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Bakugou clenched the railing in a death grip, his breath coming out in puffs as he fought the urge to fall unconscious. He would not pass out here. Not in the stairwell of his own apartment building, not to be discovered by a do-gooder who couldn’t mind their own business.
Midoriya may not have thrown the punches, but Bakugou still blamed him for this.
He got up the first few flights of stairs with no problem, but by the time he made it to his front door, it looked like he was dragging a portable murder scene behind him. Fortunately, the cuts criss-crossing his body looked worse than they actually were. It was the exhaustion that did him in.
The other guy looked worse, though.
Bakugou searched for his keys, but when he couldn’t find them, he kicked the door down and propped it back into the frame like usual. The apartment was dark.
“Hey, Shit Hair!” Bakugou yelled into the quiet. No answer.
He checked the time on the microwave.
Oh.
Oh no.
He should’ve been at Kaminari’s Christmas Eve party two hours ago.
Kirishima was going to kill him.
He staggered forward and, in his exhausted-induced clumsiness, knocked a lamp on the side table over in his steady march to the couch. Bakugou pinched the bridge of his nose. How could he have forgotten about the party? Kirishima had bothered him about it for weeks. Tempting as it was to barge into a party smelling like sweat and covered in blood, Bakugou knew he wouldn’t be able to climb two more stories to his place without losing consciousness, and letting the extras see him pass out wasn’t his idea of a good time. He ripped off his gauntlets and collapsed on the couch instead.
He didn’t like to admit that a nobody villain had gotten the drop on him like this, but the guy had been fast. All the more reason to avoid the party and, with it, the stares and demands for an explanation.
Bakugou inhaled steadily, ignoring the jabbing pain in his shoulder. It was fine. He’d shower, then go upstairs and berate everyone for partying instead of working.
He just needed to…
…Rest his eyes for a while…
BANG.
Bakugou had long since conditioned himself to wake up at sudden, loud noises—hazards of some very-definitely-light PTSD and insomnia. Here, his danger sense died out almost at once as he saw the broken door lying on the ground and Kirishima framed in the light from the hall like a soldier on a mission. He was wearing a Santa hat and about as angry an expression as he could make.
“Keep it down!” Bakugou barked back.
“You broke the door again?” Kirishima exclaimed. “The landlord’s gonna kill us.”
“The landlord can go fuck himself.”
Kirishima stormed inside and clumsily fit the door back in the frame, flicking on the light switch. He swung around and put his hands on his hips.
“Why’s there blood in the hall?” Kirishima asked. “And where were you tonight? Kaminari kept asking ‘Where’s Bakugou? Where’s Kacchan?’ He wanted to surprise you with your gift!”
“Fuck him! I don’t want his shitty Christmas sweater! He gets me one every year!”
“He learned to crochet just to make ugly Christmas sweaters! The least you could do is—” Kirishima stopped short as he rounded the couch, and his face blanched. It had been a long time since Bakugou had seen skin lose that much pigment in a heartbeat. “How bad are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt.”
“Did you get STABBED?!”
Kirishima seized a pillow and shoved it onto Bakugou’s shoulder wound.
Bakugou promptly screamed and Kirishima bolted back.
“What happened?” Kirishima asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“That hurt!” Bakugou complained.
“Don’t act like a little kid! Why didn’t you go to the hospital?!” Kirishima asked, pushing his way past Bakugou’s outstretched arm and shoving the pillow onto the wound. His concerned eyes traced over the other cuts, but they both knew the one on his shoulder was the worst of the bunch.
“It’s just a cut.”
“It’s really deep! What did you get stabbed with, a sword?”
“I didn’t get stabbed—it was a quirk. Jackass could open old scars. He saw that one and went for it.”
“You have a lot of scars, Bakugou.”
“So it was a good thing I blasted him off before he could do anything about it. And for God’s sake, we’ve lived together for a year, call me Katsuki.”
“He could’ve killed you.”
“Someone tries to kill me every other Sunday. I’m fine.”
“Let me take you to the hospital, or Recovery Girl at least—”
Bakugou seized both of Kirishima’s arms and squeezed them with a crushing force. “Read my lips. I’m fine. What I need is some fucking shut eye.”
Kirishima held his gaze. They were inches from each other, Kirishima’s hot breath on him, his eyebrows upturned in undisguised concern, all frustration forgotten.
“Just get the goddamn first aid kit and sew me up already,” Bakugou ordered.
Looking upset, Kirishima turned, but did as he suggested. He herded Bakugou into the bathroom, where they usually performed impromptu hospital treatment at this time of night.
Kirishima silently assembled the thread and needle, something he’d become accustomed to doing since Bakugou hated hospitals so much. The silence pulsed like a broken pacemaker. Bakugou was just grateful for the moment to rest on the toilet and not have to move his aching body too much. He let Kirishima maneuver him into a comfortable position where he could start sewing his shoulder wound back up.
“Your face is pretty badly bruised,” said Kirishima. “Do you need ice?”
“Not unless you’re fixing me a cold drink,” said Bakugou.
Kirishima huffed something between a laugh and a disapproving grunt.
When Kirishima finished, Bakugou pushed himself up and immediately staggered to their bedroom. He made it halfway to the bed before his legs decided they were too tired to support his weight and he ended up with his upper body sprawled across the duvet and his knees on the ground.
Kirishima rustled around in the bathroom—cleaning up, piecing things back together, rinsing the blood off the floor. A few times, he came over to the bed, stared for a moment, opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then left. He glimpsed Kirishima’s shadow passing back and forth through the door with a mop, getting the worst of the blood. Tomorrow he’d probably be singing apologies to the landlord for the mess in the hall, like always.
Like always. Bakugou squeezed his eyes shut and hid his face in the duvet.
After a very long, extended pause in which his mind drifted, Kirishima returned and asked, “Need help?”
“No,” Bakugou said, typically.
“You sure?” Kirishima came up beside him and felt the side of his face. “You feel cold.”
“…Just get me on the fucking bed.”
Kirishima let out a chiming, relieved laugh, grabbed Bakugou’s legs and hauled him onto the bed. Bakugou’s body had suddenly given up on moving itself, so he let Kirishima control his body until he was on his back, propped up on pillows and staring at the ceiling.
Like a needy puppy, Kirishima crawled into Bakugou’s arms, resting his head on his chest.
“You know I love you, right?” said Kirishima.
“Hard to forget, you tell me every five fucking seconds,” said Bakugou.
“So you know I love you no matter what.”
“Where the fuck are you going with this? If you have something to say, just stop beating around the bush and say it. I got a big enough headache as it is.”
“You’re pushing yourself too hard. I feel like I hardly see you.”
“I’m working.”
“I work, too—I just know when to take a break once in a while. I really did miss you at the party.”
“Missing Kaminari’s stupid party isn’t the end of the world.”
“What’s really going on, Bakugou? You’ve been working nonstop all year. I’m worried about you.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have to work so much if people weren’t such fucking idiots.”
Kirishima didn’t sigh. He didn’t berate him. He didn’t move from the comfortable crook of his arm.
Kirishima waited.
Bakugou shut his eyes and tried to pretend to go to sleep, though he knew Kirishima wasn’t buying it. He tried to pretend he could shut everything out and that he didn’t have to build excuses after excuses to Kirishima, that he wasn’t doing exactly what Kirishima said he was doing.
But Kirishima waited for him. He always did, even when he didn’t have to, even when it wasn’t in his best interests to do so, and Bakugou squeezed Kirishima’s shoulder protectively.
“I’m not good enough,” Bakugou admitted.
“At what, specifically?” Kirishima asked.
“I’m not…I’m just not good enough,” said Bakugou. “Deku’s still number one. I have to work harder to beat him.”
“You know it’s not a contest.”
“Hero Chart says otherwise.”
“That’s not what being a hero is all about. That’s not why you became a hero—I don’t think it’s why any of us became a hero.”
“Tell that to Deku.”
“You know that’s not his motivation.” Kirishima tenderly held Bakugou’s cheek. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“Who says I’m doing it for you?!” Bakugou snapped.
“Well, I think that defensive tone just now kind of gave it away.”
Bakugou grunted out something. He didn’t know what it was. He just grunted.
Kirishima shuffled and turned his head so their eyes met in the partial darkness. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
And just like that, like he’d always had since the moment they’d met, Kirishima tore his defenses down.
“I have to be better,” said Bakugou.
“You don’t have to be anything except yourself, stubbornness and all,” said Kirishima. “You could be the worst Pro Hero in the world and I’d still be lying here with you.”
Bakugou didn’t answer. He chalked it up to his head hurting too much.
Kirishima shuffled up and rested his head on Bakugou’s shoulder. “You don’t have to earn love.”
“Who says?” Bakugou grunted.
“Anyone with common sense, but I know you’re lacking in that sometimes.”
Bakugou stared at the ceiling for an extended moment, listening to the traffic outside. “I should be doing better.”
“You’re doing fine, and I’ll tell you however often I can that you’re even doing great,” said Kirishima. “You just need to give yourself a break, don’t be so hard on yourself, and hang out with your friends before you run yourself into the ground.”
“I feel like I should do better than I am.”
“You’re the Number Two. Believe me, you’re the envy of Pro Heroes everywhere.”
“It’s never going to be good enough.”
“It will be for me. Just promise to take a break tomorrow?”
Bakugou would never in a million years admit it, but he knew his body wasn’t just going to let him get up in the morning. In the morning, he’d lie in bed and tell Kirishima that he was just going to have a lazy day and he could definitely get up if he wanted to, and Kirishima would smile and play along, and drag their whole ass Christmas tree into the bedroom just so they could stare at it.
“Fine, fine,” said Bakugou. “But I’m not wearing Kaminari’s shitty sweater.”
“It’s not shitty!”
“You’re ruining the moment.”
“ Or I’m making it better.”
“Do you want to sleep on the couch tonight?”
“You mean the one you ruined with all the blood?”
“What’s one more stain?”
Kirishima laughed and just pulled Bakugou closer. “Just rest for a while. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It sounded good. Bakugou couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly. His mind swayed with the effort of staying awake and there were a thousand things he wanted to say and he just wanted to keep going .
Kirishima, however, was a dead weight beside him, and he wasn’t going to get up. Maybe just for tonight, he didn’t have to fight.
Bakugou leaned his head on Kirishima’s and surrendered.