Chapter Text
kirishima thought that his best friend looked like a burning hysteria of tiredness as he sat in the driver's seat.
the exhaustion was evident, but there was something about it that made it seem even more intense, as though it was burning from the inside out. bakugou’s usual fiery gaze - those piercing, jubilant red eyes - were still there, but they held a faint, almost unnoticeable dullness to them.
every few minutes, they would haze out into something indistinguishable, something distant, before a bump in the road cleared them once again, bringing them back to reality, back to him.
you wouldn’t believe it, would you? dynamight - the violent, impulsive number 15 hero - had crippling empathy.
bakugou was known for his brashness, his short temper, his explosive personality, yet there he was, so worn out, so painfully human.
the redhead knew somewhat what the thoughts racing through his best friend's mind were at that moment. he could see it in the subtle shifts of his posture, in the tight clench of his jaw, in the way his hands gripped the steering wheel as though holding on for dear life.
he saw the look in bakugou’s eyes when he had waved at midoriya earlier - brief, silent, but full of so much unspoken meaning. the desperation, the patience he only ever held for him, and the clever, fully concealed devastation when he hadn't looked back.
kirishima thought he could’ve gone a lifetime without witnessing such an honest and brutal display of love - or, more accurately, the lack of it. it was a raw, painful truth that he could never forget. it wasn't just the tears that could have spilled from bakugou's eyes; it was the emotional weight of everything that was left unsaid, the years of caring and frustration, the unsolvable problem that ate at him from the inside.
there was a sniff, a quick change in gear as bakugou’s hand moved over the wheel. another sniff.
kirishima tightened his grip on the door handle, knowing full well how this was going to end if they didn’t stop. he didn’t want to die like this, in the passenger seat of a car barreling toward an explosive crash and he certainly didn’t want to die in this car at the hands of his best friend, not like this.
but then again, if they both died - if bakugou died - it would probably make midoriya and uraraka’s entire wedding revolve around the tragic death of the once-violent number 15.
kirishima would probably be a fucking honourable mention in their eulogy.
“katsuki?” he called, his voice barely more than a whisper.
he could feel the blonds tension through the silence, the way his shoulders stiffened. kirishima knew how much bakugou hated being treated with kid gloves, hated being spoken to in a way that suggested he was fragile, as though he were made of something delicate like fine china.
“what?” bakugou's voice was gruff, as it always was, but there was an unmistakable wetness to it now - a crack that only came from holding back tears for too long.
“stop the car,”
there was a huff, a sharp acceleration in protest, but kirishima didn’t argue. a few moments passed before the car slowly, reluctantly, came to a halt at the side of the countryside road - the night was dark, the silence around them thick and heavy, pressing in on them.
the emptiness of the road stretched out for miles in both directions, a far cry from the lively, fast-paced streets they usually tore through.
normally, these barren roads would be used as an unofficial racetrack for the blond, where he would let loose the storm of his temper in the form of reckless speed. tonight, though, it felt more like driving home from a funeral, the air itself weighed down with something kirishima couldn't quite place.
five seconds passed in silence, though it felt like an eternity, before bakugou threw his hands up to his hair, gripping it tight as he began to pull at it roughly. his body shook with the force of his frustration, and then the sobs started to spill out of him - silent at first, then louder, more frantic as he hunched forward, burying his face in his knees.
kirishima, frozen for a moment by the sight, felt his chest tighten. he knew bakugou wasn’t the kind to show weakness, not like this. they had known each other for over ten years, shared more moments of frustration, laughter, and triumph than either of them could count.
but this was something different. this wasn’t the usual violent outburst, the kind of tears bakugou sometimes shed in moments of pure anger or exhaustion.
no, this was grief.
for a moment, kirishima considered calling bakugou’s mother - hell, he even thought about calling midoriya - but it wasn’t the right time. not yet. they had to get off the road, out of this moment, before any of that could happen.
without thinking, he reached out a steady, scarred hand and gently rubbed at bakugou’s back. he could feel the tension in his friend's muscles as he curled forward, silently sobbing into his own lap. the redhead just let him be, offering what comfort he could, trying to keep them both grounded in this moment, when everything around them seemed to collapse.
kirishima had seen bakugou cry before - of course, he had. they’d been through too much together for there not to be those rare moments when the blond let his guard down. but this wasn’t the same. yhis wasn’t the furious tears of frustration or anger that sometimes spilled over when bakugou had no other outlet. this wasn’t about pride or rage - it was about something much deeper.
“i died for him,” bakugou whispered, his voice muffled by his knees - his words seemed to hang in the air like smoke, each syllable burned into the silence around them.
kirishima’s heart twisted. he could sense the unspoken continuation of the thought, the one that bakugou couldn’t bring himself to say aloud:
and i don’t think i came back right.
the words were lost between them, but kirishima could feel the weight of them, could feel them thrum in his own chest. he didn’t know exactly what bakugou had gone through - what kind of hell he had faced to bring him to this point - but he could tell it wasn’t something that would ever go away.
the scars were deeper than the ones on his body, deeper than the explosions that had marked him physically. this was something that wasn’t going to heal easily, if it ever could.
without saying another word, kirishima leaned over, wrapping his arms around his longest friend. he pressed his cheek to bakugou’s back, the solid thump of his heart steady beneath his ribs. he focused on that sound, trying to centre himself, trying to give the blond something to hold onto in this moment of silence.
the radio, which had been tuned out for what felt like forever, picked up suddenly, breaking the quiet with the faint sounds of a song.
“merry christmas, please don’t call,”