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Kirishima is just about ready to give up on his algebra homework when he hears three rough knocks at his door.
They startle him out of a building headache—too many variables and integers and distractions that have spent the last two hours twisting his thought process into one big blur. He reclines in his desk chair, tipping his head backwards and feeling the blood rush back into his brain. His eyes even hurt a little. Does he need glasses? He heard from Yaoyorozu that people who need glasses get headaches if they strain their eyes too much. But his eyesight’s just fine, at least he thinks. Maybe he should get it checked anyways. If he’s always had bad eyesight, how would he even know?
The three knocks come again, more insistent this time.
“Yeah?” he calls out, and tries his best not to sound frustrated as he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“It’s me, hair-for-brains,” a muffled voice supplies.
He jerks up. Bakugo?
Kirishima nearly trips getting out of his chair. He stumbles past his center table and shoves a pile of clothes under the bed before wrenching the door open.
As sure as a shining beacon in the night, there’s Bakugo on the other side. He’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, and his shoulders are hunched in a gentle slouch. He meets Kirishima’s eyes for barely a second before turning his gaze downwards again.
“Hey,” mumbles Bakugo.
“Hey…!” Kirishima finds himself smiling through his surprise. Mostly, he’s trying to process the fact that Bakugo’s even here. “Everything okay?”
“‘M fine,” says Bakugo. He shifts his weight a little. “Can I come in? I need a favor.”
Kirishima blinks. He has half a mind to check that he didn’t fall asleep at his desk, that instead of standing dumbstruck at his door he’s currently drooling all over Chapter 7: Exponential and Logarithmic Functions.
“Yo. Earth to dumbass,” says Bakugo. “You gonna let me in or what?”
“Huh? Oh! Yeah.” He steps aside. When Bakugo hesitates at the threshold, he gives him an encouraging smile. “‘Course, man.”
It’s not that they haven’t hung out much recently, it’s just that… well, he guesses they really haven’t hung out much recently. Especially not on their own like this. When Kirishima closes the door behind them, he tries his hardest to remember the last time (though he’s uncertain whether an unexpected visit like this one counts as a hangout at all).
It’s been at least since before the Licensing Exam, before Kirishima was whisked off to Fatgum Agency and Bakugo was sent to remedial lessons with Todoroki. They just hadn’t found the time, was all. All throughout his work-study, Kirishima’s days were filled with patrols and training and paperwork. He wouldn’t return to the dorms until long after nightfall, more than a few hours past Bakugo’s aggressively self-enforced bedtime. The little free time Kirishima did have was spent with Aizawa-sensei and the other work-study people, getting caught up on whatever material they’d missed. But the momentum of not seeing each other was hard to reverse. Nowadays, Bakugo is more likely to be seen talking to Kaminari or Todoroki or, even more unbelievably, Midoriya. Aside from exchanging a few words at mealtimes, Kirishima and Bakugo barely even talked.
He’s missed him.
Bakugo spares a cursory glance around the room before sitting cross-legged on the bed. From there, he cranes his neck to take a peek at the homework on Kirishima’s desk.
“You’re doing number four wrong.”
Kirishima chuckles defeatedly and sits in his desk chair. “Oh, I definitely am.” He closes his notebook and banishes it to the corner of his desk, next to the candy wrappers and eraser dust. He’s not doing any more homework tonight. “Anyways, favor? How can I help?”
Bakugo blinks at Kirishima like he forgot that’s what he’s here for. The reminder twists his lips into a pout, and he hunches back against the wall with a huff. “Right.”
He fiddles with the elastic cord on his sweatpants like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. Kirishima can see the straight line of Bakugo’s jaw shift as he grits his teeth together, a habit Kirishima is convinced will eventually grind his molars to dust. There’s the briefest flash of pink as Bakugo licks his lips, and Kirishima has to train his eyes on the desk to quell the unexpected bloom of heat on his face.
“You’re, uh, good at that interview shit,” says Bakugo, finally.
Kirishima smiles at that. It’s been a few days since Mt. Lady and Midnight’s eventful crash course on interview etiquette. Nobody’s been able to stop talking about it. Aizawa-sensei even promised he’d convince them to come back for a second round. Or, okay, maybe he hadn’t promised, but he did say that he wasn’t opposed to the idea (which might as well be a resounding yes, coming from him).
“Yeah? You think so?” Kirishima says. “Thanks, bro, I appreciate it!”
It’s one of the few recent lessons where Kirishima has been genuinely proud of his performance. Mt. Lady even told him that he has a winning smile! That compliment has been replaying in his head at least twice a day since then. It makes him feel a little vain, but it’s honestly nice to be recognized every once in a while. He didn’t even realize that Bakugo had been paying attention when it was Kirishima’s turn at the mic. But, as he recalls, Bakugo wasn’t nearly as successful.
“Is that what this is about?” Kirishima prompts, because Bakugo doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to remember that particular trainwreck.
Bakugo shrugs, as if there’s any way for this to be about anything else. Kirishima laughs and hops onto the bed beside Bakugo, giving him a good-natured shove to make room for himself. Bakugo Katsuki asking for help—now there was a surprise.
“Well, first of all, you might wanna actually answer a question when it’s asked,” he says. “It’s kinda rule number one.”
Bakugo rolls his eyes. “Do you want me to go? ‘Cause I’ll go.”
“Hmm, a stronger statement, for sure,” Kirishima considers with a determined grin. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
“Bastard.”
“Yes, Bakugo?” He can practically hear the gears grinding to a smoking halt inside Bakugo’s head, but he just can’t help himself. He’s missed pushing Bakugo’s buttons, getting too close and pressing almost too far. Something inside Kirishima melts a little.
Bakugo looks like he’s about to blow the dorm to bits when he finally growls, “Fine! I want you to teach me how to do a goddamn interview! Fucking hell!”
The look in his eyes is absolutely murderous, but at least he’s speaking in complete sentences again. Most people would consider an outburst a step backward, but if Bakugo were actually angry with Kirishima—full-fledged, blood boiling, burning stick of dynamite angry—he would have walked out the door without another word.
This is a start, a small relinquishing of control, and Kirishima is willing to work with that.
He smiles at Bakugo, and it almost says more than he wants to let on. “I thought you’d never ask.”
~•~
“Okay, let’s go through it again.”
Bakugo groans. “Goddamn it.”
Kirishima sits up straight and clears his throat, putting on his best reporter voice. “So what can you tell us about yourself, aspiring young hero?”
He points the tip of a water bottle at Bakugo like it’s a microphone. There’s a moment where Kirishima has to bite back a laugh, as Bakugo tries to swat the water bottle out of his hands. Eventually Bakugo gets the hint that Kirishima is not budging on this and gives in, humoring him by directing his words toward the plastic cap. He speaks in a paused, rehearsed monotone.
“My name is Bakugo Katsuki, and I’m a first year UA student. My quirk is—” He scoffs. “This is fucking stupid. The hell does this matter, anyway? People know who I fucking am.”
“Then give them a refresher,” says Kirishima. “Besides, it’s not like everybody has your profile memorized.”
“Well they sure as hell act like it,” Bakugo mumbles.
Kirishima remembers all the articles that came out the morning after Bakugo and Todoroki’s eventful debut. He’d been reading one of them out loud at his desk: “16-year-old Bakugo Katsuki has a prolific history with villains. Earlier this year he was kidnapped by the infamous League of Villains, an incident that culminated in the large-scale battle that destroyed downtown Kamino and led to the retirement of pro hero All Might. A year prior, he was the primary hostage of a minor villain in his hometown of Musutafu—” Right then, Bakugo snatched the phone right out of his hands. Kirishima spent the rest of the morning trying to wrestle it out of his iron-tight grip until Aizawa-sensei entered the room to start the class.
Kirishima wants to tell Bakugo that that’s just what news reporting is like. It’s what they should all be getting used to. The reporters will restate the facts, ask the questions, and fill in every piece of the story for the viewers at home. They will be thorough, even painfully so. It’s kind of in the job description.
“All the more reason to set the record straight,” he says. “Let’s try another one. Unscripted. What was going through your mind when you encountered those villains?”
“I thought that I should do my fucking job since none of the pro heroes were around to do theirs.”
“Bakugo—” Kirishima cuts himself off and sighs. “What’d I say about the f-word? Also, maybe don’t accuse people of not doing their jobs.”
Bakugo scoffs. “It’s true, though. Two high school students showed them up. They deserve the bad press.”
Kirishima sighs. He can’t really argue with that. If anybody else from their class had been stuck in that street with the villains, he wasn’t sure they would have been able to handle the situation as effectively as Bakugo and Todoroki. Kirishima wasn’t even sure how he’d fare, with his quirk. It wouldn’t have been a good matchup at all.
“How about this?” he says. “Why don’t you make your answers more about yourself? No comparisons, no take-downs—just tell them about yourself.”
Bakugo takes a deep breath, sniffs. “Christ. Fine, umm…” He drums his fingers on his knee in quiet consideration.
It’s not often that Kirishima gets to see Bakugo so out of his element. He’s usually the first out of the gate, the first on the scene, ready to charge as soon as there’s a target to run towards—be it a top score in a training exercise or the highest mark on a history essay. No matter the situation, Bakugo doesn’t hesitate. Ever. It’s kind of nice, sometimes, for Kirishima to see that he and Bakugo aren’t so different after all, even if Kirishima does feel a little selfish for thinking it. Mostly, he just wants Bakugo to feel confident in his ability to do this, too. He’s Bakugo fucking Katsuki—he can do anything.
“Hey. You’ve got this,” Kirishima says, giving him a soft smile.
Bakugo flinches like he’s just been slapped. “I fucking know. If you’d just let me think for a goddamn second—”
“Alright, my bad.” Kirishima raises his hands in symbolic surrender.
“I can’t just pluck an answer out of thin air, for fuck’s sake—”
“Okay.”
“—so how ‘bout you and everybody else agree to give me one goddamn minute to think about things without looking at me like you need an answer right fucking now. This isn’t a fucking trial. It’s just a goddamn—”
It’s like a lightbulb goes off in Kirishima’s head.
“Hang on a sec!” says Kirishima, with a start. He feels like such an idiot. Had he really not noticed before?
“What is it now?”
“Bakugo…” Kirishima speaks slowly, as realization dawns on him. It all makes sense—the reluctance, the outbursts, the extra grouchiness. “Do interviews make you nervous?”
Bakugo’s face goes red, and he finally snaps, “Of course they make me nervous! What the hell did you think?”
Kirishima starts laughing.
Unrestrained, full-bodied, shut-up-or-you'll-wake-the-neighbors laughing.
Bakugo just sits there and watches him, furious and perplexed. “D’you finally lose it? The fuck’s wrong with you?”
Kirishima snorts. He’s trying to catch his breath, holding himself upright against Bakugo’s shoulder. “I’m— I’m so sorry, I just…”
He doesn’t want to keep laughing—he really doesn’t—but it’s so much like Bakugo to feel something so innocent, so normal, as nervousness and immediately choosing to Hulk out to change the problem into something more familiar to him. It’s easy to blame the journalists for intimidating him when they keep pressing for a soundbite they can actually use. It’s easy to escape the situation when they want to cut to commercial as soon as possible.
God, what on earth is he gonna do with this boy?
When Kirishima finally sits up, the anger that was in Bakugo’s eyes a minute ago is gone. It’s replaced by a look of resigned anticipation, of one half-prepared for judgment and bracing himself for the blow. And he’s close. Much closer than either of them are prepared for. Kirishima could count every eyelash at this distance.
Bakugo looks away, and Kirishima gives him a reflexive pat on the shoulder.
“You should’ve told me, man,” Kirishima says. “Okay, scratch everything I told you. We’re starting fresh.”
“Ah, fuck.”
“No, this is a good thing! I promise,” he reassures Bakugo. “Okay. What is it about interviews that you’re afraid of? Worst case scenario.”
“I’m not fucking afraid. And I don’t see how—”
“Humor me.”
If there’s anything that Kirishima knows about Bakugo, it’s that he’s not one to entertain ideas that he finds unnecessary or just plain old dumb. As soon as he thinks he’s wasting his time, he’s gone, off to the next thing. That much hasn’t really changed. But in the year that Kirishima has spent getting to know him, he thinks he’s been able to broaden Bakugo’s horizons a little. He’s gotten Bakugo to see the value in some of the smaller, more subjective, more nebulous things that he’s so used to throwing aside. He wants to believe that Bakugo being here at all proves it. If he wanted more proof he’d see it in the way Bakugo twists his hands together, considering the inconsiderable.
Finally, Bakugo speaks.
“They don’t listen to me.” He swallows, tense all over. “Cut me out like I don’t fucking matter. They think they’ve got me all figured out ‘cause they know about the villains, or that I ‘won’ the sports festival. I hate that they think those things say something about me—that I’m just some poor, weak, useless fucking kid who’s all talk with nothing to show for it. Even when they’re praising me for something, it all circles back to the worst fucking days of my life. It pisses me off.
“And I can’t even set the damn record straight ‘cause they point that fucking camera at me and tell me I’m ‘so brave’ with that vapid fucking smile on their faces and then ask the stupidest questions and all I see is red and— fuck.”
Bakugo slams his fist harmlessly into the mattress.
Kirishima regards Bakugo. He had no idea how far it all went, how it all spiraled and tangled with every other worry seething in Bakugo’s head.
“What did you really want to tell them?” Kirishima asks. “In that interview with Todoroki.”
Bakugo takes another few seconds to think. Kirishima gives him his time.
“That we didn’t do anything fucking special,” Bakugo finally says. “We’re heroes-in-training, so we should act like it even if we’re still in school. It’s our job. Doing what we did should be the expectation for heroes, not the exception. And I don’t fucking appreciate people acting like it is, ‘cause it not only underestimates me but also everyone else out here who’s doing their damndest to get ahead. To win.”
Oh.
Just when Kirishima thinks he’s uncovered every secret that Bakugo Katsuki keeps close to his chest, he still finds a way to surprise him.
“You know what?” Kirishima says. “That was pretty much perfect.”
Bakugo scowls. “Don’t fuck with me, Kirishima.”
“I’m serious!” he insists. “I wouldn’t lie to you, dude. Minus the cursing, that’s exactly the sort of stuff that works in interviews! It’s honest, articulate, and to the point. Gives ‘em material.”
This seems to assuage Bakugo’s concerns somewhat. He sighs.
“Great. So how the hell is that gonna help me if I can’t pull off a repeat performance?”
“Well, what made this interview different?”
“‘Cause it’s you,” Bakugo says, like it’s obvious, and almost forgets to tack on an empty ‘dumbass’ at the end as if Kirishima hasn’t already stopped breathing. “You listen.”
Bakugo never seems to notice when he does that, throwing around such declarations of Kirishima’s trust and esteem like he’s just rattling off an answer to a math question. That same restless, unstoppable boy who’ll tell anybody to fuck off and get out of his way will use that same breath to tell Kirishima that he’s “damn strong” and “the best shield we’ve got.” Bakugo talks about Kirishima like he’s a constant he can count on, as present as the gravity holding him down and the sun hanging in the sky. Even after barely looking his way for the past few weeks. Even when Kirishima himself has trouble believing it half the time.
Kirishima is smart enough to put a name to everything he’s feeling, but he doesn’t want to use this moment to puzzle out the other half of the equation. Of all the nights to be selfish, it can’t be tonight. Bakugo needs him. Give him the chance to need someone, for a change.
“I won’t tell you that it’ll make it easier to imagine you’re talking to me,” jokes Kirishima, earning himself an eye roll with no bite behind it at all. “But maybe you can approach journalists in a similar way.”
“How?”
“Well, they are there to listen, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You share the same goal: the more you show how different you are from what they originally thought, the more they’ll want to hear. They’re also stubborn, so they’re not gonna go anywhere unless you say something. Think of it less like you’re trapped there with them, and more like they’re trapped there with you.”
Just as intended, Bakugo smirks at that. “You feel trapped in here with me, hair-for-brains?”
His tone does not make butterflies churn in Kirishima’s stomach. Nope. Not at all.
Kirishima gives him a smirk in return, reclining against the wall. “Nah. I know that you’re totally harmless. Like a kitten.” Bakugo elbows him in the arm. Kirishima laughs. “Or a duckling.”
He gets a pillow in the face for that, which he grabs and wrestles easily out of Bakugo’s grasp. Bakugo pretends to look annoyed over it, but Kirishima can tell that he’s doing his damndest to hide his amusement.
“All I’m saying is that you’re a multifaceted dude,” Kirishima continues. “And I think they’ll see that too, if you give them that chance.”
It’s Bakugo’s turn to be dazed by simple words. Something is there for a flash and then it’s gone just as quickly, replaced by a quirked eyebrow and a quip ready on the tip of his tongue. But Bakugo can’t hide from him that easily.
“Wow, ‘multifaceted,’” Bakugo says. “Big word for you.”
Kirishima nudges him. “You're an asshole. Okay, let’s try this again!” He picks up the empty water bottle from where it rolled to the edge of the bed and holds it up like a microphone.
Bakugo lets out a long sigh. “You don’t have to do that—”
“So! Tell me, Pro-Hero-in-training…”
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“What’s your philosophy when it comes to fighting villains?”
He points the bottle and the clock starts ticking. Bakugo sighs, chewing on his lower lip as he contemplates his answer.
“Same philosophy as I have with everything else. I get out there and I want to fu—” He clears his throat to cut the curse short. Kirishima grins. “I want to win. And save people to do it.”
“Very interesting! Would you say your past experience with them has given you an advantage?”
Bakugo’s mouth twitches into the slightest scowl at that, but still he keeps his cool. He takes a calming breath.
“No. What’s given me an advantage is my training at UA and my own determination. Next question.”
Kirishima breaks character and winks. “Getting cocky. I like it.”
Bakugo actually laughs. It’s low, easy, familiar. “Fuck you.”
“What has your experience at UA been like so far?” Kirishima asks, returning to his reporter persona. He’s enjoying this way too much.
“UA lives up to its reputation. It’s exactly where I need to be to become the number one hero.”
“Thoughts on Lunch Rush’s cooking?”
“The best, but I bet my katsudon could give him a run for his money.”
“And what do you think of your classmates? Namely the dazzling, chivalrous, and incredibly handsome Red Riot, who you now owe a lifetime supply of this delicious katsudon?”
Bakugo leans in dangerously close to their makeshift microphone. “That he’s real good at pushing his luck.”
Kirishima laughs. “C’mon, man.”
Bakugo heaves out a long sigh. “Red Riot’s one of the strongest people I know, period. He’s not one to back down, even when the going gets tough, ‘cause that’s the kind of hero that he is. And his namesake had better be honored that he’s the one carrying on that torch, because there’s no one out there better than him for the job.”
Bakugo says it without a stir in his voice, looking him right in the eye with nothing at all to hide. Red Riot’s one of the strongest people I know. Kirishima smiles softly, and right then he catches a shift in Bakugo’s face. The brows unfurrow. The jaw unclenches.
The butterflies collecting in Kirishima’s stomach swarm to fill his entire chest, and he’s speaking before he can think twice about it. “I really missed you. You know that?”
The suggestion of a smile bleeds into Bakugo’s voice. “You asking that in your professional capacity as a journalist?”
Kirishima chuckles. “What can I say? The public really wants to know.”
Bakugo takes his time with this answer just as he did with all the others. Maybe a little longer, even.
“Can I answer with a question?” he asks. “Is that allowed in interviews?”
Kirishima shrugs. “Don’t see why not.”
“In that case,” says Bakugo, “I’d ask how you can miss me when we see each other pretty much every day. Especially when I live right here.” He knocks on the wall behind him to make his point.
Kirishima frowns. “Well, yeah, I know that. It’s just…”
His voice trails off. He hears Bakugo let out a sigh and, damnit, now he’s really done it. Nice going, Eijiro. Bakugo shifts on the bed, and before Kirishima can tell him to just forget about it and move on to the next question, Bakugo yanks the water bottle out of his hands and bonks him over the head with it.
“Hey!” Kirishima yelps.
Bakugo ignores that. He is kneeling right in front of Kirishima now, staring him down with narrowed eyes. Awfully close.
“Don’t give me that self-deprecation crap. You’ve got something to say, so spit it out,” says Bakugo. “You’re trapped in here with me, remember?”
Kirishima feels heat flood to his face, from the sudden rush of Bakugo’s absolute attention and the force with which Bakugo is apparently defending Kirishima’s own dignity.
“And you’re not gonna go anywhere until I say something?”
“Something like that,” says Bakugo, and that’s almost a joke. The corner of his mouth curves up in the slightest smile for only a second, invisible if nobody had been paying attention.
He still isn’t sure when Bakugo got so good at tearing through his defenses. Somewhere along the way, kicking his ass in a friendly spar by thinking three moves ahead turned into predicting and identifying the small ways that Kirishima avoided speaking his mind. Kirishima didn’t make a habit of it, certainly, but he found that he could handle a little bit of discomfort if it meant that someone else could have an easier day. But Bakugo has never cared much for that sort of self-sacrifice, he’s found.
“Yo, you gonna keep me here all night, or what?” Bakugo lightly prods him in the chest with the bottle and Kirishima swats it away.
“Okay, fine,” Kirishima says. “If I talk, will you stop that?”
Bakugo puts the bottle down, but his gaze doesn’t waver. Kirishima lets out a long breath, bracing himself.
Here we go.
“Okay, I just wanna start out by saying that I’m genuinely happy for you,” he says. “Honest. You’re working really well with everyone and opening up to them. Hell, I’ve even seen you joke around with Kaminari once or twice.”
Bakugo turns his nose up at that, but Kirishima can feel the lightness behind it. There’s no disagreement there.
“And that’s awesome, dude!” continues Kirishima. “It really is. And I can feel the difference in you. I mean, that joint training exercise? You, Sero, Jiro, and Sato wiped the floor with Class B! You’ve always been amazing but now it’s like… that and more.”
Kirishima places a hand on Bakugo’s arm and something in Bakugo stills. His breaths come slowly. The fire burns low.
“Okay,” says Bakugo. The softness in his voice is a shock. “But what about you?”
“That’s… kinda what I’m getting to. We don’t really talk much these days. You always seem so busy with everything else, and I guess… ” Kirishima bites his lip, surrendering to the fact that he’s really about to admit this. “Lately I’ve been feeling like maybe I don’t matter to you as much, anymore.”
The low rumble of the space heater in the corner fills the silence. Outside the window, cars roll through the shallow film of melted snow, one after the other, and that faint whisper of sound is the only sign that there’s life somewhere outside this room. Bakugo’s expression doesn’t change at all, and Kirishima doesn’t have a goddamn clue if that’s a good or bad thing. He has even less of a clue when Bakugo takes his wrist and carefully, methodically, pulls Kirishima’s hand away from where it was touching his arm. But he doesn’t let go.
“You know everyone in class depends on you, right?” he finally says.
Kirishima blinks. There were many things he thought Bakugo might say—namely, the classic ‘stop being so stupid, hair-for-brains’ or maybe a soul-crushing ‘yeah, maybe you’re right about that.’ But he definitely didn’t see that one coming.
“Huh?”
“When things’re about to get ugly,” Bakugo continues, “they look to you to keep them going ‘cause you’re the first to say that we can make it through. They go the extra mile, take that risk, jump into the fray—all because you, of all people, believe in them.” His gaze is averted, trained on the space where their hands meet. “So whatever change you see in me? It wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for you.”
Bakugo’s back is one hard line of tension as he speaks. Kirishima feels like a single gust of wind could send them both crashing down. They’re glass on the verge of shattering.
Bakugo usually isn’t about words, preferring to express his appreciation for people with concrete actions over empty statements, and Kirishima is more than happy to return the sentiment in kind. He honestly enjoys the elegance of saving a seat for Bakugo, or giving Bakugo all the peppers in his salad because he likes them even more than Kirishima does. But on nights like tonight, Kirishima gets to see those rare moments when Bakugo chooses words over anything else. There’s a preciseness to it that strikes through any pretense, and it’d scare him half to death if it was anyone else digging straight for the truth of him.
But it isn’t just anyone.
It’s Bakugo.
The corner of Kirishima’s lips turn up a little. “Well, in my professional capacity as a reporter, I gotta follow up: are you saying it’s my fault?”
Bakugo laughs. A real laugh. The tension in him recedes, replaced by a roll of the eyes and a squeeze of Kirishima’s wrist. Kirishima’s heart skips.
“What I’m saying is that I’m fucking glad I give a damn about the idiots in that class now. But they’re not you, alright? Playing along with some dumb joke isn’t in the same goddamn ballpark as letting somebody come along on a hike or eat the food that I make.” Bakugo lets out a breath, and his voice comes out in a mumble. “Or, y’know, asking for help with an interview ‘cause I’m too fucking stupid to figure that one out.”
He lets go of Kirishima’s wrist at those words, letting his fingers scrunch into the blanket they’re sitting on. Bakugo stills, and now Kirishima is certain that he’s never seen him like this.
“You’re not stupid,” Kirishima says, quiet.
“And you matter to me,” counters Bakugo. Now he’s looking at him. Now comes every last feeling he was hiding behind that detached façade. There’s no growl in this voice, or any trace of affected anger. “So how ‘bout we both get that drilled into our heads, yeah?”
Kirishima is familiar with this feeling—the butterflies, the racing heart. There’s a smile on his face now, helpless to Bakugo’s conviction. He follows it, drawn to it time and time again, be it at the end of the world or here in this room where they’re safe.
“Can you stay for a while, then?” Kirishima asks.
He knows it’s late. He knows they’ve had a long week. Bakugo is probably more tired than he’s letting on. Training went a little long today, and somehow all of their teachers managed to cram one last project or big test before the holidays. There’s a better time and a better place for this, but still Bakugo says, “Okay.”
He doesn’t make a beeline for the door with a mumbled thanks and a wave like Kirishima thought he would when the night began. Instead he settles himself down against the wall, and Kirishima mirrors Bakugo’s posture.
The easy silence reminds Kirishima of afternoons spent studying next to each other, or of evenings sharing the couch in the common room while he watches YouTube videos and Bakugo reads the newest volume of some manga that Sero lent him. Peace was probably the last thing most of their classmates would associate with Bakugo, but most of them didn’t know him like Kirishima did. He likes knowing Bakugo away from the prying eyes and preconceived notions that people have about him. He wonders privately whether Bakugo has always been this way, whether there’s a chance that Midoriya has some stories tucked away of sitting with Bakugo just like this, long ago when they were kids.
Or maybe this is new. Maybe Kirishima is the first to witness the tiny ways in which Bakugo is changing—the first dents in the armor, the first cracks in the iron wall.
But now he’s seeing something else in Bakugo’s eyes. It’s something he never noticed before, something he’s only ever imagined. Those red eyes linger just a second longer than they usually do, a second longer than they should. They glance his way when he thinks Kirishima isn’t looking. Bakugo is nervous. After everything they’ve talked about today, Kirishima is left wondering how he ever missed something so obvious in this boy he thought he could read like a damn book. If this was anyone else he’d be afraid of a misunderstanding, but right now nothing has ever seemed so clear.
Maybe that’s why Kirishima lets himself get closer, here in this small space that they share together. And maybe that’s why Bakugo, against all odds, lets him.
Bakugo swallows. “Are you—?” He’s barely making a sound now, but he’s so close that he doesn’t really have to. His gaze drifts from Kirishima’s eyes down to his lips, disbelieving. Even after all that’s been said—disbelieving. “Are you sure?”
Kirishima is nodding before Bakugo can even finish his sentence. “You?”
He gets his answer between heartbeats, in a careful hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck just below the hairline. There is a transitory second where Kirishima is caught between a hand and the promise of Bakugo’s mouth right in front of him, and the anxiety almost gets the best of them. But Kirishima cups Bakugo’s jaw with his hand, gives them both permission. The closing space between them speaks volumes, answering every question with every inch crossed.
And then Bakugo is kissing him.
Lips slide over shy lips. They’re suspended between hesitation and the undefinable need for more of this. Kirishima can feel himself holding back, proceeding with care as he places a hand on Bakugo’s waist. He doesn’t know if he’s asking more than he should—being too forward, or just plain too much—but Bakugo’s lips are so soft against his own, parting invitingly, letting Kirishima take control. Bakugo tilts his head the other way and guides him into a kiss so gentle that it sends a wave of shivers down his spine.
Kirishima pulls away to breathe but he stays right where he wants to be, all up in Bakugo’s space. They don’t say a word, letting their slowing breaths and racing hearts do the talking instead. Hungry eyes chase after hungry mouths, but no one makes a move just yet.
Bakugo is the first to speak. His voice is low. “You never said.”
“I honestly didn’t think you felt the same way,” chuckles Kirishima. “I’m sorry.”
Bakugo kisses the corner of his smile—one quick peck, like he can’t help himself. He rests his forehead against Kirishima’s. “I’m a fucking idiot.”
“Don’t say that.”
“No, I am.”
“Why?”
“For not doing that sooner.”
He can feel the guilt well up from inside Bakugo, collecting in knots in his chest, and that just won’t do. Kirishima brings their lips together again, slow and deep and deliberate. Bakugo responds hungrily and this is the Bakugo that he’s more familiar with—here’s the stubbornness, the fire, the perpetual chase for more, more, more. He’s left breathless against these lips, safe in these arms that hold him so close.
“Promise you’ll come back tomorrow, then?” Kirishima says. “We can hang out or watch a movie or—”
“I’ll bring dinner?”
“It’s a date.”
Even just hearing it brings a smile to Bakugo’s face, and Kirishima’s heart soars. The feeling doesn’t go away, even when Bakugo finally gets up from the bed.
“I should go,” he says. “Getting late, and all.”
Kirishima smirks. “What? Past your bedtime?”
“I’m leaving,” Bakugo huffs. Still, there’s a steady certainty in his shoulders, in the way he’s carrying himself as he leans in close, pressing his lips slowly to Kirishima’s again. His voice is low when he speaks. “Good night.”
Kirishima’s eyes flutter back open. His lips turn up in an unconscious smile, as he gently takes Bakugo’s wrist and squeezes. “Good night.”
The rush of adrenaline doesn’t end, even as Bakugo shuts the door behind him. Through the wall, Kirishima catches the faint sound of Bakugo’s door opening and closing. There’s a small thump against the wall as Bakugo presumably lays on his bed, just a few inches of drywall away from him. Kirishima lays down on his pillow and raises his hand to knock on the wall. In all these months they’ve lived next to each other, he’s never felt so close.
After a second, he gets two knocks in reply from the other side. Kirishima smiles.