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Bakugou’s got nice hands.
They’re on the paler side. His palms are thick and worn from using his quirk consistently for over a decade. Skin calloused, tendons protruding from the backs of them from constant flexing or poising, wielded like the weapons they typically are. And holding them? It’s nice too.
The crippling fear of flying across the sky, as his body quivered, couldn’t stop Kirishima from thinking — for the briefest second — about how nice Bakugou’s hand felt in his.
Holding it without those dreadful emotions is like a million times better.
A firm flick to the forehead returns him to the present.
“Oi,” says a gravelly voice. “Don’t zone out on me, asshole. You’re supposed to be tracking my reps.”
Kirishima smiles apologetically. “Sorry, man. No more zoning out.”
Satisfied, Bakugou grunts before resuming his curls with his right arm.
His eyes land on Bakugou’s face, finding his scar. Too drained from death, surgeries, and painkillers, the doctors prohibited most healing quirks for a time to let his body naturally heal. Allowing the scar to set in. The smooth, pink tissue spans over most of his left side, grazing his ear and following the length of his nose. Bakugou was lucky not to lose eyesight entirely, having enough energy to restore it before he was cut off.
(“We match,” Kirishima croaked one night, during the first of many hospital visits.
Bakugou, lethargic, blinked at him slowly before exhaling a rough sound. If he squinted, it was amusement. “So sent’mental, ‘shima.”)
Kirishima shakes his head a little. “What number are you on?”
Bakugou looks at him with a flat mouth and squinted eyes. Made more intimidating by the latest addition. Enough to make a lesser man wilt. Kirishima, smiling, stares head-on.
“Twenty-nine,” Bakugou mutters, focus returning to the weight curled in his fist.
Kirishima nods. And he counts.
Thirty.
Thirty-one.
Thirty-two.
Thirty-three.
Thirty-four.
Thirty-five.
With a sigh, Bakugou sets the dumbbell down, rotating his wrist in a familiar pattern. His other hand rubs his forearm, working out stiffness.
Kirishima watches. Not like that’s anything new — he’s been watching Bakugou since the first day of school. Over time, though, his reasons for watching changed.
He lightly kicks the blonde’s ankle, grinning as that fiery gaze is on him. “Great job, man! Another set down.” He claps Bakugou affectionately on the back.
Bakugou huffs. “You ever gonna give up this cheerleader act?” he says, teasing. His left arm shifts across the floor, closer to Kirishima’s knee. To the untrained eye, it’s a thoughtless, idle gesture.
Instead, his grin widens. “Nah.” His hand slides over, seeking its equal, as he tangles their fingers together. “I’m your biggest fan after all.”
“Gross.” Bakugou’s nose scrunches with mock disgust and Kirishima chuckles. Bakugou squeezes his hand.
Kirishima hums. Impulsively, he brings their joined hands to his lips, pressing them firmly to that rough palm. Revels in the soft pop and crackle produced. Without worry, he cups his cheek with their hands, sputtering heat tickling him. It’s warm. He feels warm. Content.
There is a universe where Kirishima loses this — all of this. Comfortable mornings. Tranquil workout sessions. The gentle way Bakugou’s thumb strokes his cheek.
Kirishima hums again at the touch. Grateful that it’s not this one.