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Bakugou fucking hates winter.
The dreary weather, the upticks in illness, and worst of all, the cold. It creeps beneath his clothes, making his throat and lungs parched. It's the most unbearable time of the year, without a doubt, and that's not even mentioning how powdery snow blankets everything .
Annoyingly enough, the season also weakens his quirk, making ass-kicking harder. Insulating the winter version of his hero suit was his best idea yet, especially when it keeps his performance average even at his worst. Still, Bakugou hates the numbing sensation. The loss of feeling. They remind him of sludge shoving into his mouth and black spots dotting his vision. An experience he isn’t keen on remembering.
Bakugou grunts, as he crouches on the complex. On one side sits a convenience store, frequented by teens and young adults, especially at odd hours. The typical citizen coming back from a long shift or needing an extra, late-night boost. The sharp sting of winter on his nose makes him a bit bitter towards the commuters on their way home.
Ignoring the legality of his self-employment, Bakugou does his job fantastically, keeping neighborhoods safe and beating down bad guys in a matter of seconds. And he won’t deny how much of an ego stroke it is when civilians chant his hero alias. He doesn’t need a fancy educated or laminated card to prove anything.
Because no matter what anyone tells him, he is a hero .
The area he’s patrolling is a hot spot for small-time robberies, but the convenience store is strangely quiet tonight. Customers enter and exit, sometimes with one or two items in their arms, instantly opened, or with a plastic bag hitting their leg. They remain none the wiser to his presence, just how he likes it. Hunching his shoulders to preserve warmth, Bakugou pushes to his feet. He needs a new vantage point. He leaps to the side, then propels to the other side of the street using the lamps, minor explosions going off for an extra boost. It causes a few heads to whip up, startled by the noise, but he gives no one a chance to spot him. It can’t be helped that his quirk is loud.
Scaffolding crumbles under his boots once he reaches the edge of an old jewelry shop, perching above the storefront. While watching a girl attempt to juggle two bags of what can only be ramen and energy drinks, a blur of red catches his eye.
Bakugou instantly waves it off. It’s December and cold as fuck; Christmas is in a few days. It’s not a damn surprise people are dressed festively as they walk to and fro their destinations. However, he glances again as the red blur lingers in front of the store, but doesn’t enter.
He narrows his eyes. It spells ‘trouble’: a lonesome figure loitering in front of a building. Bakugou flexes his fingers, ready to jump down at the first suspicious move.
Instead, they look up. The figure is bundled in a garish coat and scarf, which they pull down to reveal a bright grin, visible under the fluorescent lights.
Bakugou knows that grin.
He looks to his right. There’s an alleyway just between the shop he’s perched on and the adjacent building. Looking back down, he jerks his chin to the side. Over there . He doesn’t wait another second before he’s on his feet again, sliding down the old exposed piping until he reaches the ground. Trash crinkles beneath his feet as he walks towards the mouth of the alleyway, right as the red-bundled figure from before appears.
Bakugou immediately scowls. “What did I tell you about fucking stalking me?”
A bare tan hand reaches up to pull the scarf down. “You’re not exactly the hardest guy to track down,” Kirishima says, revealing his grin for a second time, “if you know where to look.”
Of course, the shitty-haired idiot came looking for him. Kirishima isn't exactly what he’d call a friend—more like a loud-mouthed, sunny inconvenience—but he’s not the worst person to run into. The man isn’t in the hero sphere like he is (no matter how much Bakugou pushes it), but he’s a decent reprieve from the throws of it all. Someone Bakugou can unwind with when he’s not suffering at his shitty day job. Someone who doesn’t balk at his explosive personality or crass tongue. Someone who dresses his wounds, when he lets go of enough of his pride.
At night, they rarely cross paths. This feels deliberate. Was something wrong? He quickly assumes that there’s trouble in the redhead’s neighborhood and that his help is needed. Kirishima lives almost half an hour away from this area after all. His fingers twitch at the thought, but the redhead doesn’t appear worried or frightened.
Kirishima, sharing none of his urgency, leans against the wall. “Nice night we’re having, huh, Dynamight?”
Bakugou scoffs. “Fuck no. Not when I’m freezing my balls off,” he snarks.
Kirishima chuckles warmly, stepping further into the shadows with the vigilante. “Fair enough,” he says. Bakugou’s eyes briefly roam over his blood-red coat and loose scarf.
“What are you doing here?” he grunts.
Kirishima shrugs, smile still on his lips. “What, I can’t come and see you?
“Don’t play dumb with me, fucker,” he says, irritated. His gloves bulge as his hands curl. “I know your dumbass ain’t a resident in this area. Ya clearly came here looking for me and not a midnight snack.”
The man opens his mouth to retort but quickly second-guesses himself, considering how quickly he closes it. “Nothing gets past you, huh?” His expression is sheepish. “You caught me. I—well, I wanted to ask you something, but I know you don’t carry your personal phone when you’re out, so—”
“But you hauled your ass out of your flat to track me down on a whim,” he deadpans, watching Kirishima’s cheeks go slightly pink. Is he stupid? Bakugou could’ve been anywhere in the city, what would Kirishima have done if he wasn’t here? Follow the aftermaths of his battles with blind faith? When Kirishima remains silent, he sighs impatiently. “Well? Out with it .”
Pink skin turns red, and a breeze runs by simultaneously. He rubs his arm a little (because even he can admit it’s pretty cold). When Kirishima finally speaks, his voice is too low and Bakugou snaps at him to speak up. This time, his voice is clear: “ Do you wanna come over for Christmas Eve? ”
Bakugou arches a brow. Did he hear that right? “You came all the way out here,” he says slowly, “just to ask me that?”
Kirishima shifts from foot to foot. The red on his face hasn’t gone down either. “Yeah, I did.” His voice is less hesitant. “My friends already left. I can’t travel this year to see my moms. You don’t have anyone you’d rather spend the day with.” He pointedly ignores Bakugou’s growl. “It won’t hurt to take one night off, right?”
His eyes narrow. “So what, that makes me your last resort?” For some reason, the thought weighs heavy in his chest.
Kirishima waves his gloved hands in front of him sporadically. “No! It’s not like that, man! If one of my work friends had hosted, I would’ve invited you still, but they went all home.” His expression is wounded. “But I knew you’d still be here, no plans, so I thought we could still hang out.”
Bakugou’s eyes find the opposite wall. None of what he said is wrong. The blonde isn’t close enough to his coworkers for any merry celebrations, and his parents live fuck-knows-where (not that he has any intention of seeing them this month. Or ever). He hasn’t got other family to see. Christmas and Christmas Eve were just going to be normal days for him. His workplace would be closed, and he would be the resident neighborhood watch while everyone exchanged gifts and affection.
And Bakugou: alone in a warm, quiet apartment until he inevitably dragged himself into winter’s icy embrace to keep doing what he does best: taking down villains.
Shuffling catches his attention and he redirects it to Kirishima, who’s still waiting for his answer. Bakugou can tell he’s growing antsier by the minute, fiddling with his scarf with his bulky gloves.
Hm. What’s one evening off from busting his ass off year-round to keep the streets safe? “Fine.”
Kirishima blinks. breath fogging in front of his surprised expression. “Really? I thought—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “ Really? ”
“What are you, a fucking parrot?” Bakugou snarls, but there’s little heat to it. Kirishima smiles widely, so at least he isn’t offended. “Don’t make me repeat myself, I don’t have time for that shit.”
As if suddenly remembering they’re in the middle of an alleyway and Bakugou is decked in full hero gear, the other man straightens. “Right!” he exclaims loudly, Bakugou holding back a grimace as this voice reverberates through the space. “Right, right. I’ll text you a time! So please look at your phone tomorrow.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes at his wheedling, waving his hand flippantly. “Yeah, yeah. Get back home already, Shitty Hair.”
Kirishima reaches up and adjusts the hat on his head. “Stop that. Our hair isn’t that different when it’s spiked up,” he complains, jogging backward because he lacks self-preservation. “See you then, Bak—bro!”
Bakugou doesn’t bother returning the wave, waiting until he disappears around the corner with one final smile before huffing. Such a dumbass , he thinks, ignoring the slight smile playing on his lips.
×
The twenty-fourth of December irritates Bakugou like nothing else. Horrible parking, monologuing villains, and annoying train passengers don’t hold a fucking candle to his distaste for the holiday.
And everyone and their mother holds hands with someone.
Bakugou isn't jealous; far from it. In his opinion, it's obnoxious for people to flaunt their partners during one of the shortest days of the year in the shittiest weather possible. Was Valentine's Day and White Day not enough ? Not to mention the over-the-top plans people make for fucking anniversaries? Hundreds of business establishments get swept up in the lovesick fever, decorating their shops with all kinds of romantic decor.
It makes him sick. He's gonna kick Kirishima's ass for making him travel in these conditions.
A small part of him can admit it's not the worst thing: spending a day like this with Kirishima. Had it not been for him, Bakugou would have spent it rewatching old pre-quirk films and devouring amazing homemade food. That’s before growing restless and storming into the frigid streets to kick some deserving bastard’s teeth in. He’s a stickler for routine, usually, but he’s not dreading the change in plans. Hanging out with Kirishima.
He's not excited . Just pleased.
No way is he taking the train during this time of year, opting for an Uber. His driver was either too anticipatory or too drained to initiate a conversation like most morons, and Bakugou is grateful. He can’t be bothered on a regular day to make small talk. Buildings and people pass his window as he rests his cheek in one bulky glove. Outside of his nightly patrols, he rarely travels somewhere that isn’t the restaurant where he works or his apartment. Bakugou tends to stick to the same districts in Tokyo.
This is new, in a strange way.
When they arrive, he affords the driver a grunt and a hefty tip before entering the complex, quickly. Anything to escape the frigid temperatures. The lobby is modern and simplistic, which Bakugou hadn’t expected. He pictured a much gaudier entrance concerning where Kirishima lives (not that he thought about it often.) He takes out his phone, tapping its screen with difficulty due to his gloves, and reads the last text from their conversation. Afterward, he slips the device into his pocket and makes for the elevator.
Up three floors he goes and is just as quickly spat out. Bakugou walks down the hallway until stopping as he reaches the second to last door. The garish, red wreath certainly gives it away, even if he hadn’t known the exact door number. He raises his fist and knocks harshly. His gloves muffle the noise, but there’s still a loud call and hurried footsteps from inside. Soon he’s met with Kirishima’s bright grin.
“Bakugou you made it!” he greets, overjoyed. Bakugou grunts. His eyes sweep up and down, taking in Kirishima’s awful green sweater, patterned with reindeer. His green bottoms and white fuzzy shoes are no better. “Come in, come in. Food’s already warmed up—it’s no KFC, sorry, but I promise what I got tastes just as good!”
Murky memories of takeout boxes and mouthwatering aromas flood his mind. Bakugou hasn’t properly celebrated Christmas since he left his parents’ house, which feels like a lifetime ago. Crowded evenings sitting around the table, stuffing his face full and giving the hag a heart attack by playing with the string lights. There was never a tree, but his parents made the most of their decorations…
The genkan is narrow and barren, but when his jacket is removed and slippers replace his snow boots, his eyes are soon assaulted with hanging lights and a fuck ton of red. Red decorative pillows on the sofa; a red, poorly crocheted blanket draped over the back; a small potted tree in the corner with even more lights tangled between its red nettles. The whole room is an eyesore.
A hand finds the space between his shoulder blades and pushes. “Sit down,” Kirishima urges. “I don’t have a dining table, so we can just eat on the couch.”
He could be more concerned about potential stains, but Bakugou won’t put up a fuss. As the host moves into the kitchen, he drops onto the couch, nearly toppling to the side with the amount of give it has. Fuck, this thing is soft. He quickly straightens when he hears Kirishima return, glancing up to see two plates stacked with holiday classics in each hand. The greenest thing in sight is the bits of basil on the pizza.
“Of course, you got a meat lover,” he deadpans as Kirishima sets down their food, responding with a grin.
“Nothing wrong with being predictable sometimes,” Kirishima quips, taking the spot beside Bakuou easily. The blonde curses out of irritation when he’s jostled due to the movement. “I know it’s not fancy or anything, but…”
He scratches his cheek, weirdly bashful. Bakugou scoffs. “What, you think being a vigilante pays well?” His attempt at humor, however truthful his words may be, makes Kirishima giggle. Bakugou attributes his churning stomach to hunger and not an effect of witnessing such disarming laughter. When was the last time he made someone laugh? He reaches for his plate, and damn it does smell good; pizza, fried chicken, and vegetable tempura. Foods that Bakugou wouldn’t indulge in on a regular day.
“This is overkill,” he grouses, giving the junk on his plate a wary look. The pizza is the safest start.
“It’s Christmas Eve!” Kirishima exclaims around a mouthful of fried chicken, making Bakugou’s nose scrunch. “You’re meant to go all out, don’t’cha know? Though honestly, this isn’t much.” He swallows, smiling going lopsided. “The fried chicken is from this sweet family-owned restaurant down the block. I’m glad I ordered when I did because that place was packed ! Though I couldn’t get many decorations or activities. This was sorta last minute and everything is so minimal, I—”
“Oi,” Bakugou interjects after swallowing because he’s a civilized individual. “Stop that.”
As if any of that matters to Bakugou. As if any of that is why he’s here, in this apartment, on this day. Gingerbread houses, fatty foods, and ugly garlands—all of that pales compared to the vibrant man beside him.
“This is… it’s fine , Kirishima,” he says, words clunky, the surname odd on his tongue. He’s used to using crude nicknames. “Nice or whatever.”
Kirishima stares, long enough that he feels himself clamming up. The man’s mouth opens but no words come out, floundering for a response. Soon, his lips part into a grateful, little smile and there’s a weird lurch in Bakugou’s chest. “...Cool.” A blush bursts on his cheeks. “I-I’m glad you think so.
Bakugou grunts in his typical fashion.
Kirishima chuckles before gesturing halfheartedly to his console. ”Wanna play Smash?”
After all the smack talk Kirishima dished a few months ago? Who would Bakugou be if he turned down the chance to kick his ass ?
He can only describe the next few moments as fun . They skip the practice match and jump into one-on-one battles, where Kirishima initially mops the floor with him. His cackling only fuels his competitive drive. Nothing if not determined, Bakugou dominates the next rounds with well-executed combos. They even resort to shoving at some points, the contact burning Bakugou’s skin beneath his clothes. Under the guise of a ‘break’ (probably to wallow in his defeat, he bets), Kirishima retreats to the kitchen, this time bringing out a plate of taiyaki and warm tea.
“I didn’t bother getting a cake because you told me once you’re not a fan of sweets.”
Is it weird to feel touched by it? Probably. Definitely.
As if that gesture wasn’t enough, Bakugou can’t help but notice how close Kirishima sits, how—complimentary he is. When he pulls off a flawless takedown that knocks them both off the platform but saves his Litten last minute and secures another victory, the man fawns over it. His hands clasp at Bakugou’s arm, shaking him and demanding to know his secrets. He shoves his palm into his face in response, shoving him back but Kirishima only laughs.
Kirishima prods Bakugou for stories about the villains he’s faced and the people he’s saved, so much so that they abandon the game entirely. Hugging his knees to his chest, cheek squished against the back of the couch, Kirishima listens intently. It makes his chest feel funny. For all his arrogance, Bakugou isn’t vain, and having someone so genuinely interested in what he does—is new. He’s never had someone to divulge details to, about the man underneath the mask.
“God,” Kirishima sighs, wistful after a retelling of the time he blasted through two floors during a collapse. “You’re so manly, Bakugou.”
Another painful tug in his ribs. He can’t take it anymore. “Why do you keep saying that shit?” he demands, brows furrowing.
Kirishima’s gaze sharpens, dampening some of its wonder. “Saying what?”
“Everything, idiot,” he snarls, causing the man to frown. Shit. “The fucking—compliments and stuff.”
Only then does Kirishima straighten, eyes wide and imploring. “I mean—well, you—” He huffs, lines of frustration marking his features. He’s contemplating something, tiny brows pinched together as he chews his lower lip. “Because it’s true, Bakugou,” he settles on, soft voice sending a shudder down Bakugou’s spine. “All of it is and I like telling you.”
Heat crawls up Bakugou’s neck and his palms sweat. What is he even supposed to say after that? He shuffles in his spot, crossing his legs.
At least Kirishima appears just as flustered as he feels. “Is that okay?” he asks, hopeful.
Bakugou adverts his eyes, staring intensely at the forgotten controllers. What kind of a question is that? Is he expecting Bakugou to hate being showered with admiration, even if it causes annoying tingling in his belly? It’s not like the annoying platitudes he heard in high school, or even his manager’s stilted praise after a hard day’s work.
“S’whatever,” he says eventually, pulling his gaze back to Kirishima. The man is much closer than he remembers, but he fights down an involuntary flinch. Their knees brush, shooting lightning down his limb and making him bite his tongue. His head is simultaneously loud and quiet and Bakugou isn’t sure he’s breathing.
Up close, Kirishima’s lashes are even longer. There are flecks of brown and maroon in his striking red eyes. The thin scar he once thought was a long eyelash stirs curiosity deep in his sternum. Did Kirishima ever tell him where it came from? He’s not sure he can recall the story right now.
It’s only because he’s so hyperfocused on Kirishima that he notices him shifting closer. And closer. Close enough for him to feel Kirishima’s rough exhale against his lips, close enough to—
Bakugou jerks back.
The silence is stifling . He can feel how wide his eyes are, meeting Kirishima’s startled gaze. In just a few seconds, his face goes from pleasantly pink to violently red, expression morphing to horror.
“Fuck,” Kirishima squeaks out, somehow growing more red, deeply embarrassed. “Fuck—Bakugou, I’m so sorry. I thought—no, I don’t know what I thought.”
“Oi—“
“Whatever I thought, I thought wrong, and I shouldn’t have tried to kiss—” He cuts off with a strangled sound. “I shouldn’t have assumed—“
“ Red— “
“I’m really sorry, man. I was just so glad you said ‘yes’ in the first place and I got caught up in the moment because I’ve been sort of hoping it would happen tonight. Not that that’s why I invited you! Ugh, if you wanna leave, then I’d understand—“
“ Kirishima! ” In a move unlike him, Bakugou reaches out and grabs Kirishima’s face, squeezing it between his slick hands. His grip is firm, not painful, and it finally gets the bumbling man to shut his trap. Goddamn.
Resisting the crackles that threaten to pop, he takes a deep breath. He feels how Kirishima’s cheeks burn within his hold. “Calm down,” he gruffs, attempting to be soothing. He’s not too sure it’s working. Now that Kirishima’s panicked blubbering has stopped, he can work through his clouded thoughts. “I’m not mad.”
It’s true. As startling as it was, he didn’t recoil out of anger or disgust, just shock. He didn’t—he hadn’t expected Kirishima to make a move on him, nor did he know how to respond because he never imagined Kirishima making a move on him. It’s just not something he pictured. But he’s not mad.
“I’m not mad,” he repeats, knowing it takes a few tries for things to pass through his thick skull. “Just… surprised,” he finishes lamely. It caught me off guard , he wants to say, but the phrase feels too vulnerable. He chews his cheek. “Didn't even know you fucking liked me like that.”
The words are juvenile, but there’s no other conclusion to come to. Kirishima Eijirou likes him.
Kirishima’s gaze dips to the side, nose scrunched slightly. “Yeah…” he replies weakly, swallowing. “I was planning to—to tell you, sometime tonight, but you… it doesn’t matter. Sorry.”
Bakugou barely refrains from shaking him. “Quit apologizing, idiot,” he snaps softly. “It’s…” whatever , he wants to say, but this isn’t whatever. Not to Kirishima, at least He’s an asshole, but this isn’t something he can just brush off. These feelings.
Does Bakugou have feelings of his own? He knows he enjoys Kirishima’s company, scarce as their hangouts are, more so than anyone else’s. Tonight showed him how good it felt to exchange stories and milestones; learning about the redhead and his many ticks. He’s certainly not an extra anymore, not like he was when they first met. Kirishima is… he feels…
He doesn’t know what any of that shit should mean, but if it’s Kirishima, it’s something he doesn’t mind exploring.
Failing to realize he’s still holding his face, he says, “I don’t know if I like you.” He barrels at the despondent expression between his hands. “Never really thought about that stuff, about anyone. But you’re not the most annoying person to spend time with.” His lips pinch. “You… you’re different, so if it’s you, then...”
He doesn’t know how to conclude his botched confession (?), but he’s enjoying the hopeful twinkle in Kirishima’s eyes. “So you—“ The man rasps before clearing his throat. “Do you wanna go out sometime? Like on a date?”
Bakugou raises a brow at him, considering it for a second. He wouldn’t hate that. “Nothing cheesy,” he eventually responds, “and don’t get pissy if I end up bailing to deal with some trouble.”
Kirishima brightens, there’s no other way to describe it, lighting up the room with his shark-tooth grin. “I won’t. Being a hero is one of the things I like about you, in case that wasn’t clear enough.”
How did Bakugou get so lucky, to have someone so understanding and willing to try for him? To want him? Is this what it means to like someone: to want to try for them in return?
Bakugou still isn’t sure, but here is something else he’s curious about. That he wants to try. “Hey,” he says, “hold still.”
Kirishima looks at him, confused, but doesn’t protest when Bakugou turns his head to the side, sliding one hand down to trace his neck instead. As if he doesn’t have literal nukes for hands. Kirishima is either the bravest or stupidest man he’s ever bet.
Puffing out an amused breath, the blonde leans forward and presses a chaste kiss on his smooth cheek. It’s brief, his lips barely gracing the skin, and it ends just as quickly as it happened.
It doesn’t take away from how Kirishima glows with joy and bashfulness simultaneously. The crooked grin he wears is so endearing that Bakugou is almost tempted to kiss it too. He doesn’t. There’s time for all the experimental shit. For now, he’s content to bask in Kirishima’s happiness.
“Merry Christmas Eve, Bakugou,” Kirishima whispers, brighter than any string light or star.
Bakugou huffs, but humors him. “Merry fucking Christmas Eve, Shima.”