Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Fucking— Gah!"

The door is slammed shut so hard it rattles in its hinges. Panting like a raging bull, Bakugou Katsuki starts stomping away before he groans, doubles back and locks it properly, holding back on the ancient key he by some miracle has managed not to break… yet.

It won't do to hold onto the old fart's art restoration studio and shit for ten years only to fuck it up now, so. Bakugou can suck it up. Maybe.

"Oh! Hey there, Kacchan!"

Or not.

"Shut the hell up", hisses Bakugou, shouldering past his shitty nerd of a neighbor in the narrow hallway. That gesture, too, is somewhat less rough than it could be: Shitty-nerd-neighbor happens to be his shitty-nerd-childhood-friend and shitty-nerd-fellow-conservator.

Urgh. Fuck that guy. Tacking on, "Fuck you, Deku", Bakugou pretends not to see the amused glint in Midoriya's eyes as he hums an unbothered Mhm! and joins him on the way downstairs, the wooden stairway creaking and shaking under their feet.

Fuck this shitty building, too. Bakugou takes care to skip the broken step as always.

"Sooo, I'm guessing the collector—"

"Clueless bitch that he is."

"—is adamant on keeping the strainer?"

"It makes no sense! None! It ain't even original to the painting and it's distorting the whole thing. I'll have to square it to shit and add an interleafed lining that's just excessive for a paint layer this stable. What a waste of my goddamn time."

They step out into pale winter-y sunshine, Midoriya giving Bakugou's shoulder a there there-style pat that is too swift to evade before they go their separate ways. "At least your followers will get a kick out of you whining about it", he remarks cheerfully, like Bakugou cares about that at all right now.

"Hah? I don't whine. It's not whining!"

"Sure, Kacchan. Have a good lunch break!"

"Deku, you— Whatever! Bye."

Bakugou marches the few blocks to his local konbini in record time, the quick pace burning through some of his frustration. His late master would have some wise comment to say about how managing client demands and expectations is part of the business, hence part of perfecting the craft. He ain't stupid, Bakugou knows appealing to his ambition was Yagi's favorite method to get him to put a lid on his anger and pull off his best work regardless.

Doesn't make it any easier when said clients are stubborn morons who only have their wallets in mind, not what's best for the painting they claim to love so much — like there are any savings to be made when it's fine art you're collecting.

Urgh!

Throwing himself into the park bench he's claimed as his in his head, Bakugou bites rather aggressively into the first egg sandwich of two while fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket. Untangling the mess of cords that are his earpods comes dangerously close to lighting his fuse anew; it's worth it, though.

Three years ago, Bakugou discovered his very own, infallible method of calming himself down.

Tapping the Instagram icon, he impatiently waits for the app to load before typing @pianoshark in the search bar. His phone autofills the word after the first two letters. Bakugou refuses to feel self-conscious about that. Yes, he hates Instagram. Yes, he has an account anyway, a locked one nobody is following where he stores rare snapshots of cats he spots on his lunch break. Yes, he still uses that app daily, sue him.

No, he doesn't follow the only account that genuinely brightens his day—

—but he does have a not-insignificant amount of the videos bookmarked. Videos that feature three essential things: A piano, a red-haired man, and cats.

Lots and lots of cats. Bakugou would suspect this being the result of some sort of hoarder situation if he didn't know the man is a trained-pianist-turned-animal-rescue-activist who provides music therapy and a home to the twenty-odd cats he's adopted off the streets. Over the years, Bakugou watched him go from merely owning a blind tricolor Persian — she's called Miss Boots since she has four white legs and also an uncreative himbo for an owner — to registering an actual non-profit under the same silly handle and making it his full-time job.

The second Piano Shark Cat Rescue created an official Patreon, Bakugou jumped on the chance to help out, picking the highest tier without hesitation. In fact, he may have been one of if not the first patron.

It's whatever.

(He gets little cat-themed sticker sheets and a new Piano Shark-branded mug every year as part of his tier benefits. Technically, he's entitled to one personal cat video a month as well, but he's never reached out to request one and he never will.

…But if he did, he'd want one of Miss Boots getting extra scritches. The grande dame purrs only when those big, gentle hands scratch her between fluffy ears just so, and something about that soothes Bakugou's soul like little else does. Completely hypothetically, of course.)

Kirishima Eijirou, the Patreon receipt said the pianist's name is. Bakugou doesn't care who he is, really. He's here to see Kirishima's cats enjoy Kirishima's original music, with Kirishima handling both cats and piano with care in every gesture and word, and an abundance of love shining in those red eyes of his.

Bakugou does not care. At all.

Earpods in place, he ignores his disappointment at the lack of a new video. It isn't exactly a surprise: Kirishima tends to post anywhere between noon and early evening — Bakugou's phone vibrates a notification every time he does. There are hundreds of previous posts to tide him over in the meantime.

His current favorite resides at the very top of his bookmarks. It's frankly overkill given Clueless Bitch Client only managed to somewhat piss Bakugou off. It's his lunch break and his non-violent coping mechanism, however.

Favorite video it is.

Pressing play, Bakugou leans back with his legs crossed at the knee and his phone expertly balanced on top, instantly distracted from the sandwich he's munching on. The video opens with Kirishima sitting back down after switching his recording setup on. There's a professional microphone hanging over his head; a brief glance is given to the camera (probably his phone on a tripod, Bakugou has been there, he recognizes what it looks like).

Then: A smile, flashing pointy teeth. Strangely, that has Bakugou's frown lifting even before a single note sounds.

On Kirishima's lap sits Miss Boots, kneading at his thighs and clumsily bumping her head against his chin, demanding kisses with a scratchy Mrrah! Laughing quietly, Kirishima folds immediately, petting her back for good measure afterwards. It's one of the rare videos in which he speaks, a low mutter of "I'll play your favorite for you, hm?" that's more a comfort to the blind cat than an explanation for his silent audience.

Finally, Kirishima's fingers smooth over the keys and he plays.

Plays and plays and plays a melody that fills Bakugou's head like high tide, flooding in and pulling back, draining the tension from his shoulders wave by wave. Not bombastic, not the epic full-orchestra type stuff Bakugou blasts in his studio — this is charged with a weight and meaning of its own, drawn from the depths of an emotion Bakugou can't even hope to name. Combined with the sight of a cat positively melting onto the keyboard and the soft adoration in Kirishima's expression as he moves around her, it's like golden sunlight hitting skin or… Reading the opening paragraph of a well-loved book for the 200th time…

The video ends before Bakugou's brain can come up with a more fitting comparison. Fucking Instagram and its short-ass video limit.

Sighing, Bakugou cycles through four more videos until his sandwiches are gone and his lunch break nearly over. Going to the account proper, he taps on the profile picture and sits through the story updates he's missed, an influx of scraggly-furred kittens from Gods-know-where keeping Kirishima busier than ever these days.

Heh. Cute.

A handful of minutes left on the clock. Bakugou shrugs, he might as well head back and get that strainer shit dealt with. As much as he hates to admit it: Midoriya is right, the more difficult the project, the better it tends to perform with the feral bastards Bakugou calls his target audience. They best be fucking ready to hear his manifesto on why stretchers are superior once and for all.

Bakugou's phone vibrates in his pocket as he's climbing up the stairs to his studio. That same moment, Midoriya looks up from where he's unlocking the opposite door to Bakugou's.

There's mild surprise on his face, then an expression so fond Bakugou makes a disgusted noise on principle.

"I said shut up, nerd."

It changes nothing about the smile hiding in the corners of Bakugou's mouth. Seems like he's getting a fresh fix today after all.

*

"…Now, if my client would've listened to me, I'd be chopping this piece of shit into firewood and creating a custom stretcher like this beauty deserves. Oi, assholes who watch my channel to fall asleep to—"

Kirishima's phone slips out of his hand and right on his nose, causing him to snort awake. "Whuh? Ow. Ah, sorry, Bakugou."

"—you better wake your rude ass up for this", Bakugou continues without pause. Timely callout or not, it's not like he's aware Kirishima was nodding off (or that he exists at all, for that matter). "If I see one 'But Mr. Bakugou, why do you hate strainers so much?' fucking comment, I'll strangle all of you. See this?"

Rubbing the sore bridge of his nose, Kirishima pats down his blanket and, far gentler, the pile of kittens curled between his legs in search of his phone.

There!

On screen, rough hands — those of a craftsman, confident and unwavering — flip a large painting front-side up, the portrait of some fancy lady or other. It's tilted until natural light spills across her face, the camera catching the paint's texture in high definition.

Kirishima squints sleepily. What is he supposed to be seeing here?

"No impasto, the paint layer's smooth as fuck. A master made this, s'built to last centuries. Cracked in places, sure. Here, and here. Old retouching over here, there's a small tear underneath I'll have to address. Later, don't get fucking impatient. Main point: None of this is goin' anywhere, so immobilizing the canvas with a strainer is…"

Close-ups of Bakugou's current project visualize his increasingly passionate ramble about different kinds of wooden supports or… something. The staples holding down the canvas are removed — "Oh no, not staples", yawns Kirishima in sympathy, remembering the conservator's strong opinion on those — and the painting is taken off the strainer.

Despite the curse-heavy commentary courtesy of Editing Bakugou, the Bakugou shown in the video is all stone-faced concentration, thinning lips or a more-severe-than-usual frown the only thing betraying his irritation. With his wild undercut, pierced eyebrow and arms covered in thick-lined tattoos, he cuts an intimidating figure for sure.

A walking contradiction, this favorite YouTuber of Kirishima's. Because, when it comes down to his craft, Bakugou Katsuki from Twin Stars Restoration commands a level of patience and skill that's almost inhuman.

Piece by tiny piece, any and all previous conservation efforts are reversed. The surface grime is removed, the yellowed varnish carefully dissolved and wiped off, the naked paint and worn canvas underneath handled with a delicacy bestowed only upon the irreplaceable. Kirishima has watched this man break down and rebuild dozens upon dozens of paintings over the years, weeks of dedicated work condensed into hour-long videos uploaded every other weekend. In a sense, witnessing a neglected piece of art receive the care and attention it needs to return to its former glory is healing in itself.

Listening to Bakugou's gravel-y voice explain the process step-by-step time and time again adds to the soothing effect these videos have on Kirishima.

As unfamiliar as the subject matter may be to him — Kirishima enjoys fine art as much as the next guy, like, he's been to a modern art museum once or twice in his life and is wildly determined to visit the Louvre just because — that ambition? The dedication to trouble-shoot, adapt, refine and reinvent every motion and technique for the optimal result?

It's manly as hell. Definitely something Kirishima lives by as well.

Well, he aspires to at least. Right now, he's barely hanging on by a thread, eyes drooping again and back aching from the position he's been stuck in for… an hour? Perhaps two, his sleep schedule fully dictated by the kittens he's keeping company on the couch. While they're already looking better than when they were abandoned at his doorstep two nights prior (no note, no nothing, just left there in the snow with a flimsy cardboard box for protection), Kirishima won't risk their tentative recovery for anything.

They've experienced enough human cruelty in their young, young lives.

"You annoying shitheads asked for more retouching footage", grumbles Bakugou into the relative silence of Kirishima's loft apartment. The cats are so used to his voice, they barely react to Kirishima turning up the volume in an effort to stay awake. "This one ain't too complex, so I'm letting it play out in real time. Don't bitch about the color matching until the final varnish is on or die. I'll be back when it's done."

Not a second later, the audio track transitions to the opening note of Carl Orff's O Fortuna and oh, Kirishima is wide awake after that, startling so hard he hears a protesting mewl below. Murmuring, "Sorry, sorry, I didn't expect him to blast Carmina Burana", Kirishima pats the head of the little black tomcat reigning over the litter, his big yellow pupils staring at him accusingly.

So small yet so bossy. How is a man to resist?

(He hasn't gotten around to giving any of them proper names yet, too busy fussing over their low weight and a possible aftermath to their stay out in the cold. Kirishima makes a mental note to put a poll in his story tomorrow. Or today, technically.)

Two hours. Time for more formula. Getting off the couch involves plucking six tuckered-out kittens off the blanket, plopping them in a lavishly cushioned carrier for easy transport and a long groan on Kirishima's part at the prospect of moving. He doesn't pause the video, placing the phone atop the carrier and glancing at Bakugou's progress as he pads across his living room, humming along to the badass track he chose to underscore it with.

Makes Kirishima's fingers itch to compose something more dramatic soon. Hmm.

Once the sight of their human in the general vicinity of the kitchen registers, cats show up from all corners of the loft. Kirishima did his best to maximize the amount of cat beds, nooks, crannies and cozy spots he can fit in the apartment; it doesn't take the new additions to highlight that Piano Shark is outgrowing this space at a rapid pace. Fighting off all kinds of curious noses and begging paws, Kirishima chuckles at their antics, then sighs.

Things will work out.

The Christmas donation drive was enough to secure rent for a house on the very outskirts of Tokyo, a good few months at minimum. If his Patreon keeps going strong, he'll be able to modify the patio as planned and let the cats roam outside without endangering the local bird population. Fostering a box of kittens won't throw him off too badly in terms of costs, but…

Things have to work out. Most of these animals have yet to regain their faith in anyone but Kirishima, and he's hellbent on keeping them safe and happy until he can find them the perfect forever home.

For some, that forever home is him. His promise counts double in those cases.

Speaking of which: A grouchy Mrreh announces even Miss Boots is hoping for a late-night — more like early morning — snack. Kirishima picks the old lady up before she can run into trouble with the others, holding her to his shoulder like the baby she still is to him despite her respectable age of sixteen.

"Alright, alright. Let me through, you guys, breakfast isn't for another, uhhh… Five hours. Let me through, jeez. Don't give me that look, Mochi, I know for a fact Mina slipped you a treat before she left. Nope, kiddo, you stay right there, you're actually getting something."

By the time the kittens are happily purring and set for the night, bellies round with the cat milk he bottle-fed them, Bakugou's new upload is long over. Guiltily, Kirishima scrolls back to the point the retouching starts, waits until he's successfully brushed his teeth, crawled into bed and defended his pillow from two feline take-overs to press play. This time, he'll give Bakugou his full attention and watch the fancy lady portrait come back together!

Kirishima is dead asleep before O Fortuna has run its course.

*

Sometimes, Bakugou wonders about roads untraveled. About forks in the winding path he has walked in life, and the versions of himself he peppered across an alternate history with every step taken.

Sometimes — not often, because tough decisions have rarely made Bakugou hesitate but that doesn't automatically make them good — he thinks of what-ifs. What if he hadn't co-signed the papers to Twin Stars with Midoriya Izuku of all people, and instead left art conservation behind?

What if Yagi Toshinori hadn't gotten in his car that night?

What if Bakugou had actually faced those conflicting emotions that had regularly overwhelmed him as a teenager, and he hadn't fucking vented it all on the one kid who gave a damn about him?

Exhaling a tch into his double-shot macchiato, Bakugou strikes that last one off his list of ultimately pointless musings. A fuck-ton would've had to change to prevent that particular shit show from happening at all, so much so that he probably wouldn't recognize himself by the end of it.

Perhaps Midoriya, too, would've ended up a completely different person, happier, and that's a far more depressing notion to consider.

Reframe that thought, he reminds himself, consciously unclenching his fingers around his enamel mug. Stuff got out of hand, he was forced to confront the consequences of his shitty fucking actions, it somehow got better, now they're here.

…Well, he fucking tried.

Not for the first time, Bakugou's eyes flit to the date at the top right corner of his laptop screen: January 21st, a Saturday. February is fast approaching and with it, an anniversary he'd rather forget but can't. That damned nerd will insist they travel across half the country to see that specific grave, say their prayers at that specific shrine, and visit their parents in Shizuoka for a few days while they're in the area. Only then will they finally return to Kyōto and the blissful routine of their studios, fine art and decorative art respectively.

Rinse, repeat, every year the same tradition for the past decade.

Bakugou glares at his inbox, nurses his coffee, watches snow fall outside and pretends his knee isn't bouncing off-rhythm to the Metallica song playing from his massive headphones. That his skin isn't itching with the urge to move, go on a run, e-mails and ice-slicked sidewalks be damned. Ten whole years, gone just like that, huh? Hundreds, perhaps thousands of paintings restored without input from the man who essentially granted him a new outlook on life, or at least a shot at a less toxic one.

Fuck. Even a few rounds with his punching bag at home would do the trick. This coffee shop is too feel-good and hipster-y for him — if only their feel-good, hipster-y everything bagels didn't kick so much ass.

Bagel first. Then punching bag. Then… Weekend plans of some sort.

Those are a thing, judging by the three Whatsapp notifications he's received from Sero in the past hour. A quick glance at the preview — broski, blah blah blah, LotR marathon tonight, whatever whatever — and Bakugou decides to ghost him some more. 'Broski', how disgusting.

Then again, it was Sero who had suggested anger management via cat videos. Not that Bakugou had asked for neither his advice nor his opinion (or Kaminari's for that matter). Unfortunately, Idiot #1 and Idiot #2 stopped being scared of him about a week into sharing a dorm back in art school. Bakugou has been suffering ever since.

Another fork in the road. A chain of annoying coincidences, more like.

Buzz buzz. Bakugou rolls his eyes and unlocks his phone.

Bakugou pointedly slaps his phone screen-down on the table, although the target of his passive-aggressiveness isn't there to see it. No more distractions.

Forty minutes of typing, deleting, retyping. He growls under his breath, gives up on client inquiries altogether. Ever since he took to YouTube to show the world what conservation work should ideally look like, he's been flooded with requests and job offers every single day, serious or otherwise. He's booked out for months in advance, which is nice for business but a pain in the ass to justify to the 'What do you mean, you won't drop everything to fix my shitty painting overnight?' crowd.

Bakugou deletes another such message unanswered. Entitled fucks.

A Piano Shark video is playing before he's even registered he reached for his phone again. Bakugou props his chin on the tattooed knuckles of his fist, eyes closing to enjoy the music. More intense than Kirishima's usual stuff, lower tones interspersed throughout invoking a storm in his mind's eye, or some sort of battle. It tickles Bakugou's brain in the same way heavy metal does, harboring the potential for deep focus if he allows himself to get carried away by it.

A morning upload for once. It's his third time listening to it.

There are two cats in the shot, Bakugou knows without looking. Mochi, as round-faced and fluffy as his name suggests, and a nervous Siamese he hasn't seen much before. Shy Guy, the caption says. Both are spread over the top of the piano, remarkably unfazed by the loudness and drama. Cats tend to run away from Bakugou no matter what he tries — how Kirishima draws them in like that is a total mystery to him.

(Bakugou is not envious of that. He's not.)

Bagel, punching bag, grocery shopping for okonomiyaki, Rings marathon.

None of that is advanced by Bakugou's idle scroll through Kirishima's story: Cats sleeping on offensively red pillows and blankets; a jacked, gray-haired guy tagged as @t4muscle grinning while carrying crates of cat food around, stacked ridiculously high; a selfie of Kirishima himself.

Bakugou puts his thumb on the screen to pause and read the text alongside it, confirming the kittens are out of the woods. Apparently they kept him up all night — again. It definitely shows, exhaustion obvious despite his signature smile. His crimson hair is bunched up in a sloppy bun instead of spiked up.

Below in bold text: Help me name them? 🙏🏼🙏🏼

Bakugou raises an eyebrow, taps onwards. One by one, the kittens flash by, emojis next to their faces indicating their sex and how feral they are (represented by a row of chili peppers): A snow-white ball of fluff, a female; two male tabbies, one orange, one brown; a female tortoiseshell; a tuxedo cat, also female… and a maximum-level spicy tomcat, black as pitch.

His ears are pinned back, fangs bared in a vicious hiss. Bakugou hums approvingly. Badass.

The posts each have an embedded window to reply. Bakugou has e-mails to ignore and mind-numbingly corny cat names to prevent. His account is locked anyway, that will keep him anonymous.

Bakugou blinks. Stares. Realizes. Shock sinks into his gut like a solid block of ice. The heat rising to Bakugou's cheeks burns all the brighter. He… Kirishima can reply to these?!

Fuck this fucking app. What's the point of locking an account then? Why the hell would a creator as big as @pianoshark even respond to random people's DMs?!

Oh fuck, he replied. Before Bakugou can close the app, forget Kirishima Eijirou ever existed and move countries while he's at it, another message pops up.

The little black kitten, absolutely destroying a toy mouse on a string. Hushed laughter off-screen, then: "You show that mouse what's what, Dynamite!"

Oh. That sure is Kirishima's voice, deep and amused. Using the name Bakugou chose for the cat (and himself, back when he was a shithead teenager mercilessly camping noobs in World of Warcraft). Okay. This is fine.

Just the guy he's not-followed for ages, replying and listening to him. No big deal.

Throat suddenly bone-dry, Bakugou downs the pitiful dregs in his mug. Cold coffee, bah. A glance at his phone has his face warming once again, getting up to finally grab himself that stupid bagel.

Gods, does he hate social media.

Chapter Text

Hands slippery with sweat, Kirishima measures his breaths, trying not to pant too hard. "Easy, eaaasy", cautions Tetsutetsu ahead, voice strained as he pulls from the front and Kirishima pushes from the back. Inch by careful inch, the piano is heaved over the threshold.

"Almost… there… Got it! Up top, bro!"

"Bro! Hell yeah!" Kirishima grins, smacking Tetsu's equally sweaty hand in a satisfyingly loud high-five.

The new house is a collection of boxes and furniture haphazardly dumped in out-of-the-way corners at the moment; thankfully, the kitchen came pre-installed and fully functional, covered as the counters are with drinks and snacks of all kinds. Black cupboards, warm-toned wood, more storage space than Kirishima even knows what to do with, so used to staying within the loft's limitations.

Rinsing dust and dirt off his palms, Kirishima descends upon the leftovers of the family-sized pizzas they ordered in for lunch — first meal at Piano Shark HQ! — snatching up two slices at once. Stacking them on top of each other like a sandwich, he chomps happily into double-pepperoni goodness. Mhh, perfect.

Tetsu snorts, shakes his head at him. He grabs a bottle of water and demolishes it in four big gulps. "How many more?", he asks afterwards, wiping at his mouth.

Chewing for a bit, Kirishima's answer comes out muffled. "Two." Tetsu's incredulous expression makes him chuckle. "Dude, c'mon. The red one from my bedroom and my old keyboard? Nothin' super heavy."

"Right, yeah. 'Cause that thing's a workout, bro, holy shit."

A sloppy wave to the shiny-black grand piano standing smack-dab in the middle of what will become Kirishima's living room in due time. Partially wrapped in cardboard from delivery, it's undeniably gorgeous. Kirishima can't help but smile, taking it in while he sips from his energy drink (AKA his saving grace during this crazy week).

"Yeah, it's pretty big. Kinda forgot about that, honestly."

Tetsu laughs, hopping on the counter to join him for a proper pizza break. They've been at it all afternoon. "You're the pro, man. How long's it been?"

"Dunno. Just after college or so? A long time, definitely."

Kirishima lets his gaze roam some more, can barely believe his dream has come true. Not a full concert piano, not even a brand-new one, but well and truly his. Then he shrugs, eyes dropping to his hands that are mindlessly breaking the remainders of pizza crust into crumbly little pieces.

"…Is it too much?"

Tetsu's smile dims a little. "Uh, no? I told you, dude, you've been working your ass off for years. You deserve to splurge on a big-ass piano if that's what makes ya happy."

"I guess." Guilt worms its way under Kirishima's skin when it only deepens the concern in Tetsu's expression. "Ugh, sorry, bro. I'm just, y'know. Overthinking. The move's expensive as-is and there's still so much to do…"

"Kiri. Bro." A fist bumps against his bicep, comfortingly cool against overheated muscle. "I hear ya, I do, but listen. When's the last time you got something nice for yourself?"

Kirishima opens his mouth.

"Not for the cats. Not for Mina and me. You. Just because you wanted to."

Kirishima's mouth snaps shut again, face feeling awfully hot under the scrutiny. Tetsu pulls him into a side-hug, patting a hand against the center of Kirishima's chest like he does after their heaviest set of reps at the gym. They're about as stinky too, Kirishima's shirt plastered to his body with sweat.

(That's how this week has felt. A thousand reps of the heaviest lifting Kirishima has ever done, his brain fried from keeping track of every detail, feline or human.)

"See? Ain't too much. If anyone deserves this stuff, it's you, trust me. Don't let anxiety brain get to ya, hm?"

Kirishima's sappy heart fills with so much fondness, it aches in the best way. "Thanks, T. I mean it, you're the best bro a bro can ask for."

"Right back atcha, bro", Tetsu winks, making grabby hands at the nearest pizza. "Now gimme those carbs, I'm starving."

While they eat, Kirishima checks his phone. No missed calls from Ashido, thankfully, only a few pics reporting on the situation back at the mostly-empty loft. Cats never deal well with change, especially ones with disabilities and/or traumatic pasts like their rescues. There's no way they'd be comfortable here either, though. Too much noise, too much movement, both floors yet to be catproofed to hell and back once the rest of Kirishima's stuff is inside and accounted for.

It's only been half a day; Ashido is his oldest friend and Piano Shark's longest part-time volunteer, she knows her stuff just as well as Kirishima does…

…One quick, short call can't hurt, can it?

"Oh boy", goes Tetsu the instant Kirishima holds the phone to his ear. "Have fun getting chewed out, man. I'll be at the truck if ya need me."

Kirishima's pleading don't-leave-me-behind-like-this look is cut short by Ashido picking up with a sticky-sweet, "That house better be on fire right now, boo."

"Um." Glowing afternoon light dips everything in gold, the very picture of peace and harmony. "It's… Okay, no, it's not. We're almost done for today, actually." Raking his sharp teeth over his bottom lip, Kirishima listens to Ashido's maximum-judgement silent treatment for about two seconds before he whines out:

"Minaaa."

"Eijiii. You know I love you and I know you know you're fussing. The cats are alright, babe, promise."

"I know", grumbles Kirishima, jamming the phone between his jaw and his shoulder to tidy up the kitchen while they talk. "But they're not, like, missing me? I can come back tonight to play them something."

"With what piano, kind sir?"

Ack, good point. Ashido seems to sense Kirishima's pout across all of Tokyo, giggling as he grasps for straws. Damn it, why do his friends know him so well?

Softer, she says, "Of course they miss you, Kiri. Miss Boots has been yelling my ears off all morning and stuff, but she's also really spoiled — nope, don't deny it, it's true! — and can survive a day without you indulging her every whim. Same with Shy Guy, the kittens, all of 'em. Seriously."

"Would a recording help? My mic should be around here…" Running a hand through his loose hair, Kirishima laughs at the semi-organized chaos Tetsu and him left behind. "Uh, somewhere. The boxes are kind of all over the place."

"Or you could, y'know, listen to your girl Mina and take a night off. Enjoy the house, text Instagram Man, get some sleep, all the good stuff."

"Hnnn, okay. You're right."

A pause. The bait is there and Kirishima's defenses are thoroughly shot, so he adds, "Also, Instagram Man has a name", taking the phone back in hand as he steps outside. Tetsu pokes his head out of the truck, smirking at Kirishima's expression and mouthing, I warned you, bro.

Ashido clicks her tongue at him, "Yeah, weird how those work, right?" Her voice carries her triumphant smile effortlessly. "Maybe you should ask him about it."

Loudly, Kirishima complains, "What's with all the callouts today, guys?", pushing at Tetsu walking by with a massive keyboard tucked under his arm, cackling at his expense. "It took Dynamite like three solid days of ghosting to accept my follow request for an account with about five cat pics on it, I don't wanna scare off him off now that I finally found him!"

"Bro! Just ask the guy his real name already!"

"Not talking to you, bro!", Kirishima yells at Tetsu's back over the sound of Ashido cracking up. He can't help but join in, grabbing the next-best box to make himself useful — even if his friends are ganging up on him.

"Ah, man, I'm not used to this at all. Just wanna respect a man's space, yeah?"

"Pshh, please. Hasn't Instagram Man—"

"—Dynamite—"

"—been your patron for ages now?"

"The very first one", Kirishima confirms with a dreamy sigh. "I owe him, like, so many cat videos. But he never said anything! Even the address he put down for the merch is some anonymous postbox, so weird."

"Sounds like he's super shy. The long silences are probably him quietly dying over you talking to him at all."

Thinking of the barrage of insults Dynamite calls normal speech, it's a downright ludicrous idea. Kirishima shakes his head, remembering Ashido can't see him a second later.

"Uh huh, sure. Anyhow, one piano left to go so m'gonna go help T with that, yeah? And I'll try to take it easy afterwards."

Ashido hums. "Good boy."

They say their goodbyes, Kirishima taking comfort in their plan to bring the cats by noon so they can start to settle in. Once they're all comfortable, he can pick up his posting schedule again, perhaps make a house tour or something to thank everyone who donated.

Glancing up at the place they'll call home for the foreseeable future, Kirishima feels something inside him settle down, too. Tetsu, Mina, even Dynamite — there's a lot of people in Kirishima's corner.

All in all, everything's working out just fine.

*

*

*

*

When everything is said and done, Bakugou stands in his childhood bedroom and allows the night to cloak him in silence.

One floor down, life is winding down. They just finished having dinner, a somber affair without the bickering and loud-mouthed discussions so common for his family — not for lack of trying on his parents' part, of course. It had been him who was breaking protocol, registering his father's gentle prodding and his mother's soft-eyed teasing too late to play along.

The Midoriyas had gone home shortly after: Inko was all warmth and a tender pat to Bakugou's cheek, Chin up, Katsuki, she'd whispered low enough only he would hear it. I'm proud of you and so was he, and fuck, it stung because it was true.

(Somehow, Yagi had managed to get that through Bakugou's thick skull. It's stored in the same part of his brain reserved for the various components of paint and which solvents to use for what purpose; Bakugou remembers it with every new shade he mixes and matches to the original, every dot of color he carefully places to bridge the gaps, or conceal minuscule cracks.

Bakugou knows, he knows, and not once in the ten years since has it ever stopped hurting.)

Izuku, eyes red from crying, had motioned for a hug Bakugou couldn't bring himself to deny. Not today.

"Don't dehydrate on me, nerd. You're my ride home."

At least the chuckle muffled against his shoulder felt like a win. "Gotcha, Kacchan. See ya t'morrow?"

"Mm."

Then they'd let go, Bakugou had brushed off his parents' attempt at baiting him into watching a movie together and gone upstairs. Silence had fallen, and there he is.

Throughout the decades, this room has changed with him. Childish crayon-drawings turned to blatantly manga-inspired sketches in pencil and ink and finally, his first experiments with acrylics, oil, gouache, every type of paint under the sun. Posters plastered the walls for many years, iconic covers of comics and video games and death metal albums so bloody Inko had balked while Mitsuki cackled something about he certainly is my son, alright.

Most of it has been put away in boxes after he moved out for college, out of sight but in reach if ever need be. The bed got upgraded from a twin to a full — in case you want to bring someone home one day, his mild-mannered father had told him on his first winter break, expertly ignoring the fake gagging noises coming from his only child.

(Bakugou wasn't about to tell him that yes, he was currently dating someone, and no, he sure as shit wasn't ready to introduce Kaminari Denki to his parents anytime soon, fuck you very much.)

Two months after that, Yagi's car was t-boned by a truck on his drive home and Bakugou's life as he knew it went up in literal smoke.

Standing there, Bakugou feels 29 and 19 and 9 in the same breath, the same body. Every moment of significance, his successes and failures, most of them have ended with him in this exact spot. Here, where his past is projected prism-like onto the walls, the furniture, the ceiling in all its colors and the unknowable nuances in-between.

This, right here, is the part Bakugou hates the most about February 26th.

Eyes closing, Bakugou exhales until his lungs ache from lack of air. Let's get this over with. He grabs the duffle bag he threw in the corner upon arrival hours prior, taking out his comfiest sweats and a frayed festival shirt that predates some of the memories lurking around, waiting to pounce. Once he has showered — the hike up to the shrine is child's play compared to some of Bakugou's climbs during Golden Week, but a workout nonetheless — and scowled at his own reflection while brushing his teeth, he barely lets himself settle in now-unfamiliar sheets before he snatches up the book he brought along.

A pathetic attempt at distracting himself. He reads exactly one chapter, catches himself starting to think, throws the thing across the room. It slaps against the far wall, sliding down into a sad heap of crinkling paper.

Tomorrow, Bakugou will get pissed about the tears and creases.

Today, he just wonders if the noise was enough to wake up his parents. They've heard him rage, sob, scream his soul out in this very room before; to them, the singular thump of a paperback hitting concrete probably doesn't even register as noteworthy.

Paradoxically, it makes Bakugou feel small. Insignificant. Unloved. And it's ridiculous, because they'd offered to stay up with him! They let him make his favorite curry earlier even though it's so spicy they can barely eat it, indulged him just as they will indulge him tomorrow and the day after, too. Bakugou hates the coddling almost as much as he desperately craves it, a brand of comfort he can only get where his day-to-day responsibilities are a four-hour car ride away and he's allowed to be the shittiest, laziest version of himself without judgement.

This is why dumb-fuck Deku drags him along, year after year. The one time Bakugou refused, he ended up locking himself in his studio for a week and worked himself to total exhaustion.

I'm fucked either way. Groaning, he folds his hands over his face, digs his fingers into closed eyes until iridescent spots burst across his vision. Just go the fuck to sleep already.

No such luck.

For once, Bakugou doesn't feel like watching some of Kirishima's content, vague guilt over ignoring his DMs during the day having him avoiding Instagram altogether. Ever since the other had found out about his identity over a week ago, things had… frankly stayed the same, for the most part. Sure, Kirishima keeps bouncing back and forth between yelling about how much he loves this or that painting Bakugou worked on, and sending him cat videos as thinly-veiled apologies for being such a fanboy.

It's just as easy as it was before, even if they talk about other things, now. Real things, or real to Bakugou.

The cats and the music and the… everything else, it has always been real for Kirishima, so perhaps it's only fair he gets to spam his stupid questions and those dorky eye emojis about fine art and Bakugou's studio and shit like that instead. Bakugou already receives plenty of that in his comment section — alongside memes about staples and other things Bakugou openly condemns, and random strangers profusely thanking him for helping them through tough times in life, both of which leave him at a loss for what or even if he should reply.

None of his 'stans' (ugh) get direct access to Bakugou Katsuki, the person. All they see is what he wants them to see, and that's flawless fucking art conservation in the best video quality money can buy.

With Kirishima, it's different. Bakugou doesn't mind as much, if it's him.

Squinting at the previews in the dark, Bakugou bites at the inside of his lip. You good, bro? 🥺  reads the last one, which means Kirishima noticed. He worries so easily, admits he gets anxious sometimes, and Bakugou…

He's rough. A rough kind of person, rough hands, rough everything. The gentleness he painstakingly learned under Yagi's tutelage applies to broken paintings and not much else. Paint is patient, and people are fucking complicated, and this… is a lot.

Fuck.

Bakugou glances at the notification below it, reads Wannabe Raichu sent a GIF, and knows exactly what awaits him when he opens it: In Kaminari's distinct style, a grumpy-faced cat with Bakugou's hair and a black shirt — Dynababe it says, because that's the kind of idiot nickname Kaminari came up with when they were together — is tackle-hugged by a Denki-looking fox.

It's horribly cheesy, a bit sloppy as Kaminari's animations tended to be in freshman year, and never fails to make Bakugou smile on his worst days. Below:

The fact that Kaminari, amidst back-to-back bouts of crunch time to meet his studio's demands, remembered Bakugou's trip home means more than he can put into words. They didn't make the best couple, their expectations of a relationship wildly different; thank fuck they got their heads out of their asses in time to stay close friends.

As such, Kaminari doesn't push when Bakugou doesn't pick up on his offer. They bid each other goodnight and Bakugou is back where he started, staring at the visual void that's the ceiling, then back at Kirishima's DMs.

Absurdly, he wonders what Kaminari would think of the guy. Bakugou hasn't mentioned Kirishima in front of him or Sero or any of the others — no need to inflate their egos with the notion that Bakugou had not only listened to their shitty advice, it turned out not to be shitty at all.

Chances are they'd all make fast friends, wholesome dickheads that they all are.

…Making Kirishima sad is the last thing Bakugou intends to do. He sighs. He'll just have to bite the bullet, it's not like he can get any less sleep by this point.

Bakugou has neither the time nor the energy to panic over his impulse decision. His phone vibrates with a call from an unknown number, the Tokyo area code confirming Kirishima is indeed awake and not hesitating a fucking second, apparently.

"Hello? Bakugou, that you?"

Oh. It is him. It's Kirishima. Bakugou's hand tightens around his phone. "Uh. Hey."

"Dude, what happened? Are you okay? Um, I don't— My screen says you're in Shizuoka, I can get there in… Shit, two hours? Faster by bullet train but if you need me to pick you up somewhere—"

"Kirishima! Kiri, fuck, calm down. I just don't feel like typing right now."

The frantic rustling on Kirishima's end quiets down. "Oh. Oh man, okay." A laugh that's pure relief, followed by a blown-out breath. "Wow, my heart's goin' like crazy. I thought you got hurt or something, Dyna."

"Yeah, some context would'a been… Yeah. Sorry." Bakugou's voice is scratchy from the late hour. Clearing his throat, he winces at how awkward of a sound that is.

Kirishima merely hums, asks, "So, bro, what's up? How's the vacation?", like they do this all the time. Like it's not the middle of the night, and Bakugou didn't almost give him a heart attack with his bullshit.

"Oh and I'm putting you on speaker, hope you don't mind. I was doing my rounds. Cats, say hi to Baku."

The cats say fuck-all, because they're cats. Still, how does he just do that? Bakugou is too baffled to reply immediately. "…Not really a vacation. More a family thing."

Kirishima awws dejectedly, like he has any stakes in how Bakugou decides to spend his free time. "No Mona Lisa then?"

"Fuck no. Don't go to the fuckin' Louvre for her, she's the most underwhelming sight you'll ever lay eyes on. Trust me."

"Bro. You're crushing the only art-related aspirations I've ever had here."

Despite the day he's had, Bakugou huffs, snarks back, "Oh, shut up. Delacroix's Liberty is next-door to her. Nike of Samothrace's by the entrance, there's good goddamn art there too."

Kirishima chuckles warmly. "I'll pretend I understood what any of those words mean. Is the family thing fun at least? 'Cause lemme tell ya, I love my moms but a whole week with 'em sounds lowkey exhausting."

Ah. The tentative smile on Bakugou's lips drains away, the pang to his heart too sudden, the beat of silence it causes too telling. Bakugo blinks, resolutely ignoring the burning sensation in the corners of his eyes.

"Oh", breathes Kirishima quietly, and there's that sadness Bakugou tried to prevent. The line crackles with movement, then Kirishima's voice is close again, speakerphone switched off. "That why you're still awake?"

"Mh." No point in denying the obvious.

Another hum, a noise made for comfort. "I'm sorry, man. That sucks."

Shrugging, Bakugou tries to keep his sniffling breaths low enough the mic will filter them out. Why the hell is this the thing to get him emotional? He hasn't cried a single drop all day. "S'fine. S'whatever."

"Hey, Baku? Stop me if I'm overstepping, but… D'you wanna talk about it? 'Cause I'm here, y'know. I don't mind."

A strange thought, to have to tell that story. Everyone in Bakugou's life already knows what happened, or the important people do. It hasn't even affected him this much last year, or the year before that. It shouldn't change anything that the anniversary has entered the double-digits.

"No", Bakugou says truthfully, pretending the shiver to his tone doesn't exist. "Or, I don't know. It's nothing recent, or anything. Just someone's death day, kinda impossible not to think 'bout shit. Dunno."

"Mmh, makes sense. Just goes to show how important they were to you, yeah?"

Fuck. Fuck. Bakugou clenches his eyes shut. Yeah, no. He can't do this. Tomorrow, maybe, but not today. Not today.

"Can we…?"

"Yeah! Sorry, yeah. Of course. Uhhh, let's see. Wanna hear how the kittens are doing? I was about to feed 'em anyway."

Rolling onto his side, Bakugou puts the phone on speaker and places it next to his pillow, the dimmed screen providing enough light to make the darkness bearable. "S'fucking late. The brats keeping you up again?"

"Kiiinda. Most of 'em are pretty chill, honestly — hah, I say as Dynamite glares daggers at me. Yes, I'm talking about you, you fuzzy demon you. Too smart for his own good, man, I swear. He, like, sticks to the shadows and stuff so he can attack your feet when you least expect it. Gremlin ninja kitten, so ungrateful. So cute, though!"

"Can't believe a cat doesn't like you", Bakugou teases, too sleepy to care how fond he sounds.

"I know, right? The world is ending, Dyna. We're all fucked."

The corners of Bakugou's lips twitch upward. Sweet. Kirishima rarely if ever swears.

Going on and on about Dynamite, then Bastard (and no, Bakugou doesn't miss that he calls him that for his sake), then Miss Boots. Kirishima knows the rather long list of Bakugou's favorites by heart, and Bakugou will never admit that the appreciation behind that gesture alone has a few more tears dripping to his pillow.

Gone is that small feeling from before, shaken loose by that stupid old GIF of Kaminari's and blown away entirely as Kirishima fills the dreaded silence, steady and strong and soft, so soft and kind with Bakugou's heart.

Almost asleep, Bakugou can't come up with a single reason why he shouldn't let him have it.

*

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Kirishima wishes he were someone else. Someone bold and strong, someone who doesn't cringe at a recording of their own voice and can stand to be the center of attention for any amount of time.

Sometimes — most of all at night, with only himself and his thoughts for company — he pictures the life he once dreamed of having: One where he'd get to travel the world, excel at competitions and fill venue after venue with his music.

Just a man and his piano, braving the stage and the thousands of eyes and ears waiting beyond.

Thousands. The mere thought of it has Kirishima's fingers prickling with numbness. He focuses instead on the rhythmic pounding of running shoes on gravel, on keeping his breaths deep and even—

On the sound of Bakugou's voice in his earbuds, even raspier than usual. Friday mornings are reserved for the audio track, Bakugou told him a week or two ago. "Never used to talk this fuckin' much", he grouches now, clearing his throat for the third time since Kirishima called him at noon on the dot.

"Who even allowed you to gobble up my time like this, hah, Shark?"

Lunch break for Bakugou, annoying-Bakugou-break for Kirishima. The jogging is a springtime addition to this most recent of traditions; the climbing temperatures and sunshine make it hard to stay indoors all day. If only his stupid brain could get the memo that nothing's wrong, that would be great.

"…Kirishima?"

Oops. He shakes his head, hard enough his ponytail whips against his temples. "Ah, yeah? I'm listening, bro. Sorry."

A pause. "You good?", asks Bakugou, the habitual grumpiness dropping some. The fact that Kirishima gets to hear those nuances instead of puzzling over minute changes to Bakugou's texting style never ceases to amaze him. "We can hang up if you're not feelin' it."

"No!" Kirishima winces at the urgency in his own tone. "I mean… Yeah, I'm good, Baku. Promise. Just one of those days, y'know?"

"No, I don't know, dumbass, I can't fuckin' read minds. Talk to me or some shit. If… you want."

It has Kirishima smiling, how reluctant that offered out is. Bakugou doesn't seem like the type for manly heart-to-hearts; a person of action through and through, the exact opposite to Kirishima, really. But he's trying. Ever since the night of their first phone call, Bakugou hasn't ignored or ghosted him once; Kirishima never would've thought having someone's full attention could feel this good.

Nonetheless, he can't help but hedge, "It's kinda stupid", playing with the fit of his wireless earbuds. The pointed silence on the line proves Bakugou will wait him out if he has to. Kirishima's doubts stand no chance against pure stubbornness like that.

"Um. You remember that grand piano I got, right?"

"Duh. It's in all your videos now."

Which the Bakugou Katsuki apparently watches the day they're uploaded without fail. Kirishima can't tell if his face warms from that or the cardio.

"True, haha. Can't help it, I've been wanting one for forever, since I finished music school pretty much."

A hum. "But…?" Looks like he's not the only one who's gotten better at reading the other, huh?

Slowing down to a walk, Kirishima exhales a slow sigh. Gaze going from the winding path he's been following up to the cloudless sky to gather his thoughts, gleam some sense in the directionless buzzing under his skin and translate it into words.

"It just feels… strange, I guess? To have this fancy degree and a fancy piano to match and then— Nothing. Believe it or not, my prof at Tōdai told me I have what it takes to make it big with this. Tour the world and stuff like that. I tried, too, but…"

Isn't it absurd? To practice and practice and practice for over a decade, learn rhythm and sight reading and composition and technique since childhood and heap music theory at Japan's most prestigious university on top — and never consider how any of it will actually feel. To live off his music and demand nothing short of perfection from himself, always.

His first panic attack hit him right after he got off the stage with Tokyo's own Philharmonic Orchestra. The world tunneled as the adrenaline faded, his lungs locked, the fingers that had danced so fluidly over the keys minutes prior crumpling his dress shirt over his heart.

It felt like dying.

In retrospect, he'd been blowing past the warning signs for months in advance.

"I couldn't. Got to a point where I was having panic attacks mid-concert, which is, uh. Not ideal."

Bakugou still hasn't stopped him or said anything, it occurs to Kirishima very suddenly. This guy who's probably never doubted anything in his life ever, just sitting there on his lunch break and listening to him ramble about his issues.

"Anyway! Gave up on performing, adopted Miss Boots and here we are. I don't regret anything, so. Pretty pointless to think about it so much."

Finally: A sigh on the other end. Kirishima imagines Bakugou's face pulling into that expression he makes whenever he handles a painting featuring a particularly egregious collection of shitty decisions by the previous conservator and/or the owner.

"You really are an idiot, you know that, Shark?"

Ouch. There it is. Kirishima's heart squeezes, his voice low when he mutters, "I do, actually. Told ya it's stupid, man."

"What? No, it's not. I said you're an idiot, there's a difference. Pay attention, will ya?"

That… explains precisely nothing. Kirishima tilts his head, even though Bakugou isn't there to see the gesture. "Okay? Dude, you lost me."

Bakugou laughs at that — not the evil-cackling-kind, something quieter, almost fond. Despite the lingering hurt, Kirishima can't help but chuckle along.

It's a wonderful sound, Bakugou's laugh. Rare, but Kirishima's working on that.

"You're the one who's not making any sense, Kiri. What do you mean, 'gave up on performing', hah? You built up an international audience of millions who watch your stuff because of who you are and what you can do. Tell me, how exactly is that 'nothing'?"

It's like the world stops spinning. The sprawling park he's been exploring on these near-daily runs, the dogwalkers and fellow joggers and everything else fades into the background of the epiphany that sparks in Kirishima's brain like fireworks.

Millions. Supporting his work and listening to his music, from a stage he made with his own two hands.

"Speechless, hm?"

Again, Bakugou's voice breaks through the silence — and although Kirishima has never seen it himself, he's dead certain Bakugou is grinning right now, obnoxiously and charmingly smug.

"You're fucking welcome. Now kick your ass into gear, asshole, I got a video to edit today."

They end up talking for two more hours after that.

*

Bakugou is this close to murdering Kirishima "Piano Shark" Eijirou.

Physically, he's two hours deep into the cleaning process of a landscape twice as tall as himself, humming along to the Nightwish album blasting via his studio's built-in speakers. Every ten minutes or so, he has to pause and reposition various system cameras filming even the smallest movement of his hands from different angles. Q-tip after q-tip is sacrificed to the delicate task of freeing the paint layer from decades of accumulated dirt, soot, cigarette smoke. It smells like it too, that and the solvent he mixed beforehand.

Bakugou's nose itches from its chemical sting, but what is he to do? There's no risking the quality of his work over stupid inconveniences like sneezing.

Usually, he's too immersed in his craft to mind it much.

Usually, his phone doesn't buzz every two fucking seconds courtesy of a certain shitty-haired himbo live-texting what is either already a disaster, or shaping up to be one in the matter of hours.

Sure enough: Buzz buzz. Bakugou's right eyelid twitches; his lips press into a thin, tense line.

Not for the first or last time, he wishes he could put the stupid thing fully on mute without paranoia getting the better of him. It would take some exceptionally garbage luck for Sero to get hurt in his own atelier, and the walls of Jirou's sound booth are literally cushioned. Kaminari, scatter-brained though he is, only calls when he's bored out of his mind or trying to guilt-trip Bakugou into some social shit he's bound to begrudgingly enjoy.

Deku is a whole other magnitude of clumsy, of course — being his next-door neighbor will at least prevent him from bleeding out over whatever freak accident he manages to cook up over there.

About a minute and two thin sections of oil-painted ocean waves, that's how far Bakugou gets. Then he's hissing, "Fucking hell", as he resigns himself to having an additional cut in his next video. Black silicone gloves are snapped off so he can check his phone.

"Don't attempt the deck, don't attempt the fucking—"

The attached photo of a stack of planks haphazardly thrown on a trailer, barely secured, has Bakugou pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing deeply.

"You dumbass bitch."

As much as Bakugou can admit to Kirishima's brilliance in all things music and cats — and humans, too, given he made himself a home in Bakugou's life in, what, two months? —, there's a concerning lack of braincells involved in things like self-made renovations to your new house, what the fuck, Eijirou.

Bakugou never signed up to having another heart-of-gold fool to worry about!

Fuck, if Kirishima is serious about forgoing the concrete foundation, that deck won't stand for very long. The idiot stresses so much over money; cutting corners on a project like this could very well ruin the whole investment, though. Hearing him sound all sad and shit about it afterwards? The worst. And when it comes to Kirishima, Bakugou's impulse control has the unfortunate habit of simply not existing.

…Damnit, he's really doing this, isn't he?

Muttering obscenities under his breath, Bakugou pockets his phone, not even bothering to reply. The cameras are switched off and stuck back in their respective bags, the solvents re-bottled, the painting stored away for the next time he steps into the studio. The client is a regular of his and the painting's fucking huge, they won't fuss over a minor delay.

A plan half-formed in his mind, he grabs his keys and the trusty duo of sketchbook and drawing tablet he rarely travels without, and walks right across the hall to burst through the door.

"Oi, Deku! Remember that time off you keep nagging me about?!"

*

*

Kirishima wouldn't say he's gunning it, but he's totally gunning it.

Central Tokyo is a nightmare to drive in. He's lived in and around this city for most of his adult life, so his sensible Toyota Prius slides in and out of increasingly busy lanes without much trouble. The notion that Bakugou is only a short car ride away from him, waiting for him — it has Kirishima's stomach squirming with butterflies while his mouth can't stop smiling.

His phone is chirping incessantly, most likely the continuation of Tetsu losing his mind if his happy yell of "Ohhh, he threatened to kill me? I can't wait to meet him, man!" earlier is anything to go by. Another culprit could be Ashido, important news like that tend to spread between the three of them within minutes.

Kirishima can't wait to meet Bakugou, either.

Why he is here? No clue. Kirishima's burning to know; he's also aware the man does things sometimes, there's little sense in questioning that. Bakugou will explain at some point, or maybe he won't. In any case: Kirishima will understand eventually. The rubik's cube that is his grouchiest friend always takes time and a bit of puzzling to be solved.

Gods, Bakugou is here. Just like that!

Kirishima's so giddy, he's about to ditch his (much beloved) car and run the rest of the way if this stupid traffic light doesn't turn blue right this second. It's not like he can look any messier as a result, hair loosely bunched in a bun, sweatpants smudged from digging up half his garden. At least he changed into a fresh tee after he spilled his half-eaten udon noodles in his haste to set off.

This is not how he pictured this going, and yes, he's thought about it. A lot.

It takes Kirishima a bit of circling around the fanciness that is Tokyo Station to figure out how to access the live location Bakugou sent him. The first glance at him happens on accident, frankly, glimpsing pale blond hair glinting gold in the sunlight. Kirishima's head turns so quickly his neck twinges with whiplash, his heart jumping against his ribs.

There! Sipping some coffee and scowling at anyone walking by and this is real, that's actually him.

Kirishima pulls over the next chance he gets, startling the driver behind him into honking. When he gets out, Bakugou is staring in his direction, mild curiosity at what's going on morphing into surprise, then an even deeper frown.

Worry doesn't even register for Kirishima, however. Grinning, he calls out, "Bakugou! Over here!", even though it draws eyes from the crowd of other travelers and Bakugou is already headed towards him. Gait utterly confident in combat boots that nonetheless match the neat lines of his trenchcoat, Bakugou keeps his coffee-free hand on the hiking-style backpack and huge camera bag slung over his shoulder.

Coming closer, Kirishima can spot the sharpness to Bakugou's gaze, lined in black; a bit shorter than himself, he carries his broad shoulders with pride. "Took ya long enough, Shark", is the first thing Bakugou says to him — at the same time, the harshness of his features softens into a small smile, and it's so much more than Kirishima could've ever imagined.

Yup, uh huh, alright, he is most definitely screwed.

His voice is the same, though. Deep and Bakugou-rough, and whatever nerves Kirishima still had fall away.

Laughing, "You're not even supposed to be here, man", he teases back, rounding the back of the car to catch Bakugou on the last few steps. He never got to ask whether Bakugou is a touch kind of person, or if he should stick to a more formal bow, or any of the thousand other options. Honestly, Kirishima just means to reach out and help him with his luggage, maybe sling a friendly arm around Bakugou's shoulders afterwards and let him decide if he wants to lean into it or not.

And again, Bakugou surprises him by full-on colliding with him, dirty deck-building pants and all.

Kirishima's soul is squeezed out of his body in the manliest hug he's ever experienced, which is quite a feat when your best friend is Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu. Air leaving his lungs in a breathy, "Oof. Wow, okay", Kirishima's grin grows, now tucked against Bakugou's hair. Ow, spiky. There's probably gel in there.

"So good to see you, Dyna. Welcome to Tokyo!"

Snorting, Bakugou pulls away, "Don't care 'bout fucking Tokyo", casually dumping his stuff on Kirishima and not-so-casually tugging at his bun, messing up his hair even more in the process.

"Let's go, you walking building code violation, we got shit to do."

A little starstruck, he watches Bakugou squint at his red Prius, shrug and get inside, coffee promptly parked in the cup holder.

"Kiri! You coming or what?"

(Kirishima guesses that's Bakugou for, Good to see you too.)

*

In the hour he's spent with Kirishima at the hardware store, Bakugou has realized three things:

(1) Kirishima's smile is bright, very much sunshine incarnate. Seeing flashes of it in countless videos did not prepare him in the slightest for how much Kirishima smiles — in sheepish response to the pointed look of the same cashier from earlier in the day, at random strangers passing by, at Bakugou, all the time. Distracting as fuck, that smile.

(2) The man is tall and fucking ripped. Like, carrying around multiple 25KG bags of pre-mixed concrete like it's nothing ripped. Again, not exactly news, Kirishima has posted gym selfies to his story before and Bakugou has eyes. Still, what does a pianist need all that muscle for? Ridiculous.

(3) He's an easily distracted, chatty sort of driver.

Only one of those facts is a problem.

"Whatcha starin' at, hah? Eyes on the road."

Kirishima chuckles, "Yes, sir!", glances at the endless line of cars they're a part of, the highway winding snake-like between huge skyscrapers… and back at Bakugou. "I can't believe you're here. How long are you staying?"

This is not rush hour traffic; too busy to get them anywhere fast, though. Bakugou knows this. His palms are sweating.

"A week."

Now would probably be a good moment to ask Kirishima if he minds Bakugou crashing at his place, or if he should book a hotel once they arrive. His eyes are firmly trained on the minivan in front of them, however, his left hand squeezing the armrest so hard it creaks.

"Warned ya that thing ain't that easy to build. Or quick. The road, Shark."

"Easy for you though, right? I've yet to see something you can't d—"

"Fuck— Kirishima!"

Bakugou's voice cracks up half an octave, the flare of red lights burning into his retinas. Startled, Kirishima slams the breaks, "What?!", then eases off them, all mirrors checked in the fraction of a second.

"Holy shit, don't scare me like that!"

It's okay. They're okay, nothing happened, Kirishima's got good reflexes and the car ahead was far enough away and it's okay.

Bakugou sucks in a shaky breath. This was a bad idea.

"…Bro? Bakugou, hey, do you need me to pull over?"

"Keep driving", Bakugou bites out despite the rapid beat of his pulse in his veins, throbbing to the point it aches. Another round of collective breaking forces him to clench his eyes shut, pretend it's not happening.

"I swear, Kiri, if you're not watching the fucking—"

"I'm watching it. I'm not looking away, I promise, just— Are you okay? Our exit is up next, I'll stop there. It's right up ahead, not very far now."

Babbling is something only a stressed Kirishima does, and it's Bakugou's fault. Squinting, he can confirm the exit is only a couple hundred meters away. Both of Kirishima's hands are on the wheel, a solid as fuck grip at nine and three o'clock like they teach in driving school.

Bakugou's heart calms at the sight. The guilt remains. "You don't need to stop. Just go slow and shit, s'fine."

The snort that comes from Kirishima is anything but amused. "Oh, I'm stopping, dude, don't even try fighting me on that. I can't check up on you right now and I gotta know what happened back there so I can avoid it going forward and are you okay? I'm not gonna look away but I really, really need to know, Dyna."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

Judging by the tension gathering around Kirishima's mouth, that doesn't make him feel much better. Reluctantly, Bakugou adds: "It, uh, happens. Sometimes. Even when the stupid nerd is driving and I've been around him for ages, so. Not your fault."

Kirishima's gaze wavers, flickers to Bakugou when he checks the left mirror and takes an extremely cautious turn off the highway. Damn, who allowed this man to have puppy eyes like that?

"Besides, you drive a fucking Prius, are ya even biologically capable of recklessness? Pretty sure the Gods will smite you for even thinking of going over the speed limit or whatever."

Finally, a tiny smile. It's immediately followed by Kirishima whining, "Stop that, I'm the one who should be comforting you!", whining like a kid. "You were trying to warn me and I didn't listen, that's not manly at all. I'm so sorry, Baku."

Bakugou rolls his eyes, flexes his fingers off the poor armrest, working out the stiffness. "It's fine, Shark. M'serious."

Going even slower, painfully slow, Kirishima takes one hand off the wheel and holds it palm-up towards Bakugou.

"Promise you'll tell me later? Like, what I should and shouldn't do to make you feel safe. Please?"

Bakugou glances down at the blatant offer, back up at Kirishima's profile, his resolute stare straight ahead like the street personally wronged him. Grumbling to nobody in particular, Bakugou clasps that sturdy hand in his and squeezes for good measure, equally as resolute in ignoring how warm his own face gets.

"Okay, yeah, whatever. Just… Focus on getting home for now."

A determined nod. They let each other go, not without Kirishima squeezing back.

The rest of the ride, Kirishima is on his best behavior, keeping an exaggerated amount of distance and setting the turn signal ages in advance. Gratitude sparks in Bakugou's chest. The second they're parked, he nonetheless leans over and flicks Kirishima on the forehead, raising his eyebrow at his complaint of, "Aw, what did I do?"

"You know what. Snap out of it already and show me around this shitty house of yours. Ugh, is that the mess I'll be cleaning up for you chucklefucks?"

"My house isn't shitty, bro!", chirps Kirishima — smartly not contesting what Bakugou has correctly determined to be his garden, a sizable chunk of it dug up where the posts of the deck will go.

Beyond that, however, stands a pretty, if fairly simple two-story Bakugou remembers from the picture storm Kirishima spammed him with after the move: Freshly-painted white walls, traditionally shuttered windows, a professionally-made plaque featuring the Piano Shark logo that leans against the entrance where Kirishima obviously forgot to actually put it up.

"Good work on the façade", Bakugou comments because he can play nice, and also wants the worried scrunch of Kirishima's brows in his peripheral vision to smooth out.

"Yeah? Thank you!"

There. Better. Bakugou shrugs his backpack on as well as the two cameras he brought along. "Where can I dump my stuff?"

Kirishima smiles at him — again — and walks past him, shoulders bumping. "Genkan sound good to you? We're trying to keep the doors to the cats closed as much as possible, some of 'em haven't quite acclimatized yet."

…Right. Kirishima runs a cat shelter. There are roughly a thousand of them behind that plain, innocent door — including Miss Boots, Bastard and Dynamite. Will they like him? Bakugou's got a strong ego, he's fully aware of that; getting rejected on sight by his favorite cats on the planet would be fucking devastating.

(That, and possibly, maybe, on a no-good-very-bad shitfest of a day, Kirishima not smiling at him anymore.)

Bakugou's appointment with an all-feline panel of judges is not to be yet. Barely has he thrown his luggage and trench coat on a pile – he’ll be sweating within the hour, no reason to ruin it – when...

"Eijibro! You're back!", echoes from the other side of The Mess. A dramatic gasp precedes a reverent whisper of "Instagram Man?" that has Bakugou glaring at a blushing Kirishima.

Similarly to the idiot pianist, Bakugou's idle snooping on @t4muscle’s Instagram account can't fully capture how fit of a fitness influencer the guy is in real life. "You actually exist! Hello there!", he cheers, holding out his hand for what Bakugou must assume is one of those 'manly handshakes' Kirishima has gushed about.

"I'm Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu! Call me Tetsu, I know it's a mouthful. Good to meet ya, man, welcome to our HQ!"

Bakugou considers the dirt caked into every inch of skin presented, then the grin positively radiating bromance at him. Going tch under his breath, Bakugou walks right past him.

"Bakugou. How much am I gonna want to strangle you today, hah, Wolverine?"

Tetsu shrugs and moves on to give said handshake to Kirishima instead. "Uhhh, not much hopefully? Just finished up on those holes and stuff— Oh, I totally checked out that building code thing you sent us, good catch, dude!"

Gods help them all. "Hm", is all Bakugou can say to that without getting mean.

(Behind him, he hears Tetsu whisper, "Is that a good 'hm'? Bad? Bro, I gotta tell my followers I love them before I die!", to which Kirishima whispers back: "Dunno honestly, bro, but shhh! Dyna needs to focus."

Yup, Kirishima is definitely Bakugou’s favorite.)

Grabbing a pair of heavy-duty gloves — two sizes too big, what the fuck are these people, part-grizzly bear? —, Bakugou steps onto the construction site, peering down into the (admittedly neat) holes. He circles the planks made of (admittedly sturdy, workable) wood, matching in tone to the house's shutters. It takes about a minute or two to step-count the dimensions, Bakugou’s sharp gaze picking up on the pencil markings and red string they used to square up the space.

On the next pass, Kirishima silently holds out a mildly crumpled plan and measuring tape; another handful of minutes confirm they stuck to the instructions for the most part.

Not as much of a disaster as expected, then.

Bakugou nods slowly. "Alright, listen up. By some miracle you two didn’t fuck this up too bad. Next step will be to—"

A loud whoop by Tetsutetsu interrupts him. "It was a good 'hm'!", accompanied by a huge sigh of "Thank goodness" from Kirishima. Bakugou flashes his teeth at them, menacingly rolling up the stapled stack of papers in his hand into a very whack-friendly weapon.

"—grab the bags of concrete and the mixer out of the car."

Twin gulps, "Um", a nervous look between them. "Yes, sir?"

Bakugou squints. Jolting in place, Tetsu scrambles to follow the command, chuckling in amusement on his jog over to Kirishima's Prius. Asshole.

"Kirishima. Wait."

Blatantly hopeful, Kirishima perks up, "Yeah?", stopping in his tracks comically fast. Scratching at his neck, Bakugou frowns at the deck-to-be, then at Kirishima.

“Brought some equipment. To film the whole process, I mean. As a... collaboration type thing? So folks can see where their money is going, the before and after, shit like that. Nice change'a pace on my channel too, I guess—"

Unless you don’t want to, is what Bakugou means to add to that. Before he can, Kirishima is practically tackling him in a hug, yelling, "Dyna! Are you for real right now? I'd be honored to! Oh, oh, can I compose something for your video too? If you're okay with having my music on your channel, of course."

Bakugou wheezes, "What the— As if I'd say no to that!", whacking Kirishima on the shoulder for daring to suggest anything to the contrary. "Get off me, you oaf, go mix the concrete. I gotta set up the cameras. Got extension cables somewhere?"

"'Course, over there, see?"

Beaming, Kirishima then salutes and joins Tetsutetsu by the car, immediately and loudly sharing the good news amidst a flurry of bros and dudes. Bakugou’s eyes roll; there’s a smile on his lips he doesn’t even bother to hide.

"Oi, Shark! Wolverine! If I see one grainy-ass fucking video about this anywhere, I'll kick your asses! You're workin' with me, we're doing this shit right!"

"Yes, Mr. Bakugou, sir!"

*

The three things Kirishima has realized in days of construction work with Bakugou?

(1) Kirishima was right, there exists no power tool or material out there that Bakugou Katsuki From Twin Stars Restoration does not know how to masterfully handle. And the best part? He's as good at explaining this stuff live as he is on his channel.

(Kirishima can't wait for the video that'll come out this. His music, on Bakugou's channel. A dream come true!)

(2) Bakugou's sleep schedule is unbelievable. For someone who used to be a toxic gamer in his teenage years — because yes, Kirishima got Bakugou to spill the beans on the Dynamite alias, after all he agreed to name a whole cat after it! — the guy needs to be asleep by 10:00 PM at the very latest or he'll get supremely cranky. He also refused Kirishima's chivalrous offer to take his bedroom on the second floor; the couch is closer to the coffee machine in the morning, he argued, which... is true. Kirishima tried not to mope about it too much.

And (3), when Bakugou complained about cats hating his guts ages ago, he was neither lying nor exaggerating and it breaks Kirishima's heart.

For him, the best thing about Piano Shark Cat Rescue — cat-rescuing aside, of course — is seeing joy dawn on people's faces when they step into his home. The reaction is always the same: Anticipation, surprise and ultimately delight that, yes, twenty-plus cats is indeed that many.

If Kirishima had any doubts about Bakugou being a certified Cat Person, they'd have been put to rest then and there. Try as he might to seem tough and unaffected, Bakugou's entire being softened at the sight of one (1) cat. That first evening, after pouring the concrete and calling it a day, it just so happened that the cat greeting them at the door was Miss Boots.

A little grouchier than usual after being deprived of Kirishima's attention for hours on end, and all the happier to be picked up by him and cradled to his chest, her favorite spot to be.

"Hey, Baby Boots. This is Bakugou Katsuki, your biggest stan!"

Kirishima had said it with a teasing grin in Bakugou's direction, not that Bakugou seemed to hear him whatsoever. He'd been staring that intensely at Boot's tricolor mane, her fuzzy-white paws readily kneading Kirishima's arms, her tiny fangs bared in another grouchy Mrrah directed at her owner before she bumped her head against his chin.

Finally: "I would die for her", Bakugou had stated very seriously. "What the fuck? Who gave you the right to be so damn perfect, hah?"

That last part was directed at the queen of Kirishima's heart herself. Bakugou had glanced at Kirishima, frowning pensively at the encouraging nod he got in return. Hesitantly — wait, hesitant? Bakugou? —, he held out his hand. Kirishima leaned over to let Boots sniff at his fingers, eyebrows shooting up as she sneezed and began to wiggle out of his grip to get away.

"Huh? Aw, hey, where're you going? So rude!"

There'd been no point in trying to stop Boots from leaving — cats will do whatever they want, always. With Bakugou's expression flattening into something more guarded, that softness gone without a trace, Kirishima still felt guilty for the behavior of his feline child.

"Don't sweat it, Baku, she'll warm up to you soon!"

Bakugou shrugged like he couldn't care less. "Eh. Told ya."

And it keeps happening, too! Brown tabby Bee (also known as Bastard) takes to staring from a distance every time Bakugou enters the room, wide-eyed and spooked, and Dynamite downright growls at him. No, not hissing, growling!

"Okay, listen, Dynamite hates everyone", Kirishima tries to explain desperately, laughing a little at the raised eyebrow Bakugou gives him. That piercing truly turns the gesture into pure judgement. "He does! On my honor!"

"Relatable." Screwing the lid on top of the Piano Shark-branded bottle he just filled with tap water, Bakugou pushes Kirishima's share into this hands, dragging him back out of the kitchen. "Stop fussing, idiot, I'll live. Cats are selfish assholes, that's what I love about them."

Kirishima follows him outside like a lost puppy, pausing to carefully push the curious faces of Maine Coon sisters Nojiko and Nami inside and slide the patio door shut properly. "But, but— Man, I kinda hoped you'd hit it off with them and then things would work out!"

A glance over Bakugou's shoulder, confused. "What would?"

"Everything! You adopting Dynamite and Bee—"

"Bastard."

"—and stuff! They're the last of the kittens without a home, and they're your favs, and I just know you'd take good care of them…"

Pulling out two planks, Bakugou motions for Kirishima to do the same and carry them over to the table saw. "Uh-huh. When were ya gonna tell me of this genius plan of yours? Last time I checked, I'm the one who decides if — and that's a big-ass if — I wanna adopt a cat, much less two."

Kirishima tilts his head, "Mmyeah, sure, but why wouldn't you?", gloves on and holding the plank in place for Bakugou to cut it to size. They've been at this a while and there are a lot of 'em, he and Bakugou are a practiced team this far into the game.

"Not at home much, for one", starts Bakugou, pausing every time the saw makes quick work of excess wood. Looking a real pro, protective visor and everything. "Busy as hell when I am. Could bring them to the studio, I guess, but there's a ton of shit there that ain't safe for them to be around. Can't have any fur or mess get on the paintings, either. Oh, and you know, cats can't fucking stand me. Should I go on?"

"I can think of a few ways to catproof your studio", Kirishima contributes, ever the optimist. "And I don't think they hate you, bro, there's just something about you that bothers them. I'll figure it out, promise!"

Bakugou snorts, shakes his head. "Whatever you say, Kiri."

They continue working, one topic dropped and three others cropping up. For all he can be outgoing, Kirishima hasn't had to navigate a new friendship in… quite a bit. Ashido has been his on-and-off bestie since middle school, more permanently so since the shelter exists. Tetsu and him sort of slid into being best bros one chance gym encounter at a time, bonding over their Instagram woes, and the friends from college he's lost touch with. The names Iida and Yaoyorozu cross his path mostly on concert posters and the like.

Talking to Bakugou, Kirishima doesn't need to pace himself or overthink what comes out of his mouth. Behind the snark and hard edges, there's a guy with a good heart who isn't very used to this, either. It's only been a few months yet here Bakugou is, sweating in the spring sun at Kirishima's side just because he felt like helping out.

Fondness fills Kirishima from head to toe the more he thinks about it.

"Hey, Dyna? Can I ask you something?"

"Hm?", Bakugou makes around a mouthful of nails. The fanboy in Kirishima notes it’s the same technique he uses to tack down paintings in his videos, holding the nails there to spit them out one by one and hammer them into the board wet. Something about spittle making the wood swell and cling to the steel. So fascinating!

"I'm curious, what got you into YouTube? You don't strike me as the type to enjoy the attention, and it's not like you're not busy enough, y'know, running a whole business."

Bakugou gives him a searching look. Then he raises a finger, the universal gesture to wait a minute until he's finished this current round of nails.

"Ecce Homo by Elías García Martínez."

"Excuse me, what?"

"Ecce Homo. 'Behold the Man', a fresco from the 1930s by this Spanish artist. Typical depiction of Jesus in a rural Catholic church, nothin' special about it."

"…What?"

Bakugou gestures for him to take over, holding out the box of nails here and there as he takes a break. "You might know it as 'Ecce Mono' or 'Monkey Jesus', it went viral years ago for a shitty conservation attempt by an amateur. Thank fuck the original artist is dead. Probably still spinning in his grave over it, though."

"Oh? How shitty of an attempt are we talking here?"

"Abysmal. Pathetic. Utterly unworthy of being considered art restoration."

Wincing, "Yikes", Kirishima goes board by board, dutifully leaving a little distance between them to ensure rain won't collect on the surface. Slowly but surely, the decking takes a more distinct shape.

"Yeah, yikes. People memed it to death for weeks, which, whatever, it kinda deserved it. Then they started spewing bullshit, 'conservation ruins the artist's vision', 'it's all a waste of time and money', and that pissed me off."

Kirishima pauses. "Dynamite. Bakugou. Katsuki. Please tell me you didn't start your extremely successful YouTube channel out of spite."

A sharp smirk. Smug and charming, check. "So what if I did?"

"Dude! No way, I can't believe you!"

They burst into laughter, Kirishima pushing Bakugou onto his side and screeching as he retaliates with a spray of water from his bottle. The spontaneous scuffle ends before it can seriously begin, the naked beams of the wooden structure a dangerous place to wrestle. Bakugou grabs the hammer again and gets up, casually shoving Kirishima's head down on his way to get more wood.

"Hey, unfair! Rematch later!"

"You wanna fucking die, hah, Eijirou?"

Kirishima cracks his knuckles and grins, every pointy tooth bared. "Bring it on, man."

It's Bakugou's turn once they've settled down again. Kirishima hogs the nails, preferring to hand them over one by one so they can keep talking — Bakugou, for his part, doesn't complain beyond a mild huff.

"Okay, and art restoration? Seems like such a niche profession to have, I honestly didn't know it existed before the algorithm blessed me with your content."

Ah, nevermind. Bakugou is glaring at him. "What is this, the inquisition? I don't have to tell you shit."

A month ago, Kirishima would've let that deter him. Now, he meets Bakugou's gaze head-on, smiling softly. "You're right, you don't! But you can, if you want to."

Grumbling. "Ain't a fun story", a warning Kirishima shrugs at. Neither is the start of his own career, or most other things in life. It goes unspoken between them; Bakugou already knows that.

"…Fine." At first, he chews on his tongue, searching for the right words. "Remember Deku? Green curls, nerd, annoying. I've told you about him before."

Kirishima translates: "Midoriya, childhood friend and esteemed colleague, co-owner of your studio?"

Bakugou rolls his eyes, keeping his gaze trained on the new set of planks. "Yeah, him. Way back in school, we got nominated to this program. Some… anti-bullying-type campaign spearheaded by this conservator, Yagi Toshinori. One of the best out there, not that I knew or cared about that at the time."

Oh. Bullying? "Okay, yeah, that's not fun."

"Mh."

For a minute or two, Bakugou focuses on what he's doing, his expression serious. Each nail is driven into wood in two solid beats: Tok-tok, pause. Tok-tok, pause.

"There was this concept behind it, Yagi's philosophy, I guess. He figured if bully and victim worked on something productive within the same space, something that caters to their emotional needs without forcing them to interact per se, that healing would follow."

Oh. For the second time in the span of about two minutes, Kirishima's mental image of that whole constellation shifts. "So. For you to be nominated to this program…"

Bakugou sighs. "I wasn't the fucking victim, no. With Yagi around, I couldn't pull any of the fucked up stuff I was used to getting away with — and when I tried, he didn't punish me, not directly. He just… made me clean a fuckton of paintings."

Kirishima's eyebrows rise. "Real paintings? Or like—"

"Real ones. Worth thousands, with actual clients behind them. I trashed the first few, watched him catch heat for it and felt like a monster, then he sat me down and we fixed 'em together. That same process you've seen a thousand times by now, start to finish. Never yelled at me, never hit me back or anything, simply acknowledged all this fucking… rage I had inside and showed me that I'm capable of more than wrecking things. Haven't broken a painting in the fourteen years since."

Nodding slowly, Kirishima mulls that over. Another side of the rubik's cube, slotting into place. "And Midoriya?"

"What about him?", Bakugou shoots back, instantly defensive.

Kirishima blinks in surprise, rewinds what he said in his head, rushes to specify: "What did your teacher have him do? Dunno if I can imagine him drawing much meaning out of cleaning paintings in regards to, y'know… that."

"Yeah, well, he didn't."

The tension drains from Bakugou's shoulders with every strike of the hammer and yeah, Kirishima gets how this kind of work can be therapeutic.

"Deku got to smash old stretchers, frames, strainers, whatever the old man had on hand that could be mindlessly destroyed. Kid had the opposite sort of issue with anger management: He kept eating shit and never let any of it out. Once he realized he's allowed to feel angry about what I did to him, he got fucking angry. Lasted 'bout five minutes and he was back to crying his eyes out like the nerd he is, but whatever. Still counts."

The exasperated nature of the comment has Kirishima snickering. The hindsight definitely helps, to know those kids ended up as close as brothers later in life.

"Sounds like the man knew exactly what he was doing with you two."

"Pretty much. S'the reason we both stuck with it after we inherited his studio — for me at least, you're gonna have t'ask Deku for his side of the story. Art restoration is difficult as fuck and we'd barely gotten our first set of qualifications for it when he passed, so knowing he already trusted us to continue his work in a field that meant so much to him…"

Another shrug. Something about that sounds familiar to Kirishima, throwing him back to a midnight call and sleepy mumbles in the dark.

"Is Yagi the one who…?"

"Yeah. Car accident. Let's not talk about it."

The admission is quiet, the request rushed. Bakugou clears his throat, eyes flicking over to Kirishima, checking for his reaction. Oddly shy again, although it seems anything but odd now. Kirishima is no stranger to feeling exposed.

Either way, there's a promise to keep. Setting the box of nails down, Kirishima leans on his elbows, head propped on his palms and looking up at Bakugou.

"So, what you're telling me is that they should've definitely called you to fix Monkey Jesus?"

A beat of silence. Suddenly Bakugou cracks up, cackling like a hyena over Kirishima's dumb joke — red eyes alight with it, that rare, big smile that he covers with the back of his hand and doesn't quite manage to hide.

"No, Shark, they should'a called me before they had a reason to name it that! Fuck! It's so ugly, it kills me."

Kirishina hums, indulges in that unique fondness he holds for Bakugou that radiates from his chest like a miniature sun, every inch of skin aglow with its warmth. And the more it happens, the more Kirishima is certain of one thing:

He's never fallen in love before, but this? This sure feels like it.

*

"It's your clothes!"

The shout interrupts the morning's peace and quiet as delicately as a fucking sledgehammer. Cozily nestled in blankets, Bakugou jumps half-way off the couch, his pencil slicing a dark line into his sketchbook as the lead breaks. Only a lucky grab saves the espresso precariously balanced on his knee from dying a sad, messy death.

Chubby Chartreux-mix Totoro, his current model, gets up and leaves, tail twitching in agitation. Great.

"Oi! The fuck's your damage?"

"Your clothes, Dyna!"

There's a manic energy to Kirishima's descent down the stairs, skipping steps and grinning like a madman. Hair dripping wet, a towel falling off his shoulders and very much bare-chested — rationally, Bakugou pieces together he must've run out of the shower for this.

Irrationally, he has to squint his eyes to focus. On anything but that. Such as why Kirishima is yelling.

"Why are you yelling?"

"'Cause it just hit me, bro! It all makes total sense! You came here straight from the studio that day, right?"

Bakugou squints some more. "…Yeah, and?"

Impossibly, Kirishima's grin widens at that, one unit of hype away from clapping his hands together like a seal. "And you were cleaning a painting! Right? You always clean 'em before lunch. And the cats you've tried to hang out with, they're at the park!"

"Yes, you shitty-haired stalker, the hell are you getting a—" Bakugou cuts himself off. Understanding sparks. "Shit. The solvents?" Tugging the sleeve of his shirt to his nose, Bakugou sniffs. He obviously brought clean clothes, but after so many years—

Faint, definitely there: The sting of chemicals. And if his lame human nose can smell it… "Are you fucking kidding me?"

But Kirishima is already gone, stomping around the back of the house. "Go wash your hands, Dynabro! Pspsps, Bootsie, where are you? Come help Papa prove he's a genius!"

The urgency is infectious. Bakugou throws his sketchbook and shit aside and jogs over to the kitchen sink, tugging his shirt off in the process. When Kirishima returns with a tee in one hand and Miss Boots in the other, Bakugou doesn't hesitate a second — he changes into the eye-wateringly red muscle shirt that's, again, two sizes too big, french-tucking the hem so it doesn't look completely ridiculous on him.

The tacky color clashes horribly with the precise lines of his tattoos. GAINS, says the front in all caps. Never-fucking-mind that, then.

Kirishima is putting a valiant effort into not-reacting, Bakugou can tell. "Don't fucking say anything", Bakugou hisses at him and that dumb delighted glint to his eyes. Pointing at Miss Boots, "You", his voice automatically loses any aggression.

"M'doing this for you, appreciate it or else."

As if on cue, her pink nose twitches, sniffing. "Let her", cautions Kirishima when Bakugou pulls away on instinct. Ah, right, she's blind. Bakugou waits for her to scent his whole hand, not quite believing what he's witnessing: She's leaning towards him!

"Hm, Boots? Dyna isn't so bad after all, is he?" Adjusting his grasp on her, Kirishima allows a paw to land on Bakugou's arm. Her toe beans are warm on his skin. "She's good now, man, go ahead and pet her if ya want!"

Inexplicably nervous, Bakugou takes a half-step closer. "Don't freak out on me", he mutters, giving her another moment to register he's not Kirishima. Petting Miss Boots is like touching a cloud, he discovers, her fur so fluffy that his hand sinks right in. After a stroke or two, she starts vibrating under his palm.

So that's what a purring cat feels and sounds like, huh?

"See? You're a natural, Katsuki."

Kirishima's voice is low, so close he doesn't need to speak up to be heard. Bakugou's heart, strangely tight from Miss Boots' slow blink alone — she's smiling at him, how is this actually happening? —, trips further once he glances up and right into fond red.

There's a tiny, faded scar across his lid; Kirishima has crow's feet from laughing so much. Bits and pieces and irregularities that effortlessly draw Bakugou's trained eye and tug him further and further into Kirishima's orbit.

For some godforsaken reason, what comes out of his mouth next is: "We're ahead of schedule."

"Hm?", goes Kirishima. Seemingly distracted himself, his puzzled, "Schedule?", tacked on with some delay.

"For the… thing. Deck. Yeah."

Another pause. Kirishima clues into what Bakugou is trying to say at roughly the same instant he himself does.

"Wanna stay in today and see if we can convince Dynamite to love you?"

*

They try every trick in the book, every toy and treat in Kirishima's arsenal. Dynamite hisses, he scratches at them — he watches from afar as they bicker through a late breakfast of bacon and eggs, appropriately protein-heavy since Kirishima is the one to prepare it, and afterwards, when Bakugou learns the ropes of how to take care of so many cats at once.

He's a good student, Bakugou. Pays attention to even the most insignificant of Kirishima's comments, memorizes all the names and calls everything and everyone by whatever he feels like regardless. Bastard (formerly known as Bee) follows him around curiously, typical kitten attention span perfectly matching the simple fact Bakugou seems incapable of saying no to him whatsoever.

That cat's gonna grow up so spoiled, Kirishima thinks to himself with a secret smile; in the living room, his guest is aggressively throwing a toy fish and grumbling praise whenever Bastard succeeds in hunting it down first-try.

No matter what they're doing, Dynamite is in the same room, observing from the shadows.

In the afternoon, Ashido swings by on a surprise visit, bringing the drafts for the newest set of merch to go to their top patrons later in the year. She enters, hugs Kirishima, spots Bakugou sitting outside on the half-finished deck. Bakugou spots her, too, pausing whatever work he's doing on his tablet to stare at her.

Introductions! Yes! Kirishima has barely opened his mouth when—

"Pinky."

"Hey, Bakugou! Fancy seeing you here! Anyway, what d'you think, Eiji? Kitten stickers, yes or yes? And for the mug, I was thinking something like this? With the house in the background, hmm…"

—huh?!

"Hooold on, rewind. You two know each other?" They both nod like it's the most normal and obvious thing for that to be the case. Kirishima gapes. "Wha— Since when?!"

"Kami invited me over for a Rings marathon back in, what, January? Bakugou was there too, they're like besties. Which reminds me, wanna make okonomiyaki again? That was sooo good."

"Fuck off. I'm on vacation."

Ashido's sigh is more than melodramatic. "Yeah, okay, I guess that's valid…"

Slack-jawed, Kirishima is too confused to question them further on any of that.

(Later, over generous heaps of okonomiyaki Bakugou ends up serving with an air of indignation, Ashido asks them how they know each other — and chokes over their mutual, "Instagram", cheery coming from Kirishima and deadpan from Bakugou.

"Wait, you're Instagram Man?!"

"Kirishima, I'm going to fucking kill you."

"Oh, now you're surprised, Ash? I told you— Huh. Actually, thinking back on it, I might've… not? I was uhhh… slightly flustered at the time. Well, there you go. Anyway! These are delicious, Dyna, thanks for cooking!"

"Hah! Nice try, bitch. Tell her how you found out."

Bakugou's grin is steeped in challenge. Kirishima's shoulders slump with a defeated sigh. The story that follows has Ashido laughing herself to tears.)

At night, it's just them again.

Another Bakugou-ism Kirishima has picked up on: He slinks off to be by himself for a bit after hanging out with anyone but Kirishima. After Tetsu had left, Kirishima couldn't track down Bakugou for a solid half-hour — until he found him sitting far up the stairs, eyes closed, earpods in and fingers silently tapping out a rhythm on the back of his phone.

So when Ashido waves them goodbye, not-so-subtly winking at Kirishima and mouthing, Call me later babe, he fully expects Bakugou to disappear. Well, if disappearing includes the clinking of plates and cutlery as the dishwasher is loaded the next room over.

Loud and confident one moment, sneaky the other. Kirishima shakes his head and sighs fondly.

Leaving him to it this time, he goes to check up on his kids. Most got used to having Bakugou around; only Dynamite and the ones with anxiety problems like Shy Guy are having trouble relaxing. Coaxing the latter out of hiding with a treat, Kirishima asks, "Missing your music, hm, little man?", running a soothing hand from head to tail.

"Come on, then."

It's not too late. Kirishima's new neighbors reassured him they enjoy his music, especially after learning the purpose behind it. One or two pieces shouldn't push their kindness too much. With his followers in the loop about inconsistent uploads throughout the week, Kirishima has the luxury of ignoring his recording setup. For once, it's a simple matter of sitting down and patting the spot next to him for Shy Guy to jump up.

The handful of others lazying on various hammocks and cat beds give him a curious look, though they don't approach yet. Which and how many cats join his audience is a mood thing, entirely voluntary.

A breath, big on the inhale, slow on the exhale. Kirishima feels out the keys with his fingertips, lingers in that calm beat. A vague recollection of his insomniac college professor clings to that gesture, gruffly reminding him to focus and let everything else fade away. (Ah, good ol' Aizawa. Kirishima should give him a call one of these days.)

The first notes sound into the silence, well-tuned strings welcoming him home. This is so ingrained into his daily life and everything he is, everything he was and is yet to become. There's no need to actively think about what he wants to play, he just plays. The melody is delicate, meandering, a quieter piece to suit the late hour and the unhurried day he spent with Bakugou.

So instead, Kirishima thinks of him: Of careful hands. Sharp wit. A genuine laugh. Hard, vulnerable truths and the courage it takes to face your flaws without flinching.

Gradually, the key changes. Wild and discordant elements mix into it, reckless bursts that automatically tug the corners of Kirishima's mouth upwards. Next to Kirishima, Shy Guy is purring up a storm, eventually climbing over Kirishima's thighs and stepping on the keys to gain his attention. Kirishima never minds his cats interrupting his music; they're an organic part of it like they're a part of everything else in his life. Only when the Siamese blinks slower and slower, mostly asleep atop the piano, does Kirishima let the song fade away.

And only when the night falls silent again does he pick up on the near-soundless rustling of paper to his right.

That, and the soft, rhythmic scratching of graphite have accompanied Kirishima most of the time not spent outside — apparently, Bakugou's definition of a vacation is drawing a bunch and building things, except paintings.

Yet the sketchbook isn't kept close to Bakugou's chest and angled away as it usually is. No, it's splayed across his lap, fingers limp around his mechanical pencil. Kirishima has been around Ashido's artist friends enough to know not to peek inside, though it is incredibly tempting. What is Bakugou's own work like? Must be a talented artist himself to be able to flawlessly mimic any style to be found in fine art.

The man himself has nodded off, his head propped up on his other hand while… Kirishima's eyes widen. Was Bakugou listening to him play? Why didn't he say anything?

(Art by holundera, posted with permission.)

Paper crinkles once more. A rather small, pitch-black void moves across its white expanse, pink toe beans bared as paws are stretched. Kirishima dares not breathe. That… is Dynamite. Yawning and crawling further into the space between sketchbook and Bakugou's legs like he does that every day, rolling up and returning to his nap.

Bakugou is going to die.

Sure, he's probably going to wake up and Dynamite will remember cuddling doesn't suit his brand and get spooked and hiss and leave, but before all that, Bakugou will die of happiness and that's amazing.

So amazing, Kirishima can't help but want to get some sort of proof. For posterity! This is now a stealth mission, a game of wits between a very not-stealthy pianist and a paranoid kitten's feline super senses. Okay, maybe he doesn't stand a chance from the start… And black cats are a nightmare to capture on photo or video in anything but broad daylight…

Scientific fact cannot stop Kirishima. Phone in hand, Kirishima inches closer, tongue stuck between his teeth in pure concentration. Snapping a few pics, he slowly reaches towards the reading lamp next to the couch, preemptively squinting against the brightness to follow. Mmyah, comes the predictable complaint by Dynamite, sleepily glaring at Kirishima. Bakugou's matching mumble of "Th'fuck, Kiri, turn off the fuckin' light" is equally ignored.

Alright, yep, that's better. Mission complete!

Grinning his victory, "Bro, you gotta wake up", Kirishima walks over to the other end of the couch to give Dynamite his I-hate-all-humans-except-for-this-guy space. "Bro. Wake up. Dynamite's snuggling with you."

"Mh?" Bakugou rubs at his eyes, frowning at Kirishima. "What?"

"Look down. You're gonna love this, promise."

Blearily blinking, it takes a full five seconds for that to parse in Bakugou's after-10-PM brain. He follows Kirishima's advice, blinks some more. Then he inhales, not a particularly loud nor dramatic gasp. For Bakugou's standards, it's full-on shock.

"'Mite's here?"

"Yup."

"In my lap."

"Got it on camera and everything."

"But... I'm not doing anything?"

Kirishima chuckles, trying to be quiet about it. "Apparently all he needed from you is comfy pillow rights. Let's see…" Expression once again determined, Kirishima scoots over. A quarter of a cushion. Half a cushion. At a full cushion, Dynamite glances up again, and at two, his ears flick back. Dang it, so close!

Then Bakugou's sketchbook is set aside; he rubs a knuckle between Dynamite's ears, as gentle as he would treat fugitive paint or torn canvas. The kitten flinches a little, stares up at him, wide-eyed — but he stays, either slumping back into the space inside Bakugou's knee or leaning into the touch, it's hard to tell.

Kirishima almost forgets to move the rest of the distance, nearly thigh-to-thigh with Bakugou so he can peer down at Dynamite's curled up form. Pride for the both of them bubbles up, throat tight and nose itchy with it.

"Kiri?"

"Y-yeah?"

"Are you… crying?"

He sniffles, laughs, "I'm just so happy", catching the traces of genuine concern in Bakugou's expression. "I am! It's like— Can I tell you a secret?"

Bakugou nods wordlessly, although he's probably a bit overwhelmed at the prospect of dual-wielding both the milestone with Dynamite and Kirishima's emotions over it. God, this guy. Kirishima adores him so much.

"I've never had problems with socializing a cat before. Kittens all crave love, y'know? They want to be cared for, they're simply scared. And then I got scared, like, what if I fail and Dynamite stays spicy forever and I can't find him a home, ever? Black cats already have it tougher out there, with the bad luck thing and such people are less likely to adopt. Plus, he doesn't like me much, being here long-term won't make him happy — but this… This means something is getting through to him! You're getting through to him. Y'know?"

Wiping away his tears, Kirishima leans on Bakugou, presses his smile against his shoulder. Dynamite's already adorable everything is even more adorable from here; at the end of the day, he really is just a baby.

"Wanna hear one of mine?"

A glance up at Bakugou. "A secret?"

"Yeah." Bakugou catches the nod of Kirishima's head, looks back to where he's mindlessly playing with Dynamite's bat-like ears. "What I said before, about the studio and being busy and shit. It's true, there's stuff I'd have to change if I wanna adopt a pet, but… I do want to. Adopt the kittens, I mean. I just— I want to give 'em what they need, too. So."

"What's that, you think? What they need."

A dejected, downward frown. "Someone who doesn't have diagnosed anger issues, for one."

"Mmmh. Nah, I call bull." Kirishima sits up to be able to catch Bakugou's gaze, whenever the other is ready to meet him there. "Wanna know something neat about cats, Baku? No, two things."

"…What?"

"Number one, they're excellent judges of character. And number two, to quote what a brilliant man once said, 'they're selfish assholes'. Believe me, Dynamite would never be sleeping there if he didn't want to or felt unsafe around you."

There Bakugou is. Squinting at Kirishima, checking for any insincerity. Finally: "Guess you're the pro."

Kirishima grins, "I am. Think about it some more, hm?", nudges Bakugou's elbow with his own. "There's no rush. Honestly, man, I'm impressed you're taking this so seriously. Not everyone does, and if they did, I'd be out of a job and this place wouldn't exist."

"Whatever", mutters Bakugou, cheeks gaining a touch of color in the warm lamplight. "S'basic fucking decency. Don't praise me for that."

"I'll praise you for whatever I please", the tease soft with honesty. Kirishima lets himself fall more comfortably against the sofa's backrest, the late hour weighing on his eyelids. There's no way he's missing a second of this, though, of Bakugou all relaxed and blushing and happy with a cat in his lap.

It may be that, or any of the myriad of tiny details he's learned about him, how comfortable and plain good it feels to share his space with Bakugou. Suddenly, Kirishima finds himself saying:

"Hey, Katsuki? I got another one."

Something Kirishima hasn't told many people, at least not outright, or in very clear terms. Bakugou must feel that this is a different kind of secret than the others, humming, "Yeah?", brushing their shoulders together in quiet support.

"I'm ace. Asexual, specifically. I thought I was aromantic until a short while ago, but, well…"

And oh, Bakugou is looking now. Taking Kirishima in, red eyes flitting over every inch of his features before his lips draw into a small smile. "I'm gay", he replies, a statement that carries as much You can trust me in it as it does I'm with you.

Kirishima's heart is beating so hard, it's like longing lives in his throat, rendering him breathless. "And I haven't… I've never kissed anyone."

The smile only grows. "I have. It's kinda overrated."

"Oh", Kirishima breathes, struggling to think when Bakugou is resting his head against his arm. His hair is soft. Fluffy, because Bakugou didn't bother to put gel in it today. Kirishima likes it better like this, he finds.

"Hey, Eijirou?"

"Hmm?"

A touch to Kirishima's jaw, feather-light. Bakugou's palm slides up to cup his cheek, sparking warmth. Rough-skinned yet delicate where it matters.

"I want you to. Kiss me, if that's what you're asking. Fuck, we can kiss as much as you like, I… Whatever you're comfortable with, I want it. I want you."

All Kirishima has to do is lean in. Lean into that touch, that voice he's known for years, the man it belongs to that he's discovering for himself bit by precious bit—

"I want you, too."

And so he does.

Chapter Text

Bakugou is comfortable. The definition of cozy.

Softness surrounds him, the covers a bit warm but not enough to warrant kicking them off. Nearby, the ebb and flow of at least two cats purring can be heard. The weight of a person lying next to him causes the mattress to slope slightly in that direction; sometime in the night, Bakugou must've followed the subtle tug of gravity, since he finds himself tucked against a sturdy back.

Eyes remaining shut, Bakugou sighs to himself and nuzzles closer, deciding to sleep in for once—

The combination of a chainsaw-like snore and an elbow to the gut rips him out of that mindset pretty effectively.

"Motherfu— Ow."

Bakugou shoves the offending limb away, sitting up with a groan. His glare falls on the sight of Kirishima smacking his lips and rolling onto the pillow Bakugou just vacated, completely undisturbed as he casually steals the half that isn't occupied by Bastard's curled up form.

…It's a very cute sight. "Asshole", mutters Bakugou under his breath, followed by a raspy chuckle full of disbelief. "Fucking hell. You were the one who wanted me to sleep up here."

Kirishima is a heavy sleeper, the last days of Bakugou's spontaneous visit have proven that. An ambiguously late riser, too, so Bakugou doesn't expect him to answer for his crimes — yet — and climbs out of Kirishima's ridiculously oversized bed. More room for the cats to nap with him, he'd admitted, and it's such a sweet notion that Bakugou didn't tease him about it. Much.

Yawning into the crook of his elbow, he walks over to the corner he dumped his stuff in, mostly packed and ready to go. Only when Bakugou picks up the outfit he laid out for his trip home does he notice it's already occupied, a loudly meowing black shape jumping from the equally black fabric of his shirt.

Voice kept low, "Oi, don't complain”, Bakugou says. “The fuck are you doing on my clothes anyway? Thought you hated how they smell."

This is one of Bakugou's newer ones, so that's probably why. Still: Big yellow eyes stare up at him in the half-light — Myeh, goes Dynamite in a vaguely accusing tone. Bakugou snorts, “Idiot”, shakes his head at the kitten, belatedly realizing Kirishima's habit of talking to the cats has rubbed off on him.

It's hard not to when they all have such unique personalities and insist on being nosy, gossipy little shits about everything. Throughout his morning routine, Bakugou has to lift his toothbrush out of paw reach and push multiple curious noses away from his shaving cream. Dynamite even attempts to sneak into the shower with him and that's where he has to draw a line, rolling his eyes at the feline’s vicious hiss over his sudden exile from the bathroom.

"Ever heard of personal space, brat? Go claw up Kiri's feet or somethin'. Jeez."

...Only to save Kirishima from that very fate a handful of minutes later, teasingly nudging the ruthless kitten out of his prowl across Kirishima's blankets while grabbing his phone off the nightstand to head downstairs. Bastard’s eyes squint open at Bakugou’s proximity, stretching and swiftly climbing over an oblivious Kirishima to join his brother in their new favorite hobby (annoying Bakugou, that is).

A hesitant beat passes in which Bakugou contemplates waking the other up, start his last day here together. In the end, he simply ruffles Kirishima's hair a bit and breathes an amused huff at the drowsy grumble he gets in return.

Kirishima deserves a break, too.

Miss Boots is already waiting for him by the obnoxiously colorful plastic gate blocking the stairway, originally made to prevent babies and/or puppies from exploring. In this case, it’s a precaution so the blind old cat doesn’t hurt herself trying to go downstairs on her own. Quietly wishing her a good morning, Bakugou picks her up like Kirishima taught him to, holding her securely to his chest until they reach the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the cats and coffee for himself (and Kirishima, maybe, if he asks nicely).

Outside, the finished deck glints in the sunlight, morning dew gathering on the varnish they brushed on the evening before. The space is big enough to fit the complex climbing system Kirishima designed to add enrichment to the cats' environment, among other pet projects of his. Bakugou can catch glimpses of it through the kitchen window, can perfectly imagine Kirishima in his place, letting the kids roam first thing in the morning and keeping an eye on them from here. The net around the whole thing will ensure both the cats and any local wildlife will stay safe from each other.

In short: Exactly what Kirishima wanted and then some. It brings a proud smirk to Bakugou’s lips.

For a while, the kitchen fills with the rattling of kibble falling into a dizzying amount of bowls, Bakugou’s brow furrowed in concentration as he mutters the list of dietary restrictions for the shelter’s residents to himself to not forget anything. Getting the correct cat to eat the correct food isn’t as easy as it looks, either: Totoro’s diet food is quite literally placed at the chubby tomcat's feet while the kittens’ high-calorie mix goes on the highest level of the cat tree to keep it safe from the lazier adults. Noriko and Nami are a whole other problem, the sisters needing their share served in squeaky-clean bowls since even a trace of anything other than their hypoallergenic wet food would result in a trip to the vet.

Purposefully left for last, Bakugou sits down with them to make sure they don’t stray until they’ve eaten up. A quick glance at his phone tells him he missed some activity in the group chat he has with his squad of college friends in his sleep; Bakugou skims the messages which turn out to be mostly whining about being ignored for, what, an hour?

The clingy fuckers can wait, then.

In a separate tab, Midoriya is typing. Bakugou uses the wait to pet Noriko's fluffy head, careful not to disturb her food time.

Bakugou laughs out loud, even if Midoriya can't hear it; too bad he's not around to see how red the nerd's face is getting right about now.

Seriously, how long did he think the 'We're just roommates, nothing to see here!' excuse would last? Those two idiots weren't subtle in high school and they're even less so now. Hopefully they'll make the wait for the inevitably sappy-as-shit wedding mercifully short, for Inko's sake.

Auntie's gonna cry so hard. Like mother, like son. Unfortunately.

A raspy lick to his palm signals Bakugou's job is done. "Good?" Noriko slow-blinks, Nami chirps a happy Mrrp. "Good."

Wincing at his protesting joints — what's that bullshit about, anyway? Bakugou's turning thirty next month, not sixty —, he gets back on his feet, weaving through many a feline sprawled in typical food coma fashion to round up the empty bowls. They're cleaned up and neatly stacked in no time.

Next: Coffee. More like carefully inching away a loafed Miss Boots from the coffee maker and fighting Dynamite over the privilege to handle the measuring spoon. Once the pot is set to brew, Bakugou plays with him until the kitten grows bored and sits down to simply stare at him very intensely.

Cats are fucking strange.

It's as good a moment as any to grace his idiots with his presence.

"Baku?" The sleepy mumble sounds from upstairs.

"Kitchen!", Bakugou calls over his shoulder, setting his phone aside to search the cupboards for— Ah, there. Mugs. Gods, does Kirishima own anything that's not red and painfully corny? On his tippy toes, Bakugou has to push aside three more porcelain crimes against humanity to find…

A pause. "No way." A slow smile. Bakugou reaches for a very, very familiar sight.

Behind him, the floorboards creak. The gentle touch of knuckles tracing Bakugou's spine, a wordless heads-up — an arm wraps around his waist then, skin-warm weight gradually coming to rest against his back. "Found ya", muffled as the words are pressed against his shoulder.

Bakugou's smile grows. Leaning into Kirishima for a beat, he hums, "Wasn't trying very hard to hide", before tapping at the wrist resting on his stomach. "Lemme move. Coffee."

Kirishima shifts the bare minimum to let Bakugou grab the pot. "Mh. For me?"

"No."

A second mug is set next to Bakugou's regardless, though he keeps the best one for himself. "Oi, Shark. This an original?" It must be. The print on it is slightly chipped, the cartoon-ish cat face and lettering — miss boots loves you in, of course, bright fucking red — faded.

Busy nosing the collar of Bakugou's shirt, Kirishima goes, "Hm?", then leans over to look. "Hah! Yeah. Only did one run a'those, had like…" A sudden yawn. Kirishima pats at his own cheek afterwards, trying to wake himself up enough for words.

"Ten…? Yeah, around ten patrons on the merch tier at th'time, so it's like… super limited edition. Made the design myself and everythin'. Why?"

Bakugou smirks, all the more pleased. In the corner of his vision: Kirishima's automatic smile back, squished on one side from propping his cheek on Bakugou's shoulder.

"Still got mine."

(Art by ninja_duelist, posted with permission.)

A gasp. Kirishima's grip on Bakugou tightens, pulling him back a little so their eyes can meet properly. Something akin to wonder shines in Kirishima's. "You kept it? Really? All this time?"

Bakugou scrunches his nose at him. "Yeah? What, you think I go around throwin' away shit I paid good money for? S'my toothbrush holder."

"Woah", goes Kirishima in a reverent whisper, like providing a home for Bakugou's toothbrush is the highest purpose that mug could be serving. "You've really been supporting me since day one, huh?"

Mid-sip, Bakugou chokes on his much-needed caffeine fix, elbowing Kirishima's side when he's stopped coughing. It's only fair, he figures.

"Shut up, ugh, don’t make me sound so sappy. You've been following me for ages too, if you were around when my videos were exactly ten minutes long. Tch, shitty algorithm. So much good material, fucking wasted."

"Ow. Oh yeah! I was there for your first livestream, too. Man, remember that?"

An immediate scowl. "We don't talk about that stream. Fuck that stream."

Any thought about the annoying shitstains in the chat that day has the power to seriously piss Bakugou off all over again. He’d rage-quit after thirty minutes and never went live on his channel again.

Surprisingly, Kirishima frowns right along with him. "I know, right? I got so mad, bro. What kind of idiot doesn't know the retouching won't look right until the final varnish is dry? And then they complained about it taking a long time, which, duh! Of course it does! That’s why the footage is usually sped up. People can be so stupid sometimes, I swear."

It's Bakugou's turn to stare intensely for a bit. A vague memory resurfaces of someone going off in the comments to defend his honor, past vindication and present fondness mixing warmly in his chest.

"...You're fucking perfect, you know that?"

Blinking, Kirishima sputters out, "I… am?", blushing all the brighter at the peck Bakugou gives the corner of his mouth.

"Mmh. Well, no. You sucker-punched me in your sleep, so fuck you, actually. Coffee?"

Kirishima snorts on a laugh, "Oh no, I did?", caught off guard but not enough to miss his cue, gladly taking the drink Bakugou shoves into his hands. Lots of milk, a hint of sugar. Kirishima’s nod of approval after the first sip dips Bakugou’s heart in a subtle kind of joy.

"Didn't even notice! Are you okay? I’m so sorry, m’not used to... y’know. Sharing a bed? And stuff, so just punch me back next time, I definitely deserve it."

Next time. Ignoring the odd giddiness in his gut at dealing with the menace of a sleeping Kirishima again at some future point, Bakugou pushes the other's face and the look of actual guilt on it away with a grumble of, "M’fine. As if I need your permission to kick your ass."

Dropping his phone back in his pocket (which hasn't stopped vibrating every minute or so because his idiots have never been able to take a goddamn hint), he pads across the living room and out onto the patio, a familiar path by now. Behind him, Kirishima greets his fuzzy housemates one by one, petting them and cooing ridiculous variations of their already ridiculous names without shame.

Still, the cats are to remain inside for now, since introducing them to new things is apparently a whole process. Bakugou wouldn't know; the fact that he'll have to follow the rest of that journey from afar doesn't sit as well with him as it did a mere week ago.

It's not news. Even as the co-owner of a studio, a trip like this will have to remain more an exception than the rule, and only because Midoriya was fine with covering for him while he's gone. And Bakugou loves what he does, the purpose that restoring those paintings for generations to come gives him, and that millions of people have glimpsed the same peace in it that he does, even if just for an hour at a time. Loves his life in Kyōto, his dumbass friends and his apartment and every comfortable detail that's precisely how he likes it.

None of that has changed — but Bakugou himself has.

And although he can't be absolutely certain, he hopes Kirishima's outlook on his near future has changed, too.

At least the way he looks at Bakugou is different. Soft as the timid sunlight that adds a touch of gold to the ink-black on Bakugou's arm, propped on the knee he pulled up while the other dangles off the edge of the deck. The dew is gone, and even the remaining chill to this spring morning is chased away by Kirishima's proximity while they enjoy their liquid breakfast together.

Sitting by Bakugou's side, humming a content tune in that deep voice of his, eventually nudging their shoulders together and grinning at him, in exactly that order — and that, right there, is what has Bakugou's resolve wavering.

"Hey, before I forget: Thanks for taking care of food time, man. They didn’t give you any trouble, did they?"

Always worrying. A shake of Bakugou's head. "Nah, all good. Too busy eatin’."

The implicit trust in Kirishima not even questioning whether Bakugou treated the animals he adores so much right, it does something to him. Just like the plain domesticity of waking up with the scent of Kirishima's shampoo in his nose, the two extra spoonfuls of ground coffee he poured into the machine without thinking, the affection that comes so naturally to Kirishima despite most of this being firsts for him, talking about everything and nothing.

Looking away, Bakugou says, "Going back home today", and he can't quite fathom why. So far, they haven’t acknowledged the natural limits to their… whatever they are now.

Kirishima shifts his weight, hums again, pensive. "Yeah. Mission complete, right?" His hands, big yet fine-boned, a delicate balance between strong and elegant, play with the handle of his terribly red mug.

"Really owe you one there. Let me know if there's heavy lifting to be done at your studio or something, I’ll be there. Maybe a piano in need of tuning?"

The melancholy lurking in Kirishima’s voice stains the humor he pushes to the front, the chuckle that follows half-hearted at best. As if that’s all he can contribute to Bakugou’s life past this point, and the notion is so wrong, Bakugou would laugh if it existing in Kirishima's head at all didn't make him so fucking sad.

"Didn’t do it so you’d owe me, Kiri. You don't owe me shit, ever. I just… felt like helping out, I guess."

A soft "Alright", then Kirishima goes quiet. Bakugou looks over at him, watches him search the dregs of his coffee for answers to questions he can't seem to speak aloud. They’ve known of each other for so long, years and years – in this very moment, Bakugou can only think of how much more there is to a person than that.

"The last guy I kissed before you is now my best friend. Kaminari Denki, you’ll meet him in due time, I’m sure."

Setting his mug aside, Bakugou puts his chin in his palm, and glances at Kirishima to make sure he’s paying attention. He is, short red brows scrunched over a gaze drowning in confusion.

"Right before I broke up with him, some eight... No, nine years back. Asshole move on my part, honestly. Wasn't doing well at the time, he was real good about it. But ever since? Nothing. Nobody’s caught my attention like that – until you came along."

Kirishima matches his posture, tilts his head at him. A gesture so quintessentially him, Bakugou already kind of misses it regardless of the handful of hours they got left until he has to be at Tokyo Station.

"Um. Okay? Please don't say you're breaking up with me. I love kissing you but if that's the price, then—"

That has Bakugou laughing after all, because what the fuck, Eijirou?

"Nah, you shitty-haired fool, I’m saying I don’t half-ass fuckin’ anything. This kinda shit means something to me. So you can shove those puppy eyes of yours up your ass, get your head out of there while you're at it, and be my boyfriend — or you can shoot me down. Either way, get yourself some goddamn standards. You're worth so much more than the stuff you can do for people, who the fuck even—"

Genuinely on the cusp of a heated rant, Bakugou has to clench his jaw and take a deep breath to stop himself. His hands automatically ball into fists, then relax again, over and over until the urge to punch something — preferably whoever made Kirishima think that of himself — lessens.

…Does Bakugou come across as that shallow?

Swallowing, he rasps out: "It's… It's fucked up. You deserve better."

Suddenly, a hand hovers over his arm, close enough Bakugou can feel the heat radiating off the palm. Whenever he gets this tense, he fucking hates physical contact of any kind, no matter how well-intentioned or familiar, yet…

Kirishima stopped just shy of actual touch. He's giving him a choice in the matter.

Bakugou shuffles away a bit, only to grit his teeth and snatch up that big-delicate hand, trying to measure the force with which he squeezes it.

"Shit. Sorry."

If it's too hard, Kirishima doesn't mention it, squeezing back. "No, please. Don't apologize, Dyna, you're right. I didn't even think of how that sounds, what it… implies. About you. And… us."

Kirishima's thumb rubs over Bakugou's knuckles, smooth where he is rough. That expression is back on Kirishima's face, eyes full of emotion. Looking at Bakugou like he's precious, and Bakugou clings to his every word, the taste of hope bursting so sweetly on his tongue.

"'Cause I'd really like that. To be together, I mean. It honestly still blows my mind this is real, y'know? That you're here, and that this past week happened at all. I want you around all the time, like, I'd be so honored to meet your friends— Wait, is that weird to say about your ex? Or…" Kirishima trails off, biting his lip.

"Denki's a fucking idiot and makes jokes about it all the time, you're good", Bakugou cuts in, adding a rushed "Go on" before Kirishima can get distracted about squad logistics.

(Oh, they're bound to lose their absolute shit over him dating again, but that's a concern for Future Bakugou. Plus, he trusts them with his life and Kirishima is an absolute delight, so it'll all work out.)

Judging by how Kirishima continues to chew on his bottom lip, there's something else bothering him. Bakugou tries not to fidget in place. Patience. Patience.

"I don't know how to word this, but I don't wanna not say it either, so you'll have to bear with me, 'kay? Fuck, Katsuki, all I've been able to think about is when we can meet again after this, how we can make the distance work. I wanna go to Kyōto so bad, I wanna see your studio and the lunch break park and that café you told me about with the kickass everything bagels and ask Midoriya for embarrassing stories from when you were a kid—"

"I'd murder first him, then you, violently, but whatever."

"—'cause I wanna be there for you. All of this means a lot to me, too. More than I can express. But that's the thing: I can't travel much. If Mina or T stays here full-time, maybe a weekend every few months, tops. You got your life too, and I'd hate for us to default to you making the trip over and over so we can see each other…"

Bakugou's resolve to hear him out folds at the glint of tears shining in Kirishima's eyes. "Eijirou. Hey." Cupping his jaw between his palms, Bakugou rubs his thumbs over the wet tracks sliding down his cheeks, shushing his apologies.

"Listen to me. We'll figure it out. Okay? I thought about it too and yeah, the distance will probably suck, doesn't mean everything else has to. We can call, stream bad action movies together, you can keep DMing me a thousand stupid pictures a day, it ain't impossible. We managed before, hm?"

"That was before I knew what spooning feels like", grumbles Kirishima, the upward twitch to his lips revealing the joke amidst continued sniffling. Bakugou rests his forehead against Kirishima's, humming as Kirishima rubs their noses together in return.

"My spooning game is pretty great."

"Mhm. And the kisses. What about those?"

"Told ya, I'll kiss you as much as you like. We'll just have to save 'em up and turn into one of those obnoxious couples that make out at the train station, I guess."

A beat. They crack up at the same time, the mental image of their respective friends' reactions to that equally amusing. Into Kirishima's chortling — yes, he chortles over Bakugou's dumbest jokes, it's great — Bakugou kisses him once, twice, craving to feel that smile against his lips.

"We'll figure it out. We're both too fucking stubborn not to. Got that, boyfriend?"

Nodding, Kirishima hugs him close, the rib-crushing brand of embrace Bakugou not-so-secretly enjoys the most.

It's the same one they share later that day, hair blowing every which way as the Shinkansen carries a gust of wind into the station. When they pull away, Kirishima's eyes aren't the only ones red and wet; he's kind enough not to point it out.

"Take care of my boys for me, Shark", Bakugou tells him with a valiant grin, messing up Kirishima's spikes even more just because he can.

"I'll send you an annoying amount of cat videos", Kirishima snarks back, handing him his luggage but not without sneaking in a squeeze to his wrist. "Text me when you get home?"

Bakugou shakes his head, heart softening at the way Kirishima's entire expression dims. This ridiculous, ridiculous man.

"Nah, dumbass, I'll call you."

*

Chapter Text

Hey there everyone!

Jess here. Step by step, I've been wrapping up and archiving my work for the BNHA fandom, and I knew posting a little update like this one would be a part of that.

Let me make it quick: I won't be finishing press play. After three years of intense KRBK brainrot, my writing brain has decided to turn its attention elsewhere and I sadly wasn't fast enough in finishing this story to spare it this fate. I promised myself long ago that I won't write out of obligation, even if letting go hurts with a story I put so much love and careful detail into... I am happy, however, that I got most of the story out there for y'all to read and that it isn't too bad a cliffhanger I'm leaving you with. I hope you understand, dear reader, and that you'll remember this fic fondly regardless!

(And who knows? Perhaps someday, I can come back and complete it. No promises, though!)

For now, I have two little goodies for you:

(1) I commissioned more art for this story by holundera! It was originally meant for the next chapter, but it refers to a scene that already happened, so I decided to upload it there instead. Check out the end of Chapter 3: chorus to see Bakugou's sketch of Kirishima playing piano for Shy Guy!

(2) For those curious to know how it would have ended, here are my notes for the last two chapters, chorus II and outro:

• Kirishima finds the aforementioned sketch Bakugou drew of him stuck to his fridge a few hours after he left and calls him in tears, swearing he will find the nicest frame for it.
• Bakugou & Kirishima spend weeks texting back and forth, enjoying the aftermath of their collab going online and their respective fanbases losing their minds. Kirishima convinces Bakugou to make a public-facing Instagram so he can tag him in his stories and continues composing songs for Bakugou's channel, while Bakugou popularizes Kirishima's cat shelter via charity streams and such on YouTube.
• Still, their time apart is hard. Bakugou's 30th birthday is coming up and it's unlikely Kirishima will get the time off to come visit, so they make plans to spend parts of it together online before Bakugou sets off on his annual mountain hike for Golden Week.
• Little does Bakugou know that Mina helped Kirishima get in contact with Kaminari and the rest of the artist gang. Together with Tetsutetsu to take care of the cat shelter and Midoriya as their man on the ground in the studio, they plan to remodel it for the cats while Bakugou is away, with Kirishima driving Bastard and Dynamite to Kyoto and welcoming him (and the cats!) home.
• Yes, Bakugou jumps into Kirishima's arms when he sees him and tries very hard to hide the happy tears with lots of yelling. Kirishima gets to ask his 1000 questions about Bakugou’s work and nerds out over every painting he recognizes.
• Yes, they go on a really sweet date by the end of which Kirishima gives Bakugou his personal present: An old school MP3 player full of songs he recorded for him (including an acoustic rendition of I'm Alive by Disturbed because of course our man hasn't forgotten 😌). Kirishima is really shy about his singing voice,* but seeing Bakugou's reaction makes it all worth it <3
• The epilogue finds them in Kirishima's house in Tokyo a handful of years later, now co-owned by him and Bakugou and expanded with a brand-new art restoration studio for Bakugou. Letting go of Yagi’s studio and giving his share to Deku helped him finally process his grief and survivor’s guilt over the car accident; as sole owner to Twin Stars, Deku uses the extra space to train apprentices (which Bakugou helps him with, from time to time). Kirishima shows up on Bakugou's channel all the time and vice versa, with their fans eventually clueing into the fact they got sneakily married somewhere down the road.

(* An extra nerdy fun fact about this fic: I picked Disturbed because I imagine Kirishima's singing voice to be similar to David Draiman's, which meant I was listening to Disturbed's rendition of The Sound of Silence a crazy amount while writing this story. The more you know!)

…Or something like that! The end product always ends up different than what was planned and as you can see, I had quite a lot of fluffy ground to cover for the last chunk of the story, hehe. Love me some supportive Bakusquad, finally reunited as they belong <3 

In any case: Thanks for reading and have a wonderful 2024, everyone!