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The microwave beeps. Katsuki tugs it open, steam and the savory smells of curry spewing out into the kitchen proper. His mouth waters, stomach grumbling in anticipation. Fuck, he's starving. Today was busy as fuck—there was a situation with a bank robbery that took several fucking hours to deal with. Some asshole punks who ended up holding the place up because they're idiot rookies at being villains, apparently.
"Aw, man. Seriously?"
Katsuki plops down his bowl onto the table, brow quirking down at his phone. It's propped up against a large chunk of rock-turned-centerpiece on his aforementioned tiny ass table. Kirishima fills the screen—he's laying down, most likely on his couch, face all scrunched up as he stares through the screen. Katsuki plops into a chair. He ladles a spoonful and slurps it down with a hum. "What's wrong?"
Kirishima sighs, the sound crackling across the phone's speakers. "Just another stupid email from another stupid apartment telling me nothing's available." A groan comes through this time, and Katsuki watches as an arm drapes over his face. "Gods. I should've started looking sooner."
"Where have you looked?"
"Literally everywhere. I've sent out so many emails, man. I keep trying to call places but my breaks have been pretty dicey, y'know?"
Katsuki hums. Slurps down more curry, elbows on the table. "You're moving down here next week, right?" It comes out as a question, but the day's marked in carefully inked kanji on his calendar hanging there on the wall in the kitchen, right next to the fridge. Not. Not for any real reason, just—Kirishima'd asked if Katsuki could help him move furniture. So he penciled it in.
"Yeah, on Wednesday. Or, well. That's the plan, but I dunno where I'm supposed to move if I don't have a place. I mean." Kirishima drops his arm and makes a face. "I guess I could sleep in my agency office…"
The scoff that escapes him is reflexive. "Don't fucking do that. Shit, just sleep here."
There's a beat punctuated only by the scrape of his spoon against the bottom of his ceramic bowl. Kirishima's staring at him. Heat stings at Katsuki's face, and he scowls down at his stupid phone. "The fuck is that look for, huh? If you don't wanna, you don't fucking gotta."
"No, no, I—I mean, I—are. Are you sure? You're okay with that?"
He bristles. Curry dribbles off his spoon and splatters down the side of the bowl. "The hell do you mean, am I sure? I offered, didn't I?"
"I mean, yeah, but—"
"But nothing." Katsuki jabs at the air with his spoon. "You're staying here. End of story." Like hell is he just gonna let his best fucking friend sleep on the floor of his stupid, barely furnished, closet of an agency, especially when Katsuki has a perfectly good couch. Or space for a damn futon, if Kirishima prefers. He spoons down more curry, the flavor dancing across his tongue. Fuck, this recipe slaps. He'll have to make it again. "There's storage lockers a mile down the road you can keep your shit in until you find a place. Pretty sure they rent year-round."
He makes the mistake of looking at his phone again. Kirisihima's all smiles, which is nothing new, except, this smile is all—all soft and gooey around the edges, and Katsuki's fucked up heart trips in his chest, sending the room into a wild spin. Something swoops inside his gut. He grips at the edge of the table, blinking.
"Thanks, Bakugou," Kirishima says, "you're the best. Seriously."
Katsuki tisks. "No shit." He ignores the way his face burns at the soft words in favor of trying to settle his wayward heart and fucking breathe. A tall task, apparently. He toys with his spoon, gaze straying to his idiot best friend on his phone's screen. "Tell me something," he says, voice gruff. Kirishima hums, background blurring into a smear of color as he shifts, sitting upright.
"Uh…shit, dude, literally nothing happened today. Oh! I had to sign a guy's bicep, today."
"What the fuck."
Bright laughter bleeds through the phone speakers. "I know, right? So weird. He stopped me while I was on patrol and, like, gushed about how he thought I was super manly, and all but begged to get my signature. Except, the guy literally didn't have anything to sign. I offered to sign his shirt, but he insisted on going for his arm…"
Katsuki snorts as he scoops more curry. Breathing grows easier, little by little, and Katsuki finds it all too easy to sink into the conversation like he's done a hundred times before. And, for a while, the room feels colorful and lively, warm with good food and good conversation.
It doesn't last. It never does.
The sigh cuts through the speakers like a knife. "I really gotta go…gotta do some more packing."
Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek. "You really not fucking finished yet?" He can't help the smile at Kirishima's petulant huff.
"Shut up."
"Fine, go pack your shit. Text me when you leave and shit Wednesday, too, so I know when you'll get here."
"Yeah, okay." Kirishima smiles, then, all soft around the edges again, says, "I'll seeya soon." The screen goes blank, then, and all at once, the shadows of the kitchen encroach on Katsuki. He shivers, stares down at his bowl of curry.
Somehow, it tastes bland when he takes another bite.
🛋️
Wednesday comes too damn fast and not fast enough.
Katsuki stands on the curb of the storage locker place, one hand shoved deep into the pockets of his joggers and the other holding his phone so he can mindlessly scroll Twitter. An infuriating passtime, if he's honest, but he's got nothing better to do while he waits for Kirishima to pull up. Most of it's bullshit. People arguing about nonsense, shitty news snippets…
Some are about him. Katsuki always scoffs and rolls his eyes, scrolls right past without a care. Maybe once upon a time he'd have given a shit what people think. But then he fought evil itself and won.
Kind of hard to give a fuck about people's opinions after an accomplishment like that.
A box truck rumbles to a stop in front of him, then, shredding his focus. Katsuki stuffs his phone in his pocket, lips stretching into a grin as the driver door swings open and his best friend steps out.
"Bakugou! Hey, man!"
Katsuki's all but yanked into a warm embrace, and he sinks into it so damn fast, feeling almost dizzy as his cheek smooshes against Kirishima's shoulder, the scent of a familiar cologne burning a trail down to his lungs. "Took you long enough," he says, snickering. Kirishima huffs, shoving at him.
"Oh, shut up! I took one wrong turn!"
Katsuki laughs.
It takes two hours to unpack the stupid truck. Two hours filled with bickering and too much laughing. They're both sweaty and exhausted after, too much for cooking. A fucking shame, because Katsuki has shit he bought with that very intention.
Whatever. He can cook tomorrow.
"Damn." Kirishima whistles as he shuffles into the genkan, suitcase in one hand and an overstuffed backpack sliding off his shoulder. "Nice place."
Katsuki rolls his eyes as he kicks the door shut behind him. It's not bad, he supposes. Modest, if anything. He spent a significant portion of his career's packchecks funneling money into Deku's fancy ass suit, and then bought a car. So. Modest. Still, something warm curls in his belly as he watches Kirishima set his shit on the couch, spinning in a circle and grinning as he takes in the space.
It only grows when they sit and eat. Kirishima sits across from him, all bright smiles and easy laughter, and it's fucking weird as shit because they've done something like this every damn night since they graduated and moved to different cities, but it's different. Because Kirishima's here, elbows on the table, noisily slurping at his noodles and giggling as Katsuki regales him with the bullshit he put up with on patrol the other day ("I didn't even know cats could scratch that fucking hard. I had to get a shot, for fuck's sake!") and kicking each other's shins beneath the table in that playful ribbing sort of way they do. He's here, vivid and real and larger than life, and not at all trapped within the confines of Kastuki's cracked phone screen.
After, once they're both full and the takeaway containers are stuffed into the trash, they find themselves together on Katsuki's sleek, dark couch, knees touching. Some shitty show flickers on the TV—Katsuki's not paying a lick of attention to what. No, he's too focused on the way Kirishima grins, cheek smooshed into his fist and expression soft around the edges.
"Man, I really missed you," he says, quiet, soft, like a confession. And, something entirely too damn soft and warm tugs at the strings of Katsuki's heart. He ducks his head, suddenly very interested in the light flickering across his knee, throat tight.
Yeah, me too, he thinks. He knocks their knees together, says, "Fuckin' sap," instead. Kirishima laughs.
"Yeah, yeah."
🛋️
Kirishima is, undeniably, Katsuki's best friend. The fucker decided as much back when they were kids in high school after they faced their first real villains, and Katsuki's brash and bullheaded self decided they should chase down the big bad responsible for splitting their class, an act that apparently was, as Kirishima said, 'real fucking manly'—and neither of them have ever looked back.
So, yeah. Best friends. Hanging out with Kirishima's as easy as breathing. So why in the ever living fuck is living with him a goddamn nightmare?
Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, actually, but, fucking hell. Katsuki feels like he's losing his mind.
Like. Like, there's the fact that it took Katsuki walking in on him three times—three times!—for Kirishima to start locking the bathroom door when he's showering. A sight that's very much seared into Katsuki's head and threatens to give him damn heart palpitations on the daily. And! The fact that his idiot of a best friend apparently loves sleeping in not a damn thing but his boxer briefs, which, probably shouldn't be surprising at all. Except there's a special kind of hell for having a sleep-rumpled Kirishima shuffle into the kitchen shirtless when Katsuki hasn't so much as had a drop of caffeine yet, long hair mussed and scratching at his toned, tan stomach.
Katsuki's face burns so damn hot, he could probably fry an egg on it.
"Morning," Kirishima says, yawning. He rubs at his eyes with a fist. "I smell coffee."
Fuck, those arms. Katsuki grips his mug with a death grip, wills himself to take a sip. Grunts an affirmative, because his brain isn't firing on enough cylinders for words, yet.
"Where's your mugs?"
Katsuki blinks. Gestures. "Top cabinet."
And, he probably should, like, move out of the fucking way. Or grab one for Kirishima like a good host. But, he's too preoccupied with staring at the dark hair beneath his navel trailing down to the waist of those damn shorts, a wild desire to bite him scratching at the back of Katsuki's idiotic hindbrain. Which means he doesn't comprehend what's happening until it's too damn late.
The hand on his shoulder burns. Hell, his whole fucking body burns, mind stalling out at the brush of Kirishima's bare chest against his clothed one, the caress of his breath against Katsuki's cheek.
He thinks his heart stops for a second, there. It's all he can do but grip the counter behind him and try to re-learn how to fucking breathe after Kirishima steps away, humming all innocent and non-the-wiser.
Needless to say, Katsuki's dying, a little.
"Ugh." Kirishima slumps in the chair, one hand scrubbing over his face. "I swear, none of these places make any sense."
Katsuki eyes him from where he stands at the stove. Steam billows up around him, meat frying on the pan. He's making katsudon and some curry. Or. Trying to, anyway.
"What're you whining about, now?" he asks. Kirishima sighs, chair creaking beneath him, and rakes a hand through that main he calls hair, gesturing jerkily at the open laptop on the table.
"I'm trying to look for apartments, but all these places are, like, super cryptic and not telling me literally anything at all about what's available." He huffs, petulant and pouty, and pokes at the laptop as if that'll fix everything. "I just wanna have a place to live, is that too much to ask for?"
And. A lump sticks in Kastuki's throat. He jerks his gaze to the meat frying in the pan in front of him, grip on the spatula going tight. Something burns inside him, something that's got ice gripping at Katsuki's heart with piercing talons. He shoves it aside with a forced scoff and flips the pork cutlets. "You say that like you're sleeping on the fucking street and not my couch."
Kirishima laughs, bright and cheerful and, shit, is he having a heart attack or something? Fuck. Katsuki rubs at his sternum. Stares harder at the sizzling pork.
"Sorry—your couch is great," Kirishima says. "Super comfy." He snaps the laptop closed, sitting with a knee to his chest like a freak. "I'd still like to have my own bed to sleep in, though."
The weird feeling's back in full force. Katsuki presses his lips into a line and does what he does best: ignores it.
"Set the table, wouldja'? Food's almost ready."
Katsuki's graced with another one of Kirishima's killer, bright smiles and pushes to his feet, padding to the kitchen in mismatched socks and, gods above, this really is torture.
So why in the hell does he kind of want it to never end?
🛋️
Katsuki jerks awake, body slick with sweat and shivering. His heart gallops in his chest as if it's a racehorse running out of time to finish the race, and the room feels like it's spinning.
Fuck.
He scrubs a shaky hand over his face, tries to breathe. Except, breathing's hard when it feels as though there's a weight trying to crush his chest. Fucking christ, he hates when this happens. Katsuki fumbles to tear the tangled, sweat-soaked sheets off of him and dares to push himself upright. A mistake, because oh, fuck, is the dizzy worse, now. Katsuki grips at the edge of the mattress tightly, eyes squeezing shut. He stays like that, counting the seconds in hopes that his heart will calm.
It doesn't. It rarely does.
What he should do is lie the fuck down and try evening out his breathing better. What he does instead is shove himself onto unsteady feet, knees damn near giving out beneath him the second he's even remotely reliant on them. He manages to keep from faceplanting on his floor, but only just. Seconds tick past. He shuffles, slow, unsteady, one hand pressed tight to his sternum and the other limp at his side, towards his door.
A glass of water. A glass of water will help. It's his mantra he chants in his head to keep from keeling the fuck over between point A and point B. Whether or not it helps is up for debate—Katsuki feels off-kilter, back slick with cold sweat and knees threatening to give out with every step. (Fuck, he's so dizzy. This was a bad plan and he knows it, but he's committed now.)
Only the gentle glow of the light over the oven cuts into the shadows. Katsuki stumbles to the sink, gripping the lip of it with both hands and tries to breathe. He needs to sit the fuck down.
He does not sit the fuck down.
No, instead he makes a bid for the cabinet where he keeps his glassware. It creaks horribly, and he grimaces, head whipping to throw a cursory glance over his shoulder towards the living room, where Kirishima's passed out on the couch. 'Course, the motion sends his head spinning, and Katsuki's legs buckle again. He grips the cabinet door and counter edge in a vicegrip, manages to stay upright.
His jaw clenches, curses playing on a loop in his head.
It's fine. He's fine. He just needs some water.
Katsuki reaches for a glass. Except, his body hates him right now, and it slips through his fingers as if it's a slice of butter, crashing onto the floor into a thousand tiny fucking pieces.
"Ka'suki?"
Shit.
"I'm fine," he spits out, except his words sound like he's talking underwater and, yeah, okay, sitting down is a necessity—he slouches against the counter, eyes squeezed shut because as much as he needs to sit down there's glass everywhere.
A lamp flicks on. Footsteps grow close, stopping abruptly at the threshold of the kitchen. "Oh, shit," Kirishima says. "Here, where's your broom…?"
Katsuki presses his forehead against the cool countertop and wills himself to stay conscious and upright. "Next to the pantry."
Cleanup takes minutes that feel like eons. Katsuki doesn't dare move from his precarious spot, clutching at the counter as if it's a lifeline, the sounds of glass shards clinking together buzzing in his ears. Cabinet doors creak open and thump shut, and he hears the telltale sounds of glass shards clattering into the bottom of a trashcan. Then, a hand splays on his back, steady and warm.
"You okay?" Kirishima asks, voice low, gentle. Katsuki grunts.
"Heart's stupid. Just dizzy."
"Okay. Maybe let's sit down, yeah?"
Kirishima doesn't give Katsuki a chance to answer him, wrapping a strong arm around his middle and gently guiding Katsuki towards the living room. They end up on the couch, Katsuki with his head between his knees. A warm hand trails up and down his back in soothing motions, and it's both better and worse, and Katsuki thinks he might be dying, a little. Sparks crackle and dance inside his ribcage, punctuated with the unsteady rhythm of his heart.
"Does…does this happen a lot?"
Katsuki shrugs. He squints at the floor, lips pressing into a line. His heart is his kryptonite—has been since he blew it to smithereens on the battlefield in high school. It's healed as much as it ever will. His doctors all insist it's a goddamn miracle it works as well as it does. Katsuki still finds himself wishing it was better than this.
He'll take the dizzy-spells and spikes in heartrate over being dead, obviously. Doesn't make him loathe the way his own body fights him like this, the way it reduces him to a pathetic, dizzy mess.
"Better?" Kirishima asks after a while. Katsuki shrugs again. The floor looks less blurry, but even thinking about moving makes him want to die, a little. He doesn't say as much. But he doesn't have to—Kirishima hums softly, hand slowing its ministrations. Katsuki thinks he might stop, might draw away, and something in him lurches almost painfully at the thought. Except, Kirishima's hand curls around his shoulder, tugging lightly. "C'mere," he murmurs, and, it's all too easy to go.
The room tilts but doesn't spin. Kirishima pulls Katsuki down onto his chest, fingers tangling in his mussed hair and arm curling around his waist like it belongs there. And, what else can Katsuki do but melt into the embrace? A sigh eases from him, eyes drooping. Kirishima strokes down his back some more, gentle and soothing, and fuck, Katsuki really doesn't want to leave.
He should. He should get up, go back to bed. But Kirishima is warm, and comfortable, and he's so fucking tired.
A minute won't hurt, he tells himself. Just a minute.
The next time he opens his eyes, dawn's light spills into the living room in shades of brilliant golds, and Kirishima's chest rumbles beneath him with gentle snores. It takes way too fucking long for their position to register. When it does, Katsuki scrambles upright, face burning, legs tangling in a blanket that sure as shit wasn't there hours ago.
Kirishima stirs, blinking, eyes bleary and a shine of drool coating his chin. "Wasswrong?"
"Nothing, shut up, just. Gotta piss."
He bolts, leaving Kirishima to roll over and hide in a pillow, his fucked up heart thundering against his ribs hard enough to bruise.
(And still, that night, Katsuki lingers on the couch long after he usually retreats into the bedroom, eyelids drooping and head lolling. When Kirishima nudges him upright, murmuring, "Why dontcha go to bed, dude?" all soft and gentle, Katsuki blames his tired brain for shoving at him and bitching about not being tired. A lie. A bold fucking lie.
He falls asleep against Kirishima's shoulder. Rouses awake later to strong arms lifting him off the couch, a fucking impressive feat considering he's a whole grown ass man. And, oh, how his fucked up heart swoops like he's some princess in a shitty romcom. Maybe that's why, when Kirishima lays him down on the bed, Katsuki grabs at his wrist and tugs him down onto the bed with him, muttering, "Just fucking stay.")
🛋️
"Kacchan! Kirishima-kun!" Deku's scarred, freckled face lights up in a grin the moment they're spotted. He beelines to their table, sliding his shitty, years old backpack off his shoulders and dumps it onto the floor next to his chair. "Hey, sorry I'm late—class ran over because a couple of students had some questions, and I, uh, may have maybe gone down a rabbit hole answering them." He chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck and flushing bright pink. Katsuki snorts, rolling his eyes.
"Calm down, we haven't ordered yet."
A truth because Katsuki's all too familiar with Deku and his tendency to be late getting to lunch on school days.
Beside him, Kirishima laughs, bright and cheerful where he leans back in his chair, the gears on his shoulders shifting with the movement. "Yeah, man, you're all good! We didn't mind the wait."
Getting food takes zero time at all—Katsuki and Deku come to this place often enough that the wrinkled old lady who owns the joint knows what they want the second they step over the threshold, and Kirishima wastes zero time ordering the same thing Deku does because, "You know I like some katsudon ramen, dude."
"How's the agency?" Deku asks between sips of ice water. "Getting any traction?"
Kirishima hums. "Oh, yeah." He scratches his cheek, shrugging. "I mean, you know crime rates're lower overall and stuff—but, well, I've been trying to work on some social initiatives and stuff." He flushes bright pink, a sight that's got Katsuki feeling all weird and fuzzy inside, and he huffs and knocks their boots together.
"S'good, the shit you're trying to do."
And, it is. An initiative for assisting lower-income families, because, as Kirishima says, crime starts when people have nowhere else to turn to.
"How's the apartment hunting going?"
At this, Kirishima groans, head flopping back dramatically. "Horrible. Seriously, I've never felt so insane as I have trying to get answers out of places. Like, either no one answers the phone, or I talk in circles around someone for an hour and hang up still super homeless. It's brutal!"
Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek, glaring at the styrofoam cup in front of him. Kirishima's being a dramatic shithead, he knows, but still. Something about calling himself homeless rankles at Katsuki, something he can't quite put a finger to. Because it's. Well. It's true, in a literal standpoint—Kirishima's bumming off his couch right now.
Or. Well. Couch maybe isn't so accurate, anymore.
But the technicality is that Kirishima's just staying with Katsuki until he finds something else. He knows this. Deku knows this. They all know this.
So why in the hell does Katsuki's chest ache so damn much thinking about it?
Deku's face scrunches with sympathy. "Oh, really? That sucks." He scratches at his scarred cheek, brow knitting. "You know, I, um, I'm pretty sure there's some openings at my apartment complex…I can get you the number for the front office, if you want? They're open during normal weekly office hours, too, so if you'd rather go in person, you'll probably be able to catch someone."
"Holy shit, yes, thank you!" Kirishima claps his hands together and bows, grinning. And, it'd be endearing as hell if Katsuki's stomach weren't twisting into knots. He ducks his head and stabs at his noodles, throat tight.
He doesn't manage to engage in whatever conversation follows. No, he sits in his seat, too hyper-aware of Kirishima next to him, skin blistering at every accidental brush of their arms. Katsuki's struck by the desire to reach out, to grab Kirishima's hand in his own, to lean into him and sink into the warmth radiating off him. His traitorous, stupid mind latches onto the memory of this morning and waking up plastered together, legs entangled and arms lazily wrapped around each other as if it's normal.
Those damned knots in his stomach tighten with the realization of how much he wants that.
Suddenly, Katsuki's not hungry anymore.
It's worse when they get back to the apartment. Kirishima goes to fetch his laptop pretty much immediately, and Katsuki finds himself adrift, standing in the middle of his own living room, watching Kirishima sit on the couch and look up Deku's fucking complex and feeling the metaphorical knife twist in his gut, sharp and painful.
"Oh, wow, these are pretty nice. They've got a communal gym, look." He twists the laptop around, grinning. Katsuki looks without seeing, jaw twitching. There's a gym here, he wants to say. A better one. We could share a membership. And maybe that's the most damning thought he's had, because what the fuck kind of domestic bullshit is he thinking of right now? Sharing a gym membership? Really? Fuck.
"Uh, you okay dude?" Kirishima's frowning at him, now, gaze a little too sharp, a little too attentive. "You look like you wanna sock me in the face or something."
Katsuki huffs and turns away, all stiff and rigid. "M'fine."
It's a lie, one Kirishima clocks immediately because of fucking course he does. There's a rustle, the creak of a floorboard. Footsteps creep closer and closer until Kirishima's right behind him, one hand grasping at his shoulder and burning a brand right down to the bone.
"Is it your heart?" he asks, all soft and gentle, and, fuck. Katsuki shoves him off. Stalks to the table. And, of course Kirishima follows.
"I said I'm fine."
"Yeah, well, you're lying. You've been weird since lunch."
Katsuki's gaze jerks to Kirishima, eyes wide. The fucker has the audacity to smile all sheepish, shrugging like it's nothing, perceiving Katsuki so damn easy. Maybe it is. God knows Katsuki's let this asshole see the most intimate and vulnerable bits of himself, bits no one else will ever get the chance to. He swallows, throat clicking. "I'm fine," he says again, as if saying it enough will get Kirishima to back the fuck off. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. It never does. No, Kirishima just looks at him, eyes all big and warm and achingly gentle.
"What's wrong?" he asks, soft, expectant.
"I don't want you to leave."
Confusion ripples across Kirishima's face. He blinks, lips pursing. "What do you mean?"
Katsuki's hands twitch at his sides. He clenches his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck. "I mean what I fucking said, asshole. I don't—I don't want you to leave. I want you to stay." I want you to sleep in my bed forever. I want my bed to be our bed. I want to come home to you every single day for the rest of my fucking life.
The words scorch at his throat, blaze across his tongue. Still, Katsuki swallows them back, because they're too much, too soon. It's fucking insane, he thinks, to realize he's so utterly, devastatingly in love with his best friend on a droll, uneventful Tuesday afternoon. The entire world's shifted beneath his feet and still the apartment glows with the afternoon sun, igniting across Kirishoma's face alongside the realization dawning there.
"You…you want me to stay?"
Katsuki nods, jerky.
Kirishima bites his lip, uncertainty and something maybe a little hopeful stitching across his expression. "I—shit, Katsuki, of course I wanna stay. I just…won't you get sick of me?"
It's the stupidest thing Kirishima's ever fucking said to him. Here he is, contemplating forever, and Kirishima's worried Katsuki will get sick of him. What the fuck.
Irritation crackles through him, and Katsuki does the only thing he can think of—he snatches the front of Kirishima's shirt and hauls him close, kissing him square on the mouth.
"Don't be fucking stupid," he says. Kirishima laughs, then, bright and clear as a bell, hands sliding home onto Katsuki's hips. And, Katsuki kisses him again, because he can and he wants to. "I want you here. I always want you here." The admission comes freely. Not quite a confession, but a confession all the same.
Kirishima's expression goes achingly soft. "As long as you're sure."
Katsuki knocks their foreheads together and closes his eyes. Of course he is. He's so fucking sure. More sure of this—of them—than anything else.
"Shut up and kiss me again," he says instead, lips curving into a grin. Kirishima huffs another laugh and obliges, and somehow, it tastes like home.