Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One after another, explosions rocked the trembling city. Blast after blast set an uneven beat, wild and erratic, as if they were the backdrop to the grim night. Even from far away, those evacuating could still hear them, like the crash of distant thunder, or the muffled drumming of a march. The sounds of every blast only served as the proof of danger, of fighting; the thrumming of terror that seeped into nerves, like the pulse of a heart desperately trying to keep the body alive.

That night, to the citizens, the explosions were a jolt of fear at every blast, but to the heroes and the students of UA, they were punches and swings, fierce fighting and loud strength. The explosions were the pulse of the battle, and the power of a boy that would never back down.

One after another, explosions set a chorus through the shuddering city.

And then, suddenly—the explosions stopped.

- - -

Kirishima didn’t leave the hospital.

Everything was quiet. The sound of rushed footsteps and beds being wheeled left and right had faded, settling down into the distant corners of the building. There was only the silent hum of the lights, and the almost inaudible beeping in the room across him, but Kirishima could still hear the thick, heavy echoes in his head—deafening crashes, the ground splitting open, buildings crumbling; sobs and cries, blast upon blast; war cries as loud as the explosions that followed them—

—and then quiet.

It always ended in quiet. Kirishima couldn’t even hear his own breathing, couldn’t see the tiled floor beneath his feet. It had been hours since Todoroki had left to escort Yaoyorozu home. It had been hours since Iida had bowed to Midoriya’s mother, and had accompanied her and Midoriya to get him checked downstairs. Kirishima didn’t know how long he stayed there, curled against the wall, unmoving, and if the night was anywhere close to ending—if the sun was trying to rise into a new dawn—Kirishima didn’t notice.

(“Get it through your thick skulls:

I’m not joining your Shithead Alliance, and I’m going to fucking win.

That’s what heroes do.“)

The sound of footsteps approaching snapped Kirishima out of it, his Quirk activating without a second thought. His heart rate sped up immediately, and he had gotten to his feet without even realizing, body curled tight in defense.

His eyes were quick to focus on the man in a suit walking down the hall, his mind registering Aizawa-sensei a split second later. It was when he spotted the woman behind Aizawa that Kirishima felt his heart stall, and he’d never met the woman before, but in that instant, he knew, and his Quirk all but crumbled away. Her blonde hair stuck out in sharp spikes like a small explosion, sharp red eyes meeting his, and a lump formed in Kirishima’s throat.

He bit his lip to keep it from trembling, and without a word, Kirishima bowed low.

The footsteps went quiet for a few moments, and Kirishima was biting his lip so hard that he had drawn blood. When the woman stepped towards him once more, he screwed his eyes shut, his fists clenching at his sides tighter and tighter as the footsteps grew closer.

It was a few seconds of quiet when the woman stopped, just two feet from him. Kirishima couldn’t move, couldn’t speak for fear of his voice breaking, but then there was a hand getting stuffed in his hair, ruffling it, then the woman was bending down and pulling Kirishima into her chest. She cradled the back of his head warmly, hugging him close, and Kirishima’s breath hitched, his heart feeling like it had stopped for the nth time that night when she said,

“It’s okay.”

It was as if her warm hug was the only thing that kept Kirishima from crumbling altogether, and he weakly clutched at her arm, silent sobs wracking his body. He tried to mumble apologies, but no words came out, and yet she only hugged him tighter, rubbing circles against his back, letting him soil her clothing with his stupid, pathetic tears.

He was so weak. Useless. Kirishima was bigger and sturdier than her, physically more powerful, and he had beaten down guys who were more than twice his size; but in her arms he was just a kid—a kid who had no right being in the arms of a mother who couldn’t hold her own son, not when he was unconscious in the room across them, attached to machines that kept him alive—which was more than Kirishima—weak, useless Kirishima—could even hope to do, or could have done.

It was hours after the smoke had died down that Bakugou Katsuki’s mother was allowed to see her son, and if the next day had already started with the sun unwittingly, uncaringly rising up in the sky—Kirishima didn’t notice.

- - - 

The media had called Bakugou “brave.”

“It’s just how he is,” Sero shrugged, glancing just once at the cameras. “If…it were me, I wouldn’t have lasted ten seconds.”

“Mentally and physically, Bakugou is strong,” Yaoyorozu stated, holding her own against the throngs of reporters. “What happened…”

“What happened or what could have happened—there’s no use thinking about it,” Todoroki continued.

“What’s important is that the villains were defeated,” Iida said. “And our classmate—our friend—is alive.” He turned away before more questions could be asked.

“Brave?” Uraraka’s brows climbed up, her face open and earnest. “Instead of brave…” she looked past the cameras, hands tightly wrung behind her back. “He’s…Bakugou.” She glanced away, eyes searching. Her hands squeezed together tight. “He’s a hero.”

Days later and all the news was talking about was the incident involving the Villain Alliance and Bakugou’s kidnapping. Over and over they showed footage of the battles, the destruction, the aftermath. In center spotlight was All Might and Bakugou. The retiring Symbol of Peace and the brave boy—the hero.

Uraraka had enough of the news. She had stopped checking after the first two days, but no matter what she did, it would always come back to her. She would hear people left and right talking about it; she would see television screens, phone screens, newspapers—all littered with videos and pictures of fighting and destruction, and “Symbol of Peace Wins—for the Last Time?”, “UA Student Stands Against Villain Alliance”, “Kidnapped UA Student in Critical Condition.”

When they had gone home that night from the hospital, they had left Kirishima and Midoriya to their plans of a rescue. When Uraraka had turned on the TV, live footage of the battle streamed in almost every channel. Her eyes had widened, jaw falling open and trembling, and she sat frozen in her home, unable to do anything.

Useless.

“Explosions have been continuously erupting on the scene!” a reporter said. The camera zoomed in on an aerial shot of blasts going off one after another in different directions, blurry shadows of people zipping around them. “It seems to be from Bakugo Katsuki—the kidnapped UA student—he’s fighting against the villains!”

Uraraka could only watch. Bakugou was snarling and blasting his Quirk nonstop, trying to keep distance from the group of villains going after him. Uraraka’s stomach roiled, and the hand she had over her mouth trembled, her heart racing as Bakugou just barely escaped getting slashed or bitten or broken for what seemed like hours.

His mental strength was incredible, Uraraka thought, unable to picture herself lasting as long.

But one could only last so long under so much danger.

When Bakugou was sliced down his forearm, Uraraka barely suppressed a gasp. He stumbled, firing blasts at the ground to propel him backwards. Bakugou cursed, pressing a controlled explosion on the wound to cauterize it, all while firing off with his other hand. He was running purely on adrenaline and his natural quick thinking, and All Might was fully occupied with another powerful villain keeping him from helping Bakugou.

And there Uraraka was, tucked safely in her home, watching as her teacher and her classmate fought for their lives. Deku and Kirishima and Todoroki and Yaoyorozu—they could have been nearby, with Deku trying to formulate some kind of plan to save Bakugou and help All Might.

And there Uraraka was, unable to move, unable to do anything.

Useless.

- - -

“Just stay with me, okay? You’re alright, you’re gonna be fine, just—just stay with me.”

Kirishima felt his heart beating on overdrive, drumming hard in his ears enough to muffle the sounds of the ambulance’s sirens and the hurried conversations around him.

“He’s lost too much blood,” someone was saying.

“Give this dose here, replace the gauze—”

“Another burn—give me a splint for this—”

Someone put a hand on Kirishima’s shoulder. “You—Kirishima-kun? It’s okay, everything will be fine, please calm down. Your friend will be okay. Take deep breaths.”

Kirishima couldn’t spare a glance at the doctor across him, but he nodded vaguely, sucking in raspy breaths. His eyes stayed trained on Bakugou—secured on a stretcher, an oxygen mask over his face, eyes fluttering between waking and unconsciousness. They had pulled Bakugou’s shirt off to reveal a gash running down his whole chest, his paling skin tinted red. His right arm was completely limp, cracked in different places and doused in black and red. His left hand shook, blackened fingers twitching as if they were struggling to breathe.

Kirishima wanted to hold his hand.

“Just keep talking to him, keep him from slipping,” someone instructed.

Kirishima nodded, swallowing. “Bakugou, hey,” he rasped. “Stay with me, alright? C’mon, you’ve got this.”

Bakugou’s eyelids fluttered, his head rocking to the side, towards Kirishima.

“Stay with me,” Kirishima repeated, over and over.

Bakugou’s eyes opened, just barely, sliding to one side. His lips parted under the oxygen mask. “Ki…”

Kirishima felt his heart jump. “I’m here,” he leaned forward, moving into Bakugou’s line of sight. “I’m here, you’re safe. You’re fine.”

Bakugou’s eyes fluttered, but focused on Kirishima’s. Bakugou glared at him.

Kirishima couldn’t help the small, nervous laugh that bubbled out of his throat. “There you are,” he sniggered, broken and anxious but just the smallest bit relieved. Barely awake, battered and bloody, and Bakugou was glaring.

Bakugou’s left hand twitched, the muscles on his arms trembling as he tried to move it. Bakugou hissed under his breath, wincing.

“Don’t—” Kirishima said, moving to put his hand over Bakugou’s. He stopped just short of the ashy skin, fingers lightly and shakily brushing against Bakugou’s. “Just relax, you need to not move too much. We’re gonna get you treated soon, alright?”

Bakugou’s eyelids fluttered again, and a low, rough growl scraped out of his throat. Kirishima felt Bakugou’s fingers move, just a little, to push lightly into his hand. Without really thinking, Kirishima pressed his hand into Bakugou’s, as gently as he could.

Bakugou’s eyes focused on Kirishima, fluttering with some effort. He let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, and Kirishima could have sworn Bakugou’s hand gave his a small squeeze.

“Just stay with me,” Kirishima said again.

Bakugou’s eyes closed, and Kirishima didn’t let go.

- - - 

“It’s not mandatory,” Aizawa explained. “But to those who are up for it, there’s a bus leaving in thirty minutes.“

The present students of Class 1-A all participated in the volunteer cleanup and repair of the damaged ward. They sorted out the rubble and wreckage, rebuilt what could be rebuilt, salvaged what was salvageable. It was all regular, simple work that the adults said were ‘small acts of heroism’, smiling and reassuring them.

Uraraka helped with moving large chunks of debris and metal; Yaoyorozu created all kinds of materials and took care of most repairs. Kaminari handled wiring, the other boys did the heavy lifting, and the girls took to cleaning and sorting. Iida kept things running smoothly and efficiently, and apart from directions and orders being passed and the sound of busy activity, it was…quiet.

There were no loud outbursts or sudden blasts. No one was cursing, and few were laughing. There were only the cracks and fractures of ruins, and the angry black scorches and dried up bloodstains strewn on the ground.

If anyone noticed the huge, half-circle of black ash down the middle of the wreckage, dark gashes of black erupting out of it like the sharp rays of the sun; or the faded dark brown of dried up blood staining the gray concrete at its center—no one mentioned it.

The bus ride back was barely any different. There was idle chatter, and the occasional joke and tease being thrown around, but otherwise, it was quiet.

Aizawa curled into his sleeping bag, closing his eyes against the almost strangled silence that he wouldn’t readily associate with his class.

He glanced at the mirror, quietly looking at his students. Iida was staring out the window, and beside him, Yaoyorozu was reading through a lexicon. Midoriya was beside a sleeping Uraraka, silently writing in a notebook, and to one side, Kirishima was looking down at his hands. It was a strange silence, coming from them, full of muddled thoughts and smothered regrets. Aizawa closed his eyes again, thinking of what he could do and deciding to do none of them, and he was about to duck his head deeper into his sleeping bag when his phone started vibrating in his pocket.

He straightened when he saw the caller ID. Aizawa answered, and promptly sighed at the news that he’d been waiting for.

He stood up and cleared his throat, catching the attention of his students.

The light in their eyes all but seemed to flick on like fire being lit, and Aizawa could feel their energy warming up when he said,

“Bakugou woke up.”

Chapter Text

No one was allowed to visit for a few days.

Security reasons, medical reasons—they were given quite a few explanations, and 1-A was fine with that. It wasn’t for lack of trying, and though the tense knots in their chests had loosened up at the news, they weren’t gone.

Class 1-A though, like the city, was recovering.

“It’s Bakugou, you know,” Kaminari scratched the back of his neck. “You think…he’d even want to see us?”

Sero snorted. “I think he’d yell at us first thing.”

“Might even set off some explosions,” Mineta shrugged.

Midoriya and Kirishima visibly tensed, enough for the others to notice. A hush settled over the class again, hanging thickly in the air. There was a heavy, awkward silence that threatened to darken the mood again, but then Asui cleared her throat.

“He probably wouldn’t want visitors,” she spoke up, tilting her head. “But he probably misses yelling at people.”

“It’s Bakugou, after all,” Uraraka agreed with a light chuckle.

“Bakugou’s mother said,” Aizawa suddenly chimed in. “That he likes mapo tofu.”

The class went quiet, all the students turning to their teacher and blinking at him. His words seemed to require processing down to every letter and context clue, and it was a few seconds of silence before Kirishima snorted, sniggering under his breath.

“Of course it’s spicy,” Kirishima huffed.

“The spicier the better, she said,” Aizawa shrugged a shoulder.

“You got it,” Kirishima put out a thumb’s up. “I can cook that.”

“Ooh, let me help!” Ashido stuck her hand up in the air, bouncy.

“You could…come over to my home?” Yaoyorozu coughed. “Our kitchen is very well-equipped.”

“Mansion!” Mineta cheered.

“Ooh, I get to cook in a fancy kitchen,” Kirishima’s eyes lit up.

“There’s actually a special sale on tofu at this nearby grocery…” Uraraka slipped in.

Aizawa blinked slowly, pulling the zipper of his sleeping bag up to his neck and plopping down on the ground. He turned away from the suddenly bustling class, tuning them out, but not before a small smile tugged up at the corners of his lips.

- - - 

They run into Recovery Girl in the hall, and the students all stopped, as if they’d literally hit a dead end.

“Is he…” Kirishima stepped forward, balling his fists at his sides. “How is he?”

Recovery Girl’s smile faltered, and she let out a sigh. She looked tired. “Since you’re his classmates, you have the right to know.” She looked at all of them, tucking her hands behind her back. “It’s taking a while to recover. The body can only handle so much, and his injuries were too great, so it will take some time for him to recover. He’s a lucky boy.”

Kirishima stared very hard at the ground, biting his lip. No one else spoke, and few could hear the underlying message in her words. I’m telling you because you’ve experienced danger. This is what happens out there. People can get hurt. You can get hurt.

Not everyone is lucky.

“I’ve been going back for the past few days to treat him,” Recovery Girl continued. “Right now he’s asleep.” She wrinkled her nose slightly. “It’s probably the most peaceful you’ll ever see him, actually.”

Kirishima blinked at her, and she smiled back, stepping aside to invite them to peek into Bakugou’s room.

Kaminari nudged Kirishima, and he weakly staggered forward, wrapping his fingers around the door handle and lightly pushing. He stuck his head inside the room, smelling the antiseptic and the faint traces of copper still lingering. Uraraka propped her head up over his, and Iida over hers, while Kaminari and Sero wiggled in under Kirishima’s arms to shove their heads in.

Kirishima would have complained, but then he saw Bakugou: lying quietly on the white bed, his whole face calm and serene—words no one thought would ever describe Bakugou Katsuki in any other situation. A blanket was pulled up to his chest, left arm wrapped in bandages up to his fingers, and right arm wrapped tight and solid with a white cast. The burns and scars over his skin were almost imperceptible but undoubtedly there, and Kirishima would have felt his heart clench at the sight of his injuries, but he found his eyes completely riveted to Bakugou’s face. The light from the window cast a gentle golden glow over Bakugou’s profile, illuminating all the spiky, explosive tips of his hair and all the curves and angles of his face. His eyelashes fluttered, catching light in small moments, and his lips were parted just slightly as he breathed—alive.

Kirishima felt his breath catch in his throat, and he hadn’t looked up at the sky in a while, but all he could think of was he looks like the sun.

“Er, you can go in, you know.”

The crowd of students jumped and whirled around in surprise, finding a woman with ash blonde hair and almond red eyes smiling fondly at them. The resemblance was immediate, and there was a short pause full of the students gaping.

“Auntie!” Midoriya chirped. He stiffened and started to shake slightly, and his eyes darted decidedly away from hers.

“Hi Izuku-kun, Eijirou-kun,” she smiled. Kirishima’s shoulders jerked up in attention. “Recovery Girl, thank you so much again,” she bowed, and Recovery Girl waved her hand. Bakugou’s mother turned to the class. “And Katsuki’s classmates!” she regarded them warmly, then bobbed her head in a small bow. “Nice to meet you all. Thank you for taking care of Katsuki.”

Class 1-A erupted into a chorus of greetings and bows and light-hearted jokes about Bakugou being the last person anyone would “take care of”, and Bakugou’s mom laughed, lightly apologizing for her undoubtedly troublesome son.

“Um, Bakugou-san,” Kirishima stammered, cheeks warm. He flattened his palms at his sides and bowed. “S-sorry for the other night.”

He’d trembled like a baby in her arms for what felt like a really, uncomfortably long time, and the memory made the blood rush up to the tips of Kirishima’s ears. He silently wished that Bakugou would never hear about it.

Bakugou’s mom chuckled and ruffled his hair roughly, making him sputter. “Nothing to be sorry for.” She leaned closer to whisper. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Katsuki. Maybe.”

Kirishima jerked up, blushing harder, shoulders tightening in half-defense, half-embarrassment. Bakugou’s mom ruffled his hair again, laughing, then spotted the small container in Todoroki’s hands.

“It’s for Baku—Katsuki-kun!” Uraraka said, smiling brightly.

“It’s mapo tofu,” Todoroki said.

“We heard he likes spicy food,” Sero supplied.

“It was his idea,” Kaminari pointed to Kirishima.

Kirishima was sure his face was the same color as his hair. Bakugou’s mother blinked at them, then at the mapo tofu they’d all pitched in to make. Her eyes glistened with moist for a moment before she flashed them a bright grin, and everyone could see whom Bakugou took after.

“You’re all so sweet,” she said. “Thank you. I’m sure he’ll love it. Even if he won’t say so.”

The students chuckled. Todoroki passed the container to Uraraka, who offered it to Bakugou’s mom. “Todoroki-kun kept it warm, but if Bakugou-kun’s sleeping…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Bakugou’s mom smiled. “Thank you. All of you. You’re welcome to hang around here if you want to catch him awake, though I don’t know how long he’ll be out,” she said, looking directly at Kirishima.

“N-nah, it’s okay—” Kirishima flailed. He stopped and wiggled his lip. “Or actually, Yaoyorozu?” he turned to her. “Could you make a marker…?”

Yaoyorozu raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly. “Yes…?” she flipped her hand palm up, and a marker emerged. She casually handed it to Kirishima. “Here…? What for?”

Kirishima glanced at Bakugou’s hospital room door, a corner of his lips quirking up. “Bakugou’s asleep,” he said simply.

Bakugou’s mom snorted lightly, chuckling and ruffling Kirishima’s hair. It was a few beats before the class processed what that meant, and the first to follow Kirishima were Kaminari and Sero, To one side, Midoriya’s mouth was hanging open, fully horrified.

“He’s gonna be so mad,” Uraraka grimaced, but she was following them into the room anyway.

- - - 

“Bakugou, hey. Stay with me, alright?”

“There you are.”

“Bakugou, hey. Bakugou? You have to wake up.”

“Katsuki!”

Bakugou opened his eyes to an unfamiliar, off-white ceiling. He squinted at the light filtering through the window at his side, eyes sharpening into an exhaustion-muddled glare. The next thing he registered was the heaviness of his body, and the longer he blinked awake, the more it felt like he was being smothered by deep waters. His breaths came in shakily, shallowly, his arms suddenly made of heavy, immovable goddamn logs, and the smallest amount of effort to move them sent only minute sparks of electricity going up to his neck.

The next was pain. Muffled by something that kept him groggy but still there, like an undercurrent silently and annoyingly thrumming beneath his skin. A low growl rumbled in Bakugou’s throat. His body wasn’t cooperating with him, his mind was excruciatingly slow, and if he forced anything all he got was more numbness and pain and frustration, and he was growing more and more aware of the speed in which his heart rate was picking up.

He couldn’t move. He was in an unfamiliar place, and the villains—

The villains.

All at once, Bakugou was suffocating, chest shaking with tremors that left him gasping and choking on nothing. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t run or fight and the villains were coming for him and they were going to kill him—

Then his chest was burning, searing heat in a gash from his left shoulder down to his right hip. The image of all-consuming black looming over him clouded his vision, and there were hands—a lot of hands, gripping at the pale-haired villain that made Bakugou crack and break wherever he touched. Bakugou was shattering, piece by piece, and was being eaten alive by a black mist that ripped him from where he stood and devoured everything that held light.

It was all heat, all pain, suffocation and blackness, and Bakugou couldn’t do anything, couldn’t see anything but endless darkness. Still, somewhere deep inside, Bakugou was gasping for air, for light—for anything, desperately trying to survive for as long as he fucking could, no matter how ugly a sight he makes of it. He could feel his heart drumming in his ears like thunderstorms, and he struggled hard to breathe while choking on air, drowning in pain and smoke and black—

“—gou—! Bakugou!”

His arms were on fire, molten heat glowing in between the cracks of his ash-blackened arms. Bakugou struggled, small blasts sparking up from his palms and spewing out dark clouds of smoke as his hands crumbled.

Bakugou felt a roar building in his chest, like a fire desperately trying to stay alight, fighting against the expanse of infinite black.

“Bakugou!”

He heard frantic beeping somewhere in the back of his head, and thick grey smoke poured out of his palms and the fractures of his arms, seeping out of the gash in his chest, dripping with dark liquid. He tried to close his hands, but they only cracked and crumbled further. His palms threatened to burst, and then something warm and solid wrapped around his hand.

“Katsuki!”

Bakugou’s eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused. There was glaring light, and the sharp, rapid sounds of beeping somewhere above his head. Something red was hovering over him, something clear and familiar, and Bakugou anchored himself to that red—eyes, he realizes later. Smoke was floating up the corners of his vision, his chest still heaving with strangled effort, but something squeeze his left hand softly, and he immediately focused on that.

He instinctively grasped around the firm weight, and he knew his fingers were trembling but he was relieved to actually feel his hand. A sharper pain started streaming up from his fingertips up to his shoulders, throbbing and struggling, but Bakugou only squeezed tighter.

There was a squeeze back, and Bakugou vaguely realized that someone was holding his hand.

“Katsuki?” Another squeeze, gentle, reassuring. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

Bakugou let out a long, rough exhale, and the beeping overhead started to slow. Bakugou squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, finding that they stung.

Another warm squeeze. Bakugou gripped back—it grounded him, made him feel his hands and arms and his heartbeat.

“Just breathe,” someone was telling him. So Bakugou growled, taking in large gulps of air as if he’d just burst through the surface of the sea. He started to feel the rest of his body, the pain coursing through his limbs and all over his chest, and slowly, he started to breathe.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” the voice told him.

“Sh…ut…up…” Bakugou hissed, strangled and rough.

A small, airy chuckle bubbled up from one side, and it was like the warmth of being welcomed home. “There you are,” the voice said.

Bakugou let out a huff, concentrating on the calming pulse of his heart, the muted pain thrumming in his body, and the hand holding his. It felt gentle and firm against him—which was, Bakugou started to feel, fully wrapped up in bandages—and held him as if it kept him together just as much as it did Bakugou.

Whatever the case, Bakugou didn’t move to let go.

His eyelids fluttered closed, the rise and fall of his chest slowing and the beeping at his headboard—a heart rate monitor—quieting down. There was a tender, soothing pressure stroking Bakugou’s knuckles, and Bakugou sighed, focusing on that feeling—that quiet fire that calmed his heart and countered the cold sweat he broke into. He vaguely felt the hair over his forehead softly being pushed back, and gentle fingers threading through the blonde locks. Bakugou sighed again, and breathed.

“Good job there, Kirishima-kun,” another voice—an old woman—spoke.

Kirishima…?

“Bakugou,” the old woman said, closer now. “You’ll be just fine. I’ll treat you now.”

Bakugou’s eyes fluttered, catching sight of a short lady—Recovery Girl?—by the edge of the bed, and then a shock of red hair next to her. Bakugou’s eyes were bleary, stinging little shits, and his head had been throbbing since he woke up, but the sight of that shitty hair and those bright red eyes simply brought to mind the feeling of home.

When the hand holding his started to loosen up to let go, Bakugou instinctively curled his fingers and squeezed before it could slip away. The hand stopped, staying still for a couple of beats, then slipped right back into Bakugou’s, firm.

Bakugou let out a soft sigh, feeling his heartbeat return to normal levels as something soft pressed on his forehead. Immediately, he felt his pains fading, followed by his tiredness deepening into exhaustion, any energy he had left getting sucked out at the same time his body started feeling revived.

“Goddammit,” Bakugou grumbled, feeling the pull of sleep getting stronger and stronger.

“You’re welcome,” Recovery Girl snorted.

There was another light chuckle at his side, and Bakugou’s hand twitched into the one curled around it. He still couldn’t move his right hand, much less the whole damn arm, but he kicked those thoughts to the back of his mind, concentrating on the warm, easy feeling of his body slowly healing, and the soft weight of the hand—familiar, safe—that he didn’t feel like letting go of just yet.

Bakugou shifted his head to his left, feeling a breath of calm wash over his body, and already he was nodding off. “Hey,” he said, airy and rough, forcing his heavy eyelids to lift, just a fraction.

The fuzzy view of the mess of red—Shitty Hair-for-Brains, Bakugou was able to finally put together (Kirishima, the next thought followed)—was looking at him, absently rubbing circles on Bakugou's knuckles. 

“Yeah? You’re alright now, just rest.” The grip around his hand loosened.

Bakugou’s brow knotted groggily, forcing his eyes to blink enough to focus on Kirishima’s face. The image of Kirishima sharpened, just a little, and Bakugou narrowed his eyes in what at least felt like the attempts to a glare. Kirishima’s eyes were open—the kind of open that oozed friendly and approachable, and even more acceptance—and there was a stray eyelash sticking out on one edge of his right eye. (No, a scar? Bakugou found himself wondering.)

“It’s okay…?” Kirishima said, almost making it sound like a question. “Just go sleep and regain your strength.”

Bakugou felt like he’d been sleeping a long time, and he grumbled, letting his eyes close for a few beats. His eyes started staying closed longer than they were open at each blink, and when he couldn’t fight the sleep overtaking him, he growled, “No.”

Even with his eyes closed, Bakugou could tell that Shitty Hair was tilting his head, confused. Bakugou didn’t even have the energy to roll his eyes under his eyelids, so he just grunted, squeezing the last tendrils of his energy into curling his fingers against the hand wrapped around his own. 

It was a couple of seconds before Kirishima seemed to understand, and again, Bakugou could just tell that Hair-for-Brains was smiling when he said, “Ah. I’ll—I’ll stay here. With you. I’ll stay.”

There was a gentle, warm squeeze, and Bakugou let out a grunt, nodding once, the movement so small that it could have been just his head pressing into the pillow. But then sleep had fully caught him, lulling his breathing into a gentle, steady rhythm. Faintly, he heard a light chuckle at his side, and felt the soft caress of a thumb against his bandaged knuckles. And when he let himself get pulled into black, it was welcome and warm, like the feeling of a hand holding his. 

With one last, soft sigh, Bakugou fell asleep to the sound of laughter.

Chapter Text

Blasts went off one after another, making the ground shake almost as much as every impact in All Might’s battle. There were half a dozen villains moving in the wreckage—the destruction brought by a powerful villain who’d taken down the whole area and the heroes around it in the blink of an eye. All Kirishima could think of was trying to move but being unable to, just rooted to the spot where he stood as if he’d been paralyzed. Iida, Yaoyorozu, Midoriya—not even Todoroki—could stop their trembling and do anything, and in the back of Kirishima’s mind, he thought ‘Bakugou’.

There they were, paralyzed with fear, and Bakugou has been in the hands of the villains for hours. Amidst the constant mantra of fear and escape and powerlessness that ran through Kirishima’s brain, he somehow hooked onto the thought—what would Bakugou do?

It was when a rasped out cough and a venomously spit out “The hell is this?!” that Kirishima snapped out of it.

“I’m sorry, Bakugou,” the villain—the powerful villain that had destroyed everything in a flash—said.

Kirishima’s jaw fell open in a soundless gasp. Bakugou was there, in front of the most dangerous villain they’d ever encountered, and villains were popping out around him and surrounding him. Bakugou growled, enraged, and Kirishima could hear the small sparks of explosions setting off in his palms.

Bakugou was surrounded and overpowered, and without pause, explosions blasted off as he fought. The villains yelped, and Bakugou snarled, loud and threatening, letting off blast after blast in defense and attack against the villains.

He was their target, he was severely outnumbered, and yet he was fighting. All the while, Kirishima stood behind a wall, rooted on the spot, trembling in fear.

All Might arrived some moments after, but the powerful villain had immediately gotten in his way to keep him from helping Bakugou.

(Goddammit, Kirishima thought. Last time—I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t reach him. And now he’s just a few meters away and I can’t move. I have to—)

Arms went over his chest, holding him back, and Kirishima stiffened under Yaoyorozu’s grip. Her lips were pursed into a tight, thin line, and to Kirishima’s other side, Iida had leaned over to shakily grab at Todoroki and Midoriya.

He was going to pull them out of there. Iida and Yaoyorozu were prepared to run.

They were going to leave Bakugou.

Kirishima gritted his teeth, but before he could protest, a large blast rocked the ground, and Bakugou’s cry of pain cut through every thought and worry clouding Kirishima’s head and snapped him out of his paralysis. More blasts sent shudders through the ground, and without thinking, Kirishima spun around to look through a crack in the wall they were hiding behind.

Bakugou was bleeding, a trail of dark red dripping down his whole arm. As he dashed backwards, Bakugou pressed a controlled explosion over the wound, immediately cauterizing it, and Kirishima was somehow dumbstruck by how Bakugou just did. His quick thinking and reflexes and total understanding of his situation floored Kirishima, in that moment, and only proved how useless he was, how far from Bakugou he was.

“I—have a plan,” Midoriya was saying.

Immediately, Iida argued against him, but then Midoriya’s eyes had sharpened and his jaw was set, and he explained the plan, so carefully thought out to minimize the risk to them while reaping the best out of the situation.

Kirishima’s fists clenched at his sides. He felt useless. Midoriya was as shaken as all of them but he thought of a plan for Bakugou’s sake. All Kirishima could do was stand there, scared and useless.

“It’s got to be you, Kirishima,” Midoriya suddenly said. “You are the key to making this successful.”

Kirishima stared, eyes wide. Midoriya explained his part of the plan, how Bakugou would respond to him, would reach for him, when he wouldn’t dare let others have a chance to.

Kirishima would reach Bakugou.

Gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, Kirishima nodded. He threw aside all his petty insecurities and just thought—Bakugou. All he focused on was him.

“We just have to wait for the right time…” Midoriya muttered, and they all waited, steeling themselves. Blasts erupted left and right, and Bakugou’s growling and cursing was all that kept Kirishima concentrated. Bakugou was fighting so hard, he was so strong, and the one clear thought that solidified in Kirishima’s chest was that he wouldn’t allow the villains to take him away, not while he was there.

“Something’s wrong,” Todoroki suddenly spoke.

“What?” Yaoyorozu asked, her brow wrinkled in worry and fear.

“The explosions—Bakugou, he’s suddenly limiting his movements to that area,” Todoroki pointed through the small gap in the wall.

Bakugou was still fighting, using his explosions to propel himself up and away from the villains while also dealing any damage he could. The villains were cautious, but they were really charging at him, determined to take him by force. Bakugou’s expression had changed to a more grave one, his upward snarl turning into gritted teeth and almost panicked focus. He took stock of where all the villains were coming from, but seemed to purposefully limit his movements.

“There are openings he could move to,” Iida stated, eyes wide. “Is he missing them…? Is there something…?”

“No,” Todoroki said. “Bakugou’s smart, he can see those openings, but it seems like he’s…”

“He’s trying to control the villain’s movements,” Midoriya continued, his eyes wide and jaw slack with fear. “There’s something he’s—”

Bakugou’s scream made them all flinch, and the subsequent explosions made Kirishima’s stomach flip at every blast. Bakugou was on the ground for a second before he launched himself up with another explosion, leaving a spatter of blood and burn on the ground.

Bakugou hissed, wincing, and Kirishima's chest clenched when he saw the gash on Bakugou’s cheek and the charred black fingertips of his right hand, the color of his skin tinted with blood that dripped to the floor. There were cracks on his arm and red blooming out of them, and Bakugou had taken two more cuts to his arm and shoulder. He sidestepped to his left and blasted to his right, wincing and grinding his jaw at the explosion.

“Fuck,” Kirishima swore under his breath, gripping hard at the wall. He had started cracking some of it off with his Quirk unthinkingly activated, and Iida grabbed his shoulder to keep him from moving. Kirishima found that Iida's hand was shaking, gripping hard.

“Get it through your thick skulls,” Bakugou growled. “I’m not joining your Shithead Alliance, and I’m going to fucking win.” His lips curled into a feral grin, sending a shudder through Kirishima, and small blasts erupted from his palms as he slid into a stance. ”That’s what heroes do.“

Kirishima felt his whole body get electrified, a fire in him set alight and making his heart thump loud and hard in his chest at Bakugou’s words. At Bakugou’s stance, his power, his unwavering grin, his tenacity and strength. Kirishima watched as Bakugou let out blast after blast as he fought to push the villains back instead of trying to simply just escape. His eyes were fire and his every movement was a burst of power just as explosive as his quirk. The sound of every blast was like the strong pulse of his heart, and fire and smoke bloomed one after another as Bakugou fought.

(And Kirishima would have laughed at himself, because it was night and everything was dark and grim, but he thought—he looks like the sun.)

“He’s holding his ground,” Todoroki observed. “But he’s not taking advantage of those small openings. He’s going to get cornered.”

Yaoyorozu worried her lip, then crouched. “I have an idea,” she said, holding out her hand. She produced a cylindrical object with a circular pin and a handle, and Midoriya’s eyes widened in understanding. “But it will need some timing.”

Todoroki hunched down in their huddle, and nodded as Yaoyorozu made two more of those objects. “A lot of this will be up to Bakugou, and his situation’s not going so well right now.”

Midoriya grit his teeth, and Kirishima’s hardened fingers were grinding down his fist. “Bakugou is strong,” he said simply.

They all looked at him, and for a few beats, they were just silent. But then Midoriya’s mouth curled into a crumpled grin, and he nodded. “You’re right. Kacchan’s strong. We have to…”

“We have to believe in him,” Kirishima finished, but his fists were clenched tight and shaking at his sides, and his friends were nodding at him and he could still hear the explosions that meant that Bakugou was still fighting and doing his goddamn best, like he always did.

Bakugou’s palms seem to have started cracking, and his breathing was labored and rough, but his eyes were glowing fire and even the half dozen villains trying to take him were getting worn out. Bakugou had been pushed back to just a few meters from a fallen building, and when he had blasted off closer to it, Kirishima and the others had to move to stay within range.

“Bakugou’s getting himself cornered,” Iida hissed under his breath. “Why isn’t he—”

“He’s not moving away,” Midoriya suddenly said, grim. “Because of them.”

They turned to the rubble behind Bakugou, understanding dawning on them immediately. Yaoyorozu sucked in a breath, covering her mouth with her hands, and Iida’s eyes went wide.

“Damn, damn, damn,” Midoriya muttered, biting his lip. “We have to—I can—”

“I’ll take care of them,” Todoroki said, gripping hard at Midoriya’s shoulder. “You just—”

Another cry. Kirishima’s whole body jerked at the sound of Bakugou’s pained growl, as if he were the one getting hurt. This time, Bakugou’s ash blonde hair was stained red, blood dripping down half his face as he tried to hold his ground just a few meters from the ruins behind him. His breathing was rough, hands trembling and charred black. He sparked rapid explosions with his left hand—only his left hand—and Kirishima felt his breath stop when he saw the state of Bakugou’s right arm: cracking in different places, covered in blood and darkened from his fingertips down to his elbow. Smoke steamed out of his palm, fingers twitching erratically and dripping red.

And yet Bakugou was grinning. His eyes were ferocious, and even from afar Kirishima could feel the pressure and strength oozing from Bakugou and keeping the villains from charging in recklessly. He blasted with his left, ducking under a villain’s swing and taking him out with another blast to the stomach. Bakugou continued to hold his ground, dodging the strikes and charges coming his way while covering for his injured side. When a villain tried to take advantage of the weakened side, Bakugou grinned and blasted the villain’s legs with his right hand, immediately grabbing for the villain and throwing him at another attacker.

Kirishima didn’t miss the way Bakugou winced, arm shaking violently and cracking at the recoil. Bakugou let out another blast, but then a knife flew right at him and lodged in his shoulder.

It all happened in a flash. Bakugou staggered back, his right arm fell limp, and in a split second, he twisted around and brought his arm up, almost as if to block with his body, then took a hit across his whole torso.

Kirishima fought hard not to scream, feeling his whole body run cold. His eyes shot open wide, whole body paralyzed at the sight of a huge gash blooming with blood and crumbling with fractures running across Bakugou’s torso, from his shoulder down to his waist. Bakugou let out a choked gasp, firing off blasts in quick defense and getting pushed back by his own explosions. His back almost hit the rubble behind him, and he seemed to be standing just by sheer force of will and tenacity, heaving broken gasps of air as he struggled to breathe.

Then there was a cry, weak and strangled, “Don’t lose—hero!”

Bakugou’s lips slowly curled up in a grin. He unsteadily widened his stance, bracing himself, and growled low in his throat.

“No fucking shit,” he rasped. “I always win.”

Bakugou slid his left foot forward, then heaved his hands up, letting out a shout—a war cry that electrified the air and sent a shiver of energy through Kirishima’s body. Small sparks crackled in Bakugou’s palms, and at that moment, they all moved.

Midoriya and Iida were at Kirishima’s sides, and Kirishima had hardened even before they grabbed him. Yaoyorozu reeled back her arm, and Todoroki’s left side was glowing with fire.

The explosion happened in an instant, and it was enormous, engulfing all the villains surrounding Bakugou and making the area burst with a fiery glow. Yaoyorozu swung hard, throwing the object she created right above the villains, just as a wall of ice burst up to separate Bakugou from them. Fire followed the ice in a rapid burst, creating an eruption of steam, and a huge blinding flash erupted from the grenade that Yaoyorozu had thrown in front of it.

Iida and Midoriya bent low, and in the next instant, they were speeding forward, breaking through the wall with Kirishima’s hardening and getting launched into the air with a ramp made of ice.

Kirishima turned, immediately finding red eyes filled with fire, and reached out.

(It has to be you that calls out to him! Midoriya had said.)

“COME!!” Kirishima screamed.

Bakugou’s eyes widened, flickering to look over his shoulder for a split second before he turned back. The pale villain was bursting through the steam and reaching for Bakugou, but then Bakugou launched himself up, and grabbed Kirishima’s hand.

Kirishima squeezed tight, eyes never leaving Bakugou as they soared through the air. Mount Lady suddenly appeared to cover for them, and at their descent, Bakugou blasted at the ground to buffer their landing.

The roughness of the blasts and the momentum of their jump sent them breaking off and crashing down hard. Kirishima pulled Bakugou towards him as they landed, making himself Bakugou’s armor as he twisted around to take the impact of the fall. Even with his back hardened, Kirishima’s breath was knocked out of him when they hit the ground, and he curled tighter around Bakugou to keep him from toppling over and onto the concrete.

Smoke wafted up from Kirishima’s sides as they skidded to a stop. After a few seconds, Kirishima relaxed, letting his head hit the ground. He sucked in a breath, deactivating his Quirk with a groan. Somewhere near him, Iida and Midoriya were getting back up — Iida was calling for an ambulance and Midoriya was rushing off to Todoroki.

Kirishima took the time to breathe. His arm was secured around Bakugou, pressed against his back and feeling every rise and fall of Bakugou’s labored breathing. His other hand still tightly gripped Bakugou’s, and for a few moments, he just held him, feeling the soft touch of Bakugou’s hair and the trembling of his chest against his—alive.

Moist suddenly crept down to Kirishima’s shirt and arm, and Kirishima felt the color drain from his face when he realized—blood. Bakugou was bleeding, and his breathing was getting shallower by the second. When Kirishima shifted, Bakugou sucked in a sharp breath, gasping out weak pants. It was when Kirishima felt Bakugou squeeze his hand that he stopped.

“You…fucking…idiot,” Bakugou said, barely a whisper.

Without thinking, Kirishima squeezed back. “I know. I’m an idiot. I’m the biggest fucking idiot alive and I’m sorry.”

Bakugou grunted. He shifted his head into Kirishima’s collar and took a deep, shuddering breath. Kirishima could feel Bakugou’s hand slacken in his.

“Hey, just stay with me, okay?” Kirishima breathed against his hair. “I’m just—going to move a little.”

Bakugou’s hand twitched, and Kirishima moved as slowly and as gently as he could. Bakugou flinched, sucking in a sharp breath that made Kirishima feel like a stake was slowly driving down his heart.

“You’re going to be just fine,” Kirishima said, gripping hard at the back of Bakugou’s shirt and keeping him as close to him as possible. It felt like any tighter and Bakugou would just break. “You fought so hard. You were amazing. You are amazing.”

“Shut…up…” Bakugou grumbled, and his whole body was limp against Kirishima’s but his hand held on tight.

Kirishima gently squeezed back, letting out a light, airy chuckle. Then he let out a trembling sigh, burying his nose in ash blonde hair stained red. “Bakugou,” he said, pressing his fingers in between Bakugou’s shoulder blades. “Bakugou, Bakugou,” he repeated, holding his bleeding classmate with quivering fingers. He could hear the sirens approaching their area. “Katsuki.”

Bakugou let out a shaky exhale, breath fluttering against Kirishima’s collar. Bakugou’s breathing had slowed considerably, light and shallow and so weak against Kirishima’s chest. Kirishima swallowed, feeling dread try to grip at his heart. “Just stay with me, alright?”

There was a small, shaky squeeze from Bakugou’s hand, his fingers curling softly against Kirishima’s, and Kirishima didn’t let go for as long as he could.

- - - 

Kirishima was vaguely aware of his grumbling stomach, glancing around if there were any nearby vending machines on that floor. As he wandered about, he caught sight of the nurse’s station going through some kind of racket.

Nurses were grabbing things from their station and scrambling off to the hall. Kirishima caught little bits like calling a doctor, an unexpected change in condition, sudden critical status, a flat line—

Then the nurses were running to the end of the hall—Bakugou’s room.

In an instant, Kirishima was sprinting. In seconds, he’d overtaken the rushing nurses and burst into Bakugou’s room.

“Bakugou!” Kirishima yelled.

“Fuck off!” Bakugou barked back.

Kirishima froze. All his momentum ran smack dab into a sudden wall, and he was only just aware of how quickly his heart was racing. Bakugou was on his bed, propping himself up on his left elbow, stopping in the middle of trying to sit up to glare at Kirishima. There was a long beep, high and steady, showing the flat line on the heart rate monitor by the headboard.

The nurses came panting behind Kirishima, quickly processing why Kirishima was standing frozen by the doorway. When they noticed that Bakugou had pulled off the different medical equipment attached to him, they started groaning and grumpily shouldering into the room, clear relief washing over their tense shoulders at the false alarm.

Kirishima was still staring at Bakugou, who was glaring back. Kirishima didn’t realize that he had some kind of mental checklist until he spent a few seconds looking over Bakugou—his eyes, the movement of his chest as he breathed, the shift of his arm, the curl of his lips. He mentally ticked them off and concluded—alive.

Suddenly it felt as if Kirishima had run a marathon instead of ten meters, and Bakugou was cursing and yelling at the nurses as they pushed him to lie back down.

“Um,” Kirishima said, intelligently. “Could you maybe…come back later?”

The nurses turned to him, and Bakugou jerked away from their hold, snarling. “Yeah, fuck off,” Bakugou barked.

One nurse shot a withering glare at Bakugou, seemingly all too used to patients having bitchfits. “You stay right there, punk,” she grumbled back. “You’re still in no shape to go run around. And you burned your bandages again.”

Bakugou frowned, looking down at his bandaged left hand. The wrappings on his palm were torn up and charred, and Bakugou’s face twisted, looking as if he wasn’t aware that he’d done that, but also as if it wasn’t unusual.

“We really should have wrapped at least his palm with the leftover fireproof ones from his right,” the other nurse squinted.

“I can rewrap it,” Kirishima supplied, stepping into the room.

“Ugh, Kirishima-kun,” the one nurse groaned, running a hand through her brown hair. “That would actually be a big help.”

“Hey, it’s no problem!” Kirishima smiled. “You go take care of your other patients, or take a break! You all need it.”

Both nurses smiled at him, one of them patting him on the shoulder, and the other ruffling his hair. “S’gotta be the former,” the brunette said. “Thank you for helping out.”

“Please keep him from escaping,” the other nurse asked, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at Bakugou.

Bakugou growled at her, left hand struggling to flip her off.

“I’ll go contact Recovery Girl,” she rolled her eyes.

“Thanks!” Kirishima beamed, gently herding them out the room.

When he closed the door after them, Bakugou—who had been watching with narrowed eyes—immediately spat, “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Kirishima turned to him, brows knotted and eyes just a fraction wider than usual, and somehow automatically went and did his checklist again—Bakugou’s eyes were open, his chest was moving as he breathed, his lips were curling down in a grumpy frown. Kirishima thought Bakugou, and then—alive.

Without really much thought, Kirishima strode over to Bakugou’s bed and practically collapsed on the edge of it, falling heavily on the seat by the bedside as he pressed his hand around Bakugou’s—before he could try to use it or move it—and buried a huge sigh into the sheets.

“The fuck?!”

Kirishima nuzzled his nose in the sheets, feeling the top of his head press into Baugou’s side—warm, solid. He stayed there, just feeling Bakugou’s shifting under the covers, then the nudging at his hair.

“Hey fuckhead, what the fuck,” Bakugou grumbled, trying to elbow Kirishima’s head. His hand weakly tried to squeeze at Kirishima’s.

“Fuck,” Kirishima sighed heavily, moving to look back up at bright red eyes—awake. “Bakugou—you goddamn bastard I was fucking worried!”

For a moment Bakugou was angry, but then his expression turned angrily confused. “Hah?!”

“The flat line, you douche,” Kirishima groaned, unable to keep his feelings from pouring out in the form of Bakugou-influenced cursing. He picked up the heart rate monitor clip Bakugou probably bit off. “I thought you died.”

There were a few beats of silence, filled with a heavy sort of blankness.

“Hah?!” Bakugou repeated. “You’re a huge fucking idiot—”

“No listen, you don’t understand, you—” Kirishima almost yelled, but he was so tired and his heart was still beating at irregular levels. He let out a groan, running his hand roughly through his hair. “Aaah screw it, never mind.”

Bakugou was quiet, his eyes narrowed. “Hey,” he said, sharp. “Spit it out.”

Kirishima stiffened, fingers clenching softly against Bakugou’s hand. Bakugou was looking straight at him, and Kirishima found himself getting caught in that gaze, completely taken. He really liked Bakugou’s eyes—they were pointy and sharp and always looked so strong, like nothing would ever dull them. Kirishima couldn’t look away.

“Hey shithead,” Bakugou snapped, moving to sit up. “I said spit it the fuck out. What are you hiding?”

Kirishima shook his head, reaching out to stop Bakugou from sitting up. He was surprised to find that his hands were shaking.

Bakugou stared at him, eyes narrowing a fraction. Kirishima sighed and took back his hand, closing it into a fist. “Look, you—that night—” Kirishimas’ eyes were anchored to Bakugou’s, as if still trying to convince himself that Bakugou was looking at him, awake and alive. “Your heart stopped. You died. Once.”

Bakugou was quiet. Kirishima swallowed the sudden lump that formed in his throat, feeling his chest clench at the memory. He looked at Bakugou’s eyes again and thought ‘alive, he’s alive.’

“Well, fuck that,” Bakugou grunted. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Kirishima blinked at him. Bakugou looked at Kirishima with an expression he couldn’t quite understand. It was almost as if Bakugou was toning it down to look—apologetic?

Kirishima let out another sigh, burying his face back in the sheets. “Yeah.”

Bakugou stopped squirming around, sighing grumpily. “Why the fuck are you losing your shit over that,” he grumbled. “Not like—”

“Because I care about you, obviously!” Kirishima blurted, lifting his head up to look straight at Bakugou’s eyes.

Bakugou’s mouth had stopped open in the middle of his sentence, and stayed hanging open for a few seconds as he stared at Kirishima. Somehow, surprisingly, Bakugou was speechless.

And then—Kirishima snorted, letting out a soft chuckle. “I was really worried, you know?”

Bakugou scowled, looking away. “You said that already, shithead,” he huffed, leaning back on his pillow, resigned. “Don’t waste your time—“

“What? Being worried? Caring?” Kirishima interrupted, snorting. “Well tough shit, Blasty, you can’t change what I feel.” He stuck out his tongue for good measure.

Bakugou was turning red, eye twitching. “You fucker—” he started, moving to lift his hand up.

Kirishima felt some heat prickle against his palm, and gave Bakugou’s hand a gentle squeeze and push, putting his other hand on Bakugou’s chest, right above his heart. “Wait, you shouldn’t—”

Bakugou’s eye twitched in a suppressed wince, left hand jerking involuntarily. He looked down at his hand—covered in Kirishima’s—and with narrowed eyes, forced it up.

Kirishima was only just lightly holding Bakugou’s hand—for fear of further injuring it—so there was barely any resistance when Bakugou turned it over and loosened his hold. Bakugou didn’t miss the way Kirishima flinched just the smallest bit, and Kirishima cursed himself for being so off-guard.

“This…” Bakugou’s brow wrinkled as he moved his hand away from Kirishima’s, half-sitting up to take a better look. Kirishima grimaced—his hand was bright red, with darker red specks spattered around the dip of his palm, almost raw.

“Fucking idiot,” Bakugou grumbled, almost quietly. “Why didn’t you use your Quirk?”

He was lightly brushing the tips of his fingers on Kirishima’s burns, touch so light, barely there, that Kirishima had to suppress a shudder. He couldn’t quite figure out what to focus on—the way Bakugou was looking at his hand, or the way Bakugou’s fingers fluttered so softly over Kirishima’s reddened skin. Kirishima shrugged, distracted. “Figured it wouldn’t be too nice to hold a rock,” he answered.

“It’s not a rock, dipshit,” Bakugou retorted, eyes flickering up to glare at Kirishima. “It’s your hand.”

Kirishima swallowed, suddenly feeling very warm. The moment Bakugou’s eyes met his, Kirishima found himself once again locked to that gaze, his mind blank save for the image of Bakugou’s face—red eyes like barely contained suns, framed by softly curving cheeks and spiky ash blonde hair. And they were faint, almost invisible, but Kirishima could spot the small scars still barely lingering on Bakugou’s skin—one at his temple, one down his eyebrow, one across a cheek.

Kirishima was vaguely aware of how close they were, and even less of the fact that his other hand had floated upward, reaching for Bakugou’s cheek. When Bakugou noticed, Kirishima pulled back, coughing, and lifted his burnt hand to press his fingers against Bakugou’s barely bandaged one.

“Well,” Kirishima said, his voice catching on a little rough. “It’s your hand.”

For a second time, Bakugou couldn’t say anything in return, staring at Kirishima in a way that made him feel like squirming and maybe jumping into a tub of ice. Before Bakugou could form a response, Kirishima cleared his throat and grabbed a hold of Bakugou’s hand, softly.

“I’ll change your bandages,” Kirishima told him, pulling away just as quickly as he held on.

Bakugou let out a huff, settling back as Kirishima pulled out a roll of bandages and cotton from the bedside drawer. Kirishima used that time to calm his rapidly beating heart, looking up at Bakugou for permission. When Bakugou gave a grunt and weakly offered his hand, Kirishima moved his focus to treating it.

Kirishima felt his heart flutter when Bakugou allowed his hand to rest on Kirishima’s. Their hands were about the same size, rough and angular in similar places, and fit neatly against each other. Kirishima slowly removed the bandages and stared intently at Bakugou’s hand. It was still discolored, burnt and red and cracked all over. Kirishima was quiet, just staring at the hand in his—a hand that could burst with power and light in a blink; a hand that could punch through armor and thick skulls—

A hand that had reached out to him.

Kirishima lifted Bakugou’s hand, just slightly, and brushed his lips over the marred skin. It was a light press of lips, just a small breath, and Kirishima pulled back just as quickly, bowing low, forehead just barely touching Bakugou’s knuckles.

Kirishima pursed his lips, trying not to squeeze any tighter. He let out a shaky exhale, just feeling the weight of the hand on his, and breathed.

Kirishima could have sworn he heard Bakugou suck in a breath, but otherwise, Bakugou was quiet and unmoving. Kirishima’s finger brushed over Bakugou’s wrist, feeling his pulse, and once again Kirishima hadn’t realized that his hand was trembling.

“Hey,” Bakugou spoke, almost a whisper.

Kirishima pursed his lips, unable to form any words. His fingers trembled, Kirishima trying his hardest not to squeeze Bakugou’s hand tighter and hurt him, even though all he wanted was to hold on as hard as he could.

Then, Kirishima felt a breath flutter over his head, and something warm and soft press into his hair. Kirishima went still, realizing that Bakugou had leaned towards him and buried his nose in his hair, nudging him.

“You…were really worried, huh,” Bakugou muttered into red hair, more of a statement than a question.

Kirishima’s eyes pinched, a rough breath shuddering out of him as he felt Bakugou’s breath against his head. “Yeah,” he whispered, screwing his eyes shut and just feeling Bakugou’s warmth. “I was really worried. I thought—I couldn’t—”

Bakugou turned his hand over to wrap around Kirishima’s, giving a small squeeze with what was probably a huge amount of effort, given the state of his hand. Kirishima felt like kicking himself, for being so weak. For being the one trembling and shrinking when it was Bakugou who was kidnapped and hurt and had almost died. For being the one Bakugou, of all people, was comforting, while his hand was hurting and could barely move and he still let Kirishima hold it. Bakugou pressed his forehead onto Kirishima’s head, breathing in time with him, just that solid, warm weight that Kirishima needed—to be reassured that Bakugou was there, he was alive, and he was with him.

“I’m sorry,” Kirishima breathed, swallowing down the lump that keeps forming in his throat. “I’m sorry—”

“Okay, that’s it,” Bakugou grumbled, and suddenly Kirishima felt Bakugou move away from him, only to come crashing right back in the form of a huge head butt right onto the back of Kirishima’s head.

The impact seemed to reverberate through Kirishima’s skull, and they both yelped and jerked back, groaning.

“Goddamn thick-headed asshat motherfucker,” Bakugou cursed, face crumpled in anger and pain.

Kirishima felt tears cling to the corners of his eyes, one hand immediately flying up to hover over his undoubtedly bruising head. “That hurt,” he wailed, looking at Bakugou with a crumply face.

“Feel better now, Shitty Hair?!” Bakugou asked angrily.

Kirishima blinked at him, feeling his head throb and somehow clear out at the same time. Bakugou was glaring at him, eyes edged with just the smallest bit of concern, and Kirishima couldn’t see anything else.

A smile pulled at his lips, and then he was laughing, feeling as if the weight of the world was just lifted off his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said between chuckles. “Yeah, everything’s alright now.” Bakugou clicked his tongue, looking just mildly disgusted at Kirishima’s stupid laughing, not once moving to let go of his hand.

Kirishima just laughed and laughed, some tears clumsily escaping his lashes, and continued to hold the hand that had reached out to him. When he had calmed down, his smile was wide and wonky and Bakugou was still looking at him, huffing.

“You’re really cool, Bakugou,” Kirishima said, slowly flipping Bakugou’s hand over to get to bandaging it.

“Damn straight,” Bakugou snorted. “I’m the coolest.”

Kirishima just laughed again, and he didn’t miss the way a corner of Bakugou’s lips quirked up. It made his chest sing with warmth and his smile grow even wider. “That you are,” Kirishima chuckled, shaking his head. He dabbed some gel over Bakugou’s wounds and started to wrap it up with the bandages, smiling all the while. He peered up at Bakugou from under his lashes, crooked smile still in place. “Tell me if it hurts, alright? Or if it’s too loose or too tight.”

Bakugou’s eyes flickered away. “S’good,” he muttered, and it was then that Kirishima noticed his cheeks dusting a faint red. He wasn’t sure if it was from exerting himself or the head butt earlier or something else, but all Kirishima could think was cute.

“Ah, good,” Kirishima smiled, staring for a few beats before turning back to Bakugou’s hand.

“You seem used to that,” Bakugou said.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I sometimes volunteer here,” Kirishima replied.

“That why you’re so chummy with the broads?”

Kirishima chuckled, glancing briefly at Bakugou, who was scowling at him (cute, Kirishima thought again). “You mean the nurses?” he laughed. “Yeah, some of them know me, so.”

Bakugou let out a grunt, tilting his head in a way that made the light catch in his eyes and hair and make him just—glow. Kirishima felt his breath hitch and his heart start to thump out of time, and he bit his lip, distractedly trying to finish his bandaging.

“Hey.”

Kirishima nearly jumped. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”

Bakugou scowled. “No. I said it’s fine. Just…”

“Just…?” Kirishima raised an eyebrow.

Bakugou glared really hard at him, cheeks darkening further. After a few moments of low grumbling, Bakugou snarled and turned away. “Never mind. Fuck off.”

Kirishima pouted, brows furrowing. “Well now I’m curious. It’s not about the bandages?”

“I said fuck off,” Bakugou spat. “It’s not about the bandaging, goddammit.”

“Then what is it??” Kirishima asked. “I’m so curious now, dammit, don’t leave me hanging.”

“I said never mind, fuckface!” Bakugou growled, looking like he was about to bite Kirishima’s nose off.

Kirishima’s lip jutted out further, finishing up with Bakugou’s bandages. “Boo,” he complained, eyebrows knotting. “You’re no fun.”

“Fuck you,” Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Why don’t we talk about something else.”

“Like?” Kirishima firmly secured the bandages and smiled at his handiwork.

“Like which fucktards fucking drew shit on my cast,” Bakugou squinted at him.

Kirishima felt the blood drain from his face, smile going completely askew. His eyes briefly flickered to Bakugou’s right arm, wrapped in a cast that was filled with various doodles from the different students of Class 1-A. “Uh, well, haha, funny story.”

“I better fucking laugh then,” Bakugou rumbled.

Kirishima bit his lip, unable to smother his nervous and happy grin, because Bakugou was there, looking at him like he wanted to kill him, and he still held his hand.

Chapter Text

“What happened to you?!”

Ashido’s mouth hung open, eyes wide like Uraraka’s. Kirishima grimaced sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck as his classmates stared at the huge patch of gauze on his forehead.

“Bakugou happened,” Kirishima said, grinning.

His classmates seemed to light up, a mix of sighs and snorts and laughter filling the room. Kaminari chuckled, peering at the still obvious lump on Kirishima’s forehead. “Head butt?”

Kirishima nodded. “Head butt.”

“Of course Bakugou would head butt a guy who can harden,” Sero snorted.

“I think he was just one head butt short of giving me a concussion,” Kirishima sniggered, wincing a little.

“Of course,” Ojiro sighed.

“Sounds like he’s recovered, then,” Kaminari huffed, smiling.

Kirishima’s hand twitched, his smile faltering for a split second. He could still remember the weight of Bakugou’s hand, the way their hands fit neatly against each other, and the way Bakugou’s fingers shook with the effort of just trying to give Kirishima’s hand a squeeze. Kirishima had wanted to hold Bakugou’s hand as tight as he could, but he instinctively held back, and he’s been left with that small nagging desire to want to just—keep holding Bakugou’s hand. Even though he knew that once Bakugou’s recovered—and he will recover—Kirishima didn’t have any more excuses to hold it.

“Almost,” Kirishima told them. “Still sleeps a lot because of his treatment, but the nurses are already trying to kick him out of the hospital.”

“Pfft,” Kaminari snickered. “Giving them hell already, huh?”

“Look what he did to my head,” Kirishima complained, pointing at it.

“Well the cast thing was your idea,” JIrou smirked, poking his forehead.

“Ow,” Kirishima pouted, defending the sore spot with both his hands.

“Aren’t you glad though?” Uraraka beamed, pressing her fingers together with a little bounce.

Kirishima couldn’t help but think of Bakugou’s red cheeks and disgruntled huffing, and the little squeezes he gave Kirishima’s hand. He smiled, bright and real. “Yeah, I am.”

That afternoon, Uraraka, Iida, and Midoriya go with him to the hospital. They run into Recovery Girl on the elevator, and Midoriya bows out of their visit in favor of consulting with her (“Kacchan wouldn’t want to see me, anyway,” he said with a sheepish smile). Iida went along with him, pushing Kirishima on. Kirishima could hear Midoriya discussing things about Quirks being affected by damage to relevant body parts or areas, and a corner of Kirishima’s lips twitched up, feeling a small swell of warmth for the amount of care and concern that was being directed to Bakugou, even if he’d never admit to liking it.

Several nurses greeted Kirishima along the way, and as much as he liked them, he grew antsier the more he was stopped for a greeting. He wanted to see Bakugou. All throughout class Kirishima could only think of Bakugou confined in the hospital alone, just stuck there in that room with his arms bandaged up and unable to move. Bakugou thrashing in bed, gasping from nightmares that clung to him even after it was over. Bakugou fighting by himself. Alone.

Kirishima wanted to be with him.

“Oh—” Uraraka chirped beside him.

Kirishima turned to look at her, steps faltering just a moment. Uraraka had slowed down to a stop, one hand floating up to hover over her mouth, eyes just a little bit wider. Kirishima raised a brow at her, eyes shifting to follow her gaze when she blinked and shook her hands. “Ah sorry, you can go on ahead, Kirishima,” she said, walking up to him and nudging him forward.

“Oh, uh, what?” Kirishima stammered, letting himself get pushed while trying to move his focus. He turned to where Uraraka was looking and spotted two people by the nurse’s station—a woman and her daughter, consulting with the nurse by the desk.

Uraraka pushed him insistently. “Just go ahead,” she chuckled. “You want to see him as soon as possible, right?”

Kirishima’s cheeks went red, and he sputtered, rubbing the back of his neck and laughing nervously. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Silly,” Uraraka gave him a light shove, making him stagger forward a few steps. “I’ll be with you in a bit.”

Kirishima nodded, walking a few steps then jogging the rest of the way, all while trying to calm the heat in his face. His heart couldn’t help but beat excitedly at seeing Bakugou again, and it all but jumped when he did see him, sleeping quietly under the golden afternoon light and looking like a small sun. Kirishima felt his breath catch and his feet just carry him forward, until he was standing over Bakugou and just—staring.

The light seemed to caress Bakugou’s features in the softest of ways, making him glow and look as golden as the nearing sunset. Kirishima didn’t know how long he’d stared at a quietly sleeping Bakugou, but when Bakugou’s eyebrows twitched and wrinkled, Kirishima seemed to snap out of it. Bakugou’s brows knotted, his jaw clenching and his shoulders going rigid, and his head jerked to one side as he started to pant, as if he were struggling with something in his head.

Kirishima immediately reached out, wrapping his hand around Bakugou’s and giving a squeeze. Sure enough, Bakugou’s palm was prickling with warmth even under the layers of bandages, and Kirishima winced when it heated enough to reach his skin.

“Hey,” Kirishima whispered, leaning close to thread his fingers through Bakugou’s hair, stroking it soothingly. “It’s okay. You’re not alone.”

He gave Bakugou’s hand a small squeeze, smoothing back the hair over his forehead. Bakugou’s hand gripped back, almost shakily, and Kirishima slowly bent low to press his own forehead over Bakugou’s, whispering “I’m here” and “You’re not alone” over and over, until Bakugou calmed

For some time he just stayed there, quietly pressing his forehead on Bakugou’s, both of them breathing in sync. After a while, Kirishima lifted his head to look at Bakugou. There was still a small knot at his brow, but he was breathing more steadily, calmly. Kirishima sighed, bringing his hand back to stroke Bakugou’s hair, pushing back the bangs over his forehead and letting himself smile, just a little, because he was able to help Bakugou somehow, if only by holding his hand.

Kirishima’s cheeks warmed, just watching Bakugou. For a long moment he just stared as Bakugou’s breathing went deep and even, and the crinkle in his forehead smoothened out.

And Kirishima thought I like him.

He swallowed against the feeling of his chest singing with warmth and feeling like it was glowing. He likes Bakugou. If he could, he’d always hold his hand even if it meant getting burnt. And if he would be so lucky, he’d stay by Bakugou’s side and make sure he’d never have to fight and suffer alone again.

I really like him.

All the feelings seem to swell up inside him, and before he could think twice, Kirishima bent forward, just short of tentative, and brushed his lips over Bakugou’s forehead. It was a soft press of lips, just a couple of seconds long, and Kirishima pulled back, cheeks warming rouge.

He tangled his fingers in Bakugou’s hair again, sliding down to cradle his cheek, and whispered, softly, “Hey, Bakugou?” his lips curled into a smile. “I like you.”

The sound of the door clicking open made Kirishima jump, hand reeling back as he quickly twisted to look over his shoulder. Uraraka stuck her head in the opening and peered at him and Bakugou, then opened her mouth, closed it, then whispered a little loudly, “Um, sorry, could you come here for a bit, Kirishima-kun?”

Kirishima blinked a few times, feeling his heart rate try to calm down from the surprise. He glanced back at Bakugou, then slowly moved to pull his hand away, nodding at Uraraka.

“You okay?” Uraraka asked when he reached the door. “You’re all red.”

Kirishima almost stumbled as he followed her out. “Y-yeah, you surprised me, s’all.”

“Oh, sorry,” Uraraka chirped, but her eyes seemed to sparkle with a kind of knowing.

“What is it...?” Kirishima started to ask, but stopped at the sight of the mother and child from earlier just some ways from the room. The little girl was holding a small shock of yellow flowers and a medium-sized envelope in her arms, and she looked up at Kirishima with bright eyes that were tinted with small bits of recognition.

Uraraka stepped to one side, gesturing to them. “This is Hanae-san and her daughter, Mika,” she introduced. “And this is Kirishima Eijirou-kun,” she told them in turn.

Kirishima gave a confused little bow, as they did. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why they both seemed familiar, despite him having never met them before. But then Uraraka continued, “They’re the people Bakugou…”

“Baku-nii saved us!” the little girl—Mika—bounced, brown hair fluffing with the action.

“Oh…” Kirishima processed, then his eyes gradually widened. “Oh.”

The mother—Hanae-san—hugged her daughter to her side and bowed her head. “I—we wanted to come by to thank him personally,” she said, and she looked straight at Kirishima with strong eyes. “He saved our lives.”

Kirishima swallowed, feeling his heart clench. Hanae-san held her gaze, expression a tinge apologetic, until her lips curled softly into a sad smile. “We’re the reason he’s hurt.”

“Hey, no,” Kirishima blurted, and immediately put a hand over his mouth. Hanae-san’s eyebrows went up at him, and Kirishima mentally kicked himself for being impolite. “Sorry uh, don’t tell him that, alright? Don’t even mention it, please.”

When they stared at him confusedly, and Uraraka elbowed his side, Kirishima felt his cheeks warm, giving himself another kick for being a brat. “It was his choice,” Kirishima said. “It—he didn’t—it wasn’t for you?” he tried, flapping his hands around. He groaned, face ruddy, “Argh um, I mean—”

“It’s because he’s a hero!” Mika supplied, raising her hand.

Kirishima blinked, eyebrows shooting up. Then his lips curled into a smile and he bent down to grin at Mika. “That’s right,” he said, ruffling her hair. “It’s because he’s a hero.”

Mika beamed, and her smile was the kind of smile that made the world seem like a better place. Kirishima felt his heart expand at the thought that she could still smile because of Bakugou.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Hanae-san spoke, her smile just a bit brighter. Kirishima sheepishly smiled back, rubbing the back of his neck, when suddenly Mika’s small hands wrapped around his and turned it over.

“Your hand,” Mika pointed out, softly poking at the little red marks left by Bakugou’s Quirk.

“Mika,” Hanae-san chided, petting her daughter’s head.

“S’alright,” Kirishima waved. He knelt down and smiled at her.

“Is it okay?” Mika asked.

“Sure is,” Kirishima answered, flexing his hand for effect. “I’m strong, you know?”

Mika giggled, looking up at him and giving his hand a little squeeze. “I know! You saved Baku-nii!”

Kirishima blinked at her. “Oh, you saw me?”

She nodded a few times, squeezing at his hand playfully. “You were really cool! Baku-nii took this hand!”

Kirishima flushed, smile widening all crooked and happy and sheepish. “Thank you for helping him!!” Mika continued to beam, shaking his hand up and down gleefully.

“Thank you so much,” Hanae-san echoed. Kirishima sputtered and laughed nervously. “Because of you, we have the chance to thank him.”

“It was a team effort,” Kirishima flailed, his hand still held in between two small ones that Bakugou had saved. He could only really think amazing, because Bakugou was a hero, and these people were here for him.

“You were really cool, Kiri-nii!!” Mika gushed, and she played with his hand until she hugged it along with the flowers and her envelope.

“Whoa, careful with those flowers,” Kirishima tilted around, bringing his other hand to playfully ruffle Mika’s hear. “Is all that for Bakugou?”

“Yep!” she bounced, jumping away and hugging her little gifts. “I want to thank him!”

“That’s really sweet,” Kirishima beamed, petting down her hair and poking her nose. He glanced up at Hanae-san. “He’s still sleeping though, and I’m not sure when he’ll wake up.”

“Oh,” Hanae-san pouted. She looked down at a similarly pouting Mika, who was still bouncing around with excitement. “Is it okay to see him for a little, then…?”

“Actually, I think he’s awake,” Uraraka chimed in, somehow already there by the door and peering in.

Both Kirishima and Mika brightened up at that, and Mika all but started jumping in place at how excited she was getting. “Canwecomein?” she chanted.

Kirishima ruffled her hair, standing up and letting her hold his hand. “Sure thing. Bakugou’s a grumpy little nugget though, so please excuse him if he’s all angry and mean.”

Mika giggled into her flowers, and the yellow on them turned orange, just as her hair seemed to color a reddish brown. Kirishima looked in wonder, and Uraraka gasped happily. “What a pretty Quirk!” she complimented.

Mika blushed, smiling sheepishly. “Thank you,” she said. “I still can’t control it good.”

“Her hair hasn’t returned to its original color in a while,” Hanae-san supplied fondly.

Kirishima chuckled, fluffing her hair as he led her to the door. “Whatever your color is, you’re still very cute,” he grinned. She blushed a little harder, and Uraraka smothered a little giggle in her hand, coughing out a muffled “Kirishima-kun’s such a flirt,” to which Kirishima snorted at.

“Bakugou?” Kirishima called into the room, keeping Mika at his side and giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. He heard the soft blipping of the heart rate monitor go a tad faster, and found Bakugou blinking back sleep as he turned to look at him. When their eyes met, Kirishima felt his own heart rate pick up.

“Shitty Hair,” Bakugou spoke roughly.

“Hello to you too, sunshine,” Kirishima shook his head, unable to stop his smile. Mika was peeking from behind his leg, vibrating in place. “Some people are here to see you.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed, but when he caught sight of Mika clutching at Kirishima, his eyebrows climbed up, recognition flooding his eyes.

“Go on,” Kirishima urged Mika. Behind her, Hanae-san put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and gently nudged her forward, and Kirishima and Uraraka stepped aside for them.

“We should probably give them some privacy,” Uraraka whispered, tugging at the hem of Kirishima’s shirt.

“Okay,” he agreed, but he was still watching as Hanae-san and Mika approached Bakugou, who was surprisingly passive towards them, eyeing the little ball of sunshine that was Mika bouncing up and down at him. His eyes briefly flickered over to Kirishima, making him jump a little, and Kirishima gave a small wave and offered a smile before slowly stepping back and following Uraraka out.

He quietly shut the door behind him and walked to the adjacent wall, standing beside Uraraka. There were only the sounds of beeping and chatter, and the distant hum of the city outside. The sun cast a pretty light into the hospital, making everything warm and golden, and Kirishima thought of the way Bakugou was just as bright and explosive as the sun slowly setting in the horizon. He thought of Bakugou’s hands, rough and powerful, flared open and spattered with explosions as he fought. He thought of the way Bakugou’s hand had wrapped around his, firm and strong, and just a tiny bit fragile as he held on. Kirishima looked at his palm, dotted with red from Bakugou’s Quirk, and could still feel the way Mika’s small hands pressed them—and he thought of how Bakugou had saved her.

I like him, Kirishima thought. I really like him.

“Bakugou-kuns pretty amazing, huh,” Uraraka spoke, looking down at the floor where light and shadow seemed to dance on tile. “I mean, of course he’s amazing—he’s third in class and won the sports festival and everything, but…you know?”

Kirishima smiled, curling his hand into a fist. He could still remember the weight of Bakugou’s hand over his, and the warmth of holding it. “Yeah, I know.”

“You guys are amazing too,” Uraraka said, tucking her hands behind her back and wringing them together. “You and Momo-chan and iida-kun and Todoroki-kun and Deku-kun went there and rescued him.”

Kirishima exhaled, fist clenching a little tighter. “Yeah, but we were just a bit late. We barely did it.”

“But you still did,” Uraraka countered. “And that’s more than the rest of us did.”

Kirishima turned to Uraraka, and her face was a little crinkled with sadness and regret, her lip snagged between her teeth. “You tried to stop us,” Kirishima said. “You also knew how Bakugou would feel. You understood the situation and considered his feelings. You were being a proper hero.”

Uraraka’s head jolted up to look at him, her eyes wide and brows knotted. Her lip was trembling just slightly, and she looked like she was about to argue, but then she deflated, ducking her head and leaning back into the wall. After a few beats, she tilted to one side and dumped her head onto Kirishima’s shoulder, muttering, “You suck.”

Kirishima tried not to shake her too much as he snickered, patting Uraraka’s head, “I know, I know.”

Uraraka sighed, moving away and then decidedly slapping her cheeks. “Okay, I’m good,” she said, just as the door to Bakugou’s room opened and Hanae-san was stepping out, turning back to bow as she thanked Bakugou again. Mika bowed afterwards and stuck her hand in the air, waving wildly as she yelled ‘thank you’ about three times and said ‘bye bye’ for two. Her hair had turned the color red and the bottom of her mother’s skirt was suddenly tinted pink.

“Give this to him, will ya?” Uraraka poked Kirishima, handing him a small lunch box. He accepted it without thinking, and Uraraka gave him a soft punch on the shoulder as she moved towards Mika and her mother. “I’ll walk them out.”

“Thank you again, Kirishima-kun,” Hanae-san said, bowing low.

“Thank you, Kiri-nii!” Mika beamed, giving a small bow of her own. “I’ll see you around!”

Kirishima nodded with a smile. “Sure thing, I’ll see you around.” He ruffled her hair and she giggled as she grabbed it with both hands, squeezed twice, and bounced away.

“See you in school,” Uraraka grinned, waving over her shoulder as she escorted them to the elevators.

Kirishima continued to wave at them until they were behind elevator doors, unable to really react any other way. He let out a sigh and raised a brow at Uraraka’s little gift, a corner of his lips quirking up, fond. He huffed and turned back into Bakugou’s room.

“M’coming in,” he called lightly, strolling into the room like he’d been living there for weeks.

“Fuck off,” came the reply.

Kirishima laughed, going ahead and plopping himself onto the chair by Bakugou’s bedside. He scowled at Kirishima, and Kirishima only kept grinning, just happy to see Bakugou awake again.

A low growl grumbled under Bakugou’s breath, but he otherwise stayed down, hair fluffing around his face like it was exploding from the pillow under his head. The top half of Bakugou’s bed was inclined up just a little, and to one side, the overbed table had a tray of barely-touched hospital food on it. The small container Yaoyorozu created for Bakugou’s tofu was on the bedside table, and Kirishima smiled when he saw that it was empty. Next to it was a vase of new red flowers, and the letter Mika had brought was resting over Bakugou’s lap, unopened.

“Want me to open it?” Kirishima asked, briefly glancing at Bakugou’s bandaged hands.

“Fuck no, I can fucking open it myself,” Bakugou snarled.

“But your hands…”

“Did I say I’d open it right now, dipshit?” Bakugou barked. “Just wait ‘til I get off these goddamn bandages and choke you myself.”

“Ooh, Bakugou-kun,” Kirishima gasped dramatically, putting a hand over his chest. “That’s kinky.”

Bakugou stared at him, eye twitching. “Oh my fucking—”

“I’m kidding, just kidding! Don’t explode anything please!” Kirishima yelped, flapping his hand and chuckling all the same. He brought his hand down to squeeze at Bakugou’s, and Bakugou grumbled, grinding his teeth.

After a beat, Bakugou narrowed his eyes and flipped Kirishima’s hand over, examining his palm. It was splotched red again, around the same places Bakugou’s bandages were burned at the palm. Bakugou’s nose wrinkled. “Fucking use your Quirk, goddammit.”

Kirishima flinched. “Oh, uh, oops?”

“’Oops’ my ass,” Bakugou spat. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”

“I think we’ve already established that, okay?” Kirishima rolled his eyes, snatching back his hand. “Anyway, this is from Uraraka.” He lifted the small lunch box like an offering.

Bakugou raised an eyebrow, frown etching deeper. “The fuck is that.”

“A gift!” Kirishima supplied, blinking quickly and then pulling up the lid to peek inside. “It’s mapo tofu!”

Bakugou’s brows went up, his eyes twinkling with interest. Kirishima could tell that he was hungry, and fought to smother the goofy grin that threatened to break out over his face. It was when Bakugou’s stomach made a tiny grumbling sound that Kirishima lost it, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back his snickers and failing.

“Fuck you,” was Bakugou’s knee-jerk response, and his stomach seemed to echo him with another growl.

“Here, you have to eat,” Kirishima offered, opening the lunch box lid and pulling out some chopsticks.

Bakugou stared at him as if he was really, truly dumb. “What.” Kirishima pouted, pinching a small piece of the meal and lifting it up. “How did you even eat the last one?”

Bakugou ground his teeth, eyes crunching up and frown pulling low. His stomach made another rumbling sound and he growled, letting out a rough groan before huffing and stubbornly opening his mouth with a small angry “Aah.”

Kirishima just then realized what exactly was happening, and his face went florid. He swallowed the sudden lump that lodged in his throat and leaned over to bring the bite towards Bakugou, and felt a new lump form when Bakugou’s lips wrapped around the chopsticks and pulled the tofu into his mouth.

Bakugou chewed and swallowed, inhaling through his nose with a satisfying hum. KIrishima felt his cheeks warm even more, lopsided smile twisting around his mouth, going even more crooked and distracted when Bakugou opened his mouth for another bite. Kirishima pinched another bit of the meal and fed it to Bakugou.

Gradually, the wrinkle in Bakugou’s brow smoothened, expression softening into one of contentment. Kirishima smiled warmly and continued to feed him until the lunch box was empty, and Bakugou huffed and laid back on his pillow, eyes fluttering closed.

“Water,” he said suddenly.

Kirishima raised an eyebrow, taking a beat to process what Bakugou meant. His face cracked into a grin when he realized, fist going over his mouth to muffle the snort and chuckle that bubbled up from his chest. “Yessir,” Kirishima saluted, turning to refill a glass with water. Bakugou glared at him from half-closed eyelids, but obediently tilted his head up to accept the drink, shutting his eyes as he gulped down the whole glass.

Through the whole thing, Kirishima felt his heart stutter and gallop away, his eyes getting pulled to the way Bakugou’s throat bobbed when he swallowed, and the way his lips wrapped around the rim of the glass. Kirishima wondered if they were soft, and promptly turned red in the face.

“So you liked the tofu?” Kirishima tried to stammer out, pulling the glass back and turning away to set it on the table.

Bakugou grumbled, thankfully looking away from him. “S’fine.”

Kirishima gasped. “Oh my god, Bakugou said it’s fine. It must be delicious.”

Bakugou jerked his head around to snarl at Kirishima. “Fuck you, shithead.”

Kirishima laughed, poking Bakugou’s cheek happily. “I’m glad you liked it,” he said honestly.

Bakugou snarled with a disgruntled grumble, shifting around to bury his head deeper into the pillow. Eyes fluttering closed, he weakly lifted his left hand and reached over to brush his fingers over Kirishima’s, making him startle. Bakugou didn’t seem to notice and nudged at Kirishima’s hand, and Kirishima slowly turned it over for him. Bakugou’s fingers pressed soft touches over his palm, feather light and gentle, and Kirishima had to suppress a shudder from the contact, cheeks going ruddy.

Bakugou’s touch was barely there, but any more and Kirishima felt that his heart would burst. So he pressed upward, softly grabbing a hold of Bakugou’s hand. “I’ll um,” he cleared his throat. “I’ll go get a nurse to change your bandages.”

Bakugou’s hand tightened around Kirishima’s. “You do it,” he commanded.

Kirishima paused. “Wha.”

Bakugou glared at him, dropping his hand on Kirishima’s, palm up. “You do it.”

Kirishima blinked once. Twice. And then his lips curled up and he snickered, holding Bakugou’s hand and scooting closer to the bed. “What am I, your servant?”

“That’s right, peasant,” Bakugou huffed.

Kirishima burst out laughing, and he didn’t miss the way a corner of Bakugou’s lips quirked up, just a little. Kirishima stopped caring about how warm his face felt and just grinned, the happiest and lightest he’s felt in a long while, just sitting there holding Bakugou’s hand and thinking I like him.

“So,” Kirishima started, because he needed a distraction somehow. “What did those two tell you?”

Bakugou huffed, turning his head away to glance at his cast, letting his hand rest fully on Kirishima’s. “Just thanked me and shit.”

“‘And shit’,” Kirishima chuckled, carefully unwrapping Bakugou’s bandages. “Mi—the little girl was really excited to see you.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue. “Kept fucking bouncing all over the place. Noisy little shit.”

Kirishima snorted, pulling the rest of the bandages off and setting them aside, all without letting go of Bakugou’s hand. He subtly moved his fingers to stroke Bakugou’s palm, rough and sensitive and slowly healing, and Kirishima remembered how tight Bakugou had held on when Kirisihma called out to him; how warm and strong his hand was, perfectly fitting in his.

“You know,” he coughed, trying to steer his mind elsewhere. “Those flowers were originally yellow. At least when I first saw her. They matched your hair and everything.” Now they were as red as Kirishima’s hair, just about the same color Mika turned her own hair into.

Bakugou’s eyes flitted to the small vase of bright red flowers by his bedside, then to his cast, then back to Kirishima, looking at his face and then straight at his eyes. Bakugou shrugged. “S’better like that.”

Kirishima swallowed, feeling rather self-conscious, his cheeks flushing for some confounded reason. He gently rubbed some of the medicinal salve over Bakugou’s palm, his brain chugging at a staggering rate and unable to come up with anything else to say, because all he could think of was Bakugou’s hand and Bakugou’s eyes, the color of his hair and the strength of his gaze. He thought of Bakugou standing his ground against half a dozen villains, the way he grinned and growled and never backed down; the way he protected two people he didn’t know without so much as a second thought; the way he huffed and flushed and laughed and held Kirishima’s hand.

A hard bonk on Kirishima’s head snapped him out of his thoughts, and he gave a small yelp in surprise, lifting his head up to a frowning Bakugou. “Ow,” Kirishima whined.

“The fuck are you thinking so hard about,” Bakugou scoffed. “Your puny brain can’t handle it.”

Kirishima pouted, rubbing his head indignantly. “Was thinking about you actually.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted, quiet. Kirishima marveled a little at how Bakugou was just rendered speechless. “How you handled everything…took on all those villains…saved those two even when—” Kirishima swallowed, clearing his throat and stopping himself from gripping Bakugou’s hand too hard. “Everyone’s calling you brave.”

Bakugou was quiet, staring down at their hands with a small furrow in his brow. “I wasn’t brave,” he muttered.

Kirishima’s eyebrows went up, and he wanted to say something but one look at Bakugou’s expression made the words dry in his mouth. He wasn’t used to seeing Bakugou so reserved, much less admitting something that left him just that small tint vulnerable, but Kirishima wasn’t about to stop Bakugou from being the most open he’s ever seen him.

“Blew one of the fucker’s faces up on the get-go,” Bakugou continued, snarling. “Not like I had a solid escape plan, either—they were “recruiting” me and I didn’t fucking agree. Didn’t even think about getting out of there alive.” Bakugou snorted, crooked grin bitter and angry. ”I just wanted to take as much of them down before they did me in.”

Kirishima felt his chest clench and a shiver run down his spine, and he was staring at Bakugou but he was seeing that night—Bakugou surrounded by villains and fighting to keep from getting caught again; fighting so hard while holding onto that tiny sliver of hope that he was going to get out there alive. Kirishima thought of Bakugou not even having that inkling of ever being found in time, of just maybe not getting killed that night, yet still fighting everything that dared to bend him.

The thought of Bakugou not being there…of Kirishima being in a funeral instead of a hospital—or even Kirishima seeing Bakugou that night, bloody and bruised and barely breathing, and then fade, right there in his arms—

“Hey,” Bakugou snapped, knocking Kirishima’s head with his own. “Hey fucker, I’m right here. I’m not dead. Don’t lose your fucking shit again, fucker.”

A tear clung to the corner of Kirishima’s eye, and he blinked, staring at Bakugou with his lips parted and his hands trembling, squeezing hard at Bakugou’s hand. Bakugou’s brows were furrowed peculiarly, more out of an effort at smothering his concern with shallow annoyance. He looked at Kirishima like he was a very befuddling creature somehow found in his care, but didn’t do anything to push him away, even if it were simply because he didn’t know how to react.

Kirishima swallowed, forcing himself to loosen his grip on Bakugou’s hand but finding it very hard to. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m. Wow. Bakugou.”

Bakugou’s anger resurfaced, brow twitching with impatience. “The fuck.”

“Hey, Bakugou?” Kirishima tried, eyes completely locked onto Bakugou’s face, cataloguing every shift and detail as if trying to memorize everything that made Bakugou Bakugou.

“What.”

“Thanks for…” Kirishima swallowed that lump in his throat again. “Thanks for reaching out. That night.”

The confused wrinkle in Bakugou’s brow returned, deeper and more bewildered, laced with the clear annoyance of having such a baffling creature like Kirishima sticking next to him and babbling nonsense.

But instead of an outburst or any further violent reactions, Bakugou simply grumbled under his breath and let Kirishima pull his hand away. The glare he kept trained on Kirishima was like a smothered fire, flickering with uncertainty and confusion. Kirishima allowed himself to stare at Bakugou for some moments longer, pulling his lips into a smile, because yeah, Bakugou was there. He was alive, and Kirishima was going to make sure it stays that way for as long as he can.

Kirishima stood up. “I’ll go grab some extra bandages and some drinks. Want a sports drink? Coffee? My treat.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed, but he grumbled, “Sports drink.”

“Got it,” Kirishima beamed, reaching for the door handle. “And Bakugou?”

Bakugou kept glaring at him, so Kirishima continued as he stepped out of the room. “For the record…I didn’t think you were brave,” he said. “I just think…you’re strong. Yeah.” He flashed Bakugou a bright grin before giving a quick wave saying he’ll be right back, and quietly closing the door behind him.

Bakugou stared at the door for about a whole minute, quiet. And then he groaned, plopping his head back onto the pillow with a low growl. He stared up at the stupid white ceiling and the stupid sun casting light onto it, but all he could see was the image of Kirishima’s bright grin that seemed more dazzling than that light. Bakugou heaved his hand up over his eyes, feeling a dull pain course through it and immediately ignoring it. He flexed his hand as best he could, eye just twitching slightly in a wince from the pain, and glared at how the bandages felt just right. The image of Kirishima’s fingers—calloused, burnt in some places because of him—flashed through Bakugou’s mind, and he could practically feel the spot Kirishima had softly pressed his lips onto, like a phantom touch.

Bakugou growled and cursed under his breath, grinding his teeth and wanting to blow up the goddamn heart rate monitor beeping agitatedly like a fucker over his head.

(“Just stay with me.”)

He could see the stupid red flowers in the corner of his eye, and he wanted to blow them up for being that insufferable shade of red.

(“Katsuki.”)

He wanted to blow up his goddamn cast for fucking existing and having some assfuck doodle shits on them, and he wanted to blow up the bandages on his other hand for being so goddamn comfortable. Let that fucker hair-for-brains keep running around getting bandages and wrapping his hand over and over like a dipshit.

(“Because I care about you, obviously!”)

Bakugou grumbled, covering his eyes and hating the way his face felt so hot. He brushed his fingers over his forehead, at that spot where he felt a quiet, shaky breath ghosting over it and the soft press of lips that followed after it.

(“Hey, Bakugou?”)

His hand clenched, and it was painful. It hurt from all the effort, and it hurt from getting squeezed so tightly between trembling hands, as if Kirishima never wanted to let go. It hurt like shit, but to Bakugou, the feeling of those hands pulling away felt just that little bit worse.

(“I like you.”)

Smoke erupted from Bakugou’s palm, and the heat that radiated off of it tried to compete with the heat of his face. Bakugou cursed, biting his lip and screwing his eyes shut, seeing stupid grins and hearing stupid goddamn laughter and wanting to set off an explosion on his forehead for still keeping the feel of lips engraved onto it. Bakugou’s stupid perfectly wrapped bandages burnt, and he wanted to get the fuck out of the goddamned hospital but all he could think of was a bright smile and that stupid laugh, and the fucking thought of having those calloused, gentle hands holding his again.

“Fuck,” Bakugou growled.

Chapter Text

 It was a sight no one would forget for a long time: the ward, reduced to crumbling ruins and heaps of destruction, smoke and dust wafting from every crack and crater. Angry slashes of black were cast through the field, like scorched gashes of the battle, open wounds charred along the edges of every fracture.

In the arms of a woman barely awake, a small girl was sobbing amidst the rubble that trapped them, untouched by the charring slashes of the blasts and safe from the waves of heat singeing the air. In front of them, arms stretched out as a shield, was Bakugou: blonde hair tinted red, palms and fingertips coal black, and his whole right arm crumbling.

Every breath he took rasped like he was inhaling shards of broken glass, and blood covered half his face and dampened his clothes, but a grin was spread out across his lips, and there was nothing but fire in his eyes as he heard the shaking sobs of the girl behind him—alive—and watched his captors try to surround him.

His palms crackled unsteadily, a strange mix of numbness and pain enveloping his hands. He had very few options left to him, and his chances of escaping were dwindling down to impossible, but nothing could dull the burning in Bakugou’s eyes and the stubborn pumping of his heart. All his focus sharpened to the cries at his back, the pulse of his blood, and the forms of the villains inching closer to him.

Bakugou slid his left foot just half a step forward, and hunched down, ready to defend and attack at the same time. He had to put distance from the civilians behind him, but too much made them targets they could use to bring him—or worse, All Might—down.

Bakugou’s right arm shook. Both feeling and functionality were shot, and Bakugou could force some more blasts out of it but knew that it was going to cost him. He kept his right arm in the same position, because moving it would only make it give out, and no matter how hard it was trembling from the strain, it was better than letting his arm go limp and completely exposing that weakness. He would have to cover for his damaged side with his less damaged left, but the limited area in which he could afford to move narrowed down all his possible moves to merely a handful.

Bakugou snarled, widening his stance and shifting his left foot another fraction forward. Fuck mobility and his dying right arm. He had a goddamn job to do and there was no room for thinking about risking things for the future. There was only that moment, none of that future crap that wasn’t even happening—all Bakugou cared about was winning.

(Even though his back was small, it was the only thing standing between those two girls and the villains. And Bakugou was going to beat those goddamn villains to a bloody pulp.)

In the corner of his eye, a villain pounced. Bakugou let out a blast left and immediately twisted to blast the other direction. He ducked under a villain’s swing and surged up to shove him off his feet, then he let out a blast to the fucker’s stomach. The villain gasped, and Bakugou grabbed him and threw him at the other villain charging at him. Bakugou let loose another explosion to double the impact. And even without looking, he knew someone was coming in from his right side, thinking that he couldn’t use the weak-ass arm anymore.

Tough shit. Bakugou sidestepped and tore a blast from out of his right hand, aimed at the villain’s legs. Bakugou couldn’t suppress the wince at the roughness of the blast, and the stab of pain that rippled through his arm. Bakugou growled and let off another blast with his left hand, but then something sharp pierced his shoulder and pushed him back.

Bakugou let out a rough cry, staggering back as moist and warmth seared down his shoulder where the knife had hit. It proved to be the last nail, and Bakugou’s right arm fell limp at his side, completely spent. That one moment—just a couple of seconds—was all it took, and in an impulsive move, Bakugou twisted front, making as big a shield as he could with his body, and took a hit across his whole torso.

All he could manage was a choked gasp, rough and broken, and it was only sheer force of will that he instinctively kept standing. He fired a blast forward, the recoil sending him staggering back a few steps and gasping ragged. Without thinking, Bakugou blasted twice with his left, hyper-aware of the female villain with knives, and the pale one—covered in hands—trying to get close.

He felt like shit. He couldn’t even feel his arms and that made him feel shittier. His senses were slowed and his body was running on sheer force of will, but Bakugou couldn’t get it to cooperate with him any more than he’s already pushed it to. He struggled to keep his mind focused on making as much of his situation as he could, factoring in every detail he could perceive, visually or otherwise, and refused to let his increasingly useless limbs distract him.

Then there was a cry behind him, “Don’t lose—hero!”

And it was as if his blood had started to pulse in his veins again, igniting him. Bakugou’s mind was skirting around the endgame, but it was as if that cry cut through everything and made him just think ‘fuck it’. Fuck not being able to escape. Fuck reaching his limit. Fuck his goddamn uncooperative limbs. He didn’t have the luxury of worrying about useless shit. His life had been in danger the moment the villains stepped into their camp, so there really was no difference that he was standing in front of those two and fucking staying there.

So he grinned. “No fucking shit,” and he braced himself and forced his focus to sharpen at what he needed to do. “I always win.”

He ignored the searing pain coursing through his limbs, and only concentrated on keeping his feet firmly on the ground and not get blown back by the recoil of his own massive blast. There was only fire and black smoke, then an instant where a blur of clear blue something appeared in front of him, followed by a burst of steam. Bakugou stayed standing, keeping himself rooted on the spot in front of those two in the rubble, and saw his surroundings light up with white just as he turned to the civilians behind him. The little girl’s eyes were wide, bright red orbs, staring right at him with tears clinging to her lashes. The woman with her held her tight, trembling against the rubble that caged them, and for that moment Bakugou thought ‘they’re alive’, and immediately turned back to take stock of what the fuck was happening before his body completely gave up on him.

Then there was a flash of red, just like the girl’s eyes, and a voice, loud and clear and familiar, screaming, “COME!!”

And he saw him—Kirishima, hair down and red eyes somehow bright even in the night sky. Bakugou’s eyes widened, and he glanced at the two behind him again just as spikes of ice lifted the rubble that trapped them, and in a beat, Bakugou moved.

He forced blasts under him to propel him up, and grabbed the hand that reached out to him. He felt the solid squeeze back, and he was somehow soaring through the air, unable to take his eyes away from those big red ones that looked at him as if he were the most precious thing in the world. Bakugou wanted to blast those eyes, but instead settled for tightening his hold around the hand pulling his.

The rest was a clusterfuck of a blur. Bakugou blasted downwards to keep from splattering all over the ground, and somehow found himself being held close and protected from the impact of the shitty fall.

His heart was still hammering in his chest, and his body was completely burnt out, but there were arms around him holding him tight, and against his cheek there was a steady rise and fall of breathing that reminded him that he was alive. They both were.

Bakugou hissed when a small shift made a stab of pain ripple through him. Everything fucking hurt, and every movement felt like being branded by a goddamn molten frying pan. He forced his focus to the heartbeat pounding under the chest at his cheek, and the warmth that enveloped him and made him feel safe. He squeezed the hand he hadn’t let go of yet.

“You…fucking…idiot,” Bakugou rasped out.

There was a squeeze back, and the smallest shift as Kirishima spoke.

“I know. I’m an idiot. I’m the biggest fucking idiot alive and I’m sorry.”

Bakugou grunted, feeling like punching the idiot if he was even remotely able to lift his hand. He shifted his head and nuzzled into Kirishima’s collar, focusing instead on breathing, which had gotten exponentially more difficult and incredibly exhausting. It felt like shit to breathe, but Bakugou had to do it, so he followed the rise and fall of the chest under him and breathed.

“Hey, just stay with me, okay? I’m just—going to move a little.”

Bakugou flinched and sucked in a sharp breath, and just kept his mind on the fact that there were arms around him that held him like he wasn’t going to get hurt so long as he stayed there—and that he was alive.

“You’re going to be just fine,” Kirishima was saying, gripping the back of Bakugou’s shirt. Bakugou’s mind was fading real fast, so he ticked off a list: breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out; you’re alive; you’re safe; breathe in, Kirishima is there, breathe out…

“You fought so hard. You were amazing. You are amazing.”

Kirishima’s voice—focus on that—breathe in, breathe out.

“Shut…up…” he managed to spit out. He was losing feeling in his body, the pain was being consumed by numbness and Bakugou hated it more. The hand around his was what kept him afloat—was what made him know that he was still whole, somehow, and that he could still feel. When Bakugou felt and heard the light, airy chuckle right next to him, he felt his breathing come in a little easier, and his exhaustion coaxing him further into blackness. There was a soft press of something warm in his hair, breath fluttering amidst the locks, and Bakugou thought of red hair and red eyes and a hand that reached out to him

“Bakugou.” Fingers pressed between his shoulder blades, reminding him that he was alive. Bakugou couldn’t see, could barely smell or feel or hear, but somehow just that voice was clear, cutting into the black that was pulling Bakugou down further and further.

“Bakugou, Bakugou.”

Bakugou could feel more than see a brilliant shade of red, a bright light somewhere far off in his mind that spread warmth through him.

“Katsuki.”

Bakugou breathed, unable to do much of anything else. Breathe in, breathe out.

“Just stay with me, alright?”

Bakugou wanted to curse at something, to punch the chest under him, to say “I’m not going anywhere”—but he couldn’t, so with one last, stubborn push, he curled his fingers into Kirishima’s hand, and dreamt of warm red.

- - - 

The nightmares lessen, just a little.

There would be those flashes of the villains, of getting surrounded by that half dozen, or by hundreds. Bakugou’s arms would crumble, his Quirk would fail, his lungs would collapse, or his body would stop moving altogether.

Most of the time, there was black.

The fucking warp gate, the black smoke, the black shit that came pouring out of his mouth to steal him away. His vision would go black, his surroundings would be nothing but black. His hands, his arms, the eyes of the two he stood to protect, the nothingness he ran to when he attempted to escape—all black.

Bakugou got fed up of it all. He cursed and screamed in his dreams, and forced his hands to let out blasts. He fought. He fought his own goddamned mind and struggled as hard as he could, because he was sick and tired of drowning in black, black, fucking goddamn black.

“It’s okay. You’re not alone.”

Amidst all of that, Bakugou could hear him. Could hear the mantra of “I’m here” and “You’re not alone,” and feel the warmth that wrapped around his hand and grounded him. He could feel more than see the color of warmth, of blinding-ass smiling and bright red, of light laughter and the squeeze of a hand. Bakugou felt it reach out to him, poke at him and hold onto him, and Bakugou reached back. The black of his hands would fall away and he could feel warmth, and suddenly all the black gave way to light. 

Often, Bakugou would wake up to Kirishima by his side, gently nudging him from a nightmare or dozing off on the edge of the bed, head pillowed in his forearm. Other times, Kirishima would just wait on the chair, and poke his head in Bakugou’s face about fifteen seconds after Bakugou’s blinked awake. Kirishima would give that stupid blinding grin and greet Bakugou with the most infuriating amount of cheer.

Always, Kirishima would be holding Bakugou’s hand.

Not once has Bakugou told him to let go.

If Bakugou were asked to explain, it was because since the incident, he hasn’t been able to move his right hand and get his left to do what he fucking wants it to. The feeling in his arms was mostly dull pain, but otherwise there was just numbness, and the goddamn piece of shit struggle that was getting his hand to move. Kirishima holding onto his hand brought back feeling. It made Bakugou feel warmth and pressure in his weak-ass hand where there was barely anything. It seemed to zap his nerves to life and made him grind his teeth harder to fucking get his fingers to move—and he did, if only to squeeze Kirishima’s hand back.

What Bakugou would never say was that Kirishima holding his hand made him calm down. That it made his hand feel and it pulled him out of those stupid fucking nightmares. Bakugou would never say that holding Kirishima’s hand made him feel safe, or that it made him feel like he wasn’t going to get hurt or kidnapped or die so long as their hands were linked. Bakugou would never say that their hands fit nicely together, or that he didn’t want Kirishima to let go.

“Fuck you,” Bakugou muttered to Kirishima.

When Bakugou woke up after his energy-sucking treatment, he expected Kirishima to be there at his bedside. When he turned his head, however, he hadn’t expected to be met with Kirishima’s face, just inches from his.

Bakugou would have set off an explosion, or punched Kirishima’s nose, or knocked his head into Kirishima’s hard enough to crack their skulls—at least, if it weren’t for the fact that Bakugou was frozen in place, unable to do any of those things when he was completely stuck just staring at Kirishima’s face.

Up close, Bakugou could practically count Kirishima’s eyelashes, fluttering slightly as Kirishima slept. He could see the sharp line of the scar at the edge of Kirishima’s right eye, and the way his skin seemed so soft despite his Quirk. Kirishima’s breathing was soft and even, smudged against the white sheets that only made his disheveled red hair even redder.

Kirishima had a hand loosely wrapped around Bakugou’s, his arm trapped at an awkward position under his body, but otherwise looking like the most comfortable little shit Bakugou’s ever seen.

“Ka…tsuki…” Kirishima mumbled.

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed into slits, feeling his face warm and his blood start to boil. Kirishima’s hand twitched against Bakugou’s, and he shifted just enough to close the distance between their noses to mere centimeters.

“Fuck you,” Bakugou cursed under his breath, unable to move either way.

“Katski…” Kirishima continued to sleep talk. ”Ka…tsu…”

Bakugou wanted to pull his hair. He wanted to pull Kirishima’s stupid hair. And then burn all of it into ashes. Bakugou wanted to get off his damn ass and out of the fucking hospital bed after fuck knows how long it’s been. He didn’t even know how many days have passed since that night, how many fucking school days he’s missed and has to make the hell up for. All he could really remember were the days when Kirishima was there at his side, punctuated by the times Kirishima would rewrap his bandages or feed him food or laugh and smile.

Every other time, Bakugou was knocked out by the effects of Recovery Girl’s Quirk, and plagued by those fucking nightmares when he thought he was finally free of them. Waking up to blackness and dysfunctional breathing was goddamn annoying, and frustrated Bakugou after he somehow manages to pull himself out of it or just black out altogether. Apart from the times his parents would drop by and sneak him some food, Bakugou’s hospital experience so far was really just limited to those two: the goddamn nightmares, and Kirishima. Only one of those two was even remotely pleasant, so Bakugou tended to focus on that: on the feeling of Kirishima’s hand against his, the warmth of his presence, the brightness of his smile, the chime of his laughter, and the pull of his voice.

Often, when Bakugou was being wracked by those stupid nightmares that rattled his heart and suffocated him, Bakugou would almost instinctively think of warm red and a firm and gentle hand. He would hear the soft whispers of “I’m here”, “You’re not alone”, and “Katsuki”, and Bakugou would just—slip away from those nightmares, from all that black, and be pulled into calm warmth. Even then, as Kirishima mumbled his name in his sleep, Bakugou—after his initial fury—had settled into quiet seething, content with just staying there, even with the stupid too-close proximity to Kirishima’s face. He noticed the stupid way Kirishima’s hair stuck out of his head like horns, and the way his eyelashes were thicker at the corners of his eyes where they were pinched upward. Faintly, Bakugou could see a small difference in skin tone at the bridge of Kirishima’s nose, and vaguely wondered if it was because of his hero mask.

Kirishima shifted again, and this time the tip of his nose bumped with Bakugou’s, so in surprise and immediate retaliation, Bakugou reeled back and bit Kirishima’s nose.

Kirishima jolted, then his eyes flew open with a start. He let out a confused yelp and jerked back, blinking rapidly as he tried to dispel his sleep. His eyes were bleary as he tried to focus, face and nose scrunching in a way that made Bakugou want to bite him again, but then Kirishima’s hand went up to his reddening nose in confusion.

“Wha…” Kirishima blubbered, his eyes finding Bakugou’s easily. Bakugou’s frown etched deeper. “Katsu—Bakugou? Wh—did you just bite me?”

“Fuck you,” Bakugou said a third time.

“What the hell,” Kirishima whined, squirming around as he slowly pulled himself up. He seemed to unconsciously readjust his hand around Bakugou’s to fit more snugly, and Bakugou reflexively curled his fingers around Kirishima’s hand.

Kirishima rubbed his eyes with his one free hand, hair flattened on the one side he slept on. He blinked slowly, fixing his eyes onto Bakugou’s face with a look that made Bakugou’s cheeks suddenly warm. “How are you feeling?” Kirishima asked.

“Fuckin’ peachy,” Bakugou scoffed.

A chuckle bubbled out of Kirishima’s lips, and it was a sound that Bakugou wasn’t sure he wanted to burn or listen to over and over.

“That’s great,” Kirishima smiled. He glanced at their linked hands and lit up even more. “And you didn’t burn the bandages this time!”

Bakugou promptly burned the bandages.

“I spoke too soon,” Kirishima slumped, his hand still around Bakugou’s. “You jerk.”

After a few seconds, Bakugou felt Kirishima’s hardened palm return to normal. “That was fast.”

Kirishima stuck out his tongue. “You did tell me to use my Quirk.”

Bakugou scoffed at him, and Kirishima chuckled again, shifting around to stretch a little, and then pull out the spare bandages from the bedside drawer. He inched closer to the bed and lifted Bakugou’s hand, slipping his fingers from it to pull off the freshly burnt bandages.

Bakugou continued to frown, glaring up at Kirishima, who had a small, content smile on his face as he intently tended to Bakugou’s hand for the nth time. Bakugou couldn’t quite get the weird itching he felt in his stomach, or why he wasn’t really angry but still somewhat worked up. He felt fidgety, just watching Kirishima, and felt small pinpricks of warmth tingle through his skin wherever Kirishima’s fingers brushed him. Bakugou’s brows knit tight, more annoyed at himself than anything else.

“Let’s let your hand breathe for a bit,” Kirishima mused, taking a closer look at Bakugou’s palm as he softly ran his thumb over the skin. Bakugou had to fight a shiver from the contact. “It’s healed up pretty well—I think you won’t need bandages soon.”

The way Kirishima stroked Bakugou’s palm and pressed gentle touches all over it made Bakugou purse his lips. When Kirishima used both his hands to hold his, Bakugou grit his teeth, mentally threatening the fluttering in his stomach to cut it the fuck out or else. “I learned a thing from one of the nurses,” Kirishima said casually. “Tell me if you don’t like it.”

His eyes flickered briefly to Bakugou’s before he returned his focus to softly massaging Bakugou’s arm. Kirishima’s hand slid up and pressed down, squeezing in different places and sending waves of warmth and comfort at every touch. A sigh escaped Bakugou’s lips, unbidden, and Kirishima’s smile widened at the positive reaction, continuing to knead Bakugou’s muscles and send those electric sparks through his skin. He gently twisted Bakugou’s wrist and pushed his palm against Bakugou’s, tilting it back so that their fingers pointed up. Slowly, Kirishima’s fingers slipped in between Bakugou’s, and Kirishima gave a soft push to stretch Bakugou’s hand backwards.

A lump formed in Bakugou’s throat, and he just stared, dumbfounded, at how their fingers were intertwined and palms pressed so closely to each other. Kirishima tugged his hand forward, then pushed back again, causing a pleasant stretch to Bakugou’s weakened hand, keeping his fingers warmly between Bakugou’s own.

There was a moment, just a quick split second, when Kirishima seemed to catch Bakugou’s look and realize exactly what he was doing. Almost just as quickly, Kirishima’s eyes went wide and his ears were tipped red. His hand stayed frozen where it was, twined with Bakugou’s, for a few seconds longer before Kirishima coughed lightly and slowly moved to pull away, giving a light squeeze with his fingers that sent off gentle waves of warm pressure that coursed down Bakugou’s forearm. Bakugou couldn’t hold back another soft sigh, feeling his shoulders loosen and his hand relax, completely pliant in Kirishima’s hold.

“Again,” Bakugou said.

Kirishima blinked at him. “What?”

“Do that again.”

Kirishima spent a few seconds processing what Bakugou was saying, blinking owlishly at him. His cheeks tinted a more vibrant red before he swallowed and gave a tiny nod, the corners of his lips quirking up in ill-concealed delight. Bakugou somehow felt his own cheeks start to heat up in response as he turned his head away from Kirishima with a huff.

The way Kirishima’s hand was massaging Bakugou’s felt good. It was soothing, and gave off pleasant ripples of warmth at every rub, as if the sun were gently caressing his skin and banishing the pain underneath it. Bakugou found his eyes drifting back to Kirishima’s face, watching the shitty redhead and the way his eyes seemed to twinkle just as brightly as his smile. Kirishima’s hands weren’t smooth, and they were littered with some hard chunks of callouses and scars, but they were still somehow soft and felt good around Bakugou’s hand. The warmth they gave off and the snug way they wrapped around Bakugou’s hand calmed him to the point of almost getting lulled to sleep, and for the nth time since that night, Bakugou didn’t want him to let go.

“Hey Bakugou?” Kirishima spoke up.

“Hn?” Bakugou grunted.

“Can I ask you for a favor?”

Bakugou narrowed his eyes at Kirishima, but didn’t say anything. A few beats passed, then Kirishima continued. “Can you tutor me?”

Bakugou’s brows immediately knotted. “Hah?”

Kirishima gripped Bakugou’s hand between his own. “You’re like, really smart! And there’s a test coming up and I really don’t want to fail it!”

“Then fucking study, dipshit.”

“I’m horrible at it!” Kirishima pleaded, leaning closer towards Bakugou with big bright eyes and a troubled knit to his brow. “Please?”

At the blatant puppy dog eyes and the decreasing distance between them, Bakugou grimaced. Inside, deep inside, Bakugou knew that he…owed Kirishima. More than Bakugou would ever care to admit. He would even go so far as to say that in one way or another, Kirishima has been saving him, since the time he’d reached out to Bakugou from the fucking sky, to every single day he’d visited. Kirishima has been saving Bakugou over and over, no matter what anyone—not even Bakugou himself—would say.

Bakugou’s hand twitched in Kirishima’s, and they’d been wrapped in bandages for so long that being free of them would have made everything feel a bit colder, if it weren’t for Kirishima’s hands firmly curled around it. Bakugou stared at their hands, and then at Kirishima’s eyes, and had to pull his gaze away before the blood could rise up to his face.

”…Fine.”

It was as if Bakugou’s Quirk had transferred over to Kirishima when he practically exploded in his seat with excitement. “Yess!” Kirishima whooped, oozing joy and energy so much that Bakugou could feel it roll off of him in waves.

Bakugou rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath, and resisted the upward pull of his lips. Kirishima was thanking him repeatedly, vibrating in his seat out of pure excitement, and Bakugou rolled his eyes at him again.

“You know what!” Kirishima announced, giving Bakugou’s hand a tender squeeze. “I’ll go ask the nurses if it’s okay to not bandage your hand. I bet it feels suffocating for you.”

Bakugou’s eyes widened a fraction as he turned to look at Kirishima. Bakugou’s Quirk did come from his palms, so that much was common sense, but that Kirishima brought it up made Bakugou feel that small warmth in his chest glow.

Kirishima gave Bakugou’s hand another squeeze, then pulled his hands back, deliberately, as if to keep their skin brushing as long as possible before they were apart. Bakugou had to suppress a shudder at the electric contact, and watched as Kirishima stood to leave.

“I’ll be right back!” Kirishima grinned, dusting off his shirt and sidestepping away from his seat.

Bakugou grunted with a nod, and Kirishima let out an amused, fond little chuckle that made Bakugou want to chuck the vase of flowers at his face. Kirishima continued to giggle as if he completely read Bakugou’s intentions, and made sure to scurry towards the door with unsubtle haste.

Kirishima gave a small two-fingered salute over his shoulder before slipping out the room, and Bakugou’s eyes followed him until the door closed with a gentle click. For all his grumbling and glaring, Bakugou couldn’t—quite—focus on anything but the lingering feeling of warmth around his hand, and the small dip and wrinkle in the sheets where Kirishima had slept. Part of Kirishima’s hair was still squashed on that one side, and brought back the memory of Kirishima’s red hair styled down instead of it’s usual everywhere-else. It was dark that time, but the color red had stood out, had framed Kirishima’s face and lit up his eyes. Bakugou felt his fingers twitch at the feeling of wanting to thread them through red hair, maybe combing it down or tying it back…

Bakugou slowly curled his left hand into a fist. (It really did feel a bit colder.)

“Fuck you,” Bakugou muttered under his breath.

- - -

Kirishima liked to think he was an approachable guy. He loves people, and wanted to fight for them and protect them as much as he could. He loved to chat and smile and laugh with others, really—he rarely couldn’t not respond to anyone calling out to him or asking him something—but sometimes he found all those traits of his just a bit…troublesome for him.

Kirishima would say sometimes, but really it was every time he was in the hospital visiting. Nurses and patients and doctors would wave to him and strike up a conversation, maybe ask him for some help, and Kirishima liked them, he really did, but his patience seemed to run low when he just really wanted to return to Bakugou’s room.

“Ei-kun!” a nurse—Chiyo-san—was the sixth to greet him in that floor’s corridor alone. “How’s Bakugou-kun doing?”

Kirishima smiled, balancing the two drinks he’d just bought on one arm to flash a thumb’s up. “All good! I tried the thing you taught me for his hand and he seemed to like it!”

Chiyo-san put her hands together happily. “That’s great! I’m glad.”

“It’s a good thing you’re here, Ei-kun,” another nurse—Shin-san—popped in. “You’re the only one who can handle him.” His mouth twisted up just thinking about Bakugou.

Kirishima chuckled. “Nah, you guys have been doing a good job so far!”

“No no no,” Hinata-san, another nurse, chimed in. “We’re lucky that Recovery Girl’s treatment zaps his energy, or else our jobs would be in danger because of him. You’re the only one he responds to so positively, Ei-kun.”

“He wouldn’t even let us touch his bandages,” Shin-san groaned.

“We’ll treat you to some ramen sometime, alright?” Hinata-san said, putting a hand on Kirishima’s shoulder. “Honestly I don’t know what we’d have done if you weren’t here. Bakugou-kun is…difficult.”

Kirishima flushed, laughing sheepishly. “Well that part you got right. But I’m glad I get to help somehow?”

“You’ve been a huge help, both for us and for Bakugou-kun,” Chiyo-san told him, sticking her hand in Kirishima’s hair and fondly ruffling it. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Kirishima felt his cheeks warm even further, hands clenching around the phantom warmth from Bakugou’s hand. “I’m the lucky one,” Kirishima muttered.

“What was that?”

“I like tantanmen!” Kirishima grinned, flashing a peace sign.

The nurses blinked and snorted and chuckled at him, ruffling his hair and promising him ramen and smuggled desserts from the hospital cafeteria. Kirishima laughed and thanked them, somehow getting entrusted with Bakugou. Kirishima was sure his cheeks matched his hair the whole time, but the idea of being entrusted with the most explosive, incredible and strong flame that was Bakugou Katsuki sounded pretty damn nice, and made Kirishima’s chest glow with warmth.

He continued to wave at those who greeted him, but otherwise walked briskly back towards Bakugou’s room. It was still a few hours before sunset, and he’d somehow managed to get Bakugou to be his tutor. It was different from being able to bandage Bakugou’s hand and massage it for him, and Kirishima would honestly miss being able to hold his hand, but any prospect of spending more time with the Bakugou was good enough for him.

(“He must really like you a lot,” Chiyo-san had told him. “People like Bakugou-kun wouldn’t let someone be that close if he didn’t like them a lot. He’s really lucky.”)

Kirishima smiled, thinking of golden hair and sharp red eyes and warm hands. In one way or another, he’d somehow wormed his way close enough to be by Bakugou’s side, if only for a short while. And Kirishima would like to think he wasn’t a selfish person, but he’ll take what he could get. Bakugou’s sleeping face, the way sunlight would make him glow, the way his eyes tilted up and glinted in the light, so much more vibrant and fiery than Kirishima’s; the way his lips quirked up all crooked and sharp, the warmth of his palm that could blast away any enemy, and send those waves of warmth pulsing down Kirishima’s hand—Kirishima would take as much as he could, for as long as he could.

Kirishima felt his heart stutter a little at his thoughts, and he had to bite his lip to keep from grinning to wide and goofy. He clutched their drinks closer to his chest and rounded the corner to Bakugou’s room, already excited to tell him about not bandaging his hand anymore and getting that cast off soon, and even sooner getting out of confinement and going back to school.

Kirishima’s strides lengthened as he neared, and his brow climbed up when he heard some noise coming from Bakugou’s room. A nurse must have come to check on him, or maybe it was Bakugou’s mom. Kirishima considered going back to a vending machine to fetch another drink when he heard Bakugou growl.

Kirishima couldn’t quite process what was off with the way Bakugou had snarled, but then a split second later an explosion burst out of Bakugou’s room, slamming the door against the adjacent wall as waves of black smoke poured out of the doorway.

Kirishima felt his heart sink and start to hammer in his chest. “Bakugou!” His legs carried him straight to the room, bursting through the smoke with his Quirk activated and energy coiled tight in his gut.

“Bakugou!” he called again, eyes wide and alert. He immediately found Bakugou standing at the edge of the bed, left side angled to shield his right arm, his palm letting of small sparks and wisps of dark smoke.

Bakugou’s eyes flickered to Kirishima, brow knotting in surprise and…fear? It was quickly replaced by anger as Bakugou moved to lunge towards him, growling, “You idiot—!”

Kirishima wanted to yell at Bakugou for exerting himself, and for the way his hand seemed to be trembling with the effort of using it, but then Kirishima’s eyes were pulled to the second figure in the room, directly across from Bakugou.

It all happened in a flash—Kirishima held up his hardened arms, Bakugou was shouting something, the cloaked figure brought out his hand. There was a broken explosion to one side, and Kirishima heard Bakugou hiss.

Something touched Kirishima’s arm, a shadow falling over him.

“Kirishima!” he heard Bakugou call out.

The wind seemed to rush through Kirishima’s ears, the world spinning around and warping. Kirishima wanted to reach out, to call Bakugou’s name, but then his surroundings seemed to distort, and the last thing Kirishima saw were fiery red eyes before everything went black.

Chapter Text

 “Surely you’ve been thinking hard about what we told you.”

Bakugou glared. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

“After everything All Might did, after everything both of you did that night, the people only have criticism and complaints. All they care about is their precious homes, their comfortable lives—so selfish, aren’t they?”

Bakugou growled, twisting so that his right arm was out of view.

“But you—the way you protected those two—truly heroic! You didn’t even think about yourself! You must forgive our brash actions. We were rather pressured and stressed at the time, with what was going on—”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“—and our leader is still learning, you see, just like you!”

“I said shut up!” Bakugou’s left hand was sending zaps up his arm, and he flexed his fingers, feeling a familiar heat start to simmer over his palm.

“I can see it—you’ve changed.” A step closer. “That night haunts you still. But it’s not just the action and the fighting—you’ve thought about it.”

“Fuck you.”

Another step. “Surely you have something you want to protect. Someone, maybe?”

Bakugou’s hand twitched. “Are you fucking threatening me?”

“Oh no no, not at all. You’re smart, Bakugou. And your spirit is on a level of it’s own.” Another step. A slowly raising hand. “That redhead, maybe? The one who called out to you?”

Bakugou forced himself to stay still, even when he was wound so tight and raring to go at the fucker. Being obvious about Kirishima was a stupid idea, and Bakugou just hoped that his open aggression was interpreted merely as his default state.

“I don’t give a shit about some redhead,” Bakugou spat out, flexing his aching fingers. “All I care about is bashing your face in.”

Another step. “You are truly amazing, Bakugou-kun. I’m not here to threaten you or kidnap you, nor any of your friends.”

Bakugou smothered the low growl trying to rip out of his throat, bracing himself.

The villain raised both hands. A spark of an explosion erupted from Bakugou’s palm. “But here,” the villain flicked his wrist and produced a card, offering it to Bakugou.

Small explosions peppered the air around Bakugou’s palm—the long days of misuse and injury was making it hard to warm up his Quirk, and his rapidly beating heart was doing nothing to help. When had the villain gotten that close anyway? Why did Bakugou let him get that close?

The villain bent down to put the card at the edge of the hospital bed, pressing down with two fingers and tentatively stepping forward again, pushing it closer. Another small blast erupted from Bakugou’s palm. Bakugou himself didn’t know why he hasn’t blown this fucker up. He didn’t even know how hard he was glaring, if he was at all—all he knew was that there was that his stomach was flipping around with goddamn uncertainty and a pull that made him unable to do much of anything else. He remembered managing to turn his room’s television on and finding news of that night. All the press conferences and debates and coverage, and all of them pure shit-talking about people who risked their lives. People who saved lives. The lives of those who were all but criticizing heroes for destruction and damage, for being unable to deal with the villains like they’re expected to. For not being good enough.

“You understand,” the villain said, just a small hint of astonishment in his tone.

Bakugou’s fist clenched, explosion dying down in his palm. He brought his eyes to the masked villain, quiet, and bit his bottom lip.

- - -

The first thing Kirishima sees is an explosion.

Kirishima’s eyes flew open and he jerked up, Quirk activating in a flash. “Bakugou!”

“Shut up.”

Kirishima blinked, eyes blearily adjusting to the explosion in front of him. The explosion turned out to be Bakugou, backlit by the golden light of the sun, his hair catching light in sharp spikes like a jagged halo. Kirishima gaped, dumbstruck, and Bakugou scowled at him, the crease in his brows softening just a little.

“Are you okay? What happened?” Kirishima said, just then realizing that he was on the ground, leaning on Bakugou’s arm around his back and half propped on Bakugou’s thigh. He flushed, mind falling into his checklist again—Bakugou was awake, he was breathing, and he was alive. Apart from a few streaks of ash and his rumpled hospital wear, Bakugou was unharmed, and Kirishima could feel Bakugou’s left arm supporting his back.

“That Compress fuckface tried to fucking abduct me. Again.“ Bakugou spat, eyes sliding up to glare at something close by.

Kirishima followed his gaze to find the earlier intruder—a masked villain with an overcoat and a top hat—being held down by Chiyo-san and getting restrained by two police officers. On one side, Shin-san was getting tended to by Hinata-san, and the wall next to them was charred with black slashes of what could only have come from Bakugou’s Quirk.

“Almost got you,” Bakugou growled.

Kirishima’s gaze was pulled back to Bakugou, who was looking straight at him with an expression Kirishima couldn’t quite understand. He swallowed, feeling his face warm down to his chest, and tried to process exactly what was going on. He felt Bakugou’s hand gripping at the back of his shirt, trembling with the effort, and Kirishima realized that the rapid thumping at his side was Bakugou’s racing heart.

“Hey, are you okay?” Kirishima asked, sitting up to lean away from Bakugou’s arm.

Bakugou only clutched at his shirt harder, gritting his teeth and curling just a little bit closer to Kirishima. “M’fine,” he said, rough and strained.

Kirishima seemed to recover from his disorientation to properly feel the strength of Bakugou’s heartbeat, fast and panicked just as his breathing was. Sweat prickled at Bakugou’s forehead, and his breaths came out shallow and rough, almost gasping in effort. Kirishima twisted around, putting a hand on Bakugou’s arm and slowly sliding back, giving a squeeze and gently tugging to pry his hand away from his shirt. Kirishima brought his other hand to Bakugou’s cheek and inched closer. Bakugou flinched, but soon leaned into the touch.

“Hey,” Kirishima said, softly, taking a deep breath. “You kicked his ass, huh?”

Bakugou’s eyes flickered up, furrowed brows softening just slightly. Kirishima curled his hand around Bakugou’s, gently pulling it off his shirt and tangling their fingers together.

Kirishima gave a squeeze and slid his other hand to Bakugou’s neck. He gave a small nudge and Bakugou followed with a soft, airy grunt, their foreheads bumping together as Bakugou tried to even out his breathing, eyes fluttering closed.

“Looks like you saved my ass too,” Kirishima continued, practically hearing Bakugou’s brain count down the pace of his breathing. “And you’re supposed to be the hospital patient, dammit. Why do you have to be so cool?”

Bakugou’s eyes opened and bore straight into Kirishima’s, edged with fading apprehension and concern. Kirishima smiled, rubbing his hand warmly against the back of Bakugou’s neck, threading his fingers through the short blonde locks at his nape. Bakugou let out another shaky sigh, letting his forehead rest on Kirishima’s as he sucked in deep, measured breaths. Kirishima pulled him a little closer, continuing to run his hand through Bakugou’s hair, and felt unbridled affection rise up in his chest, glowing and warming his whole body, making every place where they touched feel like liquid fire lighting up his skin.

“Hey Bakugou?” Kirishima whispered, feeling his own heartbeat thump harder in his chest at their proximity. He kept his eyes trained on their locked hands, thumb tracing small circles over Bakugou’s skin, warm and strong against his own. “Thank you.”

If he weren’t as close as he was, Kirishima would have missed Bakugou’s tiny, almost imperceptible twitch in response. Bakugou huffed lightly, brow furrowing, and nudged at Kirishima’s forehead with his own, without much heat. “Shut up.”

Kirishima smiled, giving his own forehead nudge back, so much that their noses bumped slightly. Bakugou clicked his tongue, twisting his head away to bump harder into Kirishima’s, who let out a small yelp and then started chuckling.

Bakugou scoffed, rolling his eyes and pulling back. His eyes slid off to the side where the villain was being taken away, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he angled himself protectively around Kirishima.

“You understand,” the villain spoke, giving a firm nod. He tilted his head to regard Kirishima, and the pattern on his mask seemed to turn its painted eyes back onto Bakugou. “’Til we meet again, Bakugou Katsuki.”

Bakugou didn’t speak, and he didn’t so much as flinch when the villain dissolved into a puff of black smoke, completely slipping away from those suppressing him. The officers exclaimed, then started barking off instructions into their radios, glancing at Bakugou uneasily.

Bakugou was quiet, almost unnervingly so. Kirishima couldn’t quite understand the expression Bakugou wore, or the way his body language seemed to curl closer towards Kirishima but also away from him. It was when Bakugou’s hand gave Kirishima’s a squeeze that he snapped out of it, tugging on Bakugou’s hand and leaning over his lap to stick his face where Bakugou can see him.

“Hey,” Kirishima blinked, giving Bakugou’s hand a small squeeze. “What—“

“Kirishima.”

The use of his name made Kirishima stall, staring at Bakugou who wasn’t even looking at him, eyes still trained on the spot where the villain had been. He wore a strange, almost subdued expression, as if he were nursing the quiet heat of lava just at the mouth of a volcano. There was smothered heat, so deep that even Kirishima wasn’t sure how scorching it was, covered in an almost icy exterior that was unusual to Bakugou.

But there was a small squeeze around Kirishima’s hand, a small warm patch, and Kirishima was so hyper-aware of Bakugou that he noticed the small twitch of Bakugou’s muscles, leaning closer to him, gravitating towards him. Bakugou turned to look straight at Kirishima, and the pure amalgam of emotion just—struck him. Bakugou was always expressive, always so headstrong and fierce and alive, but there was something in the way he looked at Kirishima that made his heart thump hard and his chest tighten, and he couldn’t put a name to that look but all he could think of was that he wanted to stay there—with Bakugou. He was rooted on the spot, paralyzed by those red eyes, and he couldn’t think of anything else.

Bakugou’s head lowered, just a fraction, eyes still anchored to Kirishima’s. His fingers twitched around Kirishima’s hand. “Kirishima, you…”

“Bakugou-kun, I’m so sorry—” Chiyo-san popped in, brow creased with concern. “The police wanted to speak with you so I argued and—sorry sorry first—are you okay?”

Bakugou clicked his tongue and frowned, brows furrowing. “M’fine,” he spat, pulling back from Kirishima with a sigh. “I just wanna fucking sleep.”

Chiyo-san nodded, relaxing a little. “Okay, yes, we’ll be moving you to a new room. I couldn’t really shoo them away so the police will drop by to ask you some questions—”

Bakugou tensed for a split second, and Kirishima instinctively curled his hand tighter around Bakugou’s hand. Red eyes flickered over to his, searching and full, like somehow Bakugou was trying to say something but didn’t want to, and all Kirishima could do was squeeze his hand and hope it tells Bakugou ‘I’m right here.’

“—but we’ll make sure they don’t take too long, okay?” Chiyo-san continued. “We need to give you another check and replace your bandages—”

Bakugou growled, turning back to Chiyo-san with a feral glare. Chiyo-san stiffened and raised both hands in peace. “Or Ei-kun can change them…?” she glanced at Kirishima, who shrugged, then back to Bakugou, who gave a more agreeable grunt. Chiyo-san’s shoulders relaxed and she sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’m really sorry about this, both of you.”

“S’no biggie,” Kirishima shrugged, giving Chiyo-san what he hoped was an encouraging and comforting enough smile. He bumped his head with Bakugou’s and wrapped his free arm around his shoulders, grinning wider. “Besides, Bakugou’s got things covered. Right?”

Bakugou growled, knocking his head hard into Kirishima’s and shoving him away. Kirishima yelped and chuckled, leaning back on his hands as Bakugou stood up. Kirishima just watched Bakugou pick himself back up and tower over him, all broad shoulders and sharp eyes and explosive hair. Bakugou scowled down at him, mouth twisting, and Kirishima just gave a grin, content to look up at him.

Bakugou rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Get the fuck out of the way,” he spat, kicking at Kirishima’s legs.

Kirishima scoffed and stuck his hand out, towards Bakugou, one corner of his lips quirking up. Bakugou raised an eyebrow, looking from Kirishima’s face to his outstretched hand then back. He rolled his eyes again, sighing, and lazily held out his hand.

Kirishima beamed, pushing forward to wrap his hand around Bakugou’s and let himself get pulled up. There was a moment, just a tad longer than it should have been, where their hands stayed joined, before Bakugou let go and shouldered past Kirishima and out of the room.

Kirishima couldn’t help the fond, warm smile that spread across his lips. He jogged a few steps to catch up to Bakugou as they were ushered outside, and their shoulders and sides brushed as they walked. Kirishima inched his hand close enough so that their knuckles bumped, and If Bakugou was bothered by it, he didn’t make any move to get away.

- - -

True to her word, Chiyo-san more or less kicked out the detectives and police officers as soon as the sky darkened into night. The officers couldn’t do much arguing when Bakugou’s parents arrived, bringing with them some food and a whole lot of noise (the latter care of Bakugou’s mom and Bakugou himself). They fussed over Bakugou in the strangest ways, and Kirishima could see the many murder plans Bakugou was preparing while Kirishima snickered at the Bakugou family’s antics. Kirishima was also fed quite a bit, and discovered that Bakugou was part-ambidextrous, with how he was using his left hand to eat (Kirishima pouted when he realized he wouldn’t get to feed Bakugou, or at least watch his mom feed him), and he was treated to stories of Bakugou’s childhood—leading the street kids and hoarding attention and praise in droves, just like he always does. Bakugou’s mom listed down the numerous things Bakugou had blown up and damaged with his quirk, and how he stayed out for hours just trying to control and master it.

“There was this animal—a rabbit, I think?” Bakugou’s mom was saying. “That got stuck under a fallen tree branch—”

“God fucking dammit mom—” Bakugou growled for the nth time.

“Shut up, you li’l shit” his mom snapped, flicking a hand towards Bakugou then turning back to Kirishima, whose cheeks were almost straining from how wide he’d been grinning. “So we were hiking and Katsuki just somehow notices this rabbit stuck under a tree branch—like it wasn’t even obvious you know? It was under a mess of bushes and tree branches and rocks, but Katsuki somehow saw it.”

Kirishima nodded, fully attentive. Bakugou groaned, exasperated, and grumbled into his new sheets—he was moved to a new hospital room, with a bigger bed and more space and a not-quite-functioning television set. It was also closer to the floor’s nurse’s station, and likely had some form of surveillance connected to it.

“So Katsuki scrambles off to the poor thing and—you’d think a kid would try to pull at the mess, right? I mean, that was our first thought,” Bakugou’s mom said, gesturing to her husband. “But Katsuki stops in front of the stuff, looks at it so intently, studying the mess, and then he starts closing and opening his fists. We knew he was going to use his quirk ‘cause he’s so damn proud of it, so we tried to stop him, but then Katsu presses his hands on these branches and they burn and break off softly, bit by bit. He puts some rocks and branches in some spaces and then he crouches down—”

Kirishima could imagine it—a young, small Bakugou with a young, small quirk, faced with an even smaller creature that needed saving. And of course he was the kind of kid who would think before doing the obvious first choice of action, and of course young Bakugou found it as a chance to test his abilities because he was always, always going to be a hero.

“And he tells the rabbit to stay put and stay strong, ‘cause ‘I’m here’,” Bakugou’s mom smiled, proud and fond. “And then Katsuki sets off these two explosions with the most control he’s ever had and the rabbit’s free. It kind of curled up next to Katsuki while the other branches fell away, and get this—Katsuki pulls back his hands in a panic ‘cause they’re still hot, and the rabbit jumps away all shocked. But Katsuki just grins and brushes off his pants and waves—he waves to the rabbit goodbye and Jesus Christ he was so cute—”

“Oh my fucking—” Bakugou snarled, his cheeks flushing—either from anger or embarrassment, Kirishima wasn’t so sure.

“And the rabbit ends up following him for like the next hour!” Bakugou’s mom finished, eyes sparkling like she was explaining a miracle. She giggled and cackled at her son, sticking out her hand and ruffling his hair, to which Bakugou started cursing at, but didn’t put much effort into shoving away.

Kirishima felt his chest warm, watching Bakugou look and act just like himself, less strained and tense than he’d been just a few hours earlier. His mother was a huge ball of energy and charisma, just like him, and no matter how much he cursed and yelled at her, it was obvious how much she means to him, and the thought alone made Kirishima feel like his heart expanded to twice its size.

“Damn kid, you’re a crazy little shit,” Bakugou’s mom laughed, swinging her arm around Bakugou’s shoulders and tugging him to her. She hugged him close and pressed a kiss on his forehead. “But I’m proud of you.”

Bakugou grumbled and groaned, weakly pushing at her, his cheeks that really cute shade of red again. His eyes flickered over to Kirishima, who just grinned wider, a light flush to his cheeks from how much smiling he’d been doing. He could have sworn Bakugou’s eyes softened just a little, but then he was glaring and cursing at his parents, and Kirishima just continued to laugh, because they were all okay. Bakugou was alive and his parents cared about him. Bakugou was strong and no villain could bend him. And even if Kirishima pretty much got himself held hostage way too easily, he was determined to pull himself together, if only to make sure Bakugou wouldn’t have to keep saving his ass, and would let Kirishima stay by his side.

- - - 

It didn’t take long before a new set of detectives poked their heads into the room. Chiyo-san was behind them, looking both guilty and exasperated, and Aizawa-sensei followed closely after. There was a lot of discussion among the adults, and as much as Bakugou seemed to be keen on listening in, he looked just about ready and willing enough to kick everybody out of the building. Kirishima scooted closer to the side of the bed, absently drumming his fingers on the sheets by Bakugou’s thigh, until his hand just seemed to gravitate towards Bakugou’s hand, brushing against its side.

Immediately, Kirishima felt calmer, feeling the warmth of Bakugou’s skin—free from bandages, rough and sturdy as ever—and the comfort of his company. Bakugou didn’t seem to mind, and Kirishima heard the soft, tired sigh as Bakugou sunk lower into the bed. Without really thinking, Kirishima curled his pinky finger over and around Bakugou’s, and it seemed such a natural, automatic response that Bakugou shifted his finger to fit more closely together. Kirishima exhaled softly, tangling his fingers with Bakugou’s, and forgot everything around him—the adults, the discussion, the worry and caution, the threat of villains or abduction or attack—all he knew was how warm Bakugou’s hand was, and how much he’d like to stay with him.

He chanced a peek at Bakugou, who was looking over to where his parents were speaking with the other adults. His eyes were quiet blades, sharp and focused, and there was a certain calm to him that made Kirishima just—stare. Everyone was so used to Bakugou’s loud, aggressive and explosive self, in ways just so distinctly Bakugou, that so many times people would more or less sum him up in those ways. A lot of times they miss those moments when Bakugou’s eyes just take in everything, when he thinks about everything; moves and acts with the talent of a natural prodigy, the skills and experience of someone who put in all the hours of training, and the intelligence and wit of someone determined to reach the top—all while never losing sight of himself, or his beliefs, unbending and unstoppable.

Sometimes it seemed that when Bakugou is quiet is when he is loudest. The silence not easily associated with him, even when just momentary, spoke so much of Bakugou and all the gears and power that made him work. When he thinks, when he plans, when he studies, or even when he pauses right before speaking—Bakugou was loud even when he was quiet, and it made Kirishima even more anxious to figure out just what is going on in Bakugou’s head, just how much he considered and saw everything, and how he saw the world.

(And maybe, how he saw Kirishima).

When Bakugou had been surrounded by villains, he was loud and intimidating and aggressive because he was Bakugou—because he wanted to make sure that those shitbags knew exactly who it was they had the gall to kidnap and “recruit.” But in the midst of it all were those moments when you couldn’t hear Bakugou, and those were some of the most terrifying moments of Kirishima’s life. Constantly hearing him had become something of a comfort to Kirishima, and the moment he couldn’t, it was almost deafening, consuming and overwhelming. The moment Bakugou was injured and pushed back, unable to speak or even cry out in pain, Kirishima felt like several bricks had dropped to the pit of his stomach. When the explosions had stopped, the silence that followed seemed to pierce his ears far too painfully. When Bakugou was limp against his chest, quiet and barely breathing, Kirishima felt his heart beat on overdrive, and he was reduced to desperately trying to fill in that silence, to somehow pump air into Bakugou’s lungs with his voice if only to hear Bakugou curse at him. Kirishima would crack all the stupid jokes and comments and provoke Bakugou with all his might, if only to make sure that he could still hear Bakugou. That Bakugou was alive, and that somehow, some way, Kirishima’s voice would reach him.

“Fucking Hair-for-Brains, hey.”

A hard bonk to the forehead made Kirishima startle and blink, meeting those sharp red eyes trained right at him. Bakugou huffed and glared, and it took a few beats before Kirishima realized how tightly he’d gripped onto Bakugou’s hand.

“S-sorry, what?” Kirishima stammered, trying to loosen his grip but finding it incredibly hard to. Bakugou gave a small, firm squeeze as he narrowed his eyes.

“You were spacing out,” he said. “And you responded to Hair-for-Brains?”

Kirishima blinked again, mouth opening just slightly. “I—” he tried, face scrunching up. “Dammit, it’s Kirishima.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “I know, shithead. The fuck’s wrong?”

Kirishima opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, brows furrowing and hand feeling so pleasantly warm tangled in Bakugou’s. He felt his face flush and little puzzle pieces click in his brain, and he started to laugh. “I love,” he wheezed between chuckles. “How you’re just so—” he gestured vaguely with his hand, because of course Bakugou would tack on a ‘fuck’ even when he shows concern, and the thought alone made Kirishima’s chest warm and fluttery. “Bakugou.”

Bakugou’s cheeks rouged and his face twisted in apprehension, but Kirishima just laughed and tucked Bakugou’s hand tighter into his, leaning towards him. Bakugou muttered curses and rolled his eyes, but he didn’t make a move to pull away, and just let Kirishima lean against him.

“Fucking shitty hair-for-brains dumbass,” Bakugou mumbled, groaning. “Fuck the fuck off.”

Kirishima snorted, bursting into raucous laughter and collapsing into Bakugou’s side, trying to bury his cackles in the sheets. “The way—” he gasped, short of breath from laughing. “You add—‘fuck’ to everything I’m—” Kirishima’s shoulders shook with how much he snickered, and Bakugou growled and shoved at him, groaning and cursing with little heat.

“Jesus fucking dumbass motherfucker,” Bakugou continued to chant under his breath, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as his cheeks flushed. Kirishima could only laugh more, unable to help it, and it took a good few minutes before he could calm down into little snorts and giggles. He had his head rested on the sheets over Bakugou’s legs, his arm bent at a weird angle just so that he could keep holding Bakugou’s hand. He looked up, eyes still twinkling with the almost-tears of too much laughter, and smiled up at Bakugou. “Nothing’s wrong,” he finally answered. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

Bakugou’s eyes widened, and he looked taken aback, cheeks darkening and hand clenching around Kirishima’s. He opened his mouth to say something, but then the other Bakugou in the room spoke up—

“Katsuki, we’ll be heading back,” his mother said, one palm solidly pushed against the chest of a disgruntled adult in a suit. Behind him, Bakugou’s dad was shooting the man guilty, apologetic looks, and to one side, Chiyo-san was positioned in a way that made sure the other suited adults couldn’t get in.

“It’s been a long day, and you need to rest,” Chiyo-san said, smiling softly at Bakugou and Kirishima, who straightened right up in attention.

“Eijirou-kun, we could drive you?” Bakugou’s dad piped up, poking his head over his wife’s shoulders.

Kirishima felt Bakugou’s hand flinch in his, squeezing on what seemed like reflex, almost making Kirishima jump in surprise. He wanted to turn around to look at Bakugou but felt frozen on the spot, unsure of what to do as he looked at the similarly sharp red eyes of Bakugou’s mom.

Kirishima felt Bakugou recover, and a few beats passed before Bakugou’s hand slowly moved to slip out of Kirishima’s.

Again, Kirishima almost jumped, hand moving to grasp Bakugou’s hand tight and not let him go. Kirishima wasn’t sure of what he was doing—all he knew was what he wanted to do.

“Um,” he let out, intelligently. “I want to stay. Here. Uh,” Kirishima felt himself blink rapidly, hand tightening around Bakugou’s. “Can I?”

Bakugou’s mom blinked, eyes widening a fraction. Chiyo-san held a similar expression that quickly softened, and Bakugou’s dad was smiling warmly, nudging at his wife knowingly.

“Oh sure thing, good idea,” Bakugou’s mom perked up. “I’d like that actually. If it’s okay with you, of course.”

“Yes!” Kirishima answered, a bit too instantly. He flushed, shoulders relaxing, curling towards Bakugou. “Yeah I want to.” He glanced at Chiyo-san, whose smile widened.

“No problem,” she said, shouldering in front of one of the disgruntled suited adults and shoving them out of the door. “We’ll handle the rest. You two can relax.”

“Don’t cause trouble, Katsuki,” Bakugou’s mom said, teaming up with Chiyo-san to clear the room of adults. “Goodnight you two!”

Kirishima gave a small bow, waving at them until the door slid shut. He felt his heart beating at a gallop, and he was incredibly distracted by the warmth of the hand around his.

“Hey.”

Kirishima jumped, head swiveling around to look at Bakugou. He still made no move to pull his hand away, and Kirishima was honestly relieved, but the expression Bakugou wore was troubling—he was frowning, not angrily, but somehow…unsettled.

“Yeah?” Kirishima swallowed.

“Does my mom know,” Bakugou huffed, bringing his eyes up to look at Kirishima. “About what happened—in the ambulance?”

Kirishima blinked, feeling the minute squeeze of Bakugou’s hand around his. “In the ambulance…?”

Bakugou’s brows furrowed. “You know. When I fucking…”

Kirishima’s eyes widened, memories clicking into place. He remembered. He remembered the feeling of dread blotting and thickening the air around him, the feeling of Bakugou’s hand going limp and lifeless in his, the deafening sound of a sustained beep, high and steady above the rushed voices of doctors racing against the pace of a quiet heart. Kirishima felt fear paralyze him, mind blank save for the solid flat line and the image of Bakugou—broken, bloody and bruised—unconscious before him, chest unmoving, body paling—quiet.

Kirishima felt the blood drain from his face, and he bit his lip, unconsciously gripping Bakugou’s hand tighter. He shook his head. “No. I-I don’t think so. I heard the nurses say something about how it’s not necessary.” Kirishima leaned closer, just to make sure he could really feel Bakugou’s warmth and hear the sound of his breathing. “I said—‘don’t’.”

(“Don’t—don’t tell the others, please,” Kirishima pleaded to the doctors and nurses. It was like a child begging to not be told on, because he made a mistake and was too embarrassed to let it be known—but Kirishima didn’t care what he sounded like. He didn’t want anyone—not Midoriya or Iida or Yaoyorozu or Todoroki, or any of their classmates or Bakugou’s parents—God, no. Bakugou was fine, he was alive. The flat line—it might as well have been a dream. Kirishima’s eyes were rooted to Bakugou’s slightly parted lips, breathing softly—alive.

Bakugou—Bakugou’s heart had stopped, once. Just once, and after a bit it had started up again.

Just once, but it was one time too many.)

“Okay. Good.”

Kirishima looked up at Bakugou—red eyes bright, lips curled down in a scowl, chest rising and falling to his every breath—alive. Bakugou stared at him, not mentioning anything about how hard Kirishima was gripping his hand. It looked like he was searching for something in Kirishima’s expression, or just waiting.

Kirishima just stared, and he didn’t know how long they were just stuck like that, but somehow Kirishima didn’t notice when it was that he could breathe again.

Bakugou seemed to find an answer, then narrowed his eyes. On instinct, Kirishima flinched back. “Don’t head butt me.”

Bakugou’s frown deepened. “Then don’t look like a dipshit.”

Kirishima gasped. “I was born with this face!”

“Dumbass!” Bakugou snarled. “You look like some wussfuck who’s seen a goddamn ghost. Get rid of that weak-ass fuck face or get out!”

Kirishima’s frown pulled lower, offended. He sucked in a breath to say something, but then blinked once. Twice. Thrice. “So I can stay?”

A small explosion went off in Kirishima’s hand, making him yelp and jump. Bakugou’s eye twitched, cheeks flushed, and Kirishima reeled back, wonky grin wobbling up his lips. He made sure Bakugou didn’t let go of his hand.

Bakugou sighed roughly, rolling his eyes and settling back. “Just make yourself useful,” he barked, lowering himself on the pillows, and shifting around until he was comfortable. “Clean the shit. Close the lights. Lower the bed.”

Kirishima narrowed his eyes, but couldn’t help his smile. “Seriously?”

“What else are you good for,” Bakugou rolled his eyes again, and his hair was a small explosion around his head, fluffed up by the pillow underneath. Kirishima wanted to stick his hand in there and just feel how soft those blonde locks were again.

“Unbelievable,” Kirishima rolled his eyes, but got up either way. Bakugou’s grip loosened enough for him to pull his hand free, and the cold immediately assaulted his palm, almost making him shudder and sit right back down to get back to that warmth. Kirishima clenched his fist as if to keep the warmth of Bakugou’s hand there, then moved to set aside the trays and plastics at the bedside table and drawer. The flowers from Mika were still vibrant red where they were perched next to the bed, and alongside it was the letter she had given Bakugou, opened and neatly tucked under the cleaned up lunchbox Uraraka had prepared for him.

Kirishima smiled, glancing at Bakugou, who had settled down and closed his eyes. Kirishima poked at a control and slowly lowered the incline of Bakugou’s bed, stopping when it was just barely angled up.

“Lower,” Bakugou ordered, eyes still closed.

Kirishima snorted. “Spoiled brat,” he huffed, but complied either way.

“What was that, peasant?”

Kirishima snorted again, more loudly, smothering his laugh with sniggering that shook his shoulders. “Nothing, Mr. Bakugou Sir.”

A sharp red eye peeked out from under Bakugou’s lashes, narrowed and pointed. Bakugou was scowling, a low growl humming out his throat, and Kirishima beamed with a light chuckle, reaching to one side and flicking off the lights.

The room was left illuminated by the outside moonlight, casting a cool blue over the room, with soft silver highlights to contrast the dark shadows. When Kirishima looked at Bakugou again, Bakugou’s eyes were closed, brows furrowed slightly. His one free hand was clenched tight at his side.

Kirishima held back on reaching out to him on reflex, shifting around on his heels. When Bakugou had nightmares, the creases on the sheets when he tensed up reminded Kirishima of the charred concrete of the destroyed ward, scarred in angry black slashes radiating from the explosions that left them. Kirishima could see Bakugou try to unclench his fist, chest rising high and sinking low as he took deep, measured breaths that he couldn’t quiet down.

Kirishima shifted, silently toeing off his shoes and kicking them off to one side. “Okay,” he huffed, purposefully grabbing at the edge of Bakugou’s blanket and leaning forward. “’Scuse me.”

Bakugou opened his eyes just in time to see Kirishima crawling into the bed, wiggling around until he was settling under the sheets. Kirishima squirmed a little, then let his head drop onto the edge of Bakugou’s pillow, turning bright red eyes and a blinding grin at Bakugou.

“What.” Bakugou started. “The fuck.”

“What,” Kirishima pouted. “Where else am I supposed to sleep?”

Bakugou’s brows crinkled, eyes widening like he wanted to bite Kirishima’s nose off. “On the goddamn chair. The floor. Out in the fucking hall.”

Kirishima frowned, offended. “Mean! After all I’ve done for you.”

Bakugou looked very much like he was ready to murder Kirishima on the spot, like a steaming kettle about to burst, with the red of his face obvious even in the dark. “Says the goddamn dumbass that got caught in one second flat,” he grit through his teeth.

Kirishima flushed, sputtering. “I was caught off-guard, come on,” he pouted, embarrassed.

“Yeah, fucking stupid,” Bakugou growled, shifting to face Kirishima. His eyes softened, just a little, and bore straight into Kirishima’s face. He grumbled, more quietly, just enough to be heard between them, “You could have fucking died.”

Kirishima’s heart sunk and summersaulted all at once, stumbling back into erratic drumming in his chest as he stared, speechless. Bakugou was glaring at him, looking like he was trying to burn Kirishima with his stare (which didn’t feel that far off, if Kirishima was being honest). The thought didn’t really occur to Kirishima—he knew he’d gotten into a stupidly dangerous situation, but not enough to think that he was a goner.

Then again, the same thing happened to Bakugou—and he went through worse. It wasn’t that Bakugou could have died—he actually did, for a short time. It had gone past a worry and went straight to the worst-case scenario. Be it by sheer force of Bakugou’s stubborn will, by luck, or by the abilities of the doctors or some combination of those, Bakugou just barely managed to survive—and Kirishima had been captured in a blink.

The thought that Kirishima could have been used against Bakugou as leverage seemed to stab at him more than the idea of possibly dying in the hands of a villain. All at once, Kirishima thought that Bakugou might not have given a shit, all things considered, and a part of Kirishima was okay with that. Bakugou had gone through enough, was still injured, and the last thing that he should think of was the safety of someone else.

And yet Kirishima woke up in Bakugou’s lap, and the grip at his back was tight enough to make Kirishima feel that maybe, just by a little bit—Bakugou cared.

Kirishima stared back at sharp red eyes and swallowed it all down, pulling his lips up into a tender smile, spurred on by the warmth in his chest. “Well,” he said, grin widening. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Bakugou blinked at him, and a few beats passed before he rolled his eyes and sighed, shifting around and moving back. Bakugou grunted, swinging his right arm over his waist as he lay on his side, facing Kirishima. “Still fucking stupid,” Bakugou sighed, settling his head on the edge of his pillow and moving his focus to tucking his casted arm in a comfortable position.

Kirishima felt his face heat up, sheepishly squirming into the extra space Bakugou gave him. He wasn’t overly comfortable with the small space, but Kirishima could feel the warmth rolling off of Bakugou as if he were a gentle fire, and it was pleasant. Kirishima wriggled as close as he could, at least until Bakugou’s eyes flicked back up to him and froze him in place.

“Stop fucking moving so much,” Bakugou growled, brow furrowed. “I swear to god if you kick me—”

“I won’t!” Kirishima pouted with a huff, dumping his head on the farthest edge of the pillow from Bakugou. “I’m more wary of you trying to kick me off the bed.”

“Want to know what it feels like?” Bakugou snarled.

Kirishima’s pout deepened. He stuck his hand up and poked at the knot between Bakugou’s brows. “You’re going to have permanent angry lines right there if you keep that up.”

Bakugou blinked, head flinching back and eyebrows going up. They furrowed right back down just as quickly, and Kirishima hurriedly snatched his hand back before Bakugou could bite his finger off.

“Please don’t kick me off the bed,” Kirishima said.

Bakugou’s eye twitched, then he groaned, rolling his eyes and curling himself up a little. “Remind me to kick your ass when I get out of here.”

Kirishima raised an eyebrow, mouth curling up and letting out a small chuckle. “Uh huh,” he agreed playfully, inching just a little bit closer as carefully as he could, all while ignoring the way his heart threatened to beat out of pace.

Bakugou was still moving his arm uncertainly, distracted. “Does it hurt?” Kirishima asked, glancing down at Bakugou’s hand. In the dark, it was hard to see the burns and scars, but Kirishima can clearly remember how rough and warm Bakugou’s hand was.

“No,” Bakugou answered, settling on resting his hand next to his head, palm up. In that position, his hand was just a mere couple of inches from Kirishima’s face, and Kirishima could have sworn he felt the heat coming off of Bakugou’s palm.

“Do you,” Kirishima tried, looking back and forth between Bakugou’s hand and eyes. “Want me to—massage it again?”

Their eyes met, and Kirishima fought hard not to swallow. Bakugou blinked a few times, then grunted, sliding his hand down and closer to Kirishima. For a moment, Kirishima felt his heart flip around, and It dawned on him just how important this was—Bakugou’s power came from his hands, they were obviously important to him, and yet he was letting Kirishima handle them, at a time when he was probably most protective of them.

Kirishima brought his hands up and gently let his thumbs press against the sides of Bakugou’s palm, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he started to knead the calloused, scarred flesh. Bakugou’s skin was hot, flaring even warmer at every press. Kirishima heard a small sigh escape Bakugou’s lips, and felt the way Bakugou relaxed, tipping his head forward enough for their hair to brush against each other.

Kirishima focused on massaging the pads of Bakugou’s palm, pressing at the dip and rubbing outwards, pulling down and running his thumb across the length of each finger. He twisted Bakugou’s hand left and right, then laced their fingers together to squeeze and push back, eliciting another soft exhale from Bakugou.

Kirishima edged closer, forehead brushing at blonde tufts spread out on the pillow. He gave Bakugou’s hand another squeeze, feeling the soft press of fingers on his knuckles in return, and kept his hand there, eyelids drooping half-shut in the calm.

“Hey,” Bakugou said, voice the softest and gentlest Kirishima’s ever heard.

Kirishima readjusted his hand, fitting them around Bakugou’s and giving another soft squeeze. “Mm?” Kirishima hummed.

Kirishima felt his breathing slow and relax, everything about the night, the proximity, and the feel of Bakugou’s hand lulling him into something of a trance, a calm daze that washed over him like gentle sunlight amidst a cool day. Kirishima tucked Bakugou’s hand closer to him, breath fluttering over his knuckles, and rubbed his thumbs against the back of Bakugou’s hand, absently keeping up the massage with his other hand pressing down Bakugou’s wrist and forearm.

“You’re really stupid.”

Kirishima couldn’t help the immediate smile quirking up his lips, snorting at Bakugou’s soft insult. “Yes, we’ve established that,” Kirishima chuckled. “That’s why I still need help from others. I do try, though.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue. “Who cares. Just keep bein’ the dumbass like you always are.”

Kirishima paused. His eyes flitted up to Bakugou’s face, eyes averted and half-lidded with sleepiness. Kirishima smiled, letting out a small snort and giving Bakugou’s hand a squeeze.

“You have a weird way of saying thank you,” Kirishima whispered.

Bakugou let out a grunt, hand twitching just slightly. Kirishima continued to knead the calloused skin, pressing and rubbing with decreasing strength. The tiredness seemed to have crept up on him, weighing down his eyelids and slowing his breaths. His grip had slackened, hands slowed to a stop, thumbs just absently brushing over Bakugou’s palm. Kirishima slowly lifted his eyes, and felt unbridled warmth glow in his chest.

Bakugou had fallen asleep, soft breaths fluttering over the sheets and face relaxed, lips parted slightly. The knot in his brow was barely visible, and the steady rise and fall of his breathing gave Kirishima such a full feeling—something like satisfaction and content, of gratefulness and comfort—or warmth and affection.

Kirishima leaned forward so that their foreheads were almost touching, breaths mingling softly in the small space between them. Kirishima felt his heart do resounding thuds, like a glowing ball of warmth, throbbing with a feeling of lightness and calm.

“Goodnight…Katsuki,” Kirishima whispered, just to that small space between them, to the sleeping sun lying next to him.

Kirishima’s fingers stayed loosely wrapped around Bakugou’s, and it may have been the lull of sleep, but he could have sworn he felt Bakugou’s hand curl just a little tighter around his.

Chapter Text

They slammed onto the pavement, Kirishima’s breath knocked out of him in an instant, head ringing and pulse pounding. The back of his jacket was tattered, ripped and snagged against the ground he’d battered with his hardened skin, hand curled tight around Bakugou’s.

Kirishima gasped, gulping in air and blinking rapidly. His head snapped down, eyes jerking to a mop of blonde hair mottled red. His stomach lurched, panic rising in his throat as he struggled to stay calm. All of Kirishima’s focus was pulled to the boy on his chest, unmoving and collapsed against him. There was only the barest hint of a pulse, shuttered breathing imperceptible if they weren’t pressed so close. Bakugou’s hand trembled against Kirishima’s, fighting to keep a solid grasp around it, while the rest of his body lay limp.

“Bakugou,” Kirishima breathed, sitting up as gently as he could.

No reaction. Not a hiss of pain or a twitch. It seemed that all of Bakugou’s energy was devoted solely to keeping a pulse, breathing in some air, keeping his hand around Kirishima’s.

“B-Bakugou, c’mon,” Kirishima gripped Bakugou’s shirt, his fingers flinching against the moist of blood seeping through. One glance and all Kirishima could see was dark crimson coating his hand, pooling down from Bakugou’s body. Kirishima heard his heart thundering in his ears, his body running cold when he flipped Bakugou over onto his lap, and there was only more blood, gashes, burns—Bakugou’s head fell limp against Kirishima’s arm, the furrow in his brow gone, mouth parted with weak, stuttering breaths.

“No, no no no,” Kirishima muttered, bringing a hand, stained red, to Bakugou’s cheek. “Bakugou, seriously, c’mon, just—just breathe okay? Help is on the way, you’re gonna be okay just—just stay with me, just—”

It was just a small twitch, a faint, barely-there squeeze against Kirishima’s hand that made his breath catch. Bakugou’s eyes twitched, eyelids fluttering, fighting to open.

“Bakugou,” Kirishima said, smothering the urge to squeeze Bakugou’s hand with all his strength. “You’re okay, I’m here, you’re gonna be fine…”

Kirishima sucked in a breath when Bakugou’s eyes just barely opened, but what were once fiery scarlet eyes were now dull, unseeing ones. Bakugou’s couldn’t focus, could barely move, and his eyelids sunk dangerously slow.

“…Id…iot…”

Kirishima didn’t know when his tears had started falling, and he shakily blinked them back when they’d blurred his vision. Fat, wet tears dropped onto Bakugou’s cheek, trying in vain to wash off the blood staining his skin. Kirishima sobbed, his whole body trembling. “Y-yeah, I’m an idiot, I know, but you’ll tutor me, right? After all of this—after w-we—after we get out of this, together, yeah? After this you’re going to tutor me because you owe me for the shit you’re putting me through right…right now—”

Kirishima broke off into another sob, and he could have sworn he heard the smallest snort from Bakugou, the smallest twitch of his lips. “Hey, I’m serious. Just—just stay with me.”

Bakugou’s head tilted, just a bit, to press into Kirishima’s arm. His breathing was slow, too slow, too weak. Bakugou’s eyelids lowered, leaving just the barest sliver of red visible, and for a moment, Bakugou’s hand shook. His fingers just barely touched Kirishima’s hand, a faint whisper of a squeeze, and after a few beats, his grip slackened, and his hand went limp.

“Bakugou…? Hey—h-hey!” Kirishima jolted, eyes wide and frantic. He grasped Bakugou’s hand and almost jerked back at the cold that had swept over it. “Bakugou! Bakugou hey!” Kirishima’s sight swirled with falling tears and red and blonde and nothing. “Katsuki!” Kirishima cried, shaking the limp body in his arms, pressing his forehead onto Bakugou’s bloodstained one. “Katsuki please, don’t—don’t do this don’t leave don’t—Katsuki!”

“I’m here.”

Kirishima jolted awake. His eyes shot open, mouth agape in a sharp gasp. He blinked against blurry eyes splotched with tears, and for a few moments, all he could feel was his racing heartbeat and suffocating dread wrapped around his chest, tight and heavy like an invisible fist holding him down.

“I’m here,” a voice spoke—a gentle, low rumble that made Kirishima blink back his tears and pulled at that invisible fist, tugging it from his throat as Kirishima let out a sob.

The first thing Kirishima’s eyes focused on was Bakugou, hovering over him, looking at him—

alive.

“Ka—”Kirishima’s throat scraped, chest trembling as he tried to breathe, more tears blurring his vision.

A hand carded through his hair, smoothing Kirishima’s fringe from his forehead, warm.

Alive.

“I’m here.”

Kirishima blinked, tears clearing away to the sight of Bakugou gazing down at him, brows furrowed and creased with something Kirishima couldn’t describe.

Kirishima took it all in, stared at curving cheeks and faint scars, the dust of sun-kissed skin, the sharp tips of spiky blonde hair and pointed eyes, red pupils boring straight into his own. Kirishima felt gentle, tender fingers pressing softly against his scalp, stroking through his hair in a slow, even rhythm that Kirishima’s breathing started to follow. Belatedly, after finally being wrenched out of that nightmare, Kirishima felt the stiffness in his hand, clenched so tight it was shaking, hardened with his quirk and wrapped around Bakugou’s.

Kirishima’s quirk fell away like a gasp, his mind snapping him back to more clarity. His head was resting on a soft pillow, body rigid against white hospital sheets, right next to Bakugou—breathing, red eyes shining, no blood, no wounds—alive.

“Sh-shit, sorry,” Kirishima stammered, turning away. Just a nightmare, he told himself, forcing his body to move and get out of Bakugou’s space. Into the bathroom, or out the room—just anywhere Kirishima wouldn’t be such a weakling bother.

But Kirishima’s hand still held on tight, unable to let go. With a firm tug, Bakugou pulled Kirishima back to face him, eyes steady.

Kirishima looked up at him—sharp, fiery red eyes, completely opposite from the dull, lifeless ones in his nightmare. “B-Bakugou, I’m—”

“If you fucking apologize again I will hit you.”

Kirishima blinked, the words drying in his half-open mouth. Bakugou glared down at him, then relaxed off his elbow to plop down onto the pillow—his pillow, that Kirishima was taking half the space of. Kirishima’s cheeks warmed, and his eyes still stung a little, and stupid persistent tendrils of his nightmare still clung at his chest and scraped at his throat.

He must have been making a weird face, something probably dumb that pulled Bakugou’s frown lower. Bakugou rolled his eyes with a grunt and surged forward, bumping his forehead with Kirishima’s.

Their skulls thudded hard, making them wince, but Bakugou stubbornly tilted his head to press back against Kirishima and glare at him. “Shitty Hair.”

Kirishima blinked, just a little bit cross-eyed at being so close to Bakugou. He swallowed, feeling more recovered and awake, and on the one hand he wanted to kick himself and get the hell away from Bakugou and stop being such a nuisance, but on the other hand he couldn’t quite shake from his mind the image of a limp and lifeless Bakugou in his arms, so close to having been real just a few nights ago, and Kirishima just wanted to stay next to him to force that image, that crushing feeling, out of his system.

Bakugou groaned, long-suffering and troubled at the same time. “I’m fuckin’ here, don’t let your stupid brain convince you otherwise—” Bakugou punctuated this point by leaning back, raising his hand and poking Kirishima’s forehead, hard. “Because there’s no fuckin way I’ll die. So go the fuck back to sleep.” He pulled his hand back and dropped it in the space between them.

For a few moments, a small, poke-sized warm spot remained on Kirishima’s forehead.

“…I don’t think I can go back to sleep,” Kirishima muttered softly, breathing deep and exhaling through his nose, as if to expel all the shitty feelings away. He didn’t want to go back to sleep, not if it meant going back to that nightmare, being away from this patch of sunlight where he was with Bakugou—with him, alive—and things were alright.

“Then don’t,” Bakugou grunted, shifting around to lie more comfortably. Kirishima’s eyes flitted up to Bakugou’s face, which was rearranged into a pointed glare, wrinkled with a little nick in his brow—something almost apprehensive, almost worried.

“I…” Kirishima started, and he didn’t know why he started but he felt like he had to. “I dreamt about that night.” He swallowed, averting his eyes. “I dreamt that you—that I lost you.”

Bakugou was silent, unmoving except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Kirishima looked from there, from the rumpled folds of Bakugou’s hospital garb, up to his collar, a scar peeking out from one side. Kirishima dragged his eyes up Bakugou’s neck, imagined brushing his fingers over the faint scars, and looked to his face, stalling at the gentle downward curve of his lips, and freezing at the red of his eyes, looking at him, focused on him.

Without breaking eye contact, Bakugou grabbed Kirishima’s hand and pulled it towards him. There was a brief moment where Bakugou’s hand flinched, jerking in an effort to squeeze harder amidst what must be a frustrating amount of pain and resistance. Before Kirishima could express his concern, Bakugou fought through it, pressing Kirishima’s palm onto his chest, against the line of a recently healed scar.

Kirishima tensed, eyes flickering, but stayed anchored to Bakugou’s face, serious and concentrated on him, just him.

After a moment of silence, Kirishima felt it: the strong, rhythmic thumping of Bakugou’s heart, just under the raised flesh of a sealed wound, the scarred skin and muscle warm against Kirishima’s palm. He doesn’t know how long they stayed like that, just staring at each other, Bakugou’s hand pressing Kirishima’s palm to his heartbeat, strong and steady and alive.

The silence was broken by Kirishima’s breath leaving him all at once in a sigh, his whole body relaxing, melting into the bed, melting into Bakugou’s touch. Shakily, Kirishima’s mouth wobbled up into a smile, and he started to chuckle—small, huffy laughs that brightened until Kirishima was beaming, pressing his palm even closer to Bakugou’s heart.

Leave it to Bakugou, the loudest, most foul-mouthed person he knows, to kick Kirishima’s ass and knock on a burst of light in his world without saying a single thing.

“Bakugou,” Kirishima said, smiling, feeling like his chest was going to burst. “I wanna tell you something.”

Bakugou’s eyebrow twitched, his head tilting just barely in acknowledgement.

“I like you,” Kirishima said. “I really like you.”

Bakugou’s eyes widened. He froze, and Kirishima could have sworn he felt Bakugou’s heartbeat thud a little harder under his palm. He noticed a small splotch of red bloom around Bakugou’s neck, slowly crawling up to his cheeks. Heat started to glow all through Kirishima’s chest up to his face, and he was sure he was turning red, too, his own smile crumpling a little crooked. He started to pull his hand away from Bakugou’s chest, but Bakugou’s hand instantly clenched around it, stopping him.

As if realizing what he just did, Bakugou let go, jerking backwards. Kirishima pulled his hand just a little bit away, still reaching for him.

“You—” Bakugou started, then stopped, staring at Kirishima.

“Oh boy, uhm,” Kirishima chuckled nervously, face flushed. “Yeah. I uh, I really like you, you know.”

Bakugou stared, mouth half-open, and the he groaned, eyes rolling. “Of all the fucking times to—” Bakugou ducked his head, grumbling under his breath.

“I just!” Kirishima sputtered, reaching for Bakugou’s hand. His fingers brushed lightly over the rough knuckles, and Bakugou flinched, but didn’t move away. Kirishima pressed his hand a little closer to Bakugou’s. “You—the thought of almost losing you—it drove me crazy and I…I just wanted you to know. I like you, and I don’t ever wanna feel like that again, I want to be with you, like by your side in fights and even on—on dates—if you’ll let me of course, but I sure as hell am gonna fight to—”

A hand smacked over Kirishima’s mouth. “Holy fucking shit, shut up,” Bakugou hissed, eyes wide in disbelief and cheeks red. Kirishima froze, looking up at him, seeing the light outlining Bakugou like the silver lining peeking around the edges of a cloud, except on Bakugou it was just gold. Even with his mouth smothered, Kirishima beamed, taking in all those curving flushed red cheeks and spiky hair and pointy eyes, looking straight at him.

Bakugou opened his mouth, then closed it. With some effort, he shoved Kirishima’s face away.

“Whuh—” Kirishima sputtered, blinking away the shock and looking to Bakugou, who had turned his face away. For a moment Kirishima felt his heart do a little summersault, a drop of dread poking at his chest. Then he noticed the tips of Bakugou’s ears and the back of his neck tinted red, and he had laid his left hand at his side, over the sheets. Kirishima swallowed, and inched his hand a little closer, tilting his pinky finger over Bakugou’s.

Bakugou’s head turned further away. Then he twisted his wrist, finger curling around Kirishima’s, and gave a small squeeze.

# # #

The city had been cleaned up, repaired and polished just like new. Buildings have been reconstructed, the roads smoothened up, and the smoke has cleared away. It was as if no catastrophic destruction or near-death battles had taken place, no trace of black gashes of burns or dark stains of clotted red. The wounds of the city had been patched up, healed and smothered, but the scars—

The scars remained.

For days, UA was neck deep in press and criticism and questions. The loss of a symbol, the kidnapping of a student, the inadequacy of heroes, the value of heroes—in all directions there was something blocking the path, always something trying to cage them in, suffocate them. But they weren’t UA if they could be defeated by all that. If anything, what seemed like a brittle, cracked foundation in them had really become stronger. They’d been hit badly, but they weren’t crippled. Each and everyone understood the position they had fallen into, and with any low point, all that’s left to do is look up, so that’s what they did.

A lot of people looked to class 1-A, all of them constantly hounded by the press and surrounded by people who have nothing but questions and mixed looks. They’d been taught what kinds of answers to give, of course, what kinds of directions to switch to if they were cornered. And they were stronger, they could handle dangerous situations involving villains and evil, but dealing with the pressure of expectations and the more palpable, shaky balance their city—no, the world—was in, that they could perceive now more than ever…it was tiring.

“So of course there’s still homework,” Kaminari finished explaining, slumping down with a defeated little huff.

Kirishima sunk down next to him, groaning in weak agreement. About three other sighs echoed the same sentiments.

The distinct snap of wood tore through the not-quite silence. This was followed by a louderpop, just as biting and just a tad more aflame.

The charred remains of Bakugou’s pencil fizzled down onto the white of the bedside table, joining an earlier pile of ash. “So why the fuck,” he growled, for the third time. “Are all of you fuckheads here?”

Kaminari squirmed decidedly away from Bakugou, shrinking into Kirishima’s side for protection. On the couch, Uraraka shifted to move away from Bakugou’s direct line of sight, pressing closer to Tsuyu as Ashido and Jirou started humming an indistinct tune, avoiding Bakugou’s glares. Scattered around the room were most of the remaining members of the class: Sero next to Kirishima and Kaminari; Tokoyami by a corner, next to Shoji; Ojiro, Sato, Mineta, Aoyama, and Koda in various places on and around the couch across Bakugou’s bed.

Yaoyorozu, sitting by the right hand side of the bed, sighed deeply, picking up one of the spare pencils she’d amassed by the windowsill and pressing it on Bakugou’s over-bed table, giving him a pointed look. “This is the fifth one,” she grumbled.

“Oh look, she can count,” Bakugou rolled his eyes, grabbing for the pencil and immediately turning his attention to Kirishima, bringing his hand down and stabbing Kirishima with it.

“Hey!” Kirishima cried, hand flying up to his hardened head and pinching off the broken pencil bits. “You didn’t have to stab me, you ass!”

Small explosions peppered Bakugou’s palm, a vein flaring in his temple. “You shut up, you goddamn traitor.”

“Enough of that,” Yaoyorozu scolded, flapping her hand over Bakugou’s palm to disperse the smoke, lips curved down. “You’ll set off the sprinklers.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Kirishima pouted, brushing away the charred remains of Bakugou’s latest pencil victim and dropping it to the trash can. “You promised to tutor me!”

Bakugou was grinding his teeth and accepting the next spare pencil from Yaoyorozu without looking. “Check your goddamn sentence—‘me’ is not fucking plural you dipshit!”

Kirishima grinned, crooked and happy. “Aw, c’mon! Everyone wanted to see you.”

“Why does Kirishima get special treatment, huh?” Kaminari joked, playfully poking Kirishima’s side. “We’re your classmates too!”

“I don’t give a shit about you guys,” Bakugou growled, turning his head away.

“Ohh but you give a shit about Kirishima, eh?” Kaminari continued to jeer, snickering.

There was a moment, just a tad too long, where Bakugou didn’t respond immediately, making the class, without hesitation, burst into chaos.

“Wait!” Kaminari exclaimed, just as Sero and Ashido jumped up.

“Fuck—” Bakugou started, but it was too late, the blood was crawling up his neck and Kirishima’s face started blooming with color.

“Kirishima is special! Oh my god! I see it now! What have you two been doing in all your visits!” Kaminari was shaking Kirishima violently, and Kirishima guffawed, bursting into raucous laughter as he tried, quite uselessly, to dissuade his friends.

Before the turmoil of their yelling and teasing could reach the point in which Bakugou did murder his classmates and set off the sprinklers, the door burst open with a racket, Iida’s palm raised in distress.

“What’s going on!?” he shouted, at the same time Bakugou’s mom yelled, “What the fuck is going on!”

Behind them, Midoriya and Todoroki were apprehensively peeking into the room, followed closely by Aizawa-sensei, who looked about ready to strangle every one of his students.

“All of you, quiet,” he growled, eyes more bloodshot than usual.

The class scrambled to comply, getting off of their perches and clambering to give them space. Bakugou’s room wasn’t equipped to hold a menagerie of heroes-in-training, much less a menagerie of heroes-in-training going crazy with gossip and teasing, so it was getting a little more than cramped and unsightly.

“S-sorry, sensei,” Kirishima offered, shoving Kaminari away from his hair.

Kaminari shoved back, Aizawa snapped “Stop that,” at them, and the two boys ducked their heads, looking like kicked puppies.

“How are you, baby?” Mitsuki Bakugou asked with a chuckle, striding into the room and putting a hand on Bakugou’s hair.

Bakugou weakly tried to slap her hand away, only for her to put it back on his head. “I’m fucking fine, these dipshits need to leave.”

“Aww, but they came all the way to visit you, you little shit,” Mitsuki ruffled her son’s hair. “Aren’t you glad?”

“Fuck no,” Bakugou groaned, left hand flopping back onto the bed in defeat. If anyone noticed that it had started to tremble and tire, nobody mentioned it.

“Visits are nice and all, but don’t be noisy,” another voice—Recovery Girl—piped up from behind Midoriya.

A mix of greetings and bows echoed around the class, and both ladies waved them off amiably. Kirishima watched as Bakugou’s eyes sharpened, gaze so fiercely focused that Kirishima almost reeled back. Bakugou’s eyes were trained on Midoriya, and when red eyes met green, there was something so…full in their gazes. Something as deep as years and years of knowing each other at a level Kirishima couldn’t even imagine, something brimming with an indescribable energy and tension that was shared only by the two of them.

Kirishima had to look away, almost feeling like…he had no place there. He felt a small pang in his chest, fists tightening against his sides.

They all made way for Recovery Girl to approach Bakugou, and she hopped up on the chair Kirishima offered to her. Aizawa started telling his class to file out, and they all shuffled to gather their things as Recovery Girl leaned closer to Bakugou and narrowed her eyes at him.

“What,” Bakugou spat.

Mitsuki smacked Bakugou’s head in a flash, making Bakugou grunt. “Show some respect, you shit,” she growled at her son, who tried to chomp on her hand. The students half-watched as mother and son almost launched into a small slap fight, but was abruptly interrupted by Bakugou flinching away with a sharp hiss, his body tensing and face twisted in a pained wince.

Recovery Girl slowly lowered Bakugou’s right arm, lifting her hand away. Bakugou’s eyes pinched as he glared at the cast-covered arm, his other hand floating over his bicep. The room fell silent.

“The fuck was that for,” Bakugou growled, weakly glaring at Recovery Girl.

“Just checking,” she responded lightly, laying her hand gently over Bakugou’s cast, dotted with little doodles and messages from his classmates. “Can you lift your arm for me?”

Mitsuki gave Bakugou’s shoulder a small squeeze, expression soft. Kirishima felt his own chest tighten, fists clenching as he watched Bakugou—stubborn, strong Bakugou—unhesitatingly forcing his right arm to move. He gritted his teeth, inhaled, and pulled his arm up, shaking above Recovery Girl’s outstretched hand. After a few seconds, he let it collapse onto her hand, Recovery Girl easily carrying its weight.

“Good, good,” she nodded, settling Bakugou’s arm back on his lap. Then she reached forward, and squeezed Bakugou’s bandaged right shoulder.

An electric shock of pain jolted through his whole arm, and Bakugou yelped, jerking away. “Fuck!”

If he were any less attentive, Bakugou wouldn’t have noticed the way Kirishima and Midoriya physically, almost violently reacted to Recovery Girl’s unexpected incursion, as if spurned purely by reflex to do something. There was a shift among the whole class, something very pointed and tense, broken only by Bakugou’s slew of curses at Recovery Girl as he tried to mask his pain.

“Since you’ve recovered some, we’ll do some tests,” Recovery Girl concluded, tucking an arm behind her and putting a hand on Mitsuki’s back, reassuring. “While this isn’t a very simple case, we want you out of this hospital, stat.”

Mitsuki snickered, ruffling Bakugou’s hair a little more softly than usual. That, at least, seemed to break the tension in the room, even just slightly, as slowly and not so discreetly, the students started to move to the door.

“Wait, wait,” Mitsuki called, waving her hand. “Before you all go, I wanted to say something.” She turned to Aizawa, then to Class 1-A. “Aizawa-sensei more or less filled me in, and I’ve been seeing some of you on the news but fuck if I follow any of that shit properly, but…” She let her hand linger over Bakugou’s head, then pulled it away. “You lot—what you did was fucking stupid.“

There was a very pregnant pause, the heroes-in-training filling the room caught between the gentle, motherly way in which Mitsuki Bakugou was throwing expletives at them, and what she was actually saying.

“I know you’re all training to be heroes, but you’re all still kids,” she continued. “Let adults do what adults are supposed to do. Let us do the shit we are supposed to be responsible for, because we want you guys to be kids while you’re actually still kids. Because that’s what you all fucking are no matter what you’ve been through.”

Her stern expression softened, and she smiled. “All the adult stuff said, I’ll be contradictory now, because adults are like that too,” she huffed, straightening her arms at her sides. “Yaomomo-chan, Todoroki-kun, Iida-kun, Izuku-kun, and Eijirou-kun. And the rest of class 1-A.”

She bowed deeply and fully. “Thank you for saving my son.”

Emotion rippled through the class, stopping them short. Once again, the air in the room changed, charged with new energy, breathed into by relief and resolution. It was an adult scolding kids, kids being bowed to by an adult, heroes being heroes in a world constantly in motion, constantly challenging them at every turn. Bakugou had a hand over the playful and encouraging drawings of his classmates on his cast, covering an arm that was struggling to recover. Next to him was a small patch of red flowers atop a letter of thanks, and across his chest was a long scar that skirted over his heartbeat.

Kirishima could still remember the warmth of Bakugou’s hand, and the pounding of his heart, thumping in time with his own. He remembered reaching out to him, from far up in the sky, and Bakugou, against all odds, reaching back. Mitsuki Bakugou lifted her head and beamed, eyes glittering, probably not even noticing the way her hand had moved to touch her son again. It may have only been a few seconds, but it was a moment Kirishima was never going to forget, and he was sure it was the same for most of his classmates, too.

Aizawa sighed, his shoulders finally sagging. “Well,” he breathed, rubbing the back of his neck. “There you have it.”

Mitsuki grinned, wide and toothy, giving Bakugou a solid smack on the back and flapping her hand in front of her, as if to disperse the solemn air. “That’s all I had to say! Now you’re all free to go.” She reached over to Aizawa and gave him a solid smack on his back as well, enough to jerk him forward. “Remind me to buy you a drink sometime, yeah?”

Aizawa blinked at her, some of his students bursting into startled giggles. He tilted his head, mouth quirking up at a corner, and said, “Sure.”

Recovery Girl couldn’t help her own smile, but started waving the kids away. “You can all visit again while he’s still confined, for now we’ll do treatment,” she supplied. “Rest assured we want him out of here as soon as possible.”

Bakugou huffed, and the class shared amicable chuckles and sighs. Kirishima relaxed, just a small knot of concern nudging at his brow as he shouldered his bag and quietly mouthed ‘I’ll come back later’. Bakugou’s brows furrowed deeper, glaring, opening his mouth then closing it. Kirishima saw the little splotch of red coloring the back of his neck, and thought cute.

“We’ll see you soon, Bakugou!” Ashido beamed, leaning over the foot of the hospital bed.

“I wish you a speedy recovery,” Yaoyorozu said, smiling. “And…in case you’d like them, I’ve been compiling the latest class notes for when you come back.”

“Oh my god, you’re all too sweet,” Mitsuki sighed dreamily. “Katsuki doesn’t deserve you.” She grapples Bakugou in a hug, fluffing his hair and smothering him in her collar, making him sputter. “Thank you, all of you.”

Kirishima smiled, reaching for Bakugou’s left hand, softly and subtly brushing his fingers over Bakugou’s knuckles, so brief and light that only Bakugou really noticed. Their eyes met, and Kirishima just…stared, enraptured. He must have been making a weird face because Bakugou’s ears tinted red, and he averted his face. Kirishima felt his stomach do a little flip, and did a whole summersault when Bakugou’s eyes flitted back to glance at him, and this time Kirishima was sure he was wearing a dopey smile on his face even when Kaminari grabbed his arm and pulled him away to leave with the others.

“Oh,” Aizawa piped up, stalling behind the students. Bakugou looked up at him. “I mentioned this to the class earlier, but we’ll be focusing on getting the provisional licenses we had planned for you to get back at the camp.”

Bakugou blinked, softly letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Aizawa blinked back, just matter-of-factly. “I expect everyone to pass. That’s all.”

Bakugou straightened, watching Aizawa nod and usher the half-boisterous class out of the room. They waved and bid their ‘see you later’s at him, and before the door could close, Kirishima poked his head back in and yelled, “You’re still going to tutor me! You promised!”

The door closed before he could see Bakugou snort, ducking his head and hiding a smile.

# # #

When Kirishima comes back to the hospital, he finds out Bakugou had gone into surgery.

The nurses quickly explained that it was a scheduled surgery for Bakugou’s right arm, a second one following the initial operation from that first night. They didn’t tell Kirishima the nature of the procedure or the reason for it, but reassured him that it was going to help with Bakugou’s recovery.

He tried not to think too hard about it, nor why Bakugou didn’t mention it to him. He was allowed to hang out and pore distractedly over his notes until some of the nurses went on break, where they made true on their promise to treat Kirishima to some ramen for dinner.

“So,” Hinata-san said, in the middle of their meal. “Have you confessed to Bakugou-kun?”

Kirishima proceeded to choke on his noodles.

The nurses laughed as they offered water and let Kirishima pound on his chest and regain his bearings. Kirishima was flushed from the exertion and the question, and pouted heavily at his companions.

“Aw c’mon, you know my quirk,” Hinata-san chuckled. “And even without it I think it’s pretty obvious.”

Chiyo-san and Shin-san hummed in agreement, grinning in teasing and understanding. Kirishima groaned softly, mashing his hands over his eyes. For a long while the three nurses waited patiently, until he mumbled a small, “Yeah.”

He almost felt his face overheat when the nurses whooped and cheered, patting him and attracting the attention of the other patrons around them.

“Please tell me you didn’t place any bets,” Kirishima mumbled, peeking from between his fingers.

“Nah,” Shin-san snickered. “We kinda figured it would be pretty soon.”

“What!” Kirishima exclaimed, heat flaring in his face. “How would you figure that!”

“It’s kind of…something we’re used to, in our line of work?” Hinata-san shrugged, giving Kirishima a small, almost sad smile. “And given what kind of person you are, we figured it’d be sooner rather than later.”

Kirishima stared at them for a long while, the pieces slowly slotting together in his brain.

(The thought of almost losing you…)

“Ah,” Kirishima said, slumping down and swirling the last of his noodles. “You’re right. I guess…even if I knew that hero work could—could be like this, I still didn’t really understand. At least, not until that night.” He flexed his fingers against the bowl, feeling it’s fading warmth. “I guess I didn’t think that something so bad could happen, if there were heroes around. And then Bakugou almost…almost died, and suddenly things like waiting around made me feel kinda nauseous.” He balled his hand into a fist, thinking of how hard he’d gripped the ruined wall separating him from Bakugou, and how tightly he’d held Bakugou’s hand, as if it were the last thing he’d ever do.

Chiyo-san put a hand on his shoulder, comforting and firm. Kirishima smiled at her. “I still have a lot to learn,” he said.

The nurses nodded, smiling proudly. “I’m sure, when you’re pro-heroes, you’ll be able to stop things like this from happening,” Chiyo-san proclaimed. “You and Bakugou-kun.”

Kirishima beamed, smile reaching his eyes. “Absolutely! We’ll be the top heroes around, just you wait.”

They ruffled Kirishima’s hair and sang their excitement, filling Kirishima with renewed determination and hope. “Speaking of waiting,” Hinata-san chimed, swallowing their last mouthful of soup. “Bakugou-kun should be back from surgery by now.”

Kirishima lit up, devoured the last of his meal, and followed the nurses back with a new bounce to his step, feeling, for the first time in a while, truly resolved to face the future.

# # #

When Bakugou wakes up, it’s morning, and Kirishima is by his side.

This time, Kirishima was on his right, between the bed and the window, red hair veiled in gold by the sunrise seeping through the curtains. He was sitting on the cushioned hospital chair, hunched over on the edge of the bed, sleeping half on his forearm and half on the sheets. His other hand was extended down, keeping just a few centimeters’ distance from Bakugou’s right hand—newly bandaged and outfitted with a new temporary cast. The previous, stupidly vandalized cast was sitting atop his bedside table, right next to a folded letter, a clean lunchbox, and a vase of bowing flowers whose red petals started to give way to yellow specks.

For a moment, Bakugou just watched Kirishima: lips slightly parting with his soft breaths, eyelashes fluttering, cheek half mashed into his forearm, right hand unconsciously reaching for Bakugou’s.

With a pained effort, Bakugou shakily twisted his wrist and slid it under Kirishima’s hand, palm up. As if in response, Kirishima’s fingers curled inwards, gently gripping Bakugou’s hand. Pain coursed up his arm, but Bakugou chose to focus on the weight of Kirishima’s hand, warm and solid and grounding. He still remembered the feeling of reaching for it and holding onto him as hard as he could, the almost bruising grip, the tension practically trying to rip his arm apart, the unrelenting grasp as if it was the only thing that kept him together.

(I like you.)

Bakugou huffed, staring up at the ceiling, then shut his eyes, focusing on just feeling. In the dark, the almost suffocating blackness that he’d had to fight off too many times since that night, he could feel the solid weight of Kirishima’s hand, warm and painful. That bright, almost infuriating red was what stubbornly invaded the blackness, and Bakugou found that, at the very least, he could breathe.

He doesn’t know how long he just laid there, eyes closed and breathing steady, processing. He’d accepted that his mind would keep wandering back to that night, so he tried to at least keep all that shit from overwhelming him, so that at some point he might figure out what the fuck to do about it.

He thought of the camp. ‘Kacchan.’ The League. Shigaraki Tomura.

Bakugou slowly slid his left hand to the edge of the bed, slipping his fingers in the gap between the mattress and railing. He pulled out a card, lightly pinched between his fingers. The card had a simple, black and white illustration of the Jack of Spades, one face grinning, the other in a despaired frown. 

He didn't know why he'd hid the card. He didn't know why he hadn't blown it to ashes, even back when that villain had offered it to him. Bakugou would say he didn't know, would tell himself that, but laying there in the hospital, bandaged up and useless, shut off from the outside...

(Just stay with me.)

Bakugou let his eyes close, inhaling, then exhaling. In, out.

Kirishima.

All Might.

Bakugou sucked in a long, hard breath, feeling it rattle in his chest and stab at his arms and warm up his scars. When he exhaled, he gripped a little more tightly around Kirishima’s hand, and felt that he could breathe again.

In, out. In, out.

(There you are.)

Without looking, Bakugou crushed the card in his fist, and let a burst of fire burn it to ash.

Suddenly, Kirishima’s hand flinched, jerking away from his loose hold. Bakugou slowly opened his eyes.

“Bakugou?” Kirishima said, voice rough from sleep. His hand was pulled back, and he looked worried. “Sorry, did I hurt you? I must have accidentally grabbed your hand in my sleep.”

Bakugou grunted, letting himself focus on the shitty hair next to him. Said red hair was down, in the same un-gelled style he had seen Kirishima wear that night.

It…wasn’t a bad look.

“Bakugou?” Kirishima tried again, sleepily rubbing at an eye.

“M’fine,” Bakugou huffed, still staring.

“Need anything?” Kirishima offered, stretching his arms up and blinking his sleep away, eyes brightening up like the sun had risen in them.

“Bed.”

Kirishima raised an amused eyebrow, smile crooked and expression overly fond, the kind of look that made Bakugou want to mash his palm into and maybe pop a few blasts at, for making his chest feel the way it did.

Obediently, Kirishima adjusted the top half of Bakugou’s bed, inclining it a little closer to a sitting position. Bakugou let out a small grunt of satisfaction, making Kirishima chuckle as he settled back into his chair.

His eyes flickered over to Bakugou’s right arm. “How’s your arm?”

Compared to the first few nights, Bakugou could actually feel his arm, throbbing and…heavy. On top of being wrapped in bandages and secured with a full-arm cast, the weakness in his arm, from shoulder to fingertips, made it feel like heavy lead coursed through his veins instead of blood, and his bones extra weights that he had to work fucking hard to lift.

“Better,” Bakugou said in answer. “Had to rewire some nerves and tendons. That decay quirk is worse on open wounds.” He pondered, noncommittally trying to curl his right hand fingers, eyes twitching in a reflexively suppressed wince. “Almost lost my arm.”

Kirishima was quiet, expression subdued. He stared at Bakugou’s arm, eyes dragging down to his bandaged fingers, glazing over as if he had started to see something else beyond what he was looking at. His own right hand was hovering close to Bakugou’s hand, stuck and unsure.

Bakugou exhaled through his nose, and furrowed his brows. Pain jolted down his shoulder to his hand as he forced his arm to lift, making his heart rate pick up and his veins feel like they were on fire, stinging and flaring—and alive. Kirishima jerked to look at him, eyes wide. Bakugou grit his teeth, hissing under his breath as he lifted even his wrist, forcing his energy to his fingertips, shaky and excruciating as it is.

Kirishima gaped at him, mouth half open, and with a burst of realization and instinct, moved his hand, turning it palm up, just a couple of inches below Bakugou’s trembling, injured, stubborn one.

With a stupidly agonizing amount of effort, Bakugou lowered his hand onto Kirishima’s, barely able to curl his fingers around Kirishima’s hand before his whole arm gave out, collapsing.

Kirishima didn’t let him go, grasping tight and carrying the weight of his hand.

It fucking hurt, but…it hurt. Bakugou could feel—the tightness of Kirishima’s hold, just like that night; the warmth, the pain—alive.

For a long moment, they looked at each other, and slowly, softly, Kirishima smiled.

The energy fled from Bakugou’s fingers, unable to keep curled around Kirishima’s hand. Kirishima only gripped tighter, not allowing Bakugou to slip away. It hurt, but Bakugou forced his fingers to move, forced all his strength into holding onto that hand, squeeze it as hard as he could, feel the way Kirishima squeezed back, and against everything, keep holding on.

# # #

The week later finds class 1-A in Gym Gamma, on their fourth day of training for the provisional license exam. It had been a grueling week full of non-stop problem solving and training, running back and forth between the gym and the support department all for the sake of improving, spurned by the recent events that took the Symbol of Peace away, and almost took their own classmate. All the pent up frustration and guilt compounded by the relentless hounding of the press, the anxiety floating around the whole city, and the sore lack of explosions and profanity-filled yelling in their class—they all poured it out into a determination to do what they’ve been doing: become heroes. No matter how exhausted, bruised and broken down they may be.

That day, they were under the watch of Midnight, Cementoss, and Ectoplasm. The retired All Might, who had been around since the first day, wasn’t present, and even Aizawa-sensei was absent since the morning, with no prior notice as to why. Any of the students’ questions were answered when, just half an hour into their session, the gym doors opened to reveal Aizawa-sensei followed by All Might, Recovery Girl, and—

“Bakugou!” Kaminari was first to exclaim, wide-eyed, echoed just as quickly by the rest of the class as they all scrambled to the gym entrance. The teachers didn’t bother stopping them, all their attention turning to the same place, relief washing over their tense shoulders.

Kirishima jumped off of his perch and ran, eyes bright and heart galloping up in his chest at the sight of Bakugou, striding into the gym with that trademark scowl on his face. He was free from his bandages and was wearing his hero costume—sans the arm grenades—just like everyone else. He looked…normal. Healthy. As if he hadn’t gotten kidnapped and critically injured just a few weeks ago, and hospitalized since. Only the tip of a scar was visible at the small patch of exposed skin on his chest, and if he still had any lingering pain from his injuries, he didn’t show it.

The biggest difference was his right arm: a sleek, black, multi-layered brace ran all the way from his wrist to his shoulder. A single piece of black plating lay atop his upper arm, running from his shoulder to just above his elbow, secured by straps that tightened around black padding—two around his bicep, and two around his forearm, tipped with a wrist wrap that looked both firm and flexible. Connecting everything together were two metal segments that were attached to each piece of padding, like a metallic, skeletal frame that was joined in the middle by a circular joint, the inner circle accented with the same fiery orange in Bakugou’s costume.

“Dude! It’s so good to see you back!” Kaminari gushed, his whole posture exhaling the wound up, tense set to his shoulders he’s had since starting their training. Even when he was full of smiles and cheer, there was a definite knot of stress that had been keeping him on edge, and it all visibly unraveled as he approached Bakugou. Kirishima had to put a hand on Kaminari’s shoulder, squeezing softly and giving him a small, understanding smile. For a brief moment, Kaminari looked at him, and gave him the first, true, genuinely happy grin he’s had in a while.

Bakugou grunted, glaring across the gathering around him. Aizawa laid a hand between Bakugou’s shoulder blades, glancing at him, then addressing the class. “Bakugou is officially returning to class starting today. For now we’ll be over there for assessments.” He pointed to the west side of the gym, which had a spacious patch of ground separate from the raised rock formations converging towards the middle of the gym. “So please give us that area for the time being.”

A murmur of assent sounded throughout the class. Bakugou’s shoulders were still tense, and through the little gaps in his brace and costume they could see the discolored skin of his right arm, scarred.

“Sensei,” Iida spoke up, hand raised. “Is it alright if I ask something?” He glanced at Bakugou, Aizawa-sensei, and Recovery Girl. Aizawa inclined his head in a tilted nod. Iida continued, “What kind of assessments?”

Bakugou huffed, annoyed. Recovery Girl was the one to respond, her arms clasped behind her back. “Bakugou had to go through numerous procedures and treatments. As you’ve seen, his right arm took the most serious damage.” She nodded to the brace on his arm. “And he’s not fully recovered, so please also refrain from putting undue stress to that arm until it is, that goes for all of you,” she added sternly. “Quirks linked to specific biological components are understandably linked to the condition of those parts, which you’ve all learned.” She nodded to All Might, and his thin, shrunken frame, and she glanced at Midoriya and Iida. “Deteriorating conditions, deteriorating quirk. With my quirk and the help of the other medical professionals in our hospital, Bakugou’s arm, is, at least, intact. But not everything is in working order. We’re ‘breaking in’ his quirk with the newly reconstructed arm. We don’t know how stable it could be, but we’re under the assumption that it’s going to be a slow start, which it should be. So you don’t have to worry about proximity, but still allot enough space, if you please.”

Aizawa nodded. “You may return to your training as per usual. Don’t let us bother you, you lot still have a long way to go. Bakugou will be training with you all soon enough.”

The class gingerly shuffled away, shooting Bakugou varied looks and greetings. Kirishima lagged behind, watching an uncharacteristically quiet Bakugou get ushered off to the side. When their eyes met, Kirishima smiled. Bakugou’s glare softened, just a tiny fraction, and he huffed and turned away, right arm barely swaying.

There was a weird…wary, sheepishness to class 1-A, like they didn’t know how to act. They were happy and relieved, the missing piece of their class had returned, all in one piece, but they were still…anxious, and none of them could focus on training. As instructed, they steered clear of the space they had apportioned for Bakugou’s ‘assessments’, an open area in view of everyone else, edges dotted with raised structures Cementoss had built for them. Kirishima climbed up the small cliff closest to Bakugou, and Midoriya was right below, watching. As the students slowly and vaguely wandered to where they wanted to train, they were distracted and curious, glancing again and again at Bakugou. All Might and Recovery Girl were talking to him, and still, he was quiet, only giving slight nods and grunts in response. All Might offered him a smile, and Aizawa lightly placed a hand on Bakugou’s right shoulder, and they stepped back, allowing Bakugou to turn and face the open space in front of him.

Class 1-A, now fully distracted, watched as Recovery Girl gave instructions to Bakugou, who lifted his left hand in front of him, palm up, and set off small pops of explosions from it. They sounded like crackling fire and small fireworks, and Recovery Girl nodded, giving a follow up directive. A bigger, medium-sized explosion flared from Bakugou’s left hand, blasting outward almost softly. Recovery Girl nodded again, giving another instruction. Bakugou lowered his left hand and gradually, steadily lifted his right. His arm didn’t shake, save for the slight shutter of his shoulder, the sturdy black brace supporting and adjusting to his movements.

As if collectively holding their breaths, class 1-A watched, nervously, as Bakugou twisted his palm face up, fingers slowly flexing outward. Bakugou seemed to pause and glared at his hand, long enough for Recovery Girl and All Might to start to talk to him and move to approach him.

Kirishima almost felt his heart sink, chest tightening, until Bakugou growled, annoyed, with a resolved, “Fuck this.”

And with a resounding roar, Bakugou heaved both his arms up and back, threw his hands forward, and unleashed an enormous explosion that rocked the whole gym.

The blast clashed with the nearby structures, destroying the one Kirishima was on to the point of crumbling down and taking a shell-shocked Kirishima with it. He managed to tumble forward and avoid getting crushed, but still landed on his back. When he sat up, he saw a few other frazzled classmates in similar positions, picking themselves up and dusting off their clothes from the sudden onslaught of debris and smoke.

”FUCK!” Bakugou bellowed, bent over and gripping his right arm tightly, breaths heaving. “That fucking hurts! Motherfucking shit! Fuck!”

Behind him, Aizawa, Recovery Girl, and All Might gaped, eyes wide, mouths half open, stunned. Aizawa was the first to move, hand lifting to cover his forehead as he sighed, loud and deep. Recovery Girl groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose and muttering, ”’Breaking in’, I said. ‘Slow start’, I said. What did I expect.”

“God fucking dammit!” Bakugou continued to curse angrily, refusing to fall to his knees as he tried to brute force his way through the pain, the corners of his pinched eyes prickling with tears and his breaths erratic and harsh, body shaking.

His eyes, though—his eyes were blazing.

Wracked with pain as he was, Bakugou’s eyes were brimming with life. Alive.

So, with a burst of disbelief, Kirishima laughed.

He laughed loud and strong, shoulders shaking so hard that he had to put a hand on the ground to keep him from falling over, tears poking out of the corners of his eyes. Then, around him, his friends snorted, then burst out laughing. One by one they broke down and laughed as they wiped the tears from their eyes, some of them falling onto their asses as their legs gave out, and they all cried and laughed and laughed.

Recovery Girl had put a palm to her face, shaking her head with an ill-concealed smile tugging at her lips. Aizawa relented, mouth curling up, and next to him All Might started to chuckle. Around them, the teachers let the students laugh, smiling as the future heroes before them could barely stand straight or sneakily wipe away their tears as they let the weights on their shoulders down, for just that moment.

Bakugou straightened, still grasping his arm, and walked over to Kirishima, ignoring the calls of the teachers behind him. The pain and exertion made him break out in a sweat, and he looked pissed off and exasperated at it all, his eyes otherwise brimming with fire. Kirishima swiped at the tears that tried to trickle down his cheeks and grinned crookedly up at Bakugou, feeling his chest glow with warmth and admiration for the most fiercely stubborn hero Kirishima was sure he’d ever know.

“You good?” he asked, eyes rapt on Bakugou’s face.

Bakugou clicked his tongue, grunting once. Kirishima chuckled, and blinked in surprise when Bakugou unfurled his hand and offered it to him.

Kirishima stared at that hand, trembling just a little—undoubtedly still aching—then at those red eyes. He beamed, lifting his own hand and reaching for Bakugou. Their hands clasped together, and Kirishima let himself get pulled, shifting his weight to his legs to lessen the load on Bakugou and help propel himself up. Bakugou squeezed tightly, stopping the shaking in his arm and letting the brace help his movement. Kirishima knew it must have hurt, especially after firing off such a huge explosion, but he only gripped tighter. For Bakugou, he would hold on as hard as he could.

With a shared effort, Bakugou pulled Kirishima to stand. “Thanks, Baku—” Kirishima started, but Bakugou continued to pull, letting the momentum yank Kirishima forward. Sharp red eyes quickly drew closer, staring straight at him, and suddenly, something soft pressed against Kirishima’s lips.

A soft breath fluttered against Kirishima’s cheek, and Kirishima—poor, helpless Kirishima, with all his pride in the way his hardening quirk made him sturdy and strong and unbreakable—could only melt against the warm, soft press of lips against his own. Even with a throbbing, weakened arm, Bakugou easily carried the weight of Kirishima’s hand as it fell slack with shock, then tightened around his hand in response. Suddenly, Kirishima couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t see anything, could only feel, with dizzying certainty, the way Bakugou’s lips captured his: gently but firmly, tilted just so.

Kirishima’s mouth opened, just slightly, inhaling the same breath as Bakugou, and just as suddenly as it all happened, Bakugou pulled away.

Kirishima didn’t know his eyes had slid shut until he opened them, gazing into those damn red eyes again. It must have been only a few seconds, but Kirishima was breathless, light-headed. Bakugou had literally stolen his breath away, and might as well have stolen his voice, too, because Kirishima was just stuck there, heat flaring up his whole face up to the tips of his ears, lips tingling with the lingering feeling of a kiss, staring at the cause of all his malfunctioning, with those sharp red eyes and curving cheeks and blonde hair and soft lips.

There was just a faint dusting of pink against Bakugou’s cheeks, and he averted his eyes, muttering, “S’fine if you use my given name. You’ve already been saying it anyway.”

Kirishima’s hand slowly, stupidly floated up to hover over his lips, still in disbelief. Maybe if he punched himself he’d wake up, but for all intents and purposes, Kirishima was just rendered utterly useless by a single kiss.

Without any prompting, Kirishima’s lips wobbled up into a crooked, dumb grin. “Katsuki,” he said, and felt his chest expand with delight when Katsuki’s cheeks colored an even deeper shade of red.

“Katsuki,” he repeated, a few more times. “Then—you too.”

Bakugou’s eyes flitted back up to meet his, and with an annoyed huff, grumbled, “Eijirou.”

Kirishima was sure his heart was going to burst out of his chest, and his smile was just going to split his whole face in half, but he brightened and brightened, chest puffing up and eyes glistening bright. Wrapped up in Katsuki’s gaze and kiss and hand as he was, everything else just barely registered.

Around the two of them, everyone in class 1-A was screaming.

For how long they’d been screaming, Kirishima wasn’t sure, but just as suddenly as he realized it, he was tackled and smothered in loud and boisterous yelling and teasing and screaming. Class 1-A had abandoned all pretenses of training and rushed the two of them, grabbing Kirishima’s shoulders and putting him in a headlock and burying their knuckles in his hair as Katsuki tried to blast some of their classmates, ultimately getting outnumbered by nudges and hair fluffs and screams. Kirishima laughed so hard his eyes started watering again, just—so happy to be surrounded and wrapped up in his friends, next to Katsuki. With him.

Katsuki roared and growled at his classmates, throwing profanities at them left and right, only to be met with raucous and joyous laughter and yelling. Later, they’d be broken up by the exasperated teachers who couldn’t tamp down their own smiles; and Katsuki was going to get an earful from Recovery Girl and Aizawa-sensei. They were going to have to get back into grueling training for their provisional license exams, and Katsuki will push himself twice as hard to tear through rehabilitation and recovery with sheer force of willpower and grit alone.

For now though, Katsuki simply held Eijirou’s hand, and Eijirou was determined to not let go.