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Bakugou cries when he’s angry. Feeling so much, so intensely, too-strong emotions itching beneath his skin and leaving his nerves raw, tender-red. Exposed. The tears are in the way, his throat too swollen to speak his mind or scream his rage to the world and properly get it out of his system.
The automatic sympathy he receives in return burns. Every fucking time.
But that isn’t the worst part.
Kirishima is aware Bakugou struggles with it. Hates it, even: Crying in front of people, being forced to acknowledge the bare flesh under nigh-impenetrable armor, the soft underbelly no one should ever know exists. Has seen him swallow down pain and frustration and heartbreak, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth to stop himself from boiling over.
It seems like a pointless effort, at times, to fight his own body like that. For one, because crying isn’t weak, at least not in Kirishima’s books, and if Bakugou is craving a good cry then he should simply get to have one (and Kirishima will join him, sympathetic crier that he is). Two, because the tears end up falling anyway.
Yet Bakugou always tries. Always struggles.
Until the realization dawns on Kirishima that the tears themselves aren’t the problem.
All it takes is a truly shitty day at school and a misfire. Bakugou’s alarm didn’t ring, his coffee came out burnt, his homework abandoned atop his dorm room desk in his haste to get to class on time and yeah, Aizawa is letting him submit it late, but still.
Perfect streak ‘fucking ruined’, to quote the man himself. Kirishima winced at how hard Bakugou kicked his chair afterwards, pretty sure he must've hurt a toe or two there.
Little by little, he has watched the tension ramp up since, all throughout a lunch that didn’t feature the exact flavor of fruit pouch Bakugou likes — apple, Kirishima's brain readily supplies — and a Physics assignment so tough, even the most brilliant minds in class couldn’t make sense of it first-try, Bakugou included.
By the time Heroics comes around, Kirishima is trying to find the perfect combination of humor and the personal misfortune of others (also known as gossip) to cheer Bakugou up, or at least distract him enough to lose some of that perpetual frown.
It works, sort of. Bakugou scoffs, a roll of his eyes quick to follow, and it's not a bad scoff so he must've found the info Kirishima painstakingly acquired from Ashido somewhat interesting. They get paired up for quirk enhancement training, hardening against explosions, which never fails to count as a positive on both their ends. Bakugou seems to relax a little more at the prospect of letting loose on his unbreakable best friend.
And then he misses his AP shot.
By a lot.
By so much, Kirishima freezes in his tracks, completely caught off guard before whipping his head towards the yelp of Kaminari behind him going "Excuse you, Blasty!" at the unexpectedly near boom! and resulting spray of debris.
Finally: A shaky inhale. A sniffle.
The instinctive question of "You good, bro?" gets stuck in Kirishima’s lungs at the dropping-gut-sight of his other bro, his best bro, hitting his limit. Bakugou stands there with his hands still outstretched, still smoking, eyes moist and pressed-together lips wobbling and—
"Oh no", mutters Kirishima, the corners of his own vision immediately blurring as well.
Yes, crying is manly — but so far he hasn't managed to convince Bakugou of that and the gym is a very public space. "Baku", Kirishima starts, uncertain where he’s headed with it yet unable to listen to the wordless whine bubbling up in Bakugou’s throat and not do something about it.
"Don't w-worry 'bout it, let’s go another round, yeah? Second time’s the charm, c’mon!"
Those words and the teary-eyed grin they're said with seem to be the last straw for Bakugou.
Something behind the liquid red of his gaze crumbles, teeth grinding — pointless, pointless — and hands shaking as he presses the backs of his wrists to his face and bites out a sob. The gesture is strange, odd-looking and uncomfortable despite clearly being second nature. An attempt to hide. Kirishima staggers towards him, melting the distance with every atom of himself needing to soothe, comfort, protect.
Bakugou’s shoulders shake. His hands spark, residue nitroglycerine igniting in stuttering pops and crackles.
Another whine, even more miserable. It doesn’t take that humiliated noise for Kirishima to get it. The way Bakugou curls in on himself, palms still held in that unnatural position away from himself, out of control—
To understand that Bakugou doesn't have a choice once he loses the battle against his emotions.
Around them, people are asking what’s going on. Classmates interrupt their own training to look and fuss. Kaminari’s voice, now devoid of annoyance and shockingly worried: "I’m alright, dude, I’m not hurt!", a little helpless and frantic himself.
Without turning away, Kirishima motions for the others to stop. Leave. Don't stare. This isn't something Bakugou wanted any of them to see.
Walking closer, closer to where Bakugou is shivering in place, the heat of those mangled explosions registers less and less on Kirishima’s skin as it grows thicker, rougher.
"It’s okay. It’s just me."
Bakugou’s breathing hitches, wet. Startled. His lids are clenched shut, chin tucked in, like he’s desperately trying to disappear. Quietly, gently, Kirishima takes Bakugou’s wrists in hand, endlessly careful with his claws that can hurt if he so wishes.
(He’d never wish to hurt Bakugou. Not now, not ever.)
Setting Bakugou’s deadly, deadly hands against his hardened chest, he lays his own tenderly above them. Pressing them flat, keeping them there, safe.
"Just me, man. Can't hurt me."
Tears drip, sizzle against white-hot palms; whether they’re Kirishima’s or Bakugou’s doesn’t truly matter. "K-Kiri", Bakugou chokes out, cheeks tinged a blotchy red, that tension riding the cracking edge of his voice. Glancing up, valiantly trying to meet his eyes.
"I’m… I can’t— F-fuck."
Kirishima’s heart aches. He squeezes the back of Bakugou’s hands. "I know." He does. He understands now why Bakugou has fought this so hard before.
"You can let go. It won’t hurt. I’m here."
A moment of hesitation more. Then, fingers curling against Kirishima’s skin, Bakugou leans into him, most of his weight and his forehead too, knocking it against the meat of Kirishima’s shoulder in shuddering relief. Kirishima lets him shift his palms to his waist, softening the rest of his body for him to rest against. Comfortable.
Well, almost.
Arms coming up to and around Bakugou's frame, Kirishima sways them back and forth, humming when Bakugou hiccups and presses further into a hug that hopefully feels as grounding to him as it does to Kirishima.
When, finally, Bakugou gives in and trusts Kirishima to guide him through the storm, so both can come out of it unscathed.
(And he remembers, next time life becomes too much and his heart pounds too loud and that hot rush of emotion wells up within him, that all he has to do is meet Kirishima's gaze across the room for sturdy hands to reach out to him.)