Chapter Text
"Hey, you can stay as long as you need, okay man?"
Bakugou blinks, looking up at Kirishima from the couch, scowl on his face. Kirishima tries for a smile. The blond has had the longest day, and Kirishima kind of wants to wrap him up in a blanket and turn him into a big burrito, pinch his stupid cheeks and kiss his huge forehead. The thought alone makes him feel a little bit ridiculous – but it's late, and Bakugou just looks so worn out. Kirishima can't help it. He looks like he needs it.
But he can't do any of that. He can't expose his crush, especially not now, now that Bakugou is here in his apartment – and for an undetermined amount of time.
They've had a beer or two, Kirishima had been just trying to get rid of that edge in Bakugou's eyes, trying to make him relax, and it had actually gone alright. Maybe Bakugou had really needed it, or something, but he had actually let go more than he usually did. The blond relaxed back into the couch, watched the TV with softer eyes, sighed out slow and just been calm.
But it's late now, it's bedtime, and Kirishima has to get some sleep. He has a shift in the morning. So no matter how his heart tugs on him to stay out here, to spend as much time as he can with Bakugou, he has to retire to his own room and get some rest.
"Yeah," Bakugou grunts, dropping his eyes. It looks like he has more to say, but all he really manages is, "...Thanks."
Kirishima grins at him, pushing his hands into the pockets of his sweats. "Of course, dude! I know it sucks to have to move, but my couch is always open." He wants to say other thing, that his apartment is pretty lonely, that he's always wanted a roommate.
Always wanted to come home to Bakugou waiting.
But he locks those things behind his teeth, caging them like a villain, behind the bars of his teeth. Bakugou has had a really long, shitty day. He can't do that to his best friend, not tonight.
He wants, he wants, but he doesn't allow himself to have. Instead he smiles and turns away.
When his phone had lit up with Bakugou's name, he had picked up right away, and Kirishima could hear his voice catch as he growled out about his No Good Very Bad Day. Evicted from his apartment – due to a rot problem that had nothing to do with him – a shitty shift with shitty sidekicks and shitty people telling him that he was doing terrible, shitty press cornering him, a smear article about how bad he's been doing, and some villain escaping him because his quirk just wasn't compatible. Kirishima knows those kinds of days.
"Oi, Shitty Hair."
Kirishima stops, turns. It's dark already – he's turned off the light, it's just the glow from the TV - but Bakugou has stood from the couch. He's hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room, hand half up like he had wanted to stop Kirishima.
He's shaking.
Kirishima is across the room before he even tells himself to do it.
"Bakugou? Bakugou, hey, shit, hey, it's okay." He lifts his hands, hovering, unsure of what he needs, unsure what to do. Kirishima's first instinct is to reach out, to pull him in closer, to hold him. But he doesn't know if Bakugou wants that. Bakugou keeps his eyes downcast, but his shoulders shake slightly, hands fisted at his sides now.
Then he dips forward, leans towards Kirishima. He grunts softly, and bumps his forehead into Kirishima's shoulder.
Kirishima's heart squeezes so hard in his chest he thinks that he might stop breathing.
His hands go up by instinct – he threads one hand into the hair at the back of Bakugou's neck and holds him solidly, wrapping the other arm carefully around his waist. He doesn't pull him in, just keeps his arm there, stretched out a little awkwardly, but comforting, warm, nice.
Bakugou takes a deep breath against him, and lets it all out slowly, like he's breathing Kirishima in, relaxing, the tension ironing out from his shoulders.
It's quiet in the room, just Bakugou breathing into his neck. Kirishima's mind is quite the opposite, but he stands there in silence anyways, holding his breath.
After a long moment, the blond shifts forward, back bowing so he can keep his head in Kirishima's neck, gathering closer to the redhead. Kirishima lets out his breath and pulls him in tight, letting their feet slide past each other, holding him close, right there.
His heart is probably trying to squeeze itself into nothingness in his chest, but he just stands there, sways ever-so-slightly, rocking to silent music, just moving them slowly, softly, as though there's actually a melody playing from the stereo. Kirishima just stands there and holds his best friend as the colors from the muted TV play over them, one after another, dipping them in darkness and then washing them in cool blues and bright yellows.
Bakugou stops shaking, but he stays there for a long time anyways, just letting Kirishima hold him. Kirishima's heart aches, just standing here, but he's never gotten so much as a hug from the blond before, and he's afraid to break the silence, afraid to lose it.
He's caught in this in-between of being terrified, caught up in gay panic, and just being serene, here with Bakugou, moving slowly like they're dancing in the light of the TV, in the dark of the night.
But all too soon Bakugou is moving back, shoulders relaxed now, looking down at the ground. It's hard to tell in the light of the TV, but it looks like his cheeks are kind of ruddy. Kirishima feels kind of warmed at the idea that nobody has ever seen Bakugou like this before.
This is a side of Bakugou that belongs to only Kirishima.
He wants it all the time.
He's really gotta do something about his hopeless crush, but tonight is not the night for that. Tonight isn't for Kirishima, it's for comforting Bakugou, it's for helping him feel better. As a friend.
Tonight the night for swallowing hard and letting out a choked whisper, saying, "You don't really seem like you want to be alone."
Bakugou tenses a little, and he shoves his hands into his pockets. Kirishima watches as Bakugou just keeps his head down and brushes by him, heading towards the hall. He wonders if he did something wrong – but then Bakugou turns back.
"I'm going to sleep in your bed," he announces, like he's daring Kirishima to argue, and Kirishima's heart tries to replicate a marching band drumline.
"O-oh, okay," Kirishima stutters, looking at the couch, eyebrows furrowed. Well, of course he'd want to sleep in a read bed, after he's had such a shitty day, after he's gone through all that crap, but Kirishima hadn't really expected this. "I'll be out here, if you need anyth-"
But Bakugou is rolling his eyes, grabbing Kirishima's wrist. "Come on."
Kirishima follows on numb legs, trying to process what this means. He knows what it means, he knows what Bakugou is saying, but he can't wrap his brain around it.
Well, that is, he can't wrap his brain around it until they get to the bed, and Kirishima stands there and stares at the covers and completely disassociates as Bakugou sits and pulls off his socks. Glaring at Kirishima's feet, he grumbles, "Well?"
Kirishima takes the hint, ears ringing, trying to ignore that he's about to share a bed with Bakugou freaking Katsuki, and climbs onto the bed, moving past his best friend and shifting under the covers on the opposite side of the bed. He feels like he's got fast-drying cement in his joints.
Bakugou yawns and flops back, letting out a deep breath. How can he be so nonchalant about all of this? Kirishima's heart feels like it's beating out of his chest as Bakugou works himself under the covers, laying on his back, just inches from Kirishima's side.
Kirishima can feel waves of heat from his side, all of the warmth, all of the magma-hot burning of his quirk wafting off of him. Kirishima wants to melt into him, wants to turn over and curl into his side, but he keeps himself on his back, nailed to the bed. He's strapped there, trapped by his own fear, fear of fucking this up, of losing what he has with Bakugou. So he squeezes his eyes shut and just lays there, stiff as a plank, trying to hold on tight to the feeling of before, of holding him in the living room, rocking from side to side.
This is just Bakugou not wanting to be alone. This is just Bakugou having a shitty day, wanting to be reminded that there are people in the world that understand, that are there for him. This isn't what Kirishima wants it to be.
Bakugou lets out a soft sigh, and Kirishima feels it reverberate through his skull. Without thinking, he copies it, blowing his breath up into the room, imagining disturbing the dust motes that he might be able to see in the light, that disappear into the darkness of the night. He lets his mind drift, to imagine what Bakugou would look like, dipped in the greys and blacks of night. He doesn't look, no matter the ache in his chest.
Something brushes against his fingers at his side, hotter than he had been expecting.
He can't imagine he can get any stiffer, but he does so anyways, back as straight as it's ever been – the opposite of him, hah-hah – heart pounding up his throat to sit on the back of his tongue.
Bakugou's hands are hot, so goddamn hot, as he traces over Kirishima's knuckles, down to his fingertips, circling there for a moment before tracing back up, moving slowly and surely along knobby knuckles.
Kirishima has never had particularly pretty hands - rough from his quirk and overuse - but they feel like the most beautiful part of him under Bakugou's attention. There are callouses on Bakugou's fingers. Kirishima can feel them perfectly, and he aches to press them to his lips.
He opts for breaking from the prison of his gay panic and flipping his hand instead, palm up. Bakugou's fingers still for a moment as Kirishima swallows hard and reciprocates, brushes his thumb over the edge of Bakugou's hand.
His eyes stare unseeing up at the ceiling above them, drifting away into the void as he focuses on just the sensations in his fingers, in his palm, tracing along his knuckles. His whole chest has turned into a puddle of soup, a bowl with liquid sloshing around and over the edges. His organs float and bump and turn and he feels like maybe he'll float away.
Bakugou only hesitates for a moment before his fingers are pressing carefully into Kirishima's palm, rubbing along the rough skin there, tracing tiny circles along his lifeline, the ball of his thumb, into the soft spots at the base of each finger. Kirishima just lets him, cheeks flaming, heart performing a drum solo all alone, brushing his thumb along the outside of Bakugou's hand, the tips of his middle and index fingers along the tops of Bakugou's knuckles.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck he's so in love with Bakugou, with his hands and his tentative breaths on the other side of the bed, the way that he says I'm going to sleep in your bed and his hesitance in asking for comfort. In the way he runs his fingers down Kirishima's hand, lets them slide into the spaces between Kirishima's fingers and move past, lets their hands intertwine on the bed, in the small space between them, on top of the covers.
And Kirishima is just laying there, feeling his whole chest detach from his body and disappear into space, fluttering with nerves and butterflies. He shouldn't be nervous, he's already holding Bakugou's hand, but oh All Might, he feels nervous nonetheless.
He feels giddy and stupid, like he wants to kick his legs and bury his face into the pillow below him. He'll have plenty of time for that later. Right now, he kind of thinks that might ruin the mood.
The mood is warm covers, a possibly smoldering hand, absolutely burning cheeks. Kirishima wants almost nothing more than to just turn over, prop himself up on an elbow and kiss his best friend into oblivion in this bed, pressed into the covers, holding his hand until the end of time.
The only thing that he wants more than that is to keep the friendship, to not ruin what they have between them.
So he doesn't turn, he just lays there and holds his hand, lets himself believe that this is just what Bakugou needs, this is just somebody to comfort him, just reminding himself that somebody is there, that he's not alone tonight, or ever, in this big wide, terrifying world.
This is just a shitty day and existential dread, coming together in the form of intertwining your hand with your best friend, laying on your backs, side by side, in his bed.
This is just Bakugou needing a friend.
Kirishima is more than willing to be there for him. Even if it means letting his heart ache, bleeding out slowly against his lungs.
He listens to Bakugou take a deep breath, and let it out slowly, hand relaxing but not releasing, thumb brushing ever-so-softly over Kirishima's. And he lays there in the dark, stares at a ceiling that he can't really see, and listens to his friend fall asleep holding his hand.
And despite the ache, Kirishima smiles, lets out a breath, reminds himself to be satisfied, and closes his eyes to sleep as well.
Kirishima wakes up groggy, blinking against the light from the window. His bed is warmer than usual, but for a moment Kirishima is pretty sure that everything from last night was a dream, as he's alone in the bed.
He frowns and yawns, blinking over and over, wondering if he's now going to start having really detailed gay panic dreams. That would be less than ideal, seeing how he's already gotta deal with it enough in his waking hours.
But as he pushes himself to the edge of the bed, his eyes zero in on a pair of socks, sitting harmlessly on the floor. He stills, staring at them, eyes wide, as his brain gives him a slow play-by-play of everything that had happened the night before.
Bakugou calling, beers on the couch, a silent slow dance in the living room. I'm going to sleep in your bed, and the most intense hand-holding Kirishima has ever had.
His heart seizes up again, breath catching, and fuck. Fuck. He just wants it to mean more than it actually does.
There's a creaking sound, and Kirishima looks up to see Bakugou coming through the doorway, and his heart attempts to have a concert all by itself in his chest. EDM, maybe. Something with a heavy beat, pounding against his ribs.
Bakugou is still in the same clothes from the night before, but he has a towel around his neck, and he looks a little flushed – probably from the shower. He looks adorable, hair limp from the water, shoulders relaxed. Kirishima's heart squeezes, and he presses his lips together on a rather unmanly squeak.
Bakugou regards him with unreadable eyes for a long moment, and Kirishima stares back. Are they going to talk about it? Kirishima braces himself for it didn't mean anything or that was a one time thing or I should go. For the inevitable you ruined this.
Because he had, hadn't he? Now that it's daytime Bakugou is going to realize, he's going to look at the way that Kirishima held him in the living room, the pounding of his heart in bed, he's going to connect the dots. He's going to know Kirishima likes him, and he's going to run.
But he doesn't, he doesn't, he doesn't, he just mumbles, "You fuckin' snore, idiot," and leans over to grab his socks.
And Kirishima can breathe again, he can let relief wash through him – he hadn't ruined it. The friendship is still intact, they're still solid. Kirishima can't believe that he got so close to ruining everything, can't believe he almost lost his best friend because he's too gay.
So now they can go back to how it was, now that they're in the light of day again, now that Bakugou's No Good Very Bad Day is over, now that he's feeling better. He certainly looks better, color returned to his cheeks, regular glare set into his eyes.
So Kirishima grins up at Bakugou, pressing his hands to the bed on either side of him, and manages, "Are you hungry? I have the stuff for waffles."
And Bakugou is turning away, nodding, heading for the kitchen. Kirishima grabs him some clothes and heads out after him, allowing the panic to settle down to the back burner, where he's always kept it. That's something he knows how to deal with. He knows how to deal with the moments that are too much for him, knows how to see Bakugou in his clothes and hide the squeeze of his heart, knows how to take in the sight of Bakugou cooking and pretend he doesn't feel like he could cry. That's all normal. That's stuff he can do.
He feels blessed, warm and giddy, to have gotten to hold the blond's hand, even if it hadn't meant what he wanted it to mean, even if it's not perfect, he still knows what his best friend feels like, held in his arms. He still knows, and he can hold the memory close to his heart.
He's alright with that, with letting it move to the past, letting it lock into his memories. It doesn't have to be a multiple-time thing. It can just be one night, it can be Bakugou needing comfort, it can be exactly what it was.
He can just grin and shake powdered sugar at his best friend, snort and laugh when he shouts and raises sparking palms. He can be content with this, and let the one-time thing be just that; a one-time thing.
It’s not just a one-time thing.
Kirishima only makes it through one day of convincing himself that it's going to go back to normal. But then night rolls around, and Kirishima tries to keep himself from doing a double-take as he realizes that Bakugou is following him down the hall to his room.
Bakugou narrows his eyes and Kirishima flushes and puts his head down, heading to his room. Had Bakugou had another bad day? Is he just like, going to the bathroom or something? He had already brushed his teeth. Kirishima isn't sure what to say – or if he even should say anything.
The bathroom theory is ruled out as Kirishima steps into his room and Bakugou follows silently. Kirishima stares at the bed, gay panic lodging its way up his throat again.
They hadn't talked about the night before, and as Bakugou sits on the edge of the bed and pulls off his socks again, Kirishima gets the distinct feeling that they're not going to talk about it now, either.
But even if Bakugou doesn't want to talk about it – Kirishima wants to be there for him.
Kirishima needs to be there for him.
So he bites his tongue and climbs silently into the bed, settling down half under the covers, staring at the ceiling. His hands hover awkwardly – he wants to rest them on his stomach, but if he did that they wouldn't be reachable, and he really wants them to be reachable, just in case – man. His face is on fire.
Shit, he just feels so ridiculous. It all seems so easy for Bakugou, the blond doesn't even seem concerned as he flops to the pillows, yawning wide. Kirishima is overthinking anything, the placement of his hands, how far over he's laying, hell, how he's breathing. The amount of times he's swallowed in the past thirty seconds. It seems unnaturally high.
But Bakugou seems entirely unbothered by it all, shifting to get comfortable and letting his arms fall to his sides. Kirishima has to bite the inside of his cheek. Of course Bakugou's not as freaked out as Kirishima is.
None of it means the same thing to Bakugou, after all.
Kirishima closes his eyes and reminds himself to stop imagining it can mean more than it does, reminds himself that this is just Bakugou needing to remember somebody is there.
Reminds himself that it's his best friend, laying there.
Laying there, breathing slow, settled warm into the covers. Laying there, letting out a long sigh, like he's finally releasing the tension from the day. Laying there, his hand shifting along the covers, nudging into Kirishima's.
And wow, wow, somehow it's all new, how Bakugou shifts his fingers underneath Kirishima's and flips his hand, palm hot as his thumb rubs tiny circles into the heel of Kirishima's hand, pressing indents into Kirishima's skin like it's an expedition, it's a new exploration of somewhere wonderful and beautiful, like this is something he hadn't done the night before.
Kirishima finds himself wondering about the effectiveness of exposure therapy as Bakugou traces along the insides of his fingers, so deliberate and slow Kirishima thinks he might be moving through the syrup they had poured over their waffles that morning. It's just as sweet as the syrup, sitting on the back of his tongue and sliding down his throat, the way Bakugou shifts even closer and stretches his fingers out past Kirishima's, and then lets them relax, lacing into the spaces between Kirishima's knuckles.
Kirishima could get to hold Bakugou's hand every day and it would still make his heart pound, still make his ears ring, still make adrenaline thrum in his veins, lifting his blood to sing in a beautiful high.
It's not fair, not in any sense of the word, that Kirishima can't have this in the capacity that he wants it. He wants to turn over and curl into his heat, wants to let the darkness settle over them, pressed tight together, chest to chest, arms captured tight around waists. He wants every inch of Bakugou, every tiny little piece of him. Every cell in his body. He wants to fall asleep with his nose buried in blond hair, wake up with heavy eyelids and a heavy body draped over his. He wants to shift in the middle of the night to press his nose into the back of Bakugou's neck, place an absent kiss to the top of his spine.
He wants to tug Bakugou closer by the hands intertwined between them, to lift it to his face and kiss along the outside of his callouses, worship the skin hardened and worn by his quirk.
He wants to make Bakugou feel as beautiful as he is in Kirishima's eyes.
But this – every moment trapped here, beneath the covers and under the light of the moon – it's not for Kirishima. This isn't about him.
So he smiles, he squeezes Bakugou's hand, and he lets his body relax, lets this be enough. He tells himself he can be satisfied with this, with just helping Bakugou how he needs to be helped, and lets himself fall asleep.
Kirishima wakes up first, this time.
All of the blood in his body rushes to his face as he blinks his eyes open and is assaulted by the image of Bakugou, asleep, face just inches away. Kirishima stiffens up completely, face flaming, eyes wide, as he tries to process the picture in front of him.
Bakugou is fast asleep, face as relaxed as Kirishima has ever seen it, eyelashes brushing soft cheeks, hair splayed out against the pillowcase. The sun slanting through the window warms his lips, parted slightly, pink and soft and beautiful.
Kirishima wants to know what they would feel like, pressed against his own. He can bet it would be warm, just a little chapped, soft. He can bet that it would be better than any kiss he's ever had.
It drifts into his awareness that their hands are still clasped together tight, though since they've both turned toward each other in the middle of the night, somehow they've been lifted to rest at their shoulders, awkwardly twisted together in the inches of space between them.
It's a little gross – there's sweat pooled between their palms, and Kirishima's fingers ache a little from being held so tight, but it makes his heart take off like a racehorse to know that Bakugou held on tight, like he's rising to the challenge of not being the first to let go.
Even in sleep, he muses to himself, letting his eyes trace over the curves of Bakugou's sleeping face. Still gotta be the best.
Kirishima feels like he might cry, just laying here, so close to Bakugou. His heart aches, but he's so glad that he can be here for the blond.
Kirishima isn't sure that he's ever going to be able to look at Bakugou's hands the same way ever again, but he'll take that, for these ephemeral moments, stretching on into infinity. How can so much fit into just a few short heartbeats? How can he feel all of these things, things don't feel like they would fit into the entire universe? This is too big for him, this consumes him.
But before he can get caught staring, before the blond can wake up and start glaring, start setting off explosions to see Kirishima staring at him like a lovesick fool, he lets out a quiet breath and scoots carefully back, softly unwinding his hand from Bakugou's. It makes his chest ache more to do so, but that's okay. That's fine. That's okay.
He can still feel the indents of strong fingers into the back of his hand as he crawls carefully out of the bed, pausing for just a short moment to etch the Polaroid-worthy image of Bakugou sleeping into his memory.
This is enough. He smiles softly, and pushes himself up.
With a beautiful picture burned into the back of his eyelids, a handprint seared into his palm, and a piercing ache in his chest, he quietly moves to the kitchen to make breakfast.