Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Kacchan, hey, wait up!”

“Fuck off, Deku,” Bakugou muttered without bothering to turn around. To his dismay, the impending slapping of shoes on concrete didn’t cease, and a second later Midoriya was sidled up beside him, mildly out of breath.

“Hey, you’re headed to study with Kirishima, right?”

“Yeah. What of it?”

“I’m headed to Uraraka’s. I thought we could walk together.”

Bakugou sighed in annoyance. “Does Uraraka even live this way?”

“Sort of. We’re meeting at the café, too.”

“And how the fuck do you know where I’m going?”

“Kirishima told us.”

Bakugou’s fists clenched in his pockets. “And what part of ‘fuck off’ don’t you understand, nerd?”

“You’re going to meet Kirishima, Kacchan. I’m here for emotional support.” Deku’s stupid freckles scrunched up toward his eyes all too knowingly, and damn did Bakugou want to blow that smug smile right off his face.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” he grumbled.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed about it, Kacchan. Kirishima’s a really nice guy. I’m sure if you told him—“

“Shut the fuck up, dweeb. I know he’s a nice guy, but I’m not going to tell him jack shit.”

Midoriya fell silent, but his babbling thoughts were almost loud enough for Bakugou to hear. He picked up the pace, trying to lose the loser.

The only one who Bakugou’s shitty, ridiculous, stupid feelings weren’t a secret to was Deku, and Bakugou had the past ten years with the dork to thank for that. He wasn’t really a feeling person—not in that sense, anyway. Even he had been oblivious to what was happening for most of the semester until Deku stepped up and pointed it out, explaining the mini explosions emitting from Bakugou’s palms that he somehow couldn’t control, the ones that he and everyone else had chalked up to some sort of weird development in his quirk.

“It happens when you’re nervous, Kacchan. Don’t you remember when we were kids, and our parents took us to the amusement park together? You were nervous to ride the rollercoasters, so your quirk kept activating beyond your control. But I guess it hasn’t happened for a while because you’re not really the type to get nervous, huh? So then what could it be you’re nervous about now?”

“I’m not nervous about a damn thing, idiot,” Bakugou had grumbled.

A few days later, Deku brought the whole stupid situation up again.

“Hey, Kacchan? Can I ask you something?”

“What is it,” he deadpanned.

“Is there something going on between you and Kirishima?”

“The fuck are you talking about? No.”

“Hm.” Midoriya‘s hand rose to his chin, big dopey eyes pointed at the ground in thought. “I made an observation a few days ago between you two and the small explosions that keep emitting from your hands. I may be wrong, but I think they only happen when you’re around Kirishima. Especially when he looks at you or smiles in your direction, and there’s a look of unease on your face, but it’s not bad, and—“

“What the fuck are you implying, Deku?!”

Midoriya’s gaze lifted, and the smile he played on Bakugou made the blond want to spit fire. “Do you like Kirishima, Kacchan?”

Bakugou’s stomach had lurched as sudden puffs of smoke curled up and away from his clenched fists. “The fuck? No, moron! Kirishima’s just a friend, got it?”

Deku had laughed. “I guess expecting you to tell me if you did was sort of a long shot, huh?”

Fortunately, the two had been alone when Deku shared the observation, sparing Bakugou any embarrassment from teasing classmates. But the whole stupid conversation made Bakugou think, and way too much about things that probably never would have crossed his mind had Midoriya not opened his big, smartass mouth.

Suddenly Kirishima was being shed in a different light to him, one that was somehow brighter. Bakugou was doing everything humanly possible not to think about it, not to see him in that way, even if that meant avoiding him. And so avoid Kirishima he did.

It wasn’t unlike Kirishima to notice, though. He’d only been avoiding him for a week or so before the redhead approached him with questions.

“Hey man, did something happen?”

Bakugou kept his arms crossed, hands stuffed underneath them in fists. “No,” he mumbled.

“Are you mad at me or somethin’? You’ve been kinda distant lately.”

Bakugou shrugged. “Didn’t notice.”

Kirishima hopped up onto the desk suddenly, causing Bakugou to stiffen and lean back as it felt like firecrackers went off in his hands. “You know if you got a problem or somethin’ you can talk to me, right? I’m your friend.”

“The fuck makes you think I have a problem?”

“I know you, man.” Kirishima was smiling now, and Bakugou silently cursed the second set of small explosions in his hands. “You’ve been too quiet lately. Something’s up.”

Bakugou continually insisted that nothing was wrong until Kirishima left him alone—and left him wanting to slam Deku’s big, stupid head into a brick wall.

It was only a day or so later when Deku brought it up a third time, when they were on their lunch break.

“Kirishima asked me about you, Kacchan.”

And again Bakugou’s stomach lurched in that odd, unfamiliar way at the mention of Kirishima that made him want to vomit. “And?” he grumbled, pretending to be indifferent while his mind was entirely the contrary, buzzing with too many questions.

“He said he thinks you’re avoiding him. Are you?”

“No.” It was a knee-jerk response.

“Hm. I think he’s worried about you.”

Bakugou had stiffened, his jaw in particular clenching. Why the fuck did he care that Kirishima was worried? Why did it cause the back of his throat to burn and his chest to feel all tight and weird? Why?

Bakugou stabbed his fork into a pile of mashed potatoes. “Yeah, well if you hadn’t opened your big fat fucking mouth…” he muttered.

Those words alone—ones Bakugou hadn’t really meant for him to hear—had Deku perking up, a nauseating sparkle in his eyes. Before he could say anything, though, Bakugou sent him a death glare.

“If you fucking say anything to anyone I will slam your head into a brick wall until not even your own mother can recognize you anymore, got it, you damn nerd?”

“Don’t worry, Kacchan, your secret’s safe with me.”

Bakugou hadn’t realized what was happening until it was too late—way, way too late, and the mere sight of the stupid redhead had his insides turning to mush. He periodically and silently cursed Deku for this. If it hadn’t been for his shitty meddling, Bakugou would’ve remained oblivious and his head wouldn’t be a mess of complicated, tangled thoughts he lacked the capacity to understand.

~

Walking faster didn’t do much in trying to ditch Deku; the idiot didn’t even seem to notice the increase in pace as he kept up with Bakugou easily.

“I think it’s nice that you’re helping him with studying, though,” Deku continued after a while.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I understand how complicated it can be when there are feelings involved. I know from my experience with Todoroki. But it gets easier—“

“Don’t go comparing your shit with Icy Hot to me, Deku. This is nothing like that.”

“It could be,” Midoriya said lightly, “if you gave it a chance.”

Bakugou snorted. As if he was ballsy enough to open up about this shit to Kirishima the way Deku has been with Todoroki—right. Stupid. He wouldn’t risk losing Kirishima as a friend—one of the few who, as a friend when he put the dumb feelings aside, he legitimately respected. No. It wasn’t worth it.

Bakugou wasn’t good at feelings, especially those that were caused by things he couldn’t just point his palms at and pull the trigger to get rid of. He might’ve been a talented fighter, someone with a powerful Quirk, and one of the top students in his class, but if there was one thing Katsuki Bakugou absolutely sucked at, it was building and maintaining relationships with people.

The concept of friend didn’t sit entirely well with him. Most people were rivals or enemies in his eyes, and if they weren’t, he was indifferent to them. He wasn’t the type to need people; he was comfortable relying entirely on himself.

But Kirishima was persistent—one of the only ones who’d made an effort to remain by his side. Yeah, Bakugou had been his second choice for whose team to join during the sports festival, but that was only because even Kirishima, with his virtually unimpressive quirk, wanted to win, too. They all had.

Even after half of class A begged Yaoyorozu to help them study for finals, Kirishima still chose Bakugou to study with. He’d have had a better tutor—someone who was ten times as patient as Bakugou and evidently knew the material a bit better—and yet he stuck with Bakugou for reasons Bakugou didn’t really get.

It was little things like that which Bakugou no longer missed after Deku’s stupid ‘observations’.

He wouldn’t tell Kirishima a damn thing, even if he’d somehow be able to spit out the words without planting his hand onto Kirishima’s stupid face and blowing it to smithereens without relent right after.

Kirishima was the one person he’d come so close to considering a friend, and he wasn’t about to fuck that up with some bullshit feelings fucking Deku brought to light.

The two said nothing more on the subject as they rounded the last corner toward the café, only two doors down now. Uraraka was already waiting at a table outside and jumped up as soon as she saw them coming.

“Hey, Deku! Oh, hi, Bakugou.”

“Hi, Uraraka,” Deku said as Bakugou offered an absent nod, stepping up to her table. “Ready to go study?”

“Yeah. Hey—aren’t you studying with Kirishima, Bakugou?”

Bakugou gritted out a “yeah.”

“Oh, speak of the devil!” Deku said, looking somewhere over Bakugou’s shoulder.

Before he even turned around, Bakugou felt that twisting in his stomach—it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, but one he wasn’t used to and it terrified the shit out of him. Sure enough, Kirishima was jogging up to them, mildly out of breath by the time he skidded to a halt.

“Hey guys,” he said with a toothy grin. “Sorry I’m late.”

“We haven’t been here long,” Deku assured. “But me and Uraraka are gonna head to her house to study, so we’ll see you later.”

“Oh, alright.” Kirishima’s eyes—those bright red irises Bakugou hated and loved at the same time—landed right on the blonde. “Guess it’s just you and me then, man.”

Bakugou said nothing as Uraraka was gathering her things. “See you later!” she called as she and Midoriya retreated quickly down the street—too quickly. Bakugou huffed in irritation. Some fucking ‘emotional support’. Not that he needed it, anyway.

“Ready to study?” Kirishima asked, drawing Bakugou’s attention back to him and his dumb, bright red eyes—brighter than Bakugou’s, though he’d never admit he spent an hour comparing them while zoned out in class on a lecture day. Nope. Never happened.

“Don’t you mean tutor?” Bakugou said.

Kirishima’s responding laugh made Bakugou unable to decide if he wanted to kiss him or throw up all over the sidewalk with the way his insides fluttered. “I guess that is more accurate, huh?”

With clenched fists, Bakugou stalked over to the door and yanked it open, not bothering to wait for Kirishima. The other followed him anyway, of course, and once the two had ordered a couple of drinks and sat down at a booth in one of the corners near the window, Kirishima worked on pulling his things from the backpack Bakugou had completely missed until that moment. He’d been too distracted by Kirishima’s stupid face to notice much else.

“Dude, promise you won’t laugh when you see my grades from midterms,” Kirishima said, clutching at a predictably red folder, peeking over it at Bakugou.

“I’m not gonna promise shit,” Bakugou said, holding out a hand. “Cough ‘em up.”

With a small grimace that indented a small dimple in Kirishima’s left cheek, he flipped open the folder and slid out a stack of papers. Before he could do anything else, Bakugou snatched them and made a point of looking at the red marks across the tests rather than that stupid, ugly (but actually really fucking cute) dimple.

“I suck under pressure,” Kirishima was saying. “I usually do pretty good at quizzes and stuff, but tests fricken kill me.”

Bakugou squinted down at a few of the pages. “What the fuck is this mess?” he muttered. “Is this even fucking Japanese?”

“What?” Kirishima reached out, trying to snatch the stack from Bakugou, but the blonde was faster in holding it out of his reach. “What do you mean, man? Of course it’s Japanese!”

“Your handwriting is shit, Kirishima.” He smacked the paper down onto the table. “The fuck does this even say? No wonder your grade was so bad—I can’t even fucking read this.”

“It can’t be that bad!” Kirishima defended, tugging the papers out from under Bakugou’s hand as Bakugou was trying really hard not to notice the proximity of his fingers to Bakugou’s own as he did so. “I can read it. Look! It says…” Kirishima’s brow wrinkled as he squinted at the page. “...something about All Might rising to fame…?” His voice faded out, unsure.

“See? Not even you can read that shit.”

Kirishima slumped over, hiding his face behind the papers in anguish. “Dammit,” he muttered. “Did I seriously get bad grades because of bad handwriting?”

“No.” Bakugou pulled the stack of papers back as Kirishima lifted his head enough to squish his cheek into the heel of his hand, scrunching up his left eye in a dumb, adorable way. Bakugou’s palms heated up and he promptly stuffed them between his knees. “The answers you can read are shit, too. Half these years are wrong, and wow, have you even done math in your entire fucking life?”

“Math is abuse,” Kirishima groaned, pressing his face into his hands. “Why do I need to know long division to be a pro hero, man? Why?”

Bakugou wasn’t about to tell him it was because he might not become a pro hero, that he could end up stuck in a shitty office somewhere doing background paperwork instead. Not even he was that much of a dick—especially toward Kirishima, who he legitimately wanted to see succeed. He was there, wasn’t he? He’d woken up two hours earlier than normal on a fucking Saturday to help this dumbass study.

“Fuck if I know,” he settled with saying. “You’re gonna have to rewrite all of these and do them again.”

Kirishima blinked dreadfully at him. “Aw man,” he mumbled. “Why ya gotta be so harsh?”

“Why you gotta be a dumbass, dumbass?” Bakugou shoved the pile back in the other’s direction. “Get to it.”

Sighing heavily, Kirishima slid a notebook and a pencil out of his backpack and sluggishly started copying the math problems from the test while Bakugou watched, arms crossed. Kirishima was surprisingly whiny as he attempted to work through the problems, and Bakugou hated how he found his complaining—grumbling under his breath and sighing lightly between questions—ridiculously fucking adorable. All he could do picture was himself rubbing Deku’s stupid, freckled face into a brick wall to (mostly) distract himself from the redhead whose big, dumb eyes he forced himself to avoid.

“I suck at this,” moaned Kirishima after smacking his forehead down onto the table. “I can’t even do the first couple problems right.”

“Stop fucking moping around, you moron,” Bakugou muttered. “You’re never gonna be a pro with that shitty attitude.”

“This is pointless, man.” Kirishima’s head lifted, a dreadful look of defeat replacing his usual upbeat demeanor.

With an irritated growl, Bakugou snatched the rest of Kirishima’s tests and rolled them up. “You’re gonna fucking fail if you keep bitching about it!” he shouted, repeatedly smacking Kirishima in his stupid spiky hair with it. “Get your shit together, dumb hair! You wanna be a pro, right?! Math is just some dumb villain in your way and if you let it kick your ass you can never call yourself a real hero! So act like a fucking hero and fight back, got it?!”

“Alright, alright!” Kirishima said defensively, batting Bakugou’s hands away. The blonde’s stomach tightened as their skin brushed and he forced himself to relax in his seat, but it wasn’t enough to stop the small puff of smoke that emitted from his hand. Quickly he retracted his hand and stuffed it into his pocket, teeth clenched and trying his damnedest to will away the heat pricking at the tips of his ears.

Kirishima blinked at him. “Your quirk still acting up?” he asked.

Bakugou lazily shrugged a shoulder, pretending to be indifferent to the scent of smoke still lingering in the air, pretending like he couldn’t still feel the warmth of Kirishima’s stupid fingers brushing over his arm or that he didn’t notice how soft the dummy’s skin was, despite his hardening quirk.

Nope. He didn’t notice. He didn’t, and he wasn’t still thinking about it. But he was internally cursing Deku as a ruse for cursing himself for letting these horrible, nauseating feelings through.

“You good, man?” Kirishima asked, a brow quirked up in mild concern for the blonde.

“Yeah. Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?”

“You got super stiff all the sudden.”

“‘M fine,” Bakugou mumbled, taking a quick swig of his drink to distract himself. “Keep going.”

A small but triumphant smile spread over Kirishima’s lips—lips that Bakugou suddenly couldn’t help noticing the pinkness of, the subtle roundness of. His fists clenched around the involuntary sparks in his palms. Fuck.

“I think that villain analogy could really work, man,” Kirishima was saying, copying down the next problem. “I suck ass at math, so I’m not really motivated, ya know? But if I think of it as a villain I gotta take down, it makes more sense to do it.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, dumb hair.”

With clenched teeth and a scowl set on his face, Bakugou continued to watch Kirishima scratch away at the math problems, asking for help here and there, which Bakugou stiffly provided. He was suddenly keenly aware of Kirishima’s every move, of every little grin and small gesture sent his way, of how the redhead’s forehead was wrinkled as he concentrated on the work in front of him.

Bakugou felt like he was about to explode, never mind the involuntary sparks from his palms.

“I… gotta piss,” he mumbled quickly, sliding swiftly out of the booth without ever removing his hands from his pockets. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kirishima’s head lift, but he refused to make eye contact again. Quickly he retreated into the back corner and slipped into the—thankfully empty—men’s room. Once inside, he cranked the cold water of one of the sinks on full blast and stuffed his hands beneath the stream, leaving them there until his fingers began to go numb and a freezing sort of pain began creeping its way up his arms.

Cold water had proved effective when he was younger and trying to get better control over his quirk. If nothing else, it prevented him from sweating for a bit, keeping the stupid blasts at bay—hopefully until dumbass Kirishima’s brain was too fried to keep studying for the day. And then Bakugou would go home, throw himself into a video game, and not think.

His hands were shaking by the time he finally pulled them out of the stream, his fingertips beginning to pale as the blood retreated. There was no guarantee this would work; his body had adapted over the years. It knew how to get his blood flowing quickly, to get his sweat glands working again, and with the stupid heat he’d been feeling since the second Kirishima jogged up, there was no way those shitty, miniature explosions would be gone for long. With his luck, the second he sat back down and saw that really fucking appealing face framed by ridiculous hair again, he’d likely already have more smoke curling away from his palms.

Goddammit. Stupid Kirishima and his dumb fucking hair and that ugly ass dimple in his cheek and his gross soft hands and weird cute smile and his stupid niceness and his actually kind of cool complex with manliness and just fuck Kirishima. I fucking hate him and he needs to fucking die.

Bakugou smacked his forehead into the wall beside him, and right behind his eyelids was that weird cute smile.

I’m fucking screwed.

•••

Bakugou was—and always had been—the type of guy to straight up say what he was thinking. He didn’t hold himself back in that regard. Deku always knew when he was pissed off at him. The entire fucking school knew he was more than determined to become not just a pro hero, but the number one hero with the intention of surpassing All Might ten times over. And even if he wasn’t saying it—muttering it into the mic at the sports festival or shouting it in Deku’s stupid face, he was showing it.

It was easier that way, he found. Easier to just let it all out, to put it on display so stupid things wouldn’t sit on his conscience and fester, holding him back in the end. It rarely mattered what it was he was thinking, because he didn’t give two shits what anybody else thought about it. And that was that.

Kirishima was a different story entirely. His stupid face sat front and center in Bakugou’s head most of the time nowadays, and the feeling of Kirishima’s constant presence in his mind—of the awkward, tight, and yet fluttery way his chest felt merely thinking about that damn upside down broom—was so foreign to him that had he even wanted to, he didn’t know how to express it.

Normal Bakugou would’ve complained the second Kirishima asked for a second study session. He would’ve told Kirishima to figure it out himself, that he wasn’t going to wake up so damn early again to go over material he already knew. Had it been anyone else, he probably would’ve told them to fuck off and find someone else to study with the first time they asked. Normal Bakugou would’ve wanted to sleep in on his days off, head to work out alone for a couple hours, and then play video games until two in the morning.

But normal Bakugou didn’t exist around Kirishima, and he found himself saying, “Yeah, meet me here tomorrow, I guess.”

Kirishima had smiled, and Bakugou’s own damn palms threatened to burn holes in his pockets. “Thanks, man! I owe you!” he enthused, giving Bakugou’s shoulder blade a friendly slap—one that sent sparks of electricity down to his fingertips. “I’ll work on it more tonight, too!” the redhead called, walking backwards and still waving despite being halfway down the block again.

Bakugou huffed, but gave the dumb-haired idiot a thumbs up anyway.

~

Kirishima was—to no surprise—really bad at studying on his own. His notes were a complete mess the next time they met, and with exams coming up in less than a week, Bakugou had his work cut out for him.

Of course, he could easily abandon the idiot and tell him to get a new tutor so he could get back to his not thinking about it until these shitty “feelings” or whatever went away, but a pit of phantom disappointment of not meeting stupid Kirishima at the stupid café and hanging out with him, even if it was just to study, sat in his stomach whenever he considered it. So he didn’t.

Over the next several days, Bakugou was keenly aware of Kirishima’s presence, of his movements and the sound of his stupid, ugly voice. Their hands occasionally brushed by accident when passing papers back and forth, their knees sometimes accidentally bumping beneath the table. When he wasn’t focusing on the work between them or the way Kirishima’s giant, cheesy fucking smile formed, he was mentally slamming his own head into that dumb bathroom wall over and over again.

And then Kirishima started buying his drinks.

“That’s not your fucking responsibility,” he mumbled after Kirishima had already passed over the money to the barista.

“‘S not your responsibility to help me study, either, but you’re here,” the readhead countered, that stupidly fucking gorgeous smile that Bakugou knew he’d never get tired of squishing his cheeks toward his eyes—those fucking eyes.

“Whatever,” Bakugou had grumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets and crumpling his money in the process.

To his fortune, though, Kirishima never seemed to suspect a thing. No one else during that week of school made the connection of the involuntary, miniature explosions to Kirishima, though the longer time went on, the more Bakugou realized that those stupid little firecrackers really did only happen in the redhead’s presence. Soon he came to the realization that it happened in time with an awkward, nauseating fluttering in his stomach.

What. The. Fuck.

Day after day for the entire week they met to study, Bakugou was continually telling himself that if he ignored it, it would eventually go away. Liking someone was ridiculous and stupid and he would be damned if he let it hold him back from what he wanted—from coming out on top and being the number one hero. He refused, refused to let this dumb whatever-the-fuck-it-was hinder him. It wasn’t worth it—nothing was worth it.

Even if it meant distancing himself from Kirishima entirely after exams were over; even if that made him feel sick to his stomach with dread.

That’s what he told himself Wednesday night, at least. As much as he didn’t think about it, Bakugou Katsuki in fact thought about Kirishima Eijirou more than anything. And the second he saw Kirishima walk into the classroom that next morning, smiling as usual with his hair in that same spiky disarray that somehow fit him a little too well, Bakugou realized that he really, really didn’t want to be without Kirishima.

If someone had a mind reading quirk, Bakugou was fucked. Absolutely, one hundred percent, fucking fucked.

And he’d never, ever, ever admit who he’d gone to for advice, and he hated that he needed it.

“What’s going on, Kacchan?”

“First off, don’t fucking say shit to anyone or I’ll blow your brains out, got it?”

“I promise you can trust me.”

It was inevitable that the two would cross paths on the way to and from school every once in awhile, and on that particular day Bakugou made sure Deku caught up with him as he departed Yuuei. He kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes staring straight ahead or down at the concrete in front of him, careful not to give too much away.

“It’s about fucking Kirishima,” he muttered a ways down the road, once he was sure no one else was within earshot. Even dumb hair’s name spilling off his tongue brought forth a fluttery reaction.

Bakugou could practically feel Deku’s shit-eating grin. “Yeah, what about him?”

“Tell me what the fuck to do. I suck at this shit, and I’m tired of having to be so careful so I don’t accidentally disintegrate something.”

“You’re asking for advice?” Bakugou hated how surprised Midoriya sounded.

“Yes, nerd, I’m asking for advice.”

“Hm, I see.” The flip switched and suddenly Deku was in thoughtful mode. “I don’t assume Kirishima has said anything to you about your quirk acting up?”

“Yeah. He did. Once.”

“Do you think he suspected anything?”

Bakugou merely shook his head. There’d been virtually no suspicion on Kirishima’s part at all, specifically in the past week—even with all the time they’d spent together studying.

“So it seems your feelings are still a secret, then, so that’s good since that’s how you wanted it. Right?”

Bakugou’s fist immediately tightened at the mention of the word ‘feelings’. “Yeah,” he grumbled.

“And I take it that hasn’t changed.”

The blonde shrugged lazily. Truthfully, he didn’t know anymore—if telling Kirishima about all this bullshit was what it took for his life to go back to normal, he almost thought he’d just fucking do it. Even still, he couldn’t ignore the risk—the risk that he might lose Kirishima as a friend if he told him. The idea still hurt, and it seemed to get worse and worse everyday.

Not that he’d admit that to anyone, let alone Deku.

“It’s been a couple months now, right? You’ve just been trying to ignore it, haven’t you?”

“Lotta shit that’s gotten me…”

Midoriya hummed thoughtfully. “Apart from continuing to do that and hope it goes away, there’s only one other thing I can think of that may help you, but you’ve already established that it’s not something you want to do.”

Bakugou huffed frustratedly. “You’re no fucking help, Deku.”

“Wait—hear me out, Kacchan.” Deku stopped, forcing Bakugou to stop with him, though he refused to face him, to look him in that freckled face of his. “What exactly is the reason you don’t want to come clean to him?”

Bakugou gritted his teeth, beginning to regret asking this dumbass for advice. Deku, as fucking useless as he was in most areas, was more in touch with this kind of bullshit. He got what he wanted because he knew what he wanted with Icy Hot. Bakugou didn’t have that luxury—he didn’t know what the fuck he wanted, if anything, out of these dumb feelings that’d surfaced for Kirishima. All he knew for sure is that he wanted to keep Kirishima in his life. Didn’t want Kirishima to hate him or some other bullshit of the sort. Hair for Brains was the one person he wanted to hold onto.

“‘Cause he’ll probably fucking run off. Isn’t that obvious? He’s my fucking friend, and I don’t want this shit to drive a wedge into that. Got it? It’s stupid as hell. Happy?”

Deku’s idiotic smile was back, and somehow Bakugou couldn’t help glancing up at him. There was something knowing in those big stupid cow eyes of Midoriya’s.

“What?!” he snapped, hand itching to reach out and grab Deku by the tie and beat answers out of him.

“Losing Kirishima as a friend isn’t something you’ll have to worry about, Kacchan.”

“And how the fuck do you know, nerd?!”

“He sees you as one of his best friends. He told me so himself.”

“What the fuck? When?!” Bakugou’s heart was hammering against his ribs. When the fuck did Deku talk about him with Kirishima?

“Remember when I told you he asked me about you? Then. He said he was worried you were starting to lose interest in being friends with him since you’re not really friends with anyone. That’s when he said he’d be devastated to lose you, ‘cause you’re one of the people he feels closest to.”

What the fuck? What the fuck?! What the fuck?!

Bakugou’s palms were tingling, heating up, but no involuntary explosions emitted from them. He swore his organs had suddenly liquefied, the blood rushing noisily in his ears.

Deku continued walking, and after a moment of attempting to slow the incessant pounding of his heart, Bakugou followed along.

“So why the fuck couldn’t he tell me this himself?”

“I think it’s because he believes you already know,” Deku responded.

The fuck? No, Bakugou didn’t already know! He knew Kirishima saw him as a friend, but Kirishima—someone who was almost the exact opposite of him with his outgoing, friendly personality—was friends with damn near everyone in class A, and even a few in class B, if Bakugou remembered anything from the sports festival. Why the fuck was Bakugou of all people any different than them to Kirishima? He was an asshole and he knew it; he didn’t care, but he knew there were plenty of other people Kirishima could and should consider himself closer to.

“Anyway, Kacchan,” Deku continued, “if you want to resolve this, I really think your best bet is to just tell him. Get it out in the open so you can find out how he feels about it. The worst he can say is that he doesn’t reciprocate the feeling, and you can work on moving on.”

Words failed Bakugou in that moment. He could only walk in stunned silence beside Deku, trying to sort out the giant mess off thoughts swarming through his head.

This was so stupid. Life would have been so much less complicated if—

No. Nope. That was not a thought he wanted to have. Wasn’t one he could even finish forming.

“Does that help at all, Kacchan?”

“Yeah, whatever, nerd.”

~

Bakugou spent the next couple of days mulling over Deku’s advice. During the times when he wasn’t around Kirishima—at home, at the gym, walking back and forth between the two and school—it seemed easy to just fucking tell him. To just blurt it out and get it over with. But when Kirishima was there, right in front of him with his big eyes and dorky smile and resilience at trying to cram all of the study material into his head, Bakugou’s insides—including his brain—turned to mashed fucking potatoes.

Only once did he manage to come close, and it had been completely unplanned. They’d been leaving the café Thursday evening, just about to head their separate ways home when Kirishima’s name slipped off his tongue without permission.

“Kirishima.”

“What’s up?”

One look from the sidewalk up to Kirishima’s face, his eyes brilliantly catching the light of the evening sun, and Bakugou seemed to forget how to speak.

For a fleeting moment, an image of Deku flashed in Bakugou’s memory. “He said he’d be devastated to lose you, ‘cause you’re one of the people he feels closest to.” One simple sentence, one dumb little thing, could change all of that in the blink of an eye.

“Nothin’. Never mind,” Bakugou settled for saying.

He was met with another smile, all teeth, and a fist being held in his direction. “‘Kay. See you tomorrow then, man,” Kirishima said.

“Yeah,” Bakugou mumbled, bumping his fist into the other’s. “See ya tomorrow.”

As Bakugou watched Kirishima bound down the sidewalk towards home, something tugged at Bakugou’s chest, pulling along with Kirishima until he disappeared around the corner. It left Bakugou with a sort of warmth held in his center—much the same way his palms often felt with one of those stupid mini explosions—that stayed with him the entire way home.

It was fucking disgusting.

•••

“Crap! I can’t believe they’re gonna be closed tomorrow. I really need to study as much as possible, man!” Kirishima had handfuls of his own hair, staring in distress at the newly posted sign taped to the front door of the café, providing notice that they’d be closed for maintenance.

“So we’ll study somewhere else,” Bakugou muttered, yanking the door open and heading inside. “Dumbass.”

“You sure? I don’t wanna be a bother.”

Like you could ever fucking bother me.

“It’s fucking fine,” he said. “You can just come study at my place.”

Kirishima breathed a sigh of relief as the two stepped up to the counter to place their order. “You’re the best, Bakugou,” he said with a slap to Bakugou’s shoulder.

“Whatever,” the blonde muttered, heat filling his neck, creeping up to his cheeks, tingling in his palms.

“Seriously, man, you’re really saving my ass here! I think I’ve finally got a good enough hold on this math crap that I’m not in danger of failing anymore, and I’ve got you to thank.”

“Hmph,” was all Bakugou could muster up for a response, seeing as he was still keenly aware of the hand still resting on his shoulder until the very second it slipped off. He watched Kirishima practically bounce up to the counter and start making friendly conversation with the barista that continued until she placed the finished drinks in front of them. Bakugou wasn’t paying much attention to their exchange—something about the sports festival, he thought—because he couldn’t get the stupid sound of her disgustingly sweet, flirty giggle out of his head as she spoke to Kirishima, who never stopped fucking smiling.

Bakugou’s muscles tightened around the pit of jealousy that’d formed in his stomach. He couldn’t be surprised that the two of them had become acquainted after over a week of daily visits. This, though, was the first time she started batting her makeup caked eyelashes at him, the first time her grin had turned so tooth-rotteningly sweet.

As soon as the drink was in front of him, Bakugou swiped it off the counter and stalked in the direction of their usual table without a word.

“Talk to you later!” he heard Kirishima say as he flopped into the booth.

“Good luck studying!” she called after with another nauseating giggle. The cappuccino in front of him suddenly looked rancid.

“What’s up, Bakugou?” Kirishima asked as he slid into the bench across from the blonde, frowning a little.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“Why’d ya just storm off like that?”

“I didn’t storm off,” Bakugou snapped.

Kirishima’s brows raised questioningly. “Mkay. Whatever you say, man,” he said, a bit smug, as he started pulling books and things out of his backpack.

For the rest of their study session, Bakugou was consistently holding himself back from blowing shit up out of frustration. He kept his fists stuffed into his pockets when he didn’t need them as usual, and only by some miracle did he manage to stay on track with studying, what with all of the distractions swarming around, between the shitty flirting he’d just witnessed and Kirishima’s face being one of the biggest distractions there was. (You’d think after a fucking week of this, he’d be used to it.) As much as he really fucking wanted to, he couldn’t shake that knot of jealousy, and it caused him to unintentionally snap at Kirishima more than normal.

“Hey,” he grumbled on their way out the door, only a few minutes before the café was supposed to close. “Sorry.”

Kirishima blinked stupidly at him. “For what?”

“Being an ass, I guess. More than usual, I mean.” With the way his face was beginning to heat up again, a staring contest with the curb seemed to be in order.

Kirishima chuckled, and Bakugou couldn’t hide the sparks that flew from his palms. “Dude, you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t sort of an ass most of the time. ‘S no big deal ‘cause I know you don’t really mean all the insults and stuff.”

“And how the fuck would you know that?” was what Bakugou wanted to say, but if he’d learned anything about the red-haired idiot standing not two feet away from him in the past week, it was that Kirishima paid attention. He picked up things that Bakugou never would’ve noticed. And, to his dismay, it only make him like the dummy that much more.

“Besides,” Kirishima said after a second when Bakugou didn’t speak, “that’s one of the things that I like most about you.”

For once, Bakugou was really, really glad his hands weren’t in his pockets, or he’d need a new jacket. His fists clenched just a second too late, leaving clouds of smoke curling away from them and Kirishima blinking in confusion.

“Have you talked to the teachers about that yet?” he asked, genuine concern coating his voice. “I’ve never heard of a Quirk acting up like that before.”

“It’s fine,” Bakugou said. “I… talked to my mom about it,” he lied. “It’ll go away eventually.”

“Oh, alright.” The smile came back easily. “So, your house tomorrow then, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, man. Text me your address and the time, ‘kay? I gotta get home.”

“Sure.”

“See ya, Bakugou!”

“Later, dumb hair.”

Once again as Kirishima strode away from him, hands casually sitting in his pockets as he walked, part of Bakugou seemed to go with him.

Ugh.

•••

“Katsuki!”

Bakugou yanked the bathroom door open. “What?!” he shouted down the stairs at his mother, who’d called his name at least six fucking times since he got out of the shower.

“Your friend is here!” she shouted back.

Bakugou’s heart immediately stuttered into overdrive, his stomach twisting in that nervous way it did when it came to Kirishima.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” he grumbled loud enough for her to hear before shutting and locking the door again.

Bakugou hated being so fucking nervous about something as stupid as Kirishima being in his house, just down the stairs, while he was butt-fucking-naked save for a towel thrown messily around his waist. As he threw on his clothes and ran a towel through his hair, he did his best to convince himself that this was no different than it being Deku or some other idiot from class A standing down in his living room, talking to his mother.

Except it was fucking different, because it was Kirishima, and Kiri-fucking-shima had invaded his dreams now, too.

A moment later, Bakugou jogged down the stairs simply in sweats, socks, and a tank top. He followed the smell of coffee and the sound of his mom’s voice asking if Kirishima took sugar in his coffee into the kitchen, where she stood with the little container she kept the sugar in. Just beside her, cupping a mug of steaming coffee between his hands, was someone Bakugou almost didn’t recognize—until he did, and his heart nearly stuttered to a halt.

Kirishima was Kirishima, wearing his usual t-shirt (this one sporting a graphic of the Crimson Riot) and a pair of jeans with holes at the knees, but as he turned to give Bakugou his usual greeting smile that made Bakugou’s palms extra sweaty anyway, his hair didn’t stick up in its usual disarray of spikes. Instead it hung around his head, not quite long enough to reach his shoulders. A few strands were flopped over his forehead, resting around his big, round, red eyes.

Bakugou’s knees suddenly felt like jell-o.

“Hey, Bakugou,” Kirishima said through his toothy grin.

“What the fuck is up with your hair?” Bakugou muttered, heading to the cupboard for a mug as an excuse not to look at Kirishima anymore because he really, really thought he might collapse into a puddle.

“Katsuki! Language!” his mother snapped.

Bakugou ignored her, and Kirishima only chuckled. “I woke up kinda late so I didn’t have time to put it up,” he said.

Bakugou let out a small grunt in response as he poured coffee for himself. His mother, speaking more to Kirishima than she was to him, said she’d leave the sugar on the counter and leave them to their studying; Kirishima called out a ‘thank you’ as she left the kitchen, and a moment later Bakugou heard the door to the balcony open and then shut once more.

The two fixed their coffee in silence for a moment—Kirishima adding a touch of sugar while Bakugou worked to get the ratio of coffee to cream and sugar just right.

“Dude, have a little coffee with your cream,” Kirishima joked.

“How the fuck do you drink that shit black?” Bakugou muttered back.

“There’s sugar in it.” Kirishima countered. “Drinking it black is more manly, anyway. Plus, your mom makes damn good coffee.”

“What? It’s just coffee.” Bakugou tossed the cream back in the fridge and nudged it shut before heading to the stairs, expecting the other to follow.

“Good coffee. My mom always makes it too weak, and she gets the decaf stuff which kinda defeats the purpose,” Kirishima was saying as they ascended to the second floor.

“Hmph. Like you need more energy,” Bakugou muttered.

“Today I do. I studied until super late last night and barely got any sleep, so this stuff’s a blessing.”

Bakugou led Kirishima into his room, his stomach tight the whole way. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed about his room, but it was nerve-wracking, having the one person whose opinion he cared about standing in his personal space—in the space that he was his truest self, and it showed.

Bakugou could barely look at the other as he looked around, eyes scoping over several posters of All Might and other heroes plastered on the walls, looking at his stereo and the stack of CDs (because believe it or not, Bakugou preferred the old school way of playing music), at the TV on the table in the corner with his game systems, at the knick knacks he had sitting around, most of them having been gifts from family members. His red eyes took in the grayish color of his walls, the black of his haphazardly made bed, the desk with a few books scattered about, laptop amongst them.

Shutting the door and moving to set his coffee on the desk, Bakugou wordlessly tugged his backpack out of its corner and plopped onto the floor, tugging his books out. Kirishima was still gawking at his stuff by the time he was done.

“The fuck are you looking at? Sit,” Bakugou muttered.

“Sorry,” Kirishima said, sinking down onto the floor a few feet from Bakugou, facing him. “I didn’t expect you to have so many posters of all these heroes—especially All Might.”

“Why?” Bakugou thumbed absently through his history textbook.

“‘Cause. I dunno. It’s cool, though. Super manly.” Kirishima grinned.

Bakugou shrugged, indifferent on the outside while on the inside, a weird, bubbly kind of happiness filled him up at the compliment. Fucking gross.

“I might take them down,” he found himself saying. “It’s fucking weird having posters of your teacher.”

A laugh broke from Kirishima’s throat. “You should keep them, man. All Might’s still a hero before he’s a teacher, y’know? Plus, it gives you more of a reason to look up to him.”

Bakugou responded with a lazy shrug before flipping his history textbook open, changing the subject and getting them right into studying. He could hardly look at Kirishima’s dumb face the entire time; the way his hair framed his face and eyes made the blonde stupidly happy on the inside—it was fucking adorable, especially on the occasion when he would shake the hair from his eyes or push it aside altogether, only for it to fall right back in his face. All of the distractions he’d been using over the past week—picturing himself rubbing Deku’s face into a wall, keeping himself from accidentally disintegrating his own jacket as best he could, staring out the window while he waited for Kirishima to work out another math problem—suddenly had no effect at all.

Kirishima was right there, not three feet away, in Bakugou’s room. And Bakugou couldn’t get over how overwhelmingly beautiful he was. (And of course, Katsuki Bakugou would sooner throw himself in a sewer than ever tell anyone he had such a thought.)

Not even picturing Kirishima with that damn barista chick could make him seem any less appealing; all it did was bring back that stupid, ugly jealousy.

What the fuck is happening to me?

“...think numbers are my nemesis,” Kirishima was muttering to a piece of paper, frowning deeply as he stared it down. “I suck at math, and I can’t even remember all these years. I think half of ‘em are wrong, anyway…”

“Lemme see.” Bakugou snatched the paper before Kirishima could protest to find a timeline messily scrawled across it. The paper was wrinkled, erased pencil marks and smears of graphite all over it. “How the fuck do you even read this, anyway?” he asked, peeking up over the top of the page at Kirishima.

“Guess that’s probably part of the problem, huh?” Kirishima said with a slight laugh that petered out into a yawn, his hand raising to sleepily rub his right eye.

Peeking over the paper had been a giant fucking mistake. One second, Kirishima’s messy timeline was intact and the next, the edges were singed nearly all the way to the center and smoke curled away from Bakugou’s palms where he barely had ahold of the paper.

Kirishima blinked at him, dumbfounded, with his fist still hovering in midair. The following beat of silence was just long enough for Bakugou to wonder if right then was a good time to jump into that sewer.

“Are you sure you’re okay, man?” Kirishima asked, a crease of concern pressing into his brow, his eyes on Bakugou’s hands.

Bakugou’s fingers clamped around what was left of the piece of paper. “No.”

“What’s up, Bakugou?”

Bakugou’s stomach twisted at the concern coating Kirishima’s voice.

“I fucking like you, that’s what.”

Kirishima’s eyes widened until they looked like they were about to pop right out of his skull. It took him a second, and then he was sputtering, “Whoa, wait, what? What do you mean?!”

“I said I fucking like you, stupid hair, what the fuck do you think it means?!” Bakugou shouted, using the stupid destroyed piece of paper to try and knock some sense into Kirishima’s head. “How much of an idiot can one person be?!”

“Whoa, okay okay! Stop hitting me!” Kirishima said in surrender, shrinking away and batting Bakugou’s hands away the same way he had the other day in the café. When Bakugou backed off, his eyebrows slanted in embarrassed frustration, Kirishima managed to catch his gaze and hold it long enough to ask, “You mean you… like me, or what?”

Bakugou’s hands, paper and all, slammed into his face. “Wow, I cannot believe you are actually asking me this fucking question right now,” he grumbled between them before letting them fall back into his lap. Still, he held onto the stupid piece of paper, because if he was going to accidentally destroy anything it might as well be the shitty, already scorched note page.

“Okay! I get it!” Kirishima held up his hands palms out. “I get it. But wait—what brought this on all the sudden?”

Bakugou twisted the paper, listening to it crinkle between his fingers. “When…” He huffed and started again. “When that barista chick was flirting with you yesterday I figured I should just fucking tell you so I can get the hell over you and not deal with this jealousy bullshit.”

“Jealousy bullshit…?” mumbled Kirishima. He blinked in Bakugou’s direction several times, scratching his head the same exact fucking adorable way he did when trying to figure out a math problem. Bakugou could only do what he always did and wait for the mess to untangle itself; when it did, Kirishima’s eyes lit up with realization and he leaned forward. “Wait, wait! You think I’m gonna go out with her?!”

The paper tore. “Why the fuck not?” Bakugou half-shouted. “She’s not ugly and she clearly fucking likes you!”

Kirishima’s head literally cocked slightly to the side for a split second before he relaxed and his smile returned. ”Dude…” he chuckled.

“What?!” Bakugou snapped, instinctively looking for something to throw at Kirishima or smack him over the head with.

“Bakugou, I don’t want to go out with her, man,” Kirishima assured through his grin—one that pushed the apples of his cheeks upward and scrunched the corners of his eyes. “I don’t see her that way, y’know? I don’t really see any girls that way.”

Bakugou’s shoulders dropped in disbelief. “So what, you’re fucking gay?” he grunted.

That stupid, ugly, beautiful fucking grin only widened. “Oh, and I suppose you’re super hetero, and that’s why you like me?” the redhead teased.

The paper truly was toast now, and Bakugou wanted to dump a bucket of ice water over his own head if it meant getting rid of the heat filling his neck, his ears, his cheeks. “...shut the fuck up, hair for brains.”

Kirishima shook his head, but whether it was to get the hair out of his face or because he thought Bakugou was being ridiculous, the blonde would never know. “Bro, that barista has been flirting with me all week and I haven’t done anything about it. I don’t plan to, either.”

All week? The fuck? Had Bakugou really been that distracted that he hadn’t noticed her flirting until just yesterday? Was he really that damn oblivious?

The blonde stuffed his arms across his chest, the ashes from the paper still clenched in his palms, gritting between his fingers and under his nails. “So you’re sayin’ that smiling at her and shit like that is doing nothing about it?”

“Nah man, I’m just being nice. Just ‘cause she likes me and I’m not interested doesn’t mean I have to be an ass to her.”

For the first time in several moments, Bakugou managed to meet Kirishima’s eyes again. Those big red irises shined, reminding Bakugou of rubies and campfires and blazing sunsets; they were so warm, and in that split second he found just how easy it would be to get utterly and hopelessly lost in them, and just how much he wanted to get lost in them.

Kirishima was too fucking good. Had Bakugou been the one the barista batted those disturbingly thick eyelashes at, he’d have brushed her off like it was nothing. He’d have been an ass to let her know he wasn’t interested, and he probably wouldn’t have cared if he upset her.

He really, really fucking didn’t deserve Kirishima—as a friend or anything else. And that was precisely why he liked this fucker so damn much.

Huffing out a sigh, Bakugou let his arms unravel and reached over to clap them over the trash beneath his desk to get rid of the ashes. All that was left of Kirishima’s timeline was the soot smeared across Bakugou’s palms.

“...sorry about your stupid paper,” he mumbled.

Kirishima shrugged the apology off. “No big deal. I don’t think it was very accurate, anyway.”

It wasn’t, Bakugou almost said, remembering that most of the dates were inaccurately matched up with the events, and that was from what he could read—which hadn’t been much.

Like the fucking timeline matters right now.

“...so you’re not gonna go out with that chick from the café?”

“No.”

“And you don’t like girls?”

“Not a bit.”

Bakugou crossed his arms again, lost on what else to do with his hands. “...so then what the hell do you like?”

“I like you, man.”

Kirishima said the words so casually, so smoothly and easily that it was almost like he was talking about how much he liked the coffee again, or simply stating a fact that was no different than anything else, and the declaration didn’t fully register in Bakugou’s head right away. He stared into Kirishima’s face blankly for a long moment until his mind processed the words.

“What?” Bakugou spat, throwing his arms wide, again wanting to plant his fist into Kirishima’s stupid red hair. “The fuck? You’re just fucking saying that, asshole!”

“Nope.” Kirishima popped the p at the end, that damn grin burning into Bakugou’s retinas. His fists planted themselves on his own knees, his heart hammering in his chest. “Why do you think I chose to study with you instead of Yaoyorozu? She even offered to let me—said she’d ‘save me from having to deal with you’ or whatever.” Dumb Hair’s eyes were filled with what Bakugou could almost call pride. “And why do you think I was worried when you started avoiding me? Which…” He reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “I still don’t really get, by the way…” he mumbled. “But I was happy to meet you at the café every day and buy your drinks and stuff. This is one of the best weeks I’ve had all semester, ‘cause not only did I get a butt ton of studying done so I can do better on my exams and be a better hero, but I got to spend it with you.”

For the second time that week—and his whole damn life—Bakugou felt like the entirety of him was about to spontaneously combust. His mother would have to scrub his brains and guts off the walls and the carpet would forever be stained with his embarrassment, all because of Kiri-fucking-shima.

“So what the fuck, you just weren’t going to say anything?!”

Kirishima’s shoulders hitched a bit. “I was kinda thinking about telling you after exams, but I hadn’t really decided yet ‘cause well, honestly, I was afraid I’d scare you away and lose you as a friend, too…” An uneasy laugh punctuated the sentence.

Of all things, Deku’s face flashed in Bakugou’s head—all of the stupid smiles he had when the subject of Kirishima came up between them; the shitty sparkles in his eyes when Bakugou finally admitted to liking Kirishima, the way he was almost fucking insistent upon Bakugou telling Kirishima how he felt, how he’d told Bakugou that he and Kirishima had a conversation about him, and Deku knowing that Kirishima saw him as one of his best friends.

Had Deku fucking known all along?!

It was fucking stupid—they’d both been scared of the exact same fucking thing; if Deku knew, of course he’d tell Bakugou that he didn’t have to worry about losing Kirishima as a friend. That fucking dweeb.

Frustratedly, Bakugou ran his palms up and down his thighs, wiping the rest of the soot onto his sweats. He didn’t give Kirishima time to say anything else as he shoved the books and papers between them under the desk with little regard to keeping them neat. Before he could stop himself by thinking too much about it, he closed the distance between them until their knees were practically touching.

Kirishima’s mouth popped open slightly just as Bakugou’s hands pressed to the sides of his head—gently, he made sure, thumbs resting delicately against Kirishima’s cheeks, the rest of his fingers splayed out over his jaw, tangled in his hair; his stupid, soft hair.

“Bakug—“

“Just shut the fuck up for a second.”

Kirishima’s nervous swallow was audible between them; his eyes remained wide and his hands shook subtly on his thighs, but he remained otherwise still, waiting.

Bakugou’s eyes never left Kirishima’s face, mapping out his features and committing them to memory one by one—his disturbingly soft, reddened cheeks; the slight upturn of his nose; his wide, pink, perfectly plump lips; the curve of his forehead; the ivory shade of his skin. Bakugou saved his eyes for last—big and round and bright, staring in nervous confusion right back into Bakugou’s own. Dark lashes framed them; Bakugou couldn’t help noticing how much more prominent that scar on his right eyelid was, being so close—the one that was fairly easily mistaken for an abnormally long eyelash. He had no idea where it came from, but it suited Kirishima.

Only then did he notice the flecks of gold—much, much too subtle to see at any further distance—in his crimson irises.

The seconds ticked by as Bakugou stared, trying to remember why the fuck he’d done this in the first place, trying to talk himself out of being such a goddamn chicken and just fucking kiss him already—

Warmth met the back of his neck as Kirishima’s hand wrapped around it and tugged him forward. There was no time to react before their lips collided.

A grunt escaped Bakugou’s throat as their noses bumped together, their teeth accidentally grazing and causing them both to wince. Then was a fine fucking time for Bakugou to realize he hadn’t used any chapstick in at least a week.

He was sure it only lasted a few seconds, but something about it made it feel like a lifetime, and his heart never stopped pounding into his ribs.

A beat of silence, and then Kirishima was laughing, his whole frame shaking, his eyes squeezing together as chortles spilled from his mouth. Bakugou was in a daze after his hands fell back into his lap, still too in the moment to do much of anything but watch the other laugh like an idiot.

It was only when Kirishima’s hand slipped from his neck did he break out of his trance.

“The fuck are you laughing at, shitty hair?!” he yelled.

Kirishima wiped at his eyes as his hysterics died down. “Ah man…” he mumbled. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that, man!”

Bakugou’s brows smashed together, his hands clamping around the sparks triggered by seeing Kirishima laugh so freely, so openly happy, his shoulders shaking and his body leaning like he was about to topple over.

“You’re a fucking moron,” Bakugou mumbled. A moron—but an adorable moron, he couldn’t deny.

“Dude…” Kirishima mumbled as he worked on getting ahold of himself again. “You’re a terrible kisser!” he laughed.

“What?! It was my first fucking time, asshole! It’s not like you were any better!”

“I know, I know.” Kirishima absently waved his hand at Bakugou, wiping at his eyes again. His cheeks were flushed, his smile never so much as faltering for even a second. Bakugou couldn’t decide if he wanted to blow that shitty smile from his face or just fucking kiss him again, terrible or not. “But hey, that gives us an excuse to practice, right?” Kirishima said.

Firecrackers went off in Bakugou’s hands as he stiffened. His whole body felt like it was on fire just fucking thinking about what Kirishima was implying.

The redhead’s eyes dropped to Bakugou’s hands. “Doesn’t that hurt your fingers?”

“No,” Bakugou gritted out, but let Kirishima take hold of his left hand and uncurl his fingers, allowing the smoke that was trapped in his fist to curl away. His skin tingled, the telltale sign that another stupid, involuntary explosion was coming just by having Kirishima hold onto his hand. He started to withdraw it, fearing he might hurt the other.

“Does that happen ‘cause of me?” Kirishima asked, eyes flicking up to Bakugou’s.

“What? No. Why the fuck would you think that?”

“‘Cause Midoriya said it happens when you’re nervous… and it kinda happens a lot.”

Bakugou’s heart jumped into his throat. “When the hell did Deku tell you that?”

“Couple weeks ago. He was doing that muttering thing so he didn’t really tell me, but he said something about little explosions you can’t control when you’re nervous, and then I heard my name and all the sudden he got this look on his face like he figured something out and booked it from the room. I didn’t really think anything of it till now,” explained Kirishima.

Bakugou’s eyes darted away. “So what if it’s because of you?” he muttered. “Don’t get all flattered and mushy or anything. I can’t even fucking control it.”

Wordlessly, Kirishima tugged Bakugou’s hand closer again and laid his own on top of it, his fingers splayed about Bakugou’s still-tingling palm.

“Are you trying to get your hand blown off?” the blonde muttered, starting to retract his hand again. Kirishima sandwiched the hand between his own, not allowing him to pull away. “You’re gonna get hurt, dumbass—“

“Don’t worry,” Kirishima said, flipping his hand over, showing Bakugou as he hardened the surface of his palm, down to his fingertips. “Our Quirks are pretty compatible, remember?”

“...hmph.”

As most things tended to be, Kirishima’s hands were cool in comparison to Bakugou’s own, and it felt nice. Still, the pounding of his heart and the blood rushing behind his ears didn’t allow him to enjoy the peace of the moment, because he was hyper aware of the fact that Kirishima was holding his hand.

“So… what the fuck do we do now?” Bakugou mumbled.

“Whatever you want, man,” Kirishima said.

Bakugou kept his eyes on their hands as he spoke. “Well apparently you like me. And obviously I like you. So what the hell does that mean?”

“I do like you,” Kirishima said firmly. “And I know that means I wanna be around you as much as I can be.”

“So, like, what? You wanna go out on dates or some shit?” It was Bakugou’s turn to rub at the back of his neck, a bit flustered.

“Sure,” Kirishima said. “If you want.”

“We’ve basically already been doing that, though.”

“So we do something different, yeah? Make it more official. And special.”

“Without stupid studying.”

“Right.” Kirishima beamed.

How the fuck was it so easy for Kirishima? While Bakugou’s heart had all but burst out of his chest since the minute Kirishima walked into his room, the redhead seemed so calm and collected, almost like they hadn’t just had their first kiss or decided to start going on dumb dates together and like they weren’t basically already holding hands.

And yet it was as though the universe had a good sense of irony because just as he formed the thought, Kirishima’s eyes dropped, his hand reaching up to scratch his head as the apples of his cheeks dusted over with a light flush, giving away a certain amount of embarrassment.

“But hey, um…” the redhead mumbled. “Can we, uh, try that whole kiss thing again?” he asked. “I wanna get it right this time.”

“...yeah, okay.” The coolness of Bakugou’s answer surprised even himself.

“Um… so how do you wanna…?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Like this again, maybe?” Kirishima released Bakugou’s hand to slide one of his own around the back of the other’s neck again, lightly tangling his fingers in the hair there. The blonde did everything in his power to not let just how much he liked the feeling of Kirishima’s fingers in his hair show on his face.

“...kay. Just don’t pull me into your nose again.”

The redhead chuckled. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“It’s fine.”

Bakugou kept his hands in fists on his knees with no idea what else to do with them. Neither of them made any moves toward the other for a good, long minute. The air grew thicker with uneasiness with every silent second that passed.

“...are you gonna fucking kiss me or what, dumb hair?” Bakugou finally muttered.

A deep breath pulled in through Kirishima’s nose before he tugged Bakugou forward, leaning in himself to meet halfway—much slower this time, more conscious of the distance between them and tipping his head to the side. The collision of their mouths was much softer than before, and Bakugou swore he felt something within him explode, never mind the sparks that immediately emitted from between his fingers the second their lips pressed together.

It was by no means a perfect, or even a great kiss—they both merely sat there a moment, unmoving, Bakugou stiff and Kirishima surprisingly timid, but it was better. Boy, was it so much better; a thrill shot itself to the very ends of Bakugou’s every nerve. Kirishima’s lips were somehow even softer than they looked, and they seemed to fit so effortlessly against his own.

The redhead was the first to move, tugging back slightly only to come in again, just a bit more open-mouthed, somehow managing to deepen the exchange. Bakugou felt like he was going up in flames, and his head was spinning by the time they parted.

At some point, he must’ve forgotten how to open his eyes, how to speak, until Kirishima’s voice broke through.

“Bakugou?”

The blonde’s eyes opened to Kirishima’s face, for once unsmiling but flushed, still mere inches from his.

“You good, man? Was that better?” Kirishima’s voice was small, still timid.

“It was…” Bakugou struggled for the right words, his head still foggy. “...holy fucking shit,” he breathed, hands latching onto Kirishima’s knees with little thought.

Kirishima only laughed and pulled him in again, and again and again until their lungs were begging for air.

Needless to say, they didn’t get much studying done that day.