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Kirishima doesn’t mean to fall asleep on Bakugou.
He really doesn’t. He’s been trying to stay awake through movie night, mostly because Bakugou actually picked the movie this time, and Kirishima wants to be supportive, and also because Bakugou looks unfairly good in the dim light of the common room, arms crossed, jaw relaxed, eyes half focused on the screen.
But the couch is warm. Bakugou is warm. And Kirishima’s eyelids are heavy.
He blinks once, twice, and wakes up to the feeling of something solid under his cheek.
Something that smells like burnt sugar and clean laundry. Something that is, unmistakably, Bakugou’s shoulder.
Oh no.
He freezes. He can feel Bakugou breathing. Slow. Steady. Not shoving him off. Not yelling. Just…letting him be there.
“Kirishima,” Bakugou mutters, voice low enough that only he can hear it, “You drooled on me.”
Kirishima shoots upright so fast he nearly headbutts him. “I–sorry! I didn’t mean–I wasn’t–”
Bakugou’s ears are pink. “Relax. It’s fine.”
And that’s the problem. It feels too fine. Too easy. Too much like something they do all the time.
Kirishima’s heart does a weird, traitorous flip as he sinks back into the couch, trying to pretend he didn’t just use Bakugou as a pillow. He keeps his hands firmly in his lap, like they might betray him if he lets them wander anywhere near Bakugou again.
The movie plays on, but Kirishima couldn’t name a single character if his life depended on it. His brain is too busy replaying the warmth of Bakugou’s shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the way he didn’t shove him off.
Bakugou shifts beside him, and Kirishima goes rigid.
“Dude,” Bakugou mutters, “you’re sitting like you’re about to get arrested.”
“I’m relaxed!” Kirishima squeaks.
Bakugou snorts. “Yeah. Sure.”
He reaches for the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and Kirishima watches his arm move, watches the muscles flex, watches the way Bakugou’s fingers brush against the rim of the bowl, and then Bakugou holds it out to him.
“Take some.”
Kirishima blinks. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”
He grabs a handful, and Bakugou doesn’t pull the bowl away. He just… leaves it there. Between them. Like they’re sharing it. Like they always do.
Kirishima’s heart does another flip.
He’s so distracted he doesn’t notice Bakugou watching him until he hears:
“You’re thinking too loud.”
Kirishima nearly chokes on a kernel. “I’m not thinking anything!”
“Bullshit.”
Bakugou’s voice is low, not annoyed, just… aware. Too aware. Kirishima feels seen in a way that makes his stomach twist.
He tries to focus on the screen again, but then Bakugou shifts closer. Not by much. Just enough that their knees brush.
Kirishima’s breath catches.
Bakugou doesn’t move away.
Neither does Kirishima.
The room is quiet except for the movie and the soft hum of the dorm’s heating system. It feels too intimate. Too easy. Too much like something they do all the time.
Which is exactly when Kaminari whispers far too loudly:
“Bro. They’re literally cuddling.”
Kirishima nearly launches himself off the couch. “We’re not—!”
Bakugou’s hand shoots out, grabbing the back of his hoodie and yanking him down before he can fully escape. “Sit. Down.”
Kirishima sits. Down. Immediately.
Mina twists around from her spot on the floor, eyes sparkling like she’s witnessing the season finale of her favorite drama. “You guys are so cute.”
Bakugou bristles. “We’re not cute.”
“You’re kinda cute,” Sero says, munching on chips. “Like, domestic cute.”
“We’re not domestic!” Kirishima blurts, voice cracking like he’s going through puberty again.
Bakugou elbows him. “Stop yelling.”
“I’m not!—” Kirishima stops himself. Lowers his voice. “I’m not yelling.”
Bakugou nods, satisfied, and goes back to the movie like nothing happened.
Kirishima, meanwhile, is dying.
He can feel the heat radiating off Bakugou’s arm. He can feel the ghost of where his cheek had been resting. He can feel the entire class staring at them like they’re an exotic zoo exhibit.
He tries to focus on the screen, but then Bakugou shifts again—subtle, barely noticeable, but enough that their shoulders brush.
Kirishima’s breath stutters.
Bakugou doesn’t move away.
Neither does Kirishima.
From the floor, Mina mouths, dating, and gives him a double thumbs up.
Kirishima sinks lower into the couch, face burning, heart pounding, brain short circuiting.
The credits start rolling, and the room erupts into the usual post movie chaos-stretching, yawning, people arguing about the plot like they hadn’t spent half the runtime on their phones.
Kirishima takes the opportunity to escape.
Or…he tries to.
He pushes his palms into the couch, ready to stand, ready to put some distance between himself and the very warm, very solid, very dangerous boy beside him and gets about three inches off the cushion before something hooks the back of his hoodie.
Bakugou’s hand.
“Where the hell are you going?” Bakugou mutters, like Kirishima has personally offended him by attempting to move.
Kirishima freezes mid stand, bent at a weird angle. “Uh. Just—getting up?”
Bakugou tugs him back down without even looking at him. Kirishima drops back into place with a soft thump.
“You don’t need to sprint away like a damn criminal,” Bakugou grumbles, arms crossing again. “Everyone’s crowding the hall.”
Kirishima glances over.
No one is crowding the hall.
In fact, the hall is perfectly clear. Wide open. Zero obstacles. A runway to freedom.
But Bakugou’s knee bumps his again—deliberate, grounding, warm—and Kirishima’s brain short circuits.
“Oh,” he says weakly. “Right. Yeah. Crowded.”
Mina, who is absolutely not subtle, leans over the back of the couch with a grin that could power the entire dorm. “You guys staying for the next movie?”
Bakugou scowls. “No.”
“Yes,” Kirishima says at the same time.
They both turn to glare at each other.
Mina squeals. “You’re literally married.”
Bakugou grabs a throw pillow and hurls it at her head. She dodges, cackling as she disappears down the hall.
Kirishima sinks lower into the couch, wishing the cushions would swallow him whole. His heart is pounding. His face is on fire. His knee is still touching Bakugou’s.
And Bakugou still hasn’t moved away.
Not even a little.
Kirishima swallows hard.
The credits keep rolling, the room slowly emptying as people stretch and wander off, but Kirishima stays frozen in place, hyper aware of every point of contact between them. Bakugou’s knee against his. Their shoulders brushing. The warmth radiating off him like a furnace.
He needs to get up. He should get up.
He tries again.
He shifts forward, palms pressing into the couch, muscles tensing and Bakugou’s hand is suddenly fisted in the back of his hoodie again.
“Oi,” Bakugou mutters, tugging him back down with zero effort. “What’s your problem?”
Kirishima lands beside him with a soft whump, eyes wide. “My—my problem?! I was just standing!”
“You were fleeing,” Bakugou corrects, like this is an objective fact.
“I wasn’t fleeing!”
“You were absolutely fleeing,” Kaminari calls from the doorway, not even looking back.
Kirishima groans into his hands.
Bakugou clicks his tongue. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m acting weird?!” Kirishima hisses. “You’re the one—who—who keeps—” He gestures vaguely at the space between them, which is… not really space at all.
Bakugou raises an eyebrow. “Keeps what?”
Kirishima’s brain short circuits. “Nothing! Forget it!”
Bakugou stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t realise he’d been handed. Kirishima tries not to melt into the couch.
The last of their classmates drift out, Mina blowing them a kiss and mouthing lovebirds before disappearing around the corner.
Bakugou throws another pillow at her retreating form. It hits the wall instead.
And then it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Just the two of them on the couch, the glow of the TV fading, the hum of the heater filling the silence.
Kirishima swallows. “Uh. I should—”
“No,” Bakugou says immediately.
Kirishima blinks. “No?”
Bakugou shifts, arms crossing, jaw tight. “You don’t have to run off just because those idiots can’t mind their own business.”
“I wasn’t running off,” Kirishima lies.
Bakugou gives him a look that says he absolutely does not believe him.
Kirishima’s heart is pounding so hard he’s surprised Bakugou can’t hear it. He tries again to stand, slowly this time, cautiously, like approaching a wild animal.
Bakugou’s knee bumps his again.
Not stopping him.
Just… there.
Warm. Solid. Familiar.
Kirishima sits back down without thinking.
Bakugou doesn’t comment. He just relaxes a fraction, shoulders dropping, like that was the outcome he expected all along.
Kirishima stares at the blank TV screen, trying to breathe normally.
He fails.
Spectacularly.
Because Bakugou shifts again, leaning back into the couch, and their arms brush, light, casual, like it’s nothing.
Like it’s normal.
Like it’s something they do all the time.
Kirishima’s chest feels too tight. Too warm. Too full.
He’s not sure when it happened, or how, or why, but he knows one thing with absolute certainty:
He is in so much trouble.
Kirishima wakes up the next morning with the same problem he fell asleep with:
Bakugou.
Specifically, the memory of Bakugou’s shoulder under his cheek. The warmth. The way he didn’t shove him off. The way he tugged him back down when he tried to get up. The way his knee stayed pressed against Kirishima’s like it belonged there.
Kirishima groans into his pillow.
This is getting out of hand. Completely, spectacularly out of hand.
But his body doesn’t care. It wakes up on autopilot. He throws on running clothes, ties his shoes, and heads downstairs.
Bakugou is already there.
Of course he is.
He’s leaning against the wall by the front door, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. Like Kirishima is late. Like this is a thing they do every morning.
Which… it is.
“’Bout time,” Bakugou grunts.
“It’s literally six a.m.,” Kirishima says, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Yeah. And you’re slow.”
Kirishima snorts. “You love my pace.”
Bakugou’s ears go pink. “Shut up and run.”
They head out into the cool morning air, falling into their usual rhythm. Kirishima slightly ahead on the uphill, Bakugou pulling ahead on the flats, both of them breathing in sync by the time they hit the halfway point.
It’s comfortable. Familiar. Easy.
Too easy.
Kirishima tries not to think about last night. He fails. Miserably.
Every time their arms brush, he flinches. Every time Bakugou glances at him, his heart stutters. Every time Bakugou’s breathing syncs with his, he feels that stupid flip in his chest.
By the time they loop back to the dorms, Kirishima is sweating for reasons that have nothing to do with cardio.
Bakugou wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt, which is unfair, rude, and should be illegal, and says, “Breakfast.”
Kirishima follows without thinking.
Because this is what they do.
Bakugou cooks. Kirishima sits on the counter and talks about whatever’s on his mind. Bakugou pretends to be annoyed but listens anyway. Kirishima eats whatever Bakugou puts in front of him, because it’s always good. Always exactly what he likes.
It’s their routine.
It’s normal.
Except today… it feels different.
Bakugou moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, grabbing ingredients without looking, cracking eggs one handed, tossing vegetables into a pan like he’s done it a thousand times.
Because he has.
For Kirishima.
Kirishima sits on the counter, watching him, and something warm and heavy settles in his chest.
He never really thought about it before—how Bakugou always makes his breakfast the way he likes it. How he remembers exactly what Kirishima reaches for first. How he plates it neatly, pushes the best pieces to Kirishima’s side, sets it down in front of him without a word.
Bakugou slides a plate across the counter.
Kirishima blinks.
It’s his favorite. Exactly the way he likes it. Down to the tiny details he never even mentioned out loud.
Bakugou doesn’t look at him. Just grabs his own plate and sits beside him at the counter, shoulder brushing Kirishima’s like it’s nothing.
Like it’s normal.
Like it’s something they do all the time.
Kirishima stares at the plate, then at Bakugou, then back at the plate.
There’s a terrifying softness to it. A blurred line that Bakugou is crossing without even realising he’s doing it. He’s standing right there, his space overlapping with Kirishima’s, and he isn't moving away. He never does.
It makes Kirishima’s chest ache with something he’s too scared to name.
And Bakugou doesn’t even seem to realise.
Kirishima’s heart does that stupid, traitorous flip again.
Bakugou doesn’t move away. He never does. Kirishima suddenly can’t remember if he ever questioned that before.
Bakugou picks up his fork. “Eat. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Kirishima nods, but his brain is doing something messy and unhelpful. He takes a bite. It’s perfect. Of course it’s perfect. Bakugou always makes it perfect.
He swallows, throat tight.
Why does he know exactly what I like?
Bakugou doesn’t look at him, but he nudges Kirishima’s knee under the counter, casual, familiar, grounding. “You’re being weird.”
Kirishima chokes on air. “I’m not being weird!”
“You’re staring at your food like it’s gonna attack you.”
Kirishima forces a laugh, but it comes out thin. “Just tired.”
Bakugou grunts, accepting that, and goes back to eating. Like nothing is happening. Like Kirishima isn’t having a full emotional meltdown two inches away from him.
Kirishima watches him move. The way he eats neatly, the way he pushes the best pieces of food to Kirishima’s side without thinking, the way he sits close enough that their arms brush every time one of them lifts a fork.
It’s normal.
It’s always been normal.
And that’s the part that makes Kirishima’s stomach twist.
Because suddenly he’s noticing things he never let himself notice before. Things that feel soft. And warm. And dangerous.
Bakugou glances at him again. “What.”
Kirishima jolts. “Nothing! I’m eating! See? Totally normal.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes. “You’re such a weirdo in the mornings.”
Kirishima stares at him.
At the soft pink at the tips of Bakugou’s ears.
At the way he sits close without thinking.
At the plate he made just for him.
And suddenly the kitchen feels too small. Too warm. Too full of things Kirishima isn’t sure he’s allowed to feel.
He clears his throat. “Hey, uh… Bakugou?”
Bakugou doesn’t look up. “What now.”
Kirishima opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because what is he supposed to say? Why do you know how I like my breakfast? Why do you tug me back when I try to leave? Why does it feel like we’re—
Bakugou glances over, eyebrow raised. “Spit it out.”
Kirishima panics. “Did you—uh—sleep okay?”
Bakugou stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “The hell kind of question is that?”
Kirishima wants to sink into the floor. “Just making conversation!”
“You’re terrible at it.”
Kirishima groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Forget I said anything.”
Bakugou huffs, but there’s something softer under it. Something almost amused. “You’re acting like a damn chihuahua.”
“I am not—!”
“Shaking. Jumping at every noise. Staring at me like I’m gonna explode.”
Kirishima sputters. “You do explode!”
“Not at you.”
The words land with surprising weight.
Kirishima’s breath catches. “Oh.”
Bakugou stiffens, like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. He stabs at his food with unnecessary aggression. “Just eat.”
Kirishima does. Quietly. Carefully. His heart is doing somersaults.
Bakugou doesn’t look at him again, but his knee bumps Kirishima’s under the counter, not accidental, not hesitant. Just there. Solid. Warm.
Kirishima swallows hard.
He should say something. Anything. Ask what this is. Ask why it feels like more.
But Bakugou beats him to it.
“You’re coming to training with me after breakfast,” he says, tone gruff but steady. “Don’t be late.”
Kirishima blinks. “I—yeah. Of course.”
Bakugou nods once, satisfied, like that settles everything.
Like they’re already a unit.
Like this is just how their day goes.
Kirishima looks at him and something inside him tilts, clicks, shifts into place.
This isn’t getting out of hand.
This has been happening for a long time.
He just didn’t notice.
Or maybe he did, and he wasn’t ready to admit it.
Bakugou nudges his knee again, softer this time. “Eat faster. You’re slow.”
Kirishima smiles helplessly. “Yeah. I know.”
And for the first time, he lets himself wonder, really wonder, what would happen if he stopped pretending this was normal.
Bakugou finishes eating first–he always does—and stands, grabbing both their plates before Kirishima can move.
Kirishima blinks. “Hey, I can wash mine—”
Bakugou shoots him a look over his shoulder. “You’re slow. I’ll do it.”
Kirishima’s brain short circuits again. “That’s… not how that works.”
“Shut up,” Bakugou mutters, turning on the sink.
Kirishima watches him rinse the plates, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing, steam curling around him like some kind of domestic dragon. It’s unfair. It’s rude. It’s doing things to Kirishima’s heart that should require a permit.
Bakugou dries his hands on a towel and jerks his chin toward the door. “Gear up. We’re doing drills.”
Kirishima hops off the counter, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Right! Yeah. Drills.”
Bakugou gives him a suspicious squint. “Why’re you talking like you’re being hunted.”
“I’m not!”
“You are.”
Kirishima groans. “Can we just go train?”
Bakugou smirks—a tiny, barely there thing—and heads out.
Kirishima follows, heart pounding.
The training room is empty at this hour, sunlight spilling through the high windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the beams. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes Kirishima’s thoughts echo.
Bakugou tosses him a pair of gloves. “Warm up.”
Kirishima catches them, barely, and starts stretching, trying to focus on his breathing instead of the way Bakugou is rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck, looking like a walking hazard sign.
He shouldn’t be allowed to look that good at seven in the morning.
Bakugou glances over. “You’re staring again.”
Kirishima nearly drops into the splits. “I’m not!”
“You are.”
“I’m stretching!”
“You’re staring while stretching.”
Kirishima makes a strangled noise. “Can you not analyse me right now?”
Bakugou snorts. “You’re easy to read.”
Kirishima freezes mid stretch.
Bakugou doesn’t notice, or he pretends not to. He steps into the sparring circle, planting his feet. “Get over here.”
Kirishima swallows hard and joins him.
They face each other.
Bakugou raises his fists. “Don’t hold back.”
Kirishima nods, but his pulse is doing gymnastics. He tries to focus, really tries, but then Bakugou lunges, and Kirishima reacts on instinct, blocking, stepping in, matching him beat for beat.
Their bodies move in sync, muscle memory taking over where Kirishima’s brain fails.
Bakugou’s palm hits his shoulder, controlled, precise, and Kirishima stumbles back a step.
“Distracted,” Bakugou says.
“I’m not!”
“You are.”
Kirishima grits his teeth. “I’m fine.”
Bakugou narrows his eyes. “Prove it.”
He attacks again, faster this time and Kirishima meets him head on. Their movements blur, the air crackling with heat from Bakugou’s palms, the floor vibrating with each impact.
Kirishima blocks a strike, pivots, and grabs Bakugou’s wrist, using his momentum to flip him or he tries to.
Bakugou twists at the last second, grabs Kirishima’s waist, and they both go down in a tangle of limbs.
Kirishima lands on his back.
Bakugou lands on top of him.
Time stops.
Bakugou’s hands are braced on either side of Kirishima’s head. His knee is between Kirishima’s legs. His face is inches away, breath warm against Kirishima’s cheek.
Kirishima’s brain completely, utterly, catastrophically shuts down.
Bakugou blinks down at him. “You good?”
Kirishima makes a noise that is not human.
Bakugou frowns. “You hit your head?”
“No,” Kirishima squeaks.
“You sure? You’re red.”
“I’m—I’m fine!”
Bakugou leans back slightly, still straddling him. “You’re acting weird again.”
Kirishima wants to die. “I’m not acting weird!”
“You’re literally vibrating.”
Kirishima slaps his hands over his face. “Can we please get up.”
Bakugou huffs and pushes himself to his feet, offering a hand.
Kirishima stares at it like it’s a live grenade.
Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Take it, dumbass.”
Kirishima takes it.
Bakugou pulls him up with one smooth, effortless motion–too close, too warm, too everything—and Kirishima’s heart tries to escape through his ribs.
Bakugou doesn’t let go of his hand immediately.
Kirishima notices.
Bakugou notices him noticing.
Bakugou drops his hand like it’s hot coals. “Tch.”
Kirishima clears his throat. “So. Uh. Drills?”
Bakugou crosses his arms. “Not if you’re gonna keep spacing out.”
“I’m not spacing out!”
“You are.”
Kirishima groans. “I’m just—thinking.”
Bakugou raises an eyebrow. “About what.”
Kirishima panics. “Protein intake.”
Bakugou stares at him. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Kirishima wants to melt into the floor. “Can we just train.”
Bakugou sighs, stepping back into stance. “Fine. But if you get weird again, we’re stopping.”
Kirishima nods, trying to breathe normally.
He fails.
Because Bakugou steps closer, close enough that Kirishima can feel the heat radiating off him, and says, low and steady, “Eyes on me.”
The command is simple, but the way Bakugou says it, without the usual bark or bite, makes Kirishima’s pulse skip a beat, then sprint. He forces himself to look up, meeting those sharp crimson eyes. Bakugou isn’t even in a combat stance anymore. He’s just there, vibrating with a different kind of energy, his focus narrowed down entirely to the boy in front of him.
Kirishima’s throat goes dry. “I…I am.”
“Liar,” Bakugou murmurs, taking a half step forward. “Your eyes are everywhere but here. You’re looking at the floor, the windows, the damn clock. Look at me.”
Kirishima traps a breath in his lungs. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, and Bakugou is the one leaning into the wind. the air between them is thick, charged with the smell of ozone and nitroglycerin. It would be so easy to reach out. To close the few inches left. To see if Bakugou’s skin is as hot as it looks.
And that’s exactly why he can’t stay.
“I–I think I’ve had enough for today!” Kirishima blurts out, the words tumbling over each other.
He ducks under Bakugou’s arm before the other boy can react, stumbling towards the exit.
“Wait, what? Oi!”
“Great session! Really manly! I’m gonna go hit the showers before the rush! See ya in class, Bakugou!”
Kirishima doesn’t look back. He can’t. If he looks back and sees Bakugou looking confused, or worse, fond, he’s going to combust right there on the training mats. He sprints down the hallway, his heart hammering against his ribs like a bird in a cage.
He hits the locker room doors at a clip that should be illegal, practically diving into the first available shower stall. He doesn’t even wait for the water to get warm, instead cranking the handle to the coldest setting and standing there, fully clothed, letting the freezing spray drench his hair and soak through his tank top.
“Stupid,” he gasps, leaning his head against the tile. “So stupid. Get it together, Eijirou.”
He stays there until his skin is pebbled with goosebumps and his brain finally stops replaying the way Bakugou’s voice dropped an octave. He peels off his wet gear, scrubs at his skin until it’s red, and tries to convince himself that he’s fine. He’s a hero. He deals with villains and explosions. He can deal with one blonde boy who makes his breakfast.
He dries off, wraps a towel around his waist, and slides the stall door open, ready to grab his uniform and escape to the safety of the common room.
He stops dead.
Bakugou is there.
He isn’t showering. He isn’t changing. He’s just sitting on the wooden bench directly in front of Kirishima’s locker, his damp workout shirt clinging to his shoulders, elbows resting on his knees. He’s tossing a roll of athletic tape up and catching it, over and over.
Flip. Catch. Flick. Catch
He looks up as Kirishima emerges, his gaze travelling from Kirishima’s dripping hair down to the towel, then back up to his eyes.
“Finished?” Bakugou asks, his voice dangerously level.
Kirishima clutches the edge of the stall door. “How did you get in here so fast?”
“I walked,” Bakugou says, standing up slowly. He drops the tape into his gym bag. “Unlike you, who ran like I was trying to skin you alive.”
“I told you! Hygiene! It’s important!”
Bakugou ignores the excuse, stepping closer until he’s standing in the middle of the narrow aisle. The locker room is empty, the only sound is the distant hum of the ventilation and the drip drip drip of water falling from Kirishima’s hair onto the floor.
He stops just a foot away. He doesn’t look angry, not exactly, but there’s a tightness in his shoulders that makes Kirishima want to press himself flat against the metal lockers.
“You’re doing it again,”
Kirishima hitches the towel tighter around his waist. “Doing what?”
“Looking for an exit.” Bakugou’s eyes don’t leave his. They’re steady, tracking the way Kirishima’s pulse is thrumming in the hollow of his throat. “You’re been acting like I’ve got a quirk eraser pointed at your head since last night. You sprinted out of the gym like the building was on fire.”
“I told you, I just–”
“If you say ‘hygiene’ one more time, I’m gonna blast you through the wall,” Bakugou cuts him off.
He doesn’t yell. He just steps even closer, right into Kirishima’s space, until the smell of that spicy, burnt sugar sweat, is all Kirishima can breathe. “You fell asleep. Big deal. You ate breakfast. Big deal. Why are you suddenly acting like you don’t know how to be around me?”
Kirishima’s throat feels like it’s full of cotton. “I just… I didn’t want to overstep. You’re usually so big on personal space, and last night I was literally using you as a mattress, and then this morning–”
“I didn’t move you,” Bakugou says, the words sharp and immediate.
Kirishima blinks. “What?”
“I didn’t move you,” Bakugou repeats, his jaw tensing. “On the couch. I could’ve shoved you off. I could’ve gone to bed. I stayed there. And I made the damn food.”
He reaches out, not to grab Kirishima, but to rest his hand on the tiled wall of the shower stall, right next to Kirishima’s head, pinning him in place without ever touching him.
“So quit acting like I’m putting up with you,” Bakugou mutters, his eyes dropping to the floor for a split second before snapping back up, fierce and honest. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do. You know that better than anyone.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy anymore. It’s warm. It’s the same warmth from the couch, the same warmth from the kitchen. It’s Bakugou, being blunt and honest and terrifyingly close.
Kirishima lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding for twelve hours. “Oh.”
Bakugou scowls, though the tips of his ears are turning a familiar, dusty pink. “Yeah. ‘Oh.’ Now get dressed. You’re getting water all over the floor.”
Kirishima doesn’t move for a second, his brain still buffering on the fact that Bakugou basically just admitted, in his own explosive way, that he wanted Kirishima there.
“Right. Floor. Wet. Getting dressed,” Kirishima repeats, his voice finally dropping back into a normal register.
He sidesteps Bakugou, feeling the heat radiating off the other boy’s damp training shirt as he passes. He reaches his locker and starts pulling his clothes out with hands that are still a little less steady than he’d like.
Bakugou doesn’t move. He doesn’t go to his own locker, and he doesn’t head for the showers. He just leans back against the bench, arms crossed, watching Kirishima with a heavy unblinking intensity.
Kirishima tries to ignore it. He really does. He peels off his damp tank top and reaches for his school shirt, but he can feel those crimson eyes tracking every movement–the line of his shoulders, the way his hair sticks to his neck, the way he’s fumbling with the hangers.
The silence in the locker room is deafening, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the soft clink of Kirishima’s belt buckle.
Kirishima steals a glance over his shoulder, caught mid button, and finds Bakugou still staring. Their eyes lock for a split second, and the air in the room suddenly feels twice as hot as the shower steam.
Bakugou jolts, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he realises he’s been caught. His jaw goes tight, and he snaps his head away so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t get whiplash.
“Hurry the hell up,” Bakugou grunts, his voice sounding a bit more strained than usual.
“I’m going as fast as I can!” Kirishima says, his own face heating up again.
Bakugou doesn’t wait for him to finish. He pushes off the bench with a sudden, violent energy, snatching his towel out of his gym bag. He storms past Kirishima without another word, his shoulder nearly clipping Kirishima’s as he marches towards the back of the room.
The shower curtain rings shriek as he yanks them shut, and a second later, the spray of water starts up with an aggressive hiss.
Kirishima stands there for a moment, blinking at the closed curtain. His heart is doing a frantic, confused dance against his ribs. He finishes his buttons with trembling fingers, shoves his wet gear into his bag and practically trips over his own feet trying to get out of the locker room before Bakugou comes back out. He makes it to the hallway, leaning against the cool wall and taking a long, shaky breath.
He’s definitely in trouble.
And the trouble doesn’t go away. It just settles in, turning into a low frequency hum that accompanies the next few months of his life. They fall back into that rhythm that feels dangerously like a promise; Bakugou still makes the eggs exactly how he likes them, and Kirishima leans against him on the couch during movie nights, no longer pretending to be asleep. It’s a steady, comfortable ‘normal’ that Kirishima clings to, right up until the joint training exercise in Ground Beta.
The afternoon is stifling, the air thick with the smell of scorched concrete and the distant, rhythmic boom of Bakugou’s explosions echoing through the mock city. It’s a high stakes rescue drill. Class 1-A against a team of automated bots and a series of unstable environments designed to test their situational awareness.
Kirishima is stationed three blocks away, hardening his limbs to barrel through a barricade of scrap metal, but his eyes keep drifting to a skyline where plumes of orange smoke mark Bakugou’s position.
He’s fine.
Bakugou is always fine.
He’s the strongest person Kirishima knows.
Then, the ground shudders.
It isn’t a Quirk. It’s a structural failure. A five story office block, already weakened by the morning’s drills, groans as a support beam snaps like a dry twig. The screech of twisting rebar tears through the air.
Kirishima looks up just as the building begins to crumble, and his heart stops.
Bakugou is right there. He’s mid air, having just used an explosion to propel himself towards a ‘civilian’ target, his back turned to the looming shadow of the collapsing upper floor. He has no momentum left to dodge. No floor to push off of.
“Bakugou! Katsuki!”
The name rips out of Kirishima’s throat, raw and terrifying. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t calculate the distance. He just sprints, his legs pumping with a frantic, desperate speed he didn’t know he possessed. He feels his skin turn to jagged, unbreakable stone, his vision narrowing until the only thing in the world is that shock of blonde hair and the massive concrete slab falling towards it.
He reaches him just as Bakugou turns, eyes widening in a rare moment of genuine shock.
Kirishima doesn’t grab him. He tackles him. He slams into Bakugou’s chest, the force of it throwing the blonde clear of the impact zone, and then Kirishima plants his feet. He hunches his shoulders, curls his spine, and prays to every god he’s ever heard of that he’s hard enough.
The world ends in a roar of grey dust and crushing weight.
The pillar slams into Kirishima’s back with the force of a falling moon. He feels the ground beneath his boots crack. He feels the pressure deep in his marrow, the sound of concrete shattering against his skin like glass. For a heartbeat, he’s sure he’s going to be driven straight through the earth.
Then, silence.
The dust settles, thick and choking. Kirishima is pinned, his knees buckled, the weight of several tons of rebar and stone resting on his shoulders. He can’t breathe. He can’t move.
“Kirishima! Kirishima!”
The voice is frantic. It’s the sound of someone who has just seen their entire world collapse. He hears the frantic pop pop pop of small explosions as Bakugou claws at the debris, his hands bloodied and raw as he clears the smaller chunks away.
“Dammit, Eijirou. Answer me! Get up!”
Kirishima manages a ragged, dusty cough. He shifts, the concrete groaning as he heaves his shoulders upward, the sheer force of his will keeping his Quirk from flickering. With a final agonising grunt, he shoves the pillar aside, the massive slab sliding off his back and crashing into the dirt.
He scrambles out, gasping for air, and finds himself face to face with a Bakugou he’s never seen before. Bakugou is pale, his hands shaking, his eyes wide and glossed over with a terror that goes deeper than any villain fight.
“I’m–I’m okay,” Kirishima wheezes, his stone skin finally receding to reveal trembling, bruised flesh. “I’m okay, Bakugou. I caught it.”
Bakugou doesn’t answer. He just stares at the spot where Kirishima was buried, then back at Kirishima’s face, his jaw working but no sound coming out.
Kirishima tries to reach out, to show him he’s fine, but Bakugou flinches. He recoils like Kirishima’s touch is made of the same white hot heat as his explosions.
Because Kirishima can say another word, the silence is shattered.
“Kirishima! Are you alright!?” Iida’s voice booms as the rest of the class finally crest the ridge of rubble. Suddenly, there are hands everywhere–Mina’s soft touch on his arm, Midoriya’s frantic mumbling, Kaminari and Sero shouting over each other as they crowd around him.
The noise is dizzying. Kirishima tries to blink through the dust, his eyes searching for the one person who should be crouching right there.
Bakugou is already standing up.
He doesn’t help Kirishima to his feet. He doesn’t join the crowd. He just turns his back, his shoulders hunched so high they look like they’re made of jagged glass. He doesn’t look at Aizawa-sensei, he doesn’t look at the class, and he absolutely doesn’t look back at Kirishima. He just starts walking.
“Hye, Bakugou! Where are you going?” Kaminari calls out, but Bakugou doesn’t even break his stride. He just marches towards the exit of Ground Beta, his gait stiff and mechanical, until he’s just a sharp silhouette disappearing into the light.
Kirishima stands there, heart sinking into his stomach despite the warmth of his friends around him. Why is he leaving? I’m right here. I’m okay.
He waits for relief to come, but it doesn’t. As Recovery Girl’s bots roll over to check his vitals, all he can think about is the way Bakugou’s eyes locked right before he turned away. It wasn’t anger. It was something much worse.
The ‘okay’ doesn’t last. Over the next few days, the silence between them grows until it’s a physical weight.
It starts with the kitchen. Kirishima wanders down at 6:00 AM, his back still taped with bandages, expecting the familiar smell of spicy eggs and rhythmic clack of a spatula. Instead, the kitchen is dark. The coffee pot is cold. Bakugou is already gone, having presumably run in the dead of night just to ensure their paths wouldn’t cross.
In class, it’s worse. Bakugou sits two feet away, his back a rigid, unreadable line of tension. He doesn’t bark at people to move. He doesn’t kick the back of Kirishima’s chair. He just stares at the chalkboard with a hollow intensity that makes Kirishima’s chest ache.
Kirishima tries to bridge the gap. He corners him in the hall after English, his hand reaching out to grab Bakugou’s sleeve. “Hey, man, about the other day–”
Bakugou yanks his arm away before Kirishima can even make contact. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even look him in the eye. He just side steps him like Kirishima is a dangerous obstacle and keeps walking.
It’s a different kind of suffocating. Kirishima saved his life, and now it feels like he’s being punished for it. He lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he broke the ‘normal’ so badly that they can never go back.
He tries one last time during lunch on a Tuesday.
The cafeteria is a roar of noise, but their table is strangely quiet. Mina is picking at her rice, glancing nervously between the two of them, while Kaminari and Sero are having a very focused, very fake conversation about a video game.
Bakugou is there, but he’s not there. He’s staring at his tray, his posture so stiff he looks like he’s made of iron.
Kirishima takes a breath, his heart hammering against his ribs, and slides a small carton of strawberry milk, the kind Bakugou likes to pretend he doesn’t enjoy, onto the table in front of him.
“Hey,” Kirishima says, his voice sounding too loud in his own ears. “You barely ate anything this morning. Just thought you might want–”
Bakugou doesn’t look up. He doesn’t even blink. He just reaches out and slides the carton back across the table, his fingers never once brushing Kirishima’s.
“Don’t want it.”
“Bakugou, c’mon,” Kirishima tries, his voice dropping an octave, desperate. “Can we just–can we go to the gym later? Just to talk? You don’t even have to spar, we can just–”
“I said I don’t want it.” Bakugou’s voice is sharp now, cutting through the table’s tension like a knife. He finally looks up, but his eyes are cold, colder than Kirishima’s ever seen them. “And I’m training with Todoroki later. Stay out of my way.”
The table goes dead silent. Mina stops mid bite, her eyes wide. Kaminari winces like he’s been physically slapped.
Kirishima feels the blood rush to his face. A hot, prickly heat that makes his skin itch. To anyone else, it’s just Bakugou being a jerk. But to Kirishima, it’s a door being slammed and locked from the inside. He’s spent months being the only person Bakugou didn’t talk to like that, and having that shield stripped away in front of everyone feels like a punch to the gut.
“Right,” Kirishima says, his voice thick. He stands up, leaving the milk on the table. “Got it. Sorry for bothering you.”
He walks away without looking back, but he can feel Bakuogu’s gaze burning into his spine, heavy and suffocating.
The rest of the day is a blur of hollow chests and forced smiles. By the time 11:00 PM rolls around, Kirishima is exhausted, but sleep is a joke. His throat feels tight, like he’s swallowed a handful of dry sand. He needs water. He needs to move.
He slips out of his room, padding down the stairs in his sweatpants. The common room is dark, save for the blueish glow of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
He stops at the archway.
Bakugou is there.
He’s standing by the sink, a glass in his hand, but he isn’t drinking. He’s just staring at the faucet, his shoulders hunched, his breathing heavy and uneven in the silence.
Kirishima should turn around. He should go back upstairs and stay in the safety of the silence. But his feet move on their own. He steps into the kitchen, the linoleum cold under his heels.
Bakugou freezes. He doesn’t look up, but his knuckles go white around the glass.
Kirishima reaches for a glass of his own, his hands trembling. The silence is deafening. It’s the same silence from the lunchroom, the same silence from the gym, and it’s just too much. The weight of the last three days–the pillar, the flinching, the strawberry milk sitting lonely on the table–it all crashes down at once.
A hot, stinging tear slips out before he can stop it. Then another.
Kirishima tries to sniffle quietly, to keep it together, but a jagged, broken sob hitches in his chest. He slams his glass down on the counter, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
Why are you being so mean?“
The words are small, blunt, and painfully honest. Kirishima doesn’t look up; he just watches his tears hit the floor.
“I saved you,” he says, his voice dropping into a shaky, jagged whisper. “I caught that thing because it was you. And now you’re acting like I’m…like I’m a stranger. Like you can’t even stand to be in the same room as me.”
Bakugou doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe.
Bakugou finally looks at him, and the glass in his hand nearly slips. He looks horrified. “Kirishima–”
“I’d rather you just yell at me,” Kirishima chokes out, a frustrated sob finally escaping as he wipes his face with his shoulder. “Just–just be loud and angry like usual. Don’t do this. Don’t look through me like I’m already dead. It’s worse than the pillar. It’s
He’s shaking now, his shoulders heaving as the weight of the last three days finally breaks him. He looks away, embarrassed by the wetness on his cheeks, but he’s too tired to hide it anymore.
Bakugou doesn’t yell. He doesn’t walk away either.
The glass in his hand hits the counter with a shark clack, and before Kirishima can even draw another shaky breath, the space between them vanishes.
His hands hover just over Kirishima’s shoulders, trembling, as if he’s terrified that even touching him might make him shatter. He doesn’t slam him. He doesn’t pin him. Instead, he just fists his hands into the front of Kirishima’s hoodie, yanking him close until their forehead collide.
“I almost flattened you!” Bakugou says, but the words don’t come out right. They’re jagged, sounding more like a snarl that’s been dragged over broken glass. He’s shaking so hard his teeth might rattle, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he stares at Kirishima like he’s seeing a phantom. “I saw you go down and I thought that was it. I thought I’d finally done it. I’d killed the only person who–”
He chokes, his jaw working as he looks at the floor, his grip tightening on the fabric of Kirishima’s hoodie until his knuckles turn white.
“The only person who what, Katsuki?” Kirishima asks through his tears, his voice barely a whisper.
Bakugou’s head drops, hiding his face in the crook of Kirishima’s neck, his breath hitching in a way that sounds suspiciously like a sob he’s fighting to keep down.
“The only person I give a damn about,” he rasps. “I can’t–I can’t be around you if I’m going to be the one who ends you. I can’t do it.
Kirishima’s heart does a slow, painful roll in his chest. He doesn’t care about the bruises or the dull ache in his spine anymore. None of that matters compared to the sound of Bakugou’s voice breaking.
He reaches up, his hands steady and warm even through his own tremors, and cups Bakugou’s face. He has to use a bit of force to get him to look up, to pull him out of that dark spiral of guilt. When Bakugou finally meets his eyes, his expression is so raw, it’s almost hard to look at–fierce crimson eyes glassed over with a terror he’s never allowed anyone to see.
“You didn’t end me,” Kirishima says, his voice dropping into a firm grounding tone. “You’re the reason I’m strong enough to take a hit like that. I’d choose to be under that pillar every single time if it meant you were safe. Do you hear me? Every. Single. Time.”
Bakugou’s grip on Kirishima’s hoodie tightens for a second, his knuckles practically white, before he lets go. It’s not a pull away, it’s a shift. His hands slide up, palms flat against the front of Kirishima’s shoulders, grounding them both. He’s still shaking, a fine tremor that Kirishima can feel radiating through his own chest.
“Shut up,” Bakugou whispers, but there’s no bite in it. It’s a plea. He ducks his head, pressing his face into the crook of Kirishima’s neck again, his breathing finally starting to level out. “Just shut the hell up.”
Kirishima doesn’t shut up. He can’t. Not when they’re finally standing in the same space again. He reaches out, his fingers tangling into the soft spiky hair at the back of Bakugou’s head, holding him there.
“I’m in love with you, Katsuki.”
The name–the actual, given name–makes Bakugou flinch, but he doesn’t recoil. He just hitches a breath, his fingers digging into the fabric of Kirishima’s hoodie.
“I know,” Bakugou rasps against his skin. “I know, you idiot. Why do you think I’ve been trying to get away. I can’t–if something happens to you because of me, I’m done. There’s nothing left.”
“Then don’t let anything happen,” Kirishima breathes, pulling back just enough to make Bakugou look at him. He ignores the way his own eyes are still stinging, focusing entirely on the raw, beautiful wreck of a person in front of him. “Stay with me. Don’t run. Just stay.”
Bakugou looks at him for a long, silent moment. The haunted look in his eyes starts to settle, replaced by that familiar, fierce intensity, but tempered with something much softer. Something domestic.
“I’m not running,” Bakugou mutters, his voice dropping to that low, private register only Kirishima ever hears.
He moves then, but it’s not the explosive, confident movement Kirishima is used to. It’s slow, almost agonisingly so, as Bakugou closes the final few inches between them. It’s the first time Kirishima has ever seen him hesitate, like he’s waiting for the world to collapse again just for trying to be happy.
When his lips finally touch Kirishima’s, it’s not a collision. It’s quiet. It’s a soft, shaky press of heat that tastes like salt and the middle of the night. It’s Bakugou finally setting the weight of that concrete pillar down.
Kirishima’s breath hitches, his hands sliding from Bakugou’s hair to cup the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deeper, until there isn’t a single inch of cold air left between them. Bakugou grounds low in his throat, a sound of pure, unfiltered relief, and his hands move from Kirishima’s shoulders to his waist, holding him like he’s made of something much more fragile than stone.
They stay like that for a long time, tucked into the shadows of the kitchen, breathing each other in until the trembling finally stops.
When they do pull apart, Bakugou doesn’t let go. He keeps his forehead pressed against Kirishima’s, his eyes closed tight.
“Don’t do that again,” Bakugou whispers. His voice isn’t a command this time. It’s a plea, stripped of every bit of armour he owns. “Don’t ever jump in front of me like that. I don’t care how hard you think you are, Eijirou. Don’t you ever let me be the reason you break.”
Kirishima’s heart aches at the sound of his name, spoken with so much weight it feels like a physical touch. He shifts his hands, his fingers curling into the hair at the base of Bakugou’s neck, pulling him even closer until there’s no room for the cold air of the kitchen to get between them.
“I’m not gonna stop,” Kirishima whispers, his voice cracking but steady. “I’m always gonna be there. That’s what we are to each other. You don’t get to push me away just because you’re scared of what almost happened.”
Bakugou makes a frustrated, choked up sound. A jagged noise that he tries to swallow back down. He doesn’t argue, though. He can’t. He just lets go of Kirishima’s hoodie, and brings his hands up, his palms sliding against the sides of Kirishima’s neck, his thumb pressing firmly against his jaw. He’s holding on so tight it’s like he’s trying to keep Kirishima from evaporating into the dark.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Bakugou rasps, his eyes finally opening to search Kirishima’s. They’re still rimmed with red, still fierce, but the wall is gone. “You’re an idiot and you’re a liability and I can’t–I can’t do this if you’re not there. Don’t you get that?”
“Then let me be there,” Kirishima breathes, leaning his forehead back against Bakugou’s. “Stop running. Stop the silence. Just let me in, Katsuki.”
Bakugou doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets his eyes close, his forehead dropping back against Kirishima’s with a heavy, final sort of surrender. The fight is gone. The silence is gone. The only sound in the kitchen is their shared breaking, rhythmic and loud.
“I’m in,” The words are barely more than a vibration between them. “I’m in, you damn idiot. Just…don’t make me watch you die again.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Kirishima promises, his voice thick but certain. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against Bakugou’s hand, the one that had been white knuckled around a glass just minutes ago. Now, Bakugou’s fingers find his, lacing together in the dark.
Bakugou huffs, a ghost of his usual spark returning to his voice. “You better not. Because if you do, I’m following you to hell just to blast you back.”
Kirishima lets out a small, watery laugh, the tension finally draining out of his limbs. He feels the cold floor under his feet, the hum of the fridge, the warmth of the boy in front of him.
Bakugou pulls back just enough to look at him, his gaze scanning Kirishima’s face for one last time as if checking for cracks. He doesn’t let go of Kirishima’s hand. Instead, he gives it a sharp, rough tug towards the archway.
“C’mon. I’m not letting you stumble up those stairs by yourself while you’re still shaking like a leaf.”
“I’m okay, Katsuki,” Kirishima says, though he doesn’t resist as Bakugou leads him out of the kitchen.
“Like hell you are,” Bakugou grumbles. He doesn’t head towards his own room. He stays right at Kirishima’s side, shoulder to shoulder, their hands still locked together in the dark hallway. “And don’t think you’re locking your door. I’m staying. I’m not waking up tomorrow wondering if you’ve stopped breathing in the middle of the night.
It’s not a request. It’s Bakugou’s version of making sure the world doesn’t collapse again.
Kirishima doesn’t argue. He just leans his weight slightly into Bakugou’s side as they pad up the stairs in silence.
They reach the door to Kirishima’s room, and Bakugou doesn’t even hesitate. He reaches out, turns the handle, and pushes it open like he owned the place. He steps inside first, yanking Kirishima in behind him before the hall lights can catch them.
In the dark of the room, Bakugou finally lets go of his hand, but only to shove him towards the bed. “Move over, Shitty Hair,” he mutters, his voice finally sounding like himself again. “You’re hogging the air.”
Kirishima just smiles in the dark, his chest finally feeling light enough to move. “Yeah, yeah. Move over yourself