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The afternoon was hot. The traffic crawled. The heat off the pavement mixed with exhaust, a combination of chemicals and temperature that always made sense in Bakugo's head. The sun’s glare cut across windshields, obscuring the faces of working stiffs and secretaries making their way home from the offices downtown. It was noisy in this section of the city, between the frustrated honks of car horns and the heavy mechanical sounds from the occasional subway station. Someone nearby yelled for a taxi.
Bakugo was already walking home when he got the call. Last-minute, they said, if he could manage it. The criminal had some type of air manipulation quirk. He was spotted on top of a building, a few blocks away, yelling from a rooftop with an arm around another man’s neck. Bakugo said whatever. He’d take care of it.
Bakugo despised hostage situations. Mostly because they were tricky as hell to deal with. They were sensitive. The stakes were high. He was almost never able to go all-out. Plus, they made his mind wander, sifting through images of shitty old dive bars and the feeling of hands around his throat. He shoved his phone into a pocket and started running.
Not to mention the crowds they attracted. Bakugo came upon a large group of people, gawking like idiots up at the rooftop. Not one of them doing anything useful. He grabbed a man by the shoulder of his suit coat and leaned into his face. Bakugo’s tone hadn’t actually changed much from his high school days. He was older now, so his voice read as more authoritative than angry, but still as intimidating as it had always been. “Hey, tall guy. Clear the street. Now .” Bakugo turned and sprinted before he figured out if the man was capable of following directions.
The best solution to a hostage situation was to put a stop to it before it got into its negotiation phase (boring) and before the criminal had a chance to harm the hostage (obviously). The easiest way to accomplish that was through surprise. Bakugo blasted himself along the edge of the building opposite the situation, banking that the crowd was loud enough to hide his approach. He reached the rooftop and ducked behind a water tank, his back pressed up against cold metal. He reached towards his belt, taking the weight of a grenade into his palm and releasing it from its holster.
He overheard talking. Yelling, more like. “Did you even think , Wallace? Think about my goddamn family? Where am I supposed to go now?”
Up close, the criminal was haggard and his business clothes had gone sloppy and misplaced in the struggle. His hair was long and blown back away from his face, highlighting the wildness of his eyes and the stress mounted into his temples. He gripped a hand over his hostage’s mouth. With his airflow apparently cut off, the man’s face went purplish immediately and his arms waved frantically.
Bakugo pulled the pin and chucked the grenade into a cement wall, sending rocks and dust into the air to serve as a distraction. A spray of pebbles flew over the building’s edge, and Bakugo hoped if the man hadn’t cleared the street, an uncomfortable flurry of debris would. Before the dust settled, he blasted his hands behind him to accelerate, running full speed along the edge of the roof until he dove towards the two men, spiraling opposite the grenade’s explosion.
Bakugo’s shoulder slammed into the criminal’s lower back, knocking him off balance. He heard a crack as some number of vertebrae popped and shifted. The criminal let out a surprised yell and released his grip on the hostage.
It was a textbook separation, one that he would’ve been proud of, except his buddy Wallace was a clumsy motherfucker and went stumbling, mouth gasping and feet scraping, into the rooftop’s ledge.
Bakugo locked eyes with the man as he toppled. Yelled, “What are you doing ?!” as he unsuccessfully tried to grab onto his frantically waving hand. Bakugo saw a pair of black socks under brown dress shoes disappear over the edge of the building.
Jumping after him was a dumb move, but the only one available. Before he could consider the risks, Bakugo launched himself over the ledge, the side of the building flattening along the background of his vision as he propelled himself downwards. Wallace’s ass was in front of Bakugo’s face, and he exploded his palm behind him another time before he was able to throw an arm solidly around the guy’s waist. With the hostage secured in his grip, he contorted his body to the side so that they spun harshly into an upright position. Thank god Bakugo could do aerials in his sleep, because Wallace unhelpfully had his arms and legs spread out like a human parachute.
Bakugo could get around five or six explosions in a row before they started to weaken. He was past that, but the incoming pavement encouraged him to dig deeper for more power. His hand flexed in the air, veins pulsing through his arm, and he delivered a final blow to the street beneath them. They slowed down just enough to ensure that his pal Wallace collapsed into a writhing heap on the ground instead of a dead one. He was fucking welcome.
Bakugo stood in the middle of the street, breathing heavily. The crowd, which had backed up, thank christ , began a tentative cheer. Their faces began to relax, until someone screamed and pointed upwards.
A guttural yell began above Bakugo’s head. He looked upwards to see the criminal diving from the edge of the building, suit coat flapping like a cape behind his body, with a microwave-sized chunk of stone between his hands. The man’s eyes were fixated on the guy on the ground with the intent to crush him into the dirt.
Bakugo jumped over Wallace, who cowered with his face against the pavement. Bakugo gripped his left hand around his right forearm, bracing it. Sparks ignited into a fireball above him, pointed at the chunk of stone. Before they clashed, a wind picked up around him, blowing pebbles and dirt into his face. His ears warbled rhythmically with the airflow, like he was driving on the highway with a window open. He squinted against it. The criminal’s face strained with effort, his quirk acting out beyond his control. His yell got louder. Fire exploded from Bakugo’s palm.
BOOM.
It was a solid fucking hit. At that moment, he heard the earth tearing apart, grating like a crack opening up between his feet.
When he looked down, there was solid ground beneath him. Wallace lay untouched next to him, still squirming. The chunk of cement was broken into softball-sized chunks around them.
Then the pain hit.
Bakugo’s ears throbbed, the feeling hitting deep inside his skull, the pain radiating into his jaw and up to the top of his head. In the middle of the street, dust swirling in clouds around him, he dropped to his knees. He heard a fire engine approaching, its siren piercing, and he instinctively clapped his hands over his ears. He looked around for it. The dust was rising in clouds, obscuring his view, and the fire truck was close enough to pummel him- or Wallace- if he didn’t wave it down. He couldn’t find it. He felt blood drip into his palms.
What the fuck.
His first thought was that it was a quirk. He didn’t know if something like that existed (which was piss-off because it made him think about a certain little nerd who would know), but there was nobody near him after the explosion had gone off. The villain was collapsed and unconscious alongside a parked car.
Bakugo stood, and the ground tilted . His feet barely sorted themselves out underneath him. He dropped his hands to help his balance, and he felt blood trickle down his neck. The crowd was caught in transition- some cheering, some looking fearful. Or concerned. Bakugo wasn’t sure why. The villain was taken care of. The hero saved the day. What was their deal? He took a step and the crowd’s faces swirled. And where was the goddamn firetruck? The siren pierced through his ears and into his spine. A wave of nausea buckled him over, causing the leg he was leaning on to give out. His other foot slid over clumsily, too slow. The people’s faces blurred. He was falling. He couldn’t keep track of where the ground was at with his feet swimming beneath him. He saw his hands reach in front of him. A parked car. The sky.
His vision blacked when his head hit the pavement.
* * *
It wasn’t the first time Bakugo woke up in a hospital bed. This time, it was the dull shifting of light past his eyelids that roused him.
He squinted his eyes open to find the sun streaking in through the windows, making it either early morning or late evening. The stark white of the room was washed orange and red. The light blinded him momentarily, until it was blinked out by a silhouette stepping into its path.
He watched his mom talking to a doctor, her face serious. She ran her fingernail along a stack of papers in her hands, the same way she did with work memos and school forms at the kitchen table. All business. She pulled a pen from her pocket, scribbled a note. Nodded. Sighed. She waved briefly when the doctor left, fingers floating up one by one, and offered a polite smile.
Bakugo’s head felt impossibly heavy. He could tell it was wrapped up- pressure and sweat built up over his forehead, his temples, his ears. Itchy where his hair pressed against his forehead. He couldn’t hear the conversation past the layers of bandages.
His mom shifted her weight on her feet, and for the first time Bakugo noticed Kirishima standing behind her, staring wide-eyed up at her face.
Kirishima couldn’t help but wear his expressions earnestly. He looked upset. His face was pale. His mouth fell open, like the time Katsuki had caught him off guard when they were practicing, finally out-pacing Kirishima’s hardening and delivering a sharp blow to his diaphragm. He had laughed then, but he wasn’t now. He said something that looked like a question by the way his upper lip curled against his teeth.
Mitsuki responded by gripping her fingers into Kirishima’s shoulder. The gesture was deeply familiar Bakugo felt it in his gut. There was that time his dog had died, and his mom came to pick him up from school, speaking to him softly as the secretary looked on. That time his favorite All-Might figure got stolen out of the yard (he was still pretty sure Deku was the one who snatched it). That time his dad got into the car accident that left his knee twinged and aching when he walked, but could’ve been much, much worse. Seeing the grip on someone else made him swallow thickly, his mouth run dry.
Kirishima dropped his head and stared at the floor. Bakugo watched his mom. From this angle, she looked different than he had always imagined. Older. More tired. Her teeth were gritted in a mask of composure, lipstick long worn off. Her hand, offered for comfort, held her up like a crutch.
Kirishima finally looked up and over towards Bakugo. Seeing him awake, he swatted at Mitsuki’s arm and pointed. She turned and leaned down to wrap her fingers around Bakugo’s forearm. Sat down. Smiled thinly. Pushed back his hair that wasn’t under wraps.
“What’s going on?” Bakugo asked. The words caught on dead air and layers of fabric. He didn’t hear them.
Mitsuki bit her lip. She reached behind her for a notebook and hesitated her pen above it. Bakugo would’ve yelled about her being slow, or weird, or old, but something about the strain in her expression made him pause. She scribbled something hastily and turned the paper towards him.
Katsuki, the doctor had bad news.
He blinked at her. His legs felt fine. His arms weren’t in casts. He was awake. She scribbled again.
Your hearing, hun. They think it’s permanent.
Bakugo reached a hand up to his head. There were so many damn bandages. They were wrapped too tightly, too thickly, drowning out everything around him. The damn nurses always overdid things. He dug his fingers underneath them, yanking them back from his hairline. His mom tried to stop him but he elbowed her hand away. When he pulled them off, his head felt light and airy. He was dizzy, but it was fine now. He was fine. Everyone could quit being so fucking dramatic. His ears were fine.
But Kirishima caught his attention, staring at him desperately from the side of the bed. They locked eyes, Bakugo held still by Kirishima’s fear, his worry. Kirishima had said Bakugo’s name a thousand times- sometimes calling, sometimes laughing, sometimes bragging like an asshole- so Bakugo knew how the syllables dropped out from behind his pointed teeth. He could see them, perfectly clear, but the sound fell dead at his feet. He remembered the blood on his palms, dripping down his neck.
Empty. His ears were empty.
He broke eye contact and stared down at his hands instead. “Get out,” Bakugo ordered. It felt like he was speaking softly, but Kirishima still jumped.
Mitsuki nodded slowly, eyeing them closely. She reached for the stack of papers and laid them on Bakugo’s lap. She squeezed his arm meaningfully, wrote I’ll be back after dinner in the notebook, and led Kirishima out of the room, dragging him along by the elbow.
Bakugo burned the papers in his fist.
* * *
A few days passed in the hospital. A few days passed at his parents’ house. He finally ended up back at his apartment, a week later, after he got tired of sleeping on a twin mattress and staring up at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom.
The doctors made plans. There were a few of them now, doing tests and showing him charts and graphs. They wrote things down for him, which took fucking forever, and it didn't matter anyway, because his mom would inevitably take over by having her own private conversations out loud once Bakugo got fed up with everyone. He got it. His ears were blown to absolute shit. What more could they possibly have to say about it?
Kirishima texted him. A lot. He wanted to hang out, but that just felt like a joke at this point. What would they even do? Bakugo couldn't act like everything was normal, or even getting better. Bakugo was pissed off, beyond belief , that some no-name airbender had gone out of control and created the perfect storm to completely fuck over his ears. Word spread through the rest of the class, and they messaged him too, but all of the words were dripping with pity. He wasn’t dead . Denki tried to call him, once, and that almost got Bakugo to reply because of how fucking stupid it was.
On a Thursday, Bakugo kicked over his TV and slammed the door on his way out of the apartment, feeling his hand buzz slightly from the impact. It was deeply dark outside, past midnight. The looming shadows and tall buildings hung closely around him. If the utter lack of sound wasn’t heavy enough, the darkness drowned him wholly underwater. He stretched his fingers, aching for the feeling of weights in his hands. Something solid. The private gym was only a few blocks away and open twenty-four hours. He doubted anyone else would come so late.
The gym quickly became his routine. Doctor’s appointments or whatever else during the day. Working out at night to stave off the sleeplessness that came from being in total, unnerving silence.
Bakugo lifted the bar away from his chest and set it down on the rack. He stared at the high ceiling, breathing heavily as sweat rolled off his face and onto the bench. The weight room opened up against a larger area with glossy wooden floors. Moonlight streamed in from the high windows. He had planned to do cardio, but he didn’t feel like it anymore. He put his weights away and walked towards the pull-up bar instead. He lifted a towel up to his face, scrubbing at it, and pushed back his hair.
When he dropped it, he saw Kirishima halfway through the doorway. Gripping the handle, one foot in, one foot out. His hair was pushed back behind a white headband. The sleeves of his hoodie dropped over his knuckles. The fact that he wasn’t wearing any weird patterns meant that he was serious about something, or incredibly tired. He stared for a moment before setting his expression and walking into the room. Serious, then. He pulled out his phone on the way and typed something. While he did, he glanced up and down, like Bakugo would bolt if he didn’t maintain eye contact. He held up the phone.
Talk to me.
Bakugo would’ve smacked it away, except Kirishima was already prepared for him to try that, with his thumb wrapped around the front of the screen.
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Bakugo responded.
Even though he knew it was coming, logically, the quiet of his words still panicked him, and he bunched his towel into his fist. Kirishima was already typing again, tilting his head down, and Bakugo watched his tangled mess of red hair. Kirishima held up the screen again.
It doesn’t have to be about that. And then he pointed to the top of the screen. Talk to me.
Bakugo made a face as he pushed Kirishima’s arm out of his way. He started to walk away, but a hand caught onto his elbow.
This time, Kirishima didn’t try to type anything. Only stared, brows knitted low on his face. Kirishima was a person who smiled idly, so it was rare for him to look determined for so long. Bakugo got the message- Kirishima could be damn stubborn when he wanted to- but made an effort to shake him off anyway.
Kirishima didn’t budge.
Bakugo writhed even harder, to no avail. He felt the fingers go steely against his upper arm, vice-like.
“Get off ,” Bakugo warned.
Kirishima pulled him backward.
“I said get OFF.” Bakugo pulled back a fist, sending sparks flying out of it on the way.
Kirishima only hardened his side, the sheen of the sharp, planed edges pulling up under his jawline. He shook his head and doubled down on his grip, squeezing harder.
Bakugo yelled, and even though he didn’t hear it, he could feel it, the pressure bursting from his lungs and filling up his throat. His fist lit up Kirishima’s face, bonfire-like, before Bakugo drove it in his direction. Kirishima lifted an arm, blocked the explosion by knocking it upwards and sending it towards the ceiling.
While Kirishima watched it fizzle out, Bakugo swept his legs in one smooth motion, knocking him to the floor and finally getting Kirishima’s hand to loosen.
Instead of being pinned, Kirishima rolled onto his upper back and kicked hard off of Bakugo’s stomach. Bakugo couldn't help but smile to himself as he folded slightly to absorb some of the shock. He usually won out in the air, but Kirishima was a goddamn force from the floor. With his opening created, Kirishima scrambled to his feet and crouched low, fists solid and crossed in front of his face. Bakugo charged him, faking right and dodging left to land a blow against Kirishima’s ribs.
Bakugo didn’t want to talk. That was true. But it was also true that he was enjoying this. Every hit against Kirishima felt solid and familiar. Every blow to his own body felt grounding. He was sharp. He was present. His mind wasn’t swimming, searching for signals that no longer existed. He was focused, watching the pointing of Kirishima’s feet and the movement of his hips. The strain of muscle under his sweatshirt.
Eventually Bakugo landed a hard kick into Kirishima’s thighs and he felt the skin soften under his foot. Kirishima was reaching his limit. Bakugo capitalized, firing off a rapid duet of explosions, one at his chest and then at his legs. With the blows landed, Kirishima was knocked off-balance. He stumbled once, and Bakugo didn’t give him a chance to regain his footing. He lowered his shoulder and lunged forward, knocking Kirishima flat on his back against the wooden floor. Bakugo pinned him there, his lower leg across Kirishima’s thighs.
Kirishima was breathing heavily, wrists caught above his head, clamped down by Bakugo’s hand. A bead of sweat rolled along his jawline. Bakugo’s face was close, the hot air exchanging between them.
In the daytime, Kirishima’s hair was fiery, wildly energetic and licking up towards the sun. In the dim moonlight, it was muted maroon, falling down over his headband and messily around the edges of his face. His eyes matched, embers dully warm instead of burning. Irises pooling in the low light. If he had looked tense when he came in, it was gone now, drained out by the series of punches and kicks.
Fuck the positivity. Fuck the optimism. Kirishima wasn’t even asking for it, had never been. Bakugo's stance started to waver, so he dropped the stiffness out of it and leaned against Kirishima, turning slightly, feeling the solidity of somebody along his side. It was stupid to even think about, stupider to forget, but Kirishima was and always had been a rock, a weight. Steady as an anchor.
Bakugo’s rock.
So when Bakugo leaned up to kiss him, pressing his mouth hard against Kirishima’s and clutching the collar of his sweatshirt into his fist, he still felt the impossible, unending depths of the empty air around him, but he held on, sinking deeply into Kirishima’s chest and settling solidly on the bottom.