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Kirishima is reminded of the memory one evening as Bakugou is finishing tenderly wrapping his palm in soft gauze.
Bakugou had quietly wiped the blood from Kirishima’s hand, eyebrows furrowed together just slightly, his lips pursed in that tiny, concentrated pout that Kirishima had fallen so deeply in love with over the years. He’d grumbled that Kirishima was an idiot for trying to get fancy while paring an apple for dessert, while he’d efficiently cleaned and dressed the laceration with gentle, dexterous fingers and an affection that made Kirishima’s heart ache.
He’d looked up at Kirishima afterwards, having to tilt his chin up slightly to meet his eyes across the gap in their height that had steadily grown since high school, and jammed his finger into his firm chest, right between Kirishima’s pecs. “Be more careful with yourself,” he’d said sharply, a solicitous plea wrapped up in all of the typical Bakugou edge. He’d ushered Kirishima out of their kitchen with orders to tidy up the dining room and wipe down the table while he himself handled the dishes, even though it was all usually Kirishima’s job alone—since Bakugou was the resident chef in the evenings.
The neat, rhythmic sound of chopping had echoed throughout the kitchen and into the dining room as Bakugou finished slicing the apple, and Kirishima had smiled to himself as he’d gone about refolding their linen table napkins. He paused his task only when Bakugou quietly padded up to his side and shoved an oddly shaped slice of Fuji apple into his mouth, carved up and contoured neatly around where Kirishima had bled unceremoniously onto the piece of fruit, no doubt.
Twenty minutes later, Kirishima sat against their headboard, watching as Bakugou neatly folded up his lounge pants, electing to climb into bed in just his briefs because of the early summer heat warming their room. Kirishima’s eyes stayed fixed on Bakugou as he discarded his daytime t-shirt and exchanged it for one of Kirishima’s—pulling the faded Kamikochi Trails souvenir tee off of a hanger and over his own frame. The shirt reached just past the top of Bakugou’s firm thighs, drowning his muscular frame in a blanket of faded red fabric, with the peeling plastisol graphic front and center over his chest.
Kirishima smiles softly as Bakugou rolls his neck, the soft crack of his joints popping making him scrunch up his face slightly. After, Bakugou approaches the foot of the bed, crawling up into Kirishima’s open arms and settling into his side, resting his head on the bare junction of Kirishima’s chest and shoulder. Kirishima’s arm drops over Bakugou’s frame, his bandaged hand settling on the others hip.
“Katsuki,” he starts softly, after Bakugou had reached over his chest and turned their dingy bedside lamp off, throwing their room into near total darkness. The lights from outside their window coupled with the glow from the full moon was just enough for Kirishima to make out the red of Bakugou’s half lidded eyes as he tiredly looks up at him, grunting in response.
“Remember when I broke my tooth back in high school?” Kirishima says, running his palm over the curve of Bakugou’s waist, the gauze catching slightly on the rumpled fabric. “Outside your parent’s house?” He smiles as the words leave his mouth, and he absentmindedly tongues at the jagged, cracked edge of the broken tooth behind his left canine. It was only ever visible when he smiled super wide, but Kirishima found himself running his tongue over it frequently, dancing over the sharp divots where it’d violently cracked.
Bakugou huffs, a tired excuse for a laugh, and shifts in Kirishima’s hold. “As if I could forget. It’s the first thing I see every morning.” He tilts his head back down, his eyes sliding shut. “That thing is janky as hell.”
Kirishima hums, laughing through a close-lipped smile. “Dude, I swear I can still taste the concrete sometimes.” He laughs out loud now, his chest shaking the body laid on top of it. Bakugou shakes his head, weakly hitting his fist onto Kirishima’s sternum.
“Those idiots shouldn’t have dared you to do that stupid crap.” Bakugou grumbles. “You damn near broke your whole face.” He softens his fist, splaying his fingers across Kirishima’s chest.
Outside, a car passes, and there’s the distant sound of yelling from the nearby bar strip street a block away from their apartment. Kirishima sighs, nodding. “Yeah,” he admits, “I ate it pretty bad. I remember—I was laughing it off, and then I looked at you,” Kirishima tightens his arm around Bakugou’s waist, “and you looked so scared.”
“I was not.” Bakugou mutters. Kirishima shifts down the bed slightly, so they’re both properly horizontal.
“You were.” Kirishima says softly. “You rushed to get the keys for your dad’s Acura—remember?”
Against his chest, Bakugou nods, and he tilts his head up, a small, fond smile adorning his features. “Yeah. The Legend. That car fucking ruled.”
Kirishima laughs again. “Yes. I miss that car. You were so bossy that night, shoving us all inside and slammin’ the doors.”
“The hell I was!”
Bakugou’s lips are pursed together, tilted downwards, but there’s still a fond glint in his eyes. Kirishima looks down at him, trailing his fingertips up Bakugou’s side to settle his hand in blonde hair. He brushes the loose strands back from Bakugou’s face, exposing his forehead.
“I was holding my mouth, bleeding all over myself,” Kirishima continues to speak, his voice a little hushed. “But we were all laughing.” Bakugou’s eyes flutter closed, and he sighs almost imperceptibly at the sensation of Kirishima’s fingers in his hair. “You were the only one who was worried.
“I remember the Acura’s engine would rattle whenever you pushed seventy. You were speeding—goin’ what—one-thirty, one-forty kilometers an hour on the expressway? To the urgent care?” Kirishima wonders aloud, his voice light and a little humorous.
Bakugou clicks his tongue. “That thing was noisy as hell that night. Sorta thought it was gonna shit out before we reached the clinic.”
Kirishima hums, smiling warmly down at the boy in his arms. “You kept glancing over at me, asking me if it hurts. I remember thinking it was sorta unlike you.”
“You—” Bakugou instantly starts defensively, lifting his head from Kirishima’s chest and scowling at him. “You had a gash in your eyebrow and your whole face was covered in blood! I thought you were gonna have permanent brain damage ‘cos you hit your head!”
The show of compassionate indignance is so familiar, so Bakugou, and it’s so like Bakugou’s expression from that night that Kirishima blinks down at him, a little caught off guard for a moment—and it feels instantly like he’s seventeen again, bleeding onto Bakugou’s parent’s driveway.
“Oh no,” Kaminari laughs pitchily, “Kirishima down!”
Kirishima crouches over the ground, spitting blood onto the concrete, the deep vivid red glistening in the glow from the dull light fixed to the corner of the Bakugou household garage. He feels Sero clapping him on the back, and his vision swims slightly. He smiles shakily around the blood in his mouth, his brain stuttering as it tries to decide if the throbbing in his mouth is greater than the stinging, white hot pain over his eye.
He tilts his head up, squinting one eye tightly as blood drips into the hollow of his eye socket from the fresh gash in his eyebrow. The hot, thick substance cascades down the side of his face, and the taste of metal clogs his tastebuds and makes his throat tighten slightly. He spits another glob of the blood rapidly filling his mouth onto the driveway, and then turns to Sero with a grin. “Nailed it,” he gets out, his shoulders shaking with a delirious, adrenaline driven laugh.
“Dude,” Sero laughs in disbelief, “You’re insane.”
A few feet away, there’s a heavy thud, followed quickly by a shrill squawk from Kaminari.
“You’re a goddamn idiot!” Bakugou’s voice cuts through the night, and Kirishima turns to see Bakugou storming over, raising his hand to smack Sero roughly upside the head with a deep, pinched scowl. “You both are!” He snaps, before he turns his attention to Kirishima, the anger in his eyes quickly fizzling out, replaced with unveiled concern.
“Did I crush it, or what?” Kirishima tries weakly, wincing through a smile as he raises his hand to his jaw, his entire mouth beginning to ache painfully. Bakugou crouches down in front of him, his eyebrows drawn together and his lips pursed in that way that, even in this moment, Kirishima could only describe as cute.
“Fucking hell, Ei,” Bakugou breathes, reaching out to tentatively draw some of his loose red hair out of his face, eyes widening as he gets a better look at Kirishima’s eyebrow. His deep, ruby eyes dart over his face, and beneath Bakugou’s worried gaze, Kirishima finds himself thinking that maybe this isn’t all that funny.
Bakugou hops to his feet, spinning around and rushing across the driveway and into his house. He’s back out before the echo of the door slamming behind him had even dissipated through the quiet space, and the jingling of car keys seems to ring out and send a sharp rattling reverberating through Kirishima’s skull, making his head throb impossibly harder.
“Up,” Bakugou demands, tugging Kirishima up by his elbow. “We’re going to urgent care.” He points to the passenger side of his dad’s car with a pointed, pinched expression, and then whirls onto the other two boys.
Kirishima climbs into the passenger seat, watching Sero wince as Bakugou drags him by the ear over to the Acura, wrenching the door open and shoving him inside. “You!” Bakugou snarls, whipping around to point at Kaminari, the car keys hanging from his index finger. “In. Now.”
“Holy shit, dude,” Kaminari says as he shuts the door, jovial despite the venom in Bakugou’s words, and his laugh is drowned out slightly as the care engine sputters to life. “That is a lotta red.”
The headlights illuminate the garage door as Bakugou hurriedly backs the car out of the driveway, the beams of light sweeping across the sleeping neighborhood. Sero leans forward, unbuckled, and brings his hand down on Kirishima’s chest.
“Man, I seriously cannot believe you actually sent it on that.” He laughs, patting Kirishima’s chest roughly. “Almost as bad as Kaminari’s nose after he failed the backflip.”
Kirishima laughs too, the sound muffled by his hand clutching his mouth, and leans his head back against the headrest, tilting his jaw towards the backseat.
“Hey, not the first time any of us have scrambled our brains for a dare.” Kirishima says, his voice ever so slightly garbled by the blood pooling beneath his tongue. He tries to swallow some of it down, and the taste and texture makes him want to gag. He clears his throat a little, and catches Bakugou’s eyes cutting across the shallow center console to meet his own. The car lurches, and Kirishima watches as the hand on the speed dial climbs steadily upwards. The hand passes seventy-five, and like clockwork, the Acura’s old, well-loved engine begins to rattle. Kirishima works his tongue over his broken tooth, blinking at the speed dial.
Kaminari and Sero continue to laugh in the backseat, pushing each other around and occasionally leaning forward to heckle or jostle Kirishima, not daring to lay a hand on the driver. Kirishima keeps sneaking glances over at Bakugou, whose eyes are a little wide and sharpened. At some point, once they exit the expressway and halt at a red light, Bakugou turns to face him fully.
“Does your head hurt?” He asks sharply, but his voice is a little thin. Kirishima blinks at him, his stomach flipping. If cracking his tooth in half and goring his eyebrow got Bakugou to look at him like this—all sweet and worried and caring—Kirishima would do it ten times over.
He shakes his head, mainly for Bakugou’s sake. His head aches uncomfortably at the motion, but he smiles tentatively anyways. “I’m good, Katsuki.” He can tell Bakugou doesn’t buy it, because he presses his lips into a line and clenches his hands around the steering wheel until his knuckles go white, visible even beneath the dull streetlights.
Bakugou asks him again once they’re a few blocks away from the clinic. They roll through a divot in the road and Kirishima groans, bringing his hand to his temple as the car jolts.
“F-fuck, sorry.” Bakugou apologizes roughly, glancing from Kirishima to the road, to Kirishima, then back again. “You good? You’re not gonna throw up or pass out or anythin’?”
Kirishima shakes his head again, though his eyes remain closed. “Not gonna throw up in your car, don’ worry.” He mumbles, screwing his eyes shut but smiling in what he hopes is Bakugou’s general direction.
“I don’t care about the car—” Bakugou starts exasperatedly, and behind them, Sero and Kaminari laugh over a video on one of their phones, “—I just don’t want you to throw up at all. Stupid ass.” He tacks on the last part a little shakily, and Kirishima cracks his eyes open to see Bakugou staring concernedly forward, where the distant bright red LED lights from the clinic sign shine like a bittersweet beacon through the darkness, tapping his thumb impatiently against the steering wheel as the traffic light changes, and the car begins to slow. Distantly, there is the sound of sirens.
It takes root in his body right in that instant, something Kirishima isn’t quite sure he has a name for yet; but as he watches the yellow stop light flicker to red through the reflection in Bakugou’s eyes he thinks of little explosions, of summer sparklers, and Bakugou glances over at him then—and Kirishima nearly stops breathing. In the glow beneath the stop light, they look at each other—while their friends trade jokes in the back seat, and an ambulance suddenly whirrs past them. The ambulance groans and whines and flashes its lights as it bypasses the red light and the urgent care clinic entirely, no doubt in favor of zipping straight to a main hospital emergency room.
Kirishima, with his mouth aching and his head pounding and the eyelashes of his right eye clumped together with blood, listens as the ambulance tears away. Its sirens once again grow distant. His eyes stay on Bakugou, and he finds himself feeling incredibly lucky to have a beautiful boy who cares about him enough to break speed limits taking him to get fixed up, instead of a sterile, daunting emergency vehicle. Maybe he really did scramble his brains, because for a moment he’s actually considering saying something crazy to Bakugou—like I love you, or, You’re beautiful.
When Bakugou parts his lips like he’s going to say something, that’s when Kirishima is certain his brains are scrambled, because there was a fleeting second before the traffic light flashed to green where Kirishima could have sworn he saw his own feelings mirrored in Bakugou’s eyes. But Bakugou quickly whips his head back to face the road, and Kirishima can see the tightness in his jaw as he steps on the gas and rips down the road, the rattling engine jumping to alert them of its presence. As they approach the clinic parking lot, Kirishima dutifully reminds himself, not for the first time, that there’s no way in hell Bakugou could ever feel the same way as he does. Though he’s not even totally certain he knows how he himself feels.
An hour later, it’s down to just Kirishima, Bakugou, and Sero beneath the clinical white lights of the urgent care waiting room. Kaminari had to rush home a half hour earlier to avoid getting in trouble with his parents—it’s past midnight now, and Kirishima could tell Sero was starting to get a little antsy too.
When Bakugou springs to his feet and storms over to the front desk to pester the receptionist about when Kirishima will receive attention, Sero stands too, groaning as he stretches his arms over his head. He reaches an arm out, playfully slapping Kirishima on the shoulder.
“Alright, man. I gotta head out.” He drops his arm, and yawns. “Coach is making me come in early for extra conditioning tomorrow morning ‘cause I missed last Tuesday.” He says, the tail end of his yawn clouding his speech. “Sorry I can’t stay.” He glances at Bakugou, who is standing with his arms crossed, scowling unwaveringly at the girl sat at the front desk. Kirishima’s eyes follow his, and he nods absentmindedly at Sero’s words.
“Yeah, Sero, no problem.” Kirishima tears his eyes away from Bakugou’s frame and glances up at Sero. The smile he gives him cracks some of the dried blood on his cheek that they’d failed to wipe off. They’d taken all of the mini beverage napkins from the self-service water station, wetting them beneath the water dispenser and trying their best to clean up the blood from Kirishima’s face with the thin, soggy paper. Kirishima raises a loose fist, and he and Sero knock their knuckles together.
“Uh, tell Bakugou I said bye.” Sero adds, taking a few steps backwards towards the doors. “I don’t wanna poke the beast right now.” He chuckles, and Kirishima just raises a hand with a nod in confirmation, smiling at his friend one last time before Sero turns on his heel and pushes his way out of the heavy glass doors to the clinic.
Bakugou doesn’t comment on Sero’s departure when he returns a minute later, but he tilts his chin up jerkily, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. “C’mon, they got a room for you.”
In the urgent care room, Bakugou slouches on a stool in the corner, watching closely as the doctor shines lights into Kirishima’s pupils, and then into his mouth. Kirishima’s eyes keep finding him, and later, once the gash on his eyebrow had been cleaned and numbed, Kirishima smiles at Bakugou around the cloth shoved in his mouth as the doctor carefully begins stitching the face wound.
The lights in the room flicker slightly, and Kirishima tilts his face to accommodate the doctor’s movements, his eyes never leaving Bakugou’s for a second. Bakugou doesn’t return his smile, but Kirishima can tell he almost does. It’s remarkable, Kirishima thinks, how things often look uglier and harsher beneath fluorescent hospital LED’s, and yet Bakugou just looks soft and nice. His blonde hair is a little tousled, and his bottom lip looks a little pinker than usual from him gnawing on it as he watched Kirishima get his stitches. Most of the worry had melted from his eyes, and had been replaced with a barely perceptible tiredness that Kirishima is certain Bakugou is trying to hide for his sake.
Outside, in the dark parking lot beside Bakugou’s dad’s Acura, Kirishima stands at the passenger door, gently brushing his fingers over the stitches in his eyebrow. Bakugou bats his hand away from his face softly, scowling. “Don’t touch.”
Kirishima drops his hand to his side. The exhaustion is catching up to him now, and he’s suspicious that the pain medication the doctor had prescribed him is making him stupider. He stares at Bakugou, his entire body buzzing and aching in a way that he doesn’t think has anything to do with his messed up face. Bakugou draws in a breath, once again jutting his bottom lip out slightly. He seems a little disappointed, almost. Maybe it’s something else.
“I wish you’d be more damn careful with yourself.” Bakugou mutters, narrowing his eyes, staring a hole through Kirishima’s chest.
Kirishima blinks at him, and a breeze sweeps Bakugou’s hair against his forehead, exposing the deep crease between his eyebrows. Bakugou doesn’t raise his eyes, and Kirishima really doesn’t know what to say in response to his words, so he just apologizes. “Sorry,” he decided on, and then Bakugou had swatted his chest with the back of his hand.
“Seriously. You’re always taking stupid hits and doing dumb shit ‘nd then bleeding all over the place.” Bakugou snaps, but his voice is a little soft with his own exhaustion, and his eyes look more urgent than angry.
“You always take care of me though,” Kirishima says a bit instinctively, smiling wide enough to show off his newly cracked tooth. Bakugou’s eyes zero in on it, and his eyebrows sink lower on his face. “Thanks for taking care of me.” Kirishima adds, but the words make his chest pang a little. He wonders if he’ll always need to bleed to earn Bakugou’s affection. In a morbidly selfish, twisted way, Kirishima again finds himself thinking that he wouldn’t mind breaking his face or bleeding on concrete if it meant he got to feel Bakugou’s gentle hands on his face, feel the soft exhales that fall from Bakugou’s parted lips and ghost over his own.
He wonders if Bakugou finds as much pleasure in fussing over Kirishima’s injuries as Kirishima does. Probably not.
Bakugou is scowling at the ground, his eyes not meeting Kirishima’s, and it seems like it’s on purpose.
Definitely not.
“Did you love me then?” Kirishima asks softly into their room, wrapping his arm a little tighter around the body resting against his.
Bakugou snorts, and answers without hesitation, way quicker than Kirishima had been expecting. “So much that it made me feel stupid.”
“Really?” Kirishima fails to contain the genuine surprise in his voice, his words coming out a little louder than he’d intended. He smiles a little, sliding his hand down Bakugou’s side and poking his fingers innocently beneath the waistband of his boxers.
Bakugou shifts, tilting his head up to look at Kirishima suspiciously.
“You serious?”
Something creaks, maybe the foundation of their old building, maybe the bathroom cabinet door two rooms over that never stays fully shut. Kirishima blinks down at Bakugou, his smile softening. “Uh…yeah?”
Bakugou stares at him. Then, he reaches up to Kirishima’s mouth. He cups the side of his face, tilting it towards himself slightly—his hands are so warm—and draws Kirishima’s top lip upwards with the pad of his thumb, exposing his broken tooth. Bakugou’s mouth tilts upwards a little, and Kirishima playfully scrunches his nose, turning his mouth into Bakugou’s hand and baring his teeth against his thumb. He curls his lip a little as he bites at the warm flesh against his lips, and Bakugou laughs. Soft, breathy, unbridled.
“I've always loved you,” Bakugou says honestly, letting his hand fall and rest against Kirishima’s chest, right over his heart. They look at each other, and it might have been uncomfortable to stare into someone’s eyes for so long if they didn’t love each other so much.
Kirishima could die happy if Bakugou’s face was the last thing he saw.
“So did I.” Kirishima says, and it comes out quiet. “Sorry it took me so long to figure out what to do about it.”
Bakugou shrugs, and his eyes slide shut. “S’fine. I didn’t mind waiting.” His voice has been softened by the tiredness that’s evident in his features, and he sighs. “Woulda waited as long as you needed. Even if it took you ‘til we were all old and ugly to figure it out.” Bakugou snickers, his torso shaking slightly, and he gently pokes his index finger into Kirishima’s ribs.
The jab doesn’t register to Kirishima. He sits with his lips parted for a long moment, staring at the crown of Bakugou’s head until Bakugou’s laughter softens into silence.
“Fucking hell, Katsuki.” He says, his voice a little rough.
Bakugou draws their thin blanket up, bunching it up slightly against his face. He makes a noise into it, a heavy “mmph” dampened by the fabric gathered against his nose and mouth. He shifts a little, getting comfortable, and then Kirishima feels his entire frame go completely lax against his.
“How d’you always say such sweet stuff outta nowhere?” Kirishima wonders, tilting his head up to stare at their ceiling. His heart is pounding at the sheer devotion Bakugou had spoken to him as easily as though he was reciting their grocery list; it thumps against his chest like it always does when it comes to Bakugou, even after all this time. “My Katsuki, so romantic.” Kirishima smiles at the ceiling a little dopily.
“Ei.” Muffled by the blanket.
“Hm?”
“Can you shut up so we can go to sleep.” Bakugou doesn’t say it like a question.
“Sorry.” Kirishima drops his voice into an exaggerated whisper. “I love you.”
Bakugou makes a soft, unintelligible noise, rubbing his fingers so gently back and forth against Kirishima’s chest, and the tiny, sleepy motion makes Kirishima smile as closes his eyes, once again falling asleep feeling like the luckiest person in the world.