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Though he’s hidden his hair under a beanie, covered his face up in a mask, and forgotten to put his reading glasses away, Bakugou sticks out like a sore thumb among the rush of people coming out of the south central gate of Osaka Station. Maybe it’s the burnt orange scarf wrapped around his neck—a gift Kirishima picked out for him a few Christmases ago—or the familiar slouch of his shoulders, one side weighed down by the usual overnight bag slung over it.
“Thought you had a shift until this evening,” Bakugou says by way of greeting when he spots him, because as it turns out, maybe Kirishima—red hair, red bike, toothy grin—sticks out like a sore thumb too.
“Fat gave me the afternoon off when he heard you were visiting,” he explains, tossing Bakugou his helmet. He’d told Fat that Bakugou knew his way around by now, and he even had a spare key to Kirishima’s apartment so he could let himself in. But— “Said work-life balance was important too, or something.”
Bakugou settles in behind him, the added weight a familiar presence against Kirishima’s back, his hands finding their usual spot against Kirishima’s waist. “I still have a report to write for Monday,” Bakugou grumbles, loud enough near Kirishima’s ear. “You said you’d be on patrol tomorrow.”
“Yeah, that’s what I told Fat too. Don’t worry, I’ll pick us up some food while you work on it,” Kirishima tells him, trying hard not to snort at the way Bakugou’s almost bristling. He’s never much liked it when plans change, especially not at the last minute. He kicks up the engine to rev Crimson up, Bakugou’s hold on him tightening automatically. “Feeling like anything specific for dinner?”
Kirishima feels Bakugou’s shrug in response. “Whatever’s good,” he says. “But let’s eat in.”
The ride to Kirishima’s apartment doesn’t take long, given how central it is—Bakugou’d helped him pick it out a few years ago, after Fat sent him the sidekick offer, and he’d been the one to make sure it ticked all the good, practical boxes Kirishima should be looking for in an apartment. He’d had to compromise on the size of it—there was barely room for his punching bag, for example, when all was said and done—but it wasn’t bad for a first apartment.
They go up to Kirishima’s second floor unit only long enough to drop off Bakugou’s stuff and figure out what’s in the fridge and the pantry before they head out again to grab food from the grocery store around the corner. That, too, had been part of the apartment’s selling point for Bakugou, who pointed out carrying groceries home on a bike would be a hassle. And while Kirishima hadn’t believed him then, he’d turned out to be right.
“I was thinking katsudon tonight, grilled meat tomorrow? And there should be enough for curries for lunch, still.”
“Yeah? You know how to make katsudon now?” Bakugou asks, the challenge in his tone offset only by the slight curl at the corner of his lips.
“I’m not that hopeless anymore, you know!” Kirishima tsks, nudging him against the shoulder. They snicker, because the last time Kirishima was at Bakugou’s he’d accidentally caused a grease fire in the oven, but at least had the presence of mind to put it out before they’d had to call in the firefighters.
Bakugou snorts. “Hopefully you can at least turn the stove off now.”
“I know how!” Kirishima insists. He does; it’s been a few years since he started living on his own and he can fend for himself. It’s not like Bakugou’s around all the time to do the fending for him, anyway.
Still, he lets Bakugou pick out the groceries, since he’s always the more discerning about which vegetables are better and pickier about which cuts of meat he likes. There’s a little discussion about whether or not one brand of barbecue marinade is better than the other—it’s only a few hundred yen more, and according to Bakugou it makes a difference—but a half-shrug from Bakugou when they get to the beer section. He’d never cared for drinking as much, so Kirishima picks out his usual six-pack of Asahi.
“You gonna answer that?” Bakugou asks on their walk back, when Kirishima’s phone dings for the fourth time since they left the store.
Kirishima considers shifting his bag of groceries to the same hand he’s got the beer with when another message chimes in. “Eh. Mind picking it up for me? It’s probably just the group chat.”
“You have notifications for that turned on?” Bakugou asks, incredulous, fishing Kirishima’s phone out of his pocket and swiping it open after keying in Kirishima’s code. “They’re just spam.”
“You don’t? They’re our friends—is this why you never say anything in there?” Kirishima says with a laugh. “What’s up?”
“Doesn’t make them not spammers,” Bakugou mutters, scrolling through the messages. “I mute the chat—you’ll tell me when I have to look, anyway. S’just Ashido and Kaminari whining again, so nothing new.”
“What about?” Kirishima asks, watching Bakugou type out a reply. “Oy, are you telling them off from my phone?”
“They’ll know, anyway. They’re already asking if I’m with you yet.” Bakugou frowns at the screen, his thumb moving deliberately across it like the slow but grammatically perfect texter he is.
“Yes, well, that’s because they’re good friends who like checking in on you, so maybe sometimes you should tell them you’re okay, too.”
“If anything had happened between the train ride from Tokyo to here, it’d be on the news,” Bakugou points out. “Because I’d have taken care of it.”
“That’s not the point,” Kirishima says, even though Bakugou does make a good one. He lets Bakugou open the door to the apartment when they arrive, toeing off his shoes at the entrance and following Bakugou into the kitchen. “I can take care of this—you wanna take a shower while I do?”
Bakugou stares at him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t set anything on fire,” he says, finally, before heading to the bathroom.
The rice is in the cooker, the pork is frying in the pan, and Kirishima’s opened a can of beer by the time he remembers to pick up his phone to check the messages from the chat. Bakugou’s right—there’s nothing pressing in there for him: Mina checking to see if Bakugou made it to Osaka okay, Kaminari asking if anyone’s free to hang out for the evening, Sero begging off for reasons he won’t disclose.
Kaminari
you’re going on a date, aren’t you?
is it that interviewer from the variety show you did?
the one with the silver hair?
Mina
no way! the who what now???
I need a name, stat
Sero!!!! Why didn’t you tell us!!!!
Kaminari
it’s ooe fukumi
Sero
Whoa whoa no one said anything about a date
There’s nothing to tell
We’re just hanging out
Kaminari
that’s how it begins, man!
Sero
And you are the preeminent expert on this because…?
Kaminari
wow low blow
Kirishima
if Sero says it’s not a date it’s not a date
...unless he wants it to be?
Sero
Not you too!
Mina
holy shit Sero she’s hot!
SMOKING
ugh and you’re a decent guy too i bet you hit it off
then we’ll never see you again
we lose another one to coupledom
Sero
I’m gonna repeat
We are all getting ahead of ourselves here
Kirishima
you really sound like you’re into her though
have fun hanging out, sero!
(good luck!)
Mina
meanwhile i’m still languishing here
why are the pickings so slim
Sero
How do I sound like I’m into her?
I’ve barely talked about her!
Kirishima
you just deserve someone as awesome as you, mina!
Mina
shut up Kaminari
that’s exactly why, Sero!
Kaminari
i wasn’t even saying anything!
Kirishima
don’t worry about it too much
Mina
i could sense your desperation from here
Kaminari
so cold
i see how it is
Kirishima
it’s not like sero went out looking for fukumi-san right?
Sero
Once again I would like to point out
Mina
easy for you to say, red
“Oy,” Bakugou says, poking Kirishima in the back, his pointy chin digging into Kirishima’s shoulder as he looks over at the text messages, which is enough to make Kirishima yelp and nearly drop his phone.
“Bakugou! What—”
“Your katsudon’s gonna burn,” Bakugou points out with a light tap on his hip, snorting when Kirishima scrambles to take the pan out of the fire.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Kirishima assures him, though he manages to save dinner only barely. “I got it.”
“Sure you do,” Bakugou says, picking up his phone and typing a message out. “I’m gonna tell them we’re eating so they can shut up.”
“Don’t be rude!” Kirishima tells him, too busy doling out dinner to actually check. It should be fine, anyway—they’re all used to Bakugou by now. He ducks out of the way as Bakugou reaches out to open the fridge and grab the hot sauce Kirishima keeps in there for him, then carries the plates out into the living room. “Can you get the beer? And my ph—”
“Got your phone,” Bakugou says, following him out. He takes his seat next to Kirishima, clapping his hands to give thanks for the food before picking out a slice of pork to taste. He chews on it too long, his eyes narrowed like he’s scrutinizing the taste.
“What,” Kirishima prompts him, feeling pretty scrutinized. He did almost burn it.
“Hmmm.”
“Bakugou.”
Bakugou takes another thoughtful bite. Arms crossed, eyes closed, brow furrowed. He pops an eye open just to catch Kirishima reaching out to shake him, and cracks a grin. “Not bad, Shitty Hair. Not bad at all.”
“Here,” Kirishima says, returning from the kitchen with another can of beer and a pack of the extra spicy potato chips Bakugou’s addicted to. He settles back down on the floor, taking a sip of his drink while Bakugou opens the bag and pours it into a bowl for sharing. “That’s the last one, but I’ll pick up more tomorrow while you work on your report.”
“S’alright, I don’t need it,” Bakugou says, but only after a significant pause.
“I’ll pick up more snacks I can eat too, no big.” Kirishima grins. “Besides, sounds like it’s gonna be a lot of work. Group project?”
Bakugou grunts, and it’s response enough. Nobody ever told him he had to continue studying on top of his job as a pro hero, but hero policy was a field not enough heroes concerned themselves with, especially for something that essentially dictated rules and regulations for heroes. If they wanted hero society to change—and it needed to—Bakugou was going to put in the legwork and start there.
“That bad, huh.”
Bakugou crunches aggressively on a chip. “That prick of a politician’s son is in my group,” he mutters, and ah, yes, Kirishima’s heard about this asshole. “He’s fighting me on every single point of our proposal and won’t fucking budge even when it’s backed up with data. And nobody else in the group wants to weigh in even though I know they think he’s just talking out of his ass too.”
“You’re just gonna have to win them over with facts,” Kirishima says, pushing a can of beer over to Bakugou, who takes a large swig of it. “You got a game plan?”
Bakugou scoffs. “Obviously,” he says, before discussing how he plans to demolish his classmate’s arguments point for point.
Kirishima can’t say he follows everything completely—he didn’t decide to pursue higher studies—but what Bakugou says makes sense, which of course it does. It’s Bakugou. He’s brilliant.
“How about you?” Bakugou asks once that avenue of conversation dies down. “That mission with Kaminari’s agency still going?”
“Yeah, it’s been kinda slow. We went up to Yokohama last week to help with the security detail for our informant, but Kaminari and I just ended up hanging out.”
“They put you guys in security?” Bakugou raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, we’re on rotation right now. Guess he’s really important.” Kirishima wrinkles his nose. It wasn’t the kind of work he did often, so there had been some restlessness when they ended up having to wait outside the informant’s apartment while he got ready between meetings.
Bakugou shudders. “I hate those missions. You learn anything good, at least?”
“Not even.” They didn’t end up learning much about the mission, either—some things intelligence still liked to keep on a need-to-know basis, and the informant didn’t talk much. “Kaminari told me a lot about this intern they have though. Apparently he’s just started dating his classmate so his boyfriend picks him up after every patrol and the whole agency thinks it’s cute.”
Emphasis on the his, emphasis on the boyfriend, courtesy of Kaminari.
“Okay?”
“Yeah, I don’t know either. I think—” Kirishima starts, scratching at his chin thoughtfully. “I think Kaminari likes someone.”
“When does he not like anyone,” Bakugou mutters, furrowing his brow.
“Like. Maybe a guy.”
Bakugou shoots him a look. “Remember the third year cultural festival? When he kept going up to Class B to challenge your thrift store clone at their arm wrestling thing?”
“Yeah? What about Tets—oh.”
“When does Kaminari not like anyone,” Bakugou repeats, shaking his head.
Bakugou hasn't only washed the dishes by the time Kirishima gets out of the shower, he’s also tidied up the living room a little, putting some of the magazines Kirishima had lying around onto a neat pile in a corner of the table and clearing out the randoms bits of receipts and mail that have collected around the apartment. He’s seated on the floor with one of his textbooks propped up on the table, legs stretched out beneath it.
“Getting started already?” Kirishima asks, haphazardly drying off his still-damp hair with the towel slung around his shoulders.
“You’re dripping water onto your own floor,” Bakugou points out, marking his place in the textbook and pushing himself up to stand before motioning Kirishima over to sit. “Dry it properly.”
“It’s fine,” Kirishima says, but he takes the spot right by the foot of the couch where Bakugou had been. He picks up the mail Bakugou had sorted through, leafing through them. “Oh, I need to RSVP to this one.”
“Is that for the Children’s Gala?” Bakugou asks, coming out from the bathroom with Kirishima’s blow dryer and hair brush. He takes the spot on the couch directly behind Kirishima, the loud whirr of the blow dryer immediately drowning everything else out.
“Mm,” Kirishima hums in reply, leaning his head forward and letting Bakugou’s fingers brush through the strands of his hair, massaging his scalp as he shakes out the damp of the shower with heated air. It’s a soothing, quiet thing, letting Bakugou move his head this way and that as he angles the blow dryer to focus on different parts of his head, fingers winding through locks of it to dry. He waits until Bakugou’s done, the blow dryer turned off, his fingers doing one last pass through his hair. “You’re going too, right?”
“Yeah, they’ll kick up a fuss at the agency if I don’t.” Bakugou strokes through the crown of Kirishima’s head. “You need to touch up your roots again.”
“Can we do that on Sunday? Before you go?”
“Yeah, sure.” Bakugou sets the blow dryer down, picking up the brush and running it through Kirishima’s hair. “Are you bringing anyone with you?”
“Huh?”
“To the gala.”
“Oh! No.” Kirishima snorts, his head pulled back when the brush finds a particularly stubborn tangle. He blinks up at Bakugou. “I think they finally stopped giving me a plus-one on these things. Are you?”
“Nah. I’m sure the old hag would love to go, but why would I do that?”
“She’s perfectly lovely!”
“That’s what she wants everyone else to think.”
Kirishima laughs. “Well, maybe if we’re lucky they’d seat us next to each other like last time, too.”
“Yeah,” Bakugou says after a while. “That’d be less terrible.”
Bakugou stifles his first yawn a little after ten, which is later than Kirishima knows his usual bedtime actually is, so he turns off the TV where some kind of variety show is playing and tidies up the living room—why could he never remember to do that when he’s on his own?—while Bakugou shuffles into the bedroom to take the futon out.
“Hey,” Kirishima says when he walks in, skirting the edges of the futon to climb into his bed. “Is this room too small, do you think?”
“Hah?”
Kirishima shrugs, shifting to turn onto his side and face Bakugou. He’d known space was the price he’d pay for the cost and the location of his apartment, but looking at the setup now, the futon really just barely fits. “You know how Midoriya came up here to accept that honorary thing from the mayor last month?”
“Yeah?”
“Sounds like they had trouble putting him up somewhere—for some reason there was a convention so most of the hotels were booked—and he nearly didn’t have a place to stay. So I told him he was welcome to crash here anytime he wanted, if that ever happened again, but he just looked at me funny.” Kirishima frowns, still not sure why Midoriya had seemed so surprised.
“Yeah. Well. He’s got a funny face,” Bakugou mumbles.
“Bakugou,” Kirishima says, but he can’t help the snort that comes out. “He just asked if there was room. I mean. He’s been here before so I guess that’s why he was curious, but he knows you visit often. Where does he think you sleep?”
“Who knows with him?” Bakugou huffs, turning over so he’s facing Kirishima too. “He probably just wants to have his own room but he’s too chicken-shit to say it out loud.”
“Mm.”
“Maybe he knows your apartment won’t have room for his luggage. We used to go camping with him and his mother, you know. Deku doesn’t know how to pack,” Bakugou continues to muse. “Couldn’t part with all his hero memorabilia. Bet he knows there’s no room in here for his Silver Age All Might body pillow.”
“Bakugou.”
Bakugou snickers. “I’m not lying. He really has one.”
“You’re probably just bitter he outbid you on eBay for that,” Kirishima whispers, yelping when Bakugou lobs a pillow at him in response. “Hey!”
“Shut up,” Bakugou tells him, half-laughing.
“If he does sleep over,” Kirishima says, “I promise I’ll steal the pillow for yo—mmph!”
“Oh my god, shut up,” Bakugou says, pouncing all of a sudden to press his pillow over Kirishima’s face and cackling like the menace he is as Kirishima struggles to throw him off.
But they’re both pro heroes, evenly matched in close-range combat no matter how lighthearted their roughhousing, so it takes some time before Bakugou finally relents and Kirishima manages to half-shove him away, gasping a breathless, “Okay, okay!” as he does. “Remind me to be ready next time I hit a sore spot.”
“I’d still kick your ass,” Bakugou says from where he’s sitting on Kirishima’s waist, his grin exponentially more feral when it’s lit up with moonlight like this, matching the glittering red of his gaze.
“Every other time, maybe.” Kirishima tilts his head to the side when Bakugou doesn’t make any move to return to his futon. “Is the floor too cold for you again?”
“Your apartment’s always too cold this time of year.”
Kirishima can’t tell—he’s been told he has the internal body temperature of a furnace—but he pushes Bakugou off him and moves closer to the wall. “Alright, then,” he says, pulling his blanket up and letting Bakugou crawl in next to him. “Better?”
Bakugou doesn’t answer, but he curls in, his back to Kirishima’s front, and fills up the space Kirishima leaves open for him, much warmer than Kirishima expects when he slings an arm around his waist to draw him closer, inhaling the smell of his own shampoo when he buries his face in Bakugou’s hair.
“You were cold too,” comes Bakugou’s soft accusation, muffled against the pillow.
Kirishima yawns. “Didn’t notice.”
He really didn’t. Mina says he never does, anyway, that he’s got to have something bang him upside the head for him to catch on. She’s been saying that a lot lately, though.
“Hopeless,” Bakugou mutters, just before Kirishima falls asleep.
He should ask him what he means tomorrow.