Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bakugou wore eyeliner under his mask, to hide the skin that showed whenever it shifted. He wasn't particularly good at it, and frankly he didn't care. It didn't have to look good, it just had to do its job. However, despite his flippancy towards the practice, application was almost always an intentionally private affair, one that took place in a bathroom stall or changing room, with a handheld compact mirror.

The act made him vulnerable, for some reason, and he hated that feeling, as those who knew him were all too well aware of. So he, well... he hid. He hated the openness that creeped to him, the stealing away of sheltered safety. It was the same feeling that was currently threatening to crawl up his spine as he made his way out of the bathroom, eyeliner and pride in hand.

He’d tried to put the eyeliner on as usual, but an intense session of quirk training the day prior had left his arms shaky and unstable. As much as he loathed asking for help, he supposed it was better than a liner pen in the eye.

He sauntered out of the bathroom towards Kirishima, trying to look as confident as ever, in spite of the uncertainty he felt at what he was about to do. Kirishima, oblivious to Bakugou's inner conflict, was in the midst of the unnecessarily tricky process of securing his sleeves to his shoulder guards. Why he wore that stupid shit, Bakugou will never understand (why hide those beautiful arms?)

As he approached, Bakugou couldn't help but notice the way his muscles looked when twisted in the manner he was. He was reaching back to hook the clasp near his shoulder blade, causing the tight, corded muscle of his abs and lats to stretch taut. Bakugou quietly noted the image in front of him, filing it away for later fantasizing consideration

"Oi, shitty hair!" Kirishima looked up at the sound of his nickname, securing the last clasp and shutting his locker door.

"Hey, man, what's up?" Kirishima’s voice, as steady as ever, helped to calm some of Bakugou’s nerves.

“I… I need your help,” The words were whispered, Bakugou’s eyes flicking to the side to avoid Krishima’s. When he looked back, Kirishima’s already radiant smile had brightened even further.

“Of course, man, whatever you need!” Kiri knew Bakugou well enough, now, to know how rare such a request was.

Bakugou sighed, taking a moment to figure how to voice what he needed without sounding utterly stupid, before quickly coming to the conclusion that no such solution was possible. He figured the best course of action would be to just say it outright, rip the bandaid off and get it over with.

“I need you to do my eyeliner,” he said, as deadpan as possible, holding up the pencil fisted in his hand. He could feel the heat rising into his cheeks, but he chose to ignore the sensation, a decision helped by the fact Kirishima was clearly suffering from the same effect. His cheeks seemed to be trying to compete with his hair for the brightest shade of red (adorable).

To his credit, Kirishima had little other reaction to the request, he didn’t question a thing before reaching out to take the pencil from his hand. He placed a hand on Bakugou’s shoulder to direct him to a nearby bench. He placed his fingers under Bakugou’s chin, gently tilting him up to look the standing red-head in the eye. Kirishima’s fingers, so soft on his face, felt like fire, warm and comforting, dangerous and enticing, and Bakugou was suddenly all at once very regretful and very glad for his decision to ask Kiri for help. It took every bit of self-control he had to keep his face grumpily impassive.

“Just so you know, man, I haven’t done this in years. It’ll probably look like shit,” he laughed.

Bakugou was grunting in dismissive acknowledgment before he had time to fully process just what Kirishima was implying. I haven’t done this in years. Oh?

“You’ve done this before?”

Kirishima hesitated and flushed slightly, like he had been hoping Bakugou wouldn’t pick up on it.

“Uh, yeah, I wore eyeliner for a while in my second year of junior high.” He placed his hand on Bakugou’s cheekbone, thumbing his eyelid closed and beginning to draw on the liner. “Mina calls it my ‘emo phase’. I guess she’s not wrong.” His tone was light-hearted and clearly embarrassed, a nervous smile splayed across his face that Bakugou just barely caught through his squinted eyes. It was an emotion Bakugou had rarely seen in him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

The next few minutes passed in silence, in which Kiri switched his hand to Bakugou’s brow-bone on the opposite side of his face to complete his work. In the dip in their conversation, the sounds of the world around them faded back in. He hadn’t even realized they had faded out, but he was suddenly very aware that he and Kirishima were still very much in the middle of the boys locker room, and that there were 12 extras who now knew about this particular quirk of his daily routine.

He could hear the murmurs and questioning hums, knowing there were probably more than a few pairs of eyes on them. It should’ve pissed him off, he should be screaming at them to mind their own goddamn business. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care. The hands on his face and the warm breath against his forehead stubbornly shoved any anger from his being.

Kiri finished the eyeliner and Bakugou pulled his mask from his back pocket. He reached up to fasten it, but firm, calloused hands stopped him. Kiri pulled the mask from him, reaching out to attach it himself. He tied the knot in the back, and rested his hands around Bakugou’s neck. Bakugou is quite sure any and all motor and mental functions have been stolen from him in the wake of this sudden intimacy.

It’s over all too soon when Kirishima pulls away, stepping back and heading towards the door.

“C’mon, man, we’re gonna be late!”

Bakugou, as quickly as possible (which, frankly, isn’t very quick in his current state), reassembles himself before marching out after his friend.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, asking for help may have been a mistake. 

For the first few days afterwards, it seemed to Bakugou that he had lucked out, that there would be no lasting consequences to his moment of weakness. Kirishima didn’t bring it up, and if he didn’t, Bakugou certainly wasn’t going to. He was more than happy to forget about it and move on, no matter how ethereally nice it had felt in the moment.

But though he may have been willing to forget about it, to forget something requires one not to think about it, a necessary step Bakugou seemed incapable of taking. 

His mind had decided, quite against his will, mind you, that Kirishima’s fingers on his face were the only things worth thinking about. 

It started during hero training, mere moments after the inciting incident. Their class was standing by the entrance to Ground Gamma, receiving instruction for the day’s exercise. Bakugou was trying to listen to Mr. Aizawa like the model student he was, truly, he was trying. But his mind was still stunned and a little fried from the interaction he’d had in the locker room, his brain willing to dedicate space to Kirishima and little else.

Luckily for his traitorous mind, and unluckily for him, Kirishima was right in front of him, lazily hardening and un-hardening his hand. It was a tic of idleness Bakugou had seen from him before. He had never thought much of it, but with that same hand fresh in his memory, he couldn’t help but stare and wonder.

What would the rock of his hand feel like? Bakugou had felt it many times, but only ever in quick strikes and violent punches. What would it feel like to touch, rather than hit? What kind of sensation would that be, to gently drag his fingertips over the skin-turned-stone of Kirishima’s palm? Would it be sharp? Would it hurt? Would it be rough, or smooth? Would it change and shift under his touch, like skin is want to do, or would it sit, steady and unmoving, and let him touch as he pleased? 

What would Kirishima feel? Would Bakugou’s hand on his be a distant, removed sensation, like someone touching your hair, only aware of the contact through its effect on the body attached to it? Would he feel it at all? Would the rock he became be unresponsive and numb, ignorant to such feelings? Or would he instead be extra sensitive to the gentle ministrations of Bakugou’s fingers? Would the hardened surface, so used to violence and force, light up at the feeling of kindness? Would it confuse his hardened nerves, to feel the warm softness Bakugou so longed to offer him? Would Kirishima revel in the sensation? Would he reject it? Would he shiver, would he tickle, would he cringe? If so, out of discomfort, or out of pleasure?

Bakugou suddenly wanted, more than anything, to reach out and take his friend’s hand. He wanted to do everything, to hold it, and touch it, and be touched by it. He wanted to embrace those sensations, wanted to memorize them and no longer wonder what they would make him feel. He wanted to watch Kirishima experience the contact, wanted to see what he would do, if his face would contort, in wonder or discomfort, if he would gasp or sigh or neither, if he would reach out and offer Bakugou similar sensations. 

Bakugou wanted , so badly and so boldly, he subconsciously began to reach out towards his friend’s hand, currently shifting from flesh to rock and back again. 

He was saved from the potential mistake by All Might clapping and telling them to begin.

Bakugou was unsure what to do, he had payed little attention to either of his teachers’ instructions. He was saved (though he would never admit it) by Deku, marching up to him and nervously noting that they were partnered together. Bakugou grumbled, displeased but unable to do anything about it. He needed the nerd’s help if he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. 

Deku seemed to take his lack of complaint as confirmation to move forward. He began rambling on about their mission and plan of attack. Normally, Bakugou would yell that he knew all that shit already, and they didn’t need a plan, just follow his lead! But, just this once, he let the nerd talk.

They won their practice battle with relative ease, though they did get thrown into a concrete wall, courtesy of Dark Shadow. They both had broken ribs and concussions, and were sent to Recovery Girl afterwards. It was Bakugou’s second time there this week, and Deku’s fifth. She was displeased, to say the least, but healed them with minimal objections.

They both passed out, and when Bakugou woke up, Deku was already gone. After so many injuries healed in this way, Deku’s recovery period was much better than most of their classmates. 

Bakugou checked the clock. 4:37. School was over. He didn’t miss much, hero training was their last class, but he was still pissed he couldn’t observe the rest of their classmates’ fight, as their’s had been first and they’d left for Recovery Girl immediately after. 

He would just have to have Kirishima brief him later, or maybe Iida. Iida always had good analyses, and would be more than willing to help. 

His uniform and school bag had been brought in from the locker room. He quickly changed and made his way back to the dorms.

He opened the dorm building’s door to find most of his class sprawled across the common area, seemingly discussing the day’s hero training. Iida, back straight and hand-chop in motion, was the one currently commanding the attention of their classmates.

“Although Yaoyorozu’s strategy was sound, it failed to take into account the possibility of Hagakure’s special move, which would limit the vision integral to her plan’s success. If she had first used Mineta’s quirk to—“

“Oi, four eyes!” Bakugou probably could’ve just kept listening and gotten the same amount of information, but what is he if not ostentatious? “Notes on the practice battles.”

Iida was quite used to Bakugou now, and barely scoffed in annoyance at the interruption before angrily saying, “We were just briefing Midoriya on exactly that. He got back only a few minutes before you, so we’re not very far in. If you’d like we could start over?” Bakugou dropped his bag on the ground and plopped down on an armrest, grunting in affirmation.

“Alright, we’ll quickly go over the battle between you and Midoriya, and Tokoyami and Shoji. We won’t spend too much time on it, since you two were present for that portion, then we’ll move on to Ashido and Hagakure vs. Yaoyorozu and Mineta. First, in your battle, I noticed that...“

Iida continued on for quite some time, with their other classmates occasionally popping in to explain their thought process behind a decision, or to correct an error in Iida’s memory. 

Most of it was basic stuff Bakugou could’ve easily guessed himself, but there was some valuable information, like Sero’s new combo move with Kaminari, or Aoyama’s new laser re-directors. 

Bakugou didn’t like to care about this stuff. These people were just extras, most of whom wouldn’t even make it to being pros. But he had learned through experience, over his months here, that there was value in understanding the people around him. The way they fight, how they can be useful in battle, and, though he’d never actually use them, their names. 

At the beginning of the year, he wouldn’t even have bothered to stop at the common area. He would’ve just kept on to his room, where he would study and ignore all the idiot extras who kept getting in his way. He could no longer afford that luxury. As much as he would deny it if asked, a lot of the people in this class were  good . Almost all of them deserved to be here, and if Bakugou doesn’t learn from them, he will fall behind.

Bakugou ha been paying apt attention to Iida’s replay of the events. Despite the incessant muttering and notebook-scribbling from Deku that used to make him murderous, and despite Iida’s horribly, boringly, monotonously technical speech, and despite the concussion still ambling lazily around his skull, he was following what was said, occasionally offering bitter (albeit playful) insults when Iida described a mistake or miscalculation. 

He was doing so well, his brain finally back in focus, returned from the madness of this morning’s locker room incident. At least, until they arrived at the fifth and final practice battle, Kirishima and Jirou vs. Tsu and Uraraka. 

“This battle was doomed from the start, with Ura-Tsu having both good long-range and short-range attacks, and Kiri-Jirou having very little defense against such moves. However, Jirou’s quirk did force them into a head-on fight by negating Tsu’s camouflage, which might have turned this into a stealth-based battle had they been able to use it.” 

Here, Kirishima apparently decided that Iida had been expositing too long. “I can take it from here, class rep! So, Jirou found ‘em pretty quick, cuz she’s awesome like that!” He threw finger guns at Jirou, who blushed and hesitated before nodding in agreement. She had some self-esteem issues that their classmates were forcing her to improve upon with endless positive reinforcement.

“We started fighting pretty early on, I was a shield to Uraraka and Tsu’s spear. They were flinging rocks and rubble at us like fwoosh! Shoo!” Kirishima hardened his hands into pointed spearheads, making quick stabbing and slashing motions, and Bakugou was officially gone. 

Despite his best intentions, Bakugou’s mind drifted into his memory, remembering all the sparring they’d done. He remembered those same hardened hands pressed against his wrists, pinning him to the ground. How had they felt? Had they been rough, had they hurt? He wished he had payed more attention in those moments, had committed those things to memory.

He watched Kirishima now, unwilling to make that same mistake again. He watched Kirishima’s hands, hardening to mime a strike, and unhardening to change position. He watched his arms, the bulge of his bicep and the flex of his shoulders. Kirishima had changed out of his uniform and into a tank top, one that used to be a tee-shirt, but had had the sleeves haphazardly cut off. The arm holes were long, and put his pecs and lats on full display as they moved with his performance.

Bakugou could see Kirishima’s mouth moving, but couldn’t tell you what he was saying to save his life. He had been so relieved that he could finally focus again, that his brain was willing to think about something other than those hands, but he was right back where he started. Although, when he thought about it, he supposed he was thinking about something else. 

Now, instead of Kirishima’s hands, Bakugou could think of nothing but his arms. He watched them, mesmerized, as Kirishima finished pantomiming the fight, allowing Iida to pick back up with his analysis, and occasionally popping back in to explain something in more detail.

Bakugou should be listening. Uraraka and Tsu were good opponents, he very clearly remembered his fight with Uraraka at the sports festival. He could learn from them and their actions. He should be listening. He should be. 

But he can’t. He can’t think clearly . He tried fixing his gaze on Iida, fixing his attention on the words he was saying, but no matter how hard he tried to focus, he kept drifting back to Kirishima. To the way he leaned back on one arm and propped the other up on his knee, the way it looked when he stretched upwards into a yawn, and when he rolled his shoulders out of it. 

Bakugou was watching his arms so intently, he almost didn’t notice when Kirishima glanced over at him. He quickly looked back to Iida, sure that he was flushed beyond all recognition. In his periphery, he saw Kirishima smile at him, warm and a little sleepy. Bakugou instinctively looked back over to him, reflex and want alike willing him to look at that smile, to breathe it in and to absorb it. To remember it and know it, to save it, to keep it. 

He knew the gaze he was giving Kirishima must be intense, but Kiri didn’t seem to mind. He was unbreakable, after all.

Bakugou didn’t realize that Iida had stopped talking until the people around him began to rise and gather their things. He had missed most of the last fight’s recap, and all that might’ve been learned from such a dynamic altercation. He grabbed his bag and headed towards the elevator. Despite himself, he was drawn like a magnet to Kirishima’s side, and they went up together. Even in the familiarity of private conversation with him, Bakugou was unable to stop his mind from wandering back to those places it so loved recently.

God, this was going to be a problem.

Chapter Text

When they arrived back at Bakugou’s dorm, Kirishima invited himself in. It was something he did often, almost every day as of late. It had bothered Bakugou at first, the invasion into his quite private space, but he’d grown to appreciate his friend’s effortless company.

Bakugou didn’t even bother to pretend that they were there to study. He knew there was no point. If he tried, he would inevitably get distracted by Kirishima. 

They plopped down on Bakugou’s bed, Kirishima reaching for his phone and Bakugou reaching for a manga volume off the shelf above his headboard. 

This was one of his favorite things about Kirishima, one of the reasons he’d allowed him to hang around at first, before he’d actually grown to like him. Kirishima didn’t demand Bakugou’s attention or participation. Their friendship didn’t hinge on doing things. If Kiri wanted conversation, he’d make it on his own, not forcing Bakugou to engage if he didn’t want to. If not that, then Kirishima allowed them to sit in silence, doing exactly what they would’ve done had they been alone, but together.

It hadn’t made sense to Bakugou at first. Honestly, he’d never understood why everyone liked having friends so much. Friendships had always been more exhausting than enjoyable. He’d only ever had them when he was willing to make the exchange of his energy for the stepping stone they provided.

That changed when he became friends with Kirishima. Kirishima never forced him to be anything he wasn’t. He never expected more from Bakugou than he wanted to give. Kiri accepted the pointier parts of him, and built a friendship in between them. Bakugou found himself comfortable in Kirishima’s presence. He found it to be better, somehow, than being on his own. Their relationship didn’t require excitement or interest, it’s value came merely from the fact that it existed, and that it made them both happy.

They could sit, and be, and enjoy, and that was enough for them. Thinking about it made Bakugou smile, just a bit. Kirishima, of course, caught it.

“Ooooh, what’cha smiling about?” He leaned over, trying to catch a peek at Bakugou’s manga. Right, reading, that’s what Bakugou was supposed to be doing.

“Tch,” he scowled, angling the book away from Kirishima. “None of your fuckin’ business.” Kirishima giggled and shuffled over to lean against Bakugou.

They stayed like that for some time, and slowly, Bakugou found it easier to focus. This was a situation he had been in many times. This place they made was familiar, and he knew how to occupy it. Kirishima would occasionally turn his phone over towards Bakugou to show him some video or another. Bakugou would huff a laugh and turn back to his book. When Bakugou traded the manga out for his homework, he allowed Kiri to point out errors or suggest improvements, and he returned the favor when Kirishima finally did his work as well. This was good. What they had here was easy, it was nice.

Of course, that meant it could only last so long.

They had been there for a number of hours. They had finished their homework, Bakugou was no longer in the mood to read, and while Kirishima was still enthralled by the endless stream of content on his phone, Bakugou was officially bored .

He crossed his arms on his knees, glaring around his room for what felt like the 800th time. His gaze fell back to Kirishima, whose right hand, the one closest to Bakugou, was outstretched in front of them, sitting atop his knee.

It was hanging downwards, and it struck Bakugou how easy it would be to simply slide his own hand underneath it and twine their fingers together. 

Despite himself, he stretched his left arm out, mirroring Kirishima’s position. Slowly, he inched his hand closer until their pinkies sat pressed together. Kirishima wiggled his finger against Bakugou’s, but said nothing.

Bakugou turned his hand over, thumbing at the tips of Kirishima’s pinky and ring fingers. 

Quickly, so as to avoid having second thoughts, he slid the rest of his hand under Kirishima’s, leaning into the motion so that he and his friend were pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Fingertips to fingertips.

He stayed there, not intertwining their fingers, watching Kirishima out of the corner of his eye for a reaction, confirmation to move forward. He saw very little, only Kirishima’s eyes flitting between their hands and his phone screen, which hadn’t moved since their fingers first touched.

After a few moments, when it became clear Bakugou wasn’t going to do anything else, Kirishima shifted his hand. It was a minuscule movement, almost imperceptible had it not been for the fact that it allowed gravity to, finally, bring their hands together. 

Bakugou squeezed his fingers, just barely, but enough for Kirishima to feel it and reciprocate. 

They sat and stared at their hands, unwilling to meet each other’s eyes. Bakugou was almost grateful when a text dinged on Kirishima’s phone. Despite the fact that it would be quite difficult to text back without his dominant hand, Kirishima didn’t pull it away. He allowed Bakugou to hold him as he went back to his phone.

Bakugou couldn’t bring himself to do the same. He occupied himself, instead, with memorizing the feeling of Kiri’s hand against his, just in case. In case this was the only time they did this, in case Kirishima decided this wasn’t going to be a part of the space they created together. 

He went finger by finger. 

First his thumb, sat between Kirishima’s thumb and index. He ran it softly over a scar on Kirishima’s knuckle, one of many. It was short and pink, bumping slightly under the pad of Bakugou’s finger. He noted the callouses on Kiri’s thumb, and how they felt rough and firm against the side of Bakugou’s hand, how they scratched just a bit when he shifted. 

He noted the way the tip of his pointer finger sat perfectly in the dip between Kirishima’s knuckles, how they fit together effortlessly in this way. He burned into his mind the way the tendon moved over Kiri’s index knuckle when the digit flexed. 

He saw the fresh scratch, bright red and long, on Kirishima’s middle finger. Whether from training that day, or from some recent incident of clumsiness, Bakugou didn’t know, and though it was an impermanent and unimportant part of Kirishima, Bakugou memorized it anyway.

He noted Kirishima’s ring finger, a bit slimmer than his middle, but just as long. For a short, fleeting moment, Bakugou pictured a silver band inlaid with a red gem fit snugly on that finger. He shook the thought quickly.

He noted Kirishima’s pinky, the first finger he had had the courage to reach out for. He memorized the way tapped it gently against the back of Bakugou’s hand, perhaps a nervous fidget. 

Kirishima’s palm was warm, softer than Bakugou might have imagined it. The hills and valleys of it fit easily against Bakugou’s. The weight of it felt nice, satisfactory, like a puzzle piece perfectly put in place. It was something Bakugou didn’t know he needed, but now that he had it, the thought of letting it go was horrifying.

But that was a concern for another time. For now, Bakugou held his best friend’s hand in his and allowed it to drag him to sleep. He slept peacefully there, head tucked in the crook of Kirishima’s neck, hand sitting comfortably where it belonged