Work Text:
Why
Does it feel it’s gonna hurt the same?
~
Bakugou wasn’t used to people caring.
Not about him, anyway. They cared about his quirk, and his potential, and his influence. They cared about his mind and his mistakes and every great and terrible thing he’d ever done. Never about just him, usefulness or inconveniences aside.
His early childhood friends had always more admired than truly cared for him, same with most adults he’d encountered. He’d been that kid, the one with the cool quirk and the outstanding grades and the difficult attitude. Everyone he’d ever met seemed to want something from him, whether that be popularity or a change in his behaviour. No one wanted to be close to him just to be, because they thought he was worth sticking with.
Unsurprisingly, people left pretty quickly when he couldn’t or wouldn’t do what they wanted.
Kirishima wasn’t like that.
No matter how difficult Bakugou proved to be, no matter how many times he pushed him and the band of idiots that called themselves his friends away, none of them went anywhere. It made no sense. He tried to figure out what they wanted, what Kirishima wanted, but there really didn’t seem to be anything.
Bakugou hated it.
Hated not knowing, because it meant he couldn’t control it. Made his chest feel all tight and set him on edge. He’d tried everything he could think of: yelling, exploding, insulting. Even failing, once, to see if they’d stop liking him for being the best, but not even that worked. He got reassurances instead, and it made him feel so warm inside he very nearly started being nice.
(In reality he’d probably shouted something rude, but they hadn’t looked mad at that either. Maybe they’d known he hadn’t meant it.)
Slowly, slowly, he began to believe it.
Maybe Kirishima did care. Maybe the others did too.
~
The tightness in his chest didn’t go away, with that knowledge.
Kamino had changed everything. Brought up feelings he didn’t want to have, didn’t want others to know he had. Feelings that made him ache, burn with the need to be loved. To be touched softly, spoken to gently, treated like a person who’d been through too much shit instead of something invincible.
(How he wished he was invincible, but he wasn’t. Not even close, if the mess in his mind got this bad after something as simple as being told he should’ve been better.
He wasn’t supposed to crave encouragement this bad.)
And then Kirishima had sought him out after he’d blown up on game night, caught him suffocating under heavy thoughts. He hadn’t had the energy to make himself look strong again, tired of feeling too much and not enough, and Kirishima had only been kind.
Bakugou had never been held like that. Never been cared for like that.
(It scared him, how desperately he’d needed it.)
~
He knew Kirishima told him it was fine, he was allowed to ask if he wanted a hug. That he’d never say no, if Bakugou asked.
But that’s what made it so fucking difficult, you know? He knew Kirishima would never say no.
Which sounded counterintuitive, but his logic was perfectly sound. Kirishima wouldn’t say no, he was too nice of a person. Even if he didn’t want one. Even if he didn’t feel up for physical contact right that moment. Bakugou just kept imagining, over and over, if he was that nice and it was Kirishima who asked for a hug on one of those days where everything felt off, and wrong, and all he wanted to do was yell at people and explode stuff. He’d hate it. He’d hate being obliged to do something so uncomfortable just to make his friend happy.
(Even if he knew deep down that that was a lie, he kept repeating it. These days he craved touch just as much as he craved victory, and even on off days Kirishima could never make him feel worse. Ever.
But Bakugou wasn’t Kirishima, and he definitely c ould make things worse. He did, often. So he didn’t ask. Because he’d hate to make Kirishima uncomfortable, to abuse a privilege he’d only just gotten.)
(He didn’t want his first real friend to get tired of him.)
He just had to be content with what was offered to him, which really, was a lot more than he used to get. It should’ve been enough. More than enough. The arms frequently slung around his shoulders, the knees that brushed his when they sat and there was more than enough space for Kirishima to move up and not touch him – all of it made something warm and safe explode in his chest, even when his first impulse was to shrug it off, or move away.
And he kept telling himself, it’s enough. It’s fine, there’s no need for more.
But it wasn’t. He wanted more.
There was a cold that settled in him that itched, made his skin crawl and his chest tighten and everything feel just a little off. And his mind kept going back to what Kirishima said, about how he’s allowed to just ask, if he feels like this. He’s allowed to go, hey, can I get a hug? and he just would, there was nothing more to it.
But really there was, and he didn’t know how to bring it up, or when, or how, and he was getting more and more frustrated with himself the longer he had to sit there with his brain so desperate to sit a little closer, or else press a little further in.
Fuck this, he found himself thinking more than once. Fuck all of this.
He resigns himself to half ignoring cuddle piles as his friends settle in to watch a movie, because no one thinks he’d want to join in and it doesn’t occur to them that maybe they could ask, sometimes. Because he wasn’t about to insert himself in the middle, not when they assumed he wouldn’t want to.
(It was a matter of pride, he told himself. He wasn’t scared they’d send him weird looks and ask him to move back.)
~
Nightmares were things he’s always had to live with, but they’d been getting worse. Too much, after Kamino, after the kidnapping. Too much to fucking live with in the day, let alone go through it all over again at night.
Lately his mind had taken to warping it all a little, bored of making him wake to sweaty sheets and a charred comforter. He’d been dreaming of things that left him feeling raw, like every traitorous thought and feeling he shoved away was about to be thrown all out into the open, for the whole world to judge.
He hated it.
(They made him want to cry. To sob like a little kid, even though it was all just stupid fucking dreams. Things that never happened, that shouldn’t have made him so upset.)
He didn’t cry, on those nights.
Well sometimes he did, but not by choice. And usually more out of exhaustion and frustration rather than something dumb, like fear. Or self doubt, or insecurity, or loneliness.
There was no voice in his head, asking stupid questions. Questions that wouldn’t help anyone. He made sure to squash them down before they had time to stick around, because Bakugou didn’t get scared. Especially not while in his own bed, safe on school grounds. He wasn’t that pathetic.
(That was a lie, such a fucking lie, but acknowledging it wasn’t something he was ready to do.)
The thoughts kept coming back, though, however hard he tried to ignore it all. Thoughts that said,
What if it had played out like in your dreams?
What if you’d missed Kirishima’s hand that night, and ended up right back with the League? What if he and Deku and those extras had never come? What if that damn handsy bastard had closed his hand around your neck and you’d–
(Ignoring it was getting harder.)
Today had been an off day, a terrible, fuck-the-world kind of day, where all he’d wanted to do from the moment he’d woken up was to curl up and fall right back asleep. Wanted rough hands playing gently with his hair, drawing patterns on his back, muttering reassurances into his ear. Wanted warmth, and comfort, and to be treated like something precious – not fragile, exactly, because he hated being coddled, but he didn’t think he could stand much roughness right now. He felt one harsh word away from breaking.
But Bakugou pushed through it, because he had responsibilities. Missing class was only acceptable if you were dead or dying or otherwise unconscious, and while he’d really like to be one of the three right now the worst of his problems was just a sour mood. Not a good enough reason to stay back, not when he had his heart set on becoming the best hero.
(Convincing himself he was fine didn’t stop him from being snappy with everyone, though. So much that even Kirishima had been giving him space, by late afternoon.)
(But he didn’t fucking want space, goddamn it. He wanted quiet, and warmth, and the itchy wrongness to go away. For his muscles to relax into another warm body, to melt away the tension with some love.)
Distantly, it occurred to him that maybe he didn’t deserve it. To have this ache soothed. It was a fleeting thought, one he didn’t pay much mind to, but it left his stomach feeling all knotted and his shoulders too heavy. Kirishima probably noticed, he’d been noticing so much more lately, because he sat a little closer and even let his hand rest on Bakugou’s shaking knee.
Which wasn’t nearly as grounding a touch as he needed, but he’d make do. Kirishima was there, and he was trying, and Bakugou would be okay.
~
It was no surprise he had a nightmare, that night.
Rough day, followed by more news of the league and footage of Kamino being broadcast across most major channels. He tried to stay away from it all, he did, but there was only so much avoiding he could do.
(He was sure Aizawa tried to stop it from playing in the dorms, if the abrupt lack of connection to most news stations was anything to go by. He heard his friends speaking quietly about his mental state, all concern and good intentions, but it made his blood boil. He didn’t want to fucking pitied, thank you.
And part of him understood that it wasn’t really pity, they just cared about him, but his head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and the only two things he seemed capable of feeling right then were anger and fear.
So of course he chose anger, thank you very fucking much. Bakugou Katsuki didn’t feel fear.)
Wrong.
The details were fuzzy but it left him feeling a hollow kind of terror, the kind that made his brain foggy and his feelings numb and his chest squeeze with the desperate need for more air, more room to breathe.
Everything felt cold. Bitingly frigid, dead. Nothing seemed that real in the darkness of his room. Who was to say he’d really made it out? That he was safe now, back at school, where no one could hurt him?
(Maybe the past few weeks had been a dream, or a hallucination. Maybe he was still in that room, restrained, kept there until he agreed to cooperate.)
The cold makes him want to rip himself apart, so he seeks out the only warmth he can think of.
He’s in Kirishima’s room, still hyperventilating, but it’s quieter now. Less ragged, and slowly it’s evening out. His head rests back against the bed, eyes squeezed closed to keep the thoughts away, but it isn’t really working.
Kirishima wakes up to the sound of a broken sob.
He blinks slowly and finds spiky hair just a few inches from his face, and the moment it registers that Bakugou is in his room and crying, of all things, he sits up and tries to figure out what’s wrong. The sudden movement makes the blond startle, eyes wide and panicked as he turns around, and Kirishima wants to slap himself for not seeing it sooner.
Bakugou had a nightmare, and now he was here.
“I’m sorry,” he half whispers, half croaks. It’s a strange sound to come out of Bakugou’s mouth. “I just… I needed to…”
Kirishima understands. He has nightmares too, of USJ and losing Bakugou back at Kamino. He knows the feeling of needing to see someone, check that it’s not real, that things ended up okay. Or as close as they could ever get.
Kirishima pulls the covers away as a silent invitation to come in, and Bakugou takes it. It’s easier to breathe here, with Kirishima’s steady presence behind him. It’s warm, it’s safe. Bakugou tries not to feel too relieved that Kirishima didn’t kick him out.
“Sorry,” he says again, and his voice is less shaky. “Shouldn’t’ve come in like that.”
Kirishima makes an unhappy noise and shuffles a little closer. “Nah, bro, it’s fine. I keep it unlocked for a reason. But you should’ve woken me up, you know? It’s warmer up here.”
He can hear the mirth in Kirishima’s voice and chuckles a little at it, but his smile falls quickly. If only it was that easy, to bother other people with his problems.
“Why didn’t you?”
His tone is too serious. Bakugou doesn’t like it when Kirishima sounds this serious, it always just means he’s worried.
I was having a fucking panic attack, shitty hair, I wasn’t thinking straight.
He bites back the fake anger, because Kirishima doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve any of it. So instead of snapping he takes a deep breath and offers truthfully, “You were asleep. Didn’t wanna wake you.”
Kirishima tuts and finally closes the gap between them, pressing himself into Bakugou’s back and wrapping his arms around his waist. His face buried into the crook of Bakugou’s neck, nosing at his shoulder, and Bakugou very nearly starts crying again.
Should it really this good, to be held?
“I’m never gonna mind,” he says, and the warm breath sent goosebumps along Bakugou’s neck and down his back. “You’re so smart and so dumb, you know? I told you before to just ask, and here you are, after weeks of saying nothing but absolutely melting every time I lean against you, still thinking I’m gonna mind if you wake me up because you’re having a panic attack.”
Bakugou didn’t mean to say what he did next. He really didn’t, but his brain was still too slow and his feelings all messy, so instead of saying something vaguely annoyed he blurted out, “I’m not used to people caring.”
And Kirishima froze at that, moving up to lean on his elbow so he could take a proper look at Bakugou’s reddening face.
“Stop fuckin’ staring,” he mumbled, but there was no bite. He was too exhausted to mask the shame with anger.
Kirishima wasn’t even paying attention. “Bakugou…” he started, trying to find the right words. Because his best friend didn’t make those kind of revelations often, and it wasn’t something to be taken lightly.
“You don’t have to say anything. I know you care. Too fuckin’ much, probably. I just…”
I need to get used to believing it.
Kirishima just hugged him tighter. “You’re my best friend, man. Of course I’m gonna care too much.”
And he didn’t say it because Bakugou might actually take it as a challenge, but he wanted to add, good luck getting me to stop.
~
Kirishima was surprised, to say the least, when a week later he found Bakugou outside his room on a Sunday afternoon. He’d even knocked, albeit quite aggressively, and waited patiently for him to open the door.
“Hey man! Wanna come in?” he’d asked when it was clear Bakugou wasn’t going to immediately start yelling, and the blond had only nodded. He was wearing a hoodie that looked several sizes too big for him, the sleeves falling over his hands all creased up from being gripped too tight, probably.
Now that he was looking, Bakugou did look kind of off.
They settled onto the bed, and Bakugou still didn’t say anything. He was playing with his sleeves, twisting and untwisting them in anxious little movements that Kirishima didn’t know what to make of.
And then, “Hey shitty hair? Can I… can I have a hug?”
It came out so gruffly that Kirishima almost laughed, but he didn't. He opened his arms and wrapped them around Bakugou instead.
“Of course,” he said, and Bakugou melted. Went positively boneless in his arms. He’d never get tired of feeling it, the complete trust and vulnerability Bakugou offered up when he did this.
If this wasn’t progress, nothing was.