Work Text:
He meets Kirishima when his nose is as red as Kirishima’s hair and dripping.
“Hoo,” Kirishima says, letting out a long whistle and grinning at Bakugou. “What does the other guy look like?”
“Shut it,” Bakugou snips. “Where’s the nurse?”
“On break,” Kirishima says cheerfully. “I’ll take care of you.”
Bakugou does not want the obnoxiously happy, obnoxiously sharp-toothed, obnoxiously spiky redhead taking care of him. He growls at Kirishima when Kirishima pats the chair in front of him. “I can take care of it myself,” he says, pinching his nose and leaning forward.
“You could,” Kirishima says, leaning back in his chair. “Or you could get an ice pack for your cheek that’s swelling up pretty bad, some disinfectant for that nasty scrape over your eyebrow, and a tampon for your nose.”
Bakugou glares at him murderously.
“Okay, okay, we’ll leave out the tampon,” Kirishima says, laughing. “C’mon.” When Bakugou still hesitates, he holds out a hand. “Kirishima Eijirou. You?”
Bakugou bats away his hand. “Bakugou Katsuki,” he mutters, throwing himself into the chair. It protests with a squeak.
“Let’s take a look at that poor, abused nose,” Kirishima says. He’s not afraid to touch Bakugou, hands reaching forward to feather along his jaw. His touch makes Bakugou flinch. He feels the flinch and blinks, concerned. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Bakugou snaps. “Just…whatever.” This time, when Kirishima touches him, the touch lingers. He tilts Bakugou’s head from side to side, up and down. His hands are tough and leathery, much manlier than Bakugou had expected from such a happy camper.
“Who won?” Kirishima asks.
“I did, of course,” Bakugou says, rolling his eyes.
“‘Of course’? I would have assumed you lost, given the state of your handsome mug,” Kirishima says. He hands Bakugou some nosebleed plugs.
Bakugou bristles, but straightens up, puffing out his chest. “You didn’t see the other guy.”
Kirishima wipes some of the crusting red-brown blood flakes from Bakugou’s nose with an antiseptic wipe. It’s cold. Bakugou wrinkles his nose. That makes Kirishima smile harder, revealing his unnaturally sharp teeth. “Cute,” he says. “You’re just like a little kid.”
“Shut the fuck up, bastard.”
A laugh. “So why’d you fight him.”
Bakugou shrugs one shoulder. “I like fighting,” he says. “I like blood.”
Kirishima snorts, but when Bakugou doesn’t add anything else, the smile falls from his face. “You’re serious.”
“Do I look like I was fucking joking?” Bakugou growls.
“Do you even know how to tell a joke?” Kirishima challenges, raising an eyebrow.
“Why did the chicken cross the road,” Bakugou says, deadpan. Kirishima bursts out laughing.
“See? You’re a funny guy when you try!” He shakes his head and hands Bakugou an ice pack. “Alternate keeping that on and off your face, okay?”
Kirishima stands to get some antibacterial solution from the cabinet. “A guy who likes blood,” he says. “Curious.”
Bakugou doesn’t elaborate.
Kirishima pops his head around the cabinet door. “Any particular reason why?”
“You’re really fucking annoying,” Bakugou says. “Has anyone ever told you that? Because you are. Isn’t it your job to have a good bedside manner?”
“Isn’t it human nature to be curious about others, especially the ones that come bleeding all over your floor and acting like they’re hot shit?” Kirishima counters.
“I didn’t—” Bakugou starts. Kirishima clears his throat and nods to the speckles of blood across the tile floor. “What the fuck ever,” Bakugou grumbles. Was it even fucking possible to one-up this guy?
Kirishima dabs the cotton ball wetted with antibacterial solution against the scrape over his eyebrow. Bakugou ducks away, swearing. “Motherfucker! That stings!”
“Baby,” Kirishima teases. “You can handle a fight but not a little stinging?”
Bakugou hunches his shoulders and tolerates the treatment. “The fuck is your deal anyway?” he asks. “If you’re the new nurse, I’m moving schools.”
“Just the nurse’s assistant, never fear,” Kirishima says. “I can’t help any more than stuff like this.”
“Why bother?” Bakugou mutters.
“Why bother fighting?” Kirishima says.
Bakugou grunts.
“I like helping people,” he says. “You’d be surprised at the different kinds of problems people come in here with.” He smiles. “Well, some of them are just trying to cut class, but then you get the interesting guys, like you, Mr. I-Like-Blood.”
“You make it sound so creepy,” Bakugou says.
“It is pretty creepy,” Kirishima says. “Do you want to lie down?” Bakugou gives him a look. Kirishima raises his hands in submission. “Just asking!”
“Fighting helps me think,” Bakugou says. “I’m good at it. It helps me de-stress. I like seeing my own blood. There, that’s your reason.”
Kirishima hunches forward, propping his elbows up on his knees and cupping his chin in his hands. He eyes Bakugou thoughtfully. “You’re an interesting man, Bakugou Katsuki. I’d like to spar with you some time.”
“Spar with me?” Bakugou says.
“You don’t always have to beat someone up when fighting, you know,” Kirishima says. “I’ll at least put up a better fight than that, and I’ll come back for more.”
“I won’t go easy on you,” Bakugou snorts.
Kirishima’s eyes go half-lidded, amused. “Do I look like I need you to go easy on me?”
That was the other thing that didn’t make sense—why the hell was someone as ripped as Kirishima a nurse’s assistant? He’s got great biceps and thighs, clearly the type of person who actually enjoyed working out, probably with that dumb, sharp smile and irritating optimism of his. Bakugou frowns.
“You’re fucking weird yourself,” he says. “You look like a goddamn bodybuilder, but you’re working such a wussy job. What’s up with that, man?”
“Not all of us can be delinquent heartthrobs,” Kirishima says. “I’ll leave that to you, sweetheart.”
“You wanna go?” Bakugou snarls.
“I make an effort not to hit my patients when they’re down,” Kirishima replies.
“I can still kick your ass, easy.”
“And when I aim for your sore spots?”
“Try it, fucker.”
“Ah!” Kirishima is distracted from their ‘conversation’ by something outside the window. “Snow,” he says.
“Fuck!” Bakugou swears. “I have to walk home. I don’t want to walk through that cold white shit, fuck that.”
“I can give you a ride, if you want,” Kirishima offers. “I drove my car today.”
Bakugou eyes him with suspicion. Kirishima rolls his eyes. “You won’t owe me or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Some of us are just genuinely nice people, you know.”
“Weird,” Bakugou says. Kirishima sticks his tongue out at him.
The nurse has to look twice when Kirishima says he’s leaving for the day to take a patient home. She shakes her head, but it’s very like Kirishima to adopt strays.
“She’s just letting you take me home?” Bakugou asks.
“I’m pretty reliable,” Kirishima says. “And you’re not the first poor sap I’ve taken home either…you’re the first one I really like, though, don’t worry!”
“I wasn’t worried,” Bakugou says.
“I think you like me,” Kirishima says.
“I really don’t,” Bakugou says.
Kirishima nudges his shoulder. Bakugou glares at him, but it doesn’t stop Kirishima from doing it again, and again, and again until he gets Bakugou to shoulder him back, which escalates into a shoving war that has them swearing and yelling and eventually racing out the front doors of the school and into the snowfall.
“I’m freezing my balls off!” Bakugou complains, rubbing his arms. “Fuck this weather!”
Kirishima, comfortably bundled up in a coat and not the light uniform Bakugou was wearing shuffles up next to him and unloops the scarf from his neck. He offers it to Bakugou, who makes a disgusted noise.
“Keep your gay ass scarf to yourself,” he says.
“Your gay ass is going to freeze if you don’t wear my gay ass scarf, you ungrateful troll,” Kirishima says. “Look, I’ll make it really easy for you.”
He loops the scarf around Bakugou’s neck, fluffing the back of his hair over the back of it and pulling it snug against Bakugou's neck. Bakugou prickles all the way down his back, the hair standing up on every inch of skin on his body.
“There,” Kirishima says.
The scarf is horrible. It’s plaid and soft and warm and it smells nice, and not in a girly way. It smells like Bakugou imagines Kirishima must smell, sharp and strong and homely. Bakugou shoves his face into the scarf, eating up its warmth. He doesn’t say thank you. Bakugou doesn’t do thank you’s.
“You’re welcome,” Kirishima says anyway.
Kirishima is an asshole.
His car is clearly used, clearly bought with his own hard-earned money, and clearly well-loved. Bakugou hates stupid Kirishima, hates his stupid scarf, and hates his stupid car. Everything about Kirishima is honest and kind and good. It makes Bakugou sick.
“I hate you,” he says, as if it weren’t already abundantly clear.
“Nah,” Kirishima dismisses him, then opens the door for him like a gentleman. “After you.” Bakugou makes sure to slam the door.
Kirishima starts up the car, letting it idle for a little while and waiting for the heater to kick in. Bakugou decides that he can show a little weakness and rubs his hands in front of the vents. They wheeze out only the most lukewarm of air, and Bakugou makes a sound in the back of his throat.
Showing weakness is a mistake, of course, because Kirishima in all his endless kindness, takes it upon himself to warm Bakugou’s hands. He takes Bakugou’s hands and cups them in his own. (They’re bigger than Bakugou’s.) He rubs them together, heating up Bakugou’s skin with friction that tricks Bakugou’s mind into seeing sparks fly between them. (They’re rougher and darker than his, too.)
Then Kirishima pulls Bakugou’s hands to his mouth, and the alarm bells start blaring in Bakugou’s head. Kirishima breathes warm, heavy air over his hands. His lips brush the tip of Bakugou’s thumb and Bakugou jerks.
“Your hands sure sweat a lot,” Kirishima says, laughing breathily. He rubs them again and presses both their hands to his warm, red cheeks. “Do I make you nervous?”
Bakugou snatches his hands back. “Hell yeah you do, you fucking weird fuck. And my hands aren’t sweating; it’s your own damn breath!”
“Sorry,” Kirishima says.
“Don’t apologize,” Bakugou mutters. “You’re just making it weirder.”
They don’t talk on the drive to Bakugou’s house, aside from the occasional clipped bark of Bakugou giving directions and the low, steady sound of Kirishima’s voice as he hums a song. He has one of those voices that sounds normal until he starts singing, turning the sound musical and flowing. It gives Bakugou the creeps.
The snow starts to fall harder, and Kirishima cracks a joke about Bakugou’s hair being so blonde, he might get lost in the snow. Bakugou retaliates, saying that when he’s through with Kirishima, they won’t be able to tell his hair from the bloodstains on the snow, and Kirishima laughs. It’s comfortable, and that makes Bakugou uncomfortable. Kirishima makes them seem like old friends, maybe even childhood friends, instead of strangers that had met that day.
Bakugou doesn’t do thank you’s. He doesn’t do apologies. And he most definitely does not do friends. He has a posse of wimps who fear and respect him, and that’s how he likes it. He doesn’t need anyone close to him. There’s nothing to find in his black heart, no love and no soft, friendly emotions.
Why does Kirishima make all his insults and his irritation and his dislike feel soft?
“This is the one,” Bakugou says.
“Nice place,” Kirishima comments. Bakugou grunts and grabs his bag.
“Keep the scarf,” Kirishima adds.
“Like hell I will,” Bakugou says, but he can’t bring himself to rip it off just yet. “I’ll never see you again.”
“You will,” Kirishima says.
“The fuck would you know?” Bakugou said. There’s a sudden tugging sensation at his throat, and then he’s turning and Kirishima’s leathery, strong hands are cupping his jaw and his mouth is soft on Bakugou’s.
He kisses quick and he kisses gentle, not giving Bakugou the chance to take in the softness of his lips or the slightest, lingering taste of chocolate. Bakugou has questions, he has complaints, he has so many things to say to this son of a bitch, but instead of saying any of them, he sputters and flaps his jaw uselessly.
“You can punch me for that later,” Kirishima says. “After you give me back my scarf.”
“Why?” Bakugou asks, not even sure which why he’s asking at that moment.
“I like you, Bakugou,” Kirishima says. “And I don’t like to let go of the things I like.”
Bakugou thinks about the kiss as he eats dinner. He thinks about it as he brushes his teeth. And he thinks about it when he lies in bed, glaring at the ceiling and imagining his eyes are lasers, burning right through Kirishima’s stupid, poofy head.
“I hate that guy,” Bakugou says, but even he doesn’t believe the words that come out of his mouth.