Chapter Text
So what if Kirishima had a few too many drinks? It was Denki’s 18th birthday after all, and it’s not his fault that the guy decided to spike the punch at his own party. He isn't fully drunk at least, Kirishima thought to himself gratefully, noting how a few of his classmates weren’t nearly as functional as he was after the same number of glasses. He had a pretty decent tolerance as he had discovered, but alcohol did have the rather unfortunate effect of removing his mental filter, causing his thoughts and actions to blur together like eyeliner on sweaty skin. And although it never caused him to do anything he didn’t want to do, he did tend to do things he did want to do, which was a whole other problem in itself.
Clinging onto the common room wall for dear life, Kirishima’s eyes scan the crowd of tipsy party goers, hoping upon hope to catch a glimpse of his favourite classmate.
Bakugou hated parties with a burning passion; and he especially hated dealing with wasted people, Kirishima remembered. He chuckles to himself imagining how the dorm’s last party had ended; Bakugou dragging a whining Sero down the hallway by the scruff of his t-shirt to keep him away from the beverage table.
He may be loud, blunt, and unapologetic, but Bakugou gave a damn about his friends. Kirishima’s lips curl into a grin at the thought.
Bakugou…Where had Bakugou gone anyway? The pair had arrived together and stuck by each other’s sides for most of the night.
Kirishima exhaled with an exasperated huff. Maybe it was wishful thinking, yes, and he was fully aware that Bakugou would likely be waiting the rest of the party out in his room, but he couldn’t help but feel sinking disappointment settle at the pit of his stomach at the thought of Bakugou absence from his side.
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After an eternity of scooting along the wall like a toddler at a skating rink, the distinct platinum blonde hair of his favourite blasty boy catches Kirishima’s glance.
Bakugou seemed focused on a meaningful exchange with the snack table, but Kirishima didn’t think nor bother to call his name before he pounced. With a less than graceful movement, he flung himself against Bakugou’s back, wrapped his arms around his trim torso, and propped his chin on the man’s shoulder; his full weight nearly sending the both of them toppling backwards.
“Katsukkiiii, How are you my dude? Great party, huh?” Kirishima's voice rang out startlingly loud directly beside Bakugou’s ear, causing him to jolt forward and nearly spill the spicy guac he was holding.
“The fuck is wrong with you? Just how many goddamn glasses of punch did you have?” Bakugou barks back, snapping his head around with a snarl to meet the shit-eating grin plastered on Kirishima’s face.
Bakugou never drank ever, end of story; but thanks to Denki’s stupid mystery punch, he wasn’t exactly sober himself. His initial instinct was to wrestle Kirishima off of himself and dip the party while he still had most of his sanity intact, pissed by the prospect of having to babysit the overly-affectionate, refusing-to-take-a-hint guy clinging to him like a koala; but something in his gut told Bakugou to calm the fuck down, and to not abandon ship just yet.
Kirishima leaned into him, barely taking notice of Bakugou's lazy attempt to wriggle out of the embrace, and the eventual grunt of defeat that escaped his tightly pursed lips.
“Hey Bakubro, there's music playingggg- wanna dance with me?" he prodded, using his grip on Bakugou to sway the two of them clumsily side-to-side, roughly imitating a slow dance/
Bakugou’s neck nearly snapped with how hard he whipped around. He wanted to smack that smug-ass grin right off Kirishima’s face. No amount of convincing could get him to dance in front of his classmates, let alone to some cheesy slow song. And yet, as he looked into the crimson eyes staring expectantly up at him, Bakugou felt himself cave.
He didn't have any weaknesses. He was Bakugou fucking Katsuki, great explosion murder god dynamite for fucks sake! And yet, maybe he did have one weakness because those damn puppy dog eyes Kirishima was giving him made him feel something.
Coming to the conclusion that going along with Kirishima’s dumb dance might actually be his easiest way out of this situation, Bakugou nodded his head curtly and yanked the redhead by the wrist without warning onto the dance floor.
Even though Kirishima couldn't dance for shit (His moms did try their best to teach him, but Eijirou knew a lost cause when he saw one), Bakugou could. But that was a given; Bakugou was perfect at everything he tried. Had he mentioned his totally platonic "I-just-want-to-make-out-with-him-as-a-friend" bro crush? Because yeah, that was maybe a thing.
With an arm wrapped around his waist, Bakugou yanked Kirishima’s body flush to his before entangling a slightly sweaty hand in Eijirou's.
Kirishima was happy to let Bakugou take the lead in their dance. Scratch that- thank fuck he did
And to be honest, the alcohol wasn’t really affecting Eijirou’s judgement in any way. Yeah, he was a bit giddy, but every decision he made was based on a rational thought.
The second he had seen Bakugou in his white dress shirt with the sleeves pushed up to expose his muscular forearms, he was practically salivating at the mouth; well before he had a drop to drink. Something about the way the alcohol was affecting his brain had given him the confidence he had always longed to have; and he wasn’t going to take an opportunity like that for granted.
DJ Jirou flicked a button on her laptop and the song began to play, sending soft music echoing throughout the cascading ceilings of the common room. Kirishima's trying his best to mirror Bakugou's smooth and calculated motions as they swayed to the melody, but the blatant difference in their ability was painfully clear. Eijirou would be lying if he said he wasn't doing his darnedest though, carefully following Bakugou's lead without overstepping. After a song or two Eijirou doing considerably better, feeling way too proud about not having stepped on Bakugou's feet for a solid 30 seconds.
Allowing his body to move into auto-pilot, Kirishima took the opportunity to fully drink in the picture before him.
Bakugou's usually unruly hair was pushed back from his forehead neatly, with his classic fluffy spikes tapering down to his nape where skin met blonde locks. His eyes trailed unconsciously to Bakugou's cheeks next, on which pale pink softly dusted cream skin from his nose to the tips of his ears. When his face wasn't scrunched up in a demonic snarl, he’s actually very handsome.
Of course Eijirou was all-too aware of this fact already (as Bakugou-watching had become an unintentional pastime of his); but he just looked so goddamn pretty tonight with his glowing complexion and ash-blonde hair tousled neatly.
“The hell you lookin' at me like that for, shitty hair?” Bakugou muttered without bite, speaking for the first time since having stepped onto the dance floor.
Kirishima's mood could be described as 'do now, regret later". “I’m just enjoying the view, Kat-su-ki” he replied with a smirk, being sure to punctuate each syllable of Bakugou’s name with about as much sass as he could muster without cracking a grin. Then, Eijirou angled his hips and brushed them forward just enough for both of their belt buckles to clack together
He felt awfully pleased with himself when Bakugou’s jaw dropped open with a comical 'thud'.
Kirishima reflexively prepared to harden his wrists, assuming he had just tipped the carefully balanced scale that was Bakugou's temper, but no such blast came.
He at least expected Bakugou to shove him off, or maybe he’d get off easy with a ‘shut your trap, dumb ass’ if he was lucky.
Instead, he watched Bakugou turn his head curiously to the left and scowl.
Was he mad….? Had he even heard what Eijirou had said? No, he definitely heard it because holy shit, Bakugou Katsuki was blushing! And it was from something he had said, nonetheless!
Oh yeah, it was going to be a good night.
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Before long one song melted into many. Had it been 10 minutes? 20? An hour? Eijirou had no clue and honestly couldn't care less. Every other person in the room seemed to melt away as he held Bakugou close; so much so that he belatedly noticed the music fade into idle chatter and the dance floor disperse.
But still he didn't release Bakugou from his grip. And suddenly, he couldn't. His hand remained firmly planted on Bakugou's way-too-trim hip, fingers raking into the fabric of his dress shirt as if he might lose him if he let go.
Sucking in a shaky breath, Kirishima dared to meet Bakugou's eyes, and nearly choked on his own tongue.
Bakugou looked just as ravaged as Kirishima felt, and hell, it was a sight to behold. Blonde strands of carefully combed hair fell forward to frame his face perfectly, looking delicately arranged rather than loose and messy. His tie was loose around his neck, revealing the open top button of his dress shirt and sweat-beaded skin. He also had a rather distraught expression to him, one Eijirou had never actually seen before.
They stood like that on the dance floor, eyes locked and breath heavy.
Kirishima then bit his lip, took a shaky breath, and spoke.
“You... uh.. you look really nice tonight” was all he could manage, and in his attempt to sound composed his voice came out a strange mix between anxiety and determination that he himself couldn't quite place; like rallying his troops before a battle.
Goddamn it.
And then with a feeble yelp of 'oh shit', the redhead’s legs decided now would be a terrific time to give up for the evening.
Despite Bakugou’s finely trained reflexes, his lunge wasn’t quick enough to catch him, and he could only stare wide-eyed as Kirishima slipped backwards and out of his grasp.
The nauseatingly thick sensation of falling lasted for a jarring second before leveling as Eijirou hit the cold linoleum with a hefty ‘smack’.
Kirishima groaned.
Thank god he caught himself on his elbows when he tumbled backwards, as his sharp reflexes had prevented him from cracking his skull against the unforgiving surface. Instead, most of the damage was to his arms and butt. Greaaaaaat. Who doesn't love a bruised tailbone?
Blinking off the daze, Kirishima wiggled his fingers and toes.
Yep, still worked.
An indescribable weight pinned him to the floor. So why the hell couldn't he get up? Maybe he had gotten the wind knocked out of him...?
And then that indescribable weight shifted with a grunt.
oh.
Oh-
As the last of the tv static drained from his mind, Kirishima was able to identify the crushing weight of Bakugou Katsuki’s body weight pressed against his own, as well as the scruff of platinum hair resting between his neck and shoulder, searing hot breath against his neck.
What the fuck-
Bakugou must have overshot his lunge.
"I- uhm- I'm sorry- Are you okay? Can... Can you get up?" Kirishima blubbered, trying to apologise and scramble out from underneath the blonde at the same time.
Bakugou merely grunted an acknowledgement while he hauled himself up from the floor.
Kirishima anxiously watched as Bakugou picked himself up and dusted the floor crumbs off his pants, watching his signature scowl for a twinge of possible emotion.
He then watched in horror as Bakugou made direct eye contact with him, grated his eyes up and down Kirishima’s body painfully slow, and smirked. That bastard smirked.
He couldn't contain the radiating warmth enveloping his cheeks like a sunburn.
“W-whuh- what? What was that for?”Kirishima hissed, crimson eyes blazing with embarrassment as he scrambled to his feet.
“Pfff- Your face is as red as your hair dumb ass, you look like a fucking tomato”
Bakgou's face contorted as he spoke like he was trying to hold in an uncomfortable sneeze. More accurately, Kirishima guessed, he was holding back a laugh.
Um... okay, that was new.
Like yeah, of course Bakugou laughed sometimes, but it was more so a breathy chuckle, and STRICTLY limited to the privacy of their dorms. Kirishima guessed he was one of the blessed few who had ever actually heard a full on Bakugou laugh.
The same laugh he could currently hear being stiffled.
The same laugh that was immediately snuffed when Bakugou realised Eijirou had heard it.
“Oi, shitty hair, you can hardly stand. Lemme’ carry you.”
“Wh- you what-?”
Without leaving any time for Kirishima’s brain to remember how sentences were formed or procces how freaking cute that giggle was, Bakugou hoisted him into a sloppy bridal carry; walking the two of them to a nearby empty couch. Kirishima could only blubber nonsense in response to the gesture, his brain having blown a fuse or short-circuited, or both.
The dorm’s couch was slotted right next to another, the two forming an “L” shape facing toward the TV. Sero and Mina had perched themselves on the edge of one of the couches to play Mario kart, leaving the adjacent free for Bakugou to toss Kirishima down on with an “UMph- '' from the surprised red-head.
Bakugou slumped down into the couch cushions with a huff, settling in beside Kirishima and drawing him close to support his weight upright.
Despite Kirishima's best attempts to sit straight, his lack of basic motor functions found him leaning against Bakugou, his head finding a comfortable perch on the boy's slumped shoulder.
Kirishima could feel Bakugou’s breath hitch in his throat, followed by a stuttered exhale; and yet the blonde didn't make a move to protest. He simply allowed Kirishima to melt into him, the heat of his touch sending a shiver through Bakugou with each point of contact.
"Thanks, Bakugou," Kirishima grinned, "but you really didn't have to carry me. I'm totally fine. See?" He eagerly demonstrated his soberness by touching a finger to his nose and adorning a boastful smirk, despite missing generously.
Bakugou rolled his eyes with an exasperated exhale, but he continued to support his weight regardless, ensuring he didn't topple over. Shaking his head with a sigh, he mumbled a soft "Shut it” in Kirishima's direction, flicking him painlessly between the eyes,.
There's no anger, not even a twinge of annoyance behind his words, Kirishima marveld; a breathy chuckle escaping his lips before he nuzzled his face into Bakugou’s soft shoulder and let his eyes fall shut. Damn, he was suddenly dog-tired. Maybe it was the booze,or the dance, or maybe it was Bakugou’s familiar scent of warm spice that lulled him away from consciousness, but his friend's radiating warmth accompanied by the slow rise and fall of his chest certainly didn’t help.