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The car door closes behind Kirishima. He flinches at the noise. His hands gripped the steering wheel, breathing too unnaturally. A deep, conscious breath in, a slow, hard breath out.
Bakugou went inside alone because Kirishima was a coward. He couldn’t even face his boyfriends therapist. Not when she looks at him the way she does–like she’s seeing through his red hair and sharp smiles.
It makes his chest tighten like a ball of knots. He just couldn’t do it today. And despite Bakugou’s gruff reassurance that it was okay, it really, really didn’t feel like it.
He runs a hand down his face and jerks at the sound of his phone going off. “Fuck,” he whispered, a sudden sense of dread filling the car like pollution. He’d forgotten all about the group meet-up and he was the one who planned it in the first place.
For Bakugou. To get out again–with friends, their regular group. It was a good idea at the time. Still is. Bakugou could use it–the lack of pressure. Simple fun to clear his mind.
And although the icon makes his head hurt, he answers anyway, because he was a martyr dying for a war nobody asked for. “Hey, Mina!” He greeted cheerfully and hoped to whatever God out there that she couldn’t hear the shake in his voice as strongly as he could.
“Hey Kiri-Babe! We still on for 3, right? Kam and Sero just got here!” She replied enthusiastically. He could picture her gleaming smile. He hears them in the background talking about a shitty action movie.
Some music was playing, too, and he recognized Sero’s Playlist. “Yeah, we are,” he responded once he remembered to. “Katsuki will be out soon so I’ll just come to your house from here. Cool?” Please say no. Please say no. Please just cancel. Please, please, please–“Yup! See you then! Love you!”
He smiled with resignation. Fuck. “Love you, too, Ash.” The call hangs up and takes a part of him with it. This was so selfish. Wanting to cancel just because he lost his nerve. This wasn’t even about him.
It was about Bakugou. For Bakugou. And it always has been. What’s he to complain about? He scrubs his hands down his face again but the guilt doesn’t slip out from his mind into his palms.
When Bakugou comes out, the conversation is normal. At least, he thinks it is. He goes through the motions. How was it? It was alright. Do you wanna talk about what she said? Yeah, I guess.
We’re gonna go to Mina’s now. Do you still want to? Yeah.
And so they do. By the time he parked the car in her crowded driveway, he felt miles away from his own body. Bakugou gets out first and only then does he open his door.
A part of him is still hoping Bakugou will say never mind, I was just kidding, lets go home. But he never does. Mina’s house looks the same, just fuller. She squealed at the sight of them, giving them big hugs.
She holds Bakugou longer and Kirishima forces himself to look away. Not about him, remember? This is for Bakugou, remember? He gnawed at his inside lip.
He hasn’t done that since Middle School. When the kids had tossed him to the ground and he scraped his face on the concrete. The pain began to feel grounding, the more it happened. When he tried to retaliate–just once before he never did again, it was a punch instead of a push.
He told himself by the time he was in High School, in U.A., he wouldn’t bite again. He’s better than that. The mirror said so every morning. And now what? He’s caving into the very weakeness he swore not to. But this was a conversation for the mirror.
“You good?” Bakugou asked, eyeing him. He blinked quickly–too quickly. Was he watching this whole time? “Yeah, course.” He waved off, lacing Bakugou’s hand into his own. For Bakugou, you know?
The blond stared a little longer but seemed to accept it.
The car drive home was silent because Bakugou fell asleep. Kirishima was barely paying attention to the road. He pinches his arms a few times and can’t really feel it. His palms were never this sweaty, were they?
It was hard to drive. And that wasn’t good at all. If he woke Bakugou up, he’d never forgive himself. The blond needed sleep, after all, with the nightmares he’s been having recently.
A small, self-absorbed part of him asks what about me? The nights where he woke up with ringing in his ears, phantom bruises aching all over his body. Nights where he struggles to breathe but would rather pass out than wake Bakugou up.
Did that earn him anything? Any of what he gave Bakugou all the time, even a fifth of the same comfort? He drums his fingers against the wheel. Bakugou supported him. Loved him. Kirishima felt small in his 5’10 body just thinking about it.
He wants to ask all the time; what do you see in me? Why do you love me? Am I doing enough? Am I being too much? And every time the question is forming, he swallows it back down.
The Sun was still up by the time he parked into their driveway. He should wake Bakugou up now–get them into bed. But he takes a second to be selfish. The glow of the light makes Bakugou look... well, he always looks perfect.
It illuminates his rosy cheeks. The paleness of his skin. His chest moved up and down peacefully. Kirishima almost didn’t want to wake him up at all. He could already hear the grumbled protests.
He runs a hand through his hair but no confidence comes out with it. That’s fine. This is fine, this is all–fine.
Nothing is fine. Patrol was a mess and the press did nothing to help clean it up. Cameras were flashed in his face and he couldn’t say or do anything to calm them.
It was a mistake. A simple mistake–a forgivable mistake. And to the public eye, it can be forgotten in a week or two. He isn’t the first Pro to mess up so why does it feel like it?
Why can’t he catch his breath? Secluded in a dingy closet, hiding out in the company. It’s real classy of him. He panted–or maybe he would have been if his lungs ever decided to start working.
Sharp pain followed each intake. His eyes closed, hand curling around his shirt, right above his erratic heart. This was it. This was the end–he’s dying and it won’t even be in his angel of a boyfriend’s arms–it’s in a dark, dirty closet where no one will even find him.
And there won’t be a funeral for the stupid, useless Pro who couldn’t find an escape route fast enough–just a tweet of all his fuck-ups that make his entire career and–
His phone rings. Abrupt light in the abyss that’s consuming him. He blinks back the tears and pulls out his phone with trembling hands. Bakugou. His princess–the only good thing going for him, who he doesn’t even deserve.
Probably calling to tell him he saw the news and then berate him about it, like he should. But Kirishima wouldn’t be able to take that–even though he knows he deserves it. He might go back to that building and take the long way down instead.
But forget about all that. This call wasn’t going anywhere unless he declined, which he would never do. He swipes right. “H-hey.” Fuck.
“Hey, I saw the news. You almost home?” Bakugou’s voice was like water on a hot day. So refreshing. His legs nearly gave out beneath him. “Yeah–yeah, I just-” Just needed to take a short stop into the closet and talk myself into a panic attack. “Jus’ stopped for a second.”
He settled on breathlessly, head knocking back against the wall. “Okay,” Bakugou uttered gruffly. A long pause. “Are you okay? Those bastards were all in yer face ‘n shit. Like,” he huffed. Kirishima could kiss him. Would kiss him, right through the screen.
He shouldn’t he worrying. It’s not good for his recovery. But oh, if it didn’t feel like reprieve. Bakugou thinking about him, caring even when he was the last person in the world who should have that kind of tenderness.
“I love you,” he said before his mind could catch up with his mouth. But Bakugou laughed, a quiet thing. A stupid thing that he would accept any day and any time. And he says it back and Kirishima thinks if he died now, on this call, it would be okay.
Coming back home was a fever dream. He doesn’t remember walking through the door or Bakugou’s hands cupping his cheeks. He blinks and he’s in the bathtub, bubbles of soap surrounding him.
There’s thighs on each side of him and hands massaging what he can only assume was shampoo. Kirishima moaned underneath his breath, leaning into the touch. There was goosebumps all over his body.
The sound of Bakugou’s quiet talking finally filters through the fog, overpowering the whispers telling him he didn’t deserve this. That it should be the other way around. It slips out of the forefront of his mind as if it never belonged there at all.
“I’m sorry,” Bakugou murmured, pushing back his red hair and observing the black roots that were fighting the dye. Kirishima’s eyes opened blearily–when had he closed them?–a small frown on his face. Not the Bakugou could see it.
“For what?” He asked. Damn near slurred. He was so tired–Bakugou felt so good. He was so good to him. “..You’ve been acting different, you know? But I didn’t wanna pry.” Kirishima forces himself to try and focus.
“Thought I should wait, like you’d come to me. But your minds too stubborn for that, huh?” He didn’t sound upset. Or disappointed and Kirishima couldn’t understand why not.
“You came home crying, you know?” Bakugou said quietly. The room felt stiffer all of a sudden. Kirishima’s eyes stayed on the faucet, mouth firmly shut. He didn’t remember that. At all.
“Wouldn’t stop either. Kept apologizing. Like you knew somethin’ I didn’t. But I don’t think you’re useless, Eiji. I never have. I never will.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. His lips quivered.
“And it’s okay if you don’t believe me now. I’ll say it a thousand times, dumbass. I’m not the only one who deserves to hear it.” The tears came anyway. He’s kissed on the cheek. The lips. By the time they’re out the bath, they’re pruny. Kissing through giggles.
He won’t feel better in a week. Maybe not even a month. But todays a good start.