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Kirishima is weird.
The thought occurs to Katsuki early on in their strange little acquaintance…ship… thing they have going on.
They’re on a break between classes when Kirishima’s booming voice draws the attention of half their classmates, including Katsuki’s. Up until then they all kept to a lower -by their standards- volume, so his excited ramble easily rose above everyone else’s conversations. Kaminari, aware of the spotlight, raises his hands with an awkward smile. Kirishima on the other hand seems way too engrossed in whatever he’s talking about to notice the multiple pairs of eyes that are now on him.
“Pipe down, Kirishima,” Jirou complains, her headphones apparently not enough to drown him out.
Kirishima snaps out of it. An uncomfortable look passes over his face, but is immediately replaced by an easy smile.
“Sorry!” he laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck, a barely-there flush high on his cheeks.
Katsuki- well. He stares.
He can’t help it. Admittedly, in such a world being “weird” is pretty much par for the course, but there’s something else about the guy that Katsuki can’t quite pinpoint.
He sees it in the way Kirishima knocks hardened fists together every time he’s feeling passionate (which is often), in the way his voice comes out louder than it needs to without him realizing, in the way his eyes always miss Katsuki’s by a fraction of an inch.
Most of all, in the way every other word to come out of his mouth seems to be Katsuki’s name.
With Kirishima it’s never simply Good morning or Let’s go or Calm down. It’s always followed or preceded by a Bakugou!, even when the addition of the name makes the rest of his sentence sound kind of awkward.
It reminds Katsuki too much of a certain someone, and the familiarity makes his hackles rise. He fights the reflex down because at the end of the day there isn’t an ounce of insincerity or pity lacing Kirishima’s words, and he always meets Katsuki’s temper head-on rather than flinch away from him. Kirishima isn’t him- no matter how often he calls Katsuki’s name. Which, once Katsuki notices it, only becomes more obvious. He isn’t particularly bothered by it (he prefers it over Kacchan any day of the week). Something about hearing his name in Kirishima’s rough, confident voice is- soothing, he realizes, in a strange way that he refuses to acknowledge.
In their classroom that’s once again buzzing with noise, the weight of his gaze doesn’t go unnoticed by Kirishima. The guy immediately brightens up and sends a smile his way, as always undeterred by Katsuki’s perpetual glare. He does that almost-but-not-quite eye contact thing that he does, but Katsuki isn’t going to complain. There’s something refreshing about that, too.
Still, curiosity itches at the back of his mind, reminding him of its presence until the need for answers becomes too much to bear.
“Bakugou, wait up!”
Katsuki doesn’t acknowledge the call or slow down. At this point it’s merely a heads up, really- Kirishima is very much capable of catching up. And he does, easing to a casual stroll by his side.
“Man,” he whines, “Sero totally wiped the floor with me back there. Did you see the way he moved?” He flails his hands as he speaks, a poor attempt to reenact the scene accompanied by sound effects. “I should strengthen my defenses even more, huh?”
“Your defenses are fucking fine, you just need to work on your agility,” Katsuki says. “You focus too much on bulking up, but you gotta be quick enough to dodge hits in addition to blocking. Won’t be any point to you being a powerhouse if you can’t keep up with a fleeing Villain, either.”
“You’re right,” Kirishima responds, eyes widening as if it never crossed his mind. “I gotta get better at judging when to do one or the other, too. Good thinking, Bakugou!”
The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them.
“What’s with you saying my name all the time?”
Kirishima’s footsteps stutter.
“Uh- what do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said.” Katsuki’s scowl deepens. Might as well get this over with. “You keep saying my name even when there’s no one else you could be talking to around- it’s weird. You already have my attention, so what gives?”
With the afternoon sun in his face and an expression so blank Katsuki almost doesn’t recognise him for a second, Kirishima isn’t looking at him. He doesn’t talk either, not until they’re about to reach the crossroads where they part ways.
“Sorry,” is all he says with a strained laugh, “I didn’t realize I was doing it.”
Sorry?
Katsuki opens his mouth to tell him off for his non-answer, but Kirishima clears his throat and speaks before he can.
“Anyway, I should get going.” His tone is back to normal, but it sounds forced. He starts to cross the road, looking over his shoulder with a “later--”
He falters.
“Um. Later.”
His smile is unconvincing, his back tense. Katsuki watches him leave and stays on that intersection until the traffic light goes red then green then red again, getting no closer to deciphering the bizarre reaction.
Kirishima gets weirder -if possible- after that.
He isn’t avoiding Katsuki by any means- they still spend as much time together as they usually do (which is too much, in Katsuki’s opinion, but for some reason he still finds himself letting it happen more and more), along with the rest of the circus that won’t leave him be after the sports festival (also a way too fucking common occurrence).
What happens instead is that he addresses him way less.
It becomes obvious after the third time Kirishima’s lips catch around a B only to backtrack immediately that, for reasons unknown, he’s holding back from using Katsuki’s name. Not entirely, but just enough to be noticed, littering his sentences with dudes and mans and bros instead- words not particularly sparse in his vocabulary, but barely ever used towards Katsuki up until a few days ago.
Because Kirishima would always just say his name.
The distinct lack of it makes their interactions feel stilted, somehow, which throws Katsuki off. He ends up spending a (larger than he wants to admit) part of his days distracted, that vague sensation of something being off gnawing at him every time Kirishima comes to mind (yet another thing that happens way too often. Katsuki hadn’t even realized how many of his thoughts revolved around the guy until he overheard the hag ask his father “well, what else do you think would get him so scatterbrained if not a crush?”
As if. Katsuki doesn’t have the time -or the need- for crushes.)
It’s the same sort of unease as having his whole schedule flipped upside down, except nothing is actually wrong. Kirishima talks to him, walks by his side to their- the intersection where they seperate, meets up with him to spar on Saturday mornings and doesn’t miss their Thursday evening study sessions. The only difference is that he won’t say his name anymore, not unless he’s actually calling for him (and if Katsuki has been trying to make that happen more, that’s to stay locked up in the deepest, darkest corner of his brain forever).
The others don’t seem to notice, either. No matter how he looks at it, Katsuki should have no complaints for the guy whatsoever.
And yet.
It keeps nagging at him.
This goes on until, on Friday afternoon, Katsuki decides to do one of the many things he’s best at and tackle the problem at its source, head-on.
“You didn’t answer my question.” He glares at Kirishima, who adjusts the straps of his backpack.
“What question?”
“The one about saying my name so much.”
Kirishima frowns. “Have I been doing it again?”
“You haven’t been doing it.” Patience wearing thin, Katsuki kicks a pebble, feeling like a child throwing a tantrum over nothing. “But you never actually answered me, either.”
“Why does it matter?” Kirishima huffs, and even without looking at him Katsuki can tell he’s pouting.
“It does,” Katsuki spits, surprising even himself. Kirishima is right; why does it matter? Why is this making him so unreasonably angry? Instinctively, he wants to claim it’s because he hates not knowing things, but now that answer feels insufficient.
At least Kirishima seems to be considering explaining himself this time.
“I like saying it,” he says slowly, carefully. His eyes flicker up for a fraction of a second as if to gauge Katsuki’s reaction, but Katsuki keeps his face neutral. “Like- okay, this is gonna sound super weird but I- I like… how saying it feels?”
“How it feels.”
A nod. “It’s, uh,” Kirishima bites his lip (Katsuki definitely doesn’t stare at the way sharp teeth catch on soft skin), “a form of… vocal... stimming.”
Katsuki stops on his tracks. He thinks his heart does, too.
“Bak- uh, dude?” Kirishima turns to look at him, now a couple steps ahead.
He must have heard wrong. It’s the only thought Katsuki can latch onto and it’s thrown out the window and stomped on almost immediately; over the ringing in his ears and his brain’s chants of shit fuck no no nonono he’s just about certain he hears Kirishima ask if he knows what that is.
“I know what it is,” Katsuki answers, unsure if his voice sounds weird only to him. “Are you-”
“I’m autistic,” Kirishima says, the word falling casually from his mouth. Then, “Is there a problem?”
Except it’s not really a question, that much Katsuki can tell. It sounds almost like a threat, and hearing it come from Kirishima would be near comical if Katsuki wasn’t feeling like the blood in his veins has frozen in place. Kirishima’s gaze burns into his skin and he knows that if he looked up, he’d more than likely meet it- not almost, not nearly, but fully.
It’s too much.
“No,” he says eventually, throat dry. “Fucking- whatever, I don’t care.”
He walks past Kirishima (ignoring the inquisitive call of his name even though that’s all he wanted to hear for days now), all the way to the intersection, across the road and down to the train station without pausing or looking back.
Kirishima doesn’t follow.
In retrospect, he should have seen it coming. The universe loves throwing shit like this at him.
Like back when they were toddlers, when he’d mock Deku for repeating stuff like All Might and I am here! over and over again only for the universe to decide that pulling an uno reverse card on Katsuki was a fitting form of retribution.
His mother would make a face and tell him to stop and Katsuki would repeat things more out of defiance; then the hag would start yelling, voice like nails on a chalkboard when she screeched at him to look at her and forced his tiny hands away from his ears.
He didn’t get it- Auntie Inko never told Deku to stop, after all. She just smiled and even occasionally repeated his words back at him. She never got mad when Deku looked at his hands instead of her face when she talked, either.
Why was Katsuki different?
It was a while after his Quirk appeared that it became clear- when he found himself sitting on the uncomfortable chair of an office (the fluorescent lights too bright and too loud), some nondescript doctor looking at him way too closely for comfort and asking way too many questions.
Apparently his mother wasn’t very fond of the doctor’s conclusions. She disregarded everything they said, grabbing Katsuki and leaving without another word. On the way home she kept talking -more to herself than to Katsuki it felt like- insisting that he’d get over it, that the doctor didn’t know shit, that there was nothing wrong with him, that he was normal.
Later that day his father had kept quiet, hands clenched around a mug on the kitchen table and lips pressed into a thin line as he listened to his wife rant. Neither was aware of Katsuki eavesdropping, catching her pepper her sentences with words he couldn’t yet understand (at least one of which he knew for certain was directed at Deku more than once by older kids at the playground), adamant that Katsuki was not “friendless, useless and abnormal”.
That’s when it sank in.
He’s different because he’s better.
Better than Deku, better than anyone with the same disease. So much better, in fact, that he decided to agree with his mother for once, and get over it like she said he would.
So he bit his tongue and stopped repeating things; he stubbornly met her eyes when she yelled even though it made him want to crawl out of his own skin; he kept his hands in his pockets, fists clenched so tight the indents of his nails on his palms became nearly permanent- because like hell he had anything in common with stupid Deku.
This, too, is retribution.
Why else would the universe send him Kirishima if not to tell him you’re a fucking dumbass if you thought putting in all that effort in getting over it would make you stronger than the ones who admit it so openly?
Because Deku never hid it from him either. The reason so many things about Kirishima felt familiar -the off-center eye contact, the lack of volume control, the weird and seemingly pointless mannerisms- is because they’re things Katsuki has essentially known all his life.
How in the world didn’t he make the connection?
He groans into his pillow, dragging it out until his lungs are burning, then takes a deep breath and does it again. He’s way out of his depth with no one to turn to; mentioning any of this to his mother means bringing up the topic of autism altogether, which probably wouldn’t end well if her initial reaction to it was anything to go by; his father sucks at keeping secrets from her, and how much he knows about this is debatable at best; Deku knows a lot about it, but Katsuki would rather die than ask him.
(Auntie Inko is out of the question, too. He could never handle her pitying glances, and always felt like she somehow knew about him from the start. Mortifying, and not something he’s willing to subject himself to.)
Determined to at the very least educate himself, he switches over to his desk and opens his laptop. He’s not about to go all Dr. Google on it, but knowing the traits generally associated with this might at least give him some clue on how to approach Kirishima tomorrow- both about the name thing and his reaction to Kirishima’s revelation.
Because he wants to, not because he cares. He just likes knowing things, that’s all.
He starts by looking up diagnostic criteria, and soon realizes how clinical everything is. Which is to be expected, but not really what he’s interested in here. So his next search is instead articles and blog posts written by people living with the same condition. And there are a lot of them- many are sharing their experiences, explaining themselves, but the more he looks into it, the more the pit in his stomach grows.
This… can’t be right.
So much of it reads like something he’d write. Not only about his younger self, who still didn’t know any better and let the condition get the best of him for a while, but about his current self too- the one who learned how to fight it. The one who cured himself of it like he would a nasty cold, prided himself in being better than Deku at getting rid of it and mocked the nerd for not trying hard enough to do it himself.
It has to be a coincidence. The only other explanation is absurd. He isn’t like that anymore.
Or at least he shouldn’t be.
His fingers hover above his keyboard, hesitant. When he lowers them again his original goal is forgotten for good.
do people outgrow autism, he writes.
The results are a mixed bag. Some places claim that kids diagnosed early might outgrow that diagnosis. Others claim that it’s a lifelong condition, though some people might get misdiagnosed with something else. That’s all fine and dandy, but Katsuki doesn’t even remember whether or not he got diagnosed with anything in the first place, and he can’t exactly ask.
He keeps searching.
He comes across people who got diagnosed later in life talking about how, looking back, they recognized that much of the way they experienced the world (especially compared to their peers) was affected by autism even if they didn’t know it at the time. About how their intense focus on a single interest got old for the people around them really quick, and yet it kept them occupied for much longer than anyone was willing to listen to them talk about it. About how the discomfort certain things brought them never lessened; they just got better at ignoring it.
About how much deeper than its outdated, surface-level portrayal autism runs and affects the ones who live with it.
The deeper he digs, the longer his mental checklist gets, the more breathing becomes a task he has to put conscious thought into.
It’s when he comes across a paragraph talking about how even minute changes in routine can feel huge and devastating that he slams his laptop shut and shoves it at the far end of his desk, as if having it out of sight will fix his brain. Which is maybe not the most accurate or “sensitive” way of putting it, but he’s way past the point of caring.
He feels lightheaded. It doesn’t make sense- he did everything right. For a decade now he ignored the way the rush of achievement urged him to shake his head like a wet dog, pushed down the discomfort of facing people when they talked to him, second guessed every single thing said to him and picked it apart for underlying meanings- and it didn’t work?
He has to be over it, he has to be, because if he isn’t-
If he isn’t, then it’s all been in vain.
All the putting up with dozens of distracting sounds that no one else ever pointed out and seams of clothes that dug into his skin and nauseating eye contact will have meant nothing, because clearly he’s just a couple of bad days and a handful fewer Bakugous away from throwing a tantrum like he did when he was five years old.
He goes through his nightly routine in a daze, forcing his brain to stay on track and his heart to climb down from his throat. It’s fine. He’s fine; he won’t let himself be thrown off by a few people on the internet that he’s never even met.
Only it was never just the internet. It was a doctor sitting across from him when he was five and his mother scoffing at his rigid schedule in middle school and Kirishima saying it to his face just earlier today. It was a lifetime ago, when Deku explained to him what stimming is, when Katsuki decided he would never do it himself, not even to spite his mother.
Except he indulges, apparently he always has, but that should mean nothing. So what if he shakes his hands by his sides, pretending to be ridding them of excess sweat (it works better when he’s not in costume, his clunky gauntlets preventing him from moving in such a way; he prefers it like that, no one other than him ever becoming aware of the buzz under his skin), or if he repeatedly clicks his tongue while walking down empty alleys like he’s beckoning cats, or if he sprinkles fucks into his daily vocabulary because no matter how crass it’s more inconspicuous than any other word to repeat?
His mother calls him violent and vulgar, but at least not abnormal.
And at the end of the day, that’s what matters, isn’t it? Getting to live without having that label plastered on his forehead, having people who don’t even know him tell him what he can and can’t do because of it- isn’t that what he did this all for?
Staring holes at the ceiling late into the night, Katsuki isn’t so sure anymore.
In the morning he’s hyperaware of all his thoughts and actions. The smallest, most mundane of things, the ones he thought were just part of everyone’s day are now sources of overthinking.
During a breakfast he can find no appetite for, his father doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by how loud the fridge is. He doesn’t complain when his wife comes downstairs practically covered in perfume and kisses the two of them goodbye, his fingers don’t twitch with the need to rub at a headache building in his temples from the intensity of the smell.
over-sensitivity to certain senses or specific sensations
Katsuki shakes his head, willing it to clear like an etch-a-sketch, and there’s a tiny voice in there telling him to keep doing it. He freezes, stomach dropping, the food on his plate now even less appealing. His mother doesn’t seem to notice, ruffling his hair as she passes him on her way out but he’s too distracted to really snap at her for it, only batting her hand away half-heartedly. Once she’s gone, his father turns to him.
“Are you feeling alright, son?”
“I’m fine,” he replies too quickly. His father hums behind his coffee mug. “Just didn’t sleep well. I hafta kick Shitty Hair’s ass in like an hour so I’m- conserving energy, or whatever.” Is that believable enough? Technically he isn’t lying, but it feels like he is- does he sound guilty? Defensive? Like he’s questioning his entire life?
Can his father tell?
The fridge is still humming loudly. Katsuki decides he’s had enough.
But when he has one foot on the stairs, something stops him. With his back to the kitchen, he hesitates. He wants to ask; about himself, about Deku, about what his father really thought of all of this, about whether or not Katsuki succeeded in distancing himself as much as possible from what that doctor said and what Kirishima openly accepted being.
About whether or not it was worth it in his mother’s eyes.
What comes out is none of those things.
“If there was,” he swallows, throat dry, “something. Something-- wrong, with me, and I didn’t know,” he glances over his shoulder, not wanting to face the man fully again, “you’d tell me, right?”
He hates how uncertain he sounds, how small.
His father is frowning. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Katsuki.”
That’s not what I asked, Katsuki thinks, why the fuck do people keep responding to shit I didn’t say?
(Besides, now he knows for a fact that there are at least a couple things wrong with him, so he’s just being lied to.)
Shoulders slumping, he climbs the stairs. “ Right.”
He’s well aware of how fucked up the way he phrased it is. His father doesn’t know what he meant by something being wrong with him, but he does. And he knows for certain, after last night’s searches, that there are people who are more than content to be the way they are, that they don’t consider themselves to be wrong, but that doesn’t matter to him now.
Because this isn’t about other people. It’s about Bakugou fucking Katsuki, U.A. student, future number one hero- the spot is waiting for him to claim it, and how is he supposed to do that when one person doing something differently than he expected them to throws a wrench in his system? How is he supposed to act in times of crisis when a tiny difference in his day-to-day life feels like one in and of itself?
a preference for routine and sameness
The slap echoes down the hall. His cheek stings. His hand is used to burning. Taking a deep breath, he enters his room and gets ready.
(Perhaps a bit paranoid, he opens his laptop with the sole purpose of clearing all his search history. He isn’t doing anything dirty or illegal and so his mother has no reason to go through it, but that hasn’t deterred her before.)
(Then again, all this new information does feel kind of dirty and illegal to have. And maybe she does have a reason to keep tabs on him; he was a difficult kid. At the end of the day everything she’s done was for his own good, because she wants the best for him. She’s shit at showing it but she loves him.)
He makes his bed on autopilot, refusing to think too much about the red-white-blue-yellow color scheme of his bedsheets (or the dozen similar ones in his closet). He does not look at the entire shelves he has filled with All Might memorabilia or think about the times he and Deku were called weird for being so “hung up” on the guy after their peers long outgrew their own hero obsessions.
intense focus and interests
A pillow gets scorched. This will be fun to explain later. For now he simply puts it out and shoves it as deep under his bed as it can go, hoping it doesn’t start an actual fire. He grabs his carefully put together duffel bag and heads out, ignoring the sock drawer that hasn’t been opened in years and his painstakingly arranged bookshelf that he had actually screamed at his mother for cleaning once and the windowsill covered in cacti that still has a single unoccupied spot he couldn’t bring himself to fill after the original one died.
U.A. is considerate enough to let their students use the training grounds within certain hours, which he and Kirishima have been taking full advantage of for a while. Occasionally they meet other pairs or groups of students there, on their way to or back from their own training sessions, and they sometimes go up against them together, but more often than not it’s just the two of them, pushing each other to their limits both with and without Quirks.
Kirishima is always on time, waiting for Katsuki at the school gates so they can walk to the training field they’ve reserved together. That’s where he stands today as well, hair sticking up like it doesn’t get all messed up every time without fail and a (just as obnoxiously red) bag slung over his shoulder. He startles a bit when he looks up from his phone and notices Katsuki approaching.
“You’re here,” he says unnecessarily, giving Katsuki a once-over. He smiles, then, and Katsuki ignores the way the knot his stomach has tied itself into eases.
“Obviously,” he scoffs, moving past the gates and towards the training fields. “You expected me to ditch?”
Kirishima falls into step next to him. “Nah, figured you wouldn’t. Though you did leave a little suddenly yesterday.”
“Remembered something,” is all Katsuki says through clenched teeth.
Whether or not he believes him, Kirishima accepts his answer. He continues trying to make small talk while they stretch, but there’s still tension in the air even though there shouldn’t be. Being with Kirishima has always been easy -annoying at times, but never in a way that felt overwhelming- and the thought that it isn’t anymore is more upsetting than Katsuki expected it to be.
And to top it all off, Kirishima is still jumping through hoops to avoid saying his name. In the end, Katsuki never decided how to talk to him about anything, too caught up in his own predicament.
“No Quirks,” he says when they’re standing across from each other. Kirishima nods, his gaze just as burning as it was yesterday, and Katsuki refuses to meet it.
He launches.
Kirishima is a good sparring partner, Katsuki knew that from the start; he doesn’t pull his punches, and god, does he pack a punch. Soft cheeks that haven’t yet lost their baby fat and friendly hands could fool anybody, but Katsuki has long learned not to underestimate Kirishima’s fire.
Unfortunately for the latter, he’s still not as agile and quick on his feet as his current opponent. It isn’t easy -they’re both sweaty and panting and Katsuki tastes copper on his tongue-, but even after last night’s fitful sleep and two halves of a whole panic attack in the last twenty four hours, in the end he still manages to pin Kirishima to the ground.
Victory isn’t as satisfying as it should have been. He knows Kirishima wouldn’t let him win, he knows, but there’s a feeling in his gut that’s screaming at him that he’s not the one who has the upper hand here and his head, peacefully quiet while they exchanged blows, is getting loud again. It’s frustrating- humiliation stings at the back of his eyes, pressure increasing with each passing second they stay still, catching their breaths.
Kirishima is looking at him, eyes sharp. Katsuki meets them, finally, and there’s- there’s something, here, in this single moment of direct contact, something uncomfortable and familiar and tense, something hiding in plain sight, something that might just burn him alive if he gets too close to figuring it out.
I know you, it says. Wouldn’t you like to know yourself, too?
It’s a lot to unpack. A wide open training field is probably not the best place to do that.
So he swallows it down and clicks his tongue- once.
“Why did you stop?” he pants, sweat dripping off his face and onto Kirishima’s.
Kirishima blinks up at him. “What?”
“Why did you stop saying it,” Katsuki repeats through gritted teeth, voice wavering traitorously.
Kirishima’s eyes widen, understanding dawning in them. Then he frowns, tilting his head like a confused puppy.
“I… I thought you wanted me to?”
Katsuki wants to scream. He lets go of Kirishima and shoves himself off of him, sitting just a couple of feet away with his head between his knees.
“I never said that,” he grumbles, tugging at his own hair. “All I wanted was an answer to why you keep saying my name, and for some reason you assumed I meant god-knows-what and got all- weird. You’re weird.”
“Thought we already established that,” Kirishima’s lips pull into a half-smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. Katsuki closes his own so that he doesn’t have to look at it.
“This is a different weird,” he insists, trying to keep his voice even. “And you won’t even fucking tell me why.”
(It still cracks, at the end.)
This isn’t what he wanted. All he asked for was an answer to a simple question and he ended up having to rethink his whole life’s experience and left to grapple with the fact that he might just be what he thought he could avoid becoming, furious at the people who never told him and at himself for not thinking to look, when it’s all been so big and important and--
Scary. It’s scary. Fuck, it’s terrifying.
Kirishima shuffles, probably sitting up. The distinct sound of tumbling rocks reaches Katsuki’s ears and he can just picture hardened knuckles clinking together nervously even without looking. Strangely enough, the sound grounds him- gives him something to focus on so that he doesn’t spiral even further down the tornado in his own head. He forces himself to breathe in time with Kirishima’s rhythm.
Eventually, Kirishima opens his mouth.
“I’ve had people I considered friends ask me that, when really what they meant was ‘you’re saying it too much, it’s becoming annoying and you sound like an idiot’. It didn’t take long for them to decide they didn’t want me around anymore, after that. So when you asked, I assumed that’s what you meant, too.” A sigh. “I know I joke around a lot, but I don’t actually want to annoy you into dropping me. I like being friends with you.” And then, under his breath, “Plus I kind of need those study sessions.”
Katsuki flings a pebble at him just for show. Kirishima catches it before it hits him and laughs, and it startles Katsuki how his own shoulders relax at the sound.
“I thought,” Kirishima continues, “if I gradually started being more openly autistic around you, by the time I actually told you about it you’d already be used to my… ‘weirdness’,” he air quotes. “I’m not ashamed of it- of what I am. Or at least I’m trying not to be, but sometimes… sometimes I feel like people realize it before I’m ready to tell them. Like everyone already knows something is different about me and has decided I’m not worth bothering with. And I keep telling myself that I don’t want to be friends with people like that in the first place, but it still kinda sucks.” His glances at Katsuki’s general direction. “You picked up on it early on too, didn’t you?”
Katsuki neither confirms nor denies it. Kirishima rambles on.
“And yet you decided to let me stick around, when you could’ve pushed me away like you did everyone else at the start. And I know I shouldn’t, but I kind of feel like I owe you for that. I guess what I’m saying is, if me saying your name too much bothers you I don’t mind trying to tone it down. Not if you’re like, an asshole about it or anything, but I get that it becomes annoying.” He fidgets with the pebble, rolling it around between his fingers. “There’s teasing, and there’s making people sick of hearing their own name.”
The something churns in Katsuki’s chest, guilty and bitter understanding making itself at home. He peeks up at Kirishima, sweaty and bruised, bright red hair sticking out every which way; Kirishima, who can keep up with him and is on good terms with everyone and called himself Katsuki’s friend; Kirishima, who is not friendless, not useless, and yet evidently not quite “normal”, and he wonders when and why did his mother’s definition of normal become the standard by which he measures his -or anyone else’s- worth in the first place.
He already has his own standards to live up to, thank you very much.
“Doesn’t fucking bother me,” he finally says. In fact, now that his thoughts aren’t running a mile a minute, he realizes that he might... actually even like it.
Huh.
“It- it doesn’t?” Kirishima sounds genuinely surprised. “Are you sure?”
“You would know if it did,” Katsuki scoffs. “And what you owe me is to pass the damn exams, not tone yourself down or be more ‘normal’ around me.”
“Oh.” Kirishima’s shoulders relax. The storm in Katsuki’s head does too, just a little. “Uh. Cool. Glad to hear that,” he chuckles, “not everyone feels that way.”
“I’m not everyone, I’m better.” At last, Katsuki looks up and points an accusatory finger at Kirishima. “So I better not hear it any less than twenty times a day.”
A choked sort of noise gets stuck in Kirishima’s throat. “Twenty?”
“Minimum,” Katsuki emphasizes. “Given your track record, it shouldn’t be too hard.”
Kirishima laughs, bright and warm like the sun, lying back down and throwing his arms over his face. “Man, you’re weird.”
Katsuki lies down next to him. Breathing is a little easier, now. “That makes two of us then.”
“Yeah,” a wobbly smile, a pair of shining eyes; “I guess it does.”
If Kirishima understands, he doesn’t say it.
And Katsuki’s a hypocrite, making exceptions for this guy he’s only known for a couple of months when he never granted-- him the same treatment, not even before everything. Back then he saw any and all similarities between them as weakness, as something to overcome, to be better than.
He still does. At this point, he’s not sure he knows how not to.
But Kirishima’s voice is warm in his ears, and the evening sun makes his cheeks seem redder than they actually are, and maybe that’s enough. Maybe his father was right and there is nothing wrong with him. Maybe people like Kirishima and- and Deku, and even Katsuki himself were made the way that they were with no real reason as to why; maybe they’re allowed to simply exist like this.
Maybe Kirishima’s friendship isn’t some grand scheme the universe threw at Katsuki in an attempt to get him to accept himself or some other cliché bullshit. Or maybe it is some grand scheme and Katsuki is supposed to grab the bull by its horns and unravel what all of this means for him.
(Then again, when Kirishima tells him to take it easy he means it, so maybe Katsuki is allowed to take his time figuring this out. And he doesn’t need permission, but it’s nice to know he has the support.)
When Katsuki stands up he wipes his palms on his sweatpants, then shakes his dry hands once, twice.
Maybe it’s a start.