Archive of Our Own

“We miss you,” Bakugo says.

Eijirou looks over at him. Bakugo doesn’t look back; he stares up at the sky, watching the stars pass. They sit together on the roof, at least a metre of space between them, and Eijirou longs to close the gap, rid his body of the cold by sharing Bakugo’s warmth. Even in their third year at UA, they still never learn to bring a jacket up to the rooftop.

Eijirou frowns, looks up at the sky too, but there’s nothing that’s really captivating. It’s full of light pollution, a dull brownish blue, the stars barely visible. With all the clouds that shroud the night, they probably don’t have long before it starts raining.

“You what?”

The sky is still melancholy, no matter how much Eijirou scrutinizes it, but Bakugo seems content in gazing. The muted light of the moon catches his eyes, sparks a fire, paints a white reflection in the scarlet.

Bakugo’s face is lit up by what little light there is, like the moon and the stars have come together to shine on him, to highlight every bone of his face, cast a shadow on his cheeks where every eyelash is, catch every single strand of his hair. His hands clasp together over his stomach as he lies face up, and continues to look at the dreary sky from where they lie upon the roof.

“I said, we miss you,” Bakugo repeats. He still doesn’t look at Eijirou. “You’re always in your dorm. It’s different without you there.”

Eijirou’s heart melts in his chest. The night air is cold, still, but hearing Bakugo talk, say he missed him, say it’s different without him - it’s nice. Distracts from the frost, from the constant itch in his lungs.

He fights a rising cough.

“Different, how?”

“Dunno,” Bakugo says, furrowing his eyebrows, staring up at the clouds like somehow it’s their fault. “Just is. Pinky says she misses her old friend.”

So Mina misses him. Not Bakugo.

Eijirou coughs into his hand.

It’s nice to know his friends miss his presence, even if there’s not much he can do about it, but it doesn’t stop the horrible yearning ache he feels - because he wants Bakugo to miss him. He wants Bakugo to feel the same as he does, as selfish as it seems.

“Sorry, man,” he says, forcing a smile. Bakugo looks at him, finally. His eyes are unreadable, but they’re such a deep red, a dark, beautiful crimson. “I’ll try.”

Bakugo huffs, looks at Eijirou once more, and then off into the horizon. His shoulders hunch over and his back is all twisted.

“You better,” he grumbles. “I don’t know. It sucks without you.”

“Do you miss me, or do you just hate having to actually talk to them?”

“You,” Bakugo says, almost immediately. Eijirou feels his chest tighten.

He thinks of flowers, of blood, of petals and pain and everything in between and he thinks of Bakugo, of warmth, and somehow- with every drop of crimson upon snow - somehow even through all the hurt, that one you was worth it.

It shouldn’t be, and he knows it.

But thinking that doesn’t help.

Eijirou thinks of ivory rose petals and wilting leaves and the sick taste of perfume that stings in his throat, and he knows deep in his heart that he couldn’t possibly have a chance-

“You- you’re my best friend, Shitty Hair,” Bakugo grits out. “You’re my stupid equal and it’s not fair that I have to hang out with those losers when you aren’t there.”

Eijirou sighs, tries to repress the itch crawling up his throat. “I said sorry. I’m-”

“No- it’s not-” Bakugo huffs again, crossing his arms, rolling his eyes. Eijirou knows he’s not one to talk about this, so he’s not sure why he’s pressing it himself. Eijirou would be perfectly happy to just drop it.

“I’m not mad at you,” Bakugo says, averting his eyes to the floor. “That’s not what this is, I’m just- I don’t even know. It’s not fair. You’re my best friend and I want to hang out with you. Is that so wrong?”

Eijirou’s eyes soften, and Bakugo keeps on talking.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” he says, his voice cracking a little at the end, and he hides his face by pretending to look off at the sky. “It’s- given that it’s come to this- me coming to you to talk about it - I’d say it’s gotten pretty bad. I don’t know if it’s a joke, or what, but I hate it.”

“Bakugo, it’s not-”

“Explain to me. Tell me why, then. Tell me why you’ve been avoiding me.”

Eijirou bites the inside of his cheek, feeling tears prick at his eyes, and suddenly the cold has begun to set in again. He rubs his throat, tries to quell the itch, and shudders.

He can still feel the scratching, and he wants, needs so badly to just run off and cough, rid his mouth of all the petals that have been building up. It hurts, it burns so badly that Eijirou could start crying.

Bakugo still looks off into the night. Away from UA, away from Eijirou.

“I haven’t been, it’s just- I can’t really explain it, man-”

“You have been. You don’t- you don’t talk when you eat with us. You don’t make a point of sitting next to me in the common rooms, like you used to. You don’t do stupid shit like ask me to cook for you or knock on my dorm so we can walk out together and you- you go across the bathroom to brush your teeth in a different sink.”

Eijirou’s heart drops. Because all he’d ever thought about then was how much he wanted to be away from Bakugo, so he never saw anything, so he didn’t notice the blood in the sink, so he didn’t notice how rotten Eijirou’s teeth had become. How the spiky edges had become more rounded.

He’d never thought, not in a million lifetimes, that Bakugo would notice something as small. As mundane.

He missed the teasing remarks about having to constantly get a new toothbrush. He’d missed standing in silence, close to each other, just existing. He’d missed that.

He’d never thought Bakugo would miss it too - but now he’s here, they’re up on the roof, and it must be noticeable because Bakugo is outright telling him.

“It’s stupid, I know. It just sucks.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“If you hate me, just tell me,” Bakugo interrupts him, looking over at Eijirou, face flushed red, eyes full of hurt. “I know you’re all about being manly and shit, and you wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings, but if you’re stringing me along, just say so.”

He wipes his nose and stands up, looking down at Eijirou. In the new angle, the moonlight has disappeared from his eyes.

“Bakugo, I’m not- I wouldn’t-”

“I know I’m a jerk, and an asshole, and not easy to be around. I know I’m short-tempered and loud but that doesn’t give you an excuse to pity me. I’ve changed. You know I’m decent enough to understand, Shitty Hair.”

Eijirou stands up too, reaches out for Bakugo; his palm lands on his shoulder, warm, gentle, comforting. Bakugo frowns, stares at him but he doesn’t brush him off.

“It’s- complicated,” Eijirou says, fighting back tears. “It’s complicated but I lo- I miss you, too, and I don’t want to lose my best friend over it.”

Bakugo looks conflicted. There are a million different emotions running through his eyes that Eijirou can’t place.

He just huffs, pulls Eijirou into a hug.

It’s sweet. The notion behind it, the warmth, the general feeling - but the chaos in Eijirou’s chest doesn’t quieten, but instead it rages, and he has to breathe very, very slowly as he tries not to have a coughing fit.

“Why can’t you tell me,” Bakugo says flatly.

“It’s complicated.”

“It always is,” Bakugo responds, holding into Eijirou, fisting his hands into his shirt.

Bakugo seems content to just stay there and hug him. For how long, Eijirou doesn’t know - but he can feel the itch rising in his throat, can feel his breath getting short, but he can’t do anything, because he and Bakugo are having a moment, he’s finally getting his best friend back, and he can’t-

He’s been holding it back for too long, for longer than he ever has now it’s gotten this bad, and this constant - he’s going to burst, he’s going to explode in an outburst of red and white, of blood and snowy petals all over his best friend.

Bakugo can’t know. Bakugo isn’t allowed to know. But Eijirou can feel it, it’s getting worse and worse and he can feel the sting of roots in his lungs, they’re going to come up, they’re going to come out, and there’s nothing Eijirou can do about it. Eijirou’s hugging his best friend and he’s going to have a coughing fit and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“You’re shaking,” Bakugo says quietly. “What’s going-”

Eijirou feels the cough before he hears it.

His shoulders convulse and Bakugo grips them in fear, but Eijirou can’t help it and a huge cough erupts from his throat; everything he’s been holding in is suddenly bursting out, and he’s terrified.

Bakugo pushes him back with the grip he has on his shoulders, just in time for Eijirou to tremble violently and hack up blood all over Bakugo’s shirt.

In the back of his mind, Eijirou wonders what Bakugo’s thinking - but in the moment, he can’t think, he can only try to breathe around the clusters of petals and clumps of blood and he knows it’s disgusting, he knows he’s making a mess. Tears begin to form in his eyes and blood and saliva are dripping down his chin and Eijirou can’t breathe.

Bakugo’s hands stay tight on his shoulders as Eijirou continues to cough, the petals finally dislodging themselves from his throat and falling to the floor, surrounding their feet in a halo of pearl-white flowers.

He shouldn’t have held it in. He shouldn’t have held it in, because now it’s worse, this is so much worse than it’s ever been. Eijirou can feel his throat pulsing, blood still filling his mouth, and he tries so hard to breathe. To finally get some air through everything. To breathe.

Even after all the petals have come up, Eijirou’s still heaving. Bakugo’s hands are warm on his shoulders, comforting if nothing else, and he looks horrified. Eijirou looks down and avoids eye contact as he spits the remaining dregs of blood from his mouth.

Blinking his tears away, Eijirou looks up at his best friend. “Bakugo,” he starts. “I’m, I’m so-”

“What the fuck,” Bakugo says. “What the fuck, Ei.”

Bakugo’s shirt is spattered with blood. Eijirou’s blood, he reminds himself. Bakugo’s shirt is a mess with the petals and blood that Eijirou coughed up because- because he’s in love with him.

Eijirou feels like crying. He feels sick. He’s going to fall over if Bakugo lets go of him.

“You idiot,” Bakugo says, red eyes full of tears, full of pain and full of hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me, why didn’t you tell anyone, who- wait, no, it doesn’t matter who, I just-”

There’s a sniff, and then a sob, and then suddenly Bakugo’s crying - and Eijirou’s heart breaks.

“Stupid- hair for brains,” he cries, fingers squeezing Eijirou’s shoulders. “I hate you, I hate you, you’re my best friend and it’s not fair and you’re not allowed to- Ei, it’s not-”

“Katsuki…” Eijirou starts, his voice raspy and broken, throat torn up from the thorns and the retching.

For some unbeknownst reason, Bakugo doesn’t care about the blood on his shirt, the mess on Eijirou’s face, any of it; he pulls Eijirou into a hug and holds him tighter than he’s ever been held, crying into his hair.

Bakugo’s arms are warm around him. The night seems colder in comparison now, and Eijirou just leans into him, the itch in his throat having subsided, just a little.

“I’m- I’m taking you to Aizawa. To Recovery Girl. To anyone, I don’t-” Bakugo stops, pauses for a second to breathe. “This isn’t happening.”

As Eijirou begins to feel sleepy, he hears a door opening, feels Bakugo spin around to face the noise.

He knows something’s happening, but he can’t really find it in himself to care, and leans further into Bakugo’s shoulder, ignores the blood, ignores everything. Eijirou doesn’t know who opened the door to the roof, but as far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t care.

Bakugo speaks before anyone else can.

“It’s- it’s Kirishima, he- he’s not- I don’t know what to do, Aizawa-sensei, please, help-”

Ah, so it’s Aizawa.

Eijirou doesn’t care. He coughs against Bakugo’s shoulder, but his best friend doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t care about the petals Eijirou coughs up on his bare skin, and instead just holds him tighter, body filled with desperation and panic.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t- I-”

Eijirou feels a hand on his back as his head starts to go light. Spots begin to dance in his vision and his head tingles and he’s dizzy, everything is too light and too fuzzy and he clings to Bakugo like he’ll die if he lets go.

With the masses of petals he’s started to cough up, Eijirou feels he might.

Eijirou can faintly hear Aizawa’s voice, can hear Bakugo’s cries mixing in, but he’s too weak to respond, to even say anything. Everything is disappearing, slowly fading, Eijirou’s so dizzy-

“-shima? Kirishima, can you hear-”

Everything disappears completely, Eijirou slumps forward into Bakugo’s hold, and his vision goes dark as Bakugo screams.

Everything is much lighter when Eijirou wakes.

Very light, very white and very blue - Eijirou blinks up at the ceiling, squinting his eyes, blinking away the heaviness of sleep. He feels… leaden. His bones ache, his limbs don’t want to move, and his throat feels like it’s been torn up from the inside. Everything hurts.

And then all the memories come flooding back - and Eijirou hurts even more.

Bakugo knows, Bakugo saw, Aizawa saw-

“Ah, he’s awake,” Comes a gentle voice from beside him, and Eijirou looks over groggily to see Recovery Girl standing next to his bed, looking over him with concern. Aizawa is stood next to her, face blank and arms folded, and behind them both on a chair-

Is Bakugo.

Bakugo, eyes closed and silent, head lolling to one side in his sleep. The skin around his eyes is puffy and red, his hair is even messier than it normally is, his clothes are ruffled and crumpled, but at least he’s changed and not covered in blood. ...Eijirou’s blood.

Eijirou tries to speak, but it only comes out as a wheezing gasp, his throat hoarse and dry. He pushes himself up so he can sit and looks up at Aizawa, with guilt and regret and sadness. His hands tighten in the bedsheets.

“You should have said something, Kirishima,” he says sternly, though his voice lacks any actual anger.

I’m sorry, Eijirou mouths. Aizawa’s eyebrows furrow and he sighs.

“Don’t be,” Aizawa tells him. “I understand you’re a hero in training, and you want to be as little of a burden as possible - but this is serious.”

Eijirou gulps and looks down at the bed. The hospital clothes drape off of him. They’re thin and he’s just so cold, and he’d give anything for Bakugo to hug him again.

“This is life-threatening, Kirishima. Do you understand? You could have and may possibly lose your life if drastic steps aren’t taken.”

There’s an awful, horrible silence. Eijirou bites his lip and tries to hold back his tears, because he knows he shouldn’t, but he feels so guilty.

Recovery Girl reaches over to pat Aizawa’s arm. “Actually- his condition has improved drastically overnight. We aren’t certain about what happened. We were waiting for him to wake up to ask him some questions.”

Swallowing painfully, Eijirou reaches his arm up and points at the clock on the wall.

“Oh- how long have you been here?” Recovery Girl asks, and Eijirou nods. “You got in at around eleven last night-”

“Remind me to berate you two about being on the roof when you’ve recovered,” Aizawa says flatly. “You’re not allowed to be there, especially not that late at night.”

Recovery Girl rolls her eyes. “And it’s early afternoon now. Poor Bakugo tried to stay up for you, but he’s fallen asleep. He was very worried.”

Eijirou’s eyes soften. Bakugo never left.

“Anyway-” Recovery Girl starts, tapping her clipboard- “How much does it hurt, right now? On a scale of 1-10?”

Trying to breathe deeply, Eijirou holds up three fingers. Recovery Girl nods.

“How bad was it last night?” She asks, and Eijirou holds up six. “Have you needed to cough since you woke up?”

Eijirou shakes his head.

Both Aizawa and Recovery Girl raise their eyebrows.

Frowning, Aizawa turns to mumble to Recovery Girl. “He was in terrible condition no less than a day ago,” he says. “Are you sure it could just disappear?”

Recovery Girl shrugs. “It’s possible, given the right circumstances.” She turns to Eijirou with sympathy. “You’re under no obligation to say- but can you tell us… who the affections are for?”

Blinking tears out of his eyes, Eijirou looks up from the bed; behind Aizawa and Recovery Girl, and over at his best friend, who’s sleeping on the chair of his hospital room.

There’s a sort of oh moment between the two adults.

“We’ll… we’ll wait for him to wake up,” Recovery Girl says softly. “It’s understandable if you don’t want to talk about it. Tell us if you feel uncomfortable, or if you want us to leave.”

Eijirou feels like crying, feels like going back to sleep, feels like getting up out of his bed to hug Bakugo; but he since can’t do any of those things, he just awkwardly folds his hands in his lap.

With a sigh, Aizawa puts a hand on Eijirou’s shoulder, looking at him with concern.

“It’s going to be okay. If you have any troubles, call someone. Anyone, immediately.” Eijirou nods.

“We can leave you alone for a bit, if that’s what you’d like,” Recovery Girl says sympathetically. “I understand it’s a very difficult thing to go through, but you appear in well enough condition for us to leave if you want to be on your own.”

Eijirou smiles gratefully, nodding once again as they turn to leave, and shut the door behind them.

And then it’s all very quiet.

The hospital room is very bright, and very quiet, and Eijirou blinks down at the floor as he rubs at his throat. Despite having been asleep for hours, it still burns from the stress of the thorns and the blood. He wouldn’t be able to talk if he tried.

It’s a constant, ongoing sting, the faint feeling of dryness, even though he hasn’t needed to cough since he woke up.

He hasn’t needed to cough.

It’s a far cry from the past days, weeks, months of his life. In the days leading up to last night, he could hardly go minutes without it, and the pain was stabbing and excruciating - but now it’s different, and Eijirou doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he hasn’t been able to breathe this freely in forever.

Though, his throat still hurts. He continues to rub absentmindedly at the column of his neck, trying to relieve at least some of the pain.

There’s a sharp intake of breath to his left, and he looks to see Bakugo having woken up, sitting straight upright in his chair. His hair is messy (or, messier than usual) and he looks so, so tired. Although he doesn’t seem to care that his shirt is creased, doesn’t seem to care that one of his socks is rolled up higher than the other, or that both of his laces are untied.

Bakugo takes one look at him, and Eijirou could swear he hears him sigh in relief. The frown lines disappear from his forehead as his face softens, and he stares at Eijirou, sitting in his bed, looking much less deathly than he was last night.

“Didn’t realise everyone had gone,” he grumbles. “You want me to go too?”

Adjusting his hospital gown on his shoulders, Eijirou shakes his head, and mouths the word stay. Bakugo seems to get it in an instant, standing up as fast as his legs will let him since he’d spent hours sleeping in a chair, and rushes over to his friend.

His arms aren’t crushing. He goes to hug Eijirou, and it’s not overwhelming, and he still feels like he can breathe, and everything’s still so quiet and still so blue and so white- and he reminds himself to relax, exhaling deeply, taking another long breath in. You can do that now, he reminds himself. You can breathe better.

Bakugo’s warm. He’s warm and he’s gentle in the way he tucks Eijirou’s head into his shoulder, letting Eijirou’s forehead meet his bare skin, letting him go lax as he cards his fingers through his hair, careful not to pull.

It’s still quiet. Still very quiet, and very blue. Bakugo’s cautious, he’s tender, and even the way he breathes seems tentative, the soft rise and fall of his chest muted, like he’s trying not to move. He doesn’t hold him too tight; he puts his arms around Eijirou like he’s fragile, something he could easily shatter, easily break.

Bakugo’s all warm caramel and soft blazes, and Eijirou melts.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Bakugo whispers into his ear.

Eijirou pushes him back, looks up at him and mouths sorry, signs an apology by closing his palm and making a circle on his chest. His hand rubs his skin through the thin material of the hospital gown, and he suddenly realises how much his muscles ache, how much he wants Bakugo to hug him again, how much he wants the comfort back when he’s hurting so badly.

Taking Eijirou’s hands in his own, Bakugo shushes him, wordlessly presses their foreheads together and brushes Eijirou’s hair out of his face. It’s loose and drooping over his shoulders since the gelled spikes had fallen apart and wore through during the night. But Eijirou doesn’t really care - because Bakugo has seen his hair like that before, and he quite enjoys having Bakugo’s hands run through it.

Even after how horrible last night had been, Eijirou is content to just exist with him. Sit and feel the warmth of Bakugo’s quiet breaths close to his face, feel the press of Bakugo’s head against his.

Eijirou looks into his eyes and sees the warm fire of familiar red looking back at him, clouded with what almost seems like fear, blurred with pain, hazy and obscured with the beginnings of tears.

“I know you can’t talk,” Bakugo whispers to him softly, lips barely moving.

Eijirou’s never heard him speak so quietly: maybe when he’s cooking and his face is screwed up with concentration; maybe when the whole class is watching a movie and he wants to whisper trivia to Eijirou; maybe in the early hours of the morning when he’s simply too tired to be loud.

“Just don’t say anything. Let me… talk for a second.” Eijirou smiles in acknowledgement, and Bakugo’s hands find his shoulders, steadying him. It’s nice. Their faces are so, so close together, and Bakugo’s hands are warm even through his hospital gown - it’s nice to be close to him. It’s nice to know Bakugo isn’t disgusted by him.

“You could’ve- you could’ve died,” Bakugo says. His voice cracks on the last syllable, and his hands tighten on Eijirou’s shoulder. “I know… you don’t have to tell me everything, and I know- I might not be the easiest person to talk to about- about feelings-” Bakugo spits the word out like he despises it- “But I- last night. If my best friend had died, and I didn’t even know…”

Blinking, Eijirou places his hands on top of Bakugo’s, who in turn takes Eijirou’s hands in his own and brings them down to his lap, keeping them in place. His thumbs run in soothing circles over his palms.

“The old woman said you were doing better,” he murmurs. “And I felt… relieved. But I can’t explain the- the feeling. I don’t even know what to call it, because I’ve never- I’ve never felt that before. And never that strongly.” Bakugo sighs, like it’s painful for him to remember, to even think of; he takes a moment to shut his eyes and swallow, compose himself before he opens them again.

When he does, he can’t bring himself to make eye contact with Eijirou, and his eyes lower to look at their hands, intertwined and resting on top of Eijirou’s legs. Eijirou stares at Bakugo’s eyes, looking down, memorises the shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheeks and the tiny, faint freckle beneath his eye.

Bakugo clears his throat. “The feeling I got when you… I- I think I was just… scared.” His face is dusted pink, like he’s embarrassed to admit it. The fact that he could possibly be worried. For someone, no less.

“You were bleeding and coughing and dying in front of me and there- there was nothing I could do. I’ve never been scared like that. It felt like my heart… just, caved in on itself. It made me realise… Ei, it-” a tear slips out of his eye.

“I can’t see you die. I can’t go to your funeral. I can’t… have the room next to mine be empty and I can’t study on Thursdays by myself and I can’t… move on. I can’t move on without you. I can’t lose you.” Bakugo bites his lower lip, tries to squeeze his tears back in.

"It made me realise that- that- I don’t know. You mean… you mean so much to me."

Bakugo finally looks back into his eyes.

The deep wine red of Bakugo’s eyes is glassy and wet, staring at Eijirou like he means something, like he’s something to cherish, to hold onto.

Eijirou’s heart aches. But his lungs stay calm, stay still - there’s no horrible itching, no awful feeling of roots growing, stretching and flourishing, crawling at his throat. There’s no perfumey taste of petals in his mouth, even as Bakugo stares into his eyes.

"You mean more than you were ever meant to,” Bakugo tells him honestly.” “I- I came to UA wanting to become Number One and nothing else, and then you- you, god. It’s not fair. I couldn’t bear you to- to leave me, and I only realised when you were close to death.”

“I think it was because I was forced to- confront it. What would happen if I didn’t have you anymore…” Bakugo trails off, biting the inside of his cheek. “You’re so much- so much more than… than just my equal.”

Bakugo’s hand comes to rest on Eijirou’s cheek, all warm and rough and calloused, the pad of his thumb resting underneath his eye. Sighing, he leans into it, like the touch is going to somehow heal him, rid his lungs of everything that corrupts them.

Eijirou doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look at white roses again.

...Even if they’re Bakugo’s favourite flower.

“I don’t care who it is,” Bakugo tells him. “Who you want. I just- I just want you to be okay.”

Shutting his eyes, Eijirou places his hand over Bakugo’s heart, feels the gentle, rhythmic drum of his heartbeat through his shirt.

Bakugo pulls him back into a hug, and everything stays quiet, stays peaceful. Eijirou sighs deeply, takes the liberty of being able to breathe yet again. He could live forever without missing the taste of flowers and thick, red copper.

Softening into his hold, Eijirou brings up his hands to rest gracefully on Bakugo’s waist, fingers curling around him, settling delicately on his torso. He still feels no need to cough, still feels nothing in his throat, and it’s bliss. He sighs into Bakugo’s shoulder and feels pure and utter bliss.

His fingers begin to trace patterns into Bakugo’s sides, drawing the shapes of flowers with his fingertips over his shirt. It’s something he wouldn’t do normally - but his face is hidden in Bakugo’s shoulder, and he has a newfound confidence now his best friend can’t see his face.

“You trying to tickle me, Shitty Hair?”

Eijirou shakes his head so Bakugo can feel, and continues to move his hands, lightly drags his fingers in the shapes of petals, roses into his skin.

“What’s this, then?” Bakugo asks softly, though he doesn’t make any effort to stop him.

Still keeping his eyes shut, relishing in the moment, Eijirou traces the letter I on his back. Bakugo huffs.

“I? You what?”

Eijirou sighs, shakes his head again, into Bakugo’s shoulder so he can feel his response. Even though he doesn’t get it, and he’d normally be frustrated, Bakugo keeps his cool, and stays gentle with him, arms peaceful and comforting, body warm.

His mind is quiet. It’s a welcome quiet, this time. Everything is blue and white but it’s steady, still, and Eijirou likes it.

Bakugo squeezes him as Eijirou traces the letter I again, tugs at Bakugo’s shirt, traces another flower into the side of his stomach.

“I don’t get it, Ei,” Bakugo says quietly, his voice low, creating a gentle thrum in Eijirou’s ear, sounding through his head. “You got paper in here? A pen?”

Yet again, Eijirou shakes his head in lieu of a no, and Bakugo sighs. He moves to hold the back of Eijirou’s head, stroking down his hair.

Eijirou breathes out in a soft huff, relaxing into Bakugo’s shoulder. He might not be getting it, but Eijirou doesn’t mind - he’s enjoying the closeness, the intimacy of the moment. It’s just Eijirou, Katsuki, the quiet of the room and the blue of the walls.

There’s an almost inaudible hum from Bakugo as Eijirou’s hands linger on his sides, carrying on the markings of flowers over his skin, under his shirt.

“Flowers,” Bakugo says, resigned. “You. Flowers. I got that, buddy. I saw that.”

If his hands weren’t on Bakugo’s waist, Eijirou would be smacking his palm to his forehead. As smart as Bakugo is, he isn’t very good at reading signals. He pushes his head further into his friend’s shoulder.

“The suit you gave me has flowers there,” Bakugo says indifferently.

Immediately, Eijirou jolts in Bakugo’s grip, back snapping up straight, and he nods frantically as Bakugo pulls away. He frowns at Eijirou, who’s nodding so quickly it looks as though his head might come off; his eyes are wide and his mouth is curled up slightly with the preface of a smile.

Bakugo’s eyebrows are knitted together as his brain desperately tries to connect the dots. Eijirou’s never seen him look so confused.

Part of Eijirou is surprised Bakugo remembers, because it was in their first year, a while back from now, and anyone else would think Bakugo surely isn’t the type to remember that kind of stuff - but Eijirou still hasn’t told him he knows. He knows Bakugo has kept the suit, keeps it at the bottom of his wardrobe, even if it is just gathering dust because it doesn’t fit him anymore.

Bakugo searches Eijirou’s eyes like they can tell him what he means. There’s an unspoken softness in the room; Bakugo’s eyes are deep and searching, lit up with the glint of the white light in the hospital ceiling, staring at his best friend like the answers to all the world’s questions lie in his eyes.

Even if Bakugo never understands him, Eijirou’s okay with it if he continues to look at him like this.

“That? That was in our first year. What about that?”

Eijirou points at his own mouth. Bakugo stares at him blankly.

Rolling his eyes, Eijirou huffs. This is much more taxing than he’d originally thought, but at least they’re getting somewhere. He taps his mouth twice with two fingers, then taps Bakugo’s waist with the same digits.

Brushing his hair out of his face, Bakugo huffs back at Eijirou, because the tapping isn’t helping. It feels like an endless game of charades, but Bakugo’ll be damned if he doesn’t attempt to finish it. He’s going to get it, whether it be now or later or some time in the future.

“This would be so much easier if you could talk,” Bakugo says.

Tell me about it, Eijirou thinks.

“Am I close?”

Again, Eijirou nods, tapping Bakugo’s waist again, then tapping his mouth. Part of him is glad he can’t talk, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to say it himself. He’d much rather Bakugo come to the conclusion, say it for him; he knows he should probably be more open about his feelings, but he can cut himself some slack. He’s had a rough night.

“My old suit,” Bakugo muses. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Eijirou taps his mouth insistently.

And suddenly, there’s a look of dawning, realisation in Bakugo’s eyes. The curiosity, the questioning is replaced with understanding and… fondness, Eijirou thinks that is. Bakugo’s eyes are soft, a deep cherry red filled with fondness, care, and something else Eijirou can’t find the word for.

“They’re…” Bakugo clears his throat. “They’re the same. The same flowers.”

Eijirou smiles as much as his cracked lips will let him.

“You- the- I…” Bakugo’s eyes are wide, shiny, and his mouth is frozen open, in a statue of open-mouthed, breathless shock. “I, as in I-Island. The white- white roses. My favourite.”

As his eyes brim with tears, he doesn’t even notice. They spill out onto his cheeks without his face even budging, like his mind is running ahead, and his body is yet to catch up; it’s a constant waterfall of emotion, yet it’s so serene and gentle Eijirou can’t even hear.

“Me,” Bakugo breathes. “It’s me.”

Another wave of tears wash over Bakugo’s cheeks, soaking his eyelashes, blurring his eyes; and even though he bites the inside of his cheek again, they persevere and continue to fall.

Eijirou closes his fist, sticks out his first finger, and signs always with a circle.

“The old woman said-” Bakugo pauses to sniff, angrily wipe the tears from his cheeks like he’s mad at them for flowing. “She said you- your condition had improved. A lot, overnight. Like some kind of- some kind of miracle. And you haven’t coughed since you woke and she said she didn’t know why but I- I only realised last night,” he says shakily. “I realised after you passed out that I- that-”

Bakugo stops for a second, breathes in deeply, his chest exaggeratedly moving up, and down. Up. Down. In. Out.

“That I love you,” he admits.

Eijirou’s kind of glad he can’t talk. He wouldn’t know what to say.

And when Bakugo leans forward to gently kiss him, Eijirou’s throat is clear, and the taste of petals and blood is only a memory.