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Some guy has been standing three feet too close to Kirishima for the past five minutes.
Katsuki watches as the guy leans in, front pressed unnecessarily close to Kirishima’s, mouth hovering over his ear. It's hard to argue that the proximity is because of the heavy bass resounding through the club's walls when this guy keeps his palm laid against Kirishima's bicep, a predatory glint in his eyes.
Kirishima's face twists uncomfortably at the touch, but he nods politely to whatever the man seems to patter on about.
The thing is, Kirishima's patience runs deep.
Katsuki knows this, has known this since freshman year of college. It’s a fact that would be easier to refute had Kirishima not born Katsuki's mood outbursts and short temper with a smile that was easy for him to offer and even easier for Katsuki to accept, not that he would ever soberly admit it.
Despite Katsuki's perpetual scowl acting as a human repellent to everyone else, Kirishima had bludgeoned Katsuki's walls with a battering ram like they were paper fucking thin.
If you get enough alcohol coursing through Katsuki's system, he might admit to feeling grateful to Kirishima's unceasing pool of patience. Right now, however, Katsuki wishes Kirishima had a lower bullshit tolerance.
Sweaty bodies press all around Katsuki, and he doesn't notice that he has left his perch at the booth until he's halfway across the crowded dance floor, propelled by something dark and possessive curling at the base of his spine.
He sidles up to the bar where Kirishima is indulging the guy and listens as a strained chuckle emanates from his throat. And it’s that sound, choked off and uneasy, that raises Katsuki’s hackles. Kirishima is the easiest person to draw a laugh from. How badly did this guy fuck up to get him looking this uncomfortable?
Perhaps it's the alcohol buzzing in his system, or the heady flash of the club's light, or the sight of Kirishima unhappy, but something compels Katsuki to wrap an arm around Kirishima's middle, leaning up slightly to press a long kiss against his cheek in a split-second decision.
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
"Hey," Katsuki coos, taking in Kirishima's startled wide eyes and gives his waist a reassuring squeeze. He tries to communicate don't fuck this up with his eyes. "Y'alright?"
Kirishima, to his credit, seems to recover quickly, relaxing against Katsuki's side. "Yeah," he breathes, gazing down at Katsuki. His face is flushed from the alcohol. "Um, Itsuki here was just telling me about his... singing career.”
Upon closer inspection, Katsuki is able to take in the guy’s slicked-back hair, a poor rendition of Alex Turner’s quiff, and the gaudy ring puncturing his septum. He resists the urge to scoff.
“Oh yeah?” Katsuki asks, prying the drink Kirishima is nursing out of his fingers and taking a large swig. In his peripherals, Kirishima tracks the motion. The guy looks between them with a frown before responding. He doesn’t seem to have registered the implications of Katsuki’s actions yet, the thick fuck.
“I’m a Soundcloud rapper.”
Harsh, loud laughter thunders through Katsuki’s chest, threatening to spill the liquid over the glass' rim. This cannot be real.
"Nothing of the indie persuasion? No rockstar influences, then? What with the getup, and all.” He feels an elbow jab at his stomach, but before he can round on Kirishima, the guy pipes up.
"Maybe you should butt out of conversations that don't concern you."
"And maybe,” Katsuki drawls, baring his teeth in a feral grin, “you shouldn’t hit on my boyfriend, dickhead."
The guy's eyes widen, understanding finally dawning on him. Yeah, that’s more like it. "Shit, dude. I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"Yeah, yeah. Just beat it." He waves him off, taking another swig of Kirishima's beer, and the guy obliges, scramming.
Katsuki untangles his arm from around Kirishima and leans back against the bar, setting the beer down at the surface of the counter, fingers still loosely curled around the glass. He lets his eyes fall closed, tries to tune out the blaring lights flashing across his eyelids. Tries not to dwell on the loss of heat.
A year ago, he would've never gone out of his way to rescue someone from an unpleasant conversation. He wonders when he managed to become so goddamn soft. Probably around the time he met Kirishima Eijirou.
"Hey, Bakugou?"
Katsuki opens one eye. Or maybe it's both, he doesn't know. Fuck, he's tipsy. Too many shots in too little time. Kaminari had paid, a celebratory couple of rounds over having secured a new job at a place he's been eying for a few weeks, and Katsuki took full advantage.
Kirishima is looking at him with confusion and something… else. But not anger. Good. "Yeah?"
"What was that?" Kirishima inquires tentatively, and wouldn't Katsuki like to know.
He’s not up to the particularly arduous task of psychoanalyzing himself at the heart of a crowded club with EDM as the soulful track to his musings. However, if he had to, he would venture to say it had something to do with Kirishima’s utter lack of self-preservation and his own particularly short fuse.
Katsuki is not sorry for stepping in. He's not one to tiptoe around things, typically much more inclined to alter things if they don't tickle his fancy. Still, he might have overstepped; it’s not like he has any tangible claim on Kirishima, and it’s not like Kirishima asked for his help.
"You're too fuckin' nice to reject people," Katsuki replies after a beat, striving for casual. "The discomfort was coming off you in waves. Could barely fucking stand it."
A beat, another, and then Kirishima’s lips twitch in a blinding grin, eyes shut with the force of it. “Thanks, Bakugou." So he’s not mad about Katsuki’s impromptu act earlier. Huh.
“Yeah, well. Who else is gonna put dickheads like him in their place? You’re obviously too chickenshit to do it yourself.” Katsuki relaxes, more at ease now that his doubts have been allayed. Not that he had any.
Kirishima laughs, and Katsuki doesn’t have to look to know that it’s the kind that reduces his eyes to mirthful slits and exposes the sharp lines of his teeth. The genuine kind. "Fair enough. He asked if I wanted to go back to his place to record. Said he wanted to feature me on his new song."
Katsuki snorts, lolling his head to the side and fixing Kirishima with an incredulous stare. "Yeah, like that has any potential of sounding good."
"Hey!" Kirishima protests, eyes fixing on the column of Katsuki’s throat momentarily before meeting his eyes again. "I might as well be the next Elvis Presley, or something. You don't know."
"But I do know. I hear your regularly scheduled screeching in the shower, Shittyhair. I'd say there's a fat chance of that happening."
Kirishima pouts, the jut of his lips pink and slick with alcohol, strands of his meticulously gelled hair falling out of place. "Maybe I should go track down Itsuki. He has more faith in my musical abilities than you do."
Katsuki hums noncommittally, letting his eyes slip shut. "Maybe you should."
The warm graze of Kirishima's fingers against his knuckles prompts his eyes to reopen. Kirishima wraps his hand around the glass of beer and brings it to his lips. He doesn't break eye contact with Katsuki as he downs the drink in one gulp, as he wipes spilled droplets of beer off his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Maybe I should," he says, voice low, a challenge poised in the curve of his lips. And Katsuki, never one to step away from a thrown gauntlet, wants to rise to it. He just doesn't know what it is.
There’s a lull, then, and it feels important, the way the space around them crawls to a mesmerizingly slow pace, the way Kirishima’s pupils dilate with intoxication. Kirishima ducks his head first, setting the now empty glass on the bar.
"It's getting late, yeah? Can't mess with your sleep schedule too much. It's way past 8, as it is," he teases, a sly grin playing at his lips.
Katsuki shoves at him, but he feels his face stretch into a laugh, loose with the alcohol swimming through his veins. "Fuck off, dude. Let's just tell the rest so we can leave this shithole."
"Yeah, yeah. Shithole this, shithole that. It's not actually that bad."
"Sure fucking is. The stench of freshmen is all over the damn place." He wrinkles his nose.
"You're just cranky because it's past your bedtime."
Rolling his eyes, Katsuki reaches out to grab Kirishima in a headlock and almost topples over in his inebriated state. Kirishima attempts to right him, evidently in a more clear-headed state than he is. Probably didn’t want to take advantage of Kaminari’s magnanimity or whatever. At least Katsuki isn't slurring his speech yet.
"At least my plans of breaking through don't include copious amounts of autotune, hot shot," Katsuki says once he’s regained his footing.
"Not all of us are as naturally well-endowed as you. Some need the extra help." Kirishima grins. They're both engineering majors anyway, so this entire conversation is conducive to naught.
"Is that," Katsuki licks his lips, "a reference to my dick?"
His brain has decided that an adept mouth filter isn't a pressing matter as it stands. Not like he has much of one, anyway. He says what he thinks most of the time. Kirishima, however, just continues grinning. "I don't know, is it?"
“Holy shit, Kirishima. Are you asking me if I’m hung?”
Kirishima just winks at him, and Katsuki yearns for a time when people in his immediate circle feared his backlash.
Squeezing between people, they stumble to the booth they're occupying for the night. Kaminari's head is bowed in a conversation with Jirou, with Sero at the opposite side of the booth, clanking the salt shakers against each other and making kissy faces.
"The fuck are you doing?" Katsuki asks, unimpressed, once they reach the table.
"Marrying the salt, obviously," Sero responds, the duh going unspoken. "Also, this doubles as an interpretative piece on the spectacle unfolding before me. It's foreshadowing." He gestures to Kaminari and Jirou. She flips him off without sparing a glance.
—
Through an unspoken agreement—because to speak it is to conjure Katsuki’s wrath—, and entirely opposed to the will of Katsuki yet somehow unfolding nevertheless, he has been assigned the role of Kirishima's fake boyfriend.
A load of bullshit is what it is.
Kirishima, as always, is a perfect picture of affability, too kind to turn down interested parties and thus indirectly landing himself in unwanted territory. A recipient of one too many coquettish stares and vampish flutters of lashes.
Katsuki, for his part, steps up to the plate because he's a fucking hero, salvaging Kirishima's virtue with a hand jammed in Kirishima's back pocket and some choice words suggestive enough to ward off undesired suitors.
Let it not be said that Katsuki has never done shit for Kirishima.
"Let me take you home," Katsuki rasps one night, tone sultry and dripping with suggestion when a girl gets too handsy with Kirishima's hair.
For the sake of pretense, of course. If he had to wait forty five minutes for Kirishima to get his hair to tower just so, there was no way in hell he'd let someone carelessly topple over all his hard work.
The girl spins on her heel with a profanity and a scathing look flung Katsuki's way, which he doesn't reciprocate. Because he's a gentleman.
Most of their outings unfold in a similar fashion. Someone gets a little too flirtatious with an excessively good natured Kirishima, and Katsuki is forced to rush to the defense.
There is just one hitch, and it could entirely be a construction of Katsuki’s imagination, but he swears more people have been swarming around Kirishima as of late.
It could be that Kirishima has started wearing more cropped tops, showcasing the barest sliver of abdominal muscles, defined and rock solid. It could also be that Kirishima lets his gaze wander for an unnecessarily long stretch of time over people eying him with interest, almost beckoning them over with his eyes.
If Katsuki didn't know any better, he'd wager that Kirishima was vying for people's attention, deliberately allowing people to get strung up in his web. Which doesn't make sense and defeats the entire purpose of their unspoken arrangement, so Katsuki rules out that possibility.
Nevertheless, whatever role Katsuki fills, he fills with vigor and unerring determination, and while his performance leaves little room for subtlety, half measures aren't his style. It’s either go big or go home, and he isn’t going home. Kirishima's gaggle won’t let up their paws on him for long enough to, anyway.
So when an older guy wraps a lazy arm around the tops of Kirishima's shoulders, heated gaze fixed resolutely on his lips, Katsuki is there with his palm laid flat against the small of Kirishima's back, barely having to hike up the skimpy fabric to make contact with his skin.
And, because Katsuki is not one to half-ass shit, he lets his nose skim along the side of Kirishima's neck, warm and sweltering, and says, loud enough for the intruder to hear,
"Eijirou, as much as I'd like to finish this drink here, I'd much rather drink it off you."
The resulting shiver and hitch of breath draw Katsuki's eyes upwards, and the look on Kirishima's face almost has his knees buckling. Kirishima’s pupils are rimmed almost entirely in black, crimson lips blanching under the press of sharp teeth. Something raw and wild brims underneath the surface, the air crackling with the force of it.
He almost forgets the other guy's presence, and he nearly jolts upon hearing a mumbled excuse despite its muted quality. He slowly unravels his limbs from Kirishima. The tension seems to dissipate leisurely, followed by a silence that could've lasted seconds or hours.
Katsuki grows paranoid with the feeling that he might’ve taken it too far, but then Kirishima grins, head canted to the side. "Eijirou?"
"For authenticity."
Neither of them mentions how that wasn’t necessary because the guy hadn't known Kirishima's family or given name.
—
Katsuki has never fancied himself a tactile individual.
However, as he begrudgingly lets Kirishima curl into his side, a bowl of buttered popcorn balanced between them as they marathon the Iron Man trilogy, even he can admit that his jagged edges have turned blunt, sandpapered beyond recognition.
Instead of devotedly training his eyes on their flatscreen TV like Kirishima, Katsuki finds himself weirdly attuned to Kirishima’s idiosyncrasies. How his mouth gapes when Tony Stark forges a functioning suit out of mere debris, how his breath hitches when Yinsen sacrifices himself to assist Tony's escape, how he lets out a celebratory whoop when Tony flees the clutches of captivity.
He's still painfully expressive despite having watched this movie time and time again. Katsuki does little more than roll his eyes at the continuous jostling.
"'S the manliest thing I've ever seen," Kirishima says reverently through a mouthful of popcorn, bits of kernels spat into the air.
Katsuki feels his face contort. "Chew with your mouth closed, you tactless urn."
"Nah, but, but— he just hammered out a full suit from nothing." Kirishima is gaping, the contents of his mouth on display. It's disgusting. Katsuki should push him away.
"And he looked hot as shit doing it," Kirishima adds quietly.
Katsuki's eyes snap to him, the memory of that encounter at the club springing to his mind unbidden. It's not like he didn't know Kirishima swung that way, but for as long as he has known him, Kirishima hasn’t been particularly vocal about his preferences in men.
"You into older folks, or something?" Katsuki finds himself asking. "Next you'll be telling me you like that bedraggled son of a bitch Aizawa."
"Bro, our prof is hot, okay. The tired look works for him. Looks like he's been caught up in a sex marathon, or something," Kirishima says, launching a handful of popcorn into the air and attempting to catch it with his mouth.
Katsuki has to visibly suppress the gag that attempts to claw its way out of his mouth. "You shit, what'd you go and do that for? I’ll need therapy for the mental fucking images.”
“You need therapy for a lot of things, Bakugou,” Kirishima retorts, a shit-eating grin in place.
With thinly veiled rage, Katsuki chucks handfuls of popcorn at Kirishima, who releases an undignified squawk and fixes him with an entirely non threatening glare. Less innocuous is Kirishima’s retaliation in the form of popcorn shoved down the front of Katsuki’s shirt.
Which is a declaration of war, if Katsuki has ever been acquainted with one. With a freshly ignited fire thrumming in his chest, Katsuki pounces, aiming to attack and conquer, hell fucking yeah. If Kirishima wants a fight, he can deliver.
It’s greasy and unpleasant, and they accidentally upend the popcorn bowl as their limbs flail about in attempts to shove popcorn in each other's faces, cackles echoing in the confines of their shared apartment.
Their roughhousing finds Katsuki suspended over Kirishima, whose back is pillowed against the couch cushions as he stares up at Katsuki, face and hair blending into one in color. Chest heaving with the ghost of mirthful laughter, Katsuki takes in the flush painting Kirishima's visage and the slick gloss of his lips, the aftermath of gorging himself on too much buttery popcorn. A few millimeters separate their lips.
It dawns on Katsuki that it would be easy, so easy, to lean down and have their lips slot together.
The novelty of the thought almost sends Katsuki careening backwards, because that's— that's nothing like their dynamic. Katsuki reluctantly allows Kirishima to tease and curl into him, talk his ear off about whatever subject he's fixating on, but it's always been platonic between them.
Kissing, with no guise to mask under, no discernible cause to pull the fake boyfriend card, is decidedly unplatonic.
It's a few seconds before he's able to extract his mind from the hole it has burrowed into, and upon registering the body beneath him, he notes that Kirishima's expression is dazed, half lidded eyes flitting between Katsuki's own and his lips.
Straightening up, he puts some much needed space between them, his body significantly more prone to sensing cold now he's out of Kirishima's hold. Somehow, the perceived chill is at odds with the warm rush of blood suffusing his cheeks.
"Movie's not over, dickhead," Katsuki mumbles, leaning against the couch's back and directing his gaze to the TV, where Tony is soaring above the cityscape. Out of his peripherals, Katsuki can see Kirishima adjusting his torso to lean against the armrest. Seconds later, he feels toes sink under his thigh, and he gives Kirishima a questioning look.
"My feet are cold," Kirishima explains, a sheepish smile overtaking his face.
"You have an entire drawer for socks, you ass," Katsuki gripes before rolling his eyes and draping his thigh more comfortably over Kirishima's feet. He's rewarded with a toothy smile.
—
Katsuki tries to block it out of his mind. He really does. It was a stray thought, an errant observation that should hold no consequence. However, to Katsuki's chagrin, his tried and true method of 'glare at it until it cowers' doesn't work on this particularly persistent thought.
As he stomps against gravel, soles of his shoes undoubtedly losing their ridges with the force of his footfalls, he hopes a full day of classes can drown out the incessant, niggling thoughts plaguing him. It doesn’t help that his first class is with Professor Aizawa, and try as Katsuki might, he’s unable to keep his glower in check.
It’s not like he’s never noticed how attractive Kirishima is, but his appreciation always held a passive quality, a byproduct of his attraction to men. Kirishima is all sculpted biceps and firm pectorals, indiscriminate flashes of teeth directed at everyone within his radius, brazen confidence albeit lingering insecurity lurking underneath. Of course he’s attractive. Anyone can attest to that.
Katsuki has just never thought that observation would solidify into something tangible, something that could potentially sour their relationship. He's not an idiot. He knows Kirishima has a lot of love to give, love that does not necessarily signify romantic attraction, and fuck, Katsuki isn't even certain that's an accurate diagnosis of what he feels. Talk about jumping the fucking gun.
Intrusive thoughts are a thing, he knows. It didn't, doesn't mean shit.
Before that train of thought can go on any longer, he jerkily grabs his pen, realizing that he stopped taking notes a while ago. It cracks under his hold, plastic splintering, and he barely refrains from growling in agitation.
—
Katsuki is stretched out on his living room sofa when he feels a mass plop down on his calves, and he kicks out until the offender topples off the couch with an affronted, "hey!"
He makes sure to give Mina his most vicious glare before returning his attention to the email pulled up in his inbox. Fucking Aizawa, demanding yet another assignment, with his dead fish disposition and a rugged battle scar placed almost strategically beneath his eye. It's not fair. Katsuki would have manly scars too if he were as flippant about his well being as their professor. As it stands, he takes pride in being able to care for himself.
Feeling eyes prickle at his face, he snarls, "what the fuck are you staring at?"
Mina, to her credit, is thoroughly unimpressed with his intimidation tactics. "Are you," she takes a moment to blow a bubblegum wide before popping it and resuming chewing, "coming to Uraraka's party on Friday?"
“Haah?”
“Uraraka? You've met her before. She and I had a thing.”
“You think I keep tabs on who you guys decide to bone?”
“You’ve met her multiple times, Bakugou. So, you coming or not?”
"No," he answers. "Fuck that."
The dysfunctional gaggle Kirishima refers to as their squad never seems to spend a single weekend at home, something Katsuki routinely voices his disapproval over. Somehow, he finds himself roped into most of their outings courtesy of Kirishima and his badgering.
Not this time, though. Uraraka herself isn't that bad, but Deku is always at her tail like a particularly glutinous flea. Katsuki isn't in the mood to exchange pleasantries with fucking Deku, of all people, on his day off. RSVP fucking no, thanks.
Mina seems to pick up on the fact. "Is it because Midoriya will be there? You know, you've never told us why you dislike him so much."
"Because he's Satan reincarnated," Katsuki answers without missing a beat.
It’s also that he and Deku had an ongoing rivalry in highschool, and Deku decided that his one true calling was engineering at Katsuki’s university of choice. After Katsuki sent out applications. Deku wouldn’t know originality if it smacked his ass like a drum.
"He cried over a documentary about autumn two weeks ago." She punctuates her statement with another smack of bubblegum. "Said it was sad watching the leaves die."
"What—how the fuck did you even get in my apartment?"
Katsuki has been firmly engrossed in his email inbox for the past half hour, and he's fairly certain that Kirishima is sleeping like a rock after a gruelling boxing session. Which means neither of them opened the door for her.
"I have a spare key," Mina explains and dangles the offending item, her index finger hooked through a keychain ring.
"Who the fuck gave you a spare key?" Katsuki is half tempted to reach over and snag it out of her hand.
"Kiri! For emergencies." She grins, oblivious to the torture yet to befall Kirishima.
Making sure to infuse the utmost amount of venom into his tone, he asks, "What, pray tell, about this interaction screams emergency to you?"
"Your disinclination to broaden your social horizons." She leans in, eyes widening dramatically. "You're slipping from our grasp, slowly yet surely, bound to be sequestered from society."
"Picked up a new book?"
"You mock, but as a matter of fact, I have.” She haughtily lifts her chin, self-pride coloring her tone. “Kaminari’s recommendation." Like that makes it better.
"Good for you.” His focus shifts back to his phone, and he weighs the pros and cons of emailing a succinct fuck off to Aizawa. Figuring that course of action would probably result in his expulsion—and, ultimately, give Deku a leg up on the whole rivalry front—, he opts out of it. “Also, no on the party invitation. I go out with you fuckers every weekend."
"Only because we make you. If it weren't for us, you'd spend your college years downing protein shakes and going to bed at eight thirty."
"Exactly."
The patter of footsteps signals Kirishima's rise, and he shuffles into the living room, scratching lightly at his stomach. His hair hangs down by his face, mussed from a post-shower nap. As per routine, Kirishima had crooned some unfamiliar melody that sounded saccharine as it bounced off the echoey tiles of their bathroom.
Katsuki will never tell him this, but sometimes he listens with enraptured ears. Before yelling at Kirishima to hurry the fuck up, of course.
At the sight of Mina crouched by their couch, Kirishima’s expression rapidly brightens up, the picture of someone who can’t spend three consecutive seconds without active socialization. "Mina!" He calls out, excitedly.
"Kiri!" She returns, and Katsuki rolls his eyes. It hasn't even been that long since they last saw each other. Kirishima ducks to press a tight lipped peck to Mina's cheek before straightening his spine.
"What're you two talking about?" He looks between them with no small amount of glee, evidently chuffed at the notion of Katsuki playing nice with others. Katsuki takes offense to said glee.
"I wanted to see if he wanted to come to Uraraka's party." There's a hint of mischief that Katsuki can't identify the cause of. "Maybe you can convince him."
Kirishima’s face stretches into that trademark grin again. "Oh! That'll be sick. You up to that, Bakugou?"
Katsuki doesn’t have to think about it. "Fuck no."
"Ah, I thought so too.” Humming, Kirishima rubs a hand against the nape of his neck. “Prolonged exposure to Midoriya isn't good for his health."
"I can handle the nerd just fine. Doesn't mean I should."
"No, no. You're right,” Kirishima argues, expression deceivingly somber. “You should stay home."
"I'll go if I fucking want to," Katsuki snarls.
"So you're coming?"
"Yeah, I’ll fucking go,” he replies, realizing belatedly that he’s been played like a fiddle.
"Great!” Kirishima claps his hands together, and Mina giggles. Katsuki wants to kill them both. “I'll go brush my teeth, and then we can watch some of the new Marvel releases. Pirated, of course.”
“The only acceptable way. Wait.” Mina pauses, shivering in disgust. "You kissed me with morning breath?"
"It's, like, early evening. And you didn't even feel it, did you?"
"Still gross, Kiri."
"She's right," Katsuki chips in agreeably, and Kirishima smiles at him softly despite the words being at his expense.
They end up watching WandaVision with Kirishima's head pillowed on Katsuki's lap. Katsuki steadfastly ignores Mina’s meaningful glances.
He cards lazily through Kirishima’s limp, unstyled hair, the scent of raspberry wafting up to greet his nostrils because Kirishima claims fruity shampoos are manly. He’s even bought Katsuki a strawberry shampoo so they’d match. Katsuki never uses it, obviously.
Obviously.
—
"You sure this is it?"
The motorcycle crawls to a standstill, the engine’s roar petering out when he cuts off the ignition.
He had been skeptical ever since the streets started clearing away into something distinctively clean, the buildings no longer rundown and dilapidated. Now, as he loiters in front of a nice looking building in a lineup of similarly nice looking buildings, his skepticism augments.
"Yeah, bro," Kirishima says from behind him, arm loosely wrapped around Katsuki's middle even though they're no longer moving. "Todoroki is loaded."
The statement gives him pause. "What does half and half have to do with this?" He turns to give Kirishima a bemused look.
"You do know whose house we're going to, right?" Kirishima suddenly turns jittery with nerves, like he thinks Katsuki is going to turn the ignition back on and book it. His suspicions are not unfounded.
"The fuck, Kirishima? Wasn’t that round-cheeked chick throwing the party?" His voice bounces off the sidewalk, and a few partygoers making their way into the building shoot him looks.
"Calm your blasters, man. They're roommates. Uraraka couldn't find decent housing that didn't cost a kidney so he offered up his place. Pretty manly, that."
Katsuki casts him a long glance before grumbling, “whatever."
Why someone as reticent as Todoroki would bother throwing a party of this sort is beyond Katsuki, but he figures the change in character is likely spurred on by some sort of infatuation with Deku. Katsuki has seen the way Todoroki looks at him. It's pathetic. Abandoning his inhibitions for a boy he likes. Tch.
As Kirishima dismounts the bike, Katsuki follows suit and tries to imagine what that's like.
—
All things considered, it's an okay party.
It's too crowded despite the space, too many bodies milling about, sticky with sweat and alcohol, and the beat follows some generic pop rhythm pitched too loudly for Katsuki's taste. However, those factors halve his chances of audibly interacting with Deku and his disciples, and he takes that as a win.
Heaving a breath, he turns to Kirishima, ready to declare his plans of relocating to the kitchen for the entire night to drain a significant portion of Uraraka’s beer supply, when he notes Kirishima’s lit up eyes and parted lips.
“Midoriya!” Waving, he yells, but not loudly enough for his voice to carry over to where Deku is caught gesticulating to a taciturn Todoroki at the other corner of the living room. “Hey, Todoroki!”
Which, that's about as much as Katsuki can take of this shit. He fists a hand in Kirishima’s shirt to get his attention, leans in so he’d hear him, and says, “I’ll go get a drink.”
Kirishima opens his mouth as if to object but backtracks, presumably sensing a lost cause. Instead, he flutters his lashes in a way that absolutely does not work on Katsuki. “Grab me something? Rum’s good.”
Scoffing, Katsuki retorts, “if you want something, get it yourself.”
Kirishima leans in, lips brushing against the shell of Katsuki's ear as they whisper, “Nah, what’ve I got you for?”
Faint shivers creep up Katsuki’s neck, and he's reminded with a jolt of his puzzling thoughts from two weeks ago. Before he can say anything, though, Kirishima gives him a parting grin and waltzes off to greet the clown duo.
Twenty minutes later, Katsuki finds himself in the kitchen, freshly acquired shot held loosely between his fingers while some girl chats his ear off about… something. He’s not sure what. He’s also not sure who in their right minds would look at him and see a willing pair of ears. The girl does look sufficiently sloshed, he notes, so maybe the whole ‘right mind’ argument is nullified. Sober people are easier to intimidate.
“—would look so good with eyeliner on, ‘as anyone told you that? Ever?” Slurred syllables intermingle as they tumble out of her lips, and his eyes roll of their own accord.
“You’d be fuckin’ surprised.” He downs the shot in his grasp and sets it on the counter before setting off to rummage around the kitchen. Once he locates a clean cup, he fills it up with tap water and thrusts it into the girl’s hands. “Here, drink this. And lay off the fucking vodka.”
She pouts. Her eyes light up in a way Katsuki doesn’t like when she orders, “Lemme do your makeup.”
If she were any less trashed, Katsuki would have spared more than a morsel of mild irritation. “Just drink your shitty water.”
Her pout slopes even further, but she takes hold of the cup, chugging the contents and burping lightly. Katsuki grimaces. “You’re nice.”
“I’m leaving,” he announces. Hesitating, he forgoes a couple with their tongues down each other’s throats to tap a third person on the back.
Jirou startles before turning to face him, and he gives her a calculating onceover. “Keep an eye on her, will you?” He points to the girl leaning precariously against the counter, clutching the cup in her hands.
“Yeah, dude. Sure.”
With that, he stalks off to the living room in search of other forms of entertainment. Halfway through the task, Katsuki remembers Kirishima asking for rum. Quite unnecessarily, the reminder sparks the memory of Kirishima's breath fanning over his ears.
He’s not his fucking bus boy, he thinks, as he parks next to a table laden with solo cups and a punch bowl. It's not rum, but Katsuki is beyond caring, because it isn't fair that none of his thoughts make sense to him lately.
Since when is the memory of Kirishima's lips enough to send shivers trailing down his spine?
Grumbling under his breath, and making a point to not revisit that train of thought later, he casts a cursory glance around. Neon lights streak the otherwise darkened living room, but with a fair bit of squinting, he can make out the familiar swoop of red hair where Deku and Todoroki were last seen. He can’t see the top of Todoroki’s head, and he thinks it’s good he has one less fucker to interact with.
He elbows his way into the living room, barely successful in his mission to not spill over the drink in his hand.
Turns out the effort was damn near futile, because as soon as he catches sight of Kirishima, his grip slackens on the cup and it goes tumbling to the floor.
Kirishima's head is thrown back as body shuddering laughter rakes through him, and then he keels, knuckles gripping the back of the couch next to him to keep himself from toppling over. All because Deku suddenly decided to explore his capacity for humor. What a clown.
A tight coil of rage brews beneath Katsuki’s sternum, threatening to unfurl into something menacingly ugly, and Katsuki isn’t above letting it.
It’s just—why is Deku always trying to be Katsuki’s goddamn shadow at every turn? Why is he latching onto Kirishima of all people? With the exception of Katsuki himself, he could talk to anyone he wants at this party, given they don’t tire of his bland personality. Hell, Todoroki fucking Shouto would wet himself at the attention.
So why Kirishima?
Why the one guy Katsuki has no qualms about letting into his space?
He ploughs forward, heedless of the limbs digging into his sides, his vision sharply reduced to a red-rimmed vignette framing the spot where Deku's hand is poised comfortably on Kirishima's shoulder.
Deku spots him first, hollering out a slurred, "Kacchan!" with an impossibly wide smile.
Katsuki's self control must have slipped and rolled under Todoroki's plush leather couch because the next thing he knows, he's roughly shoving Deku out of the way and crowding against Kirishima, hulking more in disposition than in height.
As Deku lets out a surprised squeak, Katsuki's fingers circle Kirishima's wrist, betraying a desire to brand, to claim. The feeling nestles low in his gut, gripping and familiar, like a pair of shoes broken in, except he doesn't remember taking the steps.
Idly, he wonders when he managed to acquiesce himself to this searing proprietorial urge, why he slips into it like a second skin.
Kirishima's confused gaze swims into his vision, silent query written in his eyes, yet they brim with something alive, knowing, almost, as though he can sense the shift in script.
The acknowledgement is all Katsuki registers before he leans in to connect their lips.
A few beats pass before Kirishima responds, almost, almost enough time to knock some sense into Katsuki, but then lips slide against his own, tentative yet firm, one hand comes up to cradle Katsuki's cheek, the other still gripped between Katsuki's fingers.
Territorial instincts kick into high gear as he claims Kirishima's lips, soft and pliant beneath his own, heavy with the aftertaste of whiskey.
Distantly, he can hear Deku's yelped apology, barely audible over the cacophony of music and blood gushing through Katsuki's system. Electricity sharply zings through him like a wire conductor, setting his neurons aflame, and he gives in, allowing himself to sink into something he's been unknowingly chasing, the thrill of it derived too late.
Kirishima hums against him, and Katsuki lays a searing hand on his hip, guiding him backward until his back makes contact with the wall, their bodies flush. He lifts Kirishima's wrist above his head and sinks his teeth into Kirishima's bottom lip, revelling in the ensuing gasp.
A forceful hand tugs at his hair, and the sting of pain draws a low moan muffled by Kirishima's mouth. Katsuki feels ravenous, high on the heatwaves melding between them, and eager to take, take, take as he licks into Kirishima's mouth with honest fervour. He allows his free hand to slide under Kirishima's goddamn crop top, relishing the warm expanse of skin as Kirishima's muscles jump in the wake of his touch.
Katsuki draws back, chest aching with the need for oxygen, and it's only once he's consumed his first lungful that cold dread starts seeping into his bones.
He keeps his eyes pressed shut, immerses himself in the moment, the only brief, tantalising glimpse he'll allow himself, and then he draws back, releasing his hold on Kirishima. Fluttering his eyes open, he tips his head up to lock eyes with Kirishima, whose own are as wide as saucers, slightly dazed and glassy.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He turns on his heels with a grace he doesn't feel and shoulders past the writhing bodies and out into the street. The air is sobering, lapping gently at Katsuki's face, despite the fact that the only intoxicants he's had tonight are a meagre shot and the galvanizing press of Kirishima against him.
He breathes in, breathes out, and tries to realign his world view because it's obviously been canted ass over head. What the fuck?
Beelining towards his motorcycle, movements lacking any of the grace from before, he straddles the seat, a comforting weight underneath him as his tumultuous thoughts endeavor to choke him.
He peels off the curb, the familiar hum of the motorcycle providing some reprieve from the encroaching weight of his thoughts. Colours blur in his periphery as he accelerates, bridging the asphalt with frightening speed as the wind laps at his face in earnest.
Soon, the thoughts start creeping back up, cornering him into an unwanted confrontation with himself.
What, just what had gone on back there?
He had felt a tight coil of rage; something about the sight had irked him, unsettled a piece of him that's been lodged precariously in place for a long time, and he knew he couldn’t stand idly. But idle to what ?
In hindsight, Katsuki can recognize that Kirishima didn't, objectively speaking, look uncomfortable.
This wasn't like all those other times when he had to step in because people were getting a little too friendly, and Deku wouldn’t hurt a fly—because he’s physically incapable of it, the absolute wuss.
So why did Katsuki slip into this role tonight? And why is he running?
Bakugou Katsuki is not a runner. He’s not some coward who’s unable to face his shit head on, so what reason did he have to turn away? What magnetism lured him in then relinquished its hold? Why had he been so viscerally captivated by the feel of Kirishima's mouth against his own? Why did he long to swerve the vehicle around for another searing press of—oh.
Oh.
The realization slams into him like a freight train, and he luckily has the presence of mind to not extend the same courtesy to the breaks underfoot and risk a premature death.
It makes sense. The way Katsuki always yearns to see Kirishima laugh, the way he’s able to catalogue each of his expressions, the way his edges soften around around him, the way his flaws elicit fondness rather than ire, the all encompassing need he feels to protect him, to see him smile.
How did he not know?
It's with a fresh lens that Katsuki digs up his actions this whole past month. Were his actions born out of genuine jealousy? How much of it was an act?
Fuck, Kirishima probably knows, too, doesn't he?
The look Kirishima had on his face before Katsuki leaned in to kiss him, knowing, aware. Katsuki kissed him.
Katsuki definitely spared no effort making a fool of himself, extending himself beyond what was necessary.
Kirishima probably knows, and he's made of the sunshine and kindness and other things that would make Katsuki recoil from anyone else. Is that why he hadn't said anything this whole time, let Katsuki growl like an animal with territorial delusions?
Katsuki banked on the fact that Kirishima would've easily voiced his disinterest or discomfort if Katsuki pushed the envelope too far, but he clearly didn’t account for this, because Kirishima acted like he’s some shitrag who can’t take no for an answer, like he wasn't even worth saying no to. Unless… unless Kirishima knew and used that to his advantage.
The thought fogs up his chest with acrid smoke as he comes to a stop in front of his building, and he hates it, hates feeling weak, ashamed. It's muscle memory, the way he lets that hurt morph into anger.
And maybe he should slow down, reflect on the conclusions he's arrived at tonight, but lancing through this festering wound sounds far too unpleasant. It's much easier to wrap the rage around himself like an armour.
So he takes the stairs two at a time, flinging the door open and shut with a slam that reverberates through the building. His shitty next door neighbor will probably have shit to say about the noise tomorrow. Katsuki couldn't give less of a fuck.
He aims a hefty kick to the wall for good measure and marches into his room.
—
A barrage of knocks pelts at Katsuki’s bedroom door, the wood croaking with the force of its assault.
“Bakugou! Hey, man! Open the door.”
A fresh wave of anger ripples through him at the sound of Kirishima's voice. Giving the door a withering look from where he's lounging on his bed, he spares a brief thought as to how Kirishima got here without Katsuki's bike, who gave him a ride.
"Come on, bro. I just want to talk."
He reaches beside himself for a pair of wired headphones, cursing when he finds them tangled and twisted around each other. Why the fuck hasn’t he invested in a wireless pair yet?
"Get the fuck away , Kirishima! I don't want to talk to you." The pounding, if anything, seems to multiply at his statement.
"Come on, man!" Kirishima's muffled voice drifts under the cracks of the door and into the bedroom, and Katsuki wonders why the fuck the wires won’t just uncross , already. With Kirishima’s steady hounding at the other end of the door, the tangles finally come undone. Just as he's about to up the volume on his phone, he hears Kirishima utter his given name.
"Katsuki, please. Let me in."
Shoving himself up, Katsuki rips off the chords to his earplugs and unlocks the door, nearly ripping it off its hinges as he opens it. Kirishima looks up, mouth ajar, but Katsuki beats him to the punch.
"Learn to fucking say no," Katsuki seethes, index jabbing emphatically at the center of Kirishima's chest. He doesn’t mean for the hurt to bleed so brazenly into his voice, but it does.
With that, he retreats into his room, drained with the revelations of today, but Kirishima slips past him before he can lock the door, positioning himself flat against the door, eyebrows bunched in confusion. Katsuki wants to punch the expression off his face.
"What are you talking about?"
Katsuki crosses his arms over his chest. "You shouldn't need me to pry assholes off you."
Katsuki doesn't miss the flash of hurt crossing Kirishima's features. "Is that what you're mad about?"
Scoffing, he rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "Yes, Kirishima. You've obviously got no spine to speak of, so you need me to swoop in there to save you."
Katsuki doesn’t believe any of the words he’s spitting into the space between them, tainted with hurt and poison. Kirishima is anything but meek. He’s sturdy and patient and reliable, and Katsuki doesn’t, does not feel bad.
"If it bothered you that much, you could've said something! You didn't have to..." Kirishima waves his hands wildly, "do all that stuff! I never asked you to!"
And isn't that rich? He snarls at the irony of that statement. "Yeah, well, ditto."
"Ditto?" Kirishima asks, confused.
"I'm saying," Katsuki says, voice rising, "you're not the best person to offer that piece of enlightening advice, are ya?"
Kirishima stares at him like he's a particularly difficult puzzle. "I haven't done anything I didn't want to."
Katsuki laughs. "Is that so? Then why'd you let me hang off you like some sorta escort, hah?"
"Escort? Are you really that embarrassed about kissing me?"
"Kissing you? Like fuck am I embarrassed of kissing you. I'm embarrassed of you not having the balls to fucking draw the line somewhere, Kirishima."
Kirishima looks like he wants to say something, but Katsuki barrels on, impassioned with the floodgates of hurt finally unleashed.
"Worst part is that you knew, you knew and you acted like I'm some asshole tryna pick you up at a bar instead of your best friend. Couldn't fucking communicate, could you? Couldn't have spared two seconds outta your life to say no, like I was some dickhead whose dictionary didn't include the word consent. I thought I meant something to you. Was I just a convenient way to ward off strangers at bars, for you? That why you've been so hell bent on taking me everywhere you go? Cause I gotta say, using people like that isn't all that manly, Kirishima."
The sound of shallow breaths permeates the room as Katsuki comes down from the high of his rant, fingernails digging craters into his bunched palm and chest stinging with countless pinpricks of pain.
Kirishima staggers, looking like a single gust of wind would knock him off his feet. Quietly, he asks. "Knew what?"
"You're really gonna make me say it?"
"Knew what, Katsuki?" Kirishima presses.
Despondency grips Katsuki's heart like a vice, and he feels like he’s prostrating himself at Kirishima’s feet as he says,
"That I'm in love with you."
Katsuki doesn't expect the surprise, the awe, that colours Kirishima's breathless voice when he asks, "You're in love with me?"
Stupefied, Katsuki searches Kirishima's gaze and finds open honesty spilling out of his scarlet eyes, the upward tilt of his lips.
He lifts his chin up despite the wariness clawing at him. "I—Yeah. Kissed you, didn't I?"
"You did," Kirishima breathes, pushing away from the door and closer to Katsuki. "You kissed me."
Katsuki's eyes catch on Kirishima's mouth, the phantom of his lips against his still fresh in the crevices of his mind. He so badly wants to draw him in again, but he stays firmly planted, feet standing on a precipice that could tumble him in either tide.
He looks up to find Kirishima's heavy gaze locked on his own lips, his eyes obscured by long, dark lashes. "I wanted you to."
"What?"
"I wanted you to kiss me."
“Are you drunk?” Katsuki asks, recalling the taste of whiskey on Kirishima’s tongue.
Kirishima shakes his head fervently. “Had a few sips, at most. I was waiting for you.”
“You were waiting for me,” he repeats.
“Always have been,” Kirishima answers even though it wasn't a question, and Katsuki knows he's not just talking about the rum.
Kirishima approaches tentatively, like Katsuki is an animal that might scuttle away, and Katsuki has had enough of walking on eggshells, has had enough of skirting around truths and being caught in elaborate dances with no foreseeable end.
He tugs Kirishima in by his belt and seals their lips together.
It’s different, this time. There’s a lot less heat involved, and it feels like breaking something open and tenderly peeking into its contents, softly, gently. It’s explorative, the way they glide their lips against each other. New yet familiar, like chords strummed by the same hands but the melody evoked vastly different. It feels right, tumbling into each other like this, and he wonders how he didn’t notice it sooner.
Katsuki pulls back to study Kirishima’s face, and he has his eyes pinched closed like he’s savoring the moment, like he’d rather be nowhere else, feeling nothing else. Katsuki thinks he may be projecting.
There are still freckles of doubt dappling the tender space they occupy. He still has questions, still feels unsure about where they stand. Kirishima talks first.
“I knew.” He nods, eyes downcast, and Katsuki feels the rug being pulled from underneath him until Kirishima continues. “Or, not really.” He winces, revising his statement. “I thought you liked me, and I kind of… tested that theory." He grins a little apologetically. "But I didn’t know you… I didn’t know you loved me.”
“Love,” Katsuki corrects, even though that’s not the point, and he has a million other questions, and he kind of wants to yell at Kirishima for the amount of emotional whiplash he’s been causing him all night.
Kirishima’s smile flowers like blossoms at the height of spring, but then it infinitesimally wilts, petals frayed with hurt.
“I’d never use you, Katsuki. I can’t believe you’d ever think I would.”
Katsuki aches with the edge of pain that laces through Kirishima’s words. “Well, what was I supposed to think?”
“I don’t know! Anything but that!” Kirishima throws his hands up, and he seems to get momentarily heated. “You think I’d lead you on like that? I mean, I know we didn’t explicitly discuss it, but I was kind of… waiting for you to catch on, you know?”
“You’re a dickhead,” Katsuki says because it’s true.
“I’m a dickhead who loves you back,” Kirishima responds, and the world rearranges itself around them, around this moment. Katsuki pulls him in and it's raspberries and carnival popcorn and spring blending into one, warmth and patience. They brush lips like they have all the time in the world.
“I can’t believe you got jealous of Midoriya,” Kirishima says into his lips, the absolute bastard.
“Now, why would you bring that name into my bedroom?” Katsuki bites down harshly on Kirishima's lip in reprimand. It doesn't have quite the intended effect; Kirishima just moans, low and delectable.
The sound sends heat pooling low in Katsuki's stomach, and he dips his head, nose bumping against Kirishima's jaw. He lands a trail of kisses across his jawline, marvelling at the soft skin under his lips and breathing in the fruity sweetness and lingering salt. Kirishima tilts his head to accommodate him, exhaling softly.
Kirishima's soft breath turns into a broken whine when Katsuki lets his teeth pierce the skin at his neck, sucking until a purpling bruise blooms under his tongue. Mine, it says. Mine mine mine. Hot hands clamp around Katsuki's hips, his own dipping past Kirishima's top to scratch at the hard muscles there.
"Fucking crop tops, Eijirou. Do you even know what you look like? No wonder people were all over you."
Kirishima stills against him, and when Katsuki pulls back with a frown, his face is bright carmine.
"What? What's wrong?"
"I might've… I might've worn that… so you'd have to interfere."
Katsuki stares at him for a few long seconds before his words set in, and then he's burying his face in Kirishima's heated neck and laughing, a maniacal edge seeping into the sound. So that explains that.
"Stop laughing!" Kirishima whines. "You're just hot when you're jealous. I had to incite it, you know?"
Katsuki just laughs harder against him, his eyebrows coming to rest on Kirishima's collarbones as his laughter rakes through him. Kirishima's mortification seems to subside enough for him to join in, and then they're clutching at each other to stand upright.
"I can't believe I chose you, you giant fucking idiot," Katsuki giggles, wiping a tear leaking from the corner of his eye.
Kirishima wraps his arms around his neck, drawing him close. "Yeah, but I'm your fucking idiot."
Katsuki can practically feel the dopey grin that overtakes his face. "My fucking idiot," he repeats, landing a kiss that's honey sweet against his lips. "Mine."
"Yours," Kirishima whispers into his lips, voice low like a promise.
"I'm yours too."
"I love you." Kirishima's voice sounds wet with tears.
"Shut up and kiss me, you fool."