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Cities are living things.
It breathes in the warmth from its occupants and soaks up endless footsteps to power its wakeful hours. The incessant hubbub herewithin is its heartbeat. Come winter, it rains its full weight onto the concrete, but reserves little patience for the gentle fall of snow that the suburbs quietly offer.
Still, the mid-December chill is insistent on letting itself be known while staying within its bounds, lurking on lonely alleys and riding on occasional gusts of winds to bother one or two people minding their business.
Kirishima and Bakugou barely evade being victims of such, instead finding their cozy refuge in a little shop that’s tucked in an unassuming corner of the street, a stone’s throw away from their regular konbini. It’s a humble trinket boutique of sorts, a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, devoid of a crowd as is regular for a Thursday night that only students on a term break have the freedom and time to explore.
They loiter inside the shop, casual despite their ruffled selves. Kirishima sidles up to a shelf while his companion shakes off winter’s presence.
He picks something up from the assortment. “What do you think?” Kirishima asks out loud, turning around as he says it. Bakugou is right beside him now, as Kirishima knows he’ll be.
He brings up his hand near Bakugou’s face and smiles onto the ceramic cat figurine pinched between his fingers. It’s hand-painted and glossy, with round cheeks and a mean mug. But Kirishima finds it adorable, simply because it reminds him of a certain someone.
“I think you’re dumb if you wanna waste money on useless shit like this,” Bakugou snarks back, still grumpy from the cold they’d escaped from. Kirishima’s eyes bug out in fear, slyly stealing a quick check at the shop owner behind them. The sweet, old lady is snoozing by the counter.
He turns back to Bakugou. “Well, that’s rude,” he pouts, then pushes the figurine onto ruddy cheeks. “It looks just like you!”
Bakugou looks back at him, unimpressed.
“See—you’re even making the same face right now!”
“Piss off,” Bakugou swipes at him, not unlike a cat. “Stop spending money on dumb shit. No wonder you’re always broke.”
He rolls his eyes, already used to Bakugou’s insults that are half-hearted by this point, and scoffs. “Says the guy who dropped 50,000 yen for a pair of All Might Jordan’s.”
He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, knowing the consequences. But he’s been in a bold, teasing mood since Bakugou had agreed to a night stroll around the city before they return to their homes for the holidays. Just the two of them, a date, and it’s been awhile since they’ve had each other all to themselves like this. Maybe he can get away with being cheeky.
The effect of his comment is immediate in Bakugou. “Hey, that was a limited edition, collector’s item—”
“Oh, here we go—”
“—the design based on All Might’s Golden Age, his prime era and an all-time classic visual.”
“Okay, Katsuki.”
“One look and every-fucking-nobody and their grandmothers will be able to tell from its signature style.”
Kirishima, exasperated and amused, turns them both around with an arm casually hanging on Bakugou’s shoulders. Bakugou allows himself to be led further in the shop, still spitting a sermon of shoe facts.
“The insoles are cushioned like a fucking cloud and the arch support is the best our support technology has yet to offer. Even sorry flat-foot losers can walk in them for hours. And,” Bakugou takes a breather here, tilting his head to glint fiery eyes against Kirishima—adorable. “The outsoles have his raised fist indented on them. They’re not just shoes; they’re the means to walking on the path of fuckin’ victory.”
“That’s nice, babe. But you’re not even using it.”
“Don’t need to ‘cause I’m not a fuckin’ loser.”
“Man, I thought my Crimson Riot obsession was bad,” Kirishima tuts.
Bakugou doesn’t miss a beat, shrugging off Kirishima’s arm in an attempt to be petulant. “Oh, suck it, you goddamn hipster. At least All Might’s actually within my lifespan. Get with the times, why don’t you.”
Kirishima sighs, conceding defeat for love and fondness, but not without a little fight in him. So he holds Bakugou in front of him, all sage-like. “Is this—” he gestures to all of Bakugou. “—what happens when a well-respected fashion designer gives birth to a superhero nerd?”
“M’not a fucking nerd, you dumb rock—”
To end their banter or simply because he’ll burst to confetti if he doesn’t do it within the next millisecond, Kirishima shrinks the negative space between them and leans close to Bakugou with a mission in mind. The landing is gentle, all soft lips and warm breaths. Bakugou releases a small noise of surprise, but he follows Kirishima in surrender quite easily. For the both of them, the battle is lost but the war is won.
Victory is sweet as it is quick work, and Kirishima has to begrudgingly peel himself away from Bakugou’s space in consideration of where they are.
“I hate you,” Bakugou says then, but there is no heat to it. Just a familiar resignation and longing in his voice that Kirishima picks up on.
He swipes his tongue swiftly on his lips, brushing away the tingle from their kiss still lingering on them like aftershocks. “No, you don’t,” he says, eyeing Bakugou’s mouth, pink and inviting.
He’s about to go for another one, longer this time, social courtesies be damned. But Bakugou’s eyes flit behind him and a quick decision is made out of it. “Let’s get outta here.”
His hand is tugged towards the door, back into the frigid evening with nothing but a secure hand around his own and the promise of warm lips.
The way to the park is the path back to the dorms, but the night is far from over for them both. Their walk is idle in pace and their lips are occupied by the drinks they’ve quickly nabbed at the konbini. The scent of coffee is strong between them, wrapping them in a warm cocoon against the chilly night air.
The empty park welcomes their company; Kirishima’s silly giggles and Bakugou’s reserved chuckles, full of caffeine and young love. In the distance, U.A.’s silhouette looms. Kirishima looks at it with a twinge of tenderness in his chest, like a swirling above the cloud of emotions that threatens to fall since he’d turned eighteen a few months ago.
“Just a few months left, huh?” he says, wrapping around Bakugou like an extra coat. Bakugou takes him up on his offer and finds a home in the nook under Kirishima’s chin.
(The height difference only bothered Bakugou for all of second-year, then he shrugged it off as an eventuality, like Kirishima was long overdue for a growth spurt anyway, and accepted the fact on a random Monday with an assessing look and a satisfied nod—a mark of his emotional maturity, if Kirishima had any say about it.)
Bakugou hums an acknowledgement. “Fat signed you up, already?”
Kirishima nods into blond hair, indulging himself in orange blossom and eucalyptus, and Bakugou grunts back. “Hmph. He’d be a fool not to.”
“What about you? You probably have a lot of offers lined up since second year.”
Instead of the peacocking Kirishima expected, or has been leading the conversation into, Bakugou goes quite solemn.
“Yeah, well, Endeavor’s a no-go since the old man busted a limb. And he’s got a lot to make up to Icy-Hot so I wouldn’t take an offer from him even if he asked,” is his answer. Then he declares, “I’m going to Jeanist. Gotta cover for him for some years while Edgeshot recovers.”
To which Kirishima squeezes him tightly for it. “Awww,” he coos. “So you do have a heart.”
(If Kirishima had any say about it, he’d say that Bakugou has finally grown into his heart over these years.)
“Can it. I’ve got the biggest heart in the world since I’ve fit all of you in it.”
It grips at his chest tenderly—how Bakugou is able to say such statements without much sentiment, just pure, unfiltered honesty and dedication. It catches him off-guard, trips him all over himself, and lands him to where Bakugou waits, arms already opened wide for him.
He turns Bakugou around by the shoulders and looks down on red eyes, so bright and sparkling like somebody plucked the stars from the night sky and gathered them there. Bakugou is an endless beauty, even with all the scars that came with their vocation. He’s all sharp edges and burning power, but he softens around Kirishima, accommodating and reciprocating love and loyalty in the plush of his homegrown heart.
Kirishima yields to it, wants to devote himself fully to it, if only to be worthy of his place in Bakugou’s life.
“I’ve been thinking…” he starts, and Bakugou smirks.
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
Kirishima whines in response. “I’m try’na be serious here, Kats. What if I wanted to propose and you gave me shit for it before I could even start?”
“Well, are you?”
“Am I–what?”
“Gonna propose?”
It sounds like a challenge, the way Bakugou says it, the way he fearlessly tilts his chin upwards. Like it’s a dare and not a lifetime commitment, like Kirishima’s not already halfway there anyway. Kirishima blinks away his surprise, then smiles, “Someday, when I’ve become a better man.”
“Not if I beat you to it first. And you already are,” Bakugou says, stepping into Kirishima’s space. “A better man.”
Something in Kirishima stirs, kicking into life in his chest that’s already full of heartbeats for Bakugou. So he acts on it, if only to have an outlet for the brewing force that’s gathering in his ribcage, to turn it into something close to courage.
“I found a place,” he says, looking down on his hands that are nestled on the powerhouse of Bakugou’s shoulders. “It’s not quite in Haramachida, but it’s on the way. Close enough to the apartment your folks got you.”
Bakugou doesn’t respond, and Kirishima is uncharacteristically afraid and insecure of what will meet his eyes if he looks up. He rubs his thumbs on the seams of Bakugou’s coat, and fills the silence with a rambling of information. “It’s near Kobuchi station… some five-minute walk, I think.”
What he means to say is, I can go to you in just four minutes by train, eleven minutes by bike, or less than forty minutes if I walk really fast.
“S'not much... just a studio. But it's got a built-in kitchenette. The realtor says I can keep the fridge the previous tenant left in it.”
What he means to say is, You can come to me. You can cook at my place. You can stay the night.
“My Ma offered to take care of the rent for the first year until I get my bearings. It’s a bit more expensive than what I can cover as a sidekick, but I really wanted that location.”
What he really means to say is, I want to be close to you. I want to stay close to you.
The cold is starting to affect the tips of his fingers now, or maybe it’s just his nerves. He can’t bear the quiet, this charged energy surrounding them, and he has to look up, to be brave like Bakugou knows him to be and take a leap of faith—
Bakugou’s gaze is already waiting for him, fondness and mischief playing underneath starlight blond lashes.
“You following me around, Eiji?”
He's smug, but what Bakugou means to say is, I want that. All of it. All of you.
Kirishima exhales, or maybe he laughs. There’s really no difference.
Because what comes out of his mouth is, “Worse. I’m gonna crash at your place every weekend.” But what he really wants to say back is, I’d follow you to the ends of the world.
And what Bakugou replies to it is, “You’re a nuisance even after graduating, huh. But I guess you do need someone to remind you a chair is neither a laundry basket nor a closet.” Kirishima grins at that, because he knows what Bakugou actually means to say is, I’m looking forward to it. Our lives, together.
The evening loosens up around them; the wind settles into a hushed chill and the clouds cloak the moonlight in a faded pearlescent. It’s the kind of quiet that’s similar to a bated breath, as Kirishima’s hands slowly drift from shoulders to jaw, cradling Bakugou’s face like it’s something precious and angling it just a bit to the sky to find an anchor for his lips.
[Commissioned Art from Daia!!]
They fall into the kiss like snow: slow, taking their sweet time because the landing is certain anyway. The first brush is gentle, and the following ones are unhurried. Something cold touches Kirishima’s thumb, but he falls deeper into the kiss anyway, tasting bitter coffee that’s kept warm by Bakugou’s lips and sweetened with affection.
And when he opens his eyes, the world around them has transformed. Where pockets of magic have gathered together in tiny clusters of ice crystals. Where flecks of snow pirouette in the air. Where Bakugou’s lashes have caught some of them, because magic attracts magic and Kirishima is helplessly captivated by the trick.
Bakugou looks around them. “I didn’t think it was even possible to snow here.”
But here it is, winter settling on Shizuoka’s heart like fading piano notes. And Kirishima, who’s eighteen for barely two months and is yet to experience greater things, continues to hold the world in between his hands and knows that anything is possible.
That even when an end approaches, a new life is already growing out of it. That even if cities are warm and too lively and busy for miracles, a rare snowfall can happen once every few years. That even if he and Bakugou will no longer live in the same building or attend the same classes a few months from now, they’ll be four minutes away by train, eleven minutes away by bike, and—with all the enthusiasm of young love—thirty minutes away by foot.
They’ll make it work—they’ll make it possible—because this miracle of a snowfall has already given them its blessings. It falls gently on them, a protective cloak that's a touch softer than rain, made of icy seeds planting fresh winter on their skin.
The mid-December chill insists on its presence now. But when Kirishima dips his head for another kiss, Bakugou’s lips are very warm.