Chapter Text
"Kirishima, a word?"
Aizawa's gruff question has Kirishima pausing in his merciless stuffing of his gym clothes into his bag, tilting his head. "Teach?" He hadn't done anything worthy of an Eraser Head Callout today, had he?
A lazy wave of Aizawa's hand, "Just an update on your quirk training, kid", wiping away his worries and simultaneously gesturing for his friends to go on without him. "Won't delay your weekend too much, promise."
"Of course, sir, thanks!"
It really doesn't take long, fifteen minutes tops. Kirishima had waved his bros goodbye, breezed through some adjustments to his Ultimate, flushed in giddy embarrassment at the understated praise Aizawa gave him before he sent him on his way again.
Fifteen minutes. Yet it's that small handful of time that separates him from the sound of Bakugou's voice, startling him out of stray thoughts on the game night they were haphazardly planning earlier. Echoing from the direction of the dorms, Bakugou is screaming in genuine, seething rage, words made unintelligible by distance.
Kirishima's stomach drops. He runs, rounds the corner, sees Bakugou, barely held back by Sero and Kaminari on each side while glaring daggers at a cluster of upperclassmen, who sneer back. Nitroglycerine sparks crackle in his palms; his canines are bared as he spits out: "Motherfuckers! Say that shit to my fucking face if you wanna die so bad, I dare you—"
—which has the other guys bursting into laughter. Kirishima's eyes narrow. What the hell?
Two years into the Hero course at U.A., it takes some serious bullshit to rile Bakugou up to this degree. Sero and Kaminari, too, look disgusted with their fellow students despite having their hands full of a Bakugou raring to rampage. Whatever was said to get him there must truly suck—
Even so, their training is almost complete. Especially Bakugou can't risk a brawl in broad daylight right before they start on their Pro Hero License Exams. Not when the media has had a target painted on his back since first year — grown more and more prominent throughout the last few months despite the personal and bloody sacrifice of Bakugou’s mind, body and soul for Musutafu.
Blasting free from their friends' efforts to soothe, Bakugou rockets towards possible expulsion—
And Kirishima makes a snap-second decision.
Lunging with the momentum of his dead sprint, he collides with his best friend in mid-air, the experience from hundreds of spars turned into the instinct when and where to harden to catch their fall. Swiftly locked in a proper hold, Bakugou damn near goes nuclear, growling and thrashing like a feral beast. Concussive explosions are quick to follow. Aware enough to know who he's with, then; Bakugou would never risk burning his squishier friends, lost to anger or not.
Kirishima is anything but easily hurt. Breathing heavily, he leans in, rambles next to Bakugou's ear, "Calm down, Might. Calm down, breathe, it's not worth it, c'mon—"
Unless Bakugou aims enough firepower directly at his head, that is.
Totally blindsided, Kirishima grunts, squints against brightness and the painful ringing of his ears. What?! It's tough to make out the gasp of "Like hell it's not! Fuck you!" from Bakugou, breaths coming in strained pants with how tight Kirishima's grip has to get to keep him down.
More jeering bursts through their bubble. Those shitty students again, "So manly! Give us a show, will you?", one swooning over another cat-whistling and making exaggerated kissing noises. Inevitably, Bakugou's efforts double in strength. Kirishima's temper, too, rises. Either they're making fun of him as well, or...
The alternative is much, much worse.
From one moment to the next, the air is super-charged with static, the telltale sensation of Kaminari's quirk winding up. Close-by, Sero hisses, "Okay, that does it—"
"Enough."
A new, deadpan voice miraculously joins the mix: The signature cold monotone of a pissed-off Aizawa. He must've been right behind Kirishima. "Business course, you four shut up. Sero, Kaminari, explain. Now."
Gods, Kirishima's never been happier their teacher lives in the dorms, too.
He's exempt from orders, though he doesn't need Aizawa to tell him where his focus should be. Bakugou has stopped actively struggling, trained like the rest of them to listen to Aizawa no matter what. He's so tense he's trembling; exhaling the air in his lungs, Kirishima squeezes him once — "It's over, man. Breathe, you're good" — before loosening his embrace.
Only, Bakugou doesn't allow him to make it better, or leans on him in a silent request for support.
No. The second Kirishima lets him go, he shoots to his feet like he can't put distance between them fast enough. The urge to protect doesn't wait for Kirishima's brain to catch up to how wrong that is. Scrambling after Bakugou, Kirishima makes to walk with him—
Snarling, Bakugou whirls around. "Fucking leave me alone, Kirishima!"
It's a shot through Kirishima's heart. Jaw dropping without his consent, a distant part of him registers it's the first time Bakugou has yelled at him and meant it since... Hell, since their pre-Kamino days, probably. Since Bakugou began openly admitting they're best friends and they became utterly inseparable.
But the worst part, the very worst thing, must be the glinting of tears he spots in the corners of Bakugou's eyes just before he storms off for good.
Insides frozen solid, Kirishima stays rooted right where Bakugou left him, increasingly dizzy as the world spins on around him.