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Kirishima sat in the dark, city lights casting faint lines through his blinds across his face and his chest. His hero costume was ripped and the blood that crusted his skin was a mixture of his and decidedly not-his. He lifted up a hand and stared at it.
God, he thought, clenching his rough fingers in a fist. He opened them up again. Is there ever a time I’ve felt more alone?
Today a villain attacked, that much is usual. However, today… things were different.
This time Kirishima couldn’t do anything to help. His quirk was only short-range melee, and the villain was sending out a vast array of long-range attacks.
Watching Kaminari and Ashido hurl their quirks against it, Bakugou yelling like a bat out of hell, even Deku sending calculated blasts of air and dark whorls of rope—
Shit. Kirishima had felt like he was watching himself outside his body the entire attack, helpless, a movie audience to the feature film that was his friends taking down a nasty beast and not needing him once. He was all at once proud, terrified, and, now in the aftermath, so very alone.
It was hard not to despise himself, sitting on his bed and letting Tokyo cast flashes of brightness through the silent haze. His quirk wasn’t flashy and hardly useful against people like today’s villain.
It was hard not to wish that he was Kaminari. To wish that he was Sero. To wish that he was—
“Eijirou?” Kirishima jumped and spun quickly to see Bakugou standing in the doorway, the light from the hall illuminating his damp skin with yellow warmth. “Why the fuck haven’t you showered yet? Y’look shit.” To anyone else it would have sounded hurtful, but Kirishima knew Bakugou better than that.
“Uh, not really any reason, just…” Kirishima trailed off helplessly. Bakugou stood there, crossing his arms, waiting for an answer.
“Today just was rough,” he finished lamely, pushing off his jaw guard.
“Hm,” Bakugou grunted, walking over to stand next to Kirishima. “Why? You did what you could, moron.” He grabbed Kirishima’s hand on reflex.
“I know,” he said, helpless to do anything but look up at Bakugou. “Still, though… sometimes it feels like I’m that stupid kid back in middle school. Even though I’ve got the resolve, now, I can’t deal with helplessness. Just can’t.” Bakugou looked back thoughtfully, his hand pressing into Kirishima’s with just enough grounding pressure.
“Sometimes,” Bakugou started, looking like he was being careful with his words. Kirishima couldn’t help the surprise that flashed over his face. “You gotta be okay with others handling shit. You do that for me a lot. Let others do it for you.” He looked away, clearly embarrassed, a pink flush decorating his cheekbones.
Kirishima can’t help the way he lets out a small, fond laugh. It was always so polarizing to see how Bakugou saved these soft parts just for Eijirou.
Bakugou’s words were few, rarely emotional, rarely vulnerable. Even though Kirishima knew he wouldn’t get more out of him by way of comfort, it meant more than the blonde would probably ever know.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, a thumb rubbing circles on Bakugou’s scarred hand.
“Idiot. Stop thanking me,” Bakugou said, releasing their hands. Kirishima pouted when he saw Bakugou go to lie down facing away from him.
“Now go fucking shower. You smell like my mom’s shitty attempt at beef stew,” he snapped.
“On it.” Kirishima got to his feet, kissed Bakugou’s shoulder, and headed to the bathroom. As the door to the bedroom shut behind him, he laughed at the sound of Bakugou’s responding “humph.”
Eijirou Kirishima would never be alone again. Now he just had to remember that.