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Kirishima flies on red wings above the bloodied battlefield. Corpses litter the ground. From this height they look like red poppies in a field of trampled earth. Kirishima slips between air currents and drops lower, the better to assess their losses. Miraculously everyone on their side is still standing, some wounded or maimed, but standing nonetheless.
We did it. We won.
Kirishima lets out a bellow and matching gout of flame. His friends and allies cheer. One voice is missing from the choir.
Bakugou …
He scans the masses: skirmishes from stubborn holdouts too proud to surrender, first aid stations for the wounded, the enemy generals taken prisoner and under guard. His dragon eyes can even pick out the flies on a horse’s ass, but not him. Where is he? The battle had been so massive it covered the entire trampled plains, extended into the forest, and up a towering mountain where Shigaraki’s castle stands—a smoking ruin—at the peak.
There! A red cape flutters in a rocky clearing in the forest at the base of the mountain’s cliffs. Izuku runs forward, a moving splash of green amidst the verdure, and catches him.
“Bakugou!” Kirishima roars, knowing it’ll only sound like wordless noise at this distance. Ignoring his own aches, pains, and injuries, he tucks his wings and dives. There isn’t enough room to land where Bakugou is, but he can alight in the river and run through the woods in his human form.
Shifting hurts, as it always does: scales soften and meld into skin, bones and muscles and sinew rearrange themselves. His wings vanish in a cloud of red smoke and draconic magics.
Bakugou’s in safe hands with Midoriya. Collapsing onto a trusted companion is totally normal after battle! Hugging is manly! If he hurries, they can all hug and celebrate together! Because Bakugou’s fine! Everyone else is, so he has to be too!
“Bakugou!” He calls cheerfully; with all the air his pitifully small human lungs can hold. What amazing creatures, to survive with such a handicap.
Kirishima can just catch sight of his friends through the trees. Bakugou’s back is to him and he’s leaning against Midoriya in the center of an empty stone circle near an ancient, broken pillar; a relic to some long-forgotten religion beyond even draconic ken.
“Bakugou!” he hails again. Then, frantic, “Katsuki!”
His weak human ears pick up a choked sob from Midoriya and … nothing.
Kirishima returns to his dragon form before he realizes it. Shrubs and small trees bend and snap beneath his claws. He pounces into the clearing, snarling at the blue clad man who dares touch his king. Bakugou lays in Midoriya’s arms at the center of a growing crimson tide while the man—Tsunagu—frantically stitches skin and raw muscle.
Something’s wrong. Very wrong … too much blood. It’s not his—can’t be his—please.
He curls himself into a tight circle, trying to be as near Bakugou as possible. Izuku raises a tear-streaked face toward him and silently lays Bakugou on him. Like he knows …
Kirishima’s attention is fully on Bakugou. His heart beats … but it’s so faint … weak and struggling, like a baby bird fresh from the egg.
Izuku sobs brokenly. Despite knowing Bakugou only a short while, the peasant hero considers the coarse barbarian king his friend.
He can’t be dying. He can’t! He has to live—to return home and reclaim the throne with his unbreakable dragon at his side! He promised! Kirishima’s thoughts fly in circles like startled bats. He’d slept for a year to recover from the trauma of his branding, and a whole decade to heal his wounds after escaping the fighting arena! Maybe … maybe Bakugou just needed to sleep! Kirishima would wait for him. He could be faithful for a hundred years—for a thousand! He could—he would …
Tears blur his vision. He raises his third eyelids to wipe them away, not wanting to truly blink and miss seeing Bakugou’s last—no—he will survive. He has to!
A noise echoes, through the forest and across the battlegrounds. Belatedly, Kirishima realizes it’s a mournful keen from deep in his own throat. An instinctual dirge. His view narrows to the rise and fall of Bakugou’s broken chest. Black thread under tension crosses it in uneven stitches. He doesn’t know whether to thank or curse Tsunagu; despite his efforts Bakugou still lays dying.
His cry summoned a crowd: the sorceress Ochako, the knight Iida, the cursed prince, even the wandering king. Tsunagu, a great healer and Bakugou’s one-time mentor draws Kirishima’s eyes away from the gaping wound on Bakugou’s chest. He bows low and backs away to stand behind Midoriya.
“This is beyond even my skills.”
Edgeshot, a shinobi Kirishima knows only through reputation, approaches Tsunagu and rubs his shoulder consolingly. “I know much of the human body, being skilled in the arts of destroying it … this is beyond any human ability to repair.” Edgeshot remains behind Izuku, because few dare approach a dragon—even one as young as Kirishima—and speaks, “Lord Kirishima, only you can save him. There is a way. The draconic heart holds much power.”
Kirishima remembers the tales from before the fighting pits, when he was an egg-wet hatchling surrounded by dozens of kin. The legend of the Dragon’s Heart … when shared it could—he could—
“I can’t! It’s forbidden.”
Izuku, unaware of the specifics, begs, “It’s the only way. Save him. Please, Eijirou, you’re the only one who can.” Fat tears roll down his round freckled cheeks.
“The last time a dragon shared his heart … it ended in great tragedy. It’s why we have the taboo in the first place. I … I can’t.”
Edgeshot falls to the ground, bowing, and protests, “The reason it failed is the human was not pure of heart.”
Jeanist remains calm—only because he’s seen more deaths than sunrises in his life—and speaks, chastising Kirishima, “Do you believe in Bakugou? Do you trust him? Is he worthy?”
Izuku sobs brokenly, with his friends gathered at his side.
This is the closest this many humans have ever come to Kirishima without fear, all because of Bakugou. Mentally he’s panicking. Of course he does—trust and believe in Bakugou, that is. Of course Bakugou’s worthy of living, but this is his life force! His life! This is dooming Bakugou to eternal life—dragons are incredibly long lived. A life so long would corrupt most other creatures. Bakugou is brash, and violent, prone to outbursts and attitude, but … he’s also kind, loyal to a fault. Kirishima trusts him, wholeheartedly. He loves him wholeheartedly.
Decision made; Kirishima cuts into his own chest. One sharp claw scores deep, weaving between the scales. Muscle and sinew tear. Blood leaks out and splatters on the stone; a trivial amount to him, but more than was in Bakugou’s entire body before he began bleeding out in this ancient temple to a forgotten god.
Pain! Which shouldn’t be a surprise. He’s carving out his literal heart after all. It hurts no less than losing Bakugou, his metaphorical heart. This will all be worth it … if it works. He’s never done this before. But … it’s a dragon thing, draconic magic … so it has to. He hopes it works, he prays, though he doesn’t know who to, or if they would listen. He breathes flame onto the sliver of heart; a healing flame. He doesn’t know what makes it so, but holds the intent in his broken heart, and imbues it into the missing slice. He remembers that much from the old tales: this magic relies on intent … and in some tellings, love.
The raw flesh throbs, beating in tune with his own aching heart. Does this mean it’s working, or is it the twitch of a newly dead creature unaware of the cessation of its existence; that it is now nothing but meat. With his other claw he cuts open the stitches running down Katsuki’s sternum, Tsunagu’s best attempt to save the doomed barbarian king. Kirishima places the still pulsing slice of himself into Bakugou.
“Heal his heart, save his life,” Kirishima hums in old draconic. It’s simple, but he can’t think of more.
Nothing happens.
All he feels is the pain of a missing piece of his heart. He doesn’t think of healing his own wounds. Exhaustion grips the edges of his mind. But he can’t sleep to recover, he won’t, Bakugou needs him …
Bakugou …
It didn’t work.
Bakugou lies still. He feels cold, so cold, against Kirishima’s scales. He’d often complained of the cold, cloaking himself in furs even beneath the summer sun. His sweat back then smelled like home. Now it was cold and drying on his skin, pinking the edges of crusted rivulets of clotted blood. Kirishima raises a tattered wing to protect Bakugou’s body from the midday sun. They often napped like this, Bakugou draped atop him, with Kirishima playing bedwarmer and sunshade. Despite Bakugou’s praise of his warmth, Kirishima always thought Bakugou felt and burned brighter than his own inner draconic fire.
Now … now he’s gone … and Kirishima will once again be alone. Maybe … if he had just died in the fighting pits Bakugou would have found another dragon, slain it, and returned home safely, avoiding all this mess. Avoiding—
Kirishima keens once again, a screeching sound high in his throat. He swears he can feel his heart breaking. Everything aches all over. He’s in so much pain; his entire body is wracked with it. Pain … throbbing … to the beat of his heart.
Bakugou gasps and his chest heaves; a proper breath.
Kirishima’s lungs burn like he’d taken his first breath after diving for hours. These aches, he realizes with a shock, aren’t his. They aren’t his!
It worked! The bond exists. Bakugou is alive. And he’ll remain so as long as Kirishima is.
Golden lashes part and red eyes meet his own. Kirishima could almost imagine it being an effect of the magic if they hadn’t been red from the day he and Bakugou met. Now he could convince himself it is fate. Maybe … maybe they’re destined to be together, and life isn’t just a series of choices and chance. They stare at each other in wonder, unblinking. Bakugou’s eyes appear—miraculously—more red, more vibrant and alive.
Alive … for as long as Kirishima lives.
Did he make the right choice? Will Bakugou hate him now that he’s back among the living. Now that Kirishima’s robbed him of an honorable death in battle with glory.
“Hey,” Bakugou says with a pained and raspy voice.
Kirishima’s heart feels like it’s going to burst. There’s love in his voice, in his eyes, in every fiber of his being. He knows this intrinsically; feels it in his bones. The bond works, he’s feeling everything Bakugou feels.
It’s love, pure love.
Kirishima transforms in a rippling wave of flashing scales, shrinking down to his human form, and hugs his lover tightly in his arms. “You’re alive!” he cheers.
Bakugou winces—Kirishima can feel the ache in both their ribs—but doesn’t pull away. He snakes his hands up to hold Kirishima’s cheeks in his palms. “So are you.”
His voice is gruff.
Their time traveling together has taught Kirishima that is Bakugou’s way of expressing awe. Through their bond, he can confirm it. Awe and love. They’re warm bubbly feelings. Red like their eyes if he had to put a color to it. And if asked for a sound—
Bakugou kisses him, silencing his racing thoughts. “My idiot,” he growls possessively, parting only enough to enunciate against Kirishima’s lips.
Kirishima grins and gazes deep into his eyes. He doesn’t need their newformed connection to know what that means.
Without a word they kiss again. Nothing more needs to be said. They can just enjoy this moment, and being alive … together. They have their entire future to work out what comes next. A very long future. There is no rush, and they’ll face it all together.