Chapter Text
The cold was painful. Even though his skin was tough, there was something about winter that weakened his body.
Perhaps it was the frost biting the tip of his nose, the ice stiffening the streets, or the Christmas lights that, alongside joy and peace, carried sadness and nostalgia.
Years had passed since Kirishima last felt happy as the holiday season approached. He remembered the family gatherings and parties with friends he had enjoyed as a teenager. Back then, he was content with the simplicity of it all. But after turning 25, everything had grown more complicated.
He used to think that growing up would make everything clearer. But what exactly was “everything”? Adulthood? Bills, groceries, household chores? Or was it his dreams? He had believed he would become a true Hero—a protector of the innocent against evil. Yet here he was, unable to even help himself.
Bakugou was late. It wasn’t the first time he had picked him up in front of the agency. Kirishima knew he had a special class at U.A. that day and would be a little late. But it had been twelve minutes, and his body was starting to shiver from the cold.
He could’ve taken public transportation home (his driving test had failed him at least three times), but something about his best friend driving him home filled his chest with a quiet warmth. And he knew perfectly well what that was. He just… didn’t want to dwell on it too much.
Yet, at night, when the world was silent, he always found himself thinking about him. In the stillness, he reflected on them. That was what he hated about being 25: the inability to understand and control his thoughts. Hours would slip by as he wandered through imaginary scenarios that sent electricity through his body and warmed his sheets. He painted an idealized picture of his friend, one that existed solely to appease his heart and give him the fleeting sense of comfort he craved.
He was ashamed of it. He felt like a love-struck teenager, daydreaming endlessly. He felt hopeless. And yet, he was a grown man now. Pathetic, but still an adult.
He did not confront Bakugou about that damn night in August, when he’d kissed him. He was drunk, not thinking straight. He didn’t remember much from that night—just the nausea, the summer scent lingering on him, and the humidity of his lips. The morning after, he had apologized, blamed it on the alcohol, and refused to talk about it further.
The truth was, after that kiss, things didn’t seem to change outwardly between them. But for Kirishima, even after more than two months, everything had changed. He had dreamed about that kiss at least ten times. He had replayed the scene in his head—what could’ve been if Bakugou hadn’t rejected him—under the shower, maybe thirty times. It was pathetic.
The unresolved issue, the problem weighing on his chest like a boulder, was like a pile of dirty dishes left in the sink. He had promised himself he would wash and polish them, that he’d put them away neatly. But they were still there, glaring at him, waiting to be done.
And yet, he didn’t have the courage to clean those damn dishes. It would mean touching the ceramic, examining the patterns, scraping off the grime. It would mean confronting the truth—that he had a crush on his best friend. But, honestly, Kirishima already knew how he felt.
He saw Bakugou’s car approaching from down the street and let out a breath. The warm vapor escaped his lips and disappeared into the frigid air. He walked slowly toward the car as it pulled to a stop. He opened the passenger door and climbed in.
“Hey, Bakugou,” he greeted him with a smile, even though his body still felt like an icicle.
And then there it was—that scent he loved so much. The scent of home. Every time he stepped into that car, the day’s worries seemed to vanish.
A voice came from the backseat. It was Midoriya. “Hey, Kirishima,” he said gently, clutching a stack of books. Kirishima nodded back in greeting.
“It’s your fault if we’re late,” Bakugou grumbled at Deku. “First you make me wait, then you demand a ride.”
“I did ask you this morning,” Midoriya replied, resigned. “But thanks anyway, Kacchan.”
“Hmph.”
Kirishima kept smiling. Their interactions sometimes amused him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Bakugou had saved the passenger seat for him.
No, he scolded himself. He probably just didn’t want “Deku” sitting next to him. You’re overthinking.
“How are you, Kirishima?” Midoriya asked. “I’m good. What about you? How was the lesson?”
“Good. Kacchan didn’t blow up any students.”
Kirishima chuckled softly and turned his gaze toward the driver. Bakugou was wearing a dark green sweater with a moderately high collar, his coat tossed over the back seat. His cheeks were slightly flushed. Kirishima’s eyes drifted to his hands—scarred and veined—firmly gripping the steering wheel. He loved his hands.
Even though Bakugou’s car was always warm (he hated the cold), Kirishima couldn’t stop shivering. The cold clung to his clothes. He regretted not wearing gloves and tried warming his palms with his breath, rubbing them together.
Bakugou noticed it and turned up the heat.
A few minutes later, they arrived at Midoriya’s house, a small traditional-style home in a quiet neighborhood. Since cars couldn’t enter the area, Midoriya thanked them, got out, and walked the rest of the way. For a moment, silence filled the car.
“Where do you want me to take you?” Bakugou suddenly asked, his tone calm and low. It almost reminded Kirishima of how his father used to speak to his mother on quiet Sunday evenings, when they relaxed on the couch.
“…Home?” Kirishima replied with a smile. Bakugou turned his head, locking eyes with him for a few seconds.
“My home?”
“Mhm. At this point, I might as well start paying your bills,” Kirishima teased.
Bakugou shifted his focus back to the road, and Kirishima exhaled. Whenever Bakugou looked at him like that—serious yet tranquil—he forgot how to breathe.
“You busy tomorrow?” the redhead asked, fearing he might be disturbing with his presence.
“No.” He was silent, perhaps more so than usual. But in some way, this comforted him, as if there was no need to fill awkward silences between them.
It happened way too often that he stopped at his house. Usually, Kaminari, his roommate, picked him up. But sometimes, he would fall asleep on his couch after dinner.
He thought that Bakugou wasn’t the type of person to stay silent if something bothered him. He thought that if he truly didn’t want him there, he would just say it.
So, Kirishima didn’t fear being a bother. Every time he entered that apartment, he always felt welcomed, even if Bakugou didn’t show it.
“You look tired,” the redhead remarked. “Midoriya’s students are hard to deal with?”
“They’re a bunch of little assholes,” Bakugou replied, a bit irritated. “But they don’t affect me.”
“Midoriya told me that some first-year kid is bullying him.” They stopped at a traffic light.
“Yeah,” Bakugou glanced at him, keeping only his left hand on the wheel, “a little narcissistic brat.”
“Mh…” Kirishima smiled, “sounds like someone I know…”
“Fuck off, I wasn’t like that.” Kirishima laughed, “Who said I was talking about you?”
But Bakugou didn’t laugh. He just looked at him silently, eyes slightly squinted. That serious expression sent Kirishima’s body into overdrive.
He turned his gaze away, trying not to get overwhelmed. He looked back at the road, but he could still feel Bakugou’s eyes on his profile. The light turned green.
They arrived at home a few minutes later, small talking (Kirishima was talking and Bakugou was just listening, as usual).
Bakugou lived in an apartment in a seven-story building. He parked the car. In the silence, Kirishima could hear the sound of Bakugou’s fingers tapping the wheel, the gear shift, the soles of his shoes on the pedals, and the keys jingling in the air.
Kirishima’s gaze landed on his neck, the way the veins stretched when Bakugou turned his head to check the parking. The way his hands gripped the wheel, how his fingers fit between the spokes of the steering wheel.
Shit. He was staring again.
He turned his gaze just as Bakugou’s met his. He turned off the heating. Turned off the car.
In the quiet, Kirishima could hear his breathing. He jumped when Bakugou leaned slightly toward him to grab the coat and scarf he had left on the back seats. For a moment, he really thought Bakugou was leaning in to kiss him, and his body went wild at the thought.
But why would he do that, idiot?
But, damn, he could smell him.
Nitroglycerin, burnt sugar, caramel. A sweet scent mixed with the winter chill.
Kirishima cleared his throat and, before Bakugou could look at him again, he got out of the car. The cold hit his body again. The warmth and the smell of home stayed behind the car door.
He waited for Bakugou to get out with his black coat and red scarf around his neck. Kirishima loved the way his jaw sank into the wool of the scarf. And that red reminded him of the fire in his eyes.
The sun was about to set completely. The streets were dark, lit only by the dim light of the streetlamps. The last few red rays still fell on the right side of the building. For a moment, Kirishima lost himself in the red sky of early evening.
“Oi,” Bakugou’s voice brought him back to reality, “c’mon.”
They walked to the entrance.
They climbed the stairs to the fifth floor; Bakugou never took the elevator. The stairs were awful, but the view of the city from his apartment was magnificent, especially at night. Kirishima loved stopping to watch the lights of Tokyo from his balcony. And Bakugou knew this: he’d even bought a little chair to place on the balcony. Although he’d never admit it, Kirishima knew it was for him.
“If you want, I can cook dinner, since you’re tired,” Kirishima suggested as they stood in front of the apartment door while Bakugou searched for the key.
“You can’t cook, and I’m not tired,” Bakugou dismissed him. He found the key, inserted it in the lock, and opened the door, letting Kirishima enter first.
And there it was again, that comforting smell of home. Wood, fire, Bakugou. His house smelled like him. That sweet scent that filled his heart with serotonin.
Bakugou turned on the living room light, which was connected to the kitchen and the dining room. The lights were warm, though the room felt a bit colder. You could tell Bakugou had been out all day.
He took off his shoes, coat, and hat, revealing his messy hair. As Bakugou headed for the stove, Kirishima, as usual, turned on the heating.
“What you cooking?” Kirishima asked, moving closer to the fridge. God, his heart raced with joy everytime Bakugou cooked for him. It felt like such a domestic, familiar, affectionate gesture.
“Why care? you gotta eat it anyway, parasite.”
Kirishima laughed, “fair,” he said, opening the fridge.
“I thought you didn’t like orange Ramune,” Kirishima remarked, finding a small bottle of the drink in the bottom compartment
“It’s true. It’s disgusting.”
“I like it.”
“…I know.”
And Kirishima felt something stir in his chest. Shit. That doesn’t mean it’s for you, maybe it came with the groceries. They often give it away for free. Yeah, it’s probably that. Now calm your breath.
He bent down and grabbed the bottle, he was about to open it when a notification on his phone caught his attention. He put the drink back in the fridge and closed it.
It was a message from Uraraka, in their old class group, which they now used for their circle of friends.
The smell of the vegetables Bakugou was chopping, the sound of water boiling in the kettle.
Kirishima leaned against the fridge and smiled at the message from his old classmate.
“Why you laughing?” Bakugou asked, a bit irritated, without stopping his chopping.
“I’m not laughing.”
“You laughed.”
“No–” he paused, realizing it was pointless, “I was smiling at the picture Uraraka sent in the group chat.”
Bakugou did not care anymore, but Kirishima explained anyway.
“She and Midoriya are having dinner together. They basically live together now.”
But he didn’t realize how similar their situations were. Except Midoriya and Uraraka… well, they were dating.
He read a few more responses from his friends. Ashido had sent a photo of herself at a bar with some friends. Sero sent an image of the dinner he’d made himself. Hagakure sent a video of the crowded streets of Tokyo.
Kaminari sent a sad emoticon with a message accusing Kirishima of abandoning him again. This time, he actually laughed.
He and Kaminari had been roommates since they graduated high school, and they’d stayed that way out of habit. In fact, Kirishima spent many evenings at Bakugou’s place, and they hardly ever invited him, just as he rarely showed up.
He looked up from the screen and noticed Bakugou, standing in front of him by the stove, watching him. That same expression that drove him wild. That look that reminded him every second why he had kissed him. Those half-closed eyes, those rosy cheeks, and those parted lips. He didn’t say anything. He looked back at the kettle with boiling water.
And Kirishima studied him. He stared at his blonde hair, slightly resting on his shoulders. That loose sweater, with the sleeves pushed up, revealing his muscular, scarred arms. Those dark jeans, one size too big, which he rarely wore but which Kirishima adored like oxygen. He was beautiful, just like he had always been, from the very first moment he’d seen him.
But it wasn’t right to fantasize about his friend. The same friend who, despite being forced into an unwilling kiss, had stayed by his side as if nothing had happened. He couldn’t ruin a friendship he had already nearly destroyed. No, that would mean losing him. He couldn’t lose him.
He decided to distract himself by setting the table.
It was chicken strips with vegetables and teriyaki sauce. And they were delicious. Bakugou certainly cooked really well.
Kirishima started washing the dishes while Bakugou went to change clothes.
They hadn’t talked about anything, as usual, but it was a comfortable kind of nothing. They didn’t need any particular topics to exchange words. They were content with the simplicity of those conversations.
Well, sometimes Bakugou would get irritated and snap at him, but that was just how he was, and Kirishima knew it. He didn’t know why he loved even that about him, but he was sure he loved it.
When he finished cleaning up and clearing the table, he threw himself onto the couch. He loved that couch, it was comfy and soft. Since Bakugou didn’t have a guest room, he’d slept there countless times.
It was late. He grabbed his phone to text Kaminari, asking him to come pick him up. He thought that if Kaminari didn’t reply, he’d just walk. The road was long but not tiring.
But before he could even open the chat, he felt Bakugou’s weight drop onto the couch beside him. Oh, that meant he was in his pajamas.
Kirishima could never stop staring at him when he wore those clothes. He looked damn good, or maybe it was the idea of seeing him in homey, almost intimate clothes that he found so appealing.
“You staying?” Bakugou asked, his voice soft. It drove him crazy.
“Umh…”
“Stay.”
God.
“Yeah…umh, okay.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked to stay. It happened often, especially towards the end of the week. Maybe Bakugou didn’t even realize how seductive he was.
It was an innocent request, with no romantic undertones, and Kirishima knew that. It was just his heart that was racing.
He tried not to stare too much. His gaze would inevitably fall on Bakugou’s heavy shirt and loose pants. His mind would try to imagine his skin and body beneath the soft, dark fabric of the pajamas.
“I left some clothes on the bed for you,” Bakugou said, as if it was the most normal thing ever. Well, it wasn’t normal for Kirishima’s chest. It hurt. His ribcage felt like it was splitting.
Not only had he asked him to stay, but he was sure Kirishima would actually stay.
He got up a bit hesitantly and walked down the hallway, feeling the blonde’s eyes on him the whole way. He knew where his bedroom was. It wasn’t the first time he’d borrowed his clothes, and he’d slept there once before… that night in August.
His room was the one that smelled most like him. Entering it felt like being pulled into an embrace. That’s why he sometimes lingered there longer than he should. He loved the simplicity of the decor, the softness of the blankets.
He picked up the clothes Bakugou had folded on the edge of the bed and slowly put them on.
Everything smelled like him. The sweet scent of detergent. The softness of the fabric. The thought that Bakugou wearing those same clothes made his whole body boil.
He walked back to the living room. Bakugou was watching TV. A debate channel about heroes. They were talking about Todoroki. He heard Bakugou grunt.
He sat beside him and shivered as Bakugou looked him up and down. Everything he did made his heart race.
“It’s late, shouldn’t you be in bed, Cinderella?” Kirishima teased, he often called him that since Bakugou usually slept before midnight.
Bakugou shot him a stern look. “I’m not tired.”
“You want to stay with me, huh? You could’ve just said it,” Kirishima tried to play it off. The blonde didn’t respond. He said nothing. He sank deeper into the couch, sighing.
After an hour of silently watching TV in the peaceful domestic quiet, Bakugou went to his room to sleep, and Kirishima lay awake on the couch, turning things over in his mind.
But Bakugou pondered that night too. He thought that, that evening, on the couch, he was on the verge of asking his friend to hold him. He thought maybe he would have said yes. He thought he was pathetic for not being able to allow himself moments of tenderness. He thought the cold outside his apartment was harsh but not as painful as the cold in his bed.