Archive of Our Own

Kirishima doesn’t think broken things are ugly.

Being the youngest in his family, almost everything he’s ever owned has been secondhand and damaged in some way; inherited from older cousins or his mothers or the boy next door before they’d moved from Yamanashi and his grandparents’ old country house to Chiba. As a kid, he was always breaking stuff with his quirk. His grandparents’ home was traditional, all dark wood and shoji dividers that were flimsy and easy to tear, and for the first year after his quirk manifested his hardened feet left little holes in the tatami mats because he kept slicing through his slippers.

When he was seven, he’d chipped the rim of his mama’s favourite mug with a hardened pinky finger. At first, it was barely noticeable, but over time the crack had spread, a spiderweb of guilt through blue ceramic, and they’d had to throw it out because she’d gotten sick from bacteria caught in the spaces superglue couldn’t quite fill. Kirishima finds himself doing the same now; sticking in the cracks and festering.

He keeps thinking about coming apart, about how Rappa’s fists had splintered his skin like old porcelain. He thinks he can feel it peeling every time he flexes his hands, stiff scar tissue protesting as he spreads and clenches his fingers. He’s been practicing since the casts came off, but he still can’t make a proper fist. 

The little television in the corner of his hospital room had been tuned onto the local news station when he’d woken up, the same footage running on loop as the reporter had catalogued the outcome of the raid; all clean, clinical sound bites. It had made his broken skin itch.

He’d seen snippets of Midoriya fighting Overhaul, a flash and blur of green light. He’d seen Uraraka moving rubble and Tsu carrying civilians. He’d seen a glimpse of himself, limp and useless, strapped to a stretcher and loaded into the back of an ambulance.

He’d been unconscious for two days, bed-bound for another four. He should be sick of lying on his back, but it’s all he can bring himself to do right now, swaddled in the half-dark of his dorm. He’s barely been gone a week but something about the space feels off, like everything in his room has shifted a half-inch to the right, and Kirishima doesn’t know how he fits back into it.

Alone like this it’s easy to become an inversion of himself, all the brightness and colour leaching out until he exists in the same black-white shades as the boy he was before UA. In the dim blue light, his hair even looks dark again too. He curls a little around a scarred finger, the bleach-dry strands whispering over the raised tissue, a soft sound that’s too loud in the quiet.

His curtains are half-drawn and a sliver of moonlight cuts through the gap, painting over the fresh scars like silver filigree. If it were anyone else, Kirishima thinks it might be beautiful. On him, it’s ugly. On him, it’s just another break. He’s covered in them now, unfamiliar ridges that catch and ache under his fingers; a texture map of failure that he follows back to the small, spiteful thing behind his sternum that calls him weak.

He’s never been vain, more overly aware of his appearance. An awkward self-consciousness, bordering on self-obsessive but with none of the ego. It’s why he tells himself he’ll only ever wear long sleeves now and rigorously maintains his hair. His is a carefully crafted mask and he doesn’t want people seeing where it cracks.

But no amount of red box dye can hide this. 

The scarring had been stark in the light of the common area, dark pink and raw against tanned skin, coloured violent and ugly. Mina had cried when she’d clapped eyes on him (half-relief and half-horror, he thinks), and Kaminari had poked at his ruined cheek with a murmured “holy shit …”

He’d slapped Denki’s hand away, a little too sharp, and the group gathered around him and Midoriya had gone quiet with unfamiliar tension. He’d excused himself quickly after that.

Bakugou had left the room the moment he’d seen him. Kirishima feels a little tug of hurt at the memory, but some things are meant to be private, like so much between them. If Bakugou still wants it.

The last few weeks have been filled with absences and secrecy and it’s left cracks in their friendship. Plenty of space for things to fester. It feels like that broken mug all over again; all that guilt, like he’s ruined something precious.

Bakugou shows up at his room after a perfectly reasonable amount of time. Kirishima thinks he’d probably calculated the exact number of minutes to leave between eagerness and uncaring, because that’s just the kind of person he is.

He checks Kirishima over when he opens the door, lingering on the deep bruising under his eyes, plum-dark and swollen like rotting fruit. He hadn’t slept well in the hospital and it shows. He forces a smile and it feels like stretching cling film over broken glass, flimsy and easy to tear. Not hiding the cracks, just keeping them together. He knows Bakugou sees straight through it.

“Hey, man,” He starts, “Did you-”

“I saw you get carried out on a fucking stretcher.” The rough, raspy edge to Bakugou’s voice is softened, almost mellow. It’s something only Kirishima gets to hear, something that marks the shift from the outside world to whatever it is that happens between them. Normally it’s a source of comfort, like the boy standing awkwardly in his open doorway, but everything feels different now and even Bakugou looks distorted, backlit by the hallway, fluorescent and fuzzy at the edges.

“Oh…” Kirishima deflates, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck and staring at his feet. “Yeah.” His fingers touch a raised edge of scar tissue on his shoulder and he drops his hand with a wince.

“Deku said your phone broke.”

“Mm.”

“I thought…” He hears the dull click as Bakugou snaps his mouth shut, sentiment caught behind his teeth. “Of course you’re okay.” He murmurs when Kirishima finally looks up. “You’re strong as hell.”

He says it like it’s obvious, like Kirishima should just know, and something warm bursts inside his chest as Bakugou holds his gaze. He can feel it thrashing like a dying fish, raw and desperate at the back of his throat and he has to gut it before he can speak.

“Did you wanna…?” Kirishima gestures vaguely inside his room, because that’s the protocol when Bakugou looks like this. Like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Normally he’d shove at his arm or shoulder-check him on the way past, something harsh to offset the coming vulnerability, but tonight Bakugou just slips inside without preamble, grabbing the sleeve of Kirishima’s shirt and giving it a gentle tug so he’ll follow.

The door swings shut behind him, leaving them both in the dark and he keeps pulling until they hit the edge of the bed, collapsing back into an easy tangle of limbs. Bakugou forces his head under his chin and stays there, jaw trembling. Kirishima feels it against his sternum, keeping time to the judder of his heart.

He’s warm and solid against him, damp palms fisted in his shirt because this is his kind of caring. An aggressive clinging that neither of them would ever call that because Bakugou’s pride is a fragile thing, and Kirishima would do anything to protect him.

“M’sorry I couldn’t tell you what was going on.” Kirishima says eventually. He’s met with silence. “Bakugou?”

“Just… Shut up.” He sighs, “M’tired.” And just like that, it’s settled.

But even with Bakugou’s reassurance, the strange feeling doesn't fade. There’s a static buzz that’s been building under his skin since the hospital and it’s sharpest behind his sternum, beating against the bone like a fly caught in a bottle. It’s louder like this, set against the soft sound of Bakugou trying to sleep. He breathes against it and his chest stretches like worn out elastic, straining at the seams where he’d come apart.

For the first time, Kirishima’s grateful that Bakugou isn’t more tactile. That he’s not the type to do something so outwardly sentimental as try and touch his scars.

“I can fucking hear you thinking dumb shit.” Bakugou says, because this close he probably can.

“You always think I’m thinking dumb shit.” Kirishima mutters into his hair. It’s a deflection and it doesn’t work.

“Yeah, well,” Bakugou grunts, “It’s extra loud right now so it’s gotta be extra dumb.”

“… You’ll think it’s stupid.” He warns, despite the sharp kick to his foot that tells him the other boy is getting impatient. It’s such a Bakugou response that it almost makes him smile.

“That’s what I said, idiot, so just… Fucking tell me.”

“That hurt, you know.”

“Then harden next time, fucker.” Bakugou bites back with another, albeit lighter, kick.  “Now talk.”

“… We’re not allowed to talk about it, you know that.” It’s an honest, but weak excuse. 

“M’not asking about your internship, I just…” Bakugou makes a sharp, frustrated sound. “Just fucking talk about your feelings or whatever.”

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know how to say it without shame, how to force it past the knot at the back of his throat, but Bakugou’s asking (in his way) and Kirishima’s never been able to deny him anything.

“You can see the damage.” He says softly, like the words don’t hurt. “I wasn’t strong enough to… I just wasn’t strong enough.”

It’s a different kind of bleeding out and he half-expects Bakugou’s cheek to be stained with it when he lifts his head and tugs at the front of his sleepshirt to make sure Kirishima meets his furious gaze.

“You’re still here, right?” He asks, rhetorical and ardent, and Kirishima can only nod in the face of it. “Which means you won.”

“… It doesn’t feel like winning.” The words shrink around his tongue the same way he tries to shrink back into his pillow and away from the other boy’s glare. Coward.

Bakugou’s eyes narrow, wine-dark and all-seeing even in the dim light. The scrutiny is sharp, peeling him open like a satsuma, all sticky-sweet guts, and Kirishima lets him. He just lies there, watching Bakugou watch him, and breathing past the ache in his chest when the blonde huffs and buries his face back against it.

“You’re an idiot.” He mutters decisively, half lost to the soft cotton of Kirishima’s shirt. “Stop being all self-pitying and crap. S’not manly or whatever.”

Kirishima sighs, tucking his face into the dandelion fluff of the other boy’s bedhead. “Whatever you say, Bakugou.”

“Damn right.” He scoffs, “Now roll over, dumbass, m’fucking suffocating here.”

For all the time they spend in and out of each other’s beds, Bakugou seldom offers comfort in such an overt way and with his back now turned flush to the other boy’s chest, Kirishima thinks that even the sharp pain where his chin digs aggressively into his shoulder is something to be cherished. There’s an unspoken affection, almost desperation in the way he tries to embrace him; rigid and awkward, a touch too tight with his fingers fisted in the front of Kirishima’s shirt. It’s bold and uncertain, the way only Bakugou can be.

The weight of it isn’t lost on him, and the arm that loops over his middle is heavy with all the things he never says but Kirishima can hear just the same. It helps drown out the miserable turn of his thoughts, leaves him drifting somewhere warm and fuzzy, and he’s half-asleep when Bakugou speaks again.

“When I was a kid, I smashed one of the hag’s vases.” It comes out of nowhere and Kirishima lies still and silent, just letting him speak because Bakugou seldom talks like this; soft and sentimental, no bluster or bite.

“Was a shitty family heirloom or something, ugly as fuck, but she was pissed that I broke it.” He scoffs, a short little huff of air that could be a laugh if it wasn’t so sharp. It makes Kirishima smile.

“My old man had it fixed for her, some craftsman filled in all the cracks with gold.” His hand unclenches a little, pinky finger ghosting over the line of Kirishima’s ribs, just underneath a seam of scar tissue. “It was still ugly but…” He sighs, “I don’t know. S’a stupid story.”

His hand stills, and Kirishima can feel the awkward shifting as he tries to peer over his shoulder at his face.

“Of course you’re fuckin’ asleep.” Bakugou scoffs and ducks his head, leaning in close with his forehead against the nape of Kirishima’s neck, just above the quarter-sized patch of skin where there’s no scarring. He can feel his breath, warm and clammy against his skin, then the gossamer press of lips, so light they could both pretend it never happened - and Kirishima’s still not sure if it did.

The memory burns like molten gold, hot and precious.

Bakugou’s fingers brush the same point a week later, wrapped in a latex glove and swiping vaseline over his hairline so the dye doesn’t stain his skin. He’s sat in front of the sink on the desk chair they’d dragged from Kirishima’s dorm and into the bathroom so they wouldn’t ‘make a fucking mess’, fighting the urge to swivel around as Bakugou fusses and frowns at his scalp.

His roots are growing back in, inky black bleeding into red like an oil spill, and the other boy had offered to fix them under the pretense of making sure it was done right.

Bakugou’s movements are measured, precise, and every brush of his gloved fingers feels bright, like popping candy under Kirishima’s skin.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” He asks, breaking the easy quiet of the fourth floor bathroom. 

“No,” Comes the automatic response and Kirishima grins, so manly. “The hag used to get me to help fix her roots sometimes ‘cause my dad was shit at it.” He scoffs, “She said it was my responsibility ‘cause I’m the one that turned her grey.”

Kirishima snorts out a laugh, and Bakugou pinches the top of his ear in petty retaliation.

“Ouch! Sorry, sorry!” But he’s still smiling and he can see a trace of it on Bakugou's own mouth in the mirror.

The fluorescent lights make his scars stand out, faded to a soft, muted pink, but still very much there. They’re kind to Bakugou, though, the way every kind of light is (at least Kirishima thinks so). He doesn’t glow like an angel, something ethereal and more than; he’s just a boy. A very pretty boy with the harsh lines of his face smoothed in tranquil concentration and his hands in Kirishima's hair.

Bakugou raises a brow when he catches him staring and tugs on the section he’s separating.

“Keep your head centred, dumbass.”

“Uh, yeah. Right.” He swallows, adjusting his posture and struggling with the impulse to rub at the back of his neck like he usually does when he’s nervous.

“They’re not that obvious anymore.”

“Huh? Oh.” Of course Bakugou sees. “I guess not.”

“Still don’t get why you hate them so much.” He grumbles, carefully parting Kirishima’s hair and clipping the top half up in a little twist. “Looks badass.”

“I dunno, man.” Kirishima tries to play it off with a little shrug. “I just… Don’t wanna be reminded.”

Bakugou's answering grunt is neutral but his brows are furrowed - not the soft slope he gets when he’s concentrating, but pinched tight and uncomfortable. It’s the same expression he gets when he lets Kirishima work the tension out of his wrists after training, pained and something more.

“I know you can’t talk about it,” He says eventually, glaring down at where he’s separating Kirishima’s roots. “But if you could… You could. With me.”

“If I could, I would.” Their eyes meet and Bakugou nods, brows still drawn tight. “But this is good,” Kirishima promises, gesturing at the two of them, at the bowl of peroxide and red box dye perched on the sink. “This helps.”

Bakugou exhales, a little huff of air that catches in the downy hairs and vaseline at the nape of his neck and makes his skin burn.

“Good.”

With his hair fixed, Kirishima feels like he’s healing. It helps for a while, but like any bandaid, eventually it stops sticking.

He still smiles and nods along when Mina talks to him, he still laughs at Kaminari’s dumb jokes, but the familiar motions start to feel stilted and false; like his smile is drawn on with greasepaint because he can’t quite get his mouth to move the same.

Bakugou must have noticed the change because he’s taken to watching him closer, brow furrowed and eyes sharp like he can crack open his friend’s skull and see what’s going on inside his head if he just thinks about it hard enough. Under different circumstances, he’d probably enjoy the attention — but right now he feels flimsy, like wet paper. Any extra pressure will turn him to mulch.

Sometimes he catches Bakugou glaring at his fading scars, zeroing in on the cracks through his forearms and the deep crater below his right pectoral like they’ve somehow personally wronged him. Kirishima wonders if it’s because he’s ashamed to be friends with someone so weak.

He knows that’s not true. He knows Bakugou doesn’t think of him like that, but he still burns at the thought, sternum drawn tight like he’s eaten too fast. Like acid reflux, except it’s more anger than vomit and unlike him.

It leaves him brittle, sharp. His pulse grows teeth and gnaws at the inside of his chest until it feels like he’s bleeding out under his skin; tender and bruised and too sore to touch.

A few days later, Sero smacks him on the arm during study period and the hardened hand in his lap claws straight through the fabric of his trousers and into the meat of his thigh. Red blooms between his fingers and he blinks down at the damage while Kaminari and Sero collapse into giggles at the sound of his clothes ripping. Neither of them see the blood, or how his hands shake.

He covers it with his backpack when Aizawa sends him to change without scolding (because he has to know). It’s the lesson before lunch anyway, and he makes it back just after the bell rings.

By the time he returns, everyone else has forgotten the little mishap, but the hard look in Bakugou’s eyes leaves him restless, staring at the ceiling that night.

He tries to redirect all that nervous energy into his training, into getting stronger. He starts running every day instead of every other; he adds an extra hour to his gym time and ropes Ojirou and Uraraka into sparring with him too. The leather of his punching bag is wearing thin in places because he keeps instinctively hardening his hands when he punches. Which is a lot.

It probably keeps Bakugou awake through their shared wall, but he never says anything and Kirishima’s nothing if not good at keeping up appearances.

Until he isn’t.

He doesn’t remember the aftermath of the raid, but his body does. He keeps waking up in the dead of night, cries congealing with the bile at the back of his throat and hardening rippling in jagged waves across his skin. Awareness creeps back in the same, ebbing and sharp.

He comes-to on his bedroom floor this time, fingers hardened to claws and body on the verge of Unbreakable. There’s the smell of sweat and something burning and the shuddering sound of another person breathing. Even through his Quirk, Kirishima can feel the two solid points of pressure where something is pinning his elbows, and everything shifts back into focus with a hard snap.

Bakugou is pressing him down into the floor. He’s hunched over him, knees keeping his arms in place and his palms flush to his shoulders, bursting with little explosions meant to wake him up. His eyes are wide, panicked in a way he’s never seen before, and Kirishima’s well up with tears because…

There’s scratches all over Bakugou’s forearms, not deep but bleeding and he’s never hated the colour red so much. He wants to sob that he’s sorry but it gets stuck, like there’s barbed wire in his throat, violent and bloody, shredding the words before he can get them out.

It feels like he’s been treading water; now, he’s drowning. With so much water in his lungs, he couldn’t make a sound if he wanted to.

“Shit, don’t cry, idiot.” Bakugou hisses, face contorting with concern as he takes his weight off Kirishima’s torso and settles into an awkward crouch beside him. “Can you sit up?”

He nods but he’s still half-hardened and it makes it difficult to move. Bakugou watches him struggle for a moment before hooking his elbows under his arms and trying to hoist him upright. He ends up half in the other boy’s lap and when he tries to pull back Bakugou just… Keeps him there, like he knows how much Kirishima needs it.

They’ve never been this close to each other outside of one of their beds before – and Bakugou is breaking an unspoken rule letting Kirishima cling to him like this. His hands are tight against his trembling shoulders, still damp with nitroglycerin and sweat and Kirishima can’t help but think how easy it is to come undone with Bakugou holding him together like this.

“I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry, I’m s-…” He hiccups halfway through the apology and Bakugou silences him with a scoff. He feels the heat of it against his hairline, radiating down the shell of his ear when he speaks.

“S’just a few scratches, Kirishima.” He must think he’s in bad shape because he’s using his name. “Don’t fucking baby me.”

It’s another unspoken rule that Bakugou comes to him when he has nightmares, that Kirishima will leave his door unlocked so the other boy doesn’t have to mortify himself by asking for it. That must be why he’s here now, Kirishima realises, and wants to shrink under the weight of his shame because Bakugou needs him to be solid. He can’t let him see how he’s eroding; all that faux-boldness and bravado grinding down to dust.

“I heard you through the wall.” Bakugou explains when his breathing has evened out.

Kirishima glances up, catching the imprint of his fist in the plaster. There are flecks of it embedded in his hardened knuckles and he watches them flutter to the floor like snowflakes as he finally relaxes his quirk. Aizawa is going to be pissed.

“M’sorry.” He says again and Bakugou shifts him off his lap with a sigh.

He sits there, useless, as the other boy busies himself cleaning up. The flame lamp on his desk paints everything in warm tones but Kirishima feels cold watching Bakugou use his bedside tissues to dab the blood from his forearms.

His hands are numb, the way they always are after overusing his quirk, and they itch to do something, to make it right.

There are scrapes on Bakugou’s legs from where they’d pinned his hardened arms and he stares at where blood is still leaking sluggishly down the other boy’s shin.

“Let me.” He croaks, gesturing to the mess.

Bakugou glares at him, but there’s no heat to it and Kirishima keeps pushing.

“S’my fault.” He insists, “Let me fix it.”

There’s a first aid kit in his bottom desk drawer and Bakugou sits on the edge of his bed as he digs through it for antiseptic wipes and bandages. He dabs at his knees first because they’re hurt the worst and Bakugou doesn’t make a sound as he cleans him up, doesn’t even wince at the sting of antiseptic or when he tapes down bandages over the deepest cuts. He even lets Kirishima stick colourful plasters all over his arms without complaint, eyes a heavy weight on the top of his head.

“I think that’s all of them.”

Bakugou makes a neutral grunting sound, examining his right forearm.

“Bed.” He mutters once he’s satisfied, tugging at the hem of Kirishima’s ruined shirt to get him to move.

There are two scorched patches at his shoulders where Bakugou’s explosions had burned through the soft fabric and a dozen or more holes from his own quirk. He plucks morosely at the large tear over his belly button and tries to ignore the little splatters of his best friend’s blood on the white cotton.

“Just take it off, idiot.” He glances up at Bakugou, who’s already rearranging his sheets. They’re torn through in places too and he knows he’s going to have to replace it all, even the thick rubber under-layer that’s supposed to protect his mattress from his quirk.

There’s so much he needs to fix but he just stands there, staring at the mess. He should be helping but his hands are shaking again and they fumble with the bottom of his shirt as Bakugou settles back into his ruined bed.

“Kirishima.” Bakugou snaps, sticking out his leg to kick his side. It’s impatient but weak and Kirishima kind of wishes he’d made it hurt. “Fucking hurry up.”

“Yeah… Okay.”

He leaves his shirt on the floor beside the bed, amongst the pile of plaster wrappings and used antiseptic wipes. He’s used to being half naked, he’s shirtless on a daily basis in his hero costume, but it feels different like this. The lamp on his desk casts shadows across his torso, catching on the deeper ridges of scar tissue that even Recovery Girl’s care couldn’t touch, and Bakugou’s eyes follow the same path like a caress. It’s intimate but not wanting, laced with concern instead of heat, and he wants to curl in on himself and hide.

Lying down, he tries to tuck himself against the edge of the mattress, to keep a little distance with his back to the other boy, but Bakugou just sighs, irritated, and slings an arm over his torso, pulling him tight against his chest.

“Tonight was just a bad dream.” He says, low enough that it could almost be soft. “Don’t think about it.”

Kirishima just nods, eyes closed and chest burning.

Eventually he falls asleep, swaddled in Bakugou’s arms and his own misery. It’s a familiar kind of comfort and he shrinks down inside it, head buried deep. It takes him a while to come back up for air.

He thinks about that night all the time, shame playing cat's cradle with his guts when he remembers the fear in Bakugou’s eyes. Kirishima keeps looking for traces of it, for some kind of wariness, but finds nothing. If anything, he gets kinder, more attentive.

It’s all little things that other people wouldn’t notice. Like nudging his foot under the table at lunch when their friends are yammering and he can see Kirishima drifting back into himself. One time, Bakugou even hooked their ankles together and Kirishima nearly choked on his miso.

Or how he starts insisting he trains with him so he doesn’t overwork himself and actually gets back in time for dinner - and then making sure he eats his damn vegetables while Jirou calls him a mother hen and Kirishima grins at his shouting around a mouthful of heavily spiced broccoli.

Bakugou even starts forcibly dragging him along to the class movie nights he knows he (pretends that he) hates so he’s not shut up in his dorm with his punching bag. He sits next to him, close and warm with their thighs touching and hogs the buttery popcorn for the two of them because he knows how much Kirishima likes it. Kaminari whines that he’s playing favourites (which he is) and gets a face full of cushion for his troubles. It makes Kirishima laugh, loud and genuine for the first time in weeks. He sleeps so easy that night, he almost feels like himself again.

He’s always been aware of how he feels about the other boy, but this closeness keeps bringing it to the surface, all the static under his skin melting into warmth and pooling at the back of his tongue until he’s drowning in a different, better way. But still he doesn't say a damn thing because he’s careful with Bakugou, in a way no one else ever is. He's strong, stronger than Kirishima thinks he could ever be, but he’s soft in places other people don’t (get to) see - and he’ll swallow all of his feelings, all that sweetness, to keep what they have.

But sometimes… He wonders if Bakugou feels it too because he keeps touching and looking and finding reasons for them to be alone…

Like how he insists on dragging him off to study, in his dorm, alone, this time because they have an English test in three days and he knows Kirishima hasn’t started revising yet. They’ve spent the past hour going over grammar and making notes, but nothing is really sinking in.

He’s sore from using his quirk today and his skin is still a little irritated from Ashido’s acid because they’d been paired up for sparring. That and it’s getting colder - his weather app says it’s supposed to snow tonight - and it’s making all his scars ache. The low throbbing is distracting and he scratches at his arm as he tries to think past it.

His eyes keep drifting to the dent in his wall that he still hasn’t told Aizawa about. It’s right above Bakugou's chest because he’s sprawled out on his bed like it’s his own, his cheek on Kirishima’s pillows and a Hero History textbook propped up on the bed beside him because of course he’s already prepared for the English test.

He’s saying something about structuring compound sentences, shit Kirishima should already know, but it sounds like he’s speaking through molasses and nothing is sticking.

A ball of paper hits the side of Kirishima’s head and makes him jump.

“Fucking pay attention.” Bakugou reprimands him with a glare.

“Sorry, man,” Kirishima winces, rubbing at his temple. “M’just… Having an off day.”

“You’ve been having an ‘off day’ every day for the last few weeks.”

The usual bluntness feels like a slap and Kirishima’s cheeks burn from the impact. There’s no hardness left on him now, he’s all soft, squishy guts. They’ve avoided actually talking about it so far, but he should know how stubborn Bakugou is, and that eventually - like always - he’ll give him what he wants.

The other boy sighs in the face of his silence and turns his attention back to his text book.

“Let me know when you’re done sulking.” He says, and to anyone else it would sound cruel. To Kirishima, it’s Bakugou giving him time to think - and the promise (threat?) that they will talk when it’s over. Whether Kirishima wants to or not.

Dread congeals in his stomach like old milk, sour and nauseating. His nails dig deeper into one of the thicker seams of scarring that line his forearm, index finger grinding back and forth through the groove between damaged and undamaged skin until it turns sore and red from the pressure.

“Oi.” Bakugou's foot kicks against his shoulder and his hand jerks away. “Stop scratching, idiot, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“Oh. Right.”

“They still hurting?”

“A little.” Kirishima admits, still staring at his arm. “S’always worse after using my quirk.”

“Stay there.”

Bakugou is barely gone a minute - he can hear him rustling around in his own room and cursing before he’s shoving Kirishima’s door back open and joining him on the floor. There’s a black medical box in his hand and he sets it down beside his knee, popping it open with one hand and gesturing for Kirishima’s arm with the other.

“Unclench your fist.”

Kirishima’s already familiar with the contents of the box, having taken part in Bakugou’s meticulous care routine on the few occasions he’d been too stiff to do it himself. He knows the procedure by heart: when to switch out the heat and ice packs for swelling, how to apply the glucosamine gel on aching joints and smooth tiger balm over the sore muscles that come with the kickback from Bakugou’s quirk.

The gel is cold when it hits his skin but Bakugou’s touch is warm and warming still with the very gentle explosions he layers over his knuckles and Kirishima can feel the stiffness in his fingers fading already.

“Woah, Bakugou, your control is incredible…”

“Tch, this shit’s easy.” He scoffs, with colour in both their cheeks.

“… So manly.”

A  little pink dusts the top of his ears at the praise and Kirishima fixates on it because it feels less intimate than watching the other boy’s hands against his own. His heartbeat keeps time to the little bursts of Bakugou’s quirk, sharp and bright like a sparkler at the back of his throat.

“Better?” The question is soft.

“Much, yeah… Thanks, man.”

 “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“Probably.” He forces a self-deprecating little smile, laced with guilt because Bakugou has been taking care of him instead.

The other boy gives him a long searching look that Kirishima ignores by just staring at where his hands are working over his wrist. There’s no explosions now, just a steady, comforting pressure and he feels the lingering tension melting from the joint with every slow circle of Bakugou’s thumb.

“You had any more nightmares?”

He winces and Bakugou frowns.

“You can… Come to me too, you know.”

“But I —”

Bakugou cuts him off with a scoff, like he already knows what he’s going to say. He’s probably been waiting for this exact conversation.

“So you gave me a few scratches, big deal. We beat each other up worse in training.”

“It’s not the same.” Kirishima protests, “I don’t like knowing I’ve hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“You were bleeding, Bakugou.”

“Barely.” He snaps, digging his thumb into the soft squishy bit above his wristbone in petty retaliation, as though Kirishima is calling him weak.

“Barely bleeding is still bleeding.”

“Is that why you’ve been so fucking weird?” Bakugou glowers at him, expectant.

“Part of it, yeah.”

“And the rest?”

Kirishima ducks his head and Bakugou's glare deepens.

“Normally I can’t get you to shut the fuck up, why are you being so damn cagey, huh?”

He swallows, a dry click in the back of his throat. Bakugou’s touch turns gentle, thumb swiping over his pulse point - too casual to not be deliberate - and Kirishima sighs.

“... S’just more of the same crap. I don’t wanna… It’s just a lot, y’know?”

“What? You think I can’t handle it or some shit?”

“That’s not…” Kirishima frowns, “You know I don’t think that.”

But Bakugou still gives him another hard look. “We’re… Friends. Partners, or whatever, so just… Let me fucking do this.” He knocks his knee against Kirishima’s until the other boy meets his eyes again. “We’re equals, Kirishima. You’re always pushing that ‘talking about my feelings’ shit so fucking… Talk to me.”

“But we’re not equals, are we?” He doesn’t need to spell it out. He's an open book and Bakugou is good at reading between the lines for him. His expression darkens and Kirishima can see the thunder rolling across his features, the warning before the storm.

“Fucking get up.” He breaks the silence like a thunderclap, a sudden flurry of motion as he tugs Kirishima up with him by his shirt collar.

“Bakugou?”

“I’m going to beat some sense into you.”

Snow is starting to cover the ground outside, but it does nothing to cool Bakugou’s anger. Their breaths are foggy, his sharp and agitated as he leads Kirishima across the dark campus and towards the gym. They’re both bundled up in his clothes to keep out the cold because Bakugou had been too impatient to go and grab his own. Or maybe he thought Kirishima would run if he’d let him out of his sight, which isn’t completely wrong… Still, he loves how Bakugou looks wrapped up in him, even as he stalks in front and scowls at the snow. Any other night, he’d be balling up a handful of it to lob at the blonde’s head but…

They forgo the changing rooms, excess clothing dumped in a pile at the side of the sparring mats. He’s still sore from training, even with Bakugou’s care, and he tries to be thorough as he stretches, waiting warily for the other boy to say something. They’ve never been this quiet before and he’s starting to feel like he really fucked up when Bakugou finally speaks.

“You fucking done?”

“Yeah…” Kirishima swallows, dropping his ankle from where he’d been stretching out his quads.

“Good.”

Even in his lounge clothes, when Bakugou crouches, ready to strike, he’s intimidating. He comes at him with a vicious intensity, even after their training today, and it leaves him scrambling to keep up.

Usually when they fight it’s an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, but Kirishima’s been crumbling lately and it’s painfully easy for Bakugou to get the first hit in. His knuckles collide with his ribs, layering bruising over scar tissue, and shame colours the pain lacing through his chest.

“Get out of your fucking head and fight me!” Bakugou spits, shin colliding with Kirishima’s crossed arms as he levels a hard kick at his sternum.

They battle until they’re both exhausted, until hardening keeps rippling across his skin in uncontrolled little bursts and even Bakugou can’t temper the sparks ricocheting off his sweaty palms. They split apart, Kirishima pushing Bakugou away before he can get him in a chokehold and the other boy glares at him, dangerous and heated.

“Do you get it yet?!” He shouts, setting off one more explosion, dead centre of Kirishima’s hardened chest, and he staggers back before grounding himself. “I don’t have to hold back with you!”

He lashes out with another explosion and Kirishima stands firm.

“You’re the only one who can handle me!”

And another.

“Calling yourself weak is calling me weak!”

Bakugou grabs the neck of his ruined shirt, pressing in close and trembling with rage.

“Am I fucking weak, Eijirou?”

It’s the first time he’s used his given name and Kirishima nearly chokes.

“No.”

“Good.” He holds on a beat too long and the moment stretches like warm taffy - thick and sweet with them swallowing each other's breath and the lingering burnt-sugar of nitroglycerin from Bakugou’s explosions.

Distantly, he wonders if Bakugou is going to kiss him...

He releases his shirt but doesn’t step away, pointing a threatening finger at Kirishima’s sternum as he tells him:

“Don’t you ever think you’re not a match for me.”

“I want to be.” It’s almost a confession, “More than anything.”

“You fucking are.” Bakugou tilts his head to meet his eyes, defiant (and how can he argue with that?) “M’not partnering with anyone but the best, so,” His raised hand hits Kirishima’s chest, knuckles curled just over his racing heart. “Get your shit together.”

“I will.” He promises, simple and steadfast.

Bakugou’s grin matches his, sharper, even with Kirishima’s pointed teeth.

He’s still smiling on the walk back to the dorms, even with the fresh bruises and the fact that he’s going to have to throw away another shirt - a small price to pay to keep Bakugou close like this. There's no one else outside this late and it feels like they’re the only two people in the world. He can feel Bakugou’s eyes on him, drilling a hole into the side of his face and it’s so easy for the words to come pouring out of it…

“I used to hate my quirk.” Kirishima says suddenly, breaking their comfortable silence.

“Don’t look at me like that, Bakugou,” He groans, sensing the oncoming rebuttal and nudging the other boy’s shoulder with his own before he can shove at him. “M’not getting down on myself right now, just…” He gestures vaguely with his hand, “I used to suck at controlling it, an’ it meant I used to break shit all the time growing up. We weren’t… We didn’t have a lot, so I always felt bad, even though my mums never got mad about it, or even minded, really. I still felt like it was a burden, y’know? That it made me a burden.” His smile wavers at the edges, but holds on. “Even when that feeling faded, I still didn’t like my quirk... Then you happened.” He says it soft, like it’s a secret. “It’s not the only reason, but I like knowing you don’t have to hold back with me. It makes me feel strong, useful.”

He shrugs, like it’ll lighten the weight of the words. “I dunno, man, it’s like our quirks were made for each other.”

Bakugou blinks at him across the distance, pink rising in his cheeks.

“Stop saying sappy shit, Kirishima.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He laughs because he doesn’t mean it. “I know I’ve still got a long way to go, but… You were right.”

“Always am.” Bakugou shoves at his cheek with a sweaty palm, his mouth pulled down in a way that Kirishima knows means he’s focusing on trying to keep his scowl. “Stop making that dumb face.”

“S’just my face, man.”

“Exactly.” He kicks at Kirishima’s foot, scattering snow and making him laugh.

He’s still grinning when he tugs the other boy closer by the nape of his neck, their foreheads touching. He’s tactile and Bakugou lets him have it, just sharing space and breath until:

“You’re always good to me. Even when you’re pretending you’re not.”

Bakugou just stares, attempting nonchalance, but Kirishima can feel him shaking too.

It’s not the first time they’ve exchanged words like this, charged enough to be moments but never explicitly crossing the line - even if he’s toeing it right now... Still, Bakugou leans into the touch, pushes back against it like it’s a competition over who can press harder. It’s a different kind of tenderness, more of that aggressive affection that Kirishima loves so much.

“Of course I’m good, I’m the fucking best.” He grumbles with warmth in his cheeks.

“Yeah, you are.” Kirishima says, all sincerity, and Bakugou scowls, but it’s the kind that's soft at the edges. The kind Kirishima pretends he gives him instead of a kiss.