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It starts after Kamino, when he’s most vulnerable. When the chinks in his armour are still bloody and wide. It’s easy to let Kirishima slip inside and fill up all the hollow space, all the places he lacks.
They lie together in the deep blue light of Katsuki’s dorm. The clock has just ticked past one am, far beyond his scheduled sleep time, but he’s not that kind of tired yet. Kirishima’s hand is pressed against the middle of his back, rubbing slow, even circles to soothe the shuddering of his breath as his heart rate crests and dips around the panic still clenching his chest.
The nightmare that had woken them both lingers, something sour and raw that sits at the back of his tongue because he’s not ready to admit his weakness yet.
Kirishima knows he’s not sleeping well, must hear him pacing and thrashing through their shared wall because every morning he asks him if he’s doing okay, bro, and every morning Katsuki rebukes him, sharp and venomous.
“I’m fucking fine, Shitty Hair.” Or “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?” Or something else to that effect.
He’s not doing okay, though, and they both know it.
But admitting that means admitting weakness, and Bakugou Katsuki isn’t fucking weak. No matter how the word sticks, tacky and rancid like old gum on the inside of his skull. Impossible to scrape off.
Kirishima’s thumb touches the nape of his neck, drags him back with the steady pass of his fingers down his spine. Up, down, up, and back down; the careful pressure ebbs and flows, a tide of warmth under his skin, until the tension leaks out and Katsuki rests boneless against his chest.
“You’re doing so good.” Kirishima tells him, and he’d scoff if he didn’t want to believe him so badly. “So, so good.”
He wants to be good. But.
Good people don’t get told they’re villain material. Good people don’t get bound and muzzled like a rabid dog. Good people don’t kill their heroes (or close enough). His nightmares cycle around the same thoughts, a rotating cast of self-inflicted horrors.
The muzzle’s leather mouthpiece pushes against his tongue, stopping his teeth from colliding as he snaps and struggles against the thick metal constraining his jaw.
He jerks harder as it starts to falter, the hard lines melting into a dark, viscous sludge that laughs as it forces itself down the back of his throat. The stadium around him lights up with jeers and cries of laughter, enamoured with watching him choke. His mouth tastes like tar and desperation, violent and thick.
The sludge bubbles over his lips, pushing up inside his nose and blocking his airway as he thrashes and screams against the pressure.
His mother’s hand slaps the back of his head, weak, and the crowd cheers louder…
He’d seared through his sheets and cracked the wall between their rooms with the force of his explosions, enough to wake his neighbour and bring him, bleary-eyed, into his bed. Now, they lie together in the wreckage he’d made, Kirishima holding him, not shying away even though he’s seen what Katsuki’s done. Can do.
His hands are shaking, pressed between them with his palms against his own chest because yes, Kirishima is strong, can take his Quirk head-on (is built to withstand Katsuki, it seems) but… But Kirishima is the only thing he hasn’t broken yet. The only thing he hasn’t wanted to.
“I have them too, sometimes.” His voice is gentle, reassuring like the hand on Bakugou’s back. “Nightmares.”
Kirishima’s fingers continue their slow, looping pattern between his shoulder blades and he focuses on the touch, just like he’d told him to.
It’s the closest he’s ever been to another person, voluntarily. Kirishima had opened his arms to him and he’d just crawled into them. He’s still waiting for the shame to hit him, the anger that always comes with pity, but he can’t find it in Kirishima. He’s already an exception to so many of his rules, Katsuki shouldn’t be surprised that he’s exempt from this too.
“I know you’re not good at talking about this stuff, but I’m good at listening.” Kirishima offers, “If you wanna try.”
And he does, want to try, that is. But he can still feel the sludge in his throat, a sealing pressure, like tar clogged up against his glottis.
Bakugou knows he works like a stove-top kettle (all condensed, boiling rage that explodes under too much heat), and Kirishima keeps trying to pull the lid off, trying to release a little of that pressure so he doesn’t burst. Even though he keeps burning his fingers, Kirishima tries for him. All the fucking time.
“M’weak.” The confession comes out quiet, his world ending with a whimper not a bang, caught in the space between his mouth and Kirishima’s sternum. “I couldn’t…”
The words stick, suspended at the back of his throat before rushing out of him in a heave of sound. Like vomiting, with half the relief.
“I didn’t win, at any of it. Not against Icy Hot, not against the League, I was too fucking weak and…” All Might paid the price; and everyone else with him.
Everyone’s lives have been uprooted because of him. Kirishima has to miss his mums, and fucking Deku has to call Auntie Inko twice a day so she doesn’t lose her mind from worry, and Glasses doesn’t get to see his brother who’s barely out of the hospital and… And it’s all his fault.
Everyone fucking knows it. He’s heard the whispers that follow him around campus, and that copycat fucker’s smug little face when he runs his shitty mouth about how Class A is always causing problems…
It’s easier to admit to, in the dark like this. Where he can pretend the shadows hide his words, or they get lost in the hollow of Kirishima’s throat. Tomorrow, he knows they won’t talk about it, the way they don’t talk about anything that happens between them in the dead of night. That’s why he talks now, because he knows Kirishima won’t force him to confront it. Not outside of this.
“The hag fucking said as much. She told Aizawa when he came to talk about the dorms, that it was my fault. That it happened because I’m…”
“You’re not weak, Bakugou.”
It’s expected, and it makes him angry.
It comes with that familiar buzzing, static and numb under his skin. It makes his mouth taste coppery and violence swells on his tongue. He tries to swallow it, but he chokes and it ripples out of him like a sob.
“And it’s not your fault.” Kirishima says, like his words can undo all the others.
“They think I’m a fucking monster.” The League, the faculty members who’d agreed they should muzzle him, the students who whisper about him in the halls, the sludge fucker who’d told him his quirk was perfect for a villain…
“I hate them for it.” Kirishima admits, muffled against his hairline but Katsuki feels the warmth of it against his temple, and the fire it stokes at the back of his throat. It feels like caring, like vindication. “All of them.”
No one has ever hated on his behalf. Bullied and mocked, sure, but Kirishima isn’t the type. Kirishima doesn’t get angry but here he is, with his lips against his forehead, telling Katsuki he hates. For him.
“You’d be the first.” He murmurs, the words rough with exhaustion and an emotion he can’t bring himself to name yet.
“I shouldn’t be.”
He’s not afraid of him, Katsuki realises with sudden, startling clarity. Kirishima has seen him bound and thrashing, frothing at the bit. A wild fucking animal with a muzzle clenched between his teeth. He’d seen him decimate an entire arena with the hands he’s currently uncurling and pressing against his sternum, and still, he trusts him.
He presses his palms harder against Kirishima's chest, testing, but all he does is push back against the touch. Keeping them close.
Maybe he should feel weaker for it, because he doesn’t need protecting, dammit, but it feels good. It feels good to have someone standing up for him, standing by him. To let Kirishima hold him together; gilding all the cracks where he’s coming apart because he cares enough to try.
“You’re an idiot.” Bakugou tells him, but there’s no bite to the insult. He’s beginning to soften, all syrupy sweet under Kirishima’s unwavering touch, the steady pass of his fingers circling over his back, helping him breathe.
“Yeah, sometimes.” The redhead shrugs, voice warm with a fondness Katsuki doesn’t think he deserves but wants to .
He lets out a little grunt of agreement, pushing his face further into Kirishima's shoulder. He feels him smile against his temple.
“Tired?”
“Mm.”
“You can sleep.” The other boy tells him. “I’ll be here.” I’ll keep you safe.
They don’t talk about it in the morning. It has no space here, would be too sharp against the golden sunrise creeping through the gap in Katsuki’s curtains. Kirishima still sleeps beside him, a pointed tooth caught over the curve of his lower lip as he breathes heavily, in-out-snore-snuffle, against Bakugou’s favourite pillow. Second favourite now, after spending the night pressed against his best friend’s solid chest, cheek flush to his heartbeat.
Nothing really changes, because nothing has to. They’ve been growing close for a while, closer still after he’d taken Kirishima’s hand in the night sky above Kamino Ward - and if Bakugou lets their touches linger now in a way he didn’t before, neither of them mention it.
It’s an easy slide into this new intimacy, and Katsuki couldn’t fight it if he tried.
Their tutoring sessions move from the common area to his room. It saves on the ceremony of Kirishima having to move from his bed to Bakugou's. It saves time if they’re both already showered and in their sleep clothes. It saves them from prying eyes when Kirishima’s thumb drifts to his wrist, rubbing slow circles against his pulse point when he can see Katsuki drifting.
The others notice the shift - Kirishima’s absence more than his because the redhead is always present and Katsuki is usually not.
He overhears Dunce Face interrogating Kirishima one evening, catching him in the hall on his way back from the showers and asking him why he’s been avoiding them.
He’s not, Kirishima assures him, and Katsuki can almost see him rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, the way he does when he’s nervous. He’s just having trouble with their workload, he says, and Bakugou is helping him study.
“I was just… Y’know, kinda embarrassed about struggling. Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to make you think something was up.”
Kaminari leaves after that, satisfied with Kirishima’s promise that he’ll join them for a movie night tomorrow, and that he won’t keep any more secrets from his friends.
Kirishima just lied for him, more a half-truth than outright dishonesty, but… There’s a pleased little flutter behind his sternum, like a butterfly caged inside his ribs, because Kirishima hates lying but he did it for him.
The feeling lingers when they’re studying, makes him a little less abrasive than usual, and maybe that’s why Kirishima is brave enough to ask him the question that shatters their easy equilibrium.
“Bakugou?”
He grunts an affirmative, idly scratching out his next answer on the algebra worksheet they’re supposed to be focusing on. He'd have finished it twenty minutes ago, if not for the warm pressure of Kirishima's knee against his. It makes his head go foggy and the point where they touch fizzes like sherbert; feels sweet.
Kirishima opens his mouth to speak, hesitating for a moment, and Katsuki hears the dull click of those sharp teeth as he snaps his mouth shut.
“Spit it out, idiot,” He sighs, eyes still on his equations. “I can hear you overthinking.”
Kirishima huffs out a little laugh, something soft and bashful, and his fingers scratch at the nape of his neck again because he’s nervous . Katsuki doesn’t know why, what he has to be worried about, and it bothers him. He doesn’t want Kirishima to feel unsafe around him, like he can’t just say shit.
“The others want to have a movie night tomorrow, if you’re up for it?”
Bakugou blinks. “Hah?”
He’d overheard the whole fucking conversation, he knows Kaminari didn’t invite him, and it makes him feel spiteful and sharp. Not that he needs to be invited to things. Not that he wants to be. Not that he cares.
“C’mon, man, it’ll be fun.” Kirishima pushes, emboldened by the lack of an outright refusal. “It’ll be good to do something other than study.”
“M’not fucking gatecrashing your shitty movie night.” Katsuki scowls down at his worksheet so he doesn’t have to see the disappointment he knows is settling over the other boy’s features.
Kirishima picks awkwardly at his eraser, shredding bits of the dirty white rubber between his fingers as Katsuki sits and stews in his sullenness.
“You know the only reason Denki didn’t ask is because he knew you’d tell him no.” He says eventually, because of course he understands, and Bakugou can feel a headache brewing from how hard he’s clenching his jaw.
“Then why the fuck are you asking?” He snaps.
“Because maybe you’ll say yes to me?”
“Fat fucking chance.” Katsuki scoffs but Kirishima doesn’t wilt under his glower. It’s half-hearted at best, anyway.
“Please?”
“Fuck off.” He groans, trying to turn his attention back to the next question on their worksheet and steadfastly not acknowledging Kirishima’s pleading eyes.
Everything is quiet, for a moment, before the tension breaks again.
“I thought it might be a nice distraction from, y’know,” He gestures vaguely and Bakugou’s jaw clenches harder at the insinuation. “Everything that’s been going on.”
He lets it hang for a beat of silence before the inevitable: “I’m kinda worried about you, man.”
(And Katsuki sees red.)
“I don’t need you to watch me twenty-four-fucking-seven.” He spits. “I can handle one goddamn night alone.”
Kirishima sighs, a soft, defeated sound that seizes up somewhere behind his ribs and squeezes. “I asked because I wanted you there.”
Wanted, past tense. He’s such a fucking idiot for thinking this could go any other way…
“I just like spending time with you.” Kirishima shrugs, like it’s obvious, popping the little bubble of Katsuki’s spiralling misery. “You’re my favourite person.”
He's never been anyone’s favourite before.
The sharper, sadder parts of him want to call Kirishima a liar, to tell him he’s wrong because nobody fucking likes him, but… Maybe Bakugou wants him to be right. Maybe he wants the other boy to like him, and maybe it’s okay if nobody else does.
“Why?” The question slips out before he can catch it behind his teeth, and they clench in shame at his mistake.
“There’s a lotta reasons, you want the whole list?” Kirishima’s voice is lighthearted, teasing, but teetering on the edge of something else. Like if Katsuki pushes, they’ll fall. Into what, he doesn’t know, but he can see the vague shape of it; and he wants.
But he doesn’t know if he can have it, if he can keep it... Everything turns brittle in his hands, even sturdy, unbreakable Kirishima - because he feels how he shakes sometimes when they’re lying together and Katsuki presses his palms against his chest…
“Tell me.” He pushes, because he wants.
Kirishima shifts in his chair, turning and criss-crossing his legs so they can face each other properly. His sock-clad toes graze Katsuki's knee and even that chaste pressure does something to kick up another warm flutter in his chest.
He's worrying his lower lip between those too-sharp teeth, stewing and focused because Katsuki knows he just wants to get it right. There won’t be another chance if he fucks it up; Bakugou is too prideful to be vulnerable like that and Kirishima is too considerate to push.
“I really admire your dedication.” He starts soft, the words slow and careful, testing the water before he dives. Katsuki feels his cheeks heat and Kirishima graces him with a nervous little smile.
“You work harder than anyone else, even though you’re already leagues ahead. You’re always pushing yourself to be better, in every way, because I see how you’re trying. With more than just the Hero stuff.”
Kirishima holds his eyes, even though it feels raw, giving him no room to doubt. He’s never been uncomfortable with praise before, but this feels different. This isn’t about his quirk, or his combat skills, or even his grades - this is about him, about how Kirishima sees him, and even in the soft bubble of warmth that’s formed around the moment, he feels exposed.
“Like, you help me study, even though I’m hopeless sometimes - and I know you say you hate it but I’m always so happy when you join us idiots for our stupid game nights because it makes me happy that you’re making friends.” Kirishima’s mouth quirks up a little at one corner, the hint of a smile to offset the weight of what he’s offering. “Even if you say you’re not.”
Katsuki swallows down the automatic denial, mouth dry and throat clicking with the motion. Kirishima is being honest, so he can do it too.
“I know I ask a lot of you, with the training and the tutoring and the hangouts, but you always meet me more than halfway, and I think that’s manly as hell.” His smile widens, all sincerity and teeth. It digs under Bakugou’s skin, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. “You’re brave, and you’re strong, and I just…” Kirishima falters, sweetness sticking the words to his tongue.
Then softer, like a confession: “I admire you so much.”
Katsuki doesn’t believe him.
Kirishima wouldn’t offer empty praise, he’s too fucking earnest for that, which means that Bakugou has deceived him. Somehow. Has made him think he’s something other than what he is. He is dedicated, and strong (he has to be), Kirishima isn’t wrong about that but… But he hasn’t understood, and how can he admire what he doesn’t see?
Katsuki will never say it, though, afraid that what little affection he’s managed to trick out of Kirishima will vanish once he knows. That he’ll treat him with the same wariness, the same distrust as everyone else.
And he wants to keep this, what they are. Just for a little longer.
“You’re a fucking sap.” Katsuki grumbles, because he could never be all soft. But Kirishima sees it for what it is, like he always does, and he grins as he knocks their legs together.
“What? No nice words for me?” He asks, eyes bright and teasing. The moment is sweet and warm, like honey how it slides down the back of his throat and settles warm inside his chest. “I’m kidding, Bakugou.” Kirishima reassures him before he can protest. “I know that isn’t your thing. You show your love in other ways.”
The lingering threads of tension unspool and Katsuki kicks back against his leg in a harder mimicry of his friendly gesture. His cheeks are burning when he says:
“Get back to work, dumbass.”
He doesn’t go to the movie night; doesn’t want to go where he’s not wanted. Kirishima texts him that he misses him and he doesn’t know if it’s meant to be a consolation or just more of that earnest affection he’s so fucking good at.
The next day is shitty and even before lunch break rolls around Bakugou just wants it to be over.
He couldn’t focus during classes, it’s unlike him, and it hammers home the feeling of failure that’s been dogging him since the Sports Festival. Probably longer.
He has days like this, sometimes, and they always leave him sour and nauseous. It feels like there’s an extra centimetre of space between him and his skin and it fills up with static during the day, a sparking irritation that ricochets up his spine and settles at the back of his tongue. It makes him snappier than usual and twice as sullen.
Kirishima is the only one brave enough to push into his personal space, gently knocking their shoulders together when they break for lunch with a soft: “You okay, man?”
It earns him a muttered: “Fucking peachy.” Which roughly translates to ‘ask me again and I’ll explode your damn face off.’
Kirishima still sits with him at lunch, though, abandoning their usual table and the idiot trio in favour of a bench in the courtyard. It's cold but bright and being away from the noise of the cafeteria eases the dark cloud hanging over his head enough that he even lets the other boy steal a few things from his bento with minimal grumbling. Mostly slices of pickled ginger. He's ambivalent about the stuff but Kirishima loves it so there’s always a little pile of it in the corner of his box now.
He’s able to let off some steam during hand-to-hand training, but he’d slammed Tailfucker pretty hard during a takedown and it had gotten him some apprehensive looks, which just made his mood worse. Normally he’d pair up with Kirishima, he’s the only one he can stomach today and he needs that familiarity, but Aizawa had put them in rotating sparring pairs and it’s all just another reason to be fucking angry.
Even afterwards, he’d been wound up too tight to wait for his friend to walk back to the dorm together the way they always do now; hands brushing and his fingers finding the inside of Katsuki’s wrist, drawing slow circles against his pulsepoint like he can just unwind the anxious jittering of his heart (because he can).
He’s still jittery when he gets back to the Heights, even in his room with the door locked and the curtains drawn shut. They’ll stay that way until safe starts to feel more like trapped and he’ll spend the next anxious cycle pacing his balcony instead of the strip between his bed and his desk.
His footfalls are heavy and probably audible through the walls.
Kirishima had compared him to a caged tiger once. Told him he probably needed some ‘positive stimulation’, like how zookeepers give big cats pumpkins full of raw meat to push about and gnaw on so they don’t get sad. It keeps them entertained and anxiety-free, apparently. Bakugou’s brain had stuck on those two words though, positive stimulation, and he’d spat back an “I’m not a fucking cat!” with burning cheeks.
“Cat-suki.” Kirishima had just laughed, bright like pealing bells, like windchimes caught in a summer breeze. It had made him feel the same, sweet and airy, and he really wants to hear that sound (his name wrapped in warm laughter) again. Right now. Maybe that’s what he’d meant by positive stimulation.
It’s a good memory and it helps him settle.
He wasn’t like this before, he was good at being alone. Now he’s out of practice and he wonders when that happened.
After a few more frantic back and forths across the carpet, Katsuki forces himself to sit down and study, just to do something. He already knows it’ll be futile, it usually is on days like this, when the front of his skull is stuffed full of cotton wool. It's like thinking through molasses; slow and sticky and far too much work.
After a few minutes of fruitless staring at blurring textbook pages, he becomes vaguely aware of the fact that his hand is shaking around his pencil. Vaguely, because it’s happening from a distance, a step outside of himself. It’s not out-of-body like he’s floating on the ceiling, watching himself, but out-of-body like he’s not in his body, like it exists as something separate to him.
He’s stretching into the space around it, like matter at the edge of a black hole.
Wood snaps between his fingers and he blinks. Fuck.
He sets the broken pencil down beside his text book instead of tossing it angrily into the bin and that’s how he knows it’s going to be a bad night.
He needs to clear the cotton out of his head.
UA’s sprawling campus is cut through with pathways, always brightly lit, patrolled, and monitored by an array of security cameras. The trees offer some cover, but don’t hang close enough to the path that Bakugou feels caged. Not like the training camp forest.
It’s safe out here. He’s safe. Stop thinking about it.
The sky is beginning to bleed orange and he has about an hour until everything is dark. Then another until curfew kicks in and he’s trapped back in his room.
Katsuki does the required stretches, mind abuzz with white noise as he eases out the tension in his calves before setting out towards training ground Alpha. He’s planning to loop around the east side of campus, past Beta and Gamma, then follow the path back south to the dorms. It’s a few kilometres, enough to burn off the excess static still prickling under his skin - because running is better than scratching it off.
Kirishima had messaged him while he was getting ready, and he hadn’t replied. His phone is a heavy weight in his pocket, thumping against his thigh with every step.
He doesn’t run with music anymore. He’d started hearing things under the beat, muffled by his headphones but never there when he’d yank them out to check. Shouting and the sharp crackle of blue flames, things that make the back of his neck burn with paranoia.
He kind of wishes he’d kept wearing them when he hears someone call his name.
“Young Bakugou!”
The now-skeletal figure of Yagi Toshinori watches him from the corner ahead. His running gear hangs from his body, sagging awkwardly over his narrow shoulders and making him look like a child playing dress up in their parent’s clothes. The sleeve of his shirt rolls down one arm as he waves, peeling back like excess skin as his sunken features take on what Katsuki is sure he thinks is a welcoming expression. It’s a disconcerting image.
This isn’t All Might, he thinks, this is a monster of Bakugou’s creation.
His hero is caving inwards like a dying star; body shrinking in on itself like it’s imploding around the scar he knows covers one side of the ex-Symbol of Peace’s torso.
And it’s all his fucking fault.
He doesn’t let his pace falter as the man he’d idolised (and barely recognises) falls into step beside him. They haven’t seen much of each other since Kamino but he’s made time for fucking Deku and it itches, something raw and venomous under his skin.
“Would you mind if I joined you?” Toshinori asks, polite and neutral. More than Bakugou deserves.
“Do what you want.” Is all he can grunt back.
Five year old Katsuki would be shitting his pants if he could see him right now. Current Katsuki just wants to scream.
They run side by side in silence for a bit. He knows All Might is weighing his words, waiting for the right moment to speak.
“I wanted to check up on you.” He’s trying for conversational and it falls flat.
“I’m fine.” He bites out, teeth grinding around the words.
“Bakugou, what you went through, I’m so-”
“I said I’m fucking fine!” He snaps, jolting to a halt, hands fisted at his sides. Guilt condenses behind his teeth and drips down onto his tongue as he spits out a low: “ Worry about yourself.”
When he picks up the pace, All Might doesn’t follow.
He finishes his run, but it doesn’t help.
The common area is full and lively so he lingers on the steps outside the dorms, knees tucked up to his chin and waiting until it dies down enough that he can slip back inside unquestioned and unseen. It’s close enough to curfew that no one else will come outside now, and the knowledge makes it a little easier to breathe.
The brief moment with All Might has left him overflowing, a tidal wave locked in the back of his throat. He just wants to spit it out of him, vomit up the ocean of feelings , but he can’t get it out. It’s right there, pushing up against his gullet, if he shoved his fingers down his throat he could touch it and it chokes him every time he tries to swallow. There’s a burning behind his eyes and he’d call it crying if he wasn’t so afraid of that.
He doesn’t know how All Might can bear to speak to him. He doesn’t know why that hurts more than the silence he’d been prepared for.
Anger is something he knows intimately. It makes up his marrow, it’s what he was raised on, and what he’s built from. It’s anger that fuels his pride, his passion, his strength, but forgiveness? He doesn't know that at all.
The closest thing is Deku. The fucking Quirkless, wide-eyed limpet child who’d never hated him, no matter his cruelty. Katsuki had told him to kill himself, and he still hadn’t hated him, just kept offering Bakugou his hand like maybe one day he’d take it.
He hasn’t taken it yet. The only hand he’s ever taken has been Kirishima's.
Kirishima who brushes off Katsuki's threats with warm laughter, Kirishima who leaves his door unlocked at night because he knows Katsuki needs it, Kirishima who doesn’t begrudge his sharp edges because he has the patience and the kindness and the fucking tenacity to wear him smooth.
Maybe that’s a kind of forgiveness. Katsuki doesn’t think he deserves it.
Tears drip onto the concrete, a two-beat staccato splatter before he's scrubbing angrily at his cheeks. Crying never makes him feel better, just shoves a little more space between himself and his body because he can’t ever let himself do that.
Already he can feel himself separating, the phantom buzz of panic forcing itself under his skin and Katsuki digs his nails into his scalp to keep it all together as he lurches forward.
His head hits the step between his knees and the impact punches the static straight out of him.
He hasn’t done this since he was in middle school, overwhelmed by his mother’s shouting and his own rage condensing inside his skull like a pressure cooker. If he cracks it, he can let out the heat.
There’s a burst of blue stars behind his eyes and a ringing building between his temples; swelling and pushing until his ears feel like they’re going to burst. It jolts him back into his body, like the ends of a magnet snapping together; a sharp, sudden reconnection.
It feels good, for a moment. Until it doesn’t and he’s left with the feeling of mounting dread that always follows these outbursts.
He’s concussed. Katsuki knows that instantly, even without the throbbing ache and brief double-flicker to his vision. It sours him even further, curdles the rage brewing in his gut because he can’t do anything fucking right. Can’t be a good person, can’t be a good hero, can’t even swallow his own fucking anger enough to make it through the night.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. It rattles around the bile at the back of his throat and he repeats it - in, out, in, out - until it gets easier. He has to compartmentalise: assess the damage and what can be done.
He's skinned his forehead. The scrape is raw and weeping but only a few layers of skin deep, not enough to bleed. He tests it with his fingers and they come back sticky but not bloody.
Katsuki clicks his tongue, just for something to fill the air and break up the high-pitched buzzing inside his head, but even that little motion makes his temples throb.
Fuck.
The walk to Recovery Girl’s office is harder than his run.
It’s the right thing to do, no matter how much he hates asking for help, and Katsuki tells himself that over and over. It’s right, it’s logical, it’s not fucking weak. Everything he does is a goddamn battle but he can’t let his pride win this one. Not if he’s going to be number one. He can’t get in his own way.
He lies to Recovery Girl (because of course he does), says he tripped on the dorm steps coming back from his run. He’s a shitty liar and she clearly doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t press the issue.
“You’re right about the concussion.” She says, clicking off the little torch she’d been using to examine his pupil dilation. “But it’s a quick fix, and you’ll be right as rain after a solid night’s sleep.”
Good, he wants to snap but the sound gets stuck behind his teeth and comes out as more of a pained grunt.
“Just hold still.”
She delivers a quick peck to the forehead, right over the scrape. Her lips are unnervingly plush and a little sticky. It’s like being kissed by two gummy worms and he fights the urge to wipe at the spot when it tingles unpleasantly.
His mother hasn’t kissed his forehead in years. Katsuki doesn’t know why he’s thinking about her now but he blames it on the concussion and how dizzy the fluorescent lights make him feel. He half-closes his eyes against the glare as he slumps back in his seat and waits for Recovery Girl to finish up his paperwork.
She types painfully slowly, using her short little index fingers to tap at her keyboard. Watching it hurts almost as much as his head.
“I have to tell Eraserhead that you came to see me, and you’ll need an escort back to the dorm.” She informs him, clicking at something on her screen. “May as well be him, unless you’d rather a fellow student come to collect you?”
Katsuki bites his tongue against the instinctive I don’t need anyone because she hasn’t pried, she’s just doing her job. And he’s too fucking tired to argue.
He wants Kirishima. He lets her call Aizawa.
It’s another ten minutes of painful typing until his homeroom teacher arrives. He exchanges a few words with Recovery Girl, signs a few bits of paper, and levels Bakugou with an appraising look that tells him he doesn’t believe his tripping story either.
“Come on, problem child.” Aizawa jerks his head towards the door, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jumpsuit.
Before he leaves, Recovery Girl presses a green lollipop into Katsuki’s hand. Sour apple flavoured, because he doesn’t like sweet things. He wonders how she knows. It’s sharp on his tongue, and it makes him feel a little better.
The walk back to the dorms is awkward and silent but Bakugou is grateful for the quiet. He knows, eventually, Aizawa is going to make him talk about it, but at least he gets that now isn’t the right time.
He also has enough tact to leave Katsuki at the front door.
It’s almost curfew and the common area is still packed with loose-formed groups caught up in card games or the variety show blasting from the TV. Bakugou doesn’t pay them any mind - doesn’t think he has the cognisance or patience to handle another person right now - and slouches to the elevator, ignoring Kaminari’s shout of his name.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Kirishima is waiting outside his door when he comes back from his shower.
He’d tried to scrub away the day, skin pink and raw from the excessively hot water, and he’s still half out of it; dizzy and uncharacteristically compliant because he doesn’t shrug off the other boy’s hand when it reaches for his. Their fingers curl together and Katsuki feels it.
“Missed you today.” Kirishima says, genuine and warm and Bakugou’s glad his cheeks are already pink from the shower.
“You saw me at lunch, dipshit.” He scoffs, fumbling with his door handle.
“I know.” There’s a hint of colour on Kirishima’s face now too. “Can I… Come over?”
“Mm.” Katsuki offers him a quiet, affirmative grunt and uses their linked hands to tug Kirishima into his room after him. The redhead pushes the door shut with his heel, eyes still fixed on Katsuki.
He’d left his desk lamp on when he’d gone to shower and the amber glow softens everything inside the room, paints Kirishima like a sunset (all orange and red) and Bakugou doesn’t even consider shutting it off.
“M’going to sleep.” He tells the other boy, tossing his used towel over the back of his desk chair. “Join me or fuck off.”
“Joining, definitely joining.” Kirishima's smile is soft and sweet and Bakugou can feel himself melting under it as he drags them both into his bed.
The soft fabric of their sleep clothes drags together as they adjust around one another, legs half-tangled and Katsuki’s head tucked under Kirishima’s chin. The redhead separates their hands, but only so he can sling that arm around Bakugou’s waist, palm flush between his shoulder blades. The touch is solid and grounding - the kind of comfort he needs.
“You kicked ass today in training.” Kirishima says after a few moments of easy quiet. His chin rubs against Katsuki’s injured forehead and he makes an irritated little sound.
“Careful, dumbass.” He grumbles without thinking. “S’sore.”
“You hurt?” Kirishima asks, all gentle concern. Katsuki ignores it.
Not perturbed by the silent treatment, Kirishima shifts until he can peer at the half-healed scrape in the centre of Bakugou’s forehead, barely visible now between the dim lamplight and Recovery Girl’s kiss.
“What happened?” He asks, short brows drawn together in concern.
“Doesn’t matter.” Bakugou grumbles, shoving his face back into the crook of the other boy’s shoulder where there’s no prying questions and it’s safe. It would be embarrassing if Kirishima didn’t tighten his hold in response. Maybe he needs it just as much.
“You don’t need to hide anything from me, man.” The way he says it makes Katsuki want to do something stupid. Like talk about his feelings. “Whatever it is, I can take it.”
“Don’t say shit you can’t back up.” He scoffs.
“I can’t prove it unless you give me the chance.” Kirishima counters, pushing but doing it gently enough that Bakugou can pretend he had a choice when he finally gives in. “Why won’t you give me the chance?”
Kirishima’s fingers brush through the fine hair at the nape of his neck, flooding warmth down his spine, and Katsuki can feel the knot in his throat coming loose.
Maybe that’s why it all comes out the way it does.
“Because…” It’s the first step, the little rock that skitters down the hillside before the avalanche. It’s a sudden escalation, but Bakugou isn’t capable of any other kind. “I know what I am.” He spits, “I’m mean, I’m difficult, I’m selfish, I…”
Kirishima makes a sharp, breathless sound, like Katsuki had just punched him in the gut and the softness settling over them shatters with it.
So he pushes away from their embrace, leaving the other boy stunned on the bed, arms open and holding nothing.
Kirishima just blinks up at him, eyes wide and earnest and Katsuki hates him for it. For believing in him instead of just believing him when he tells him exactly who he is.
“I did it to myself.” The words are sharp and cruel because he’s lashing out; turning to violence because it’s familiar, because that’s how he copes with kindness. Even Kirishima has to have his limits and Katsuki will find them because he’s good at pushing. “My head. I fucking smashed it into the steps outside. On purpose.”
He wonders if this is what’ll break it, whatever it is; Kirishima’s endless patience and his naive insistence that Bakugou is worth it.
“Why?” The question is whisper-soft and he watches Kirishima’s eyes search his. There’s understanding there, something he doesn’t want to acknowledge because that’s a different kind of hurt and he doesn’t think he has space for any more tonight.
“Fucking… Just fucking everything.” He gestures vaguely, aggressively, shoving his knees up against his chest and pushing his back into the wall. It’s cool through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, solid and grounding.
Slowly, Kirishima sits up too, placing himself at Bakugou's right hand side, close enough to touch but not . It's an open invitation for contact, letting Katsuki control it, and the bitterest parts of him hate that the other boy knows him so well. He doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t need it, he doesn’t… He doesn’t know what to do with it. So he just gives Kirishima what he wants and talks.
“I ran into All Might earlier.” Katsuki tells him, knuckles curling white over his knees. “And I just… He should be angry with me, he should hate me, but instead he tried to talk to me and I didn’t let him because I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”
“Forgiveness implies you did something wrong in the first place.” Kirishima says, careful, because he doesn’t want Katsuki to break. “But you didn’t do anything wrong, Bakugou. What happened isn’t your fault.”
“Don’t say that.” He murmurs, as close to begging as he’ll ever get. “I’m trying to take responsibility for my fuck-ups so don’t tell me it’s not my fault.”
“You trust me, right?” Kirishima asks, forcing a smile when Katsuki nods. “Then trust that I’m telling you the truth.”
“I can’t.” Bakugou grits out, “Because I know you’re fucking wrong about me.” Then quieter, almost hurting, “I know everyone thinks I’m dangerous.”
“I don’t.”
“They had to tie me up, Kirishima.” He scoffs, derisive. “They thought I would hurt other people, and I can’t even say they were wrong because of everything about me.”
The other boy opens his mouth again but Katsuki cuts him off.
“Don’t defend me!” He snaps, “You don’t know what I’ve done, and if you did, you wouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t still be here.”
“You can tell me.” Kirishima promises, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I would never.” Another promise, “Bakugou… I would never.”
He knows that . But if he’s going to mean it, if he’s going to stay then he needs to know the truth - and Katsuki needs to rip that bandaid off. It’s a cruelty and a kindness because Kirishima leaving of his own accord would hurt them both too much and at least this way they can both blame him.
“You don’t know about Deku.” The worst part of him; the part even Kirishima won’t be able to forgive. It takes up too much space inside him for either of them to pretend it’s not there.
“You’ve known each other a long time, right?” He’s giving him a place to start, opening the floodgates so Katsuki doesn’t have to sit and drown in it.
“Our parents were close when we were young. I wasn’t his friend, but he kept trying to be mine.” He picks at a loose thread on the knee of his sweats, stalling but not stopping because Katsuki may be a lot of bad things but he isn’t a fucking coward. “No matter what I did he’d always come crawling back like a loyal little dog and it made me so angry.”
“Why didn’t you want that?” Kirishima asks, but there’s no clear-cut answer - at least not one he has proper words for. It’s all muddied with a decade of bad blood and Katsuki finds it hard to separate reason from rage.
“Because he was always better than me.” The admission is bitter, almost gets stuck in his throat and stings on the way out. “My mu- the hag would say that shit all the time, about what a good kid he was, about how she wanted me to be more like him, about how much better than me he was.”
His lips draw back in a snarl, all teeth to hide the hurt.
“He was Quirkless and weak , but… I was worse than him.” Fuck, it hurts to say out loud. “And I hated him for it.”
He doesn’t know what sparked the change in his mother; the sudden shift from stifling adoration to disgust (and his father’s pathetic silence in the face of it). But one day he was golden, and the next he wasn’t. He’d needed to blame something, needed a reason, and Deku was an easy, obvious target. Easier than blaming his mother, and easier than blaming himself.
It was never Midoriya’s fault. Katsuki can admit that now, to Kirishima and only to Kirishima because he’s not ready to talk to Midoriya yet. He triggers his rage response. Like sparking flint over gunpowder, it’s a guaranteed explosion.
Sure, they’ve both been victims (in the rare moments he thinks of himself like that) but Deku had never hurt anyone. Not like him. Not even with all the crap the world - and Katsuki - had flung at him. He’s still a good person, he’s so much fucking stronger, and Katsuki can’t help but hate him for it. That’s why:
“I told him to kill himself.”
The words come out even, devoid of feeling because he feels it too much and he waits for the change in Kirishima, for him to tense up and pull away and tell him the truth that Katsuki already knows… But it never comes.
Instead, he gets a hand, calloused fingers pushing between his and curling until they’re tangled together; palm to palm atop his knee.
“You’re not that person anymore.” He says it so ardently, with such conviction that Katsuki’s protests die in his throat. “And before you try and argue it, I’m not making excuses for you, Bakugou. You know what you did was wrong, and I know you’re trying to be better because of it.” He knocks their shoulders together, a silent, solid reminder that he’s still right there. “And I think that’s what matters now.”
“It still matters that I said it.” Katsuki snaps, tugging his hand out of Kirishima’s because he can’t ever make it easy. “And he still fucking charged in to rescue me from that sludge bastard.”
The words are wrapped in shame, the same shame that slumps his shoulders as he curls tighter in on himself and sits at the core of his anger.
“I made his life hell, and he still tried to save mine - and again at Kamino...” His throat constricts and his eyes burn. “He’s better than me, and I can’t fucking stand it.”
Kamino was just more proof of that. His weakness killed All Might but Deku was strong enough to come up with some stupid fucking rescue scheme, because he’s a real fucking hero and Katsuki…
“Actually…” Kirishima cuts him off mid-spiral, looking sheepish. “The rescue was my idea. I mean, I guess it doesn’t matter whose idea it was, and Midoriya made the actual plan, but… It was me.”
“The fuck, Kirishima?” Why is this the first he’s hearing of it?
Now it’s the other boy’s turn to talk, because if Kirishima wants to be his equal in all things, that means this too.
“I kinda blamed myself, when you were taken.”
He can see it in his eyes even now, the guilt. Kirishima’s posture crumbles slightly, shoulders hunching forward like Katsuki’s as he tries to shrug it off. It’s a futile gesture, because he knows how deep this stuff digs under his skin. Hardening or not, Kirishima’s all softness and sentiment on the inside.
“I kept thinking that if I wasn’t stuck in remedial classes, if I wasn’t so far behind, maybe…” He swallows and Katsuki watches the dip and clench of his throat. “Maybe I could’ve done something. Instead of having to sit in that room, knowing they were coming for you…”
He thinks of middle-school Kirishima, and the story his friend had told him; the price of hesitance that had pushed him towards heroism. He’d wanted to comfort him then but he didn’t know how. He still doesn’t, so he just lets Kirishima talk.
“I was powerless then, and I swore I wouldn’t be stuck like that again. That’s why I asked you to spar with me, and tutor me, so I can keep up, so I can stay at your side and watch your back.” He scrubs a hand over the nape of his neck, all nerves again, and Katsuki aches to see it. “But what kind of hero can’t protect what they care about?”
“You think I need protecting? That I’m weak?” There’s no heat to it, not the violent kind at least, because he’ll always offer Kirishima the kindness he never keeps for himself.
“ No, god, Bakugou, I just…” The line of his lower lip is raw, worried bloody by sharp teeth, and Kirishima’s voice sounds the same when he says: “I’m not strong enough to lose you.”
Oh…
Kirishima’s eyes go wide. “I’m sorry, fuck, that’s… That’s kind of a lot, I shouldn’t… I mean, bad timing, you don’t have to-”
Katsuki slaps his hand over his mouth, startling him into silence.
“Just… Shut the fuck up for a moment, idiot.”
There’s a soft click as Kirishima shuts his mouth, teeth scraping lightly against his palm. Bakugou withdraws it slowly, wiping the smear of spit off on his t-shirt. They’re both silent as he struggles with what comes next.
Kirishima has always sucked at keeping shit from him. He’s too genuine to be a good liar and Katsuki has always been observant. Right now, he’s not trying to hide his nerves, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt and making a point of holding Katsuki’s stare, of being brave. He doesn’t look away and there’s a flicker of hope in Kirishima’s eyes that makes him ache.
He’s being vulnerable, letting Katsuki see it all. Kirishima keeps giving him everything, and he doesn’t know how to give back, but he really, really wants to try.
“… I’m not good at this.” It pains him to admit he’s not the best at something and it’s obvious with how his brow scrunches up. “You’re the only person I’ve let get this close to me. Ever.” He doesn’t know what it means but it means something because, “I’m not strong enough to lose you either.”
Kirishima makes a soft, surprised sound and Bakugou wants to swallow it. There's pink dusting the arch of the other boy’s cheekbones now, flooding across the bridge of his nose and slowly colouring him the same bright red as his hair. Katsuki watches it spread and darkens it when he stretches his fingers out slightly against the duvet, pinky pushing against Kirishima's. The other boy links them together, one finger after another, doing what Katsuki can’t.
“Why are you so kind to me?” He asks, because he has to. The question comes out heavy, but Kirishima doesn’t crumble under the weight of it. Stupid unbreakable bastard, he thinks, but Katsuki doesn’t resent his strength. Even if, just for now, he’s stronger than him.
“Because you’re not.” He says, like it’s obvious, and it hits like a punch, knocking all the air from his lungs and leaving him aching. “And… Well.” Kirishima shrugs, bashful. “You know.”
“Do I?”
“Don’t you?” It’s tentative, but it doesn’t have to be.
They've been caught in this nebulous not-space, building something with no name, but this feels like naming it. Like turning it into something solid.
He thinks of Kirishima’s thumb against his pulsepoint; his knee brushing his, because they always sit too close when they study; and a hand reaching out to him, always.
“… I know.” He says eventually, the softest he’s been all night. Maybe ever. “You should know too.”
Kirishima squeezes their linked hands, smiling so sweet it makes Katsuki’s teeth hurt, melting like cotton candy under his tongue.
“I do now.”
Today has been terrible, but Katsuki thinks he could make it through a hundred more like it if they all end like this. With Kirishima loving him.