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The Slytherin dormitory has a few windows.
Glass panels that catch the swell of nearby mountains. How every glance is an opportunity for eyes to peek at how magical hues morph their shape. Today’s no different. Outside the winter sun sets, weather fair and settled enough to cast the mountains in an electric blue and purple. Their outline prints against the evening sky, waiting in the last rays of the setting sun to be noticed.
Bakugou doesn’t look.
Instead, his attention is pinned on Kirishima sitting across his bed. Looking at him lets Bakugou catch how Kirishima’s lips slightly part before he gets a sentence out.
“Hypothetically...if your first task tomorrow is going against a bunch of flesh-eating slugs, what would you do?” Kirishima asks, a fuse of both concern and curiosity stapled in his voice.
Bakugou closes the spellbook in front of him. “Eat their flesh first obviously.”
“You wouldn’t,” Kirishima replies shaking his head, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, “Some of them are six feet, that’s way too much to eat.”
Bakugou shrugs, “Then I’d skip breakfast.”
“I think it’d be better to use that,” Kirishima tilts his head towards Bakugou’s nightstand, his wand laying on the surface of it. “For some reason, I feel like you forgot you’re a wizard.”
Bakugou stretches his arm to grab his wand. His fingers close around the wood, sinking into gentle carvings that contribute to its shape. He lets his wrist snap down and a bright puff of orange and red dance out of the tip of his wand.
“Alright, then I’d blow the shitty slugs up in the biggest explosion the tournaments ever seen,” Bakugou replies, face pulling up into one of his manic grins. He’s more than confident he could beat any obstacle hurled at him, it’s why he tossed name into the goblet of fire in the first place.
Kirishima smiles in return, a kind of smile influenced by Bakugou and thrill seemingly floating around them. It makes Bakugou fall for Kirishima harder than he already has. Their compatibility a shared notion he could only hope to explore further.
“That’d definitely work!’’ Kirishima replies, “Possibly messy, but that’s what cleaning spells are for!” He goes on, lighting up a crown of glory around Bakugou’s idea.
“Give me another hypothetical situation,” Bakugou says, putting his wand back down, a secret insistence for Kirishima to linger in his dorm longer. To sit on Slytherin green patterned sheets and talk, catching how happiness clings heavy to the corner of Kirishima's eyes like it’s the only thing Bakugou knows how to do.
Kirishima hums and starts flipping through pages from the book in front of him. It’s a collected history of previous Triwizard tournaments, font bold and italicized with information. He turns and on a freshly opened page a paper bird charm flies out of it.
It flutters, wings gliding up into the air. Bakugou grabs it as Kirishima keeps flipping. He unfolds the white scrap and between all the creases there’s thin ink marks jotted on it.
“It says bookmark,” Bakugou says lamely and Kirishima chuckles.
“I guess past champions tried researching possible tasks before the event too,” Kirishima mentions, his words a strange melange of amusement and unease. There’s a few beats of silence, only the muffled sound of distant conversations taking place in the lounge audible, until Kirishima continues, “I feel like...like I’m more worried than I should be. It’s stupid right? I’m not even a participant.”
The brightness of Kirishima’s eyes sink and Bakugou feels himself about to frown.
“Nope,” Bakugou replies easily. “It's not stupid. There's no reason for it to be stupid,” he says clearly.
There’s another pause, a still field in between Kirishima and Bakugou planted with silence, but it’s not so bad. It lets Kirishima rethink and weigh Bakugou’s words.
“Thank you,” Kirishima answers after a moment, words softer than they should be. Bakugou doesn’t expect to see a slight pink flush rise in Kirishima’s cheeks, yet there it was coloring his features in a way Bakugou has to turn away from. The pigment is too luring and Bakugou easily falls.
“Being a Hufflepuff is what’s stupid.” Bakugou quips, his words almost fumbling against each other. It's a tease dragged out of his mouth from panic, a type of sentiment that frequently seeps out of flustered Bakugou.
The remark earns Bakugou a good natured shove at his shoulder from Kirishima.
“Just for that, I’m going to make pins for people in the crowd to wear with your name on them. Maybe even with your face, it depends on how nice you are.”
Bakugou blinks. “Fuck no.”
“Heck yes!” Kirishima exclaims, and Bakugou tries not to laugh at how he replaced the curse word. “Tons of champions get merch made,” he goes on and points at a picture from the book. “Look!”
Bakugou glances and sees a previous champion tightly huddled with a bunch of his friends, grinning from ear to ear. The photograph moves and the people inside it do too, waving mini flags and banners with the champion’s name on it.
“They’re ugly,” Bakugou tries to counter.
Kirishima flashes a cheeky smile, teeth snow white and twin suns in his eyes. “The thing is that yours won’t be since I’ll make them with lots of love,” he singsongs, syllables stretched and exaggerated.
It’s Bakugou’s turn to flush now, red rushing to paint his cheeks faster than he can recite a spell. He clears his throat, reminding himself to take the word ‘love’ lightly even if to him it weighs heavily against his chest.
“Is there even enough time left before the event to make stuff?” he manages to say, the warmth lined at the top of his cheeks fading. Winter is cold though and Bakugou finds himself missing the heat.
Kirishima chews on Bakugou’s question for a moment. “Yeah, but I’d have to limit myself. So like I’d make something for myself, you, and your parents.” He lists out using his fingers.
Bakugou’s eyebrows furrow together in confusion. He stares at the three fingers Kirishima has out, specifically the last one. “My parents?”
Kirishima gives Bakugou a look, a wordless obviously, “Of course your parents! It’ll act as a souvenir. The trophy you’ll win will probably be a better reminder of the event though.”
Bakugou almost rolls his eyes. “I never knew you were into cheesy crap like that.”
Kirishima shakes his head in disagreement. “I didn’t say it to be cheesy. I’m being realistic,” he pauses and lets orange eyes meet against red, “You'll win.”
Kirishima says it as if it’s a fact. As nonchalant as mentioning that the sky is blue and the grass is green. Really, they’re nowhere similar, a paper thin parallel a shoddy pair of scissors could cut through. And it would tear, harsh jagged edges for every centimeter of contact.
Except Kirishima intervenes to protect his words. Bakugou sees it, in the sincerity cast tender behind the crimson of Kirishima's eyes, ablaze and unclouded. Kirishima lets Bakugou read into pools of red and Bakugou submits to the opportunity.
“I’ll win.” Bakugou echos out to the room, to Kirishima, to himself.
The last of the sunlight filters through the window, casting a rustic honey into the room. It nestles itself into every available space. Gathering into the smalls of every nook and any crevice willing to let it reside. It drifts onto Kirishima and makes Bakugou’s heart warm.
“I’ll be cheering you on from the stands,” Kirishima mentions.
Bakugou snorts a little. “You better.”
-
“Does it hurt?” Kirishima asks, his voice holding its characteristical softness. His thumb rubs across the top of Bakugou’s cheek, touching smears of red that tangle between blush and fresh bruises. He’s gentle, tentative of pressing over areas a shade too dark.
“I’ll manage,” Bakugou replies as he fixes the pillow settled behind his back. He expected the hospital wing to be crappy but not pillows as hard as bricks crappy.
Kirishima nods and scoots his chair closer to Bakugou’s bed. “Didn’t know dragons could be such assholes though,” Bakugou mutters, leaning back onto his pillow.
“They're misunderstood creatures.” Kirishima defends, fingertips dipping into a small circular container filled to the brim with a type of cream. He reaches out and applies some onto Bakugou’s face, rubbing prominent circles to make sure it sinks in. “And it thought you tried to take one of its eggs, so it hurling rocks at you with its
tail is a bit deserved.”
“Boulders,” Bakugou sternly corrects, a bit defensive, “The dragon threw boulders at me.”
“Just know it was more scared of you than you were of it,” Kirishima replies, ears suddenly deaf to Bakugou’s complaints.
Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Who’s side are you on?”
“Yours of course stupid,” Kirishima says with a smile as if it wasn’t clear from the start.
Bakugou would’ve frowned at Kirishima once for using such a term; now, he finds endearment latched into the word. And maybe it’s a synonymous sentiment that makes him lean into Kirishima's touch. Finding more meaning to Kirishima's lingering fingers and gentle caresses than Bakugou should appoint.
And maybe Bakugou wants the brushes of skin to be more defining. He wants intent, looks for it, some sort of connotation with feelings other than concern. Beyond what solely a friendship has to offer.
It scares him though, how easily it could go wrong. Bakugou waxes and wanes over it, taking full steps forward before going back to retrace a shadow grounded by routine, and Bakugou wants and wants and doesn’t know if Kirishima wants the same.
“Thinking about something?” Kirishima asks, his voice serious enough that it jolts Bakugou out of his thoughts.
Bakugou exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Yeah,” he replies, his finger twisting around a loose thread from the covers. He pulls on the thin strand of material, an aimless endeavor.
Kirishima momentarily retracts his hands. “Wanna talk about it?” he questions, sentence inviting.
Kirishima’s too considerate and Bakugou offers too much to satisfy that trait.
It makes Bakugou contemplate for a moment, an idle second, in confessing. If it goes wrong he could blame it on fatigue. point a harsh finger at it and pin it accountable for his demeanor. Except Bakugou’s aware, too aware, and he wallows in it all.
“No.” he pivots, a rough change of mind different from seconds ago. “I’ll save it for another time.”
There’s a pause and Kirishima looks at Bakugou, searching and studying. If he notices something off with Bakugou (and he always does) he doesn’t comment anything.
“As long as you’re fine then that’s good with me,” Kirishima replies with a soft smile, the kind of smile that primarily offers comfort. He tilts Bakugou’s head to the side slightly and Bakugou follows the motion. “You’re looking better already,” he goes on with warmth bouncing in his voice, an attempt to better the mood.
Kirishima unknowingly makes Bakugou sway, twirling him to a symphony only Bakugou’s ears catch. An uncoordinated waltz that tugs at Bakugou’s heart heartstrings in all the wrong and right ways.
Bakugou hears the music notes now, a defined melody that swells in highs and melancholy lows. The keys are polished, their perfect tune unrolling as Kirishima tightens the lid close to the cream he was using. Bakugou's fingers tap to the rhythm and he questions if covering his ears with his hands would be better.
“The cream was magic infused so it’ll clear your bruises,” Kirishima snaps his finger for emphasis, “Just like that. You still need bed rest though.”
The music withers and Bakugou lets it. “Bedrest from what?” Bakugou replies plainly, frowning. “It’s not like I was beaten to a pulp, I have bruises, so what?”
“Whoa,” Kirishima throws his hands up in mock defensiveness, “I’m just reminding you what the nurse recommended. I’ll stay with you if that helps.” Kirishima adds after a beat.
It does help, greatly, but Bakugou keeps that thought to himself.
“I’m not staying here past noon,” Bakugou mumbles trying to keep himself stoic, except a grin stretches over Kirishima’s lips, bright and contagious. It makes Bakugou feel a frenzy in the pit of his stomach.
“We won’t stay longer than we need to. And besides, you have a golden egg to open later.”
Somewhere in between entertaining the idea of how to open the egg, Kirishima crawled into Bakugou’s bed with a complaint about how hard his seat was. Something about ‘might as well get comfortable’ that Bakugou didn’t protest against in the least.
Kirishima’s thoughtful now lying next to him, pieces of his hair lank and tumbling across his forehead. “Maybe a spell,” Kirishima supplies to the conversation, “I could see it being a really old spell so it would challenge all the champions.”
“Old spell or new spell, I'll tear it open with my hands if I need to.”
Bakugou feels Kirishima shift next to him, a new dip into the mattress that’s quick to newly hug at Kirishima's outline. “I can help with that, people have told me I have a rock hard grip!” he starts, “It’s nice to know I can help you with the egg, I was just in the stands when you were handling the dragon task.”
It's Bakugou's turn to move now, his elbow finds Kirishima's side and nudges him. “That's what an audience is supposed to do dumbass.”
Kirishima exaggeratedly rubs at his rib. “I know that obviously! Which is why I did my part and contributed to the cheering instead.”
Bakugou turns on his side, eyes catching straight onto Kirishima’s profile. “Don't tell me you cheered for everyone,” he groans.
Kirishima covers his face with his palms, seemingly embarrassed. “It would’ve been better sportsmanship if I did, but I didn't. Can you believe that?” he questions, words voided with comical disbelief.
Bakugou grins like an idiot. He tugs away Kirishima’s hands from his face and Kirishima laughs.
“I was saying stuff like, ‘Come on get it Bakugou!’ so loud I swear people from other schools were staring at me!”
“I heard that!”
Kirishima turns to face Bakugou, eyes flushed with excitement. “No way!” he says, lips curling into a smile.
“I did!” Bakugou replies in earnest, mouth unknowingly shadowing Kirishima’s own brightened smile. They're both ablaze now, Kirishima's gotten closer, and Bakugou’s pardon the lack of space between them.
And maybe Bakugou’s moved in closer too because Kirishima is a hook that barries deep into the depths of Bakugou’s heart, leaving him all but ready to be reeled in. It's pulling now, the silver coated hook, and Bakugou feels the tug.
Eyes, nose, and lips are inches apart, all three tied together with opportunity. A kiss is separated inches away and the opening is so real Bakugou can pound his fists against it.
He’s hesitant but the world compensates. Kirishima leans, and Bakugou's frozen, and Kirishima leans, and Bakugou pinches his thigh because this cannot be happening-
New voices tumble into the floor, blaring and oblivious.
Bakugou’s heart runs in his chest even as Kirishima sits up, accelerated with an entanglement of ache and yearning.
Kirishima points a finger at his own eyes, casually, so casually, “Your eyes look like gems,” he comments and Bakugou stays silent.
The lack of reply cues Kirishima to leave. The bed creaks as Kirishima gets off, missing its weight. It calls for a second chance, wanting clarity for built up actions laid on its worn mattress.
“I’m gonna go find the nurse so she can check and take a look at you,” Kirishima easily transitions, marking away moments ago.
He leaves and this time it’s Bakugou’s turn to cover his
face with his palms.
“Fuck, ” he groans.
—
Kirishima’s heartbeats briskly in between his ribs. It reverberates, a consistent thrum that rolls throughout his body. The tips of his fingers feel it, the soles of his feet march to its beat.
“Seriously,” he murmurs to himself, words pointed with judgment, “Your eyes are like gems. I’m so lame! Ugh, but.”
But. A bridging term meant to continue a sentence, to pursue more. But nothing.
Kirishima stops himself to save a friendship. He can’t be selfish with Bakugou.
Kirishima’s heart calms and he greets the nurse with a rehearsed smile.
-
Kirishima slides a chair next to Bakugou and it scrapes loudly across the floor, echoing out into the halls of the library. Pairs of eyes abruptly turn to chase the noise and Kirishima blurts out a quick ‘So sorry!’ to them with a small bow and an apologetic expression to match.
“Nice one,” Bakugou whispers teasingly, voice lowered to accommodate the surroundings. Kirishima sinks into his seat, cheeks flushing apple red with embarrassment underneath the library’s lazy lighting.
“I’m going to remember that for weeks,” Kirishima whispers back, pressing his palms against his cheeks to hide the lingering stain of red. “And then I’ll remember it on random occasions and probably drop dead.”
Bakugou thinks for a moment. “Even the dark arts can’t revive people, so don’t die on me idiot.”
Kirishima chuckles, hands lowering from his face. “I guess we can’t live without each other then can we?” he asks.
It's a rhetorical question, one meant to innocently float into the air and disappear. And it momentarily disperses, as it should, ghosting above crowds of worn book spines.
It goes up and hangs over Bakugou's head, taunting, implying for him to reach. The distance between them isn’t so grand yet, the choice still attainable.
If there were no consequences Bakugou would do it. He would’ve done a lot if the world functioned by that rule. But he has to answer to everything eventually, making silence a closer friend to him than he intended.
“Uh, anyways,” Kirishima picks up again, “How can I help you out?”
And there’s something edged in between the pitch of his voice, in the question of it, that fills out sullenly.
Bakugou pretends to not notice it. He swallows, pushing down insistence to pry.
“I need help reading,” he shares, settling into the conversation even if he’s a bit stiff, “I'm not that familiar with the black lake which means I better start learning or I’m fucked.”
Kirishima taps his finger on a sheet of paper between them, “That means this chicken scratch is the notes you have so far right?”
Bakugou’s eyebrow twitches as he watches Kirishima squint to read his writing, “You're a real asshole sometimes,” Bakugou comments with a grunt.
Kirishima picks a book from the unordered pile on the desk with a smile, “Who? Me? No way,” he rejects. With a soft nudge at the book’s edge, it steadily floats open in front of Kirishima’s face. “I’ll get started then!”
The sound of pages turning begins, fast-paced with no regard for the print, a frenzy that doesn’t catch onto anything. Then it slows, the book finding a spot to allow Kirishima to read.
“Chapter one, the giant squid in the black lake,’’ Kirishima reads out loud with a voice sarcastically cheerful, his finger following under the letters. There’s a pause and he turns to look at Bakugou with a grimace pulled on his face. “Please tell me this book is fiction.”
“The tag on the side says nonfiction,” Bakugou replies nonchalantly. It’s a reply too simple for Kirishima.
“What ever happened to a lake having something nice..like koi fish!” Kirishima argues to thin air, his words floating up among books cutting through the air to shelf themselves.
“It’s Hogwarts, not having a stupidly overgrown fish would be more ridiculous than having one.”
Kirishima sighs and the book flutters to a new section. “This one seems better,” he perks up. “It's about the riches that are supposedly sunk at the bottom of the lake.”
That catches Bakugou’s attention. Greatly. He reaches over for the paper and quill, “Read some out loud and I’ll write.”
Kirishima hums with uncertainty. “How about we switch those roles,” he says, pushing the book a bit to drift perfectly in front of Bakugou.
“Bastard,” Bakugou whispers as he gives up the paper and quill, but his word holds a lack of heat cemented into them that Kirishima can only chuckle.
“Ready when you are,” Kirishima mentions as he dips the quill into ink.
Bakugou clears his throat before starting, “Particular to the black lake is its colony of merpeople with an abundance of intelligence shown through their creation of jewelry and production of arts.”
Kirishima writes next to Bakugou, quill lifting up and back down to connect ink with paper. His wrists slows and Bakugou picks up again, “Even with an abundance of creations, getting your hands on merpeople work is a hassle for any wizard, thus making their craftsmanship highly treasured items.”
“Does it say if merpeople are friendly?” Kirishima asks, peeking a bit at the pages.
Bakugou skims through the book, “It says unstable relationship with wizardkind, lucky me.”
Kirishima frowns, “Ah, well,” he stumbles over his words a bit, trying to find what best fits, “The book could be outdated. And hey, who’s to say you don’t meet some nice merpeople?”
“I might avoid them over all if I have to, it seems like less of a hassle. I don’t want to be sent to the infirmary over a merperson, the stupid dragon was enough.”
“Good idea,” Kirishima mentions giving a thumbs up. “I’m starting to be glad my name wasn’t pulled from the goblet, I would’ve quit with this task.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It's the truth!” Kirishima quickly glances around them, eyes trying to catch onto anyone who’s nearby but the hall is theirs. “I’m gonna tell you a secret okay?”
There’s an intended pause left by Kirishima and Bakugou nods his head to fill in the silence.
“When I was younger my friend’s Dad tried teaching me to swim by throwing me into a pool and guess what, I almost drowned.”
Bakugou blinks. “What the hell.”
“Crazy right? Now I don’t like having to do anything with bodies of water.”
“You don’t have to come to the second task then, be part of the audience I mean,” Bakugou says, speaking before thinking. He doesn’t want to make it about him, but it sounded a bit like it.
“I’ll be there, don’t worry,” Kirishima replies easily, “I’m not going to miss you placing first in another task, I wouldn’t want to miss it for the world.”
Bakugou almost sighs. Maybe there’s a potion to make him fall out of love.
—
It becomes routine to meet in the library as the days progressed closer to the second task. To sit at a specific desk as if their names are engraved on it and sit in chairs that seem to be paired closer each day.
They talk about the black lake, about classes, occasionally they speak to the painting on the wall that tries to shush them for speaking loud. It’s time on the clock Bakugou won’t get back and he doesn’t care. He likes every second of it.
So when Present Mic interrupts the last day they have in the library, Bakugou’s kinda pissed.
“Hey kids, hope I’m not interrupting anything here!” he starts.
You are. “You’re not,” Bakugou replies as he pretends to scribble something down on scratch paper.
“Did you need something?” Kirishima mentions, making up for Bakugou’s lack of conversion.
“You’re a smart one aren’t you!” Present Mic praises, but it’s one of those lines adults throw everywhere. “I’m looking to borrow you for a bit if that’s alright.”
Kirishima’s eyebrows raise, “That’s a bit of a surprise. Can I ask what for?”
Present Mic smiles like he’s hiding a secret. “I’ll tell you once you come with me.”
Kirishima moves a bit in his seat, unsure whether to sit up or stay seated.
“You can go,” Bakugou speaks up, “There’s not much to look over today anyways.”
Kirishima takes a second before agreeing. “Alright then,” he stands and Present Mic smiles.
“See you tomorrow,” Kirishima says with a grin, fist extended out for Bakugou to bump against.
Bakugou commits to the action, their fists bumping together with a satisfying noise following it, “See you tomorrow.”
Kirishima leaves and Bakugou decides reading alone is as bad as he thought it was. He packs up without thinking twice about it.
—
Bakugou breathes in cold air and shudders.
He can see his reflection in the ripples of the black lake. How he’s distorted into a sloppy outline, color swallowed by the lake and made dull. He looks like an afterthought.
Bakugou swallows and takes a step back, the wooden floorboard creaks along with his movement. He sneaks a glance at the audience, looking into the sea of people, blurs of them, all strangers.
He swallows again and this time thinks, where’s Kirishima.
“Hey,” a voice next to him starts, “Do you think this is nutritional to eat? Like, would it ruin my body?”
Bakugou looks and sees a girl he remembers as Camie cupping pieces of gillyweed in her palms. She picks up a piece, pinching it by the corner, “I really don’t even like eating traditional seaweed you know.”
Bakugou doesn’t know, but he spares her his thought.
“Not sure, but it looks like green rat tails.” Bakugou replies flatly, eyes peeking over the girl in search of a flash of red sticking out from the audience.
Camie's face tightens up in disgust. “Thanks for that,” she replies, clearly sarcastic, and it takes a second before she puts the gillyweed in her mouth. “Are you looking for someone?” she mentions in between chews,
hand covering her mouth.
Bakugou looks back at the lake, eyes heavy. “One of my friends isn’t here,” he replies; voice scratchy from the cold lake air that’s made itself a home in his lungs. It’s a raw moment of honesty he’s sharing and he isn’t exactly sure why he’s sharing it.
Camie swallows and breathes a sigh of relief, wiping invisible sweat off her forehead. she looks at Bakugou with a small frown after “That’s a bummer for sure,” she goes, “maybe something came up.”
“Fuck, maybe, I don’t know.” Bakugou says gruffly as if garbling his words would hide lurking sentiments behind them. concern, frustration, confusion, all of it.
“You should try finding them after this task,” Camie suggests, a proud smile on her face for her idea. “Then you can find out if they’re just really good at blending in with a crowd or if they didn’t show up after all.”
Bakugou looks at the crowd for the final time. “It shouldn’t be this hard to find a redhead,” he mumbles, mostly to himself.
Camie’s eyebrows scrunch together. “What’d you say? It shouldn't be this hard to find cornbread?” she asks, accidentally mishearing. “Weird topic switch but I hope you find your friend and the cornbread,” she says and throws a highly enthusiastic thumbs up in Bakugou’s direction.
Bakugou doesn’t have the energy to correct her. “Thanks,” he replies and Camie nods her head.
In the background, the tasks announcements go off.
Bakugou listens intently to the booming voice, everything plus its echo drifts carefully into his ears.
The word ‘treasure’ swerves out of the speakers and Camie lights up.
“Oh my gosh what if your friend is the treasure!” she whispers, voice excited over the possibility of it.
It makes Bakugou’s stomach flip in all the wrong ways.
He doesn’t reply.
Above them, a cannon goes off, grey smoke pushing itself into the sky. It’s a sign that the second task has begun and Bakugou makes sure he’s the first one to dive into the black lake.
The bubble head charm activates at the contact of water, just as expected. A transparent supply of air masks Bakugou’s face and leaves a trail of tiny bubbles as Bakugou pushes his arms forward and swims.
If he had seen Kirishima earlier, Bakugou probably would’ve taken a second to admire his surroundings. To note how textbooks downplay the underwater scenery, a lack of scrutiny devoted to the writing. He’d mull over unnecessary details and bite his tongue at how bad everything was translated for students to read.
Except it’s a leisure Bakugou can’t afford as his mind tries to attach the word treasure to something other than Kirishima. He thinks but there’s a red string connecting the two, a strong knot at both ends suspending them together. There’s a glisten to it, a small embedded mockery that taunts Bakugou and rushes his movements.
He swims deeper, looking behind mountains of rocks glossed with moss and glancing at anything that spares motion. For a moment Bakugou feels like he’s been going in circles and curses. Everything he’s passed holds some sort of familiarity. The half an hour that’s passed by feels like a giant joke.
He’s about to let another curse slip out of him until he stills when an unfamiliar sound travels through the water. The noise repeats and Bakugou chases it into a wall of seaweed.
The deeper he goes the more seaweed Bakugou has to navigate through. It’s suffocating, sprouts of green clustered too closely that shift along with Bakugou’s motions. Still, he pushes the plants aside and lets the noise guide him out of the forest of seaweed.
Bakugou knows he’s where he should be when he sees three blurs idly floating in the water. He squints, eyes trying to distinguish through the murky water what exactly he was looking at. He slowly swims closer, newly cautious of nearby merpeople with golden tridents tied to their webbed hands.
Then Bakugou sees it. He notices a shade of red, pigment bright and identical to Kirishima’s hair color. He swims, arms and legs pumping as fast as they can because of course Kirishima is in the black lake. Of course Kirishima is the treasure he was supposed to be searching for. Of course, of fucking course.
He cups Kirishima's face once he’s close enough. His lips are bathed blue, the cold of the water tinting them theirs. Kirishima’s expression reads stoic, unmatchable to how his mouth routinely curves into an apostrophe full of mirth. And Bakugou frowns because he did this, he placed Kirishima in this situation.
Now he had to get him out.
Bakugou swims down and harshly tugs on the material tied onto Kirishima’s ankle, keeping him anchored to the lake's floor. It snaps in half and Bakugou doesn’t spare a second in between to grab Kirishima and begin swimming to the surface.
Bakugou’s head is the first to break through the water, letting him draw in a big breath. When Kirishima comes up, his eyes open frantically, immediately aware of how water hugs his body.
“I can't swim,” Kirishima whispers, voice stretched so thin that Bakugou thinks it’s going to break.
Bakugou holds onto Kirishima tightly, helping him stay afloat. “I’ve got you okay? I’ve got you,” he reassures, a mantra on his tongue that he hopes Kirishima listens to.
A pair of hands stretch out to them from the dock and Bakugou lets Kirishima take them first. When Bakugou gets pulled up he ignores the cheers directed at him, all the air horns, everything that doesn’t have to do with Kirishima.
He feels someone drape a towel over his head and Bakugou kneels next to a sitting Kirishima to throw it over him regardless that he already had one.
“Are you okay?” he asks, urgency clear in his voice.
Kirishima nods his head a bit.
“I’m okay,” he replies softly, but Bakugou catches how Kirishima’s grip on the towel across his shoulder tightens.
Then he tries to smile. Kirishima stretches his lips over his teeth, but Bakugou knows better, he knows the difference between genuine and artificial.
Kirishima looks at Bakugou with a forced smile and Bakugou wishes his name was never pulled from the goblet of fire.
-
“I’m sorry.”
Kirishima’s legs lazily sway over the black lake’s pier, two opposing motions missing direction. They move, hovering over water too known. “For what?” he questions, the sound echoing across the flats of the lake. There’s a roughness to it, hard on the throat but clear to consuming ears. Bakugou hears it, the pier they’re sitting on hears it, the evening hears it and they’re all equally attentive.
“For-“ Bakugou starts and pauses. A cacophony of syllables whisper against his head, a back and forth of apologies that don’t further. “You did something you never would’ve never agreed to because of me.” he eventually pushes out.
A silence presses between them, nudging at their shoulders. It’s an uninvited guest yet still makes itself comfortable. Bakugou feels it and all its unnaturality.
“I don’t blame you,” Kirishima answers finally, cutting through the stillness. He scoots closer to Bakugou, body closer, inches closer, until a small gap is left. “It was the tournament, not you Bakugou.”
They weren’t able to hold a proper conversation after the second task. Just a torrent of fragmented out sentences before Bakugou was pulled away with the other champions to be interviewed. Bakugou slightly cringes thinking about how crude he acted towards the woman with the flying quill.
“Present Mic apologized to me,” Kirishima starts up, trying to continue the conversation cut by the lack of response. His words drop like a pebble in a pond, eyes shining with vigilance to watch if ripples create soft halos or an aggressive splash. Kirishima tests the waters and anticipates in his head silently. “He didn’t know.”
“He should’ve,” Bakugou’s voice comes out gruff, unkind. “There should be rules about involving other people for fucks sake.”
“Maybe,” Kirishima replies with uncertainty seeping through his voice. He doesn’t want to pin blame on Mic either. “It feels more like an accident and you know what they say,” he pauses even though he knows Bakugou won’t answer, “Accidents happen.”
“It was preventable, a little warning doesn’t harm anyone.” Bakugou grunts, face dropping.
Kirishima sighs next to him, “We’re going in circles.”
Bakugou doesn’t respond. He hazards a glance at Kirishima through the reflection of the water, it’s calmness giving a clear view. Kirishima looks unusually thoughtful, eyebrows knitted together in a troubled expression. Bakugou keeps looking until Kirishima’s face softens and turns to face Bakugou, whatever his mind was on seemingly reaches a conclusion.
The half swallowed sun melts onto Kirishima's face. The eve basks him, rushing in their last minutes to paint him theirs. There’s a warm glow embraced on Kirishima and Bakugou feels like he’s sitting next to the sun.
“What do you feel for me?” Kirishima asks.
“What?” Bakugou sputters, his face burning warm, feeling the repercussions of being so close to the sun.
“Guilt, anger, sadness, those things,” Kirishima clarifies, hands moving around as if they were juggling invisible balls. “I want to understand your persistence.”
And...it’s a misunderstanding on Bakugous part. Again.
It’ll be natural occurrence soon, to accidentally twist actions and words, reforming them by cursed habit. as long as his mouth is sealed shut and heart inconsiderate of himself, his future is paving unapologetically.
But Bakugou doesn’t want to go through that.
He takes in a deep, silent breath, a preparation for what he was about to say. “It’s none of that. I’m responsible because of what I feel for you,” he starts. “Do you know why it was you in the lake and not someone else?”
“Because we’re close to each other?” Kirishima replies, words falling into a question rather than a concrete answer.
Bakugou shakes his head. “The lake took something I treasure,” he continues, spine straight as if he was carrying a regular conversation, “And it had to be you.” Bakugou's heart runs in his chest, covering miles, stepping over a new unprecedented path without regret. “It had to be you because I like you Kirishima.”
Kirishima stares at Bakugou, unflinching, wanting to hear more. Bakugou delivers.
“It's been a while, I’ve liked you for almost a year already,” Bakugou spills and the weight bounded on his shoulders leaves. the fresh feeling urges him to continue, unable to turn back at this point. “At first I thought someone was playing a prank on me. That when I wasn’t looking they poured a love potion in my drink. I guess I was doubtful of my feelings, or really I didn't want to acknowledge them.
Bakugou inhales slowly, sighs; here’s to the end.
“Because if I liked you then it had a chance to ruin what we already have between us. Now you know though, so if you feel like I’m weird or gross then forget I said anything. I don’t want to us drift apart because of me, I care too much about you-“
“I get it,” Kirishima interrupts, flush curved over his cheeks, “You’re embarrassing me a bit.”
“Huh?”
“Your confession,” Kirishima clarifies, “It’s like a dream,” and there’s something wedged in between Kirishima's words, an unexplained flustering that doesn’t register in Bakugous head.
“Huh?” he repeats, not quite understanding.
“Oh my gosh Bakugou,” Kirishima sighs but there’s a smile on his face, “The feeling is mutual is what I’m trying to say!”
Bakugou's eyes widen and his mouth falls open with a lack of grace. “Why couldn’t you just say that!” he half argues, unable to hide the joy strung along with his words.
Kirishima laughs and it provides its own light as the sun sinks in front of them. It’s dropping, that star, dipping to be replaced with a crescent, but both Kirishima and Bakugou harbor a red spread on their cheeks they can’t blame on the sun.
For the first time, Bakugou feels unapologetic about how his feelings stare at the person he likes.
-
Bakugou adopts a newfound importance of stillness on the Hogwarts Express on the ride home for Christmas.
He sits in his routine seat, the upholstery midely worn from previous students, it's color a bit lacking. In front of him there’s an empty space, blank cushions staring at him curiously. They wonder why their usual guest is positioned next to Bakugou, his head leaning comfortably on the blonde’s shoulder.
The train gives a small jolt, one enough to jostle the insides of bags and possibly wake someone up. Bakugou swears the train ran smoother before. Every ride he’s taken in fact he swears never had any type of turbulence.
Now, with Kirishima asleep on his shoulder, he slowly thinks otherwise. Bakugou picks up on the tiniest factors that could wake Kirishima: noise, movement, there’s a list Bakugou can unroll.
“Are we there yet?” Kirishima asks, syllables slack with
sleep.
Bakugou glances at the window. He watches land bathed in a ghostly light of the winter season pass, blurs of bleach white snow coating all the typical hues of green. It’s hard to pinpoint the train’s exact location so Bakugou gives a rough guess. “An hour and a half left.”
Kirishima replies with something Bakugou can only assume is a hum. “You should nap with me,” he offers as he pats Bakugou’s arm, “Rest your Triwizard tournament winner muscles so you can carry your trophy later.” Kirishima lightly squeezes the same spot, “So strong,” he boasts.
It could be Kirishima’s foolish sincerity or his half asleep state that makes him spill his words like nothing. Whatever is at fault, Bakugou soaks it all up with apple red lined at the top of his cheeks.
“I’ll stay awake so we know what stop to get off of,” Bakugou replies, silently enjoying the affectionate notion. Kirishima doesn’t use his mouth to reply, instead he squeezes Bakugou’s arm again to let him know he heard.
It leads to Bakugou resting his head on Kirishima's. It’s warm next to him, a constant aura that seeps out of Kirishima. Bakugou savors the warmth, settling in for the rest of the winter. Together.