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“We’re going to be late.” Bakugo grumbles. He’s struggling with the clasp of his necklace in the mirror. Kirishima’s sprawled on his bed, enjoying the view of his back.
“Do they expect us to be on time?” Kirishima murmurs, distracted. Bakugo’s shirt is really tight.
His boyfriend shoots a suspicious glance over his shoulder at Kirishima's tone. Kirishima smiles slowly as a blush dusts Bakugo’s cheeks, his face screwing up as he grabs a shirt off of his desk chair.
“Stop fucking staring,” He snaps.
“I’m not.” Kirishima lies. Bakugo’s blush worsens. He throws the shirt hard. It lands perfectly on Kirishima’s face.
“Put that on.” He orders. Kirishima hears his quiet grumble of, “M’dating a fucking nudist.”
“Shirts are the muscle’s prison.” Kirishima laments into the fabric.
“You’re fucking crazy.” Bakugo says.
He smiles against the shirt.
“I can sense your dumbass grin under there.” Bakugo snaps after a second. He crosses the small dorm room in one audible step. Kirishima’s vision is flooded with the image of the blonde leaning over him as the shirt is pulled away. He takes in the sight like it's brand new, Bakugo’s piercing red eyes and the soft edges and sharp corners of his face hovering over him. Their noses almost touching, breath mingling.
“Hi,” Kirishima hums, pleased. He sees the tick of Bakugo’s jaw. The twitch of his lip. The foreshadowed crumbling of his feigned annoyance. Kirishima tilts his chin, leaning up.
Just before their lips meet, Bakugo pulls away. Only by an inch. A hair. Just enough to tease Kirishima. He pouts as his boyfriend smirks.
“Less distracting me. More getting dressed.” Bakugo orders. He presses the shirt against Kirishima’s chest.
“M’not distracting.” Kirishima mutters. His eyes are stuck to Bakugo’s lips now. He knows they have places to be, but there’s a want seeping down his throat like honey, pooling sticky in his chest.
Bakugo huffs and leans in like he’ll give in this time, but again he stops with their lips barely brushing. He holds Kirishima down when he tries to press up into him. Kirishima’s lips twitch, a spark unable to catch.
“Everything about you is a goddamn distraction.” Bakugo says, voice low. He lingers for another beat, then pulls away. Kirishima only realizes when there’s distance between them that his face has gone hot and his heart is racing underneath Bakugo’s fist. He groans, hiding his face behind both hands as the heat in his gut melts into embarrassment. Bakugo snickers.
“You’re so mean to me.” Kirishima whines.
“Get dressed, Eijiro.” Bakugo taps his chest with the fist holding the shirt again. Kirishima feels a tickle of something cold against his skin. He pulls his hands away and realizes Bakugo still has his necklace in his hand too, caught up in the fabric. He hadn’t been able to get the clasp.
Kirishima sits up, catching his hand. Bakugo stills, fingers going malleable as Kirishima pulls. He takes both the shirt and the necklace.
“Defeated by a clasp, Katsuki?” He teases. Bakugo pouts as he turns, offering his back and throat to Kirishima.
“Bad hand keeps cramping. Shitty day.” He grumbles. Kirishima presses his lips together and doesn’t tease again. He wraps his legs around Bakugo’s waist and pulls him a little closer. He revels in the way the blonde tilts his chin up to give Kirishima easier access to his throat. He loops the necklace around and clasps it easily, fiddling with how it sits on Bakugo’s skin. Once he’s satisfied, he smiles to himself. He clings to Bakugo’s shoulders and leans in, nose brushing his neck. He presses a soft kiss into his vertebrae, right at the top of his spine. Teeth to throat. Always too close. He lingers after the kiss, his forehead against Bakugo’s hair. Bakugo melts into it, leaning against him for only a second.
“We really have to go.” He mutters.
It’s Saturday. Which means date night with Midoriya and Uraraka. Actual double dates this time. It’s their second one since Kirishima and Bakugo became official, or…restarted. Or tried again. Whatever they’re calling it. That part didn’t matter so much anymore. They were together, on equal ground, and they both knew the other wanted to be here. That was what counted in the end, the way Kirishima can kiss Bakugo’s spine and Bakugo can lean into Kirishima’s lips with matching confidence.
“Okay,” Kirishima finally relents. Before, it had been Bakugo’s impatience and obsessive need to be on time trying to push them out the door early. A quick glance at the clock above the bed now warns Kirishima it's actually approaching their meeting time. He removes his hands and lets Bakugo nudge his legs out of his lap. Kirishima finally pulls his shirt on as his boyfriend moves for the closet.
It’s a soft shirt, one of Bakugo’s. The nice fabric that doesn’t irritate Kirishima’s skin. He smoothes out some wrinkles by the hem and starts to pull half his hair back into a ponytail, standing from the bed to pull an elastic off of Bakugo’s wrist. The blonde barely notices, only pausing in shifting hangers around to let Kirishima pull his hand away, returning to the task once Kirishima lets him go.
“What’s up?” Kirishima asks once his hair is up and Bakugo’s still rooting through his clothes.
His boyfriend is glaring at the closet. He shoves another sweater aside. There’s a hint of panic the frustration tries to mask.
“I can’t find my dad’s jacket.” He mutters.
Kirishima’s heart does a somersault in his chest. He stands straighter, taking a quick breath.
“Oh, I have it!” He confesses quickly. Bakugo whips his head around, gaze sharp when it lands on him. Kirishima watches the way his fist snaps shut around the hanger he’s holding. He watches the way Bakugo keeps his face and tone careful despite it.
“I told you you couldn’t touch that one.” His voice is controlled in a way that makes Kirishima oddly emotional, despite the panic threatening to crash in on him. Maybe this had been a bad idea, but it was too late to turn back now.
He waves his hands in front of him frantically, “I know, I know! It’s not what you’re thinking– I didn’t wear it or anything just– okay. It’s easier if I just– Wait here!” He blurts. He’s out the door before Bakugo can respond, ignoring the confused shout of his name as he ducks into his own dorm room.
He ruffles through his closet until he finds Bakugo’s jacket, hung carefully in the back. He pulls it out like it’s made of glass. He runs his fingers over the tiny new seam on the corner of the jacket, pulling the fabric back together where it had ripped on the night they got together. Kirishima thinks of Bakugo’s face torn up with panic, of frantic confessions in hospital rooms. He thinks about how scary the idea of fixing leather had seemed, and how easy it had been in the end once he took the first step.
It’s not a professional job by any means. He’d considered that– paying a professional to fix it. It would’ve looked better. There’s a few spots where the stitching is a little crooked, or there’s a tiny wrinkle by the seam. It’s all miniscule stuff, impossible to see if you aren’t staring up close, but they’re still imperfections that could’ve been avoided. But in the end, Kirishima knew, somehow, it had to be him. Bakugo wouldn’t have trusted anyone else with the jacket. A tiny flutter of nerves in Kirishima’s stomach wonders if Bakugo even trusted him with it. He hadn’t asked. It was supposed to be a surprise. A surprise he’s now really starting to doubt because what if Bakugo’s angry at him for taking it without asking or doesn’t think he did a good enough job or– nope. He stops the thought. He just needs to get it over with. He takes a deep breath and darts back out the door and into Bakugo’s room, tucking the jacket behind him as he slips into the room. He leans against the wood as the door clicks shut, keeping the jacket pinned behind his back.
Bakugo’s staring at him. It’s not exactly anger, but there’s a storm of something in his eyes. There always is. Confusion, mostly. A twinge of concern.
“Okay,” Kirishma announces. His voice comes out shakier than he’d wanted. He clears his throat and bites the bullet. He pulls the jacket out from behind him, holds it between them. “I wanted to surprise you.” He whispers.
Bakugo’s eyes scan the jacket quickly. Kirishima watches him still when he sees the shoulder. The silence takes on a sudden weight. Bakugo slowly steps across the room to Kirishima and catches the jacket, one hand under the collar and the other gently holding up the arm as he examines the repair job.
“You…fixed it.” He whispers. He trails his hand up the sleeve, runs his thumb over the stitches. His expression is soft, a bewildered blankness that’s uncharacteristic for him. His hand moves across the seam with a quiet reverence. He snaps his stare back up to Kirishima. “Did you do this yourself?”
Kirishima nods, taking a second to find his voice. There’s a bubble of emotion threatening to pop in the back of his throat. “Yeah. Um, yes. I did.” He grins, “You can consider it my first official boyfriend present. For our two-week anniversary.” He chuckles, “Or our 6 month and two-week anniversary. Whatever we’re calling it.”
“You taught yourself how to do this.” Bakugo says. “Just to fix this.” It’s not a question, but Kirishima nods again.
“It was the last thing I remember before the hospital.” He explains. “I just saw the rip and knew how much the jacket meant to you and knew you were going to be upset,” Bakugo slowly lowers his hands, jacket dangling from his fingertips. Kirishima speeds up, nerves taking over. “But I figured you wouldn’t– uh– let yourself get all sentimental and take the time to fix it. So I did it for you. Which–” Kirishima chuckles, “Which, I hope is okay. I debated getting it professionally done but it felt wrong to hand something important to you off to some stranger without your permission. So it’s not the best job and I can’t promise it will hold– and some of the stitching is wonky but I think it looks fine from far away? But if you’re upset about it I’m sure we can–”
Bakugo throws the jacket onto the bed and surges forward. He grabs Kirishima’s face in both hands with a gentleness his lips don’t mirror. They crash into each other, Kirishima’s spiral swallowed by Bakugo’s mouth.
His noise of surprise is muffled. Relief explodes in his chest, escaping in a laugh that Bakugo kisses him through. Matching Bakugo’s pace in the kiss is an instinctual thing, like breathing, like walking. Kirishima’s body responds like it’s another necessity. Bakugo’s hands find Kirishima’s waist and grip at him hard enough to bruise as he turns him and backs him into the desk. Kirishima laughs again as his hips hit it. Bakugo pushes him again and he obeys the quiet command, letting himself be lifted onto the surface. He hooks his legs around Bakugo’s waist and pulls him in, knocking the breath out of both of them with the collision of their chests. His hands find Bakugo’s hair, tugging him away for air.
“Does this mean you're not mad?” Kirishima wheezes. He’s grinning so wide his face hurts, and his lips are already swollen.
“Idiot.” Bakugo scoffs. His hands bunch the fabric of Kirishima's shirt around his hips. Bakugo’s staring down at his knees, not making eye contact. His voice wavers. When he looks up, there’s a shimmer to his eyes that Kirishima wasn’t expecting. Tears he’s trying to withhold. Kirishima’s heart kicks him hard in the chest.
“That…” Bakugo rasps, knocking their foreheads together, “Was really fucking sweet of you.”
Kirishima smiles. He feels overwhelmed with the amount of emotion roiling through him. One look at Bakugo tells him the blonde feels the same. There’s something comforting about that. Like drowning in whatever they feel for each other isn’t scary if they’re treading water together. A fact of life, it seems; that their facing anything is done best as a unit.
Kirishima puts all the emotions he can’t find words for into the way he kisses Bakugo. Slower now, tender and wanting. A soft pressure as his thumb traces Bakugo’s cheek, brushing away the one tear that escapes.
“Stupid,” Bakugo grumbles, embarrassed by it. Kirishima hums, pacifying him. He likes that Bakugo’s emotions explode out of him, just like his quirk. He likes that Bakugo’s care builds until it bursts, as violent and unstoppable as the rest of him. But it embarrasses his boyfriend, so he keeps the satisfaction to himself.
Where Kirishima’s patient, Bakugo is rushed. He pushes back into the kiss with a hard snap that Kirishima holds them both steady through. His legs are still locked around Bakugo, arms looping around his neck as the kiss deepens. Bakugo clutches at the side of the desk, shoving forward until Kirishima’s back hits the wall. He giggles into Bakugo’s mouth, which gets him kissed again with triple the vigour.
“We’re–” Kirishima tries to speak through Bakugo’s kisses, “Late.” It’s the only word he can get out between their collective frenzy. He isn’t going to stop long enough to risk letting Bakugo out-kiss him.
“I literally do not give a fuck.” Bakugo rasps.
“You were in such a rush a minute ago,” Kirishima teases. Bakugo tries to curse him out, so he bites the blonde’s bottom lip before he can.
Bakugo growls an incoherent noise of frustration and shoves his hands up Kirishima’s thighs. Kirishima feels his smug grin when it makes him shiver. Bakugo’s fingers drip under his shirt, pushing it up his chest, trailing over to his back, shoving his hands between Kirishima and the wall like he means to tear the thing off.
“And you were so desperate to get a shirt on me earlier.” Kirishima says, too breathy for the taunt to stay in his tone.
“Do you ever stop talking?” Bakugo mutters. His voice is wrecked.
“Only when you make me.”
The shirt does not stay on.
Kirishima is pretty sure they knock multiple things off the desk. They must, because there were definitely things on it other than Kirishima, but he’s all that’s left now, sprawled out on the cold surface on his back as Bakugo pushes him down and trails kisses across his skin. He’s not sure they’re ever making it to dinner, and he really isn’t sure he cares. He’s half convinced Bakugo’s going to eat him instead. The thought is wildly appealing. He grabs Bakugo by the necklace and tugs him back up to catch his lips again, making sure he gets as much attention as he’s giving. Bakugo clutches at Kirishima’s chest like he wants the love lines of his palms to mold themselves after the curves of Kirishima’s pecs. He’s half convinced Bakugo will somehow make it happen.
The seventh time the buzz of Bakugo’s phone goes off, it starts getting hard to ignore.
“You should–” Kirishima swallows a gasp as Bakugo bites at his collarbone. “Answer that.”
“Die.” Bakugo says, catching his lips again. Kirishima tilts his head back, lets Bakugo push in with tongue again.
“Think I might’ve. Already.” He breathes. He’s dizzy with a lack of oxygen. Overdosing on Katsuki Bakugo.
This time, the phone rings instead of the buzz of a text. Bakugo shoves away from Kirishima with an angry noise, but Kirishima follows him up, reaching around him to snatch the device from his back pocket before he can throw it. He picks up the call. Obviously, it’s Midoriya.
“Sorry,” Kirishima says instantly. He winces at how blatantly out of breath he is. “We’re coming.”
Bakugo raises an eyebrow slowly, a smug grin splitting his expression. Kirishima goes red from head to toe. He slaps a hand over his boyfriend’s mouth before he can get out whatever evil sentence his lips start to form. “We’re on the way!” Kirishima corrects frantically. “I meant we’re on the way.”
“Uh,” Midoriya starts, “....right. Okay. I just wanted to–” There’s a tiny yelp from Midoriya and a shuffling noise.
“Pull yourselves off of each other and get down here!” Uraraka’s voice shouts. “You’re ten minutes late!” The line goes dead before either of them can argue.
They stare at each other in the silence for a second. Kirishima breaks first, falling forward into Bakugo’s chest as he cackles. Bakugo snorts, holding Kirishima gently as he shakes with quiet laughter too.
“You totally ruined my hair.” Kirishima mutters against Bakugo’s shirt. He feels his boyfriend’s fingers tangle again in the strands.
“Cry me a river.” Bakugo mutters. There’s laughter still echoing in his tone.
Kirishima takes a second to recover against Bakugo’s heartbeat. Finally, he pulls away. He holds the side of Bakugo’s neck and places one more soft kiss against his lips.
“We really have to go.” He says. This time, Bakugo lets them separate.
It takes them a second to relocate and readjust clothes. Kirishima needs to redo his ponytail completely. When they’re finally ready to go, he turns to find Bakugo standing by the door, the jacket outstretched in front of him.
“Don’t want to wear it tonight?” Kirishima asks, reaching out to take it. It would make sense for Bakugo to still be nervous about it.
He frowns, shaking his head. “No. You put it on.”
Kirishima freezes. His chest tightens. “You said it was the only thing I wasn’t allowed to touch.”
Bakugo’s glare sharpens. His face is almost a pout. “Yeah, when it was fucked up. It’s fine now.” He shakes his hand slightly. “Put it on.” He looks away, “You never wear a jacket and end up taking mine every damn time anyway.”
“I run cold.” Kirishima murmurs.
Bakugo rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m always too damn sweaty.”
Kirishima frowns. He knew this, but hadn’t really put the pieces together. “Then why do you always bring–”
“Because you end up needing it, stupid.” Bakugo gestures with the jacket again, growing impatient. “Don’t you fucking listen to me?”
Kirishima smiles at him, tender like a bruise. He steps forward and takes the jacket. Bakugo watches him put it on with the same expression he watches Kirishima undress.
When it’s settled on him, Bakugo hums, satisfied. He steps forward and smooths the collar, considering his boyfriend for a minute.
“Annoying,” He finally blurts, “Shit looks better on you.”
Kirishima laughs, which makes Bakugo smile. “That’s definitely not true.” He argues.
“My jacket, my rules.” Bakugo snaps.
“That doesn’t make any sense–”
“We’re late.” Bakugo says. Suddenly caring again. Kirishima rolls his eyes as he’s pulled towards the door.
“Wait.” He stops Bakugo just before he steps into the hallway. Uncertainty builds again. He thinks of fights and hospitals. “What if someting–” He hesitates, “If my quirk activates I might–”
“I trust you, Eijiro.” Bakugo says. His voice is firm and certain. He squeezes Kirishima’s hand. “And…” He mutters, “If it rips, we can just fix it again, right?”
His concern flickers and dies like it had never been there at all. He squeezes Bakugo’s hand back, pushing away the surge of emotions.
“Right. I guess I know how to fix it now.”
Bakugo smiles at him. This one is Kirishima’s favourite, a wide, happy grin. The rare one he gets when Bakugo feels like he’s won something. When he knows he’s been what Kirishima needs.
He lets his boyfriend finally lead them out of the room. The leather jacket is soft with wear, but the new seam feels sturdy and strong. The fabric smells like Bakugo and it makes Kirishima feel desired, makes him feel shown off like a trophy. He revels in it. He sinks into the certainty.
Bakugo makes Kirishima feel so big, so important. He leaves all his concerns as small things quivering in their shadows. It’s only been two weeks since he was lost in anxieties about them, afraid of wrecking a precious thing, afraid of touching the rip in their relationship and damaging it more.
But fixing that hadn’t been hard like the jacket. He didn’t need practice, really. And sewing the leather had caused hand cramps and pinpricks that bled. He’d gone through half a sewing kit and a pack of bandages. It had hurt in silly ways that being with Bakugo never has. It’s a strange thing to think about, in retrospect.
For all of Kirishima’s worries, they’d been easier to mend than leather in the end.