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There’s a scar near Katsuki’s knuckle that Eijirou has seen a hundred times.
On missions, at briefings, over beers. Splitting his fingers open mid-explosion, mended just enough to keep going. It’s healed poorly — uneven, paled — and Eijirou loves it with an ache that stretches down the backs of his knees.
They’re seated close on some rooftop, legs dangling off the edge like kids who never learned the rules of gravity. The city’s humming below, warm with sodium vapor and the leftover buzz of a patrol that ended well enough. Katsuki’s gloves are shoved in a pocket somewhere. His fingers are bare. He’s holding a bottle of Aquarius by the neck, half-sweating from the July heat.
Eijirou’s looking. He’s always looking.
They’re not doing anything. No jokes. No sparring. Just the kind of silence that stretches so long it stops being awkward and becomes permission. “You’ve got good hands,” Eijirou says quietly, like it’s a joke. It isn’t.
Katsuki doesn’t answer. But he lets his hand stay between them on the rooftop, palm curled, resting in the space like an offering.
And Eijirou… touches. Light, reverent. First just a brush of knuckles, then fingertips against that same scar, ghosting over it with something like worship. He thinks about everything those hands have done. What they’ve held. Built. Destroyed. How they’ve broken bone and stitched it back with gauze, how they’ve steadied him midair in a freefall, gripped his arm after a mission gone sideways, pressed against his chest like they meant to start a heart.
And still, they’re so soft.
He slides his hand into Katsuki’s without asking. Doesn’t need to. Their fingers settle like magnets, like it’s always been this easy.
Katsuki’s thumb brushes over his knuckle, idle, like it’s nothing. But Eijirou’s whole chest flutters.
“I think about them a lot,” he admits. “Your hands.”
Katsuki lets out a quiet breath. A huff, maybe. Something small and warm. “Weirdo.”
But he’s holding tighter now.
Eijirou hums, smiling to himself. His heart is doing something slow and stupid in his ribcage.
“You fight with them. Save people with them. Cook with them, punch walls with them, touch me with them.”
Katsuki doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, jaw tight, thumb still moving, still slow.
“And they’re still soft,” Eijirou murmurs. “You’re still—soft. With me.”
There’s a long pause. Just the thrum of the city and the sound of their breathing. “Only with you,” Katsuki says finally. Quiet. Raw. Like it’s true, and he’s been dying not to say it. He swallows hard, jaw flexing, and for a second it looks like he might leave it at that. But he shifts, just barely, thigh brushing against Eijirou’s, the weight of his body suddenly more real between them. “Dunno how to be like that with anyone else. Don't care to learn, either.” His eyes flick toward their joined hands—calloused fingers, two scars overlapping at the knuckle—and then back to the skyline, as if embarrassed by his own confession. “Feels weird. Wrong. Like I’m doing something backwards if it’s not you.” His voice is low, almost a growl, but there’s something fragile under it, like a hairline fracture waiting to give. “So yeah,” he mutters, like he’s sealing the words in concrete. “Only you.”
Eijirou’s heart stumbles. Trips over itself. Something in his chest tilts off-balance, warm and gut-deep and dizzying. His fingers tighten around Katsuki’s—not to hold him in place, but to hold himself up, because it’s too much. Too good.
And Katsuki doesn’t pull away. He shifts again, just enough that their shoulders knock, then lets their hands rest in the space between like they’ve always belonged there. Like the silence is full of everything they never had the language for until now.
His throat's gone tight with it, breath caught somewhere behind his ribs. Katsuki’s hand in his—warm, solid, a little sweaty from the summer heat—isn’t even holding back. Just there . Not loose, not passive, but curved into his like it knows what to do. Like it wants to.
He stares down at the place where their palms meet, and it’s so— normal . Uneventful. And yet, everything in Eijirou’s chest is lighting up like someone struck flint against his spine. His thumb runs along the ridge of Katsuki’s, skimming the calluses, the dip at the base of his thumb, that knuckle scar he’s already memorized like a prayer.
It’s a big hand. Always has been. Strong, fast, terrifying when clenched. But right now, it’s soft at the center. Loose around his fingers. Trusting.
Katsuki doesn’t rush him. Doesn’t tease. Just lets their hands rest in that quiet little pocket of space between their thighs, his other arm braced behind him on the roof, chest rising steady. He’s giving Eijirou time to feel it. To notice . To want more.
And god, he does .
Eijirou’s eyes trace the lines of Katsuki’s fingers like they’re sacred. The little nicks. The old bruises. The place where his ring finger bends just slightly off-center from a break that never healed clean. There’s so much history in those hands. So much fire, so much fight. And he gets to hold them.
His hand tightens again, this time not in panic, not to anchor himself—but to stay . To ask, without speaking, Can I have this? Can I keep this?
Katsuki glances sideways, a flick of ash-blond bangs caught in the breeze. His thumb moves—just once—rubbing slow and absent along Eijirou’s pinky, like he already knows the answer. Like he’s saying yeah. you can.
Eijirou smiles before he even knows he’s doing it, head ducking a little, face flushed with the enormity of such a small thing.
It’s just hand-holding. They’re grown. They’ve kissed. Fought. Bled. Saved each other in more ways than anyone will ever know. But this—this is different. This is everything without armor. Everything without noise.
And Eijirou’s never felt luckier in his life.
The wind shifts, warm and slow, brushing the nape of Eijirou’s neck where his hair’s started to curl with sweat. Below, the city keeps humming like nothing’s changed. Like the world isn’t tilting gently on its axis because Katsuki Bakugou is letting himself be soft. Letting himself want .
“Y’know,” Katsuki mutters, voice low like gravel rolled smooth, “you’ve got good hands too.” It’s quiet, so quiet that for a second Eijirou thinks he’s imagined it. He blinks, head tilting to look at him—but Katsuki’s still staring straight ahead, ears just barely pink at the edges, scowling at the skyline like it insulted his mother.
Eijirou huffs a breath of laughter, stunned. “Yeah?”
Katsuki shrugs, eyes flicking down to their hands for the briefest moment. “Yeah. Strong. Steady. Manly as fuck.” A pause. “Pretty, too.” That last part slips out like a secret. Like a truth he didn’t mean to give up. Katsuki flinches, barely—but he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t try to cover it up with a cough or a barked insult. Just lets it hang there, proud and raw and real.
Eijirou’s heart does another dizzy spin in his chest. He bites the inside of his cheek, grinning like a goddamn idiot, and turns fully toward Katsuki, shoulders bumping. “You think I have pretty hands?” he teases, voice all breathless delight.
“Don’t make it weird,” Katsuki growls—but his thumb presses into Eijirou’s palm like he’s trying to memorize it. “Just sayin’.”
“You got it bad ,” Eijirou laughs, delighted, glowing with it.
“Shut up.” Katsuki’s face is pink now. Properly pink. But he still doesn’t let go. If anything, he shifts their grip, fingers slotting together like puzzle pieces. His thumb skims up Eijirou’s lifeline and down again, slow and thoughtless. Like he could trace it forever.
Eijirou lets his head drop to Katsuki’s shoulder, a soft weight, the scent of post-patrol smoke and citrus balm curling in his nose. He sighs out, happy, full, everything soft. Kirishima shifts, just enough to turn toward him, still curled in the space where their shoulders meet. His free hand—his other hand, because Katsuki still hasn’t let go of the first—rises slow, reverent. He lifts Katsuki’s palm between them, fingers spread like he’s reading a map. A living one.
And maybe he is. Maybe he’s been tracing the same path for years.
The back of Katsuki’s hand is scarred and sun-warmed, knuckles a little bruised from the last mission, the heel of his palm still healing from a blast he didn’t bother bandaging. Eijirou’s thumb skims across it gently, barely there. He cradles it like something breakable, even though he knows it’s not.
And then he presses a kiss to the center of Katsuki’s palm.
Soft. Just breath and lips and nothing more.
Katsuki twitches like he’s been shocked. “The fuck—?”
But he doesn’t pull away. His voice isn’t annoyed so much as surprised. Quiet. A little desperate. Eijirou doesn’t answer him with words. Just kisses the spot again, then the base of each finger, slow. Thumb. Forefinger. Middle. He skips the ring finger and comes back to it like it’s special. Lingers there.
Katsuki’s gone perfectly still, except for the way his thumb is brushing Eijirou’s knuckles again, soft and nervous. “Dumbass,” he mumbles, but it’s breathless. There’s no real heat in it. He’s watching like he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.
And Katsuki jerks forward like the words yanked something loose in his spine. He leans in with the momentum of a man falling on instinct, bumping their foreheads together—just a knock, a breathless meeting of skin and space and god, what the fuck are you doing to me .
Their noses brush. Eijirou’s still holding his hand like it’s a vow.
Katsuki kisses him—not all at once. He’s awkward about it, stilted. A nudge of his cheekbone. A stupid press of his mouth to Eijirou’s jaw, too high to count, too low to matter. The corner of his lips, once, twice, like he’s circling the thing he wants without letting himself land.
“You’re gonna fuckin’ wreck me,” he mutters into his skin. It’s not even a complaint.
Eijirou laughs, startled and soft, and catches him by the collar like he always does—like pulling Katsuki closer is a reflex, not a decision. The kiss they finally share is warm and dumb and tilted, lips not quite lining up at first. Katsuki’s breath catches when Eijirou opens just a little, the kind of open that tastes like trust. Like more.
Their hands never leave each other. Even when the kiss goes sideways. Even when they both smile into it, a little crooked, a little breathless.
They don’t say anything after. They just stay. Bakugou's thumb keeps drawing aimless circles over the back of Eijirou’s hand, and Eijirou keeps kissing every scar he can reach like he’s been meaning to for years. And the city, for once, has the decency to leave them alone. Eijirou finally looks up, slow and molten, lashes shadowing his cheeks. He’s smiling like he’s figured out a secret he’s never telling. His thumbs are still brushing slow circles over Katsuki’s skin, reverent. Addicted.
“Lemme hold your hands more often,” he murmurs. Not a question. Not really. Just a fact he’s sliding into the air between them, like it belongs there. Like he already knows the answer.
Katsuki’s mouth twitches. His grip tightens a fraction, like Eijirou might float off if he lets up. He doesn't say anything for a beat—just watches him, brows slightly drawn, lips parted like he’s still catching up.
Then, with the same kind of breath he uses after a clean hit in a spar, he mutters, “Yeah. Okay. Fuck. They’re yours anyway.”
Eijirou’s heart does something ridiculous in his chest—too full, too soft. He brings Katsuki’s hand up again, slower this time, deliberate. He kisses the scar just under the knuckle, lets his lips linger. Then another kiss, higher. Then one to the center of his palm. One to the wrist. Little, clumsy things, like he’s trying to plant flowers there. Like the skin might remember.
Katsuki exhales like it physically knocks something out of him. His hand tightens—barely—like he’s torn between pulling away and never letting go. He kisses Eijirou’s cheek. Then his jaw. Then just near the corner of his mouth, like he’s practicing. Like if he touches all the spaces around it, the real thing won’t knock him over.
“You’re not real,” he mutters. Barely a whisper, like the words aren’t even meant to make it out of his mouth. “ Shit .”
Eijirou leans in and kisses him full, finally. Not messy. Not showy. Just warm and slow and a little crooked because he’s smiling into it, because Katsuki tastes like sugar-sweat and summer, and he’s not pushing away. He shudders out a breath. He’s grinning, helpless, lips parted like he’s waiting for more. And Katsuki gives it to him—kisses the grin too. The corner of it, then the center, then once more, like punctuation. “You’re serious?” he murmurs between kisses, like his heart hasn’t caught up yet. “This real?”
Eijirou just nods, eyes heavy-lidded and stupid with affection. He curls their hands closer to his chest like he’s hugging them there. “Feels real to me,” he says. “Do it again. Just to check.”
Katsuki laughs, and it’s quiet and disbelieving and just a little wrecked. His mouth finds Eijirou’s jaw again. Then his neck. Then the hollow just beneath his ear.
“Greedy,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. He’s smiling now, too. He can feel it. Can’t stop it. Kirishima tips his face up, catches Katsuki full on the mouth again, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything he's ever had and more.
Their teeth knock. It’s clumsy, off-center, all breath and warmth and too much want . Eijirou’s laughing into it, giddy, like he can’t believe Katsuki’s letting this happen— isn’t running, isn’t exploding something to cover the sound of his own heartbeat.
Katsuki kisses him harder for that. Just a second. Just to prove he’s there.
Then he pulls back, eyes glazed, flushed down to his throat. “You’re fucking dangerous,” he says, voice cracked open. “You look at me like that, hold me like that—how’m I supposed to act normal?”
Eijirou cups his face, gentle. Thumb at the edge of his jaw. “You’re not. You never were.”
Katsuki groans, buries his face in Eijirou’s shoulder like he’s hiding from himself. “Shut up .” But he’s laughing again. Soft. Real. Their hands are still tangled. Still firm. And Eijirou’s kissing his temple now. His hairline. His ear. “Gimme that hand,” he whispers, and Katsuki obeys without thinking.
Eijirou lifts it again and kisses each knuckle with ceremony. Then the heel of the palm. Then the wrist. Then he flips it and kisses the soft center. “This one saved me,” he says softly. “Probably more than once.” Katsuki doesn’t say anything. Just stares at him like he’s never seen him before. “Thank you.”
Katsuki’s hand stays folded in Eijirou’s like it’s been there all his life, like it might as well be part of him now. He’s letting himself lean—subtle at first, then fuller, shoulder to shoulder, like gravity’s tugging them inward. Eijirou doesn’t comment, doesn’t ruin it. Just breathes him in and holds on tighter.
And maybe this is what softness looks like for them. Not declarations, not fireworks, not some grand cinematic kiss in the rain—but this : a shared pulse thrumming beneath calloused skin, a mouth pressed to the inside of a wrist like a secret, fingers slotted like they’ve always known the way.
Eijirou turns their hands so their palms meet, fingers interlaced. He runs his thumb along Katsuki’s once, twice, like he’s committing the shape of it to memory—though he already knows it by heart. The tiny ridges. The heat. The faint tremble when he presses just right into the base of his thumb.
“You’re so warm,” he says, almost to himself. Katsuki doesn’t reply, but his hand flexes, slow and certain, as if to say thank you. They sit like that for a while, bodies touching at every quiet point they can manage, heads tilted together as the sky starts to go lavender at the edges. Nothing spoken. Nothing rushed. Just this quiet, bone-deep contentment settling into the spaces where longing used to live.
Katsuki lifts their joined hands and brushes his lips against Eijirou’s knuckles—not a kiss, not really. More like a promise dressed up as a habit. Like something he’s going to do for the rest of his life without ever needing a reason.
Eijirou smiles, dizzy with it. He tilts his head until it rests in the crook of Katsuki’s neck, and Katsuki tips his cheek against the crown of his hair. The fit is natural. Familiar. Like muscle memory.
And in the hush of it all, with the rooftop warm beneath them and the sky still holding onto the last threads of light, Eijirou thinks—
If this is all we ever get, it’s enough.
But Katsuki’s fingers tighten, just a little, as if he heard it. As if to say— It’s not all. Not even close.
But hey, he'll take it.