Chapter Text
The initial thoughts that cross Eijirou’s mind as he comes to are indiscernible.
They zip and dart throughout his synapses, firing off confusing signals that leave him floundering in a vague sense of puzzlement. Frankly, his brain feels like a soupy mess of smells and sounds and emotions, punctuated by a throbbing undercurrent of ow, ow and ow .
His head hurts. His neck hurts. His back hurts. His limbs hurt. His eyes hurt, even though they’re firmly closed. He aches from the top of his head right down to the tips of his toes. The only thing that isn’t hugely unpleasant about his current predicament is a comforting, warm weight against his left forearm.
‘Man,’ he thinks, despite his thoughts still swirling in dizzying patterns. ‘Did I go too hard in training today?’
“Oi.”
The sudden noise cuts through the roiling treacle in Eijirou’s mind. What was—
“ Oi. You with me, Shitty Hair?”
Huh. Come to think of it, that sounds an awful lot like—
“Bakugou?” he says aloud. Well, with his tongue reduced to a thick, lolling appendage in his mouth, it sounds more like ‘Baahhgguuggohhh?’, but hey, his mamas didn’t raise a quitter.
“Fuckin’— are you okay?”
Eijirou smiles serenely to himself, eyes still shut. Man, Bakugou’s such a good bro. The best bro. The bestest bro. Sure, he uses four letter words like they're disposable currency, he screams if anyone steals his leftovers from the fridge and he once got close to smothering Kaminari to death with a cushion after he blue shelled him in Mario Kart. But he’s also got deep red eyes that sparkle whenever Eijirou compliments his cooking, and manly hands that look so powerful and strong whenever they spar, and soft blonde hair that, when caught in the light, looks like it’s made from strands of the sun itself, particularly when they’re both up at the crack of dawn and it’s all mussed and cute—
“Jesus, Kirishima, there are other people here.”
Wait . Did he say that all out loud?
Eijirou finally finds the strength to crack his eyes open. The blue sky above him is so blinding that he almost closes them again, only deterred by the realisation that he must be outdoors.
‘Did I fall asleep on the grass again?’ he wonders.
“We’re laid out on the sidewalk, you idiot. Now sit the fuck up, or so help me All Might I’ll drag you up myself.”
Firstly, Eijirou curses his brain-to-mouth filter (or lack thereof) for betraying him once again. Then he notes that, yes, the surface beneath his prone body is far too hard and rough to be anything but concrete.
“Why did I take a nap here?” he mumbles.
“Oh my god,” Bakugou breathes, his voice becoming more distinct the more Eijirou’s head clears. “Oh my god, you’re brainless. We were on patrol together, remember? Our work study agencies were on a team-up mission today, which is why we got dragged into this shitty mess.”
The words patrol and mission snap into place in Eijirou’s mind as his memories filter back. “Ohhhh yeah,” he hums, blinking up at the clouds. “A burglary syndicate bust, yah?”
“Aaaaand he remembers.”
“Don’t be mean,” Eijirou whines, gathering the strength to sit up. “What happened? ’S Fat Gum alright?”
“He’s fine. So’s everyone else in both our agencies that took part in the mission.” There’s a pause. A quick, sharp intake of air. The kind of breaths that Bakugou takes when he’s distinctly aggravated about something. “Of course , we were the only ones hurt.”
Images flash through Eijirou’s mind. A twisted grin. A hand extended towards him.
A cry of his name. A palm in his, yanking him to the side.
A flash of light.
A—
“What?” Eijirou says, attempting sluggishly to sit up. “What happened to—“
As he shifts his left arm to rest in his lap so he can prop himself up on his right forearm, the weight that was against it follows too. There’s a startled yelp and suddenly Bakugou Katsuki comes into view, yanked so hard he falls directly into Eijirou’s lap.
“For fuck’s sake ,” Bakugou groans, twisting his head to glare up at him. “Do you fuckin’ mind?!”
Eijirou blinks stupidly down at the blonde sprawled across his lap. Feels his cheeks reddening rapidly.
“U-uh,” he stammers. “Whatcha doin’ down there, bro?”
Bakugou stares at Eijirou like he’s just said the Earth is flat, or that dogs should be able to vote, or something else that’s just as dumb. “For once in your miserable life, put that pea brain you’ve got rattling around in there to use,” he hisses. “Remember the file on the syndicate members’ quirks we all had to read?”
“Uhhhhhhhh, oh wait!” Eijirou says quickly. “Yeah, I remember! There was the lady who could produce a slime trail like a slug, which is kinda nasty, then her sister who could create nonliving objects out of a salt-like mineral, then that dude with the needle fingers, then the one who could create a spontaneous adhesive which is activated between targets via skin-to-skin contact, then the guy with the cool goat legs, and… and…”
Eijirou trails off at Bakugou’s expression.
“What?” he says. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”
Wordlessly, Bakugou raises his right arm. Eijirou’s left arm rises with it.
Eijirou gapes at their conjoined appendages. How their limbs firmly connect from the elbow onwards, their hands clasping and fingers twining together firmly.
He tries to pull his hand free. It doesn’t budge.
He tries to wiggle his fingers loose. They don’t move an inch.
The dots connect.
Eijirou looks Bakugou dead in the eyes. Bakugou stares right back.
“Ah,” Eijirou says solemnly after a moment. “Was it the guy with the goat legs?”
“Kirishima, I swear to—“
“Three days.”
Eijirou’s stomach drops.
Aizawa’s gaze is fixed wearily on the pair of them, an expression on his face that conveys an air of exasperation.
“Come again?” Bakugou hisses, the hand clutched in Eijirou’s shaking with barely concealed rage.
Since becoming aware of his… predicament a couple of hours ago, Eijirou has had the opportunity to learn a few new things about his best bro. Firstly, that his palm really is constantly sweaty. Secondly, that palm is surprisingly soft despite its callouses. Thirdly—
(“Dude, your cuticles are like silk! What kinda nail treatments do you use?”
“Say another word and you’re dead.”)
“Despite some minor bumps in the road, your agencies managed to capture each of the syndicate members,” Aizawa says plainly. “I’ve just received word from Tsukauchi that they’ve interviewed the perp with the quirk in question. Apparently, he can stick two or more targets together using a spontaneous adhesive material that activates once his victims touch. The issue is that, once he’s used it on his targets then he can’t undo it. However, it will wear off on its own after three full days.”
“So you’re telling me,” Bakugou seethes, “That we’re stuck like this for seventy-two hours?!”
Aizawa blithely checks his watch. “It’s more like sixty-nine hours now, actually. The countdown starts at the immediate onset of the quirk.”
“Sixty-nine, seventy-two, I don’t give a shit!” Bakugou spits, tugging his and Eijirou’s hands upwards for dramatic effect. “How the hell are we meant to do our work studies like this?! How are we supposed to do classes or training or—“
“You have both been given leave from your work studies for the duration of the quirk’s effect,” Aizawa interrupts. “Similarly, you’ve both been excused from any practical training exercises in school over the next three days. You’ll still be expected to attend your classroom-based lessons, during which your usual seating plan will be adjusted to accommodate your current circumstances.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I’m not left-handed,” Eijirou muses, grimacing down at his and Bakugou’s joined hands. “Or else I’d really be screwed in class.”
“Like me , you mean?” Bakugou says dangerously.
“I didn’t know you were a leftie, bro!”
“You— I’m not , you monkey’s ass! My right hand is the one that’s stuck!”
“Ohhhhh,” Eijirou says intelligently. “I get it now.”
Bakugou pulls a confusing face at that, something between a sneer and genuine, wide-eyed disbelief. Eijirou feels a little offended at that— it’s not like he’s stupid , thank you very—
“You’re stupid,” Bakugou says.
“Hey!” Eijirou chokes. “Are you really gonna be like this? In case you hadn’t realised, we’re gonna be stuck together like this for three more days!”
“I know, genius.”
“Wait,” Eijirou says suddenly, his blood running cold as a disconcerting thought flashes through his mind. “Sensei— what are we gonna do if we need to, like, go to bed? O-or shower, or something?”
Apparently the thought hadn’t yet crossed Bakugou’s mind, judging by how rapidly his face blanches. They both turn to look at their teacher, the abject horror on their faces seemingly evident as Aizawa clearly tries (and fails) to school his expression.
“That’s for the pair of you to figure out,” he says with finality. AKA, ‘for the love of god don’t get me any more involved in this clusterfuck of a situation than I already have to be.’
“You’re fucking kidding,” Bakugou says hollowly. “And you really can’t do shit about this? Can’t Recovery Girl, I dunno, unstick us or something?”
“Yeah!” Eijirou agrees, looking at Aizawa pleadingly. “C’mon, sensei! There’s gotta be something!”
“The adhesive keeping you both attached is, quite literally, impenetrable ,” Aizawa sighs. “They’ve run tests on previous victims of this guy’s quirk in the past. Nothing works, not even the sharpest blades made out of the most resilient metals. The only thing that’ll fix this is time and patience.”
Eijirou slumps back into his chair, feeling like the wind’s been knocked out of him.
This. This.
Is now, officially, an unmitigated disaster .
Not only has he been stuck to a certain individual— against his will— for the next three days—
Not only does he have to be present for that certain individual’s most private moments, and vice versa—
Not only is this certain individual the recipient of a certain fucking massive and pathetically obvious crush that Eijirou has harboured for almost two years now—
Not only that —
But—
Shit.
“Bro,” Eijirou says hoarsely. “How the heck are we gonna pee?”
It’s at this moment that Aizawa, finally, tiredly, puts his face in his hands and speaks no more.
Being stuck holding your best bro’s hand apparently doesn’t do much to elicit sympathy from your nearest and dearest.
When Eijirou and Bakugou had first entered the common room of the dorms, their hands clenched tight and their faces the colour of beetroot, Kaminari had taken one look at them and immediately burst out laughing.
(“Oh my god!” he wheezed, clutching his stomach and pointing a shaky finger at them, “Oh my fucking god!! I didn’t believe Todoroki when he told us, but it’s true! I can’t believe it!!”
“He what?!” Bakugou barked, his murderous gaze flitting around the room dangerously. “That gossipy fuck! Where is he, the ugly little slimeball?! I’m gonna gut his ass!!”
“I think he’s gone up to his dorm room,” Sero called from the couches, his face hidden by his Nintendo Switch. “Said it was time to prune his bonsai. He also said not to bother interrupting him, Bakugou, ‘cause he’ll just freeze his door shut.”
“Like I give a shit!” Bakugou yelled, darting around and steamrolling his way to the stairwell. “Hurry the fuck up, Kirishima, we’re gonna murder his ass!!”
“Bakugou, man, cool it! You’re gonna yank my arm out!”
“Then don’t drag your fucking feet!”)
Eijirou just about manages to save Todoroki’s life by digging his heels into the carpet (feet hardened) and refusing to let Bakugou turn him into an accomplice to murder. The blonde, apparently not willing to risk the structural integrity of the corridor walls just so he could scorch Todoroki’s ass, mercifully (and very reluctantly) backs down.
Once Todoroki’s safety is ensured (for now), Eijirou suggests that they go and eat, since he’s at a loss of anything else to say (and certainly doesn’t want to tackle the bathroom problem just yet). As soon as they reach the kitchen and begin the logistics of actually cooking, Eijirou wishes he’d never opened his big mouth.
“Is this the right one?” he asks, pulling out the chopping board from inside the cupboard.
“For the last time,” Bakugou seethes. “Red is for meat . Green is for vegetables.”
“Oh.” Eijirou peers at the flimsy red chopping board clutched in his free hand. “So I can’t chop carrots on this?”
“Fuckin’— give me that.”
When the correct board has been assigned, Eijirou is then faced with the deceptively simple task of actually chopping. He’s always thought of himself as perfectly competent in the kitchen— after all, he knows how to boil an egg, how to not burn toast (most of the time) and how to push the button on the microwave. It’s not his fault that Bakugou apparently has obscenely high standards when it comes to things like chopping carrots in even shapes.
“Look, do you wanna do this?” Eijirou grumbles eventually, after the hundredth time of Bakugou telling him how ‘grossly appalling’ his chopping skills were. “‘Cause I hate to say it, but you’re kinda getting on my nerves now bro.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, my dominant hand is otherwise engaged right now,” Bakugou snarls, shaking their joined palms for emphasis. “Do you want me slicing my pinkie off?”
“Why don’t we just order takeout?” Eijirou suggests, a headache steadily forming behind his eyes.
Bakugou looks at him like he’s just suggested that they slap his grandmother, or that lizard people rigged the last election.
“That,” he breathes, “Is not in my meal plan.”
(It takes exactly sixteen minutes and thirty-four seconds for Eijirou to chop a single carrot to Bakugou’s meticulous standards. It’s another hour and two minutes until he’s diced two potatoes, an onion and a couple of chicken breasts to a similar degree of satisfaction. It is two aching eardrums and a splitting headache later that he finally consumes his meal).
Blessedly, neither Eijirou nor Bakugou have any homework to do tonight. Bakugou had forced Eijirou to finish his art history essay the evening before and, as such, had been the recipient of various whines and grumbles. Now, though, it’s somewhat of a relief not to have any other stresses on his mind when, thanks to some asshat with a freaky quirk, even the most mundane nightly activities have been transformed into a hellish nightmare.
Exhibit A:
“So I’ll just stand out here?” Eijirou calls with uncertainty, his arm pulled behind him in a wildly uncomfortable position so that it disappears behind the shower curtain. “And you’ll shout when it’s my time to go in?”
“’S what I fuckin’ said,” comes Bakugou’s moody grumble from within. “Are you done? Can I shower now?”
“I’m not stopping you,” Eijirou mumbles, cheeks flushing. Bakugou must take what he says as approval, because the water turns on a moment later.
It’s a weird experience, having your arm get soaked and not any other part of you. His hand gets tugged this way and that way, meaning that Eijirou keeps having to twist round in his position to avoid even more discomfort. The towel around his waist keeps slipping every time he moves, meaning he keeps having to hoik it up and wrap it round tighter with just one hand.
There’s a clattering within the shower cubicle, followed by a loud curse.
“You okay in there?” Eijirou calls.
Bakugou’s response is a garbling mess, drowned out by the falling water.
“Uhh,” Eijirou says, “Could you repeat that?”
“I said,” Bakugou shouts, frustration colouring his tone, “I dropped my fucking conditioner!”
Huh. Bakugou uses conditioner.
“So that’s why your hair’s so silky smooth!” Eijirou realises excitedly.
“You don’t use it?!”
“Nah. Never felt the need to.”
“You attack your hair with goddamn chemicals every three weeks!”
Eijirou finds himself on the receiving end of a tirade on the importance of proper hair care and the dangers of over-excessive bleach use after that. Coincidentally, it’s also at that point Eijirou remembers (perhaps too late) that Bakugou’s mother is a professional hair stylist.
(The water runs cold by the time Bakugou’s finished his lecture. Even with one hand out of commission, Eijirou still manages to take the quickest shower of his life).
Exhibit B:
“You sure you can brush your teeth like that?” Eijirou says doubtfully, looking pointedly at the electric toothbrush clutched in Bakugou’s free hand.
Bakugou wrinkles his nose in disdain. “It ain’t rocket science, Kirishima.”
(Something warms in Eijirou’s belly at that. Despite the abrasive tone, despite the blunt words, despite the twisted expression on his face— Bakugou Katsuki rarely calls anyone by their actual name. Eijirou can’t help but notice how few exceptions there are to this rule— All Might, of course. Aizawa, if Bakugou’s addressing him in person.
And, well… him ).
“So how are we gonna do this?” Eijirou wonders aloud. “Which of us dispenses toothpaste?”
Wordlessly, Bakugou snatches the tube off the counter before Eijirou can even lay his eyes on it. “I can fuckin’ handle it,” he mutters, laying his toothbrush next to the sink.
Now, Bakugou’s toothbrush is one of those fancy electric models. Great for oral hygiene, Eijirou supposes (with the rate his razor-sharp teeth get through toothbrushes, it would be a waste of money to invest in one), but also more sleek and circular.
All in all, it quickly becomes apparent that Bakugou’s struggling to keep his toothbrush balanced enough to apply the toothpaste without it simply rolling over.
“Son of a… fuckin’… c’mon, just stay there you piece of…”
“How about,” Eijirou interjects, after several agonisingly long moments of Bakugou’s struggles and muttered expletives, “You hold it steady and I squeeze the toothpaste on? It’ll be way quicker ’n easier for us both.”
Bakugou’s face twists as several emotions cross it at once, all of which Eijirou is way too tired to identify at this precise moment. It’s not long, however, before he gives a harsh nod.
Eijirou grabs the toothpaste with his free hand. Bakugou holds his toothbrush steady as the paste is squeezed on it evenly.
“See?” Eijirou beams. “That wasn’t so bad!”
Bakugou stares down at his toothbrush, his expression still doing that weird, twisted thing. Eijirou figures he probably won’t speak again, now— he’s known him long enough now to be intimately familiar with his best friend’s difficulty in expressing himself, particularly when more positive emotions are involved. So he shrugs good-naturedly, and reaches for his own toothbrush, ready to begin his own fumble.
Except the object is snatched away before he can reach it. Eijirou turns to look at Bakugou, who now is apparently holding his toothbrush hostage.
“Like you can do it with one hand, either,” Bakugou scoffs. He balances Eijirou’s toothbrush with his free hand, like they did with his just moments ago. He gives the redhead a pointed look, one immaculate eyebrow raised in expectation.
“R-right!” Eijirou fumbles after a moment, “Yeah, thanks bro!”
(“Of course,” Bakugou says quietly, so quiet that Eijirou doesn’t hear him.
Anytime, Bakugou thinks, the word crushed into silence by a cowardly heart.
For you. Anytime).
Exhibit C:
“… I gotta be honest, man. I dunno how we’re gonna do this.”
“We can’t not do it, genius."
“I know, but—“
“But, what?”
“Well… ’s gonna be embarrassing, dude.”
“Kirishima, we’re gonna be stuck like this for three more days . If you think you can hold it in that long then great, good for you, give yourself a fucking gold star. But it’s been a fucking long day, I’m tired as fuck and I. Need. To. Piss.”
“Okay, okay, jeez! I didn’t say you couldn’t!”
“Amazing.”
“It’s fine. It’s a bodily function. ‘M not, like the… the pee police.”
“...”
“... I should stop talking.”
“That’d be great, thanks. Turn around if you’re so embarrassed. I literally could not give a shit anymore.”
“Okay. Okay, yeah, fine.”
“Thank fuck.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. It’s nothing, right? Nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“… Wow. You really did need to go.”
“Say your prayers.”
Surprisingly, Bakugou doesn’t kick up much of a fuss when Eijirou suggests they sleep in his room tonight.
“I’ve got that extra futon in my room,” Eijirou reasons. “And it’d be a pain to drag it round to your dorm when we’ve only got two hands between us. All I gotta do is make sure I sleep on my front ’n it’ll be easy.”
Bakugou sniffs and mumbles something (presumably rude) under his breath, but obliges faster than Eijirou had expected.
After spending a few awkward, stilted minutes manoeuvring out of their school uniforms and into their sleep clothes, the pair set up the futon on the floor (after a few dirty socks were slyly kicked out of view) right next to Eijirou’s bed.
“Lemme know if you get uncomfortable during the night,” Eijirou says for the umpteenth time as he clambers onto his bed.
Bakugou snorts, leaning on his free forearm. “It’s your room, asshole. I’m not gonna just steal your bed from you.”
“Nahhh, it’s cool,” Eijirou smiles, wiggling down under his sheets. “‘Mi casa es su casa’, and all that.”
“I’m amazed you know Spanish.”
“I thought that was French?”
“How can you be so fucking—“ Bakugou hesitates when he catches the mischievous grin on Eijirou’s face. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m kinda hurt you thought I was that dumb.”
“You haven’t exactly proved me wrong these past few years.”
“Oh, ha ha. Very funny.”
“I’m dead serious.”
“‘Course you are,” Eijirou snorts, leaning over to switch his lamp off. “You set your alarm, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. At least it’s unlikely I’ll sleep in tomorrow,” Eijirou yawns. “‘Night, Bakugou. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
There’s no answer from Bakugou, but Eijirou doesn’t really expect one. He snuggles as much as he can against his mattress, then shuts his eyes and breathes in deeply.
The darkness settles, filling the air around them with the serene kind of emptiness that occurs when the world lulls itself into a nighttime trance.
Eijirou usually falls asleep pretty easily, but tonight is a little tricky. He normally sleeps on his back, but with his left arm having to hang over the edge of his bed at a somewhat awkward angle he’s had to make do on his front. It’s a little uncomfortable, honestly— his face is squished against his mattress, the material pressed against his nose and mouth and making him much too aware of how easily his breathing could be obstructed if he rolled over a little more. That, and he’s not used to being unable to splay all his limbs out like a starfish against his mattress. Judging by how Bakugou continuously squirms on his futon and jolts their conjoined hands, Eijirou isn’t the only one suffering tonight.
He must drift off eventually, because suddenly he’s being jerked awake as something jostles his arm.
There’s nothing for a few moments, and Eijirou begins to wonder if perhaps he’d imagined it. But then there’s a tug on his hand, just enough to yank his arm uncomfortably, followed by a quiet, high-pitched sound.
Almost like a whimper.
“Bakugou?” Eijirou whispers into the darkness, voice thick with sleep. “Are you okay, man?”
When there’s no reply, he reaches over to his bedside lamp and flips the switch. Bakugou is dead asleep on the futon below him, the blankets tangled with his legs. Like his slumber has been restless, punctuated by throes of tossing and turning.
Bakugou’s eyebrows scrunch into a little frown. He murmurs something.
“Bakugou,” Eijirou says a little louder.
He hesitates.
Bakugou tosses in his sleep, tugging Eijirou’s hand as he does.
He murmurs.
His expression twists into something painful.
Eijirou’s heart aches.
Carefully, quietly, he slips out from under his covers and climbs off his bed, coming into a low crouch next to Bakugou’s futon.
“Bakugou,” he whispers, slowly reaching his free hand down. He holds it in midair before he actually touches him, so his palm feels the ghosts of his friend’s short breaths. “Bakugou.”
Bakugou’s expression contorts. His breath hitches.
A long, low whine.
Eijirou doesn’t know why he does it. Can’t rationalise what makes him do what he does next.
Could never, ever, know what it is that moves him to cup his best friend’s cheek so tenderly.
What it is that convinces him to lean in close, so close.
Why it is that he murmurs–
“It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Bakugou lets out a throaty, keening sound. Tosses his head to the side.
“It’s just a dream. You’ll be okay.”
A shudder.
“I’m here.”
A gasp, choked and vulnerable.
“I’m here.”
Eijirou doesn’t count the seconds it takes for Bakugou to wake.
Doesn’t count the breaths that rattle his chest, in and out, in and out, in and out.
All he knows is that one moment he’s whispering comforting nonsense to a boy trapped in the clutches of his dreams, and the next–
Bakugou’s eyes fly open–
He lurches forward–
and Eijirou’s there.
There to squeeze the hand stuck in his gently, a tentative signal that they’re both anchored back in reality.
There to carefully reach his free hand towards Bakugou, emboldened to rest it on his exposed shoulder when there’s no flinch at its approach.
There to say-
“You’re alright.”
Bakugou’s wide eyes flit towards his face.
His mouth opens. Closes.
“You’re alright, Bakugou.”
Every inch of him shakes.
Eijirou isn’t thinking a whole lot of anything at this moment, but he is feeling.
Feels the warmth of their joined palms.
Feels the tremor of the shoulder beneath his other hand.
Feels what it is he must do.
He takes their joined hands–
(like he’s holding the measure of the world in the space where they connect)
– and holds them against his chest, right above his heart.
“You feel that?” he whispers. “That’s real. That’s here.”
Bakugou’s eyes never leave him.
Eijirou sucks in a breath. Bakugou follows.
They exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale…
They don’t really speak. They don’t need to.
Once Bakugou’s breathing has settled, once the tremors have stilled–
Once he’s squeezed Eijirou’s hand, the one held above his heart–
Once he’s shifted to lay back down on his futon, only to be stopped by a gentle tug where their hands meet–
They stare at each other.
Though their conversation is wordless, its meaning runs clearer than the waters of a mountain stream.
And if Bakugou gets shakily to his feet and allows himself to be coaxed into Eijirou’s bed–
If they lie face-to-face, nose-to-nose, breath-to-breath–
If they bask in one another’s presence, one another’s safety—
If Bakugou finally lets his eyelids slip closed, lulled not beneath murky waters but a steady, peaceful tide–
Then nobody knows but them.
Eijirou closes his eyes–
He feels the hand in his, so warm, so soft –
He smiles to himself, softly.
(How can he not?)
For the first time since their baffling ordeal began, Eijirou feels gratitude.
And it is with a grateful heart that he, too, succumbs to slumber.