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Kirishima's hair is red when the sunlight hits it, it turns a vibrant color, almost unreal. During the nights it is black, and when Bakugo touches it, it feels like fire that doesn't burn, that only embraces his fingertips and leaves a warm trail.
"Not that it's necessary," he says, orbiting over his shoulder, looking out the window. Bakugo cracks his fingers, then his neck.
“Few things are necessary."
"It's dark," he whispers, touching a sharp fingernail to the glass. Outside the sun has not yet set and everything is painted in autumn orange colors; but Kirishima sees far beyond what humans are allowed to see, and where his gaze resides there is no light. "Let me go with you."
It is redundant, because Bakugo never thought to prohibit him from going, but for Kirishima's kind it is imperative to mark the limits and permissions. It's not a good omen that he wants to accompany him, but Bakugo has already passed the point where the uncertainty of the future messes with his head.
"Okay." He swallows hard, and Kirishima stops looking out the window and fixes his eyes on him. He advances until he gets into his personal space, as no person dares, and remains still without saying a word, waiting for permission. Bakugo nods in agreement and only then a hand with long nails—claws, they are claws, he says to himself—wraps around his neck.
Bakugo's sure that no matter how many times, it will never cease to amaze and frighten him the feeling of Kirishima melting into his skin; how his everything slips into his muscles, caresses his tendons, and becomes permeable heat on his ribs. Sometimes it's like ecstasy—even better—and other times it's wrenching, as if under his skin there were thousands of worms eating his flesh. No matter exactly what, it always leaves him short of breath and with a strange weight on his neck. If he could classify it as a caress, it would be the deadliest and best of all.
He takes his keys and his knife, keeping both in the front pocket of his pants. He cracks his neck again, although this time he's aware of the satisfaction that is not his, of the tremor that settles in the depths of his belly. Turns off the lights before leaving, careful not to touch his throat, not to do anything that would indicate something's out of place. It's impossible for anyone to really notice, he knows, but every time he takes Kirishima with him, he can't help but do it. It's like an itch that hasn't started, but it's chronic and that's why he knows that at one time or another it's going to show up.
On the subway, two stations before reaching his destination, he discovers someone watching him. They go through a tunnel that turns off the light and turns the cabin into a tube with echo; the other guy keeps looking at him. He feels Kirishima move up to his jaw, like a tongue of fire going over his chin, but from the inside, and Bakugo settles better against the wall, clutching the knife in his pocket.
The guy doesn't get off at Bakugo's stop, however he feels his eyes follow him as far as the space allows. It's annoying and puts him in a paranoid state. Kirishima wraps himself around his torso and Bakugo concentrates on taking a deep breath and counting the steps to get out of the station. This is not the time, a warmth near his navel tells him. Everything's fine.
If he's honest, it was disappointing to find out that having someone inside your head isn't like in the movies; if he could hear Kirishima's thoughts it would be much easier. Interpreting sensations and feelings is a martyrdom for Bakugo, especially when they tend to be peculiar emotions —not to say, inhuman.
He arrives at the house and opens the back door with the key he stole from the snitch. The spotlights are off and there are candles scattered here and there. Someone is whispering—he can't make out the conversation—and in the background a shadow trembles with the particular dance of a flame and the current of air. Bakugo takes the knife out of his pocket and with a flick of his thumb opens the blade.
He takes a deep breath and feels Kirishima wrap around his chest.
“Light me up,” he says on an exhale. In the background, the shadow dances again and someone stops in the middle of a murmur.
"It's not... it's not normal. It's pretty-"
"I know."
"We're just worried, Bakugo," Uraraka explains, her voice soft, without accusatory tones. "You must admit that from the way they tell it, it sounds like a bad idea."
"You don't have to worry, it's none of your business."
"Yes, but-"
"I'm fine, I'm not dead, which is more than many can say."
Uraraka frowns and looks down at her hands holding her already lukewarm coffee. She's grown her hair out, her bangs now fall more into her eyes and make it hard to tell exactly where her attention is.
"Yet."
"What?"
"You are not dead yet," she raises her face and shakes it, to get her hair out of the way.
Bakugo falls silent, annoyed with her and himself. Uraraka is more bearable than stupid Deku, but not by much. And now it's harder to throw shit at her because some time ago she learned to defend herself against him and dig until she finds a weak point.
“We all die sooner or later."
"You can't be upset that I worry," she resumes. "It's impossible to deny that it's… unorthodox."
“You don't have to pretend to be nice, Cheeks."
"It's fucking weird, Bakugo," she blurts out annoyed. "Who the hell uses a summon like that?"
"Fuck off." He takes a drink of his water and knows that Uraraka recognizes that he's not really upset. "I didn't make a pact, not a lasting one."
“So…?”
"He decided to stay, I don't know." He wets his lips with his tongue, thinking. "The day he was supposed to leave he didn't and- I don't know. He's still there."
"Tsuyu told me that she saw a mark on the back of your neck," she points to her neck. "That kind of mark."
"Fucking nosy."
"Is it true?"
Uraraka seems to be holding her breath, imploring with her eyes —perhaps without realizing it, perhaps just knowing what she looks like— for Bakugo to tell her no, that it's a lie, that he would never let his body be use as a refuge for a summon. If it was anyone else, this conversation would have been over long ago; if it were someone else Bakugo would just not answer, or would just say what suits him. But he's never liked being dishonest with Uraraka and it's tiring to start at this point.
So, he tilts his head and without breaking eye contact he asks:
"Do you want me to lie to you?"
As if it was a punch and not a question, Uraraka gasps in surprise. He notices tears begin to form, but fierce as few admit it, she doesn't let them fall.
"Bakugo," she laments with a gesture of pain on her face, like a dagger twisting in her guts. "How could you be so stupid? God!"
"Don't be dramatic."
"Dramat-? Are you listening? Bakugo, giving space to something like that inside of you is dangerous."
"I know."
"No, you don't," she shakes her head. "Tokoyami is a special case, you cannot compare yourself to him."
"It's not like with Tokoyami. It's not like it's always… there. Inside" he clears his throat. "And that's enough. You're not my mom-"
"Of course not, if your mom were to find out she would gouge out your eye-"
"And I decide what I want to do. If you don't like it, you can fuck off."
Uraraka scowls again and after screaming inside —Bakugo learned to recognize it, her eyebrows begin to move in a weird way— she drops her forehead against the table in a blow that makes the glasses shake. Bakugo rolls his eyes, but waits for her to end her meltdown, as is often the case in such situations.
"OK!" she announces suddenly raising her face, a reddish mark in the middle of her forehead. "It's okay, you're an idiot and you have suicidal tendencies, this shouldn't surprise me. Just-" she takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment, then exhales slowly, "I just want you to keep in touch, okay? I want you to tell me what the hell is going on, I care about you. If this situation were reversed, you would not take things so lightly. Can you do that for me?"
He's not sure when this pseudo-friendship with her formed, but right now he's a bit regretful. Unlike the others—the few people Bakugo considers friends, though he would never dare say it out loud—Uraraka is the only crazy one who doesn't get scared and who keeps moving forward when Bakugo pushes her. Her and Deku, but God and the Devil forbid him from classifying that vermin as his friend. At least the girl has the sense—and the courage—to bare her teeth when Bakugo shows his claws. So with a grunt he nods, because he's sure that if it were her in his situation, he wouldn't have the courtesy that Uraraka is showing him.
"One last question-"
"No."
"Why?" She leans back in her chair, ignoring his demand. "Why did you let him in? How did he convince you to do it?"
Of all the questions that afternoon, that is by far the most annoying to answer.
"Kirishima…" He looks towards the street and shrugs, "he's special."
There is no darkness in the house anymore, because the fire makes the corners and corpses on the floor glow. Bakugo cleans the razor on the hem of his shirt and then puts it away, letting it fall into his pocket, feeling the thud as it hits the bottom.
Kirishima lies in the flames, his claws outstretched and his face disfigured into straight, angular lines; an even more inhuman look. He and Bakugo are the only ones still standing.
"We have to go," he tells him, coughing between each word. Kirishima licks the blood off his teeth and nods.
"There's a closet upstairs," he informs him and unlike Bakugo's, his voice is heard loud and clear, as if it's coming from all directions.
Kirishima starts walking towards him and by the time he stops—just a palm's length away—his face has returned to its almost-human nature, and his claws have returned to their normal size.
"Hurry," he urges, aware of the spreading fire.
Kirishima laughs and wraps his hand around the nape of Bakugo's neck again, although now he also leans in to kiss his cheek and exhale on his skin. Bakugo gasps and raises his hands in an attempt to touch him. However, between his fingers he feels the lines blur until there is nothing there; then he has Kirishima in his blood, behind his eyes purring like a panther.
Now he's no longer afraid of fire, not with Kirishima throbbing under his skin. The flames step aside when they hear him approaching, but they follow where he walks, like a dog following its owner. In the master bedroom—or what he assumes was the master bedroom—there is a wooden closet that no longer has the drawers, but the doors are still intact. He stops in front of it and places both palms on the wood, waiting to sense the incantation line. When he finds it—thin and battered, yet present—he imprints the transporter spell on the surface. Kirishima travels to his fingers, trying to caress the traces of magic.
The fire that accompanied him to the room has begun to trickle down the walls and ceiling, saffron snakes creating patterns that no one else can read.
"Ad domum," he whispers, almost kissing the wood. It's easy to notice the exact moment when the inside of the wardrobe changes and rotates within the space-time. He opens the doors and goes in, closing behind him and leaving himself in the dark despite the incandescent fire in the room.
He crosses his arms over his chest —like the vampires in cartoons— and sure that he is facing the closet entrance, he throws his head back until he knows he is falling. He opens his eyes on the floor of his bedroom, the doors of his own closet open and one of his feet caught on the edge of a poorly closed drawer.
He sees a hand in front of his face, then Kirishima's smile.
"Are you ok?"
Bakugo takes it and lets himself get up.
"Yeah."
"You have to sleep," he looks at the bed, and the clock next to it that says 11:45 P.M.
He should clean himself first, but he's very tired and doubts he can stand up in the shower. So, taking his advice, he kicks off his shoes and gropes his way through his bedroom, the lights still off. As he walks, he takes off his clothes: first the shirt reeking of smoke, then his pants, and finally the socks. He lifts the covers and lies down facing the window, praying that the sheets won't be impregnated with the stench of fire.
Knowing that he is alone in bed, he growls tired.
"Is it always going to be like this?" he asks into the air and for a few moments he doesn't get an answer.
"How?"
Annoyed, Bakugo sighs.
"Come here already."
Kirishima reappears in his field of vision—or rather his silhouette, which is dark and from which only his crimson eyes can be made out, glowing like iron in the forge. He lies down on the bed in front of Bakugo and leans in until their feet are touching. When he brushes against Bakugo's legs he smiles. Among so much darkness, only the red dots of his eyes and the large, sharp teeth in his mouth can be discerned. However, unlike most of his kind, his smile isn't terrifying; some might even call it comforting.
"Kirishim-"
"I want to tell you a secret," he interrupts, softly.
Bakugo frowns and after a few seconds nods, slightly shocked. He feels a finger —claw— go over his cheekbone, then the outline of his nose, and finally the outline of his lips. It's a whim, because Kirishima has already felt every inch of his skin, knows every hollow and curve of his body—from the inside out—and still decides to caress him again, for the sheer pleasure of it.
"My name."
"Kirishima" but he shakes his head or is what Bakugo guesses from the sound against the pillow.
"I will tell you my real name, if you let me kiss you."
A while ago Bakugo gave up trying to find logic in Kirishima's behavior. A week after the pact had faded, but not him, Bakugo decided that he didn't care so much about the reasons as long as he could take advantage of the situation. But as erratic and anomalous as Kirishima is, offering his real name is unheard of. It's exposing his neck to Bakugo's sword, choosing him as his executioner, and trusting that he won't hurt him.
It is a symbol of trust that he doesn’t know how it was earned, and that twists his guts with nerves, squeezes his heart and makes him breathe deeply.
"Okay," he licks his dry and smoky lips, "come and tell me your name."
Kirishima makes a sound akin to a moan, but more animalistic, and moves.
Bakugo first feels his fingers brushing his jaw and neck, then Kirishima's nose against his cheek, a very soft kiss near his mouth. Then seconds of anticipation until there are warm lips against his.
It's like being in the middle of the fire again, or facing the mouth of a volcano about to erupt. It's exhilarating and takes his breath away, clinging to Kirishima, grabbing his shoulders to stay afloat, making sure he doesn't sink to the bottom. An arm slips around his waist and squeezes him forward, a tongue timidly touching his lips, asking for permission. Bakugo groans and tangles his fingers in the black fire hair, the one that doesn't burn and is soft.
Soon, he finds himself on his back, Kirishima being his shield against everything else. His teeth, sharp and pointed, take with reverent care his lips, biting softly, although Bakugo at that moment craves for violence. Warm hands—always warm, all of Kirishima is candor—are discovering his abdomen, bringing to life each piece of skin they touch. Without breaking the kiss Bakugo groans, and lifts his hips off the mattress, seeking friction between his legs. Kirishima drops his weight, immobilizing him and having him at his mercy, granting caresses that are not enough and that are driving Bakugo crazy.
When he deigns to break the kiss—he's sure his bedroom is on fire now, there's no other explanation for how dry and hot the air is—Bakugo is panting against Kirishima's neck, sinking his teeth into him without fear of breaking skin or tasting blood. Long fingernails—claws—tenderly scratch his head and he feels Kirishima's lips trail from his clavicle to his ear.
"Eijiro" he whispers in his ear, pressing him against the mattress, not leaving a single space between their bodies.
"Eijiro," Bakugo repeats and feels the tension in the other, waiting. The kiss has left his head numb, floating in a place far from his bed, and he barely manages to understand the present situation, the weight in his next words. "Do you want to kiss me?"
Kirishima hides his face in his neck and moans in a demon voice.
“Always," he answers, unable to refuse to do so.
"Eijiro," he pronounces against the dark hair, feeling warm throughout his body, "kiss me if that's what you want."
Bakugo feels him move away. Everything is still very dark, but he can discern his silhouette and his shining beast eyes.
"I want to be yours," he confesses.
He lifts one hand to touch Kirishima's face, guessing the shape of his mouth with the pads of his index and middle fingers.
“Okay,” he says, running his fingers up to his jaw. "Eijiro, be mine."
"Yes," a sigh, "always Katsuki."
In the dark he finds his neck and rests his hands there.
"Come and tell me your name again."