he finished the very last number at the junction of Sero’s arm and hand.

“Goodbye,” Tamaki bowed his head politely.

Sero smiled again, “Bye, sailor.”

Tamaki turned towards the street, racing down it with small, hesitant steps. Sero leaned back into their seat with a confident expression, making sure to keep the arm palm-up to prevent smudging. Once Tamaki disappeared down the darkened street toward the small, one-story house, Bakugou put the car back into drive and began to drive, once more.

Kirishima glanced again in the corner of the rearview mirror just in time to see Sero’s confident expression melt into a genuine, dopey smile, their finger tracing the shape of the numbers scrawled upon their arm. It was a crack in their seamless façade, a moment of self that Kirishima could only dream of having.

As they sped down the long, winding road, Kirishima watched a bright strip of stores appear in the distance, the typical rural collection of Ma and Pa shops and abandoned gas pumps surrounded by clouds of dust.

“Lemme out here,” Sero said from the backseat, “I’m gonna get some food.”

With a grumble, Bakugou pulled off to the side of the road to let Sero out right in front of the brightly lit corner store which was pretty much barren on the inside. Once they were close enough to the front door of the building, Bakugou started down the road with a whir of the engine and a sputter of the wheel against the gravel.

Kirishima leaned closer to the car window, his mouth desperate to twitch out of its angry straight line. Despite the crashing music flowing from the car’s stereo, there was a decisive air of silence between the two of them, and Kirishima could feel Bakugou side-eyeing him every once in a while. Kirishima sighed as they neared his home.

“Alright, what’s up with you?” Bakugou growled, gesturing helplessly.

“Nothing,” Kirishima lied, leaning further towards the opposite end of the car.

“If this is about that argument, I’m sorry,” Bakugou’s voice was low and sincere, “and—you were right.”

Slowly, Kirishima turned his head toward the driver’s seat. Bakugou’s brow loosened and his lips were pulled between his teeth.

“What?” Kirishima whispered.

“You were right—about Sero,” he mumbled.

On an exhale, Kirishima felt the angry flames in the center of his chest start to extinguish, little by little. The moonlight illuminated the harsh line of Bakugou’s jaw and cheekbone, but also the deep bags beneath his eyes and the slight curve of his brow.

“I’m sorry I disappeared afterwards,” Kirishima replied lowly, settling himself normally in his seat.

Bakugou jerked his head in what could be considered a nod, but Kirishima didn’t have enough time to hypothesize before a familiar road came into view. Bakugou put the car in park and sighed.

Kirishima’s brow lowered in thought. His eyes trailed from Bakugou’s moonlit face to the expanse of grass around the road.

“Hey, Katsuki,” he said gently.

Bakugou looked over with narrowed eyes.

“I have something to show you.”

Kirishima was the first to exit the car, only hearing the engine die out and the driver’s side door close behind him. With insistent feet, he plodded down the dirt road, watching the clouds of dust stain the rubber soles of his shoes. Whether Bakugou was following or not, he didn’t know, but he didn’t have the heart to turn back and check. The only assurance he had was the slightly delayed footsteps that followed close behind his own.

He was walking towards his house, but when they reached the point where one would usually walk up the driveway to the porch, Kirishima turned and began walking down a half-path to the side of the house towards something out back.

Stars spackled the inky sky. Crickets and junebugs buzzed all around, fighting for dominance over the symphony of the summer night. As they got closer and closer to their destination, Kirishima smiled, hearing the characteristic howl of wind and brush of reeds.

“You takin’ me out here to kill me or somethin’?” Bakugou called half-jokingly from a few feet behind him.

Kirishima didn’t respond, he just smiled, knowing exactly where he was going.

They passed over a field of short grass, the occasional tree spotting the mass of green. At the right moment, Kirishima veered left, hearing the howl of wind and brush of reeds only grow louder. A thick line of tall oaks came hurtling into view as the grass beneath Kirishima’s feet rose to the level of his ankles, then his calves.

Bakugou was still following close behind, albeit not without the occasional grunt or sound of confusion. Kirishima’s grin only grew as he reached the tree line, hands poised to push between the thick trunks.

It was dark for a moment, the dense tree cover blocking all streams of moonlight, but the darkness only lasted for a second as Kirishima stepped onto the other side into a place he knew well.

Stretching out for miles before his eyes was a field of tall grass which, in the last five years, had grown to the level of his elbows. The moonlight shimmered off the thin ends of the reeds, shadows casting onto the ground below as they swayed in the gentle summer wind. The sound of crickets intensified as they hid beneath the thick cover of grass.

With a rustle of leaves, Kirishima heard Bakugou cross the tree line and appear before him, a small gasp of disbelief falling from his lips. Kirishima inhaled deeply and released the breath along with every other heavy emotion he’d taken on that night; there was a quality to the field that always stripped off all the awful things of the day and made him feel light as if he was just a single reed tilting at the mercy of the wind.

“Woah,” Bakugou whispered.

“C’mon,” Kirishima coaxed him, already wading through the mass of reeds.

The pair of them waded quietly through the tall grass, the ends tickling the skin in the crooks of their elbows. The further they moved into the field, the less sense they had of the world around them and, soon, they couldn’t see anything but grass no matter which direction they looked.

Whenever Kirishima went out to the field, he always stopped when his body told him to, when he’d finally gone far enough into the grass for the world around him to simply disappear. When the feeling finally washed over him, he turned with a sigh.

“Right here,” he told Bakugou.

“Right here what?” Bakugou’s lip quirked.

Kirishima pointed down, “This is the spot.”

“What spot?”

In a silent reply, Kirishima lowered himself down onto the dirt floor, adjusting his body over the reeds he’d just sat on, and proceeded to lay his entire body down until he was splayed out, surrounded by grass which outlined every limb. He turned his head to look at Bakugou who was towering over him with a bewildered expression.

“C’mon,” Kirishima coaxed, nudging his head toward the ground.

Bakugou thought for a moment, his mouth screwing up in confusion, but he eventually relented and sat himself down on the ground. After taking a few moments to adjust, he laid down, hesitant hands patting all over the grass to ensure he was doing it all properly.

At last, the two of them were lying beside each other, their hands splayed over their stomachs and their eyes trained onto the moon above. The grass swayed in and out of Kirishima’s vision, momentarily blocking strips of the moon and the occasional star. As the air swished through the field, Kirishima took his first true breath since that morning, one that was cool and cleansing to his overworked lungs.

“I found this place the day we moved in,” Kirishima said softly, “it’s the only place I can actually think.”

Bakugou grunted in acknowledgement beside him. As the grass shifted beneath them, Kirishima could sense the closeness of Bakugou’s arm and couldn’t help but wish they were even closer.

“Sometimes I just—talk to myself,” Kirishima whispered, “this place helps me figure stuff out.”

It sounded so dumb. Kirishima squirmed awkwardly as he tried to interpret Bakugou’s silence. The only thing he could assume was that he’d said something stupid and taken Bakugou to a place that was even more stupid. Kirishima pursed his lips and tried to focus on the bright, wide moon.

“Just—thought you’d like to see it,” Kirishima eked out, hoping it would alleviate his awkward feelings.

“We used to meet at that creek every Sunday afternoon.”

Bakugou’s voice nearly startled Kirishima—it was tender and light, devoid of its usual growl and intensity. When Kirishima looked over, he watched the harsh lines of Bakugou’s face melt with the memory. But the memory of who?

Kirishima didn’t need much more evidence to guess who the ‘he’ in Bakugou’s story was.

“He’d bring me leftover bread from Communion,” Bakugou continued, “and I’d bring him a Toblerone and a can of Cherry Coke.”

Kirishima kept watching as he recanted the story, the ghost of a smile teasing his lips.

“For years we just fished and caught bugs and swam and laid out in the sun,” Bakugou added, “just kid stuff. But his dad couldn’t know, he was a lot like yours.”

It was then that Kirishima turned his gaze back out towards the sky, taking note of how close his father truly was, the house only a couple hundred feet away. Bakugou took a reed from beneath his body and plucked it, creating a small thread with which he could occupy his fingers.

“And, at some point, it changed,” Bakugou’s voice was a near whisper, “out of nowhere I was wondering what he was doing when we were apart and making up dumb excuses for us to see each other outside of those Sunday afternoons.”

Kirishima’s heart clenched. A sour taste filled his mouth as Bakugou spoke so tenderly about a former love. There was a part of Kirishima that wanted Bakugou to be talking about him, but another, much wiser, part of him knew that it would never be true and that the memory of Midoriya was set in stone.

“And we were damn good at sneaking behind his dad’s back,” Bakugou chuckled, “I’d come to his window in the middle of the night, he’d get in my car and we’d just—drive around.”

Bakugou sighed, the smile in his voice fading. For so long, Bakugou had been a tall steel wall, one that was both impenetrable and unscalable where Kirishima could only imagine what was on the other side as the thing towered over him. But, in this moment, Bakugou seemed so impossible small, so folded in on himself with only his memories to keep him company. Kirishima wondered if it had always been this way.

“This one Sunday, his dad tore through all the trees that kept us undercover and lost his goddamn mind,” Bakugou hissed, “How could his son be gay? I must’ve tricked him or hypnotized him or somethin’.”

Kirishima swallowed thickly, imagining the sight of his own father bounding through the tall reeds which hid their bodies, wondering why his son was lying so close to some other boy. The mere thought sent his heart into a nervous fit.

“So I went to his window that night with all my stuff and told him I was ready to run away, to go anywhere.”

In time with the wind, Kirishima turned his head eastwardly and watched Bakugou’s jaw tighten and his eyes narrow, irises glinting off the bright moon.

“He told me I was crazy and that I never thought things through and—” Bakugou stumbled on his own words, “we got into this massive fight.”

Bakugou’s Adam’s apple bobbed with a gulp, his lips screwing up in what seemed like pain. It was the closest Kirishima had ever seen him get to tears.

“That next Sunday was the first Sunday in 8 years that I didn’t go to the creek,” Bakugou eked out, “I didn’t even know he’d died until I read it in the Monday morning paper.”

With his last word trailing through the summer breeze, Bakugou sealed his lips harshly, holding something back. He blinked over and over as he stared into the sky, a mist melting over the deep crimson color.

“The police questioned me like crazy. I knew his dad was trying to frame me, trying to hide the fact that his son was in love with a guy,” Bakugou whispered, “Even when I told them I didn't do it, everyone in town hated me. I had to get out.”

Bakugou huffed angrily, his focus turning to the swaying reeds which surrounded them.

“It was like they were trying to run me and my dad out of town,” Bakugou scoffed, “I mean, my trial was just a month or so after they’d convicted him for a sexual assault he had nothing to do with.”

The foundation of Bakugou’s voice began to shake. As desperately as he tried to muster the anger of his father’s imprisonment to cover the sorrow of the rest of the story, his eyes still misted and his accusatory hand lost its gusto in mid-air.

“I’m sorry,” Kirishima whispered.

Bakugou chuckled breathily, “You have nothin’ to be sorry for.”

“I know, I just don’t know what else to say.”

As the wind picked up around them, the pair fell into a silence which was dense with all the unspoken things they’d been holding since the moment they met. Kirishima swallowed all these words, knowing he would only be disappointed with the response.

But it ate him up inside, the curiosity of how Bakugou felt. It wasn’t as if he was incapable of talking about someone tenderly, he even knew the ins and outs of love rather intimately. Even if Kirishima wanted to know, he wouldn’t even know how to ask, the words would come out all jumbled and wrong.

Yet, a confidence flooded through him, a feeling he remembered from the first time he stood on that stage.

“Katsuki, I—”

“You wanna know if I feel that way about you too, right?” Bakugou cut him off, “If I think about what you’re doing when we’re apart or if I make up dumb excuses to see you more often?”

Kirishima’s entire body froze in its place, even the hem of his shirt which he’d been fiddling endlessly with. All the moisture left his mouth and the breeze felt impossibly cold, running over the goosebumps spotting the expanse of his skin. Even as he felt Bakugou shift beside him, Kirishima couldn’t move a muscle. The only thing that felt like it was moving was his ribs as his heart pounded against them.

When he looked to his left, Bakugou was propped up on his elbow, hovering over Kirishima with a subtle grin. Kirishima swallowed what little saliva he had left as Bakugou’s head moved further into his line of vision, blocking the moon entirely.

“Y’know,” Bakugou whispered, “we used to only practice on Fridays.”

Kirishima knitted his brow. He was at the hideout every day for practice, Bakugou refused to take even one day off. Did that mean—

“Wha—”

Before Kirishima could finish his question, Bakugou’s hand was slipping beneath his neck, gentle and sturdy, pulling his face closer to his own.

When their lips finally met, Kirishima’s body went positively weightless.

They’d kissed before—twice! But this was different, it was warm and sure, full of a tenderness that they never seemed to capture onstage. Maybe it was the gentle rub of Bakugou’s fingers against the soft skin of Kirishima’s neck or the way his lips moved slowly and intently over his own. Or, perhaps, it wasn’t either of those things—

maybe it was the fact that Bakugou was kissing him, and it wasn’t just for show.

As Bakugou’s body moved further over, Kirishima instinctively laid his hands on either side of Bakugou’s face, wanting nothing more than to pull him closer. His skin was so soft beneath Kirishima’s cold, thin fingers, it was as if he was siphoning all the warmth from the surface of his face.

Bakugou tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and Kirishima’s heart nearly fluttered right out of his chest. The blonde’s right hand moved up Kirishima’s side, teasing the fabric of his shirt against the soft plush of his sides. Kirishima could only hold his face tighter, digging his nose into the end of Bakugou’s cheekbone.

They parted soon after with a wet sort of sound, one that Kirishima had never heard. Bakugou’s cheeks were burning and his lips glistened in the moonlight, Kirishima’s thumbs brushing over the apple of his cheeks and his pinkies teasing the ends of his blonde hair.

“Do you mean i—?” Kirishima asked in a shuddering whisper.

Bakugou leaned towards him, his breath brushing over all the exposed skin of his face.

“Listen close ‘cause I’m only gonna say this once,” he whispered.

Kirishima gulped.

“I never stop thinking about you,” he said, “when I look at you my stomach feels all weird and my hands get all moist which is gross and I want it to stop.”

The way he said it almost sent Kirishima into a fit of giggles, but the burning patches on either side of his face made it hard to smile too widely.

“I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, I stare at your ass while I’m drumming and I’m sorry,” he hissed, “and if you don’t feel the same way I’ll suck it up until Moth Ball but then buy you a car so I can smash its windows.”

Kirishima’s thumbs rubbed gingerly over the rough, scarred skin of Bakugou’s cheeks.

“So—that’s it,” Bakugou huffed, “if you missed any part of it, too bad, because I’m never gonna be sappy like that again.”

With a short chuckle and an ever-growing smile, Kirishima pulled Bakugou back in, relishing in a repeat of the genuine kiss they’d just shared.

It was as if oxygen was trapped behind the other’s teeth the way the two of them refused to part again. Bakugou’s ministrations against his lips were rough and sure, but his hand wavered over Kirishima’s body and moved only in hesitant brushes and strokes against his side.

Kirishima’s heart lubbed against the edge of his chest in time with their huffing breaths, a sort of solid ground upon which Kirishima could stand and begin to conceptualize what was actually happening.

Kirishima had never been in love in his life, he’d never even gotten close. But the way his body swelled with joy and the calming feeling of Bakugou’s face beneath his fingertips was almost unmistakable. This had to be it, the feeling Kirishima had desired for so long.

I love him.

Kirishima smiled. He giggled into Bakugou’s mouth right as their bodies shifted, their chests now pressed together; Kirishima could feel Bakugou’s heart beating rapidly at the edge of his chest, as well. Could it be true?

Did Bakugou love him, too?

Bakugou pulled away from the kiss for a moment to speak, but they were close enough that every word seemed to travel between their mouths and nowhere else.

“I lied,” he whispered.

Kirishima’s heart pounded and his mouth went desert dry.

“What?” He asked in a shuddering voice.

Bakugou smirked.

“I’m not sorry about looking at your ass while I drum.”

Kirishima really laughed that time, but only until they kissed again, both grinning against each other.

They did have to part eventually, mostly to catch their breaths and acknowledge that the night was waning and Kirishima needed to be back in his house before sunrise. Yet, the way Bakugou smiled dully at him was intoxicating, he could lie there all night simply observing every curve of the man’s face beneath his fingers and watching the moonlight streak over the ends of his blonde hair.

“We have to go back,” Kirishima whispered.

“Says who,” Bakugou teased, his nose grazing the end of Kirishima’s.

They laughed breathily, knowing that the dream of being together was not nearly big enough to cover the reality which surrounded them. Thus, they hoisted themselves off the ground and waded towards the tree line through the tall grass.

Kirishima couldn’t stop giggling, his entire body felt like it had been steeped in pure golden joy, and if it was daytime, the glow of his face would surely be rivaling the sun. Bakugou followed close behind, grabbing Kirishima every so often to catch his lips in a chaste kiss—one that always left him wanting more.

When they finally snuck around the side of the house where Kirishima’s window was cracked, he stuck his fingers beneath the sliver of space and pulled it open enough to crawl through. Masterfully, he shoved himself through the small space and landed on the other side silently while keeping an ear out for shuffling down the hallway.

The only light in the room came from the moonlight streaming through said window, so when the entire place went dark, Kirishima knew that Bakugou was blocking the sky while climbing through into the room. He landed almost as silently onto the hardwood and crossed over to where Kirishima was stood with a slack jaw and a frozen form.

Bakugou bounded towards him, hands immediately capturing the curve of his jaw and his lips in one swift motion. Kirishima hobbled back from the impact, feeling the edge of his mattress hit the backs of his knees. He lowered himself onto the bed, knowing that it was better than falling over and making a racket against the wood. Bakugou followed suit, placing one leg on either side of Kirishima’s hip and perching himself over his body without breaking the kiss for even a moment.

The mere knowledge that his father was just down the hall sent a streak of rebellious determination through Kirishima’s body as he wound his fingers tightly through Bakugou’s hair. Bakugou’s hands were travelling up the sides of Kirishima’s body more confidently now, the tops of his fingers teasing the sliver of skin between his shirt and his pants. If his father knew that Bakugou was even here, much less that Kirishima was making out with him, he would be so—

“Wait,” Kirishima whispered against Bakugou’s tongue.

Instantly, Bakugou sat up and pulled his hands from Kirishima’s skin in surrender.

“You alright?” He asked quickly and breathily, his expression melting into genuine concern.

“Yeah,” Kirishima nodded, “I just—”

His body pounded with the fear of his father possibly hearing them, and it was enough to scare him from the only sensation he could truly imagine never growing tired of.

“My dad,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Bakugou groaned in response.

Swiftly, Bakugou fell to the side and laid beside Kirishima. The bed creaked just slightly, but Kirishima still took a moment of silence to listen for footsteps travelling down the hallway. When he knew it was silent, he turned to face Bakugou, slipping his hands between the pillow and his ear.

Kirishima could taste Bakugou’s menthols on his own lips. As they stared at each other, Kirishima’s chest swelled once more with some feeling he couldn’t quite pin down but wished he could feel for the rest of his life. In the moonlight, he could only catch glimpses of the contours of Bakugou’s face, but it was enough to send an excited shudder down his spine.

“Maybe if you’d have let me in your room two months ago, it wouldn’t have taken this damn long for us to figure this out,” Bakugou whispered.

Kirishima rolled his eyes, “You think too highly of yourself.”

Bakugou cupped his jaw with rough, calloused fingers, Kirishima couldn’t help but lean into it.

“If I kiss you again, d’you think God will smite me from the heavens?” Bakugou teased lowly.

Kirishima grinned, “I think he’ll make an exception.”

And thus, Bakugou leaned towards him once more, capturing his lips in a slower kiss than before, one where Kirishima could feel every intention and uttered word pass through the barrier of his teeth, the fear of his father discovering still resting sourly in his bones. But perhaps the proximity of their bodies and Bakugou’s gentle hand atop his cheek was enough to push that worry away, just for the time being.

Kirishima pulled away, but only slightly.

“You can’t stay,” he whispered, “what if my parents wake up and see you?”

Bakugou sighed.

“Then I’ll leave before sunrise,” he whispered back.

Kirishima smiled and lifted his pinky to the level of his eye.

“Do you promise?” He whispered.

Bakugou chuckled breathily and lifted his pinky, as well, hooking it around Kirishima’s.

“Promise.”

It was Kirishima who nodded off first, particularly because of the comforting feeling of having Bakugou’s arm trapped close to his body like his old rabbit toy. Perhaps it was the fearlessness of running his fingers of his skin and snuggling in closer that made it all even better. But before he nodded off, Kirishima distinctly remembered smiling.

He’d gotten it,

everything he ever wanted.

Bakugou liked him, his father didn’t know a thing, and they were performing at Moth Ball that very Friday which meant the money was no longer some distant dream, but more of a promise.

Yet, isn’t it precisely when you get everything you ever wanted that it all seems to fall apart?

“I gotta be honest, you’re killing me here.”

“I know, I know, but it was important, every last detail. Because in order to understand what happened at Moth Ball, you have to know how happy I was that night.”

“So, what happened next?”

Chapter Text

There came this strange feeling in the week that proceeded Moth Ball—it was the quotidian life Kirishima, Bakugou, and all the others had been living for the past few months mixed slowly with the realization that everything was changing.

It was going to change eventually, but no one had the courage to bring the truth to the forefront. Rather, it was something felt, a collective sinking of stomachs when they realized the fateful show was just days away. Kirishima always measured his time in sleeps, such as how many sleeps it would take to reach whatever was prodding at his mind and as he stood in the same hideout for what felt like the millionth time, he began to count the sleeps.

One.

Two.

Three.

His chest began to cave in on itself, heart crumpling like a paper wielded by an artist in some sort of creative rut. There was nothing truly final about the event other than the fact that it was the furthest Bakugou’s mind seemed to go, but the thought of the ‘end’ in any sense sent Kirishima into a slow spiral of inquiries.

The greatest of those being:

What next?

It was his first thought when he woke up in the morning and the last utterance of every nightly prayer. He’d think about it while he was singing during practice or sitting with Mina on the couch, talking about something or other. And he’d even find his mind reeling with the mystery when he was in his favorite place: on Bakugou’s bed with the man in question ravaging his lips with affection.

Slowly, Kirishima had started to shed his chains of fear surrounding love and touch, the ones his parents had shackled him with for so long. It was a series of ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘I don’t know’ and ‘maybe’ that never seemed to turn sour like his mother had always warned him. Bakugou was perfectly pleasant (well, as much as he could be) and never put nearly as much pressure on Kirishima as he seemed to put on himself. Perhaps it was merely his affection for the boy, something evident in the slight softening of his eyes when he looked at him and the occasional half-smile that would appear in private moments.

Or, perhaps, that wasn’t the reason at all.

“There was a very small part of me that knew I was just taking up the space Midoriya had left. We were too similar for the connection not to register with Bakugou.”

“And how did that affect things?”

“I could never feel totally reassured that he loved me and not just what I reminded him of.”

Yet, even very real fears could not keep Kirishima from enjoying every moment he spent with Bakugou Katsuki. Whether it was sitting beside one another in the presence of their friends or alone in the confines of Bakugou’s room, Kirishima was elated to simple be included, to be seen.

When nights were slow, the two of them would sit out on the patio passing the dregs of a drink. Kirishima would talk most of the time, spilling the intimate details of his upbringing and the things that led him to say yes to Bakugou’s insane proposition not three months prior. Eventually, Kirishima would realize how long he’d been talking and grow sheepish; his cheeks would burn bright red and he’d curl in on himself like a roly-poly. Bakugou would chuckle, take a drag from whatever he was smoking, and share a short story of his own, just to make Kirishima feel better.

“We used to steal from this one store a street over,” he had recanted, one night, “some corporate bullshit that could deal with a couple losses.”

Bakugou squinted his eyes, desperate to capture every detail.

“We needed some food, desperately, we were all so fucking hungry we couldn’t even think straight,” he motioned with the cigarette, “so I sent Mina in as distraction while Sero clears the way and I do the heavy lifting.”

Kirishima imagined the scene in his mind, particularly the master Mina must be at distracting workers while crime happened just feet away.

“So I’m sneaking out the door, Sero’s behind me, and some burly worker guy yells out to us, and we just book it,” he pointed towards the sky as if they were in the store, at that moment.

“But—,” Kirishima squinted, “Sero doesn’t run.”

Bakugou pursed his lips.

“Bingo,” he said.

The story devolved into some sort of chaos that could only occur between the three of them: Sero refusing to run, trying to seduce the burly worker man, Mina having to step in and pretend they’re actually married, Bakugou half a mile off wondering what happened to his accomplices.

“So, I’m half a mile out, right?”

Bakugou is trying desperately to hold in his laughter, Kirishima isn’t trying nearly as hard.

“Flash of pink around the corner,” Bakugou continues, “then I have a voice whispering in my ear telling me to ‘be less gay’.”

Kirishima laughed again, this time with his hand clutched over his stomach.

“And I’m like ‘what the fuck does that mean?’ but, before she could answer, some 100-pound, fresh outta high school security guard rounds the corner.”

Kirishima had never noticed it before, but Bakugou was a rather exceptional storyteller, it was like the scene itself was playing out before their eyes in vibrant colors and clear sounds. Kirishima could sit and listen to his stories forever.

“Mina latches onto my arm, announces to the shrimpy security guard that I’m actually her fiancé to which the bastard goes ‘whoops, my bad’ because he saw the massive size of my arms and the literal holes in my flesh,” Bakugou said matter-of-factly.

“What about the food?” Kirishima inquired.

“Eh,” Bakugou waved the thought off, “dropped it sometime during that mile sprint, never to be seen again. And Sero bitched all week about having to run.”

As the story reached it’s conclusion, Kirishima let one more giggle slip from his lips and dissolve amongst the chittering crickets of the summer night—except, it was these exact summer nights that would come to a close in only a week or two. Soon the warm winds of August would be replaced by the threatening chill of September and the changing colors of the trees. There were so many endings happening so quickly, Kirishima couldn’t even keep track of them all.

“Hey,” Bakugou caught his attention after a few moments of silence.

Kirishima turned expectantly, “Yeah?”

Bakugou’s chest rose with a deep inhale and fell with a rather intentional exhale, something he didn’t do very often.

“You probably already know this, but I’m gonna say it just in case,” he grumbled.

Kirishima’s stomach went sour. It was as though he scrambled out of his casual seat against the brick wall to assume something more poised and prepared for Bakugou’s words.

“I’m never gonna treat you like your dad does,” he hummed, “I’m gonna fix what that fucker broke, you understand?”

Kirishima froze with his lips parted in shock and his eyes slowly going wide. Bakugou hadn’t said a word about his father in a while apart from the discontented grunts he’d give after Kirishima’s stories, so hearing the word fall from his lips leveled the ocean of Kirishima’s mind and filled the whole thing with silence. Not even a ripple broke the static surface of the water.

“That’s a promise,” Bakugou murmured.

Kirishima kept a log of every promise that had ever been made to him in his mind. Once the word was uttered, he’d tuck away whatever the other person had sworn and remember it with vigilance. And when someone broke their promise, as they often did, he’d strike out the phrase from his mental list and confirm that whatever the contents were of said promise, they must be lies. Why else would someone swear to do something if they didn’t intend to do it one day?

And he remembered each of Bakugou’s promises, too. There was the promise he’d made at his window all those nights ago that his father would never find out, a host of others that followed it that fateful night, and his new promise, now, to fix in Kirishima what his father had been so intent on breaking.

The thought brought a small but satisfying smile to Kirishima’s face.

“Since that’s sappy shit, I’m never saying it again,” Bakugou’s voice returned to its normal volume and tone, Kirishima rolled his eyes playfully.

“I like sappy shit,” Kirishima half-teased him.

“Then you can find someone else to make-out with,” Bakugou crossed his arms like a petulant child who was putting their foot down.

“Aw, rats,” Kirishima groaned in fake disappointment, “right when I was getting good at it, too.”

Bakugou was the one to roll his eyes, then, particularly when Kirishima’s fingers wrapped around the meeting of his two crossed arms. He tugged him closer gently, planting a rather practiced kiss onto the corner of his lips. Bakugou shuffled a bit in his seat to try and mask the blush that smattered his cheeks, but Kirishima knew better than to buy the charade. He kissed the corner again, taking a moment to observe the lines that made up the shape of Bakugou’s mouth and how they happened to fit perfectly in his own pout, like a key in a stubborn lock.

It hadn’t been long since their exchange in the field, in fact it had only been a few days, but the pair had known each other for far longer—thus, the affectionate touches and occasional kiss felt like routine, something that should’ve been happening for the entire time they’d been acquainted.

One.

Two, Kirishima counted.

There was another night where they were holed up in Bakugou’s room, but this time in pursuit of a nap. They’d been practicing for hours on end when Mina announced that if she didn’t sit down in the next thirty seconds, she was going to pitch a fit. So Bakugou called the meeting to a close and released the rest to their own devices, after which he shuffled over to Kirishima and admitted his own fatigue with a whisper. Kirishima chuckled softly and made some excuse of his own that he was the one who was about to pass out so Bakugou wouldn’t feel embarrassed. He’d choose another moment to humiliate him.

Hence how they ended up splayed on Bakugou’s old bed, Kirishima’s right leg hooked over his mid-section and Bakugou’s arm stretched beneath Kirishima’s head. It was hot, so any sort of cover or extra closeness was out of the question, but even the subtlest of touches were enough for Kirishima to feel satisfied and protected.

“All my father does is lie to me,” he’d sighed mid-conversation.

“Mm,” Bakugou grunted.

Kirishima stared at the ceiling, “And I didn’t even know he was lying until I met you all, I just spent all those years believing everything he told me. I was so stupid.”

“You weren’t,” Bakugou protested.

“I was,” Kirishima cut him off with a counter-protest.

Bakugou turned his head, “None of this is your fault.”

His voice was low and level, a strain of sincerity woven through every word. Kirishima’s chest swelled with joy at the sight of his face, every scar on his brow and chewed-raw patch of his lip.

“I hate being lied to,” Kirishima admitted.

It was true. Kirishima’s body seemed to be poised for authenticity, scanning every person he met for any ingenuine turn of phrase or twitch of gesture. Once he found what he was looking for, he would clam up and resist any sort of advance from that person. The only person he’d never sniffed out was his very own father. But could it be that his father believed all the things he’d told Kirishima? Perhaps he’d had an overbearing father of his own, drilling all the same lies and deception into his head.

Were they truly that similar?

“If I ever lie to you, you’ve got permission to kill me,” Bakugou said lowly with a growing smirk.

“Careful,” Kirishima teased, “I might take you up on that.”

Bakugou did his dark little chuckle before turning his gaze back towards the ceiling, letting the sun’s golden rays kiss the tip of his nose and glint off the various pieces of jewelry he had sticking out of his face. Kirishima took a deep breath and held Bakugou’s arm, the one that was supporting his head. Carefully, he ran his finger over the tattoo that was there, a series of coins. It was a strange design to have in such an obvious place, but Bakugou didn’t seem like one for convention. Thus, Kirishima was content in circling every silver coin with the tip of his finger.

One.

Two, he counted.

Three.

Four.

There were twelve in total. When Kirishima reached the end, he looked up at Bakugou to see the man fast asleep, lulled entirely by the chirping birds outside his window and Kirishima’s gentle touch against the skin of his bicep.

One, Kirishima counted.

Just one more night until Moth Ball. This day, Kaminari had cut practice short when Jirou announced that she could no longer get out of bed. Relegated to her room, Kaminari had tasked himself with fulfilling her every need whether it was food or drink or a simple kiss on the forehead. The rest of the band prepared what they could, but it all felt moot.

“We’ll overwork ourselves and go berserk,” Sero stepped in as the voice of reason, “it’s not like we’re competing or anything, we’re gonna get that money no matter what.”

Kirishima smiled. He often forgot about the money part of this all, too caught up in the joys of his newfound love and the fun of being in the band at all, but whenever he’d remember, he’d lie in bed and think about how he’d present the money to his father. Maybe he could say it was the prize money from the science competition or that he’d been working a tutor job at the fake college he was going to. Perhaps the church could finally afford to fix their AC unit. Perhaps they could get new floors or new choir robes or a new pulpi. Perhaps his father would smile for the very first time.

And maybe,

just maybe—

his father would be proud of him.

It seemed silly now that he’d distanced himself from the church and his father’s expectations, why was he still so eager to please someone who’d only lied to him his entire life? Kirishima tried not to think too hard about it.

“I had changed so much in those three months, but my desire for my father’s approval remained so strong. I didn’t realize that things could maybe end differently, it didn’t even cross my mind.”

“Well, you were just a kid.”

“You’re right. I was only 18. I mean, all of us were kids—and we all made stupid decisions that next night.”

“Fine,” Bakugou grumbled, “we’ll give it a rest.”

Mina sighed in relief and flopped onto the couch. She reached out to pull Kirishima down beside her and they held onto each other playfully.

“Oi, let go of him,” Bakugou barked.

Mina pouted and rubbed her cheek against Kirishima’s, “Aw, Katsuki, are you jealous?”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed and his lip twitched in disgust.

“No,” he lied, looking away in the next moment.

Mina giggled and held Kirishima even tighter while he melted into the touch, gripping Mina’s arms lightly and rocking with her.

Bakugou loved in unexpected ways. Before, Kirishima’s only perception of him had been gruff and unfeeling, he cared about his band and his family and that was it. But when they were together, alone, Bakugou’s face was soft and his grumbling voice was low; every touch was gentle, and every kiss lasted for longer than expected.

Unlike Kirishima, he knew what he was doing.

He’d had practice, after all.

It was this very thought that wrenched Kirishima from a long, drawn-out kiss on the couch after the rest had taken a walk to the corner store. He felt the biting air around him sting the persistent warmth on his cheeks and begin to dry the spit that had collected in a thin sheen on his lips.

“What’s up?” Bakugou asked.

Kirishima shook his head, “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

Kirishima sighed. He fiddled with his fingers.

“Hey,” Bakugou coaxed.

“I said it’s nothing,” Kirishima insisted.

Bakugou knitted his brow, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m just—”

Kirishima began before he knew what he was going to say. All the words were tangled up in his head, there were so many thoughts he’d had just over the past week that he couldn’t begin to make sense of them, not when Bakugou was staring at him so intently.

“What’s going to happen?” He asked.

Bakugou’s brow furrowed. He planted his hand on the top edge of the couch’s back.

“Whaddya mean?”

“When—when Moth Ball is over,” Kirishima eked out, “what are we going to do then? I mean, my parents are gonna make me actually go to college and you really won’t need me anymore for the band—”

Kirishima was cut off by the rough texture of Bakugou’s broad hand cupping the side of his jaw with insistency, his expression hardened and serious. Kirishima nearly shivered beneath his gaze.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said lowly, “don’t think shit like that.”

Kirishima nodded instinctually, his classic defense when he felt that someone was angry with him.

“I’m sorry,” he eked out, jaw brushing againt’s Bakugou’s palm.

His eyes narrowed, “Don’t apologize, y’didn’t do anything wrong.”

Kirishima’s gaze fell to the couch cushions upon which they were sitting. Bakugou’s hand nudged his head back up, prompting his heart rate to quicken and his mouth to go dry.

“I’m gonna figure something out,” Bakugou promised, “I’m gonna fix it all, remember?”

As he nodded again, Kirishima logged away yet another one of Bakugou’s promises, sure that he would fulfill them come hell or high waters.

It was reassuring enough for Kirishima to drop his thoughts of Midoriya and the future for one night more.

Though he knew the night would come, Kirishima awoke in his room with a sinking heart prompted by the knowledge that there were no more nights to count. He felt sick, almost enough to sneak a Tums from his stash in the drawer, but the feeling subsided soon enough, pure excitement taking its place. Bakugou was picking him up at half-past ten from which they would go to Tamaki’s house and help him sneak out his own window.

As much as he would’ve liked to tag along all week, Tamaki’s mother had him on some crazy, 24-hour surveillance which included periodic checks of his room and mandatory attendance at every meal. Whenever Kirishima was at the hideout, he would call Tamaki’s landline from Sero’s phone so that if his mother did pick up, she would hear a familiar voice, first. Kirishima would then stick by Sero’s side during the entire call so if Tamaki’s mother suddenly decided that she too wanted a word with Kirishima, he would be right there to maintain the charade. It’d only happened a few times though, so often Kirishima was just sitting and listening to the hours-long conversations the two of them would share.

It was typically a sickeningly long series of ‘I miss you’s and ‘you’re so cute’s that honestly made Kirishima a little sick to his stomach. Was this how he and Bakugou appeared to the rest of them? Whenever they weren’t gushing over each other, Tamaki was telling stories while Sero listened on quietly, a blush spreading over the bridge of their nose and a relentless smile pasted over their face. Sero would always fiddle with the chain of one of their necklaces or the mesh of whatever revealing shirt they were wearing, that day, like a child in the schoolyard confessing to their very first crush beneath the willow tree.

Ever since Kirishima had met them, Sero had been a sort of unreadable character, a mysterious force which always knew the right thing to say and never seemed to lose their composure, so the vulnerability of their new infatuation was rather jarring. There was nothing dishonest about Kirishima’s initial impression of them—rather, it was like a layer had been peeled back, revealing a new side of Sero, themselves.

The entire day that led up to that fateful night, Kirishima’s body buzzed with anticipation. He’d sit on his bed doing seemingly nothing, but he was actually thinking about that night and all the possibilities it possessed. Even at the dreaded dinner table, he was half-smiling and shoveling green beans into his mouth. His mother had eyed him strangely, his father hadn’t noticed. Even so, Kirishima finished his food and thanked his mother, asking to be excused with a growing grin.

His mother had complied with another suspicious quirk of her brow, but Kirishima was too excited to let it get to him. As night fell, the small spark in his chest had become a blazing wildfire, an untamable warmth that jutted through his blood and rushed toward every inch of every limb. When the light streaming from his parent’s room down the hall finally flickered off, his heart thrummed against the edge of his chest.

He waited in earnest for the alarm clock on his nightstand to reach 10:30. He tapped his foot and paced around his room and even tried to busy himself with emptying his high school backpack that he’d left limp in the corner of his room since graduation. When the time finally arrived, Kirishima felt impossibly sick to his stomach. As a precaution, he slipped a few Tums into his pocket and shoved himself out the window.

The night was considerably cooler than the prior months. A new, crisp breeze rustled through the trees and the crickets were beginning to quiet as more and more burrowed away for the fall. Even so, the new quality of air simply spurred Kirishima on to the end of the road, his teeth bared in a content grin. Yet, as he passed each familiar bush and tree, a fear settled into his stomach.

What if this was the very last time he walked this path?

What if everything truly ended tonight?

No, he told himself, Bakugou promised—he said he’d figure everything out.

With a sigh, Kirishima continued down the way, seeing a dull set of headlights appear in the distance. The mere sight of Bakugou’s old junker car sent a pleasurable shudder down Kirishima’s spine, especially since the owner’s face was illuminated in the driver’s seat. With what could almost be considered a skip, Kirishima rounded the car to the passenger side door where he opened it up with a creak and slipped himself inside.

Before he could even buckle his seatbelt, Bakugou had grasped him by the back of his neck and pulled him into a bruising kiss, one where their teeth clashed together and their breath was hot and huffy. Kirishima melted into the touch, both Bakugou’s rough lips against his and the thick callous of his fingers against the meeting of his hair and his neck.

It was a few long seconds before they parted. Bakugou’s mouth was sporting the ghost of a smile, every contour shrouded in shadows and every protruding feature glimmering in the moonlight. Kirishima smiled back on instinct.

“God, start the car already,” someone groaned from the back seat.

Kirishima turned to see Sero sat in the middle with their arms crossed and a disgusted expression on their face. Bakugou rolled his eyes before removing his hand from the back of Kirishima’s neck, obeying Sero’s orders to start up the engine once more. Kirishima could admit that the absence of Bakugou’s touch felt apparent and chilling, but it wasn’t long before the man’s hand was close enough for Kirishima to hold, even though he only had the courage to link pinkies.

Every once in a while, Kirishima would glance in the rearview mirror to get a good look at Sero who was trying desperately to maintain their cool demeanor. Yet, Kirishima caught nearly every moment of hope: a flicker of eyes out the window, a shuffle of anticipation, a shaking foot near the ground. They must’ve been anticipating this night just as much as Kirishima.

As they turned onto Farmington, Sero’s posture straightened. While the façade of their disinterest was still present, Kirishima could see through every crack. Sero was nearly bouncing out of their seat, watching intently for Tamaki’s house out the window.

Bakugou had to stop at the end of the road so as to not pull right up to Tamaki’s house in an extremely incriminating fashion, which meant that the three of them had to wait for the man himself to saunter down the road as the clock ticked closer and closer to eleven.

Ten minutes passed.

Then ten more.

Kirishima chewed on the inside of his cheek, every shudder of a tree or change in shadow catching his attention. Sero was growing even more impatient, their foot was shaking at some impossible speed and they had been fiddling with one edge of their skirt for the entire time.

When Tamaki finally did emerge, the three of them released a collective sigh. He walked briskly yet politely toward the car, clad in neat khaki pants and a large black sweater over a white button-down. His eyes trailed every which way, checking for any watchful eyes or curious neighbors on late-night walks. When he finally did reach the car, he scrambled in excitedly, a small smile gracing his face.

“I’m sorry,” he eked out instantly, “my mom put this lock on my window, and I had to sneak out the front door, instead.”

“And it worked?” Sero asked breathily.

“Well—yeah,” Tamaki shrugged.

“Good boy,” Sero whispered before hooking their arms around Tamaki’s neck and pulling him into an arguably more bruising kiss than Bakugou had greeted Kirishima with.

The pair wasted no time in winding themselves around each other, hands tangled in each other’s hair and lips latched onto every inch of skin they could reach. It was like they were longtime lovers kept apart for years on end rather than just one week; there was an air of desperation to their affection, they loved in a way that wasn’t guaranteed tomorrow.

“God, start the car already,” Bakugou hummed in a mocking voice, turning the key till the engine rumbled.

Kirishima chuckled and turned back towards the road, deciding to not take Tamaki’s refusal to greet him in any personal way. As they drove, Kirishima did his periodic checks into the rearview mirror only to see Sero and Tamaki tangled in some new way.

When do they breathe? Kirishima wondered in disbelief.

They were driving into a new part of town in the opposite direction of the hideout. Moth Ball was apparently held in some warehouse on the west side of the highway, or so Kirishima had caught from snippets of Bakugou’s conversation. Kaminari and Mina were already there with the instruments and clothing, waiting for the rest to join for a sound check.

Kirishima messed with the hem of his shirt as they sped past another green streetlight. He’d peek over at Bakugou every so often just to see that his mouth had become, and even thinner, firmer line and his eyes were a little too focused on the road ahead of him.

“Nervous?” Kirishima asked.

Bakugou scoffed.

“No,” he fibbed, “you?”

“I’m not gonna admit that I’m nervous till you do,” Kirishima teased.

Bakugou grumbled something that Kirishima couldn’t make out. The chances that Sero and Tamaki were actually listening in were rather low, so Kirishima thought that the drummer in the driver’s seat might actually fess up to his true feelings. But, in true Bakugou fashion, he was holding it all in the center of his chest. He claimed it helped him drum better, but Kirishima knew the truth.

Yet, as the drive continued on, Bakugou’s shell of subtle nerves began to chip away. He’d squirm in his seat and bounce his leg like he was—excited about something?

Kirishima quirked a brow at him, but Bakugou only responded with a smile and a glimmer in his eye. Perhaps their little exchange had helped him loosen up a bit and remember something he’d nearly forgotten. A few more turns and a handful of streetlights preceded the moment the car pulled up to the old warehouse where a legion of other cars and a healthy crowd had already gathered at the front doors.

“First set goes on in ten minutes, we’re about three sets in,” Bakugou informed gruffly as he switched off the car.

Kirishima unbuckled himself while casting worried glances to the couple in the back who had not yet realized that the car was stopped.

“Oi,” Bakugou snapped at them, “if you’re gonna make a baby, do it inside.”

Tamaki tore himself from whatever kiss they were caught in and flashed a harrowed, pink-cheeked expression to the man in the driver’s seat. Sero just rolled their eyes and reached for the door to let themselves out.

The moment Kirishima’s shoes hit the gravel walkway, a flood of sounds from the nearby crowd hit his ears. He felt his body begin to clam up involuntarily like it did when the grocery store had too many people in it or the church was filled to the brim on Easter Sunday. He resisted the urge to cover his ears as the four of them passed the people gathered beneath a haze of various smokes and approached a side door.

Bakugou knocked. Murmuring and shuffling happened on the other side for a few moments before the door swung open to reveal a pale-faced Kaminari.

“Dude, you look like you’re about to hurl,” Bakugou growled.

Kaminari eked out a wimpy smile.

“That’s because I am,” he nodded.

“God,” Bakugou hissed, “lemme through.”

The four of them shoved through the doorway and into the large, open room it led into. There were other people there, older and bigger people with more torn-up clothing and jackets with more patches and instruments that had more scratches and notches than any of theirs. They watched with narrowed eyes as the newcomers flooded into the space, setting their things down near the couches and gulping nervously. Kirishima’s hands got clammy and his tongue felt too big for his mouth.

“Don’t let ‘em get to you,” Bakugou whispered in Kirishima’s ear, “they’ve been doing this shit way longer than us.”

Though their gazes were piercing, none of them seemed mean. Perhaps Kirishima just felt like a child beside them all with his nearly new battle jacket and un-scuffed boots; it was as if he and all his friends were the new army recruits passing the returning bus full of war-torn boys with disfigured faces and ghosts in their eyes.

“I didn’t know it then, but I had only skimmed the surface of punk with Bakugou and his friends. I had discovered the aesthetic and the sound, but it would take a while for me to understand the politics of it all, things like Vietnam and the AIDS crisis and police brutality. I assume that almost every person who performed that night had lost someone to one of those events. They’d all been to riots and protests and the likes, but no one was listening—it’s really hard to get people to listen. Sure, we were there to play music and have fun, but there was an undercurrent of community that I didn’t quite understand yet. Now, they keep trying to say it’s dead but punk, in that moment, was very much alive.”

“The higher Dookie climbs in the charts, the closer it gets to the top of the pop pipeline,” Kirishima overhead snippets from a nearby conversation, “and it’ll be a hard fuckin’ fall, believe me.”

A taller man with a rat’s nest of brown hair and an outfit that Kirishima swore he sewed together all by himself took a swig of his water before retorting.

“Nah, if anything The Offspring is gonna sell their asses out,” he said bitingly, “they’re on that metal shit, anyways.”

“Bad Religion, Stranger Than Fiction?” A girl lounging in a nearby seat chimed in.

“Now that’s fuckin’ punk,” the first guy assured with a point to the girl.

The taller man rolled his eyes, “Listen to Rancid, then we can talk.”

“Pfft,” the girl scoffed, “we opened for Rancid three years ago, fuck outta here.”

The taller man rolled his eyes again, but his posture curled into something more sheepish. He eventually walked off and left the pair remaining to chuckle about his obvious social blunder.

Bakugou tore Kirishima away from his eavesdropping position and into an adjacent room where Mina and Kaminari had dropped all their things.

“Here,” Sero shoved a stack of clothing into his arms once more.

“Bathroom’s around the corner,” Bakugou told him.

Kirishima could only nod. All of his senses were on overdrive: his nose was tickling with clouds of weed smoke and his ears were filled to the brim with surrounding chatter. Even as he slipped into the bathroom, he found himself choking on a rather thick cloud of smoke.

“Oop,” grunted a guy sitting on the counter in an outfit much like Bakugou’s, “sorry, man.”

He hoisted himself off the skin’s surface and slipped out the front door, leaving Kirishima alone with only the remains of the smoke cloud to accompany him. Kirishima pulled his lips between his teeth and hurried into one of the stalls, being sure to check the lock three separate times to make sure his privacy was secured.

As he went to unbutton his shirt, Kirishima heard the thumps of the beginning of a song rumble through the warehouse, followed closely by the cheers and shouts of a rousing crowd. His fingers trembled around each delicate button. Kirishima swallowed over and over, but the suffocating feeling never seemed to go away. He slipped on the pants just like normal and pulled the cropped shirt as far down as it would go, feeling the breeze brush against the exposed strip of stomach.

“Get out here, Rock Solid! Mina’s on my fucking case about the time,” Bakugou shouted from the doorway.

“Okay,” Kirishima eked out a response, scrambling with still trembling hands for his discarded clothes.

Before he exited the bathroom for good, Kirishima looked at himself in the dingy, sticker-plastered mirror that hung above the sinks. Though he could barely see himself, his eyes locked on to every part of his appearance, the tightness of his pants around his thighs and the various holes in every inch of fabric. His black hair had finally begun to grow back in, obvious roots pushing through the dulling red dye.

Who am I?

He didn’t have time to think about that now, not when everyone was waiting on him. He shoved himself out of the bathroom only to have his balled up clothes torn from his arms by Sero and his now free hands pulled to another part of the room.

“Sit!” Mina commanded when they reached an old couch in the center of the room.

There were even more people now, most huddled near the wings to watch whoever was currently performing. The music sounded only slightly similar to what Bakugou’s band did, but there was a distinct flavor to their guitarist’s turn of chords and their drummer’s double time. The only other punk music that Kirishima had heard had been from cassettes of more popular bands, he’d never heard another style so clearly in real life.

Mina got to work immediately with a giant tub of gel, spiking up his red strands and paying extra attention to the little horns in the front. Kirishima’s swallows became more frequent and shallower. All day he’d been excited for the night to come; his leg had been bouncing in anticipation and his chest was alight with the possibilities. But as Kirishima looked out onto the crowd in front of him and heard the clashing music playing just one wall over, he started to get nervous again.

Like—

really nervous.

Kirishima balled his hands into fists and pulled his lips between his teeth. The anxiety grew endlessly in his body, the same fiery ropes wrapping around all his organs and pulling tight. Kirishima tried his best to subdue to the look on his face and the stuttering breaths falling from his chest, but every place he looked seemed to possess some image that made him even more nervous.

What was he thinking?

There was no way he was as good as all the singers here. Had they practiced enough? What if he forgot the all the words to all their songs the moment they got up there? Oh god, what if Kirishima had to throw up before the set was even over?

Mina was still working intently on Kirishima’s hair, so his instinct to curl up into a ball and simply die was dashed by the present circumstances. Instead, he started plotting ways to escape. Maybe, amidst all the bustle, he could slip out the side door and take the bus home, climb through his window and change before his parents could see what he was wearing. Yes, that’s what he would do.

But—

Bakugou.

What would Bakugou think if he just left? He’d be so angry—Kirishima couldn’t even imagine it. And Kirishima had made a promise, one he couldn’t break now.

“Kiri—” Mina began in a concerned tone.

“Hey.”

Another voice came from the left, a figure appearing in the very next moment. A tall, slender man with dark brown skin much like Mina’s stood before the pair, a plastic cup of something in one hand and a pair of drumsticks in the other.

He sat on the edge of the low table that was a few feet away from the couch, and he shifted until he was face-to-face with Kirishima, himself. His hair was black and wiry, cropped close to his head, the ends of which were bleached almost white. He was wearing a well-fitted leather jacket covered in white-painted words and adorned with silver rings and pins all over. His pants weren’t as ragged as the others Kirishima had seen, only torn at the knees with a single patch affixed to the right thigh—a bright white fist.

“First time?” He asked in a silky, sweet tone.

Kirishima let out a breath he’d been holding for far too long and nodded, sure that the man had caught onto his sheet-white complexion and clenching hands.

“Cool,” the man extended his hand, “I’m Peter.”

Kirishima took his hand hesitantly, suddenly aware of how clammy his palm actually was. They exchanged a rather firm but short handshake.

“I’m—Eijirou,” Kirishima squeaked out.

“Nice to meet you.”

When Peter smiled, his silver piercings below his bottom lip would shift in the light. Kirishima resorted to chewing on the inside of his cheek as Peter took a sip from his drink.

“I’ve been comin’ here for six years now,” Peter crooned, “but I remember my first time. Scared the shit outta me, I almost bolted before our set even started.”

Was Peter reading his mind? Kirishima furrowed his brow and watched the man smile again, this time with a knowing glint in his eye.

“You got a favorite band?” Peter asked.

Kirishima’s lips parted in thought for a moment.

“Black Flag?” He said with an air of uncertainty.

Peter’s brow lifted in subtle surprise.

“The classics, huh?”

The fact that Peter was impressed at all by Kirishima’s answer sent a wave of validation shuddering through his tightened muscles, relaxing them only slightly.

“Favorite song?”

Kirishima thought back to that day where he, Bakugou, Mina, and Jirou had sat around on the couches and listened to one cassette after another. In particular, he remembered the one track he heard that he genuinely liked.

“Probably—'Nervous Breakdown’,” Kirishima flashed a small smile.

“No way!” Peter reached over to pat Kirishima on the shoulder, “That was the first song I learned on the drums.”

Kirishima’s smile grew. Peter was fiddling with the drumsticks in his hand, sticking one in his boot so he could twirl the other with practiced ease. His lax expression was beginning to loosen the tight ropes of nervousness that had tied themselves around Kirishima’s organs.

“Done!” Mina exclaimed as she screwed the cap back on the gel.

“Well, Eijirou,” Peter extended his hand for another handshake, “knock ‘em dead out there.”

Kirishima shook his hand one more time with an affirming nod; he was even able to conjure a half-convincing smile before Peter turned and walked away.

“Hey, Rock Solid,” Bakugou appeared behind him where Mina used to stand.

Kirishima turned just in time to watch the drummer cock his head to the side.

“C’mere for a minute,” he muttered.

Without another word, Bakugou started towards a corner of the large room, Kirishima following a few steps behind. He was clutching something familiar in his hand, but Kirishima couldn’t get a good enough look at it to know what it was. They eventually reached an opening in the wall which led to an adjacent hallway, one that was considerably less illuminated and much mustier than the room they’d began in.

Bakugou stopped a few feet down the dark corridor and turned so that he and Kirishima were leaning against the wall less than an arm’s length away from each other. He’d changed his shirt to something lower cut that showed off the intricate Last Supper tattoo that spanned his entire chest; the word ‘Betrayal’ was only half covered by the shirt’s collar.

“So—” Bakugou looked down at the thing in his hands, “I should give you this, first.”

With tentative fingers, Kirishima took the pile of black denim and felt around the front. When he unfolded the item and got his first good look at it, Kirishima saw a collection of patches and pins that he remembered well; it was his old battle jacket. Seamlessly, he slipped his arms through the thick sleeves and pulled the front taught over his chest.

“Thanks,” he whispered through a grin.

“Look on the sleeve,” Bakugou commanded gently.

Kirishima turned his head to the left and pulled the fabric closer to his eyes. And, sure enough, in the spot which used to be a series of tears and frayed threads was a brand new, shiny patch—a vibrant rainbow flag.

“Sewed it on myself,” Bakugou admitted, “poked myself with the fuckin’ needle like a million times but—”

“I love it,” Kirishima interrupted him.

Bakugou exhaled in what could almost be considered a sigh. Kirishima smiled warmly at him, looking over every once in a while to catch one more glimpse of the patch on his arm.

“There’s—something else,” Bakugou said sheepishly.

Kirishima furrowed his brow and watched Bakugou’s eyes trail to the floor.

“What’s up?”

Bakugou sighed, “I was thinking about what you said to me last night about everything ending and your father making you go to college and all.”

“Yeah?” Kirishima responded.

“And I said I was going to fix it,” Bakugou looked him very intently in the eye.

The air surrounding them changed instantly, a hint of mystery and anticipation sending shockwaves through every word the pair exchanged.

“How?” Kirishima asked in a whisper.

The corners of Bakugou’s mouth turned up in the smallest of smiles.

“Let’s run away.”

Kirishima’s lips parted in surprise. There were so many thoughts rushing through his head that no fully formed words could enter his mouth, much less fall from his frozen lips.

“Think about it!” Bakugou’s whisper intensified as he gripped Kirishima’s arms on either side, “we pack everything up, get on a train, and skip town—we could go anywhere!”

Though Bakugou’s grip on his body was rather stabilizing, Kirishima felt like putty in the drummer’s hands, the hurricane in his mind swirling faster and faster. Had he heard him right? Run away?

“I—” Kirishima eked out.

“We could leave tonight,” Bakugou’s words were faster and breathier, “I could take you back to your place so you can get your things and we could be out of the state by morning.”

All Kirishima could do was stare while Bakugou’s words bounced off his eardrums, failing to even meet the resonance of his thoughts. They couldn’t just run away—could they? What about Mina and the band? What about Jirou and Kaminari and the baby? What if he wanted to say goodbye to his parents? How could he do so without being caught?

“Eijirou,” Bakugou’s voice was low and velvety, “imagine. Just you and me, we could live a brand-new life, change our names, make music—do anything.”

Kirishima never thought much about the future, his mind was so preoccupied with the present that he never really had the space to think of much else. Thus, whenever someone talked too deeply about the future, he’d always enter some sort of stasis, his mind would freeze up and leak only simple one-word answers. It was why he never thought much about what would come after the summer, he couldn’t even begin to envision a future beyond fuzzy shapes and general suggestions.

“Red Riot, you’re on in five!” A voice shouted from the adjacent room.

The sound of their band’s name awoke the pair back to reality. Bakugou’s brow curled in insistency, he held tighter onto Kirishima’s arms.

“C’mon, Rock Solid,” he pled, “say yes.”

But as Bakugou’s words began to seep through the barrier of his mind, Kirishima could see it. Laid out before him in clear lines and vibrant colors was the future he could have, one that was so close he could almost taste it. He could see Bakugou’s old car crossing the state line, signaling their final freedom. He could imagine the little, one-bedroom apartment they’d at the edge of town, nearly empty until they began to fill it with furniture they found on the side of the road. If he closed his eyes, he could watch their daily life play out like a film, waking up to one another in the mornings and sharing meals together and kissing each other breathless whenever they wanted.

It was the first future Kirishima could truly envision himself within—one without his father or his father’s damn church.

“Okay.”

It was a small response, the only thing Kirishima could really say.

Bakugou’s eyes went wide, “Okay?”

Kirishima’s frozen lips cracked into a smile.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Bakugou asked again.

Kirishima’s smile turned into a growing laugh.

“Yes,” he repeated, “let’s leave.”

“Tonight?” Bakugou asked.

Kirishima’s laugh kept growing, shaking his chest and sending waves of pleasure through his once harrowed body.

“Tonight,” he affirmed with a nod.

Bakugou smiled, too, in what seemed like half-relief, half-exuberance. Before Kirishima could say anything more, two large and calloused hands had gripped the sharp edge of his jaw and pulled him close, lips sealing in the very next moment.

Bakugou’s kiss filled Kirishima’s mind with a flash of light followed by some slow-fading golden haze. Starting at the tips of his toes, Kirishima’s body filled with warmth as the seconds passed by, Bakugou pulling them closer and tilting further into his kiss of gratitude. Kirishima lifted his hands to rest over Bakugou’s gently.

When they finally parted, faces flushed with joy, Bakugou was the first to speak in a raspy voice.

“Eijirou, I—”

“Hey, lovebirds! Get out here!” Mina shouted from the entryway, “We’re on in like three fuckin’ minutes.”

Whatever paralyzing anxiety had been gripping Kirishima before had dissolved entirely in Bakugou’s embrace. They rushed towards the wings of the stage where Sero was tuning their bass with Tamaki watching intently over their shoulder and Kaminari was re-tying the laces on his boots, and as they did, Kirishima was thinking about what he was going to pack. He’d emptied out his old backpack from high school, he could fit a good bit of clothes in there. Or maybe he could use that duffel he’d gotten for his birthday and used at Bible Camp, he could fit at least half his wardrobe in there—

“Down it, babe, we’ve got a show to put on,” Sero commanded while shoving a shot in Kirishima’s hand.

With a relentless smile, Kirishima tipped the shot back and let the warm, burning liquid slip down his throat and mix with the remaining nausea in his stomach.

Kirishima was unbreakable—

he was invincible.

“Let’s go,” he said, the cheering crowd egging him on in the background.

“The show started really well. We were all playing our best and the crowd seemed to be really into it. I had been so nervous before but knowing that Bakugou and I would be leaving that very night—it was like I’d been injected with pure courage, I was going apeshit on that stage.”

“And then what happened?”

Just like at their last show, the crowd’s cheering increased in volume as the opening chords to the fated song began, the one where Kirishima and Bakugou would kiss and ‘fool’ the audience below. But this would be the first time where the kiss wasn’t a farce. And it was also the first time Kirishima wouldn’t be playing a character.

He was already sweating all over, the first half of the set behind them. Blood pounded in Kirishima’s ears, allowing only the sound of his own voice and the nearest instruments to break through the barrier. His body felt like it was completely out of his control, like it was being puppeted around the stage. He teased the crowd and stretched the cord as far as it would go around the stage. His voice rang so clearly through the hall, probably because Moth Ball’s sound system was way better than the one they used at the hideout.

Whenever he’d look over at Kaminari or Sero or Mina, they’d be smiling and egging him on to keep going. As the song began, signaling that they were nearing the end of their set, a series of shudders ran down Kirishima’s spine. He felt the chords and drumbeats shake through his feet as he sang.

When the proper time came, Kirishima looked over at Mina. She was grinning from ear to ear, all her silver jewelry glinting beneath the stage lights and her bright white teeth giving off a similar effect. She gave Kirishima the nod of affirmation which prompted his feet to move.

With a rather nervous swallow, Kirishima marched over to the drum kit, the crowd roaring behind him. Bakugou’s gaze was focused on his drumming, but he forfeited a brief moment to look at Kirishima and flash him a small smirk; he knew what was coming after all.

Kirishima planted one boot on the back of Bakugou’s stool, then the other. With all the force his body could muster, he hoisted himself up into a standing position just as Mina’s solo began to ring through the speakers. With ease, Kirishima carded his hand through Bakugou’s thick blonde locks and wrapped his fingers around the gelled strands before pulling his head back hard.

Bakugou greeted him with an anticipatory smile and a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Hey,” Kirishima greeted him breathlessly.

Bakugou scoffed, “Just kiss me already, dumbass.”

Kirishima obeyed, folding himself in half and capturing Bakugou’s lips in a searing kiss. Though the build-up and the act itself was so much like every other time they’d pulled the stunt, it was different this time. Rather than Kirishima’s stomach swelling with worry, his heart was glimmering with affection. Their ministrations against each other’s lips were practiced now thanks to the past few long nights of tender kisses and light touches. For this reason, the act was sloppier and messier than ever before, a clashing of tongues and teeth that would rival even the most romantic of kisses in feature films. Kirishima couldn’t help but smile against Bakugou’s lips.

He wanted to be like this forever—

with Bakugou.

And after tonight, that very dream would be fulfilled.

He was disappointed when Mina began the final part of her solo, though he could stay as he was forever and ever, Kirishima knew he couldn’t. Thus, with a smack, Kirishima parted from Bakugou, but not without savoring the moment where their noses were touching and their eyes were locked only on one another.

It had been a long three months; or, perhaps, it only felt that way because Kirishima had changed so much in that time. Even so, he’d laid awake at night thinking of all the things he wanted to say to Bakugou and his friends, how he could package all his immense gratitude into a few simple phrases or a brief note. But, in that moment, things felt simple, so simple that Kirishima only needed a few words to communicate everything he truly wanted to say.

“Thank you,” he whispered to Bakugou.

Mina’s solo finally came to a close, prompting Kirishima’s body back upright. He was smiling from ear to ear, his hand still caught in Bakugou’s hair. As he looked out at the crowd, he watched concertgoers cheer and thrash around and pump their fists into the air.

Kirishima was happy.

For the first time in a very long time, he was happy.

He kept scanning the crowd, making sure to look at the very back where even more enthusiastic audience members were cheering them on. But as his eyes trailed to a dark corner, a rather tall figure entered his vision. And in the moment it took his eyes to adjust to the sight, Kirishima’s smile had melted entirely and his heart had slumped to the floor.

Standing at the very back of the crowd with an ashen face, a pair of fiery eyes locked onto his own, and a flyer crumpled in his hand was none other than

his father.

Chapter Text

Kirishima’s entire body froze in place, every muscle turned to stone and every inch of his skin became enveloped in ice. That ice, eventually, began to melt beneath the stage lights, sending shivers down each of Kirishima’s bones, one-by-one. His father’s eyes were unmoving, locked onto his son’s face.

“No,” Kirishima whispered through frozen lips.

“What’s wrong?” He heard Bakugou grumble from beneath him.

Kirishima stared for another moment, praying with every fiber in his being that this was just a nightmare and, soon, he would wake up in his bed at home the morning of Moth Ball. But, at some point, he had to accept that this was reality—

and he was royally, undoubtedly fucked.

“I—” he eked out.

His father’s head moved down only slightly, but his eyes stayed locked in position, a new fire burning within them that Kirishima could feel even from such a distance. All the air in Kirishima’s lungs felt cold and sour, stinging the edges of his lungs and burning every inch of the inside of his throat. Once it reached his tongue, the air would be downright acidic, sending a choking feeling through the back of his mouth.

Wake up, Kirishima begged.

This is just a dream.

Wake up.

Wake up!

From the bottom of his vision, Kirishima watched Bakugou’s head move, eyes trailing to where his vision was locked indefinitely. He must’ve seen Kirishima’s father as well because he elbowed Kirishima firmly in the calf, almost enough to send him tumbling off the stool.

Kirishima’s gaze was coaxed down to the drummer who was giving him a searing glare.

“Go,” He commanded with a hiss, “Go!”

The insistency in his voice was enough to tear Kirishima’s mind from its never-ending chant and send his feet clattering to the floor of the stage. The cheers of the crowd had drowned out completely, now nothing more than a hum of voices trapped behind the ringing in Kirishima’s ears. The moment his feet touched the floor, all the blood in his body began to pulse through his veins, begging for entrance to his heart that had gone dead still..

His vision started to tunnel as he sped offstage, the ringing in his ears growing louder and louder with each step he took. In a burst of courage, Kirishima looked back out onto the crowd in search of his father, but the spot where he’d been standing was now empty and shrouded in darkness. Another shiver travelled quickly down his spine. Kirishima raced off stage and began to weave through the thick crowd that had formed to watch his band from the wings.

Every time his shoulder would knock into another person’s body, Kirishima’s body would alight with pure fire, his ears turning their shouts of protest into another muffled voice drowning in the waves of rushing blood. He moved quickly, eyes focused solely on what was ahead of him. Kirishima could feel his face flushing pale, signaling that an upset stomach and an unbearable wave of nausea was not far off. His hands felt like cinder blocks, shoving through the now thinning crowd.

He turned his head towards a rather dark hallway that ran adjacent to the wings of the stage. His mind wasn’t acting very logically at that moment, so he raced down into the shadows, breath quickening and drying out his mouth. Kirishima guided himself with his hands, every hard crunch of his boot against the concrete floor sending branches of electricity through his veins. 

The image of his father’s face refused to leave his mind, a haunting caricature of eighteen long years locked up in his control.

There was a door at the very end of the hallway, Kirishima had chosen it as his destination. He didn’t know what was on the other side, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when his mind was reeling.

How did his father find him?

Why did his father wake up in the middle of the night?

Had he gone into his room and noticed he was gone?

As the door in the distance grew larger and larger in Kirishima’s pinhole vision, he began to hear faint, pounding footsteps speeding towards him from the left where the hallway continued. He didn’t dare look, choosing instead to wrap his hand around the doorknob and pray that it wasn’t locked. The footsteps came closer, cracking one after another through the muffling blood in his ears. He turned the doorknob just as the figure who was bounding towards him appeared with two heavy steps. 

Kirishima opened the door hoping to see the outside of the building or, perhaps, another hallway down which he could run, but the door only revealed a small, windowless brick room with a concrete floor and a flickering bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling.

Before he could cross the threshold into the room, a hard thump against Kirishima’s shoulders pushed him inside; it felt like hands, the backs of his shoulders stung from the contact.

He stumbled inside, tripping over his own feet and expecting entirely to fall hard onto the concrete, but the same pair of hands wrapped around the collar of his shirt and yanked him up—hard. The only thing he’d seen before he was hoisted up was a pair of clean leather loafers.

“Insolent child!” His father growled.

With his hands gripping the collar of his shirt, Kirishima’s father pushed him towards the brick wall until his back slammed against it. Kirishima yelped in pain as the edges of the bricks dug into his back and shoulders and a goose-egg began to form on the back of his head where his skull had knocked. Biting pain striped through his face as his father’s hands pressed further and further into his chest.

Kirishima wanted to scream in his father’s face, but he’d had all the wind knocked out of him from being slammed against the wall, so every attempt only ended in a slack jaw and a choked-up whimper.

When his eyes finally adjusted, the dribbling ice of his father’s stare became a chilling waterfall dousing every inch of his body. His father’s eyes were wide and harrowed, the rims red with fury; all the wrinkles in his skin folded even heavier over one another, catching the shadows of the dark room. And his usually trimmed, gelled hair was falling over his face in frizzy strands, the sides sticking out as if he’d been grabbing at it in frustration. The bags beneath his father’s eyes were dark and pronounced, only exacerbated by what little light came from the bulb in the center of the room. 

Both his brow and lip twitched in time with one another. Every hot, huffy breath the man took in traveled through his bared teeth, ready to devour Kirishima at a moment’s notice.

“Where is it?!” His father’s voice was hurried and hissy.

Kirishima furrowed his brow, “What are you talking about?”

Words still weren’t coming easily, but his back had finally begun to recover from the impact. Yet right as Kirishima started to grow comfortable, his father’s right hand appeared from the side in a fist hurtling towards him. Kirishima only had time to flinch before the fist made contact with his cheek and nose, spikes of pain shooting through the new wound. It felt eerily similar to the feeling of being punched by those two thugs in the alleyway, but it was somehow worse knowing it was his own father who hit him.

“My father had hit me before but—”

“Wait, he had?”

“Oh, yeah. It was usually when I did something bad, just as a punishment. But this felt different, like he wasn’t hitting me as his son but as some guy he’d never met before. Like—I was a criminal.”

Kirishima whined once or twice in pain as blood began to dribble down from his nostril and over the cliff of his top lip. He could already feel the bruise forming along his cheek and if he’d had the time to think, he would’ve concluded that his nose was broken, as well.

“Don’t lie to me!” His father spat.

Drops of his father’s spit mixed with the blood coursing down Kirishima’s face. He shook his head, feeling tears start to well up in the corners of his eyes, partly from the pain and partly from the tone of his father’s voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Kirishima cried, his lips wetting with blood whenever they touched.

“Liar!”

As his father’s voice boomed through the room, Kirishima felt the hands holding his shirt toss him to the ground. His ragdoll body fell against the concrete with a bruising thud, the left side of his arm hitting first then the side of his head. The force of the impact pushed tears from their hiding places in his eyes, now mixing with the cocktail of his blood and his father’s spit. As ropes of pain began to wrap around Kirishima’s arms, he found himself voiceless and at the mercy of the man now towering over him.

“You’ve been lying to me all this time,” his father hissed, “thinking you were pulling the wool over my eyes.”

Before his arm could recover, Kirishima felt the toe of his father’s shoe kick the soft part of his side and dig into the forming bruise.

“Stop! Please—” Kirishima whined, hand racing to cover the afflicted spot.

Every time he sniffled, Kirishima would taste blood, the same blood that was now spotting the concrete.

“College classes, you think I’m a fool, don’t you?” His father shouted.

Kirishima shook his head. He scrambled towards the other wall while watching his father’s shadow follow closely. When he looked up, the shadows of the room had enveloped him entirely, only the whites of his eyes shining down.

“Instead, you were here engaging in promiscuity and filth!”

Kirishima shook his head again, full sobs now rattling the empty cage of his chest. He held his arm with one hand and used the other to push his back up against the wall, his legs folding up against his chest. The blood from his nose had now trailed all down his neck and soaked the top of his collar; the right side of his face swelled little by little, judging by the thinning vision in Kirishima’s left eye.

Only ten minutes ago, Kirishima had been on top of the world, a frontman in a band with nothing to lose—unbreakable. But the moment his eyes met his father’s, he’d felt impossibly small again, a pile of shattered pieces at the man’s feet. The sopping blanket of his childhood that he’d spent the entire summer shedding was now wrapping back around him, pulling him back into the grave his father had dug for him over eighteen long years. 

Why couldn’t he stand up? 

Why couldn’t he fight back?

“And your little show,” his father hissed, “how they’ve manipulated you into the ways of the Devil!”

His ‘little show’ was not the songs, Kirishima knew that much. But he could only shake his head in defense, the ghost of ‘you’re wrong’ haunting the tip of his tongue. In all the excitement of his first love, he’d forgotten that their partnership was against everything Kirishima had ever been taught. 

Swiftly, his father hunched over and grabbed the collar of his shirt once more, pulling Kirishima back into an upright position. He pushed his son’s back against the wall once more and leaned in until his breath was brushing Kirishima’s cheeks and nose. There was sweat beading down his father’s forehead, Kirishima watched the droplets glint in the weak lamplight. He gulped as best he could between gasping breaths, the vision in his left eye finally closing out for good.

“No son of mine will ever engage in such filth again,” he bellowed.

Kirishima’s face ached, his arm even more so. He parted his bloodied lips to scream or cry or shout or do anything, but sound simply refused to come out. He’d spent his entire life silenced by his father and in the moment he needed to be strong enough to speak, he was failing. Kirishima hiccupped and sputtered, but that was as much as his mouth would allow.

“Now tell me, where is it?” his father seethed.

Kirishima furrowed his brow again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kirishima insisted weakly.

His father inhaled deeply through his nose, pressing his hands further into his son’s collarbones.

“The safe!” He spat, “The safe is empty, you stole everything out of it!”

Kirishima’s jaw hung agape in disbelief. He hadn’t taken anything from the safe, he hadn’t even touched the thing in the five years they’d been living in that house. But his father’s face was folding further and further into fury, fully convinced that his son was the culprit.

“I went to get money from the safe and everything was gone!” His father shouted, “so I went into your room to admonish you for theft but your bed was empty.”

Kirishima sniffled once more. That was how his father knew he was gone—the empty safe. But he hadn’t taken the money, he was sure of it.

“I go through your drawers and find a flyer for a punk show,” he growled.

Kirishima mustered all his courage, “I didn’t take the money!”

“Liar!” His father bellowed again, more spit flying onto the skin of Kirishima’s face.

“No!” Kirishima shouted, “I swear I didn’t take it, God as my witness.”

“Do not invoke the Lord’s name for your sin,” his father hissed through clenched teeth.

There was no way out of this. His father had him pinned against the brick wall accusing him of a crime he didn’t commit, and Kirishima’s limbs were faltering one by one.

“The only people who have been in that house are you, me, and your mother,” his father’s voice went low, “who else could’ve done it?”

Kirishima’s breath grew shallow. His eyes trailed all over his father’s appearance and the room around them. He thought of every person that had been in that house, himself and his mother and his father and—

“Wait,” Kirishima whispered to himself.

Before he could piece together the puzzle, someone burst through the door of the small room. 

“Back off!”

In mere seconds, they had wrapped an arm around the neck of Kirishima’s father and had wrenched him away. When they stumbled back into the light, Kirishima watched Bakugou hold a silver pistol to his father’s head which he had caught in a chokehold. His father squirmed and writhed within the grip, but Bakugou’s massive arm only wrapped tighter around and the barrel of the gun pressed further into the man’s temple. 

“Let me go!” His father cried.

“Shut the fuck up!” Bakugou snarled, holding the gun even closer.

It took Kirishima a few long seconds to process the image of his father in such a compromising position, especially that in which one simple flick of the finger could kill him. But as he looked back up at Bakugou, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into their proper places.

“Are you okay?” Bakugou asked with a concerned expression.

Kirishima didn’t respond. Realization was washing over him in such lethal waves that opening his mouth would cause him to drown. The puzzle that had once been a mass of disjointed pieces looming over Kirishima had been completed, the picture now clearer than ever before. And it was always right when he thought he knew it all that there would be another hole unfilled, another pile of pieces he’d missed entirely.

“It was you,” Kirishima muttered.

Bakugou knitted his brow.

“What are you talkin’ about?” He asked.

“It was—you. You broke into the safe.”

Bakugou blinked a few times in an effort to understand. Kirishima’s entire body felt impossibly heavy, the weight of his new discovery stacking atop his aching shoulders.

“No,” Bakugou shook his head, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kirishima’s eyes went wide, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” Bakugou hissed, holding his father’s head even tighter.

“You’re lying to me,” Kirishima’s voice started to crack and fray at the ends.

Bakugou’s brow untangled and his jaw went slack. Kirishima could tell that he was searching for an excuse, any kind of excuse that could get him out of the current predicament, but nothing came out of his mouth. 

The smallest flame lit in the center of Kirishima’s chest.

“Fine,” Bakugou spat, “I broke into the safe and took the money.”

The fire grew.

“Oh my god,” Kirishima whispered to himself.

His father thrashed against Bakugou’s grip. Kirishima blinked, still wishing that this was all just a dream. His shallow breaths stung inside his lungs.

Bakugou leaned towards him, “I did it for my dad, I was gonna use it to bail him out of jail! He’s not supposed to be in there, you know that.”

For the first time since Kirishima had met him, he heard Bakugou’s voice crack. They’d talked about his father before, but there was a sort of desperation he’d never wielded before, a voice that could almost be considered close to tears.

Kirishima let out a shuddering exhale, “No.”

“I’m sorry, it was the only way!” Bakugou cried in defense.

Kirishima shook his head again, eyes already welling with tears. The fire in the center of his chest began to blaze, flames licking the base of his throat. 

“You promised!” He screamed, “You promised he would never find out, you SWORE!”

Kirishima had never shouted this loudly. His voice bounced off every single brick in a shattering echo. Bakugou’s brow curled and his lips moved around unspoken words.

“Y-you told me you’d keep me safe,” Kirishima fumed, “but you knew he’d look in that safe, you knew he’d come find me—you wanted me out of the way so you could run off with all the money!”

“That’s not true,” Bakugou insisted.

Kirishima’s entire body started to shake, the fire spreading through his limbs and into his head. His father’s face was slowly going purple from Bakugou’s chokehold, and the lack of air had stopped most of his writhing.

“How did you even get into it?” Kirishima interrogated, “O-or how did you even know the safe was there, in the first place?”

Bakugou sighed and shifted the position of the gun. His tongue jutted out to wet his bottom lip, but he knew stalling would only make Kirishima angrier.

“You’re living in the parsonage, the house the church owns for the pastor to live in,” he informed, “you’re living in Midoriya’s old house, so I knew where the safe was and how to get into it.”

Although Bakugou was telling the truth, Kirishima couldn’t help but glare icily at him, picking apart every word with surgical precision to make sure this wasn’t some other elaborate ruse. The house used to be Midoriya’s, then if Bakugou had seen him first at church then—

“Have you been lying all along?” Kirishima took a step towards Bakugou and snarled, “Asking me to sing for your band, introducing me to all your friends—have you been trying to get to the safe this whole time?”

Kirishima’s voice cracked at the end, the realization of reality crashing over him in a series of blows. Bakugou melted a bit, his mouth opening in protest but his eyes giving in slowly.

“It—started that way,” he admitted lowly, “but it became so much more, I swear. I stopped pretending after that first night. Y-you’ve gotta believe me, Eiji.”

“Don’t call me that,” Kirishima hissed.

Their battling shouts were slowly filling the small room, but nothing could mask the sound of Kirishima’s heart hitting the ground and shattering into a million pieces. He flicked through his memories of that summer, Bakugou appearing at his window with a proposition and racing him down the country road, their very first show and all the afternoons he’d spent lounging on that old couch. 

Had it all been a lie?

A trick for Bakugou to get what he really wanted all along?

Kirishima felt like crying, but he was too busy being furious. The fire within him was spreading indefinitely, eating up every plentiful thing in its path.

“That night—when you kissed me,” Kirishima eked out, “did you only do it to get inside the house?”

He waited in earnest for Bakugou to say no and plead innocence, there was nothing Kirishima wanted more in that moment, but as Bakugou’s face folded in guilt, he knew the moment would never come. Kirishima’s body began to disassemble, limb by limb as Bakugou’s lips formed around an invisible apology.

“Please, Eiji,” he whispered.

“I told you to stop calling me that!” Kirishima cried.

Every shout hurt, having to travel first through the blazing forest fire that was consuming Kirishima from the inside out. The kiss they’d shared in the field, it had all been a ruse, an elaborate lie Bakugou was upholding to get access to the money. If that had been a lie, then all of it was. Once again, Kirishima had fallen for it. How stupid could he be to believe that someone would actually love him knowing there was nothing to gain from it?

“You kissed me, anad then you betrayed me,” Kirishima’s voice wavered.

“But everything I said that night was true,” Bakugou pled, “I love you. I want to run away with you. None of that has changed.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Kirishima’s voice was growing hoarse now, grating against his throat painfully. Every time he spoke, he could taste the iron of his own blood and feel the red begin to stain his front teeth. Tears were streaming over his cheeks involuntarily, hot and stinging.

“Let him go,” Kirishima commanded as he watched his father’s face go from purple to bright blue.

Instantly, Bakugou released his hold on the man, sending his body hurtling towards the concrete. His father curled up for a moment, motionless and limp. Kirishima knew it would take a while for him to catch his breath and come to, but it certainly wouldn’t take forever.

Kirishima’s eyes flickered to Bakugou’s hand, “Drop the gun.”

Carefully, Bakugou hunched over and set the gun onto the concrete, rising back up with his hands lifted in surrender, face streaking with two lone tears. Once he was upright again, Kirishima dashed towards the gun on the ground and took it in his hands.

When he leaned back up with the gun poised in his palms, Bakugou took a steadying step back, eyes wide and staring down the silver barrel. The gun trembled in time with Kirishima’s hands, it was heavier than he expected, and the trigger was far too close to his finger for comfort. He watched the light of the bulb above dance over the outlines of the silver contraption, even though the sight was quickly blurring with tears.

It was as if two sets of hands had taken up residence on either side of Kirishima’s body and were pulling him in opposite directions, splitting him in half. He could feel the snap of every tendon and hear the tear of his own skin as the hands worked further and further down.

He whimpered. Bakugou’s breath was shallow, evident by the way his chest was moving. His eyes were flickering between Kirishima and the gun in his hands.

“You promised that if you ever lied to me, I’d have permission to kill you,” Kirishima whispered.

Bakugou gulped, hands still poised in the air with palms facing Kirishima. The gun still trembled in Kirishima’s hold. The tip of his finger brushed along the trigger. He knew he could never do it, but he couldn’t bring himself to lower the weapon.

Everything within Kirishima ached. He’d been betrayed by the only person he’d ever truly trusted other than his father, lied to and tricked just like he had been his entire life. Tears streamed endlessly down his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth, the only source of moisture against his tongue. Bakugou stood frozen before him, the only moving thing being his own tears teasing the top of his cheekbone.

“You said you were gonna fix what he broke,” Kirishima trembled, “you PROMISED.”

As he shouted, the gun moved in his hands, the trigger pushing against the tip of his index finger. Bakugou took another half-step back, eyes pleading with Kirishima and brow curled in fear.

“All my father ever did was lie to me,” Kirishima hissed, “and I thought you were different—but you’re just like him!”

“No,” Bakugou shook his head, “I promise—”

“Stop!” Kirishima cried, “stop making promises you’re not going to keep!”

More tears, more rattling breaths, Kirishima was having a hard time holding the gun and his own body together at the same time. 

His mind returned to the list of promises, the one he kept as a record of those who had wronged him and those who had upheld their duty. Bakugou had made three promises in the three months he’d known him and in just one night, he’d broken them all. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima watched his father start to clamber to his feet after a slow recovery from breathlessness. Without missing a beat, Kirishima turned and pointed the gun at his standing but hunched over father who responded with wide eyes of disbelief and a surrendering pair of hands.

“It was you?” His father hissed breathily at Bakugou, “You stole the things from the safe.”

Bakugou’s brow went low.

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth, “I stole the money.”

“I don’t give a damn about the money, what about the rest of it?”

Bakugou reeled back in confusion. Kirishima kept the gun on his father, much less trusting of him than of Bakugou.

“Whaddya mean the rest of it?” He spat, “I only stole your fuckin’ money.”

Kirishima’s father exhaled, his face melting into a more calmed expression.

“Then it’s still in the house,” he muttered to himself.

Kirishima watched as his father mumbled to himself for a moment, eyes whizzing around frantically. Slowly, Kirishima’s adrenaline was dropping, the pain of his wounds now the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. Bakugou kept his eyes locked, begging and pleading for Kirishima’s forgiveness. 

Eventually, he didn’t even have enough strength to hold up the gun, so he dropped his arms and let the heavy pistol clatter to the concrete floor. 

“We’re going home,” his father hissed, already advancing on him.

Kirishima glanced at Bakugou once more in a moment of decision.

“All my life I had been pushed around by my father, and I didn’t realize that I was just being pushed around by Bakugou, too. I had never done anything for myself in my entire life. I was a puppet who couldn’t even see their own strings. I lived in the delusion that obeying every command would grant me the love I wanted so desperately.”

“So, who did you choose?”

Kirishima glanced to Bakugou, then to his father, when his eyes trailed back, he watched Bakugou mouth a silent plea:

“Stay.”

But the realization was so fresh in Kirishima’s mind, the knowledge that Bakugou had been lying about everything; he couldn’t even bear to look at the man’s face anymore. Thus, in one swift motion, Kirishima shed his battle jacket and felt the fabric fall to the ground in a pile along with everything it represented. He narrowed his eyes and hardened his jaw, the words bubbling up from within him. 

“I wish I’d never met you,” he said.

A premonition? A prayer? A curse? Kirishima would never truly know which face his words bore.

Bakugou’s expression melted. His hard exterior crumpled inwards as if Kirishima’s words had been a series of gunshots aimed at his chest. Kirishima glanced to his father in a silent acknowledgement before following him towards the door.

Footsteps chased after Kirishima for a few seconds before a large hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged gently. He turned with a seething expression to see Bakugou holding onto him for dear life, a plea already teasing his lips.

“Please, don’t go,” he begged, “just stay with me and we can work it out.”

Every time they had kissed, every time they’d woken up to each other after long summer naps, all the promises and words and whispers—Kirishima wanted so badly to believe in them all, to think they were still true. He wanted to run into Bakugou’s arms and feel wrapped in love, once more. He wanted to disappear from his life, from his father and spend every waking moment with the man he loved. But that was all he desired from the Old Bakugou, the façade of honesty. 

The words echoed in Kirishima’s chest, clawing their way up his throat and onto his tongue, thick and dark and evil:

“Get out of my life.”

And with his parting words, Kirishima followed his father out the door. Standing just a few feet away with a frightened expression was Mina who was quickly joined by Bakugou. Kirishima didn’t look at her for very long, but he was able to see her expression shift at the sight of his father. It was probably just a natural reaction to finally seeing the man Kirishima had talked so much about, but her expression wasn’t just of surprise, it bore a hint of realization—recognition, maybe? Her eyes swept up and down his form as if she’d seen him before. But Kirishima didn’t pay it much mind now that his father was leading him down the long, shadowy corridor towards the exterior of the building. And though he would never admit it, Kirishima half-hoped, deep down,

 that Bakugou would come running after him again.

The drive home was silent, the tension so thick that Kirishima would have to claw his way through it to get to his father. The car sped down the city roads for a few minutes before turning into a darker part of town, the outskirts which were a much different landscape from the streets they’d left behind. With every inhale, Kirishima felt the wounds on his body sting. With every exhale, the echo of his words would bounce around in his mind.

I wish I’d never met you.

Kirishima gulped and squished his eyelids closed, Bakugou’s expression appearing in his memory.

Get out of my life.

No matter how many times he swiped at the space below his nose, Kirishima couldn’t clean the blood—it had dried into a thick, brown crust on his skin. He kept licking at a split in his lip, just to taste the iron once more.

He wanted his father to say something, anything, just to crack the tension for a moment. But he simply sat in the driver’s seat with a thin-lipped expression, his eyes narrowed onto the road ahead alit by headlights. Kirishima would rather see him screaming than sitting in silence, his mind probably planning what horrible thing he was going to do to Kirishima next.

As their road appeared, Kirishima shuffled nervously in his seat. His father sped down the dirt road and parked seamlessly in the driveway, turning off the engine in one swift motion. He didn’t even glance over as he unbuckled his seatbelt and let himself out of the car. Kirishima followed suit, albeit much slower than his father had, unbuckling his own seatbelt and shoving himself out of the car with another thick swallow. 

Swiftly, his father bounded towards the front door and unlocked it with his golden key. Kirishima picked up his pace a bit so that he was walking up the steps just as his father was slipping through the open door. For a moment, Kirishima’s hand froze around the handle, a moment of regret passing through his fatigued body.

What would things be like now if he’d stayed with Bakugou?

Why had he said those horrible things?

“I regretted the things I said to Bakugou right when I said them. I knew I couldn’t take them back and the damage had been done. And all I could think about as I walked into that house was how desperately I wanted Bakugou there by my side. If I hadn’t been so stupid in that moment, so full of pride, I might’ve—”

The instant Kirishima’s foot passed the threshold, a firm hand gripped his shoulder and threw him towards the wall, his head hitting first and then his back. Kirishima winced and yelped in pain as the drywall smacked against his already bruised back and skull, new tears welling at the corners of his eyes. His father stormed into the kitchen—Kirishima heard a click, but he didn’t have the strength to look back at what he was doing. Instead, he had to wait for his father to stomp back into the entryway and grab another fistful of Kirishima’s shirt.

“Get up!” He barked.

Kirishima scrambled to his feet as quickly as his ailing body would allow. His father pulled him by the shirt down the hallway past his room and toward the bathroom door. Kirishima’s breath hitched in his throat as he wrapped his hand around the corner of the wall, a cutout that led into the living room. His father pulled on one end while his will to survive pulled against the wall on the other.

“Come!” His father commanded.

Kirishima shook his head, “No!”

Tightening his grip on Kirishima’s shirt, his father yanked him towards the bathroom door which he’d already propped open. Kirishima tried everything he could to keep his grip on the wall, but he could feel his sweaty finger slipping against the paint until just he tips were keeping him tethered. 

It only took one more good yank for his father to succeed in dislodging his son, pulling him instantly into the dark bathroom. He shoved him hard towards the tub and pushed him down to his knees. Kirishima watched the tub hurtle into his vision as he crumpled to his knees and leaned over the edge, cold porcelain pressing against his already upset stomach. 

He tried to sit up and lessen the pressure against his torso, but his father’s hand was pushing hard against the expanse of his back. Kirishima tried to use his hands to hoist himself up off the tile, but his father’s foot was quick in stepping on knuckles, a series of cracks and pops following the pressure.

“Ah!” Kirishima exclaimed as the rubber sole of the shoe dug into the bones of his hand.

With his free hand, his father futzed with something in the drawer beneath the sink. Kirishima tried to turn his head to get a good look, but he was too busy wincing in pain from his crushed hand and trying not to vomit. He heard his father plug something into the wall, a loud buzz following shortly after.

“No!” Kirishima cried as the sound grew closer.

Feeling his father’s body hunch over him, Kirishima next felt the cold chill of metal dig against his head, the buzz of the razor sending a shiver down his spine.

“No, stop!” He screamed, watching bright red strands of hair fall to the bottom of the tub.

He writhed, moving his head every which way to try and evade the razor’s touch, but as the blade kept nicking his skin, he knew he was better off keeping still. Yet keeping still didn’t mean he couldn’t cry. 

Tears streamed from Kirishima’s eyes and dripped onto the bottom of the porcelain tub, sometimes landing in the messy clumps of red hair that were now littering the same space. Sobs wracked his chest and pressed his stomach further and further against the cold edge.

His father stepped heavier onto his hand and kept pushing steadily against Kirishima’s back as he worked the razor over every inch of hair. Kirishima’s cries echoed against the edges of the tub as more hair gathered before his eyes. 

“Stop!” He wailed, “Please!”

“Insolent, lying child,” his father seethed from above.

Kirishima lurched his body forward, “I’m not a child anymore!”

“Bullshit!” His father bellowed.

He’d never heard his father curse before, even in his fits of ‘righteous anger’. Kirishima’s cries only grew louder as the razor buzzed against his skull.

In the very next moment, the bathroom door slammed open and another voice appeared.

“What are you doing?!” His mother cried from the doorway.

The shock of her appearance was enough for Kirishima’s father to remove the razor from his head and loosen his hold on his son’s body. In his moment of weakness, Kirishima was able to writhe out of his father’s grip and lay a hand on his head. All the hair was gone, the evidence lying in a pile at the bottom of the bathtub. He ran his palm over the expanse, feeling uneven patches of buzzed hair glide beneath his touch. 

His mother, still in her nightgown, shoved past his father and swung her arms around Kirishima’s neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. Kirishima melted into the touch, his chin hooking over her shoulder and his tears now soaking into the fabric of her pajamas. She pulled him away by his shoulders to get a good look at his face, her expression falling into horror at the sight of his bruised cheek, bloodied nose, and swollen eye.

“Oh, my baby,” she whimpered, tears welling up in her eyes.

His father advanced once more, having left the razor on the bathroom counter.

“Move!” He commanded.

Kirishima felt his mother flinch before she wrapped her arms once more around Kirishima’s body and held him close.

“No,” she responded in deep, steady voice.

His father’s face folded in fury, eyes still wide and harrowed, thin hairs sticking up in all directions. One of his mother’s hands traveled up to his newly buzzed hair and pulled his head towards the safety of her chest.

“He’s a liar! I have to punish him as the Lord would,” his father hissed.

“No!” His mother cried again, holding him tighter.

She began to rock her body with Kirishima in her arms just like she would when he would have meltdowns as a child, usually as a result of his father’s screaming. He didn’t know what to do other than cry and nuzzle into the safe feeling of his mother’s embrace. 

“My baby,” she whispered, “my baby, my baby—”

“Get out of here!” His father bellowed.

In one swift motion, Kirishima felt his mother’s body be torn away and pushed towards the adjacent wall. His father made quick work of grabbing onto his ear and tugging him away from the bathroom, overcoming even the biggest of fights Kirishima could pit against him. 

He was dragged to his room which was just the next door over. His father kicked it open with a thud and tossed Kirishima inside, already making a beeline for his dresser. Kirishima scrambled into a position where he could watch his father who was now opening the top drawer of his tall wooden dresser, tearing violently through the piles of clothes.

“Where is it?” He muttered to himself.

“Stop!” Kirishima cried out to him.

Ignoring his protests, his father continued to tear through the clothing, tossing it out onto the floor behind him.

“I have to find those papers,” his father hissed, “you don’t understand what’s at stake here!”

With that, his father abandoned the top drawer and began in on the below it, wrenching it open and tearing out all the clothing inside it.

“No, stop!” Kirishima cried, bounding towards him and attempting to wrap his hands around the man’s wrists.

In a fit, his father flailed Kirishima’s grip off of him and returned to his frenzied searching, eyes now red and dry with rage. Clothes flew through the air and collected in a pile in the center of the room.

“I don’t have what you’re looking for, I swear!” Kirishima insisted.

His father turned to him with an expression of horror and desperation, shallow breaths huffing through his lips. With a grumble, he slammed the drawer closed and stormed back out into the main part of the house. Kirishima followed him closely, afraid of what he might be going to ravage next.

He stomped into the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima saw one of the coil burners on the stove burning bright red and sending waves of heat into the air. Kirishima reached towards the knobs to turn it off, thinking that his mother had left it on or there’d be a power surge of some sort. But as his hand neared the white appliance, his father lunged.

“No!” He shouted.

Kirishima tore his hand back towards his body and looked at his father in horror.

“The stove is on,” he said.

“Leave it,” his father hissed.

“You can’t just leave the burner running, you’re gonna start a fire!” 

Slowly, Kirishima’s father turned and glared at him with narrowed eyes, a dark enough expression to send a chill down his spine. His father’s lips were chapped and the wrinkles in his face had only seemed to deepen since earlier that evening. 

“And it’ll only be a fraction of the fire you will burn in for eternity,” he hissed.

Kirishima’s jaw went slack just as his father pulled him once more into the living room. With all the strength he had left in his body, his father pushed Kirishima against the wall where a rickety wooden table held their landline phone. His lower back knocked hard into the edge of the table, immobilizing him for a moment where he could only watch his father pace to one end of the living room then back again.

“You’re gonna burn the house down!” Kirishima shouted at him.

His father spat, “It is better to be dead than to have disobeyed the Lord!”

All the blood rushed out of Kirishima’s body. His father was trying to burn the house down with every single one of them inside it. Slowly, Kirishima moved his hands behind him and felt the edge of the plastic phone beneath his fingertips.

There was one promise that Bakugou had made that he hadn’t yet broken, and Kirishima admonished himself for forgetting it. It was that evening where he was getting out of his car after the first day he’d spent at the hideout, Bakugou had coaxed his attention back to him to promise him something. Or, rather, to offer his services.

If your cocksucker dad gives you any real trouble, he’d said, you come get me. I’ll kill him for you.

He’d probably meant it as a joke. Kirishima was almost certain about that, actually. But as the stovetop buzzed behind him in the kitchen, any other option felt eve crazier than the one that was crossing his mind. 

Bakugou had broken every other promise he’d made to Kirishima, how could he be so sure that this was the one he’d fulfill?

Perhaps that was precisely the point,

Kirishima couldn’t be sure—

but he could try.

His trust in Bakugou had dissolved almost entirely that night, but it was the only option he had left if he didn’t want this night to be his last. Thus, with a deep breath, Kirishima wracked his brain for Bakugou’s phone number.

He’d written it on Kirishima’s arm during band practice one day and told him to use it if he ever needed anything, it was the number of a burner phone he’d swiped from his dad and always kept in his pocket for emergencies. That night, Kirishima had laid awake in his bed tracing the number with his finger and memorizing it forwards and backwards for when it washed off. As a result, the number appeared almost immediately in Kirishima’s mind.

The hard part was typing it in without looking.

While his father paced, Kirishima waited for a noise to coincide with him taking the handset off of the phone so he wouldn’t get caught. In a fit, his father was still searching for those papers, thrusting open drawers and tearing out everything within them. As he slammed one of the drawers closed, Kirishima unhooked the handset from the phone and set it extremely gently on the table. 

Then, as his father began in on another drawer in the TV console, Kirishima ran his fingers over the large, plastic keys, whispering each number to himself as he touched it.

One mistake, and he’d lose his chance. He had to put the number in right the very first time.

He pressed the first key in Bakugou’s number.

He flinched as his father paced to the other end of the room and waited for his attention to divert elsewhere before inputting the next two numbers.

Please God, he prayed in his mind.

Please let Bakugou fulfill this one promise.

He inputted two more numbers as his father tore through a stack of papers, his old sermons all stacked up in the corner of the room. Soon, the white papers were littering the floor in a sort of patchwork, the teachings of the Kirishima’s entire life splayed out before him in exactly what they were—just words on a paper.

His heart beat like a kettle drum and he suddenly felt very sick to his stomach.

Just three more numbers.

He pressed one, then another, and then one more.

And all he could do was hope.

Maybe he’d inputted the wrong number. Or perhaps Bakugou wouldn’t answer at all. He couldn’t even hear the line ring to make sure the call went through. But Kirishima didn’t know what else to do, not now that his father had burned through all the hiding spaces in the living room and was now searching for his next victim.

Please, Bakugou.

Please help me.

Kirishima gripped tightly onto the edge of the table. His father was advancing again on him and out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima watched his mother appear in the cutout of the wall.

“I did everything right,” his father lamented, “I raised you in the way a child should go, and this is how you thank me.”

Kirishima swallowed thickly. Hundreds of Sundays spent at church, every Bible Study and church camp had all been the work of his father, his efforts to raise him under the protection of the Lord.

“You ruined my life,” Kirishima hissed at him.

“You disobeyed!” His father retorted, “Do you really think all the awful things that have happened are because you were working in the Lord’s will? Or is this the iron rod correcting you after you strayed from the path?”

Kirishima’s chest began to cave in on itself. His brain felt impossibly heavy, struggling to take hold of all the words that had been shouted at him in the last few hours. Perhaps—his father was right. Why else would Bakugou turn out to be so cruel? Why would the only love he’d ever felt in his life all just be one cruel trick? Perhaps—

No.

His father was wrong, he had to be.

“It’s been your sin that has wreaked havoc on this family and on your life,” his father spat, “if you had just done as I taught you.”

Kirishima’s knees began to give out on him, sending him crumpling towards the floor while his father loomed over him. The house was starting to heat up, Kirishima couldn’t tell if it was the running stove or the fear coursing endlessly through his body, but he was sweating either way.

I don’t wanna die here.

As his father’s body drew closer, Kirishima cowered further towards the floor. Everything within him hurt like hell. The night had worn down his bones mercilessly and any inch of courage or resolve he’d had before was somewhere back at Moth Ball in that little windowless room.

What if Bakugou ignored his cry for help because of what he’d said in the heat of his anger? Kirishima wanted to turn back time and take back all of his awful words, but he knew it was too late, the damage was irreparable. All he could do was sob beneath his father’s shadow.

“If I don’t kill you tonight,” his father hissed, “then you can be sure you’ll never leave this house as long as you live.”

Kirishima bowed his head. He had spent the last three months shedding the heavy yoke of expectation that his father had placed around his neck. He’d snuck out windows and smoked and ran from the cops—and he thought things would be different, he thought he’d emerge outside the suffocating clutch of his father.

But nothing had changed. Kirishima was in eternal subservience to his father and never again would he be able to escape. Everything he’d done, all the new friends he’d made—was it all for nothing? It couldn’t be true, it just couldn’t.

How could he be destined for hell when he was already living in it?

As his head ducked lower and lower, Kirishima prayed that prayer one final time, the last thing he remembered saying to himself before following Bakugou into the unknown:

“Please, God,” he whispered to himself, “don’t let this be a mistake.”

His father’s shadow only grew over Kirishima’s crumpling form. He braced himself for another punch or kick, but before either could befall him, a sound rang through the small house.

It was a firm, loud knock at the front door.

Chapter Text

A thick silence fell over the old house. The whisperings in the walls stopped for just one moment, and whatever ghost was haunting its halls even paused in a second of anticipation. Kirishima’s father looked towards the door, his widened eyes quickly going red and air passing through his thin lips in shuddering huffs. Kirishima held his breath, the moment so thick that he couldn’t even move his chest. They waited—and Kirishima counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

Another knock, harsher and quicker.

Kirishima flinched, his father did too. Now, the man was taking small steps towards the entryway, his body hunched and his hair still falling stringy against his face. Beneath the moonlight, the gaunt places of the old man’s features were shrouded in even darker shadows. He looked like a skeleton to Kirishima, or maybe a corpse that had been kept around too long. His body moved languidly as if he was travelling through honey, eyes now pointed towards the front door.

Thus, Kirishima counted again.

One.

Two.

Another loud series of knocks.

Then a voice.

“Police, open up!”

It was a deep voice, one of a large man with a broad chest. Every body in the old house flinched again, and like a leaky faucet, realization began to soak into Kirishima’s mind drip-by-drip. He couldn’t move, his back felt frozen against the wall, and he knew that if he’d tried to stand, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself upright for more than a second. Thus, with cold bones and a dry mouth, Kirishima sat in complete silence, waiting for the next noise to infiltrate his space.

“Police! Open the door!” The same man shouted.

Kirishima’s breath felt impossibly laborious, he watched his stomach cave in with every exhale in a way that made him feel sick. His father had disappeared around the corner, his mother was peeking out from the hallway, at the end of which was the front door.

One.  

“We’re comin’ in!”

A loud sound followed the proclamation, particularly that of the lock on the door cracking and the handle slamming against the entryway wall. Kirishima couldn’t see them yet, but he heard an army of boots banging atop the old wood floors and the general shouts of men and women flooding into his house. He sucked in a quick breath, the rest of his body alighting with pulses of fear. Kirishima backed up closer to the wall and brought his hands up to his ears, the barrage of sounds too much to bear. 

But even when his hands were blocking the passages to his eardrums, Kirishima could feelthe floor moving beneath him and could see a large man clad in black with a badge pinned to the left side of his chest pointing a gun much like Bakugou’s right at his father, backing the man into the living room. Kirishima’s father had his hands up, his once harrowed expression now stretched in fear. Other police officers flooded in soon after, some of them men much like the first but a few were women with their hair slicked back into low buns.

They were speaking—shouting something.

Kirishima wanted nothing more than to take his hands off of his ears and understand what they were saying, but his palms felt frozen to his lobes as though he was some sort of statue in the corner of the living room. Everything sounded muffled, like he was underwater.

You’re under arrest, he heard amidst the swimming voices.

It was then that Kirishima’s hands nearly fell off of his ears in shock. Arrested? Who was arrested? What was going on?

He tried to peer over to where he’d last seen his father, but the body of a woman blocked his view as he hunched down in front of him.

“Hi, hon,” she greeted rather insistently, “are you alright?”

Her question only sounded like nonsensical words to Kirishima. His thoughts were speeding up quickly and the heat in his body was rising with each passing second. He kept trying to prop himself up to get a good look at his father, but the woman placed a firm hand on his shoulder and held him gently on the floor.

“Hey, everything’s gonna be okay, just stay right here,” she assured in a deep voice.

“My dad—” Kirishima eked out, “what’s happening to my dad?”

It didn’t occur very often, but in times of great stress, Kirishima was prone to losing his filter. Whatever fine mesh had once blocked the avenue between his brain and his mouth disappeared, and since his racing thoughts consisted of just one question, there were only so many words he could actually say.

“He’s—what’s happening to—” he stammered.

The woman’s hand remained heavy on his shoulder. Every one of Kirishima’s attempts to dislodge himself from the grip was fruitless. His head was spinning, all the colors around him had gone impossibly dark and any semblance of lines or definition in his surroundings was slipping away. He felt sick—he felt like throwing up, but he couldn’t throw up until he knew what was happening.

“Can you tell me your name?” The officer asked firmly.

The question entered Kirishima’s ears but bounced off just as quickly. His body was starting to rock, the sheer stress of the soun and movement around him paralyzing and ability to speak he’d had before. He kept opening his mouth to say something, but only non-descript noises would come out, low whines and throaty cries.

“The kid is hurt,” the officer called to one of the others.

He wanted the woman to stop touching him. He wanted his back to stop touching the wall. He wanted to wrap himself up tightly in a blanket and forget this night had ever happened. 

The officer leaned to the side to say something else to her co-worker, and it was timed perfectly with the scene happening in the backrgound. Kirishima rocked forward to see his father with his hands behind his back and the burly officer slipping a pair of shiny silver handcuffs over his wrists. 

Kirishima’s stomach plummeted to the floor.

“No!” He cried, “Where are they taking him?”

The officer who was holding him down came to after hearing his scream and set her other hand on his opposite shoulder to keep him in his place. Kirishima’s entire body felt like it was on fire, he didn’t even know that he was crying until he saw them drip from the edge of his chin onto the wood floor. He watched as the officer led his father out into the hallway, his mother looking on with wild eyes from a darkened part of the hall.

“My dad—what’s happening—” Kirishima screamed.

The woman kept holding him against the wall, trying to position her body so that she was blocking the view of the rest of the room.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with this kid,” she shouted to part of her squadron,
“he’s not calming down!”

Kirishima could barely hear her words through the rushing sound in his ears even though she was positioned so closely. His body kept moving forward and backwards, trying to soothe the storm that was brewing in the center of his chest. His breathing was hurried, erratic. His eyes darted all over in a desperate attempt to understand.

“Tell me your name!” The officer insisted.

All Kirishima could do was shake his head, an almost involuntary motion. He was crying more now, he could tell by the soaked collar of his shirt. There were no words passing through his lips anymore, just pained noises that he didn’t think his body was capable of making. 

“We’re gonna get you out of here,” another officer chimed in, “we’re gonna take you someplace safe.”

Again, Kirishima shook his head, the movement feeling more twitchy than anything else. The image of his father in the handcuffs played over and over in his mind like a tape stuck on loop. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists, feeling his restlessness only surmount now that there were more and more officers surrounding him.

“C’mon, kid,” one of them coaxed.

“My dad—” Kirishima whimpered, “where did he go—what happened to him--?”

“Hey,” another officer said sweetly, “if you come with us, we’ll take you to where your dad is going.”

Though the offer was tempting, Kirishima’s brain was still caught in the throes of his confusion, one thought piling atop the other making him more anxious by the second. One of the officer’s hands reached towards him menacingly to which he flinched and wrenched his body back, hitting his head once again on the hard wall behind him.

“Stop touching me!” He shouted.

As his screams echoed off the walls, Kirishima felt his body begin to crumple inward upon itself once more in tiny folding motions. He wanted to make himself as small as possible and maybe disappear entirely from the situation at hand. 

“Get me something to calm him down, I can’t restrain him,” the officer called out to the group.

Though Kirishima’s limbs kept writhing beneath the woman’s grip, his mind was no longer present in that same body. He was simply moving out of instinct, all logical thought having abandoned him thirty or so minutes ago. Starting at the tips of his fingers, everything was going numb and warm. A sharp pain in his thigh began to spread, but the tingling sensation overtook it soon after.

His eyelids were falling. But he couldn’t sleep, not when he didn’t know where his father was or what he’d done to be arrested. He had to stay awake—he had to—

had to—

to—

Kirishima awoke in stages, one of them being a strange halfway point between deep, dreamless sleep and restless, vibrant sleep. The first thing he saw was his bedroom, it surrounded him in a suffocating way like the walls were trying to wrap him in a hug he didn’t consent to. He was sat on his bed with sopping wet hair and a book in his hand that had no words in it. He kept looking towards the window like he was expecting someone, but no one ever came. 

He glanced between the book and the window what felt like a million times, but on the millionth and first, he saw the figure on the other side of the glass, the one he’d been waiting for.

“Katsuki?” He asked in a honey-slow voice.

The letters felt clunky and awkward against his tongue, speech dulled and stretched, but he reached the window with impossible speed and was shoving his fingers beneath the sill before he knew it. Yet, as the bottom slat of the window moved towards the top, Katsuki’s soft, smiling face shifted like sand, a now menacing grimace and frenzied expression pasted over his features. When Kirishima finally looked, he saw his father, reaching for him through the open window. 

It was then that he awoke with a gasp. His back ached immediately from the hard mattress upon which he was laying and the pain in the rest of his body followed suit. He sat panting for a moment, the dream still rattling through his hollow form in a series of echoes. His eyes felt heavy as if he’d only slept a few minutes, but he really had no concept of how long he’d been out, especially now that he was in an entirely new place. Kirishima lifted his hand slowly to the back of his head upon which a tender, throbbing goose egg had fully formed; he flinched just from having his fingers near it. Trailing the touch to his face, Kirishima pressed the tips onto the bruise on his cheek, memories trickling back into his mind in a steady drip. There was still blood caked beneath his nose and an open split on his lip.

Where was he, anyways?

Turning his head ever so slowly, Kirishima took in his surroundings. He was in a small, white-walled room consisting of only the bed on which he was lying and a sink in the corner beside the door. There were no windows out of which Kirishima could look nor a mirror in which he could look at himself. Kirishima gulped and tried to move his legs; though his brain had come to, his legs were still numb and tingly, the point of pain in his right thigh beginning to crack through the thick fog of sedative. Was that what had happened? He remembered the sharp sensation, but also the sweet numbing feelings that followed. Was that how he’d gone to sleep so quickly?

Eventually, Kirishima’s wandering hand reached the top of his head. Uneven patches of hair spotted all over his scalp, some areas short and prickly while others were softer and longer. The steady trickle dropped another memory into his brain:

The feeling of the razor against his skin, the crunch of his bones beneath his father’s heel, the sight of his bright red strands hitting the bottom of the porcelain tub. 

A shudder fell down his spine. A sound kept bouncing off the walls as he sat, the ticking of a clock’s second hand. Each instance of noise stacked atop one another in Kirishima’s tired ears, the same ones that had been worn down by the night’s events. What time was it? No matter how much Kirishima searched, he couldn’t find the clock that was making the noise; he even checked his own hands for a wristwatch, but still nothing. 

The click and scrape of the door on the opposite wall finally pulled his focus and sent a new wave of adrenaline coursing through his body. 

A nice woman was standing in the opening; she looked a lot like Mina, to Kirishima. She had her thick black curls slicked back into a puffy bun but her face spoke of age, the slightest wrinkling beside her eyes and on either end of her mouth signaling to Kirishima that she probably spent a lot of her life smiling. Her deep brown eyes turned down sympathetically as she glanced at the boy on the bed.

“Hi there,” her voice was slow and sweet, “how are you feeling?”

As she came closer, Kirishima observed her well-fitted khakis and soft gray shirt overlaid by a pastel green cardigan which ended just below the crease of her elbow. She approached slowly, especially as Kirishima flinched and began to inch back towards the wall.

“My head hurts,” he mumbled.

The woman hummed and curled her brow soothingly. Kirishima stopped inching back in his bed, feeling a strange air of comfort emanating from the women who was now stood in the room. 

“What time is it?” He eventually asked.

The woman checked the small gold watch on her wrist as she sat slowly onto the corner of Kirishima’s bed. 

“Almost morning, but not quite,” she smiled.

Kirishima stared down at his lap, the bump on the back of his head messing with his vision as it pounded and ached. The woman simply sat there for a moment in silence, eyes grazing over Kirishima’s features and, by association, his injuries. He cowered a bit, feeling rather vulnerable to her judging gaze; he was still in his clothes, the ones he’d worn on stage, minus a mesh shirt and his battle jacket which he faintly remembered letting slump to the floor at Bakugou’s feet.

Bakugou.

Bakugou.

“Wh—” Kirishima began, finally perking up at the thought.

“My name is Ms. Mona, and I’m here to make sure that you’re safe and taken care of while the police ask questions and gather the things they need, alright?”

She didn’t lean towards him or move at all as she spoke. Kirishima felt like he could finally breathe, noticing the difference between the officer who kept touching him and the woman now who was giving him his space. 

“Questions?” Kirishima asked.

“Mmh,” she nodded, “about your father.”

A bolt of recognition shot through him. The image of his father in those handcuffs trudging out the front door, the failure of his ears to hear what was going on. Kirishima felt his body start to go ice-cold at the memory, the steady drip of his recollection now increasing to a rushing stream.

“Would you be willing to answer some questions?” she asked gently, “Even if you decide to do so now, you can stop at any time during the process, as well.”

Kirishima swallowed thickly and fiddled with his fingers. Words weren’t coming very easily to him, but his brain was so full of thoughts about his father that being able to dump it all out might feel good.

“Sure,” Kirishima replied.

“Would you like to stay here or are you able to walk down to the room?” 

Kirishima felt around for his legs and noticed that the warm, numb feeling had subsided almost entirely. Getting up for a stretch sounded nice enough, and the ticking noise in the room was starting to bother him, anyhow.

“I can get up,” he muttered.

It took a series of steps for the pair of them to finally reach the hallway. Kirishima accepted Ms. Mona’s hand as he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and distributed his weight mostly against her aid to help him stand. The pain that had once been isolated to his face and the back of his head now rushed through the rest of his body as he went upright, making his vision go fuzzy and causing the floor beneath him to swim. Thankfully Ms. Mona was skilled enough to know exactly how to catch him as he swayed to the right. They waited for a moment so that Kirishima could regain his sense before walking slowly towards the door, Ms. Mona’s hand clutching the underside of his upper arm and successfully catching him every time his body leaned in that direction. Each step was a dirge, but the feeling of freedom that grazed over Kirishima’s ice-cold skin once he traveled out into the hallway was enough to make it all worth it.

There weren’t very many other officers in the building, probably because it was the middle of the night, but their uniforms gave enough evidence to prove where Kirishima was—a police station, likely the one where his father had been taken, as well.

Ms. Mona maintained a steady pace, watching Kirishima closely as they rounded the first corner, then another, long stretches of hallway bridging each of them. Policemen would pass every so often, but they’d only pay a second of attention to Kirishima even though his face was caked with blood and bruised all over.

They’ve probably seen much worse, he assumed.

One more corner and another stretch of hallway, Ms. Mona eventually stopped in front of a heavy metal door with a small window that was too high for any person of reasonable height to look through. She knocked and waited half a minute or so before a man in uniform opened it and let the pair in.

Ms. Mona helped Kirishima to the small metal chair that bordered a large, gray table. There were two identical chairs on the opposite side, one occupied by a cop and the other left vacant by the man who’d opened the door. The light was bright in the room, shining from a series of long, skinny bulbs bolted to the ceiling. As he settled himself into his seat, Kirishima watched Ms. Mona retreat to a spot behind his chair where she could look on without being too close. To his right was a large mirror, one that took up almost half the wall. 

He was just barely tall enough to see his own reflection at the bottom edge.

Kirishima’s right eye had swollen up and was painted all brown and purple, the bruise of his cheek below more yellow and green. His lip was split in two different places and the blood that had been trailing from his nose was caked above his upper lip but had dried rather thin and crusty down his chin and neck. He couldn’t turn enough to see the bump on the back of his head, but he could definitely still feel it. 

“Two-way mirror,” one of the cops told him.

The voice coaxed Kirishima’s attention back forward. When he glanced again at his reflection, he noticed the slight distortion which should’ve told him before that this was no normal mirror.

“We’re gonna take some notes on your injuries first, alright?” The seated policeman announced, “Would you mind turning to the left?”

Kirishima blinked a few times as the command traveled in his ear and then his brain. Slowly, he turned his gaze, displaying the large bruise on his cheek. He felt the presence of the other officer grow nearer to him, making his limbs crinkle into his body.

And when he finally saw the man reach towards him out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima jolted backwards.

“I don’t like being touched,” he blurted out.

The officer tore his hand back, but his expression went sour as if Kirishima had spat something downright profane or rude at him. What was wrong with what he’d said? Kirishima had only told him the truth.

“I’d advise learning to ask before you do things, officer,” Ms. Mona bit in a much lower voice from her spot in the back of the room.

The officer’s eyes swept to the side to shoot Ms. Mona a seething look, his lip twitching into a snarl. In retreat, he folded his hands behind his back and sauntered up the other end of the table to join his buddy who was still scrawling something onto a large yellow notepad.

“Did your father punch you?” The sitting officer asked.

Kirishima nodded and gulped.

“Do you remember how many times?”

Blinking down at the floor, Kirishima racked his brain. He’d been hit twice in the small room at Moth Ball, but that was all he remembered.

“Maybe—three times?” He replied in a wavering voice.

“Are you certain?” The officer asked dryly.

Kirishima looked forward with panicked, parted lips. He tried again to scour his memory for any semblance of certainty, but everything was starting to bleed together: the show, his father, Bakugou—

Bakugou.

Bakugou.

“Have you seen—” he started to ask.

“Has your father hit you before last night?” The officer cut in.

Kirishima hesitated, “Yes, but—”

“Routinely? More than once a week?”

Kirishima blinked. He reeled back in his seat a bit, too many words flooding his brain.

“Maybe? I don’t—”

“Did you know anything about what he was planning? About what he’d done?”

He was starting to feel lightheaded. The bright lights above the table were beginning to make spots in his vision, the kind that flipped his stomach in all directions. He kept gulping, hoping that the action would clear his head a bit and allow him to speak.

“I—” he eked out, “I didn’t—”

“Mrs. Tamaki has put out a missing person’s report for her son, do you have any idea where he might’ve gone?” The officer asked gruffly.

Kirishima started to shake his head again, the same way he had against the wall in his home just hours before.

“Please—” he stammered, “j-just give me a minute—”

“Were you aware of the contents of your father’s safe?”

That was the question, the one that snapped the final string in Kirishima’s mind and broke the dam of his anger, once again.

“Give me a minute!” He shouted at the cops on the other side of the table.

“Hey,” Ms. Mona came up behind his chair to address the two men, “the kid’s obviously been traumatized tonight and you’re just overwhelming him. Don’t you think he deserves a cup of water and a break?”

The officer that had shot Mona a mean look before did just the same, his brow raising in disgust and his lip quirking. Kirishima simply sat in his chair which dug uncomfortably into his back, panting and hunched. The two men eventually did stand from their seats with a scrape of metal against concrete and vacate the room rather reluctantly, leaving just Kirishima and Ms. Mona behind.

All Kirishima could do was stare at the blank surface of the table, all the words the officers had spat at him swimming around in his brain. Tamaki was missing. Where could he have gone? Maybe somewhere with Sero—Kirishima didn’t know. And what had his father kept in the safe? All his life, he thought it was just money in there. Was there really something more? Something bad enough to get him arrested?

With slow and intentional steps, Ms. Mona rounded the table and set a white paper cup of water in front of Kirishima before taking a seat in one of the officers’ chairs. As Kirishima wrapped his fingers around the drink and took one, short sip, she folded her hands atop the surface of the table. When Kirishima finally looked up, cold water refreshing the grated walls of his throat, he found Ms. Mona gazing gently at him.

“I didn’t know—how to answer their questions,” Kirishima admitted in a whisper.

Ms. Mona nodded, “I know, and it’s alright. The cops should’ve had a little more tact but—that doesn’t seem to be the norm around here.”

With a nod, Kirishima heaved a sigh of relief. All his life, he’d been blamed for things going wrong, so when he felt the burden of failure be lifted from his shoulders, Kirishima reveled in the short moment of freedom.

“Whenever you feel you’re ready, I can tell you what happened with your father, but I won’t start until you give me the go-ahead,” Ms. Mona told him.

Kirishima blinked up at her in anticipation. The mystery of what had really happened earlier that night still prodded at the back of his mind no matter how much sedative was flowing through him. He inhaled deeply, feeling the air press against the sides of his lungs, and exhaled to relieve the pressure.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

Ms. Mona shifted slightly in her seat, but only to maximize her own comfort while still keeping her distance from Kirishima. She cleared her throat softly and gazed quite kindly at the man sitting across the table.

“The station received a call a few hours ago about re-opening an old case as new evidence had been uncovered,” she began.

Kirishima nodded along to indicate that he was listening.

“The evidence was hidden in your father’s safe amongst a massive amount of money, more than your father had ever claimed to possess on tax forms or any other financial document.”

Kirishima furrowed his brow. He’d always thought the safe held a thousand dollars, maybe two thousand, just enough to get them by for a month while they got back on their feet after a disaster.

“How much was in there?” He asked.

Ms. Mona pursed her lips, “About fifteen thousand dollars.”

Kirishima’s eyed blew wide instantly. His family had never had that much money at one time—had his father truly been hoarding such a wealth all those years? Who needed fifteen thousand dollars? Kirishima couldn’t even imagine that much money.

“Hidden within these stacks of money were falsified government documents,” Ms. Mona explained, “a fake birth certificate, a fake ID, and other similar forms that helped him maintain his alternate identity.”

Kirishima started to feel sick and his mouth went dry. A false identity? Why would his father need that? And fifteen thousand dollars? He found the most comfort in focusing on the plain surface of the table, all these thoughts and questions racing through with no sign of slowing.

“Can I keep going?” Ms. Mona asked.

Kirishima looked up and gave her a hesitant nod of assurance. She sighed and readjusted her position, once more.

“Now, the tax evasion and falsified government documents are crimes in themselves, but they were of more interest to the police since they reopened a sexual assault case from a few years ago.”

Sexual assault? Where had Kirishima heard that before? It was someone close to him, someone who had spent just as much time as him in the church—right?

“It seems that your father assumed this false identity at some sort of gathering of pastors where he committed the assault,” Ms. Mona’s voice began to trail.

A gathering of pastors—

false identity—

“Oh my god,” Kirishima whispered.

Like a crashing wave, the realization wet every part of his mind and memory. The exact words from Mina’s story, her father being a pastor, the affair with a married man that got her kicked out of her house, her look of realization when she saw his father at Moth Ball.

“No,” he shook his head in disbelief.

“It was really mere coincidence that you met the girl,” Ms. Mona reassured him.

Kirishima shook his head even faster, “No, no he wouldn’t—would he? Oh my god.”

His body ached so much. He wanted nothing more than to feel another needle in his thigh and be sent off into a long night of dreamless sleep. For a moment, Kirishima wondered if this was part of his dream, if he was just imagining this story as a way to process what had happened.

Wake up.

This isn’t real, he begged himself.

“I know it’s a lot to take in, but I think you would be worse off not knowing,” the woman said soothingly.

Kirishima reached up to grab at his hair, his breath panting in and out in desperation. 

“He was probably holding all that money up in case he was found out and needed to escape,” Ms. Mona added.

No, no, no, Kirishima’s mind chanted.

It isn’t possible.

His father didn’t assume fake identities or commit crimes, then he would be opposing all the teachings of the Bible, all the things he’d drilled into Kirishima’s head for so many years. He’d be the hypocrite he always admonished at the pulpit. He’d be—

a liar.

It was then that Kirishima’s bottom lip began to tremble. Hot tears stung the corners of his eyes, but he was too angry to let them roll freely down his face, lest Ms. Mona think he was mourning the man, in any way.

“He’s a liar,” Kirishima whispered to himself.

Ms. Mona leaned in, “I’m so sorry, Eijirou.”

“All he ever did—was lie,” he hissed.

“I don’t think I’d ever been that angry in my life. There was this monster facing me, in that moment, an amalgamation of all the words my father had ever said to me and the ways he’d hurt me and lied to me and said he was doing it for my own good. A part of mee wanted him to apologize and repair everything that he’d broken—but I think another part of me wanted him dead.”

Kirishima clenched his hands into such tight fists that his short nails were digging blood-red crescents in his palms. His eyes darted all over in a frenzy. When Mina had confided in him, he didn’t even know that she was talking about his very own father. Why hadn’t he figured it out sooner? 

And Bakugou—

had he been a part of it all?

Though the mystery of last night had been solved, there were so many little questions surrounding it, inquiries that Kirishima worried he would never find answers to. Where were Tamaki and Sero? Where was Mina?

And most importantly,

where was Bakugou Katsuki?

In the absence of certainty, Kirishima’s mind had to concoct its own fantasies:

If Midoriya had never killed himself then his father never would’ve left town which meant that Kirishima’s father would’ve never moved to take the job then would’ve never gone to the conference and met Mina and none of this would be happening—

But, if all those things were true, then Kirishima never would’ve met Bakugou, either.

As badly as he wanted to still be angry with the boy, his heart ached and bled for him in an endless fit.

“I’ve regretted the things I said to Bakugou for years. But I—I was just a fuckin’ kid, right? It’s the only moment in my entire life that I’d go back and change because—”

“Because what?”

He wanted Bakugou to be sitting beside him holding his hand as he listened to his father’s crimes. He wanted him to kiss each of his wounds and assure him that they would eventually heal because that’s how bodies worked. But his final words rang clearly through his ears:

I wish I’d never met you.

Get out of my life.

“What happens now?” Kirishima asked, “With my dad?”

Ms. Mona sighed thoughtfully and replied, “Well, he’ll go to court, the judge will prescribe him a sentence, and he’ll serve his time.”

“Will he be there forever?” 

Ms. Mona seemed caught off guard by the seriousness of Kirishima’s voice and the insistence of his question. 

“I—don’t know,” she admitted, “but as his crimes stack up, so will the years—”

“You should just keep him there forever,” Kirishima hissed, “I never wanna see him again.”

A seething flame at the center of his chest, Kirishima meant every word. The shock of the initial discovery had worn off into a sort of apathy that he’d been harboring against the man for years. At first, he couldn’t believe that his father could do something so horrible, commit such an atrocious act as a man of God, but as he started flicking through all his memories with his father, all the times he’d been hit and yelled at and punished, it seemed more and more likely that his father would be an awful, terrible person.

“Did you ever see him again?”

“No. He sends letters, I send an Easter card to the prison each year. That’s all. He wishes me well, tells me he hopes I’m doing fine, but it never feels genuine. I just send him a card so he can remember what I look like and maybe feel a little guilty that I’m still alone after all these years and it’s mostly his fault.”

“Do you think there’s any chance of reparation?”

“I think the relationship between he and I is beyond repair. I’ve spent too many years repairing the relationship between the self he ascribed to me and the self I truly am to put myself back in his jurisdiction. And everyone keeps telling me ‘oh, he’s your family, he loves you’—sure, we might be related by blood, but he was never my family.”

Kirishima was eventually released from the small, brightly lit room. When he crossed the threshold, he saw his mother standing out in the entryway to the station, a cardigan pulled over her nightgown, her hair tied up into a frazzled bun, and dark sagging circles in her face. When she turned to see Kirishima, her expression fell, and her eyes misted with tears.

“Eiji,” she whispered.

Kirishima broke away from Ms. Mona’s side and nearly fell into his mother’s arms, instantly burying his face in her shoulder. His own shoulders twitched as if he was crying, but no tears would come out of his eyes; he was so impossibly tired, and his entire body felt like it was about to disassemble at the slightest touch. His mother’s hands splayed across his back, rubbing soothing circles around the notches of his spine before reaching up to stroke what was left of his hair.

“My relationship with my mother was always—complicated. She had never been as terrible to me as my father, but she had done her fair share of damage simply by letting him treat me however he pleased. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized how much power he truly had over her and that she was protecting me more than I knew.”

“Do you keep in touch with her?”

“I do. I send her money every once in a while and always visit for Christmas dinner. She’s much better now but—I think my father really ruined her for good. I usually can’t visit for too long because it just hurts too much.”

When they finally parted, Kirishima’s mother reached up to cup his jaw and run her thumb gently over the spreading bruise. Her tear-stained cheeks crinkled as she pursed her lips, her eyes turning down sadly at the sight of him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered in a wavering voice.

“Mm,” Kirishima hummed in return.

It was the last words they exchanged before the police escorted them back to their house, Kirishima’s head propped against his mother’s shoulder and her soft, wrinkled hand rubbing up and down his arm soothingly. He was tempted to sleep, but every once in a while the police car would hit a pothole in the road and jolt him back awake, so it was really no use. 

They remained silent as they left the police car and crawled toward the old house, a remnant of yellow caution tape attached to the porch column blowing in the breeze. But before Kirishima stepped inside, he turned on his heel to stare behind him.

The sun was rising, slowly but surely. There was a sliver of pink shining against the horizon, casting the sky in a haze of yellowish-rose. The clouds were still spotted with the blue of night, but they were quickly succumbing to the insistent morning. Stars were disappearing, the moon was taking its leave. Birds chirped in the nearby trees, celebrating the dew that’d formed on the leaves and the warmth that had infiltrated the constant breeze.

In another world, Kirishima would be on a train right now with Bakugou by his side, his things shoved beneath his seat and his entire future lying before him, undefined and open-ended. But as he looked out into the morning, Kirishima was struck with a moment of uncertainty. Had he truly wanted to run away with Bakugou or did he only wish for freedom from his life of purgatory?

Hadn’t he gotten his freedom either way?

A seed of an idea planted in the center of his chest. He’d have to cultivate it later, though, maybe after a bit of sleep.

Entering the house was a strange sensation in and of itself. Everything felt—off, almost empty. His mother was futzing around in the kitchen, checking the stove and resetting all the things the police had overturned and searched through. It was silent besides the faint sound of chirping birds, but everything felt more relaxed than ever before as if the house that had been holding its breath for years could finally exhale and rest easy. 

Kirishima followed his mother into the kitchen and watched her wet the corner of a washcloth. She reached back up to her son’s face and made a beeline for the crusted, caked blood beneath his nose. Though she tried to wipe gently, Kirishima kept flinching as she thumbed his bruise.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” Kirishima affirmed.

She kept swiping at the blood, eventually moving down to his chin and neck to clean him up completely. The early morning cast a shade of blue over the entire house, including Kirishima and his mother. She looked older than she ever had before and more tired than Kirishima thought possible, but there was a sense of relief to her face—the wrinkles that were always gracing the bridge between her brows was gone. Her hands were soft and relaxed, not tensed as they usually were around her husband. 

“There,” she hummed once she was finished.

Reaching around back, she grabbed a bag of frozen peas and handed it to Kirishima. 

“For your cheek,” she told him, “go change and try to sleep a little, alright?”

There was so much to talk about, so many words left unsaid between the two of them, but there was one thing that they had in common that needed no conversation:

They both deserved a few hours of rest. 

Thus, with a simple nod, Kirishima trudged to his room, frozen peas pressed against his cheek. He barely had enough strength in him to peel off his top and pants, but having a clean pair of soft pajama bottoms and an oversized shirt on is weary body gave him a completely renewed sense of life. He flopped onto his mattress with a sigh, pressing the peas back up to his bruise—they were delightfully cold against his skin.

There was much thinking to be done, so many questions that Kirishima could’ve poured over in that moment, but he was tired. And he realized, for the very first time in his entire life,

it was a Sunday morning,

and he wasn’t at church.

Kirishima awoke sometime in the late afternoon, he could tell by the warmth of the sunlight streaming into his bedroom window and the absence of breeze through the willows. He was tempted to close his eyes and fall back asleep, but he knew that night would eventually come, and he’d be better off following his old sleep schedule than getting used to such abnormal hours. Thus, with a yawn and a refreshing stretch, Kirishima sat up in his bed and rubbed the blur from his eyes. 

His quilt had been placed over his body, likely by his mother. Though his period of sleep was short, he was feeling much more energized than before, he was no longer struggling to keep his eyes open nor aching in all parts of his body. Sure, the back of his head was still tender to the touch and his cheeks was warm since the ice around the peas had melted into liquid and now sat in a puddle on his nightstand—again, likely the work of his mother.

Kirishima’s mind was moving far slower, his thoughts were now simple whispers and hums rather than pained screams. Even so, he reached back and ensured that all his memories were real and not just some elaborate dream.

Was his father really gone?

Had he and his mother come home without him?

And had he actually said those things to Bakugou?

Kirishima’s heart began to sink. A small part of him had hoped that he’d awaken to a ringing phone with Bakugou on the other end of the line, begging to see him again. But the morning was silent and lonely.

At least, it was until Kirishima neared his door.

He didn’t bother changing since it was only him and his mom, but Kirishima began to hear faint noises coming from the living room even as he stood behind his own door. It was—music? No, it couldn’t be, they never played music in the house.

Well, except for when his father wasn’t home.

With a small yet growing smile, Kirishima let himself out into the hallway and tip-toed towards the living room. Accompanying the faint clatters and clinks of his mother’s ministrations in the kitchen was Frankie Valli lilting from the record player in the corner, caked in years of dust and neglect.

Kirishima slid into the room and watched his mother’s head sway ever so slightly to the song which filled the space; it was jazzy, but every word dripped with affection and desperation, a love song. The windows were open—his father had always hated when the windows were open, said it messed with his sinuses. And it couldn’t be six o’clock yet, Kirishima didn’t even think it was close to that time, but his mother was still making dinner.

“Eiji,” she chirped in shock.

Kirishima crossed his arms, “Did you sleep?”

“Yes,” his mother insisted, “not for very long but—I thought you might be hungry.”

As she turned back to her meal prep, Kirishima pursed his lips. The idea he’d had out on the porch that morning resurfaced in his mind, consideration watering the planted seed. He didn’t quite know what it all meant, and he certainly wasn’t ready to tell his mother about it, but he kept his eyes affixed on the sprout, sure that its mere existence had to be something significant.

They did end up sharing that meal together in ravenous silence, a feast of all the foods his father despised: collard greens with smoked ham, cheddar grits with steamed okra, soft biscuits drowning in amber honey. Kirishima couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, so really any food his mother put in front of his face would’ve seemed heavenly. 

The music played all evening, as well. When the record would end, Kirishima’s mother would simply pick the needle up and start it back at the beginning. It was the only record she owned since only one could be hidden beneath the mattress of her bed, but the songs never grew stale to either of them, and anything was better than sitting silent in an empty house like they had for the last eighteen years.

Eventually, Kirishima’s mother retreated to her bed after nodding off a couple of times on the couch. Kirishima promised to take care of all the dinner clean-up to which she protested but gave in out of sheer exhaustion. 

As he scrubbed the pots and pans and began to get ready for bed himself, Kirishima kept glancing over at the phone on the table, waiting for it to ring.

But it never did.

In fact, it didn’t ring in the entire month that followed his father’s arrest.

In that time, Kirishima’s mother had been able to sit him down in the bathroom and give him a proper haircut, one that evened out all the patches of hair which spotted his head and make it look somewhat presentable. They’d been visited by some lawyer who sat them in the living room and described how the trial would look and what they were meant to do on the day. Kirishima half-listened and half-watched the phone, hoping that the lawyer would say something, anything that could be connected to Bakugou.

Still, nothing.

The lawyer came once more about a week before the trial just to make sure that Kirishima and his mother were prepared. Kirishima was confused; what were they supposed to prepare? Shouldn’t they just tell the judge the truth? His father had a lawyer, as well, but there couldn’t possibly be anything that would set him free, right? The thought made Kirishima feel sick, the mere prospect that his father could return to the house in only a week’s time.

Yet, amidst the strange sensation of his father’s absence and the impending autumn weather, he and his mother had fallen into a familiar routine full of hearty meals and silent moments in the living room. Kirishima went to the library one day and took out some books to pass the time, but as he turned the corner of the dirt road and saw the empty space where Bakugou’s car usually sat, he was tempted to take the bus to the hideout instead. Perhaps Tamaki and Sero would be there, or Mina or Kaminari and Jirou. And maybe, just maybe, Bakugou would be there, too. 

However, he couldn’t bring himself to get on the bus he knew was headed that way. Kirishima lamented on the way to the library, but it all felt so helpless now, and he had been the one to say those fateful words:

I wish I’d never met you.

Get the fuck out of my life.

The morning of the trial, Kirishima awoke early enough to see the orangey-pink sky and the shy sun peeking over the horizon. He’d snuck out the front door in his pajamas, careful not to wake his mother, and traipsed out to the field out back, the one where he’d kissed Bakugou that one fateful night. It was fully September now, and even though the leaves didn’t change where Kirishima lived, he could taste the new, crisp quality of the air and feel the season’s shift in his bones. 

He shuffled into the tall reeds and stared out at the cloudless sky, thinking. For the past month, he’d been considering his idea, the one he’d had on the porch. What had once been a short sprout was now a tall, fast-growing plant. Kirishima would lie in his bed and stare at the ceiling, a million doubts running through his mind, but they only seemed to feed the humble plant, sending its roots deep into the soil and its shoots reaching towards the sky.

And as he stood before the mirror on his dresser adjusting his light blue tie, Kirishima decided that this was the day he was going to do it. No doubt that had come to his mind was strong enough to sway him from what he knew to be best. 

His wounds had mostly healed, the split in his lip closing up first then the swelling on his eye. The bruise on his cheek was inching away much slower than the rest, now a dark brown spot no larger than the pad of his thumb right below his cheekbone. Up close, it looked like a birthmark. From a distance, it looked like nothing at all. Kirishima peered into the mirror as he stuck his arms through the dark gray sleeves of his blazer. 

He looked older now. Part of it was probably the haircut, but Kirishima wondered if he’d actually aged in the last month. Perhaps his body was making up for lost time, all those years of being treated like a child rather than a man. He was relieved somewhat with the strengthening line of his jaw and the shaping out of his nose, but he was dissatisfied knowing that with every passing day, he would look more and more like his father.

“I bear his face now, it’s undeniable. There’s nothing I can do to change it and it took a lot of years to learn  to be kind to myself even though I saw him every time I looked in the mirror.”

“What tactics have you used to neutralize that feeling?”

“Piercing my ears. He’d absolutely hate it.”

But despite the resemblance, Kirishima stood up straighter and walked with a new sort of purpose. The question was still within him, the one that prodded endlessly at his mind:

“Who am I?”

Yet, now, he felt closer than ever to the answer.

The lawyer who had visited two times before escorted Kirishima and his mother to the courthouse in his Pontiac, an old model from the 70s. His mother reached for his hand as they sat in the backseat, eyes trained out their respective windows. She was wearing her white silk church gloves, the ones she usually reserved for weddings, and the fabric felt strange against Kirishima’s palm. He wished she’d take them off, but it seemed just as well; no matter how close he and his mother appeared, there would always be something between them, a misunderstanding they could never remedy. But perhaps that was just the nature of life, being known never quite measuring up to being understood—both love in their own ways.

The three of them waited outside the courthouse for a spell while the lawyer had a smoke. It was a menthol he had pinched between his fingers, Kirishima could tell by the smell alone. He nearly teared up at the thought of a certain menthol-smoking blonde, but quickly dropped the notion when they were called towards the courtroom.

“I don’t remember much of the trial, I think I’ve blocked most of it out, but I do remember how awful it felt seeing my father again. Perhaps it’s the only memory I have of those two hours.”

It was a sinking feeling, to be exact. The moment Kirishima’s eyes fell upon his father clad in a bright orange jumpsuit, hands bound behind his back, and hair cropped short, his stomach contracted so tightly that he was glad he’d forgone breakfast that morning. The man’s eyes were two red-hot marbles caught behind sharp bones off of which his wrinkling skin hung. Kirishima tried to look down most of the time, but every once in a while he’d glance up to see his father staring right at him, a snarl twitching in his lips. 

Part of Kirishima wanted to wail and cry, mourn his father in such a terrible state and beg to have everything back the way it was. He admonished the voice, reminding himself of all the awful things his father had done. When he was called to the stand, he had forgotten his training with the lawyer entirely, but it didn’t dampen the impact of the stories he shared and the clipped, heated responses he gave to his father’s lawyer. He only got close to crying once when he had tried to talk about Bakugou.

But before the name could even slip from his lips, Kirishima spotted a waving hand in the front row of the crowd. It was Mina. She was dressed rather strangely, a black pencil skirt and matching blazer overtop a plain white blouse and her usual mass of hair slicked back into a sensible bun, but the mere sight of her sent a wave of relief through Kirishima’s body and gave him the resolve he needed to finish the questioning without a hitch.

As the trial waned, Kirishima found himself growing more and more exhausted of seeing his father’s face and hearing his name in conjunction with such awful acts. Mina had given her testimony beforehand and her words would crop up every once in a while; Kirishima would shudder with horror at each admission, unable to imagine what she had been through.

And once all the evidence had been laid out and the lawyers had fought valiantly, the judge called to the court announcing their ruling. 

Five years for tax evasion.

Twenty for forgery and counterfeit.

Another twenty for money laundering.

And five for sexual assault.

Kirishima reeled back in his seat as the judge slammed their gavel and people began to bustle around. Fifty years total, it was unlikely his father would survive it all, but—

Five?

Only five years for what he’d done to Mina?

Kirishima clenched his hands into fists, a wave of anger flooding through his face. It couldn’t be right, he should’ve gotten fifty years alone for the assault. How could they have equated her to some tax forms? 

In a fit, Kirishima turned back only to see Mina’s seat was empty. 

“Are you alright, honey?” His mother asked with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He didn’t reply—he couldn’t reply, not when he was panting in fury. He stood sharply and dashed down the center aisle, pushing past hoards of people who had come to watch the case while a thick feeling of déjà vu washed over him. He broke through the exit in the back of the room and listened as the heels of his nice loafers clicked against the marble floor. On the other side of the glass panels on the front doors, Kirishima could see the back of Mina’s head.

He bolted towards her, flinging open the door which called her attention.

“Hey!” She grinned, then it faltered, “Are you—”

“It’s not right!” Kirishima insisted, standing a bit too close to her.

Mina’s brow furrowed. 

“What’s not right? He’s going to jail, for a really long time,” she reassured.

Kirishima shook his head, “But he only got five years for what he did to you!”

Mina’s worried expression fell into sympathy with a twinge of amusement. She placed her hand against his arm calmingly and gazed up at him.

“Don’t worry about me,” she hummed, “honestly, the fact that he got anything for what he did to me is a miracle.”

Kirishima keened, “But—”

Mina leaned in slightly, a gentle indicator for Kirishima to calm himself down. He exhaled, then swallowed thickly.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he whispered.

Mina smiled, “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. And, honestly, I just wanted to get one more look at the fucker’s face.”

Kirishima chuckled a bit. Mina dropped her hand then motioned off toward the parking lot with her head.

“Come with me,” she coaxed.

Kirishima stood for a moment in suspicion, but quickly followed her instructions once he saw Bakugou’s old beat-up car in the distance. His heart skipped a bit then pounded with every dreg of strength it had left. Was he here? The driver’s seat was empty, but maybe he was standing outside of it?

As they neared the vehicle, Kirishima kept looking around for him, hoping that the man might just appear out of thin air, proud that he’d played such a believable joke on his gullible friend. 

“He’s not here,” Mina told Kirishima gently once they stopped beside the car.

Kirishima’s heart sunk towards his feet. The expression on Mina’s face assured him that she wasn’t joking. He tried not to seem too disappointed, but Mina had mastered the subtleties in his expressions enough to know what he was hiding. 

“Do you know—” he stammered, “w-where—if he—”

“He’s gone.”

Mina’s voice was low and even. Kirishima looked up at her sheepishly as if he was embarassed to have asked the question at all.

“That night, after your dad dragged you away, we drove back to the hideout and started looking through all the money,” she recanted, “and when we found the documents, we called the police and told them everything.”

Kirishima swallowed thickly, feeling his hands start to clam up at the thought of that night. 

Mina sighed, “Bakugou picked up his phone when you called, and it actual helped the police draft a warrant to search your home so—you did the right thing.”

Kirishima’s stomach was doing flips, now, the kind that didn’t make him nauseous but always made him uncomfortable. 

He’s gone.

He’s gone.

It was all that would echo in his mind. 

“Then I took Bakugou’s car to the police station to give them the evidence but when I came back—” she choked for a moment, “he was gone.”

Kirishima’s breath felt heavy inside his chest, every exhale causing his sternum to press against his aching heart. He tried to wet his lips as a cover for sealing them and avoiding tears, but they trembled, anyways, as Mina continued.

“The only thing he left was this bag and a note to give it to you,” Mina explained.

She reached around to the trunk and pulled out an old, ratty black backpack. Kirishima took it hesitantly before unzipping the main pouch and spotting stacks upon stacks of money.

“It’s all the money from your father’s safe,” she said, “Bakugou wanted you to have it.”

Kirishima’s jaw was stuck hanging slack. His eyes went wide, brow nearly brushing his hairline as he ran his hand through the stacks of cash which were arranged in a seemingly endless pile. 

Fifteen thousand dollars.

And it was all his.

The thing that Bakugou needed most, the reason he’d lied and tricked Kirishima for so long—he’d given it back.

“Bakugou’s dad—” Kirishima blurted out, “did he—?”

“Got released a week ago,” Mina grinned, “coincidentally on the same day Kyouka had her baby.”

In an instant, Kirishima’s interest in the money plummeted—he nearly dropped the bag.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, “the baby!”

“Is fine,” Mina reassured him, “a little blood complication at the beginning but both mom and baby are doing really well.”

Kirishima released a sigh of relief. In all the commotion, he’d forgotten entirely how close Jirou was to her due date.

“Well, Denki did pass out in the delivery room and bump his head on the corner of the TV stand,” Mina chuckled, “but after two stitches, he is also doing well.”

Kirishima couldn’t help but giggle at the thought of Kaminari holding his newborn baby with a bandage-wrapped head. But, in the very same thought, he imagined the way he must’ve looked at the baby with that gaze of adoration, the one he always used when he looked at Jirou. 

“Tamaki and Sero are gone too,” Mina added, “they told me they were headed north but nothing more.”

A grin spread slowly over Kirishima’s face. He wasn’t surprised. Hopefully the pair was skilled enough to avoid Mrs. Tamaki’s searching. And even if they were found, Sero absolutely wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“And this,” Mina handed him a bundle of cloth.

Kirishima held the backpack in one hand to take the offering with the other, realizing quickly that it was his battle jacket, the one he’d let slump at Bakugou’s feet one month ago.

He set the backpack beside his feet to hold the jacket up, ensuring that every patch was on full display, particularly the patch on the back attached with four safety pins, plastered with the word RESIST in white block letters.

“You should really keep it,” Mina said.

Kirishima smiled, “Thanks.”

Truthfully, he had spent a couple nights wondering if there was a way he could get that jacket back—there were just too many moments where he wished he was wearing it, partly because it still smelled of menthols and partly because it fit him just right.

Having it back in his hands felt good—right.

And it was happiness that Kirishima felt, all of it,

except for—

His smile faded as he thought of Bakugou and draped the jacket back over his crooked arm.

“Trust me,” Mina caught his attention, “if I knew where he was, I’d tell you.”

Kirishima pursed his lips even though he knew that she was right. He picked the backpack back up and sighed.

“I know.”

Mina gazed sympathetically at him. 

“You have my number, right?” She asked.

Kirishima nodded. Mina smiled.

“Good, call me whenever need to,” she assured.

The pair shared a slow goodbye, one that was wrought with whispered ‘I’ll miss you’s and long, gripping hugs. When they finally parted for good, Kirishima had to watch Mina climb into Bakugou’s car and disappear around the corner and down the long highway. He sighed. 

In some ways, Kirishima felt powerless knowing that Bakugou had disappeared, but when he noticed the backpack in his hand, the idea that had been growing in the center of his chest prodded him back to reality. 

His mother was standing near the entrance. When they locked eyes, Kirishima motioned for her to come closer with his hand. Her eyes darted around nervously for a moment before she complied, rushing over with small steps.

“Are you okay?” She asked sincerely once she was face-to-face with her son.

“Put out your hands.”

She furrowed her brow at the insistence in Kirishima’s voice. While he unzipped the main pouch of the backpack, he watched his mother extend her shaky hands out of the corner of his eye.

He picked up one stack of money and placed it in her palms.

Instantly, her eyes went wide, and she sucked in a sharp gasp.

“Eijirou! What is this?” She asked, aghast.

Kirishima didn’t reply, he just kept placing stacks in her hands, counting silently in his head as he did.

“Eiji—you can’t just be handing me money in the parking lot of the courthouse,” she hissed.

When he set the last stack of money into her hands, Kirishima looked up at his mother with a serious expression.

“That’s half,” he announced, “seven thousand, five hundred dollars.”

His mother shook her head, “Where did you—?”

“It was in dad’s safe,” Kirishima told her.

She stared down at the massive tower of cash now teetering in her arms. 

“Take it, sell the house and get out of here,” Kirishima insisted, “go stay with grandma or Aunt Yumi, it doesn’t matter just don’t stay here.”

As his mother’s frail face curled and her dark brown eyes misted with tears, Kirishima felt himself begin to choke up. It wouldn’t be enough to last her the rest of her life, but it would be a good start, and that was what she needed. She soon grew tired of looking between her son and the massive amount of money, her once confused expression now melting into realization.

“I have a feeling you’re not coming with me,” she whispered.

Kirishima let out a breath he’d been holding in for far too long. He stared down at the other half of the money in the bag. 

“I can’t,” he muttered.

His mother grinned, but only halfway, sorrow keeping her from being too pleased. 

“I think I’m gonna go north and go to college, find a place to stay and figure out what I should do,” Kirishima said quietly, “I just can’t be here.”

Kirishima’s voice began to crack and trail, especially as his mother stated to tear up. This was the idea he’d been cultivating for so long, the thing he knew he had to do—he had to get out. If there was any hope of finding out who he really was, he would never be able to achieve it living in the same town with a mother who would spend the rest of her life caring for him like she had for his father. The decision tugged at every limb, trying to convince him to stay or change his mind, but Kirishima only grew more certain with each passing day. 

“I know,” his mother nodded, tears trailing over her cheeks.

Simultaneously, the pair set their respective fortunes down onto the dirty pavement and fell into an embrace. Kirishima buried his face into the soft plush of his mother’s cardigan while her tears soaked into the collar of his blazer. 

“You’re nothing like him,” she whimpered in his ear, “you never were.”

Kirishima squished his eyes closed and held onto his mother even tighter. He took in a shuddering breath, the ghost of a prayer on his lips, the same one he’d relied on time and time again. And with his entire future lying blank before him, it only seemed right to say it, once more:

Please, God,

Don’t let this be a mistake.

“And—that’s it.”

Dr. Dean reeled back in his seat with wide eyes and his pen poised atop his paper.

“That’s all?” He asked in earnest.

A much older, much wiser Kirishima nodded matter-of-factly. Well, he was eight years older and eight years wiser, to be exact. His jaw was wider and more set, and he’d gained a good bit of muscle from a small obsession with rock climbing he’d developed when he first started going to therapy. His black hair was cut sensibly, but he retained a good bit of length since he wouldn’t let his barber use the razor. A scar striped the right side of his lip, a simple reminder of what he’d survived. Kirishima Eijirou sat casually on the upholstered couch, his arms folded lightly across his chest.

“Basically,” he admitted, “I got on a train the next morning with all my things and ended up here. Went to college in the city then found a job right off the highway.”

Dr. Dean’s brow curled in disbelief, he stared at Kirishima as if he was being tricked only to find the man looking back at him with a growing smirk.

“Well what about Tamaki and Sero? A-and Bakugou?” He stammered.

Kirishima shrugged, “I was in touch with Tamaki and Sero for a while, we’d exchange Christmas cards, but a few years ago my card was returned to sender which means they probably moved.”

Dr. Dean leaned in, “But—no Bakugou?”

With a thick swallow, Kirishima tried to maintain his cool exterior. He’d shared the story before with bartenders and friends and other therapists, but never in such excruciating detail. When he’d taken a new job outside of the city, he’d gone on the hunt instantly for a new therapist swearing up and down that he was going to do anything he could to get help, to resolve what still felt—unresolved.

“No Bakugou,” he admitted lowly, “and I—well, I’ve looked around. I search him up every once in a while, tried to find records of his name outside of his hometown, hell, I almost hired a private investigator with my signing bonus.”

Dr. Dean eyed him expectantly. Kirishima wished there was more to the story to tell him, but truly all he’d ever found was a few police reports from a decade or so ago, nothing past it. It was almost as if the name ‘Bakugou Katsuki’ had been wiped from existence entirely. And Kirishima wouldn’t admit it to his therapist, but he’d even spent a few nights scrolling through pictures of every punk band in a 100 mile radius, no matter how small or insignificant. 

Though he’d largely forgone the look (apart from the small black studs in his earlobes), Kirishima would find time every now and then to attend a punk show. He’d don his old battle jacket, even though it was a little tight around the arms and no longer smelled like menthols, and assume his old ‘Rock Solid’ identity for the whole night. But, secretly, he always hoped he’d see a flash of blonde peek through the crowd at one of those shows. 

“I think, at some point, I just assumed he probably didn’t want to be found,” Kirishima said.

The realization had come to him one late night scrolling through nearby shows, a glimmer of hope still shining in the center of Kirishima’s chest that he’d see an older Bakugou flash across his screen at some point. But, at the same time, he knew that Bakugou never did anything without a reason, and if he was truly gone, that was probably how he wanted to remain.

“Have you ever considered that he’s—” Dr. Dean tilted his head.

“Dead? Yeah, I’ve looked through the obituaries, too,” Kirishima cut in.

That realization had hit him rather early in his search, the possibility that there was no ‘Bakugou Katsuki’ anywhere to be found because he wasn’t even living. The mere thought had put Kirishima in bed with an aching heart and an endless stream of tears for one long weekend; he was mourning Bakugou as if he was sure he’d passed.

“You know,” the doctor looked down at his notepad, “I have here in my notes that you initially came to me experiencing some, er, unresolved feelings about your father.”

Kirishima nodded. That was what he told every therapist, and it was always true. The first one he’d ever gone to just watched him weep for the first three sessions, the second one got to hear about every interaction he and his father had had in eighteen long years, and now he’d finally gotten around to telling the story he felt truly encompassed the hell of his life beneath his father’s jurisdiction. But Dr. Dean didn’t look so convinced, he furrowed his brow and moved his glasses atop his head.

“Now, take this as you will, but it sounds to me like you’ve resolved your feelings about your father,” he said with a polite shrug.

It was Kirishima’s turn to furrow his brow and stare quizzically at the doctor.

“I mean,” he continued, “he was barely in the story, and when he was, you always told me how you’d come to process those moments and feelings.”

Mentally, Kirishima tried to flick through the events of his long, laborious tale. For years, it’d seemed as though his father was at every turn of the story, making him miserable or ruining his life. But, perhaps, Dr. Dean was right—had he really talked about Bakugou and his friends that much?

“To me, it seems that your unresolved feelings aren’t with your father,” the doctor closed his notepad, “they’re with Bakugou.”

Kirishima scoffed.

“No, that’s not true.”

And, for a moment, Kirishima almost convinced himself that he wasn’t lying.

The doctor just shrugged again, his lips pulled up towards his nose.

“No,” Kirishima repeated, less sure this time, “I-I was eighteen, he was my first boyfriend but that doesn’t mean anything when you’re eighteen, right?”

Dr. Dean didn’t reply. He just looked on as therapists sometimes do, waiting for their patients to reach conclusions on their own.

And as it usually did, it was working. The more Kirishima tried to talk himself out of it, the further he seemed to be digging himself into the hole. Sure, he liked Bakugou a lot, but they weren’t together for that long so it shouldn’t matter anyways. Yes, he’d gone on dates before, but no relationships had bloomed from any of them—he could never seem to find the right fit. And yes, he’d even wondered if he was straight for a while because the dating was so unsuccessful, but he learned very quickly that that was simply not the case.

He liked men.

Well, he liked Bakugou, to be more precise.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned to himself.

Dr. Dean flashed him a tight smile before setting both his notepad and his glasses atop the table beside his armchair. Kirishima flopped forward and planted his face in his hands to hide his quickly flushing cheeks.

Kirishima was twenty-six now, he had a college degree and a job and he was still getting flustered at the thought of Bakugou Katsuki, his love from nearly a decade ago. Though a day hadn’t gone by that he didn’t think about him, Kirishima had never assumed it to be the reason for his struggling dating life, he’d just always defaulted to blaming his dad like he could for everything else. 

But the truth was standing right in front of him now, the one thought he could never seem to escape:

Kirishima Eijirou was as in love with Bakugou Katsuki as he was eight years ago.

“Now, I didn’t find anything on Bakugou, even in my own searching,” Dr. Dean began, “but I did find something that might be of interest to you.”

Kirishima dislodged his face from his hands just in time to see Dr. Dean fish around for something in his pocket. 

“I have this old friend that I go visit in New York every once in a while, and he buys custom electric guitars for this company which manages bands, and that’s how he makes his money, I guess” he rambled.

Kirishima quirked his brow.

Dr. Dean shook his head, “Anyways,” his hand emerged with a small business card, “he told me the name of this couple who makes the best custom guitars in Brooklyn and I think you might recognize them.”

Hesitantly, Kirishima snatched the card from Dr. Dean’s fingers, all whilst eyeing the growing smile on his face.

“Maybe they know something about what happened to Bakugou,” he mused.

Slowly, Kirishima flipped the business card and looked.

There was a phone number and an address, but the thing of greatest interest were the two names etched at the top in a sleek black font, a shared last name tacked at the end.

“New York, huh?”

Chapter Text

Standing in front of the tall red door provided Kirishima with his first moment to think about everything that led him there.

The minute the business card slid between his fingers, he knew his curiosity would get the better of him and he would end up in Brooklyn no matter what, but that didn’t keep him from sitting around for four long hours thinking about every implication and consequence that could come along with doing so.

He considered that there was no harm in following the clue; after all, he’d been brought to the therapist by a similar stroke of luck. Just getting back in contact would be nice, and if they didn’t know anything about Bakugou, then it wouldn’t matter because it was never Kirishima’s intention in the first place.

It wasn’t until he was on the train that he created his own opposition based on the assumption he’d held for a long while that Bakugou simply didn’t want to be found. Kirishima had even made peace with that knowledge, at some point, and he was much better now than he was eight years ago, anyhow. Digging up the past could only bring him harm —

right?

“I don’t know,” he’d groaned over the phone the night prior, “maybe it’s crazy.”

“But what if it’s not?” Mina chirped, “What if this is the moment where it all comes together?”

Kirishima grinned. It was just nice to hear her voice, sometimes.

“Even you agreed that he didn’t want to be found,” Kirishima retorted.

Mina scoffed, “Okay, you know I was just saying that to make you feel better. You spend a lot of time trying to convince yourself of stuff, did you know that?”

Kirishima rolled his eyes and flopped onto his bed.

“Sometimes I wish that I’d—” he began.

“Eiji,” Mina cut him off, “you were a kid, you did what you could, and you can’t keep beating yourself up about one decision you made eight years ago. And look how happy you are, right now!”

“But what if that’s the reason I shouldn’t try to find him?” Kirishima replied, “What if us reconnecting would just screw everything up?”

Mina didn’t say anything, but Kirishima could imagine the exact face she was making in that moment. At least, he could imagine it until a baby’s cry rang in the background.

“Shit, Eiji, I gotta go,” Mina groaned, “but go. Go to New York.”

Kirishima pursed his lips, “Really?”

“Absolutely,” she insisted, “and say hi for me, okay?”

It was this phone call that at least got him on the train, but the notion that he was screwing everything up just by leaving Virginia was starting to poke at the back of Kirishima’s mind right as the wheels scraped against the tracks. He kept checking his phone with this nervous obsession and looking out the window in an attempt to distract himself only to see plain fields and the occasional barn. He sighed and curled into the seat, a futile endeavor to dissolve the sick feeling in his stomach.

And that was the thing, whenever he thought about anything that had to do with that summer, all the old, eighteen-year old sensations would return in a flood for which he had no ark. Thus, he’d just flounder and nearly drown until the feeling vanished to which he’d wait for the next onset. No amount of therapy had been able to crack this certain behavior, so it was something he mostly avoided. 

But it would come at unexpected times: seeing a bass player with a naturally androgynous face, or a man with short hair carrying a baby in the grocery store, or just black jackets in general, they would all elicit a similar feeling of the summer’s warm breeze and its tumultuous end. In those moments, Kirishima would usually have to race to his car and employ a series of deep breaths to get a grip.

Every once in a while, he would think about how it could all be different. He’d wonder where he would be if he’d stayed with Bakugou that night, if they’d found the evidence of his father’s crimes together, and run away the very next morning. Perhaps they would’ve found a cheap apartment in some city where no one cared how they looked or talked, where they could get dead-end jobs but be content because every night they’d come home to each other. Perhaps they would’ve done all the relationship things that Kirishima knew he was missing out on: kissing, sleeping in the same bed, sharing meals—marriage, even.

He’d shuddered at the thought as he deboarded the train and began to navigate his way through Brooklyn. It’d been a long, sleepless morning on the railway, so he was feeling a tad groggy, but all the directional power he’d accrued from living near the capitol jolted him back to life as he wound through the grid of streets. He recoiled a bit at some of the passersby, a far cry from his now suburban town; it made for an easier commute to his job.

Kirishima laughed breathily when he thought about this very job and the strange manner in which he’d gotten it. There were all these stories that Kirishima would collect where his first thought would be of how he couldn’t wait to tell it to Bakugou which came approximately three seconds before his recollection and disappointment. The way he entered his current employment was one of those stories—he wanted to see Bakugou’s expression when he learned what it was, and he wanted to hear his raspy, low laugh just one more time. 

Yet, as he neared the address listed on the business card, he was flooded with a sort of excited-nervous energy that he hadn’t felt in years. He turned the corner into a more residential part of the city, one composed of tall, skinny brick buildings all stuck to each other’s sides. The one he stopped in front of had a forest green trim and the door was rather grand, painted a firehouse red. Carefully, he climbed the matching brick stairs, a steady hand on the wrought iron railing, up to the forepart of the house. 

It had grown quiet around Kirishima for the first time since he had arrived in Brooklyn. The sun was beating down upon the city, but spring brought cool breezes that allowed Kirishima to keep on his jacket and feel rather comfortable in his jeans. He checked and double-checked the address before slipping the business card in his pocket and taking in a deep breath. His eyes scanned from the top of the house to the door before him, a familiar prayer hanging on the tip of his tongue.

And with that, he knocked.

He waited next—and counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Pulling his lips between his teeth, Kirishima wondered if he should knock again. But right as he was raising his hand to do so, the large red door swung open.

But no one was there.

Kirishima reeled back for a moment, moving his head left and right just to make sure, but there was no one at the level of his eye. He furrowed his brow before glancing down to see the true keeper of the door leaning against the frame with a mean look on their face.

She couldn’t have been more than 4’5”, but her presence made her almost as tall as Eijirou himself. She had black hair that was cropped into a choppy mess stuck up in all directions and her eyes were large and dark, a sharp brow defining her judgmental expression. There was no way she was older than ten—

Kirishima laughed to himself.

Of course, he thought,

she’s eight.

“Who’re you?” She asked bitingly.

Kirishima was caught off guard by the question, his lips parting in hesitation. She moved her head sassily as if to re-ask her query without saying anything. It was as if Kirishima had a silver gun pointed at his forehead, once more, an uncanny resemblance to the little girl standing in the doorway.

“Who’s at the door?!” A familiar, crackly voice shouted through the house behind her.

The little girl quirked a lip in disgust, “I dunno, some stranger.”

An annoyed groan rang through the house next, followed by a series of clunking footsteps.

“I told you to stop answering the door for people you don’t know!” He admonished, “You’re gonna get snatched.”

“Mom said if I got kidnapped, they’d just send me back because they couldn’t afford to feed me,” the little girl retorted with crossed, obstinate arms.

“Nice try, but I’m not takin’ that chance—”

Just as Kaminari appeared in the doorway and made eye contact with the stranger at the entrance, his guard dog expression melted into genuine surprise.

“Oh my god!” He cried.

He’d let his hair grow out in the past eight years, now a sort of swept back, outgrown look with the same bleach treatment as before. He still looked young, but as Kirishima watched Mina gain a few wrinkles from having a child, he spotted the beginnings of crow’s feet at the edges of Denki’s eyes, particularly when he flashed his trademark smile. Yet, his clothing kept him young; he was wearing the black t-shirt of a band that Kirishima actually did listen to and black rolled painter’s pants as his bottoms from which an old silver chain hung and glinted in the sunlight. All his tattoos were still intact, too, even if they’d faded slightly with time. 

“What are you doin’ in Brooklyn?” He asked excitedly, wrapping Kirishima in an instant hug.

Now, Kirishima wasn’t one for physical touch, but hugging Kaminari wasn’t so bad. They stayed like that for a quick moment, Kaminari too excited to stay in one place too long. He was nearly bouncing when they parted, motioning Kirishima inside with vigor.

“Hey! Kyouka!” He called up the black spiral stairs off to the right.

The house was pretty open concept, a few doors on the left leading to what Kirishima assumed to be bedrooms while the right side sported a tal loft where a healthy collection of shiny electric guitars was hanging from a black painted wall. The living room and the kitchen sort of bled into one another, a dining table shoved somewhere between them. Their furniture was sleek and modern, a surprising lack of clutter.

Kaminari motioned his guest over to a long, blood-red couch and checked once more up the staircase.

“Kyouka!” He called again.

“I heard ya the first time!”

Kirishima smiled at the sound of the familiar voice, a wave of relief flooding through him as he finally saw the woman in question racing down the stairs. She, too, had forgone her shaved style for a blunt, jet black cut which almost shined purple beneath the lights. She wasn’t decked out in her usual gray and black makeup, but she’d retained her style with a thick wing of eyeliner and a healthy stack of silver chokers. The newest thing about her appearance, in fact, was a pair of big, black gauges through which Kirishima could fit a whole zucchini, the bottom edge nearly brushing her shoulders.

“Y’know, you don’t have to yell, this house echoes,” she bit at Kaminari.

Her voice trailed, however, as she glanced up to see Kirishima sitting politely on the couch, flashing a sheepish smile.

“Holy shit!” She cried, rushing over to envelop him in a hug.

Again, Kirishima didn't mind it like he usually did.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, ushering him to his seat on the couch.

Kaminari had shimmied into a tall-backed, black-leather, gold-studded armchair while Jirou took up the space to the right of Kirishima on the red couch. Kirishima inhaled deeply, not exactly sure where to start.

“My—friend has this other friend who buys guitars from you guys,” Kirishima half-fibbed, “so he gave me your business card and I recognized the names.”

“Sick,” Kaminari chuckled, “what has it been, eight years?”

“However old your daughter is,” Kirishima shrugged.

Kaminari’s eyes instantly went wide and he shot Jirou a pleading look.

“Can I please tell him her name?” He begged like a child.

Jirou rolled her eyes, “Ugh, fine.”

Kaminari’s head snapped back to Kirishima, the name hanging heavy on his tongue as they waited in anticipation.

“Her name is Clash,” he shared, chest puffed in pride.

Kirishima laughed, “You’re joking, right?”

Jirou shook her head, looking defeated while Kaminari just smiled brightly.

“Why did you agree to that?” He asked Jirou lowly.

Jirou crossed her arms and leaned back into the couch.

“They had me hopped up on so many drugs, I don’t remember a thing from that day,” she explained, “it was like ‘ow, that hurts’ and then poof—fuckin’ baby on my chest.”

“And I don’t remember anything because I passed out and hit my head on the TV stand,” Kaminari announced proudly.

“Also true,” Jirou confirmed.

Kaminari leaned forward, “But Clash likes the name!”

“Yeah,” Jirou cut in, “she also likes telling me she has a ‘gift’ for me then placing a salamander in my hand.”

Kaminari chuckled at that then sighed in contentment.

“That’s cause you let me be a stay at home dad when she was in preschool,” he teased.

Jirou groaned playfully, “My greatest regret.”

To Kirishima, they largely looked the same. Kaminari’s eyes still glowed golden beneath the lamplight and Jirou’s brows were curled in confidence; bar a few wrinkles and more subdued behaviors, it was the couple he remembered from eight long years ago.

“What about you?” Kaminari asked with a wave of his hand, “What’ve you been up to all this time?”

Kirishima lifted his brow and tried to think of a concise way to explain his life.

“After my dad’s trial was over, I went home and packed up all my things,” Kirishima shrugged, “I was on a train by morning and ended up in Virginia where I got a degree and then a job.”

“How’d you have the money for all that?” Jirou asked with wide eyes.

“I’d split the fortune from the safe with my mom, so I had a good bit to start with, but it wasn’t enough. I had to work a few jobs to get by and will probably be paying debt until I’m fifty but—”

Kirishima smiled at the memory. When he’d first arrived in his new home, he’d stood at the train station with a lumpy backpack and a heavy duffel staring out into the sun. His parents had never taught him about the world outside, probably to keep him under their control for as long as possible, so Kirishima spent his very first week sleeping in a dingy motel and learning how to open a bank account and follow a map and lease an apartment. Though he’d wished to have someone there through all these trials, he liked the knowledge that he’d done it all on his own, it comforted him when he came home from work day after day to an empty, one-bedroom house.

“That’s impressive,” Kaminari leaned back in his chair.

“How did you guys get into all—this?” He motioned vaguely to the guitars hanging on the wall in the loft.

Jirou let out a hearty, clipped laugh.

“So we left town after we had the baby and ended up at the state line,” she explained, “we found a super cheap, one-room apartment and drank water for dinner every night.”

Kaminari leaned in, “And this apartment complex just happened to be crawling with metalheads who would practice like all night, every night and wake Clash up. So as a peace offering, we’d fix and restring their guitars as long as they practiced during the day.”

“And we just learned more and more about guitars and eventually started making our own,” Jirou shrugged.

“One of the metal bands we lived by got pretty famous and used us for all their guitar repairs, so word got around and we were able to make some money and get an actual place,” Kaminari grinned.

“Man,” Kirishima hummed, leaning back in his seat in wonder.

Jirou smiled, too, “It’s definitely not what we planned, but it’s more fun than whatever our parents were gonna make us do.”

Kirishima turned, “Did you ever get back in touch with them?”

Kaminari’s lips pursed a little, a strange silence fell over the three of them. It was then that Clash came bounding back in, running straight for the spot beside her mother on the couch and burying her body beneath her arm. Jirou rubbed slow circles in the girl’s back as she hid her face away from their house guest.

It was a tender moment, but it stained a spot of disappointment in Kirishima’s heart. He would’ve given anything to run into his mother’s arms as a young boy, to feel safe and loved in her grip. The closest he could probably ever get to the feeling would be with his own child, but he was too scared to even consider being a father. What if he was incapable of being a good dad? What if his father’s treatment had ruined him beyond repair?

What if he discovered that they were exactly alike all along?

Kirishima shook the thought from his head and returned to the question at hand.

“We’ve—spoken,” he sighed, “they’ve met Clash ‘n all, and they love her, but—I think they’re still mad about what happened, we just can’t tell.”

Kirishima empathized. Though he visited his mother each year, it was like there was a veil between them through which they could see and hear one another, but never truly know one another as the fabric obscures the face. Jirou looked down too, her hand still wrapped around her daughter’s back in a more protective manner, now.

As the conversation reached a lull, Kirishima felt the question bubble up inside him, the one he’d been thinking constantly since the night his father was arrested, the only topic they had not yet touched.

“Have either of you heard from—?” He began.

But as his eyes swept up, Kirishima watched Kaminari shake his head, a knowing expression melted over his face. Kirishima’s words trailed, his jaw hung agape for a moment in anticipation, but silence fell over them once again.

“Trust me, we’ve looked,” Jirou affirmed lowly, “but we haven’t found a thing.”

Kirishima nodded in a subtle attempt to shake his tears back into his eyes. He stared down at the floor with his hands folded in his lap, his mind reeling. No one knew where Bakugou was, and Kirishima had never been the only one looking. Jirou rested her hand over his. Kaminari’s brow curled in sympathy.“It’s pretty impossible to just drop off the face of the earth, but if anyone was gonna be able to do it, it’d be Katsuki,” he chuckled.

A smile crept up on Kirishima’s face, something small and pained, but he continued to stare at the floor and relish in the comfort of Jirou’s gentle touch.

Yet, his mind wouldn’t stop mulling over the topic even though the sharp rock had long since gone dull. He kept thinking and thinking, hoping one day something new would wash up on the shore, and he was prepared to wait for however long it took. But the little fear within him always remained, the unanswerable question of his fate:

What if he waited forever?

What if he died wondering what had happened to Bakugou Katsuki?

“Do you know where Sero and Tamaki live?” Kirishima asked.

Jirou furrowed her brow, “Yeah, they moved up to Maine a few years ago.”

Another spark of anticipation lit in Kirishima’s chest. 

“Can I have their address?” He asked in a flurry.

Kaminari’s brow lifted higher, “Sure.”

Kirishima ended up staying the night at their place, acknowledging that taking a train from New York to Maine would be much more practical than trying to make the same trip from further south. So he sat with the family at dinner as they bickered playfully amongst one another, a gentle prod of longing poking at Kirishima’s heart. It was what he wanted, family and all, but he wasn’t sure if he was deserving of it or if the right person would come along to make it all possible. Thus, he just watched on as Jirou held rather intelligent conversation with the eight-year-old while Kaminari showed off how he could pick her up by her feet and swing her around until she was a giggling mess. 

He slept on that long red couch. It wasn’t very comfortable, but he didn’t do enough sleeping to get a good assessment. Once Clash had gone to bed, the three of them had indulged in some drinks and resorted to telling stories from that summer long ago, so Kirishima’s body was feeling cozy and calm when the pair retreated to their room. In the midst of it all, he was thinking about his next step, what might actually be his last chance of finding Bakugou in his lifetime. He was young, but hope was dwindling fast as no matter how many holes he dug, he kept coming up empty.

Kirishima left early in the morning, awaking before Kaminari or Jirou or their daughter. He scribbled a note of thanks and left the paper atop the counter then slipped out with his things in tow. He’d bought a ticket for an early train, hoping to arrive at the address at a reasonable hour which would give him enough daylight to return to his home that night. In any case, he slogged to the station in a half-asleep stupor, his hand barely holding onto his things.

The only notion that kept him moving was the possibility of learning something about Bakugou’s whereabouts that he didn’t already know.

He’d reasoned on the couch the night before that Bakugou and Sero knew each other the longest out of his friends, so maybe he would’ve told them where he was going and begged for it to be kept secret. Kirishima was even so convinced of his theory that he spent the first leg of the trip concocting ideas on how he was going to extract the truth from them.

The second leg of the trip was spent catching up on restless sleep, the kind that was filled with dreams from which you awaken with sweat beading on your brow and a shake in your hands. At some point, he gave up trying and opted instead to look out the window. The views were decidedly more interesting than his last train ride; he watched on with a growing smile as tall pine trees and fields of flowers passed by in a blur, the landscape of New England putting him at ease for the first time that day. 

It wasn’t until noon or so that the train broke across the state line into Maine, headed westward towards the coast. Kirishima prepared himself with his bag and such as the station hurtled into view, all whilst whispering affirmations.

If they don’t know anything, it’ll just be a nice visit.

If they do know something—

His heart thrummed. No matter how dismal the situation seemed, there was always a glimmer of faith that he might get one step closer to finding Bakugou, or that he might just run into him on the street. As he navigated himself to the proper house, Kirishima made sure to look at every face that passed by him on the off chance that he find the man he was looking for. 

The house ended up being much farther from the station than he’d anticipated, so Kirishima had to call a car to carry him the rest of the way. The town in which Sero and Tamaki lived was small, a simple collection of cottages and fisheries right on the coast. The sky was a stormy blue-gray through which Kirishima couldn’t see even a sliver of the sun, despite spring being in full swing. He watched as the shoreline of the beach zoomed by outside his window, the small, dark waves lapping along the sand and against the bottoms of tiny fishing boats. They passed a few convenience stores and a chapel, but then the landscape went barren, only tall grass and road for miles.

As the car climbed up the hill, Kirishima watched the beach below grow smaller and smaller. The incline hadn’t looked so large from afar, he wondered how many people could possibly live on it other than Tamaki and Sero. The wind whistled even stronger outside as they climbed higher, Kirishima watched as the thick gray cloud cover stirred against the gusts. He had never been this far north or this close to the coast. It was—quiet. That was the only word he could think of to describe it.

Eventually, the car hit a plateau in which the incline descended into a flat plane, as barren as the land that led up to it. Between the tall reeds were piles of sand, some packed with remnants of rain. The car kept speeding down the way, more seconds of nothing passing by Kirishima’s window.

He started to worry as they turned a corner into what seemed even more barren than what came before it. It wasn’t until the car pulled into an almost invisible inlet that Kirishima saw it, the small, baby-blue cottage tucked behind evergreen trees and surrounded by shell-filled sand. The car got as close to the house as possible before Kirishima acknowledged that he was ready to get out. With a nod, they parted ways and Kirishima was soon left standing in front of the cottage with his bag in his hand and a rapping heart.

He swallowed thickly as he clambered up to the front door, a paneled piece painted white which peeled charmingly at the edges. He stood there for a moment, relishing in the silence undercut by the faintest echoes of the rolling waves off in the distance. When he knocked, he was convinced the sound traveled over the entire hill. Did anyone else even live up here?

The door opened right as Kirishima was tempted to knock again, but his motion was halted by the vision of Tamaki hunched in the space between the door edge and the frame. When he saw Kirishima, his eyes went wide, and he broke into a shy grin.

“Eijirou,” he whispered.

Slowly, Tamaki opened the door wide enough for Kirishima to see their large, soft white knit sweater, the front tucked into an ankle length skirt covered in a subtle floral print. They had small, dangling pearls hanging from their earlobes and a semblance of something shiny on their lips. His hair had grown out a bit, but it looked well trimmed and fell sweetly against their face.

Kirishima was invited inside quickly to which he slipped off his shoes and abandoned his bag at the entrance

The cottage was simple. The floor was a straight white wood that had been weathered with footsteps, all the furniture was soft and blue like the outside of the house. The kitchen was something small and understated, just enough space for one or two people at a time. A bay window adorned the opposite wall, a comfortable looking couch built into it and a dining table accompanying it. The windows were all propped to let in the cool sea breeze, a faint smell of salt infiltrating the entire space. Kirishima stood in the entryway for a moment staring, wondering how it was that he’d stepped so seamlessly into some fantasy world. 

Outside one of the windows, a wind chime clattered together, a barrage of quiet melodies overtaking the pervasive silence. Soft, sheer white curtains swayed with the gentle breeze. Kirishima inhaled deeply and felt the immediate healing power of the house begin to repair his aching bones, and even parts of his aching heart.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Tamaki rambled as he scurried to the kitchen, “I would’ve had tea or lunch ready—”

“It’s alright,” Kirishima soothed.

Still, Tamaki busied themselves with mugs and the kettle and some loose leaf tea from the cabinet. All the while, Kirishima sauntered around the house, staring at the hanging photos and the flowers blooming in tall, glass vases. There were shells inlaid into the plaster walls—Kirishima ran his fingers over them, the sensation sending jolts of life up his arm.

“This place—” he whispered.

“It was cheaper than you’d think,” Tamaki replied from the kitchen, “it belonged to this old fisherman who lived with his wife until she died, after which he went out to sea and never returned.”

Kirishima’s eyes swept down to the floor, realization and remembrance lapping over him in waves.

“We thought it’d be a nice place for—” Tamaki’s voice trailed.

Kirishima turned to see his friend’s hands frozen around the handles of the mugs. Steam rose in ribbons from the surface, but they weren’t inclined to care, not with the cast of gray that had melted over his eyes. Moving his gaze another inch or so, Kirishima could see a door, the only door in the entire place that didn’t lead to the outdoors. It had to be theirs.

“May I?” He asked gently.

Tamaki’s lips parted in a pensive moment before nodding and ducking their head so as to not watch Kirishima cross the house and shuffle into the room.

As he neared the door, faint beeps and hums grew louder, the whir of a small motor serving as the base of it all. With a shaking hand and a tight swallow, he pushed open the white door and felt the flood of light invade his eyes.

Perhaps it was that the house was facing in the right direction or the clouds had finally parted to reveal a smidge of the sun, but Kirishima almost had to squint as he shuffled into the white-walled room, the floors the same as those of the rest of the house. Longer versions of the thin white curtains billowed in response to the breeze flooding through the open window, brushing the wood as they ebbed back towards the wall. 

Kirishima turned his head slowly to the left to take in the sight he had been so diligently avoiding. There upon the bed covered in a plush blue comforter and propped up with pillows was Sero Hanta. Their arms had been stuck with an endless amount of tubes, all leading back to a hanging bag of liquid on a pole. Beside that fixture was the source of the beeping, a small white box which monitored their heart rate. Beneath the bed sat a silver tank of oxygen, a tube sticking out from the top which Kirishima trailed with his eyes until he saw the end of it wrapped around a face.

His breath hitched in his throat.

For the most part, Sero looked the same. Their hair was still long and jet black, pulled out of their face by a lazy half-up, half-down style. Their cheeks were slender and their lips were plush and pink, but their usually deep-set eyes had grown tired, their features caving in upon themselves as if they’d been aging twice as fast as everyone else. The wrist in which endless tubes were stuck was so thin Kirishima could wrap his pointer and thumb around it all the way.

Yet, as Sero stared out the window on the opposite wall which gazed out onto the beach they looked rather content as if it was all happening as they planned. They weren’t coaxed to look in Kirishima’s direction until a floorboard creaked beneath his foot. Their eyes were still dark and sultry, and their lips curled into a weak yet intentional smile.

“Now when did you get so tall and handsome?” they whispered slowly and teasingly, every word needing to be pulled from the depths of their chest and forced off of their lips.

Kirishima feigned a smile, but the inside of his body was tightening into a thick ball. He couldn’t cry, not here, but he had to focus all his energy into that assertion as he neared the side of Sero’s bed and watched as they struggled to hoist themselves further into a seated position.

“What—,” they wheezed for a moment, “brings you to Maine?”

Kirishima’s lip trembled, “I w-was in New York, visiting Kyouka and Denki.”

Sero’s mouth stretched a smile once more, their head tilted. Kirishima tried to pull his trembling lip between his teeth, but the mere thought of trying not to cry made the action even easier to slip into. Before he knew it, his eyes were misting with tears and there was a knot in the center of his throat.

He had thought about it every so often, the fact that Sero had been dying all their life, but it had never seemed quite real until this very moment. Whenever he’d imagined Tamaki’s future, even as an old man, he’d seen Sero there with them, just as old and wrinkly. But as he glanced at Sero’s wrist once more and forced himself to look at their face, Kirishima was met with the unyielding truth, the reality we must all one day confront:

Sero was dying—

and there was nothing Kirishima could do.

“Oh,” Sero’s brow curled in worry, “come sit, sweetie.”

They patted the empty space beside them with a slow, weak hand. Kirishima sniffled and stared at the ground as he shuffled over, planting himself softly onto the blue comforter and only swinging his legs up when he felt ready to do so. 

Instantly, Sero took Kirishima’s hand in their own. The mere touch made Kirishima’s tears even more prevalent, he could feel the bones poking out from Sero’s skin. Their touch was languid and hesitant, all their strength going into the movement. 

Kirishima refused to look at them, choosing instead to stare at his own lap or out the window on the opposite wall.

“Hey,” Sero coaxed with a whisper.

Kirishima pursed his lips. He couldn’t look up, he just couldn’t.

“Eiji,” Sero pled.

Slowly, but surely, Kirishima lifted his head, then his gaze, and wrenched both over to where Sero was seated beside him. Their eyes were soft and sweet, their mouth sporting a gentle smile although Kirishima could now see the cracks and chapped parts. Still, they looked so content, even with the machines and such surrounding them, looming over their deteriorating body as if they were waiting to consume them whole once they were gone.

Sero leaned forward slightly, eyes affixed on Kirishima.

“I’m okay,” they whispered.

A hot tear rolled down Kirishima’s right cheek, then another down his left cheek. He kept swiping at them with the end of his sleeve, but the drops simply wouldn’t quit. Sero held on tighter, watching as he devolved into sorrow.

“Truly,” they insisted, “and it’s all thanks to you.”

With bleary vision, Kirishima looked up.

“Really?”

Sero nodded slowly, “You introduced me to Tamaki.”

A huff of breath escaped Kirishima’s nose in what could almost be considered a chuckle of contentment. He tried to peer back out the door and catch a glimpse of the person in question.

“They take care of you?” Kirishima asked.

“Oh,” Sero sighed, “they’re the best. Spared no expense, even though he knew I was always going to die young. Probably added five years to my life.”

Kirishima gritted his teeth, his heart feeling as though it were tearing in two. Every once in a while, the fantasy of the moment would break, and he’d be forced to look at all the beeping machines; they seemed so out of place, especially in the cottage.

“They even thought being out here might help my health,” Sero grinned, eyes unfocused, “so we packed up everything and moved.”

Kirishima sniffed. If he’d known—

He shook the thought from his head. His very first therapist had told him that he couldn’t fret about the past anymore, it wasn’t like any amount of regret would let him go back and change it, after all. 

“But she—”

Sero gazed back out the window, a glazed expression melting over their face broken only by an ever growing smile.

“She’s beautiful,” they hummed, “don’t you think?”

Though their voice was breathy and crackly, there was a brief moment of speech where every word was clear and ever intonation was in its proper place, but only when they were talking about Tamaki.

“And we never would’ve met without you,” their voice returned to its usual grit.

Kirishima stared dutifully into his lap as Sero’s grip loosened on his hand. 

“I went to see Kaminari and Jirou yesterday,” Kirishima shared in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

Sero snorted softly, “I hope their baby looks more like Kyouka.”

“Spitting image,” Kirishima grinned, “and Mina—”

“Believe me,” they groaned, “I get plenty of updates from her.”

Sero’s fairly small yet consistent smile finally began to fade as the topic of conversation turned to the only person they’d left out of their gossip. Kirishima felt the same urgency bubble up inside of him, the voice that told him to ask now or he might never get the chance to do so. Part of him wanted to get it over with, knowing that it was more likely he’d walk away with nothing than discover some new piece of information. Still, he inhaled deeply and looked right at Sero for the first time since he’d entered the room.

“Do you know where he is?”

Sero stared out the window for a long moment, their eyelids fluttering closed as if to die right there by Kirishima’s side, but he could see their mind turning with endless memories. In the silence, Kirishima could hear the puffs of air travelling into their oxygen tube, their breaths were long and laborious wheezes constricted to the top part of their lungs.

After the long, quiet moment had passed, Sero turned, brow curled weakly and lips pulled into a pitiful line.

“No,” they whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

Perhaps that was the final blow to the slowly dying flame of hope that had been burning at the center of Kirishima’s chest, the assurance from the one who seemed to know it all that Bakugou was gone for good. Everything within him slumped to the floor, a cold chill now passing through the space where the flame had been lit. He tried to hide it, but Sero was too perceptive to miss the subtle tremble of Kirishima’s lip and the glazed, sorrowful look in his eye.

“If I knew anything, I would’ve told you already,” they eked out.

Kirishima pursed his lips, “I know.”

“And Bakugou loved you.”

“I know.”

“And he’d never—”

“I know!”

He hadn’t meant to get so loud, but everything was building up so quickly inside of him: the realization, the longing, the hopelessness. Had he truly come this far only to come up empty? Had every good thing in his life only been placed there to taunt him?

Did God really hate him that much?

“Sorry,” he muttered, bowing his head even further.

Sero chuckled, “Don’t apologize.”

After another moment of silence, the pair devolved into recanting old stories just as Kirishima had done at the Kaminari’s. He told the story of how he got his current job and Sero concurred that Bakugou would find the whole thing rather amusing. All the while, Sero never let go of his hand. It wasn’t so much the company that inspired them towards such an act, maybe more so the need to be grounded, to be reassured that they were not yet gone.

“Do you think we go somewhere after we die?” Kirishima asked softly.

Sero chuckled but their eyes were shrouded in thought.

“Mm, perhaps, but maybe not in the way you think.”

Kirishima furrowed his brow as Sero stared out the window which faced the vast ocean, waves lolling over one another in a constant pattern.

“You know,” Sero whispered, “some people believe that our lives are like waves. We swell, we grow, we crash, and then we are pulled back. We return to the ocean from which we were formed.”

With pursed lips, Kirishima tried to fixate his eyes on the same point in the ocean without bursting into tears. He imagined himself as a wave, perhaps he was not even fully formed yet, only an idea of the grand ocean. Or maybe this was his swell, the surmounting moment of his entire life. It seemed, for Sero, the crash had already come, and they were slowly being pulled back from the shoreline.

“I think we’re all made of each other,” they explained, “and that’s why we meet people who feel like lifelong friends or long-lost loves, even if we’ve only known them for a day. We were probably crafted from the same bit of ocean.”

Kirishima couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight out the window. He wanted to change the subject, stop thinking so hard about his own death, but he’d grown fixated on the endless barrage of waves, the realization flooding through him that he was only one of many.

Perhaps he’d been lucky to encounter Bakugou, even for such a short time.

“So,” Kirishima began once they’d settled against the headboard, “if you could do one last thing, anything, before you died, what would it be?”

The question had been stewing in his head for a while, getting the words out just proved to be much trickier than he’d anticipated, especially any variation of “die”. But Sero seemed unfazed, turning back to look out the opposite window and lower their brow in thought. They remained like that for a moment, puffs of air whooshing through their tube and supporting their short breaths.

Eventually, they sighed.

“To smoke some weed.”

Kirishima paused in a moment of stunned surprise, but as Sero turned to look back at him with a mischievous glint in their eye, Kirishima instantly devolved into a fit of soft laughter, the kind that could barely be heard through the closed door. Sero’s lips spread into a slow smile.

“Just one more blunt,” they groaned.

Kirishima kept laughing, a light feeling now filling that empty space in his chest. He remembered their afternoon together smoking on that old slab of concrete out the side door of the hideout, the bug on the pole and the way Bakugou had to drag him into his house without being noticed. It all remained so vibrant in his mind as if he was going back to restore the painting each year. 

Yet, as all things must, their meeting came to an end. Sero was having trouble keeping their eyes open and Kirishima took that as his cue to mutter a soft goodbye, all whilst holding their hand gently.

“Hey,” they whispered, “don’t give up quite yet.”

Kirishima knew what they were talking about—well, who they were talking about. In any case, he mustered a weak smile to try and stave off the gaping pit that was growing within him.

But, Sero continued.

“I have a feeling he’s not too far off.”

They whispered it with a gleam in their eye, the all-knowing gaze that Kirishima remembered so well. It was like Sero had been an angel all their life, body just begging to return to its home. It was a crude way of coping with their death, but Kirishima didn’t know any other way to think of it, and as he turned back once more to see Sero already fast asleep on their pillow, he swore the fold of the white sheets below looked exactly like wings. 

“Are you staying for dinner?” Tamaki asked.

Kirishima sighed, “I can’t, there’s—someone I have to speak to.”

It was true, in some way, but as he shared a soft and almost tearful goodbye with Tamaki, Kirishima worried that his half-lie may be just as bad as any other. Nevertheless, he grabbed his things and trudged out the front door, leaving a red-eyed Tamaki and a slumbering Sero in his wake. With the sea breeze whipping his hair all around, Kirishima began his descent down the long, lonely hill.

He’d thought of calling a car, but the moment of silence he’d get walking down instead was just what he needed. There were no other sounds bar the lapping waves and a few stray gulls off in the distance, so Kirishima’s mind was allotted lots of space to fill with thoughts. He watched his feet dutifully as he trudged down the hill, his things slung over his shoulder.

There were a few moments where he would think about Bakugou for too long and his eyes would start to sting. He felt so stupid allowing all that leftover affection to fester. What if Bakugou had gone off and found some other guy he liked more? Maybe they had kids and a nice house in the suburbs. Maybe he got to kiss Bakugou goodnight and see him in the morning before anything else. Jealousy raged in Kirishima’s stomach, but there was nowhere for him to displace it, no actual man he felt replaced by—it was all a figment of his imagination, after all.

As his thoughts raced faster and faster, so did his feet, soon pounding against the packed dirt road with deafening steps. He wanted to be rid of this feeling, this rampant uncertainty that had been eating him up for eight years, but he was no better today than he was yesterday. 

He’d grown immensely. He’d escaped the vicious grip of his father and worked through every issue he could possibly identify. He’d gone to college and gotten a good job and done everything he was supposed to do.

So why did it always feel like something was missing?

When he finally reached the bottom of the hill, Kirishima’s eyes had welled completely with tears. He only had to cross one barren, two-way road to reach the coastline. The sand was coarse and dark, especially where the deep blue waves were washing upon it. He stomped out towards the ocean, feeling the shifting earth beneath his shoes, and dropped his bag beside him.

With all the strength he could muster, Kirishima picked up a shell that was seated by his foot and chucked it hard into the ocean, watching it disappear into the water with a plop. The dark gray clouds had covered the sky once more in a gloomy patchwork, the wind was much stronger now that he was closer to the ocean, too. His lip trembled. His body ached. All he could think to do was pick up another shell and throw it into the waves. Amidst the vast ocean, the shell was so small—that was how he always felt, like one small shell at the mercy of the universe. 

“It’s not fair,” he whispered to himself.

Kirishima had stopped talking to God a long time ago. He hadn’t stepped foot into a church in eight years, and he hadn’t said a prayer or anything like that since the day he saw his father be taken away in handcuffs. He’d distanced himself from the whole thing, knowing that it had only brought him harm all those years, but he’d always kept the prospect of God in the back of his mind as a sort of last resort. But he could never tell if he wanted to scream at Him or bargain with Him or simply say that he was sorry for being gone so long. 

“It’s not fair!” He shouted into the sky.

Instantly, Kirishima’s hands flew up to his face, the heels digging into his eyes. His chest was huffing as if he was crying, but no tears would come out. Every emotion he’d ever felt in his life was swirling in a storm within him.

It wasn’t fair, any of it.

It wasn’t fair that Sero had to die so soon.

It wasn’t fair that his father had to serve such a measly sentence for what he did to Mina.

It wasn’t fair that God had taunted Kirishima with Bakugou Katsuki only to take him away in the very next moment.

It wasn’t fair.

“It’s not—” Kirishima whimpered to himself.

He huffed out a few more angry yet sorrowful breaths, the kind that are silent prayers in and of themselves. He dropped his hands from his face and gazed up into the sky, hoping for a miracle to maybe befall him in that very moment, but nothing came. The sky stayed exactly the same, each cloud in its proper place, and the sun hidden behind it all.

Perhaps God was real.

Perhaps he wasn’t.

But Kirishima needed someone to talk to, in that moment, someone to hear his surrender.

“Fine,” he whispered.

God didn’t respond. He never did.

“Fine,” Kirishima shouted, “I’m done.”

And he meant it. All the searching and the worrying and the scrolling and the talking and the visiting, it had exhausted him beyond repair. He couldn’t do it for much longer, and being so consistently disappointed was making his life so hard to live. He had to accept that Bakugou was gone—

he had to move on.

“Is that what you want?” He shouted into the sky, “You want me to give up? Is that what you’ve wanted all this time?!”

He almost cried again, but he couldn’t let himself, it was all too much to bear. Yet, at the center of his chest, Kirishima began to feel a lightness as the burden he’d been carrying for so long dissolved into nothingness. For the first time in his entire life, Kirishima was existing without any expectation. He was simply a body floating through space, hoping to be loved as much as he has loved. 

“Fine,” he whispered once more, “I give up.”

Sero Hanta died one month later.

Kirishima had awoken to a phone call from a teary Mina breaking the news. He’d sat in his bed for a moment, realizing that he’d held their hand not three weeks before that day. There were all these goodbyes he wanted to say that he now had to keep locked up within himself, maybe for when they met in another existence. He didn’t cry, he just stared, unable to think or feel anything too profound.

In that moment, he wondered how it’d happened. Maybe Sero had given a tearful farewell or made some Shakespearean thing of it all. Or, maybe, Tamaki had awoken to find them already gone, eyes shut peacefully and mouth curled in a content smile.

The funeral was to be held in that old town, the one where Kirishima had met Bakugou and all his friends. There was a moment of hesitancy in returning to such a hellscape, but the tone of Mina’s plea was enough to make Kirishima feel guilty for turning the invitation down, so he packed up his things and took the bus one bleary Sunday morning down to the old town.

As the familiar trees and winding dirt roads passed outside his window, Kirishima switched between watching and staring at his lap when looking at it all became too sickening. He wondered why Sero of all people would want to be buried in such an awful place, especially one that was never kind to them, but there were very few things about Sero that were actually predictable. 

Kirishima was wearing a cleanly-pressed white button-up and a pair of sleek black slacks topped with shined loafers. In his lap was his battle jacket, a specific request of Mina’s. He’d dug the old thing out from the back of his closet and just stared at it for a moment, noticing the tears and sun spots of age dotting all around.

As the car barreled towards the cemetery, Kirishima thanked whoever was listening that it was more on the outskirts of town rather than the center where his old house was. He couldn’t even look at the thing, much less be in its vicinity for too long. When the cemetery finally came into view, Kirishima sighed and paid the driver, clambering out of the small car with as much grace as he could muster.

It was a smaller crowd, probably since the memorial was held so soon after their death. At most there were twenty or so people all crowded around a framed picture propped on a stand and a fanciful casket which Kirishima could just barely make out from a distance.

The moment he heard the car speed away, Kirishima slipped on his old jacket and basked in the feeling of it. Tugging at the tight collar of his crisply pressed dress shirt for the umpteenth time, Kirishima Eijirou shuffled through the wet stone path that led to the cemetery plot where Sero was to be buried.

His walk through the grass was slow and steady, especially since it’d been raining all morning and the blades were rather slick. The sky was gray and patchy, almost identical to how it’d been in Maine. Kirishima saw Kaminari and Jirou first, both of them clad in their own studded jackets, Clash caught between them holding her mother’s hand on her right and her father’s on her left. 

Kirishima saw Mina next with her husband; she was wearing her jacket, as well. She flashed Kirishima a weary smile, her eyes already red-rimmed. She was holding onto her husband’s waist tightly. Kirishima kept sauntering through the crowd, making a beeline for Tamaki right at the front.

He’d prepared himself in the car for the state he might see Amajiki in. He’d expected them to be in tears, mourning painfully for their lost love, maybe struggling to even stand. But as he neared the person at the very front wearing a long, flowy black dress with sensible loafers and a large, grandpa-ish cardigan, Kirishima was surprised to see the man sporting a small grin.

“Amajiki,” he whispered.

Tamaki’s brow lifted in surprise as he noticed Kirishima. Their smile grew an inch or so and they tilted their head.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” he said sweetly.

Kirishima still watched him with a furrowed brow, waiting for the moment of pain to befall him. But, instead, Tamaki just looked out towards the sky which was spotted with the tops of willow trees. 

“Eight years,” they whispered.

Kirishima leaned to ensure he was hearing it all right.

Tamaki smiled even wider, “I got to love them for eight whole years.”

The knot that had been forming in Kirishima’s throat since the morning he got the call finally began to untangle. If it was him, he would be mourning all the time they’d lost together, all the memories they would never be able to make. But, at least for the time being, Tamaki was too enamored with the time they did have together to care. They just grinned up into the sky as if there was something to see between the clouds.

With a friendly pat on Tamaki’s shoulder, Kirishima retreated to the row behind him, finding a chair beside Mina. She instantly held his hand and shot him a smile, the kind that warmed all the chilled parts of his heart.

The service was short. The pastor wasn’t so much a pastor as he was a facilitator, inviting each speaker to come up and say a few words. Mina was one of these speakers. Then an old friend of Sero’s from their childhood. Then Tamaki. Kirishima was pretty successful in holding back his tears until he saw Tamaki’s gentle fingers glide over the wood of the casket as if they were touching the curve of Sero’s face, once more.

As it ended, Kirishima was wiping frantically at his tears, noticing how the small crowd began to bustle in the close quarters. He stood, swiping at his jacket and ensuring all his clothes were in the proper position. He only took a few steps out into the aisle, already searching for Mina whom he’d lost instantly. 

But as the crowd parted to the right side of chairs, Kirishima saw a sight he didn’t think possible, one he’d nearly forgotten about in the past month.

Stood there with their hands in the pockets of their patched, studded jacket, a menthol tucked behind their ear, and a glint in their eye was none other than a familiar flash of blonde, the same boy that had tapped on Kirishima’s window eight long years ago.

“Katsuki?”

Chapter Text

Eijirou Kirishima,

It’s been a while since I left, maybe a month? Shit, I don’t even know why I’m writing these dumb things. My therapist said it would help my ‘unresolved feelings’ but I think she’s full of shit.

Even though I think that, I’m still writing the dumb thing.

This is a pretty mean blow to my counter-culture image, maybe it’s a good thing that you’ll never read these.

Or you might, I haven’t decided.

Hope you’re okay.

I am.

Katsuki.

Kirishima’s stomach plummeted to the grass below his feet. He blinked a few times just to make sure that the image before him wasn’t a mirage, that it was really Bakugou Katsuki, the man who had disappeared eight years ago. Part of him was frozen in amazement,

the other part of him was ready to burst into flames.

In a thoughtless fit, he stormed over to where Katsuki was standing all casual-like and let words tumble out of his mouth before his mind could catch up.

“What the fuck?” He hissed.

With a smirk, Bakugou turned slowly and stared right at the center of Kirishima’s face. For a moment, Kirishima’s hard, infuriated exterior dissolved into a puddle, one in which he was wading slowly. His heart began to thrum at the edge of his rib cage and his breaths became long and warm.

Bakugou looked mostly the same, the past eight years had only aged the corners of his eyes and subdued his usually fiery presence. He looked—calmer, more content.

His hair was cropped close to his head on the sides, but he’d retained the spirit of his spikes at the top, still as blonde as before. He had two large black plugs in his earlobes which stretched to about the size of a silver dollar. He’d forgone his other facial piercings in favor of just a clean septum, but the thinness of his lips and the curve of his jaw and the raging red of his eyes hadn’t changed in the slightest. Standing there before him, Kirishima felt eighteen years old.

He felt just as he had when he saw Bakugou at his window.

Yet, amidst the sea of emotions that Kirishima was drowning in, he forced himself to maintain his scowl and act mean.

“What are you doing here?” He seethed.

“Woah,” Bakugou crooned, “I know the funeral’s over but your energy doesn’t quite match the location.”

Bakugou was messing with him as he always had when Kirishima got uptight. The raspy, low tone of his voice was almost enough to send Kirishima back into a spiral of affection, but he couldn’t allow that to happen just yet.

Even so, Kirishima’s entire body was singing.

Eight years. Eight years he’d looked through phone books and photo albums and police records and everything under the sun only to find the man with no effort of his own. As angry as he wanted to be, Kirishima’s jaw was hanging agape at the sheer malarkey of it all.

You fucker, he half-prayed.

Were you planning this all along?

“Where have you been all this time?”

Kirishima’s voice had gone much more tender than he’d liked, but the sheer amazement of seeing Bakugou Katsuki before him had overtaken any resolved he’d had left in his body. Kirishima wet his lips and waited anxiously for the man’s response.

Bakugou just smiled, something small and unassuming, then cocked his head to the right.

“Let’s take a walk,” he hummed.

Eijirou,

I hate this. I hate where I am and I hate that I’m alone. They gave me a second chance at life but now I’m wondering if I made a mistake disappearing on you like that. I wake up and feel like you should be there.

It’s stupid. This is stupid. I’m just a kid, so are you, how are we supposed to know all this stuff?

I watched your dad’s trial on TV. If I hadn’t taken off, swear to God I’d have beat him up and thrown him in a grave I dug myself. Justice system doesn’t know shit, anyways. I would kill him just for what he did to Mina.

And for what he did to you. That fucker—you trusted him!

But you trusted me too...

Whatever, I’m goin’ to bed.

Kirishima had every reason to decline.

In fact, he probably should’ve. What business did Bakugou have ordering him around when he’d been gone all that time with no contact? Yet, it didn’t feel like a command as much as it felt like a request, particularly because of the soft line of Bakugou’s jaw, as he said it. And starting a fight in front of Sero’s casket didn’t feel quite right.

“Fine,” Kirishima muttered, shoving his hands into his suit pocket.

With a curt nod, Bakugou spun on the heel of his boot and started walking to the edge of the cemetery, staying mindful of the path and the person trailing behind him. Kirishima kept a good three paces between them; he wanted to just watch Bakugou for a moment.

Was this real?

Had he imagined it all: Sero’s death, the funeral, the man himself?

Kirishima took a moment to check all of his senses. He not only felt the cool drizzle of rain against the skin of his neck, he could also smell the muddy grass beneath his feet and feel his feet slide inside his shoes as he walked. The only thing he could taste, however, was the inside of his desert-dry mouth.

His chest felt incredibly warm. He thanked the biting breeze for keeping the flush out of his cheeks, but he knew that the moment the sun peeked out, he’d be red as a tomato. He kept swallowing words he wanted to blurt out, things he’d prepared in the mirror to say once he did see Bakugou again. But now that the moment had finally arrived, he found himself speechless before the man himself. It was almost as if so much time had passed between them that none of it felt all that long.

As they reached the edge of the grassy knoll, Bakugou turned once more toward the narrow sidewalk, waiting patiently for Kirishima to catch up. He stuck his tattooed hands in the pocket of his patched, studded jacket and gave Kirishima a decisive side-eye once they were standing next to each other.

Eiji,

I’m gonna stop doing these things eventually. They’re not helping shit other than giving me stuff to do at night. I got a job. Fucking hate it. Gonna quit. It’s not what I wanna do and if I do it just to do it, then I’m going against all the things I told you to do, and that’s not fair.

Don’t even know why I’m keeping these letters. I just had an open drawer, alright? Might as well keep them if I’m gonna spend all this time writing them.

I hope you’re okay.

That’s it.

As long as you’re okay then nothing else matters.

It was the middle of the day—or, at least, that was what Kirishima assumed as he and Bakugou began to stroll the streets of his hometown. They were in a pretty secluded location, so there wasn’t much around that Kirishima recognized; he heaved a sigh of relief. Part of coming to the funeral was the knowledge that he’d be back home for an amount of time and would probably see things he would rather not remember. He and his therapist had talked about it ad nauseam, and he felt alright, but all his studious preparation had dissolved into nothingness at the sight of Bakugou.

It was the one thing he left behind that he regretted.

All the trees were the same, they swayed in the breeze with the same old dance. The brush and dirt and roads were the same too, cracked and dried out in the sun. Kirishima kept adjusting his hands in his pockets and sneaking harrowed glances over at Bakugou who was still strolling casually, his posture straight and dignified.

“Bak—” Kirishima began.

“This town doesn’t look the same.”

Kirishima sucked in a nervous breath as Bakugou’s voice sounded. He furrowed his brow.

“Whaddya mean?” He asked.

“Drove through it,” Bakugou replied, “people are moving in and building nicer houses and buying up all that old land.”

Kirishima nodded and let his gaze rest on the pavement below. It was somewhat of a nice thought, the old town being demolished and rebuilt. It was how Kirishima felt a lot of the time, but no matter how many buildings he tore down, there would always be an even older one down the street, one that had been rotting and caving in on itself for far longer than the rest. He wanted nothing more than to be rid of all of it, but he knew the ghosts would haunt him forever no matter how hard he tried.

And one of those ghosts just happened to be walking right beside him.

“I’ll strike a deal with you,” Bakugou hummed.

Kirishima glanced over at him, “What?”

Ei,

Changed therapists. Still gonna do this shit because I want to, not because I have to.

I hope you’re doing something cool and not lame like your dad. I met someone today that might get me into the business I want, but I’m not gonna make any promises to myself. I wish you were here to just tell me yourself, but I know what I’m doing.

I’m doing it for you.

“You tell me what you’ve been up to, then I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to,” Bakugou said.

Again, it didn’t seem fair, Kirishima was the one who was owned an explanation. And how could he ever trust Bakugou again after what he did?

He’d thought about that moment a lot since that night. Bakugou had lied to his face so many times, Kirishima couldn’t imagine ever forgiving him. It wasn’t until years later that Kirishima could gain some perspective and see Bakugou and his friends for who they really were. They weren’t gods or masters of life like he’d thought.

They were kids,

messed up kids who deserved way better than what they got.

Bakugou wanted his dad back. What was so wrong about that? And he’d said it himself, it stopped being a lie after their very first show. Bakugou would gain nothing from lying now, he would only lose Kirishima.

“Fine,” Kirishima replied lowly, “I’ll talk.”

The moment he agreed, a wave of anticipation crashed over Kirishima. This was the story, the one he’d wanted to tell Bakugou for years.

“The night of my dad’s trial, I got on a train and just went as far as I could, ended up in Richmond,” Kirishima recounted, “I met this nice old lady who let me sleep in her garden shed while I set up my bank account and thought about what to do for school.”

“Did you end up going?” Bakugou asked.

Kirishima suppressed a smile. He’d only been able to dream of this conversation.

“I did,” Kirishima affirmed, “started at a community college to save money but eventually transferred to the University of Richmond to finish my degree.”

Bakugou hummed and nodded. They turned a corner into a less secluded part of town.

“And what do you do now?” Bakugou asked.

Kirishima smiled, “I’m a music teacher.”

It was then that Bakugou’s walking slowed and he gave Kirishima a strong side-eye. Kirishima just smiled, amused by his own life.

“I’m a music teacher,” he reiterated, “at a private religious academy.”

Bakugou scoffed and looked forward. His sharp canines showed through his half-smile and Kirishima swore he felt his heart skip a beat at the sight. He felt so stupid like this, he was acting like a teenager around Bakugou getting flustered by every little thing, but he couldn’t help it. It was like he’d stepped into a time warp and ended up back home with all his old friends.

“You spend eighteen years clawing yourself out of the hole just to jump back in?” Bakugou teased.

Kirishima grinned, “In a way, yeah.”

Bakugou eyed him again, taking in the man before him. Kirishima was still taller than him by a few inches, his shoulders were broader too, but Bakugou was stockier than before and had a healthy shape to his face that he hadn’t had eight years ago.

“I have a feeling you didn’t take the job because of your unending love for religion,” Bakugou crooned.

“Correct,” Kirishima confirmed, “I took the job because it was offered to me at a punk show.”

Bakugou scoffed again, “No way.”

“Yes, way!” Kirishima replied brightly, “I was hanging out at this underground show, I’d just graduated, and this guy who is high out of his mind goes on and on about this job he has as a middle school music teacher for this preppy academy and gets paid some astronomical amount.”

Kirishima already found himself lost in the story. Joy bubbled up within him as he relished in the moment he’d waited so long for. The fact that Bakugou was listening made every gesture and expression worth his while.

“Then he tells me that he’s moving and they’re looking for someone to fill the position,” Kirishima shrugged and stuck his hands back in his pockets, “I wasn’t gonna do it at first because my dad would be far too pleased, but then I had an idea.”

Bakugou hummed questioningly. Kirishima just flashed him a pursed smile.

“I thought that the only way I could save kids like me was by infiltrating from the inside,” he explained.

Bakugou’s smirk grew wide, the mischievous twinkle in his eye growing stronger, as he did. As they walked, he leaned slightly to the left and bumped his shoulder into Kirishima’s. Instantly, ropes of electricity traveled from the spot where Bakugou had touched him. He inhaled deeply to try and dismiss the feeling, but it only made his heart beat faster and his face flush deeper. They hadn’t touched one another in eight years. Kirishima hadn’t kissed anyone in that time, either, he couldn’t bring himself to. He wondered if Bakugou had.

Eiji,

Went on a date today. Fuckin’ hated it. He was a little bitch who tried to fuckin’ kiss me at the end like I owed him something. Kicked his ass. Hope he doesn’t press charges.

As badly as I wish you were here, I know what I’m doing.

And I’m doin’ it for you.

“Genius,” Bakugou muttered.

“I’ve got this group of kids who sit in my room during lunchtime,” Kirishima explained, “and I started telling them stories.”

“You tell ‘em about us?”

“Psh,” Kirishima scoffs, “course. I do censor some things but for the most part, they can’t get enough of the blonde time-bomb and his ragtag group of kids who formed a band.”

A huff blew from Bakugou’s nose and his chest puffed out just slightly with pride. He walked with a little more purpose as they turned another corner.

“And you tell ‘em about you and I?”

The question caught Kirishima off-guard even though he could sense it coming. He swallowed nervously and looked back down at the pavement, not sure how he should respond.

Because that was always the query at the back of his mind:

Even if he did find Bakugou, would Bakugou still love him?

The thought haunted Kirishima. The mere possibility of him and Bakugou meeting again only to have his feelings squashed was terrifying; getting to avoid such an interaction was the only good thing about Kirishima’s eight years alone.

“Yes,” Kirishima admitted softly, “some of them.”

“Why only some?”

Kirishima sighed, “Because I see the way they look at other boys in their class. I watch their faces fall whenever they talk about marriage in chapel. I know the signs.”

Bakugou nodded slowly. He shifted over towards Kirishima just an inch so the fabric of their jackets were touching. Though it wasn’t his skin, Kirishima could still sense his closeness, and he could almost smell his menthols.

“They always come to me when they find it out,” Kirishima continued, “because they can sense it, too. They know why I always say ‘no’ when the kids ask me if I have a girlfriend.”

Kirishima inhaled deeply, his stomach prickled with fear.

“And I think they notice how I talk about you, how I describe you.”

They began to walk a bit slower, Bakugou’s shoulder was growing closer.

Eijirou,

I saw a rock today.

Thought of you.

“And how do you describe me?” He asked suggestively.

Kirishima’s smile melted for a moment. Seamlessly, he slipped into his old storytelling voice, the one he employed when he was sat with all his students, each of them waiting with bated breath. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly to ensure he said it all correctly.

“I always say you look like an angel,” he said, “but the kind of angels that scare the shit out of you, like the ones in the Bible.”

Bakugou didn’t respond, but Kirishima kept going, too immersed in his own tale to care.

“I tell them that every time your jewelry or the studs on your hacket clinked together, I’d think it sounded like a chorus of bells.”

Kirishima looked forward, a content smile spreading across his face.

“And if I never saw another person again, I wouldn’t care at all because I knew no one would ever look or talk or act just like you—no one would make me feel like you had.”

Kirishima’s heart thrummed with the same agony he’d felt while lying in that field dreading what Bakugou’s response might be to his confession. He felt his cheeks flush a deep pink and his hands grow clammy as they walked in silence, Bakugou’s arm just centimeters away from his. Pulling his lips between his teeth, Kirishima waited.

One.

Two.

Three.

“I’m sorry I left.”

Bakugou saying anything at all sent a jolt of surprise through Kirishima’s body, but actually registering what he had said brought a whole other wave of awakeness. Kirishima gulped as he watched Bakugou’s smirk melt into a more subdued, sorrowful expression. He looked nervous, too, Kirishima could tell by the subtle twitch of his lips.

Eiji,

I think about that night all the fuckin’ time, you and me and your dad in that room at Moth Ball. I keep thinking about all the things I should’ve done to get you to stay, I would’ve gotten down on my knees and begged if that’s what it took.

But there was a part of me saying to let go. It feels stupid now because I want you here so bad, but it made sense in the moment.

I know what I’m doing.

I’m doing it for you.

“That night,” Bakugou began in a much lower voice, “you said something that I’ve never been able to forget, I mean word-for-word I think about this.”

“What?” Kirishima asked in earnest.

Bakugou sighed.

“When you found out I lied, you said that you thought me and your dad were different, but—” he choked for a moment on his own words, “because of what I did, we were actually just the same.”

Kirishima’s mind echoed with the words that Bakugou plucked from their shared memory. He wouldn’t admit it then, but Kirishima had done his fair share of thinking about that night; he’d laid awake for hours hearing his father’s voice screaming in front of his face and feeling the brick wall against his back.

“And I hated that,” Bakugou hissed, mostly to himself, “I hated knowing that I’d done the same shit to you that your father had done your whole life. I lied to you and I let you trust me, anyways.”

Something ached in Kirishima, an empty space deep in his chest. Even eight years later, he knew he’d done the right thing by distancing himself from his parents, but the same feeling always nagged at him especially around the holidays. As he watched his college buddies and coworkers fly home to be with their aging parents, he would think about how everything would be different if he still spoke with his own, if they had been different people.

Sometimes the temptation was enough to make him think about visiting his father in prison, but it was never enough to make him actually go.

So, he’d replace all those feelings with the hope that one day, he’d have kids of his own who he could treat better than his father could even imagine and he’d let them come home for every Christmas no matter what. But, every time, the same doubts would creep in and remind Kirishima that he didn’t know the first thing about being a good dad and even if he did, he hadn’t found anyone he’d want to spend the rest of his life with.

Well, anyone other than—

“When you left with your dad, that night, I wanted to go after you and fix everything but—,” Bakugou hummed.

Kirishima’s chest grew tight. He watched as Bakugou’s face twisted with discomfort and remembrance. There was a tinge of pain in his voice that Kirishima had never heard before and that alone assured him that Bakugou was telling the truth.

“If I went after you and made you follow me, then I would’ve been doing the same thing your dad had always done,” he continued, “I would’ve been controlling you, telling you what to do.”

Ei,

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Damn, how many times do I have to say it before I feel better?

I’m sorry.

The pieces were slowly beginning to fall in the puzzle of the past eight years. Their walk had slowed significantly, especially as the town around them grew denser; Bakugou was right, the buildings had all been remodeled and there were roads where dirt paths had once been. There were very few things Kirishima actually recognized.

“And I wanted to do something good for you, just once,” Bakugou said lowly, “so—I let you go.”

It was then that he stopped. They were nowhere special, just at the corner of a shiny new coffee shop and a CVS, but Bakugou had halted in his tracks leading Kirishima to do the same. For a moment, they stood there a foot or so apart with their gazes locked, waiting.

“I disappeared so you’d have some space to grow and could do it all on your own.”

Kirishima heaved a sigh, one that felt like a weight off his chest.

“And I hated it,” Bakugou added, “every fuckin’ day I wished you were there with me, but I knew that I was doing the right thing by letting you build a life all by yourself.”

For a moment, Kirishima bathed in the pool of anger he’d spent so long filling to the brim; it was overflowing with sleepless nights, frustrated sobbing sessions in his bathroom, harrowing thoughts about what had actually happened to Bakugou. He wanted to remain in this feeling, to know that he was right all along—

but Bakugou was right.

Kirishima had a life,

and he’d put it together all by himself.

Maybe they would be okay if they’d gone through with their plan and run away. Maybe they would’ve been the right people at the right time and it all would’ve worked out. Or, perhaps, they would’ve fought and cried and projected long-held insecurities onto one another and ended up resenting the person they once loved because they never got to know life outside of them.

Bakugou had done something good.

A warm feeling replaced the tight anger in Kirishima’s chest.

“I needed help, too,” Bakugou shrugged, “a lawyer there helped me change my name and basically gave me a second chance at life because I wanted to prove that I was somebody apart from this town.”

Desperation laced through every word. Kirishima knew that “this town” translated seamlessly to “Midoriya”. Kirishima had learned this long ago, but sometimes being in the place that did the hurting makes the healing seem wrong or selfish, getting out is the only way to see your pain for what it truly is.

“Thank you,” Kirishima said clearly.

Bakugou glanced up for the first time since they’d stopped, the tops of his ears brushed with pink and his brow still curled in a silent plea. His hands were still stuck in his pockets, but Kirishima could see his fingers fiddling behind the fabric.

Kirishima hoped to have cut Bakugou’s train of thought off, knowing that the man would apologize till kingdom come if he didn’t. They stood there for another moment, one that stretched between them like a spring waiting to be released.

“You’re welcome,” Bakugou muttered.

It was then that the tension of the moment released little-by-little. The elephant in the room had been dismissed and what remained were their eight long years apart, every step they took towards each other was a silent question, a request to be closer than ever before.

“So, what have you been doing all these years?” Kirishima asked.

They resumed their walk rather casually, rounding the corner onto a much more familiar street. Kirishima peered to try and remember what it all led to, but he was focusing too hard on Bakugou’s reply to figure it out.

“Worked a couple dead-end jobs just to make money, then I met a couple guys in the industry and started my own music label,” Bakugou explained.

Kirishima’s brow lifted in surprise. He glanced over at a proud-looking Bakugou.

“No way,” he said.

“It’s small and independent, not that big of a deal,” Bakugou amended.

Kirishima cut in, “But it’s yours.”

A slow, small grin spread over Bakugou’s face.

“Yeah,” he hummed, “it’s mine.”

They turned one more corner. Kirishima’s memory kept lighting up as they passed very specific cracks in the sidewalk and tall, unmistakable streetlights.

“Katsuki, is this—?” Kirishima began.

Before he could finish his thought, Kirishima watched Bakugou stop once more, this time, in front of a building. Slowly, Kirishima pulled his gaze up to see it.

The hideout.

That abandoned factory where Bakugou and his friends used to live.

It looked largely the same, the brick exterior and shattered windows, but the natural aging of passed time showed on the faded color and dusty exterior. Even so, Kirishima’s heart skipped.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

“I knew I remembered the way,” Bakugou mumbled to himself.

Eijirou,

I have a plan. I sat all night last night coming up with it and the next time we see each other, I’m gonna tell you what it is.

I won’t make you say ‘yes’, but I really hope you do.

Instantly, Bakugou walked towards the entrance; he was so vigilant that Kirishima had to break into a near jog to catch up. By the time they were both at the door, Kirishima was huffing in exhaustion and feeling sweat start to dribble down his back since the sun had peeked out from the dark gray clouds.

“Wait—” Kirishima pled.

Bakugou didn’t listen, he just opened the heavy metal front door with a creak and bounded towards the second door at the other end of the dark hallway.

“I don’t think we can be in here!” Kirishima called after him.

Again, Bakugou didn’t listen, too busy barreling through that second door. Kirishima’s body started to knot with nerves, he kept glancing around for someone to watch them enter an abandoned building. Even as he broke out into the main room, Kirishima was too distracted to take it all in.

“We’re gonna get caught!” Kirishima pled with Bakugou who was standing in the center of the room.

He turned, “Just look, Eiji.”

With a frustrated sigh, Kirishima obeyed, gazing out for the first time onto the room he hadn’t seen in nearly a decade. An instant feeling of remembrance flooded through his body as he saw the tall windows through which warm afternoon sunlight streamed and made pools atop the dusty concrete floor. Everything had been gutted as far as furniture, but Kirishima could envision that old couch sitting in the middle and the rickety plastic table that was always tucked in the corner. If he listened closely to the whistling wind, he could hear his friends’ voices within it, calling to one another and laughing.

To the left was the sliding glass door that led out to the slab of concrete which they’d always pretended was a porch. Kirishima wondered if it still smelled like weed and menthols out there; the thought made a smile creep up on his face.

Bakugou was standing rather still in the center, moving only his head so he could soak in the entirety of his surroundings. Kirishima watched the sunlight glitter off of his light blonde hair and brush his cheekbones in a warm yellow glow. It still didn’t feel real. Kirishima was afraid of bumping his arm into a corner or pinching himself on accident only to awaken from the impossible dream he was having. The feeling in his chest, the heaviness of his eyes, there was something ethereal about the place that he’d never noticed before.

Or perhaps it had something to do with the man standing in the midst of it all.

He gazed at it all adoringly like a long-lost love. Bakugou had never been one to smile eight years ago, but something had changed in that time that allowed him to truly grin, lines gracing the plush of his cheeks.

“Katsuki,” Kirishima called out to him.

Baukgou’s gaze swept over to the man in the doorway.

“Do you like it?” He asked.

With one more look around the place, Kirishima had his answer.

“Yeah,” he said, “I really do.”

“Good,” Bakugou sighed, “because it’s mine.”

Kirishima chuckled and sauntered towards him.

“Whatever,” he said dismissively.

“No, really,” Bakugou insisted, “I bought it.”

Kirishima furrowed his brow.

“Why? How?”

Bakugou let out one short, breathy laugh, “One of the bands that used my studio apparently wrote some hits, so I came into some money, not that long ago.”

Kirishima’s disbelieving smile began to melt into something more serious.

“Wait, you mean it?” He asked, “You bought the place?”

Bakugou nodded, “And it was cheap, too, the town just wanted it off their hands.”

“What’re you gonna do with it?” Kirishima walked closer.

Bakugou just looked at him and smirked.

“I’m gonna live in it,” he crooned.

Instantly, Bakugou was on the move, dashing towards the adjacent wall with outstretched hands.

“I’m gonna put the kitchen here, block it off with a wall,” he announced, “then I’m gonna do a half wall here and put the couch in the same place because the sun hits it just perfectly without fading the color.”

He was moving around excitedly, hands motioning towards his wildest dreams in furnishing and rebuilding the old place. Kirishima could only watch with his jaw hanging slack, wondering if he’d ever seen such passion in the man.

“I’ll re-do the stairs so that we can use the rooms up above and knock these walls out so there’s more space down below,” he motioned to the bedroom doors, “and the auditorium can be the new recording studio.”

As he darted around, the studs on Bakugou’s jacket would catch the sunlight every so often. Kirishima kept watching him, an involuntary smile growing on his face. He felt his body start to tingle with anticipation as if he had something to do with all the excitement.

But, there was something Bakugou had said that he was caught up on—

we?

“I’ll keep the original brick but inlay some new tile on the inside,” Bakugou was now muttering more to himself than anything.

“Katsuki,” Kirishima called out to him.

Bakugou continued to murmur to himself, something about retaining the integrity of the iron-wrought windows.

“Katsuki!”

Kirishima’s insistent voice boomed through the empty, abandoned factory. It coaxed Bakugou’s attention back to him, particularly the affection that was laced all throughout it. Bakugou’s exhilarated expression softened. He walked calmly towards Kirishima, his lips primed to make an offer.

“Listen, Eiji,” he said softly.

Kirishima nearly melted at the sound of his name, especially since it was being spoken by his favorite person.

“I’m not gonna force you to do anything,” Bakugou continued, “but with every penny I earned to go towards this house, I thought about how damn nice it would be to have you there with me.”

For a moment, Kirishima’s jaw simply went slack. It was all too much, seeing Bakugou and the hideout and Sero’s funeral all in one day. The careful, quiet part of Kirishima begged him to decline, to pretend that the interaction never happened—but hadn’t he spent the last eight years squashing that part of him into submission?

“I just—,” he stammered, “I don’t know if I could live here again, not with my old house just down the street.”

It was a genuine fear, one that had haunted him the entire trip there. He prayed that he wouldn’t even pass the road. But living here? There was no way he could do it, not even if it meant being with Bakugou.

“I swear it’s not the town you remember,” Bakugou pled, “and I think your old house was in some freak accident last night. A fire just started and—“

With a raised brow, Bakugou motioned an explosion with his hands. Kirishima glared at him quizzically, Bakugou had to suppress his knowing smirk.

“Is that so?” Kirishima asked teasingly.

Bakugou shrugged, “Coulda been anything, a lightning strike or a busted gas line.”

“Or a lit cigarette dropped onto the dry wood?” Kirishima teased further.

As expected, Bakugou didn’t indulge Kirishima with the answer, yet it all seemed crystal clear.

“I know being here is hard,” Bakugou admitted, “but if you run away from it all, then it’s just one more thing your dad has ruined for you. Don’t let him mess with your life, like that.”

Kirishima swallowed the thick concept. The feeling he’d gotten while driving back into town, it was identical to the feeling he’d gotten at the court case years ago, he felt so small and insignificant, vulnerable to the world around him.

But Bakugou was right. Despite years of work and toil, Kirishima’s father still had a hold over him in the smallest and strangest of ways, the thought made him want to burst into tears.

“Again, I won’t make you do something you don’t want to do,” Bakugou reiterated with a concerned expression.

Kirishima chuckled.

“Now this is out of character,” he taunted, “the Bakugou I knew eight years ago would’ve shown up at my bedroom window every night until I said yes.”

Bakugou’s brow rose, “If that’s what it’ll take, I’ll do it all over again.”

Ei,

For most of my life, I believed I didn’t need anyone other than myself. And for a lot of that time, I was right—well, I was right until I met you.

And that’s gonna be the difference between me and your cocksucker dad,

the difference is that I love you and can’t live another day without you.

Man, that was sappy, I said I wouldn’t hit you with anymore shit like this but it’s been eight years so I guess I can give myself a pass. God, I wanna tell you this in person. I hope I get the chance soon.

Kirishima’s heart was inflating to the point where it pressed up against his ribs. As he stared down at Bakugou gazing at him, his entire body began to thrum to a steady beat, the march of life.

His father would always tell him that he didn’t know what he wanted and all his choices were tainted by the desires of the flesh. But if the desires of his flesh were so terrible, why was he so happy imagining the rest of his life with Bakugou Katsuki? Could it be that his fear of being wrong was keeping him from truly living?

“Don’t tell me you have a loving husband and golden retriever and picket fence back in Virginia,” Bakugou groaned to the speechless man.

Kirishima chuckled and shook his head. Slowly, he watched Bakugou’s hand reach for his, and they laced fingers with a practiced, swift movement. Bakugou’s hand was even rougher than he remembered, but they fit together so seamlessly that they might as well have been molded for one another. Kirishima wondered if the Lord had done it on purpose, shaped their hands just right and allowed their paths to cross once more.

Nothing was coincidence, Kirishima learned that long ago.

It was all purpose.

It was all good.

“Stay here with me,” Bakugou pled softly.

It was a familiar scene, the only difference being that Bakugou’s face wasn’t battered and bloody and they were both sure now of what they really wanted.

Kirishima smiled. It hung on the tip of his tongue. It was such a simple word, he should’ve said it ages ago. He was tired of fighting. So, after eight years, Kirishima rested.

“Yes,” he replied.

The sun glimmered through the windows, illuminating the floating bits of dust around his head. His eyes widened.

“Yes?” He asked in earnest.

Kirishima’s smile widened.

“Yes,” he nodded.

Bakugou held onto him tighter, “Yes!”

Before he knew it, Kirishima was swept up in Bakugou’s arms, his strength enough to pick his feet up off the ground. Bakugou spun him all the way around, Kirishima wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulders as he did. Kirishima’s heart that was once growing had now burst and rained a flood of joy over every inch of his body. His dyes were scrunched and his teeth bared to the sun, the occasional breathy laugh escaping from between them. When Bakugou finally put him down, he refused to part further than from where he could see Kirishima’s face.

“You’re sure this is what you want?” Bakugou asked breathily, “You’re certain this is life you want?”

There was an old prayer which popped up in Kirishima’s mind, at that moment, one he hadn’t said for eight long years. And while it had always brought him comfort, thr act of begging the Lord to not let his next decision be a mistake, he was filled with a certainty in Bakugou’s presence.

Kirishima didn’t need to worry,

he knew that he was making the right decision.

Kirishima chuckled.

“You talk too much.”

In one swift motion, he’d taken the collar of Bakugou’s jacket in both hands and pulled him into a burning kiss. It felt so right, their mouths made only for one another. Kirishima had been able to dream of the feeling, Bakugou’s hand in his hair and his lips slotted with his own, but the actual thing was far better than anything he could’ve imagined. It filled his body with pure sunshine, starting at the tips of his toes and crawling to the top of his head where Bakugou was carding his hands through his hair.

They parted, breathing jagged and hearts beating like drums.

“Y’know,” Bakugou hummed and gazed at Kirishima’s hair, “I think I preferred the red.”

With matching grins, they leaned back in to kiss again, and again, and again—making up for lost time, they would claim. They couldn’t wind themselves close enough to each other, Kirishima would crawl right into Bakugou’s skin, if he could. But the knowledge that they had many years in front of them brought him peace.

As far as Kirishima was concerned, they had all the time in the world.

And when he finally looked back on it all some number of years later, dogs in the backyard and children playing upstairs, the sound of musicians strumming nearby and the familiar sunlight streaming through the windows, Kirishima would feel it—assurance.

There were never right decisions or wrong decisions because good is buried within it all. Good fathers are often raised by bad fathers who they refuse to emulate. Lovers taken by death leave room for healing and new love to enter in.

It is these things which Kirishima gazed over, his past and present and future, and he saw that it was good.

It was very, very good.

“I have been astonished that men could die for religion—I have shuddered at it—I shudder no more—I could be martyred for my religion—love is my religion—I could die for that—I could die for you.”

John Keats

The End