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Bakugo stands in front of the dorm door. He’s been there for five minutes already, trying to quell his breath and the heaviness sitting on his chest. There’s no real reason for him to be here; he didn’t fucking do anything wrong—but he did. He may be a fucking idiot with people but he can glean when he’s properly gone and fucked something up, and in this instance he has.
He unfurls his fists, taking a final breath—rage hot in his belly, but he has no right to feel that rage, which burns it brighter—and balls a hand to knock on the door. Once. Twice. Wait.
“Come in.”
The door swings open, and Bakugo saunters in. He can’t help but posture, pretend, and stalk into situations like these. Despite the small part of him commanding that he bow down and grovel for mercy, he doesn't. He’s not a fucking bitch. He won't—can’t.
Kirishima looks up from his textbook, blank. He’s cross-legged in bed, in basketball shorts, wet hair dripping on his shoulders. They’re bare. Isn’t it cold? Idiot.
“Hey, what’s up?”
Bakugo maintains eye contact, trying to remember what he’s supposed to say. He runs through the articles he read. 5 Ways to Apologize. How to think before you speak! A Guide to Taking Accountability. His eyes fixate on Kirishima’s shoulders—because they’re carved, a little hypnotic, and because Bakugo can’t bring himself to continue looking into Kirishima’s eyes—and his face heats, the guilt turning into an embarrassment. At the situation. At his inability to not be a fucking idiot. At how hard it is to not be a dick and apologize to one of the only people that continually offers him grace.
“...Sorry. For being a dick earlier.” Bakugo vomits out, somehow. Thank fuck.
“What do you mean?”
Bakugo looks at him, Kirishima’s face alight with confusion. The rage stirs, hot. He hates repeating himself. He grits out, “What I said earlier. I crossed a line.”
“Oh. Yeah, it’s fine,” Kirishima says, looking back down at his textbook. And then, “I’m used to it.”
Bakugo stops himself from stepping back, locking his teeth together so his jaw doesn’t drop. It’s—it’s not a shock. Yeah, why wouldn’t Kirishima be used to it? Hearing it from him, indifferent and without emotion, it douses the rage. The guilt weighs heavy. He fucking hates it. He—he can’t deal with it.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Bakugo hears himself snap. Stick to the program.
Kirishima shrugs, eyes still on the textbook. “Dude…you’re an asshole. What else am I supposed to say? You’re always crossing a line.”
The weight of it heavies his knees, enough to tempt Bakugo to drop, but he won’t. What right does he have to? He never deserved forgiveness.
Bakugo may suck, but he separates himself from evil. So fucking what, he has a temper; he’s a hero. Fiery, passionate, driven. That’s what the world will describe him as in the textbooks, they won’t note the boiling vat of black, shouting tar inside of him. No one knows about that—except anyone close enough to get a good look at him. But Bakugo thinks about the other, insidious evils. Slamming doors and screaming matches and manipulation and insults. The bullying. His mother tugging his ears and clothes and hair, her spittle hitting his face as they shout at each other. Hag hag hag, he screams, because even if it can’t measure up to an open palm he can at least try.
He’s a hero. He separates himself from the large evils and villains of the world, but he sits closer to the line of smaller evils than he should. Kirishima’s words only confirm it.
“...I don’t want to.” Bakugo utters.
Kirishima looks up, the indifference gone.
Bakugo’s hands shake. “I…I don’t like it. This. Hurting you. You need to be angry at me. You—you can hit me. Or scream at me. Whatever you want.” Please.
Make it even. Make it easy. Take comfort in Bakugo playing punching bag because it’s the best outcome in this scenario. They’ll both come out bruised, just in different ways.
“I am angry, Bakugo. I have like two years of pent-up shit against you.” Kirishima says, eyes narrowed until he softens. “But I’m not going to hit you. Or scream. That won’t make me feel better.”
Bakugo steps forward, desperate. “What will?”
Kirishima stands and meets him. His hand brands Bakugo’s shoulder. Hot. Open palm, spread fingers, soft. Bakugo imagines the raised skin shaped like his hand. His heart quickens. He goes back to staring at Kirishima’s hair, shoulders, and the blinds behind him. The rage stokes a little, tempting him. Bakugo bites it down. He wasn’t made for this shit.
“Just. I don’t know man, keep getting better. Work a little harder on not being such a dick. I’ll start calling you out on it too, it’s not really fair for me not to, I think.”
He nods, not feeling completely real. He should’ve been slapped by now.
“You wanna study with me?” Kirishima prods, squeezing Bakugo’s shoulder.
It brings him back. Bakugo meets his eyes, and the air tenses; it’s angry, guilty, sad, something else—something neither of them will admit to. He can see the thick sinews of their relationship formed, connecting them. They’re stuck together and the knowledge of it hangs in the tissue that sews them into one another. Bakugo feels the guilt alongside intense gratitude and relief. For having Kirishima. For being close to something so good.
“Yeah, whatever.”