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Bakugou Katsuki wasn't made to dance.
Bakugou is made of fire, nitroglycerin and ash. Bakugou is made to explode, destroy enemies and save people.
Kirishima Eijirou wasn't made to dance.
Kirishima is made of sharp angles hard skin. Kirishima is made to be a weapon and a shield, and, just as Bakugou, he yearns to be a hero one day.
However, Bakugou looks up from where he's sitting, away from the prom ballroom, all the dancing teenagers and loud music not failing to give him a headache.
The night air is cold against his skin and the stars bright behind Kirishima's silhouette. He's smiling at him (the idiot) and his hand is extended, palm open in a silent invitation (the fool).
"Do you fancy a dance?" He asks, because of course, Kirishima wants Bakugou to answer loud and clear. And Bakugou, of course, doesn't, because he isn't about to give this guy the pleasure. He won't.
Though he does take his hand, stand up, and scoot a step closer. "Shut up, I don't dance," he spits out, but he's already clinging to Kirishima anyway. Kirishima smiles that gross, fond smile of his, and laces his hands behind Bakugou's back, chest to chest, nose to nose.
"I'll teach you then."
Bakugou would never say he dances. A hero doesn't dance after all, a hero does his job and that's it. There's no time for stupid, frivolous things such as 'dancing' and (the worst of them all) 'love'.
But this night though, with Kirishima smiling to his neck, their slow, relaxing pace and impossibly close bodies, Bakugou decides that maybe he could make an exception.
"I love you," Kirishima confesses, stiff and nervous, insecurity plastered in his eyes. Bakugou reaches over, cups his cheek, and watches him relax a bit under his ministrations, lean into his touch. He breathes out.
"I love you too."
Kirishima kisses him.
(Bakugou kisses back.)