Work Text:
Kirishima falls in love in moments that are tangled between seconds, minutes, hours, days.
He falls in love with fierce, encouraging words—your quirk is so cool, Kirishima!—on a crowded bus and his heart pounds in his chest because he’s seen people’s eyes filled with awe and inspiration, but it’s never been directed at him before.
He falls in love with blinding, brilliant smiles that tug at something deep within his chest and gently dig their way past hardened skin to settle inside his rib cage and offer comfort and warmth and goodness.
He falls in love with mossy curls that smell like spearmint and emerald eyes that glow with sincerity and something that feels a little bit like magic. A cheek presses against his shoulder and he can see freckles dotted across sun-kissed skin, close enough to map out constellations with his fingertips if he dares—he doesn’t, not yet at least, so he closes his eyes instead and breathes in the scent of home.
Midoriya Izuku is beautiful, he thinks, and any other words get lost in his throat because he could spend hours poring over dictionaries and thesauruses and he would still never be able to shrink the existence of Midoriya Izuku enough to fit into phrases and sentences. Midoriya is simply too bright and too much to be confined in that way, so he avoids trying altogether.
He doesn’t know how to say iloveyou in words yet, so he exhales softly in the silence and hopes that it’s enough to send the sentiment into the atmosphere with a shaky release of oxygen.
There is a profound difference between falling in love and saying it out loud, Kirishima learns. Falling in love is easy. It is effortless and warm and simple. Saying it out loud is hard. It is complicated and tricky and mesmerizing and he doesn’t know how to describe the way his heart beats out of his chest when emerald eyes meet his own, so he presses his lips together before he can no longer resist the urge to try.
Yes, there is a difference, Kirishima thinks on a Tuesday when Midoriya is curled against him on the couch and green hair is brushing his neck.
The air is filled with quiet calmness and soft snores and he thinks that he could get used to this. He wraps an arm around firm shoulders and presses his nose into messy curls with a toothy grin that is somehow reserved solely for Midoriya.
Maybe one day, he tells himself. Maybe one day he’ll learn how to say iloveyou in words.
But, for now, he brushes his lips against Midoriya’s forehead—featherlight and soft—and says it that way.
He thinks that everybody falls a little bit in love with Midoriya Izuku when they meet him.
There’s something about the green-eyed boy that makes people flock to him, surround him like a nightlight that chases away the bad things in the world.
He sees it in the way Uraraka hooks their arms together without a second thought. He sees it in the way Iida’s rigid stature softens easily. He sees it in the way Todoroki’s level neutrality switches to warm smiles and gentle shoulder brushes. He sees it in the way Kaminari ruffles mossy curls, leaving laughter behind. He sees it in the way Tokoyami makes two cups of tea at night and, without a second thought, pushes the first into scarred hands.
He thinks it might be impossible not to fall a little bit in love with Midoriya Izuku.
And then there’s Bakugou.
With his ruby eyes that carry just as much heat as his hands and his cruel words that twist into the crevices of Midoriya’s ribcage and take root, leaving a mixture of despondence and confusion in their wake.
Kirishima watches Bakugou nearly blow Midoriya’s head off during the battle trials in a rush of fire and ceiling tiles and wonders how the blond manages to hate someone with eyes that are only ever filled with kindness. It makes him frown.
And then he watches the way sparking hands shake helplessly when the green-haired figure is rolled towards the infirmary in a state of unconsciousness and he wonders if Bakugou loves Midoriya more than the rest of them combined.
That makes him frown too.
“Why does Bakugou treat you that way?” he asks one day when the curiosity is resting uncomfortably in his throat, begging to be acknowledged.
Midoriya gives him a searching glance. Shrugs. “When we were kids, he labeled me as weak. I think it bothers him that I might not be.”
“Oh.”
It makes sense, but he is almost positive that there’s something more to the story. And, judging by the conflicted flash in forest-green eyes, he thinks Midoriya might think so too.
“I don’t think he hates you.”
Midoriya gives him a sad smile—all rough edges and jagged corners. “I think it would be easier if he did.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays silent.
He thinks that Midoriya falls a little bit in love with everybody he meets, just as everybody does with him.
It makes sense that the green-haired boy would tear his own heart into small pieces, handing them out freely with wide smiles that are made of promises and adoration. After all, Midoriya has a self-sacrificial streak a mile long, always too willing to accept the consequences of risking his own life to save someone else’s.
Kirishima sees the other boy offer the broken pieces of his heart to everyone he comes across—to Kaminari and Mina and Yaoyorozu and Tsuyu. He sees Midoriya slip his heart between fond gestures and steady grins and relentless affection.
He watches and a selfish part of him wishes he could collect all of the pieces and keep them safe within his palms.
Somehow, Midoriya becomes a permanent fixture in his life.
His daily runs are accompanied by familiar red shoes and they race on the last lap. Winner always picks the movie for their weekend marathons, where they curl together on Midoriya’s bed and distract themselves with superhero documentaries and horror movies that are more funny than terrifying.
(They get enough of terrifying in real life.)
His sparring sessions are spent dodging punches and kicks that crackle with green electricity. Neither of them hold back and he thinks it’s a testament to how much they respect each other. Sometimes, he ends up holding Midoriya’s arm around his neck and helping him limp to Recovery Girl and other times Midoriya makes sure he wraps his knuckles when they get bruised and tense.
His mornings are filled with tired eyes and freckled smiles curved against his shoulder that serve as a far more efficient wake-up call than his coffee. His afternoons are filled with strawberry milkshakes and twinkling laughter in the cafeteria that makes him duck his head when his cheeks redden. His nights are filled with board games and study sessions that often end with a warm body tucked under his arm and sleepy sighs breaking the silence.
Somehow, without him noticing, Midoriya has weaved himself in between the moments and settled comfortably in the spaces of his life that had once been empty.
Kirishima likes it much better this way.
Things get complicated during the first round of internships when Midoriya sends an SOS in the class group text, then doesn’t respond for the next two days.
Kirishima thought he knew fear.
But when he sees the news of the Hero Killer’s capture in Hosu, the same place as Midoriya’s location ping, he feels the blood in his veins turn to ice. He is struck with raw and primal terror, writhing around in his chest like an untethered monster ripping him open from the inside out.
His mind goes blank, his only thought centered around green eyes that have always looked at him with a softness he isn’t sure he deserves.
He calls and calls and calls, heartbeat rising with each responding dial tone. He can’t make his fingers stop shaking as he presses the redial button over and over again, even after the you’ve reached Midoriya, leave a message after the beep starts to taunt him, reminding him that he has no idea if Midoriya is okay or even breathing at this point.
Fourth Kind claps a hand on his shoulder, his eyes surprisingly understanding, and Kirishima doesn’t correct him when he calls Midoriya his boyfriend.
“I’m sure he’s fine. You’ll hear from him soon,” the hero says.
He grasps onto those words like a lifeline and tries to focus on the paperwork in front of him instead of the weight of his phone’s silence and the heavy uncertainty that hangs over him like a thunderstorm.
He doesn’t allow himself to entertain the idea that Midoriya is anything but okay because he still hasn’t figured out how to say iloveyou in words and Midoriya has to be around for when he does.
It’s not until scarred hands are wrapped around his shoulders a few days later that he can feel the ice around his heart thaw into liquid warmth.
He hooks his arms around Midoriya’s waist and buries his face in green hair, breathing in the scent of familiarity and spearmint. He can see new scars and the remains of almost-healed bruises, but he ignores those for now and focuses on trying to convey iloveyou into every press of his fingers against Midoriya’s shirt.
Things go from bad to worse when the training camp is attacked and he is trapped inside a building with several other students, confused and conflicted at the chaos that they can’t fully see.
Mandalay sends off messages that keep them updated and he feels his heart drop to his feet when Bakugou is identified as their target.
Because she doesn’t say Bakugou, she says Kacchan, and there’s only one person in the class that calls him that.
And if Midoriya knows they’re after Bakugou, that means Midoriya went head to head with a villain and managed to get away and find Mandalay. But Kirishima knows Midoriya—he knows him like the back of his hand—and he knows without a doubt that Midoriya is already running headfirst in the opposite direction he should be heading because Bakugou is out there and god damn it, Midoriya, you better be okay.
He considers trying to sneak past Blood King and tear the camp apart until he has Midoriya wrapped safely in his arms because he is so sick of being trapped between sturdy walls while his friend is fighting for his life, but he doesn’t want to risk making it worse, so he bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood and waits it out.
When it’s all over, he sprints out of the building, his eyes peeled for green hair. He hears Midoriya before he sees him and the anguished scream cuts at something in his chest, makes him freeze in his tracks because Midoriya is not supposed to sound like that—so raw and tortured and shattered.
He runs, his feet following the sound, and the burning in his lungs gets worse because when he finally finds Midoriya, he is still screaming, his arms limp and useless at his sides and red liquid leaving lines that start at his temple and drip off his jawline.
“Midoriya?” he whispers and when forest eyes meet his own, he feels himself flinch because it’s clear that Midoriya can’t see him, can’t see anything beyond whatever is replaying in his head. It is so abundantly clear that even though Midoriya is alive, he is not okay in the slightest and that’s almost worse.
“They took Bakugou,” Todoroki says, crouched next to Midoriya, his hand pressed to the boy’s shoulder with a matching look of despair in his eyes.
Kirishima pretends not to notice the way Todoroki’s voice hitches.
Instead, he kneels by the green-haired boy, catching him when he collapses forward into his arms, blood staining his shirt and Midoriya’s forehead tucked against his collarbone.
He breathes in sharply at the tremors racking his friend’s body and closes his eyes.
Hours later, when he’s sitting in a chair that squeaks every time he shifts, his hands clutching the edge of Midoriya’s hospital bed, he looks at the cold emptiness in viridescent eyes and wonders if okay is something people like them are allowed to have.
Somehow, miraculously, barely, everyone makes it out alive.
Kirishima can still feel his heartbeat in his ears—furious and restless—and his chest aches with relief and leftover fear, but Midoriya is curled into his side with a smile that has finally lost its watery edge.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Midoriya whispers into his neck.
He wants to say that he’s glad that saved Bakugou, that he’s so thankful everything worked out, that he is terrified of losing Midoriya. What comes out instead is “You love him.”
Midoriya pulls away enough to look at him. Blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Bakugou,” Kirishima clarifies, even though he knows it isn’t needed.
“I think,” Midoriya says after a long moment, “that Kacchan will always have a part of my heart. But that does not mean he has the rest of it.”
He doesn’t know how to respond to that, but when Midoriya laces their fingers together, he brings their joined hands to his mouth and presses his lips to bruised knuckles.
Iloveyou, the kiss whispers in the silence.
The days pass in a whirlwind of training and classes and everything calms down enough for his shoulders to relax slightly.
There’s still the threat of something looming over their heads, but something is far enough away that it seems okay to take a deep breath and just enjoy the moments.
So that’s what he does.
He stays up late with Kaminari and Sero, trying to destroy each other in endless rounds of video games. He lets Mina drag him to the mall because she’s out of her favorite nail polish. He races Shouji around campus in an effort to increase his mobility.
But most of all, he spends his hours with Midoriya, who still looks like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
(it does)
It is the middle of the night and he can’t sleep. His mind is full of what-if's and abstract thoughts that are too shattered and broken to form something concrete. He thinks about the man with eyes sharp enough to see his own death, who still gave up his life without hesitation. He thinks about the girl with silver hair and shaking hands that grasped onto Midoriya and didn’t let go. He thinks about emerald eyes filled with determination, then emptiness, then raw emotion. He thinks about a lot of things until they all get jumbled together in his head and make him frown.
He chokes on his thoughts and feels a scratchiness in the back of his throat that sends him down the stairs towards the kitchen before he realizes he’s moving. All he knows is that he’s thirsty and tired and his body is still sore from the fight.
His steps echo in the hallway and the numbness he had protectively surrounded himself with fades away when he stops in the doorway to the common room because he recognizes the figure curled up against the side of the couch.
Midoriya looks up at him with hooded eyes and trembling fingers and he feels his heart drop to his stomach.
“Hi,” he whispers and it’s too loud in the otherwise silent room.
Green eyes meet crimson and Midoriya’s head tilts to the side. “Hello.”
“Why are you up so late?”
His question is hypocritical, he knows, but part of him is hoping that there’s an explanation other than oh, about that, watching someone die tends to turn your dreams into nightmares and sleep becomes more haunting than comforting.
Midoriya stares at him for a long moment, then glances down towards the split skin on his knuckles. “Probably the same reason you are.”
He nods and sinks onto the couch, tries to ignore the way his skin is still reflexively tightening around his fingers, presses his palms against his legs until they stop twitching and lay still.
“They keep saying we won,” Midoriya says eventually, after the silence becomes tense and filled with unsaid words that both of them can hear, but are too broken to acknowledge.
He hums in response, his brain too muddled to form sentences.
“And we did, in the long run. But then I remember that Mirio is quirkless and Nighteye is dead and Eri wakes up screaming and I think that maybe we didn’t win at all,” Midoriya says and his voice cracks in the middle.
Kirishima watches emerald eyes, dull and haunted by things that are no longer in front of them, and feels something inside of him crack too.
He wakes up to sunlight and tangled limbs and a familiar head tucked under his chin. He straightens the blanket wrapped around them, even though he knows it won’t do anything to stop the shivers because this kind of shaking has nothing to do with the cold.
Midoriya lets out a breath against his collarbone and it’s raspy and fragile, but at least it’s there. Pale fingers curl around his shirt and catch in the cotton hard enough to leave creases behind.
Kirishima closes his eyes again and tries to forget the sound of Midoriya’s screams.
Eri saved him, he reminds himself when the unbridled fear in his lungs threatens to drown him.
Still, he holds the boy in his arms a little bit tighter and presses his lips against his temple until his brain catches up to the fact that Midoriya is here and safe and alive.
The unsteady beat of his heart whispers iloveyou in the silence.
He falls in love in the in-betweens and his heart is filled with memories that settle in his ribcage and go off in explosions of familiarity and warmth whenever green eyes meet his own, filled with fondness and enthusiasm.
“I’m really glad you’re my friend,” Midoriya says, face still sticky with sweat from a lengthy sparring session. There’s a scratch on his cheekbone and his voice is heavy with exhaustion, but the smile on his face is genuine and open.
Kirishima smiles back without hesitation because he will never get used to that level of sweetness being pointed in his direction. “Me too.”
He ignores the painful pinprick in his lungs that tries to push an iloveyou past his lips.
Midoriya knocks their shoulders together with a laugh that sounds like sunshine and he finds himself making mental maps of the constellations that spread across his cheeks.
“Do you think love is a weakness?” Midoriya asks quietly when they’re sitting on his bed, backs pressed against the wall and arms touching, textbooks sprawled across the mattress in front of them.
Kirishima frowns and an uncomfortable feeling tugs at his chest. “What do you mean?”
“We’re going to be heroes. And what you love can be used against you,” Midoriya says. “Who you love can be used against you. Does that mean that love makes you weak?”
“I don’t know,” he responds after a beat of silence.
Midoriya tugs at a loose thread on the blanket spread across his legs and bites his lip, nervous energy flowing through his twitching fingers. “I wonder if there’s an answer at all.”
Kirishima thinks back to the training camp—to the way his senses went into overdrive at the sight of a bloody and broken Midoriya. He thinks of the way his skin hardened automatically when he placed himself in front of the smaller boy, an instinctual shield meant to protect and keep safe. He thinks of the frantic question Midoriya had repeated over and over again with wide, desperate eyes and trembling shoulders—is he okay, is he okay, is he okay—until Kouta was pressed against his side.
He thinks back to the USJ—to the way his chest tightened when Midoriya ran towards All Might, then dropped with shattered bones and angry bruises. He thinks of the way his throat constricted at the pale hand reaching through purple mist to press against freckled cheeks, to leave a mess of decayed flesh and rotten tissue in its wake. He thinks of the way his legs moved before he could process his thoughts, propelling him towards Midoriya’s too still figure.
“I think,” he finally replies, “that love makes you strong.”
“Why?” Green eyes stare at him curiously, studying him.
The steady attention makes him nervous, makes him feel as if Midoriya had ripped his chest open with kind words and fond looks, only to stare at his exposed insides without a second thought. It is terrifying and comforting all at once.
Kirishima exhales, the weight of his own emotions pulling at his heart. “Because I’ve always been the strongest when I’m with you.”
Midoriya blinks and then smiles a smile that is gentle and warm and filled to the brim with sincerity. “You’re the strongest person I know, Kirishima.”
The words are said easily and he can’t stop the grin that takes over his face, equal parts affection and pure joy.
“I feel strong with you too,” Midoriya adds before he can respond, cheeks reddening.
There is a soft brush of lips against the corner of his mouth, hesitant and sweet, and he’s grinning when the green-haired boy pulls away a second later. Kirishima reaches over and links their fingers together.
The iloveyou still sits inside his chest, the unsaid words fluttering around with reckless abandon, but he feels a little bit lighter and he thinks that maybe Midoriya hears it anyway.
Kirishima falls in love in moments that are tangled between seconds, minutes, hours, days.
Iloveyou, he whispers to fierce, encouraging words that settle under his shoulders and hold him up when the world falls apart around him.
Iloveyou, he whispers to blinding, brilliant smiles that seep into his pores and remind him of sunshine and home.
Iloveyou, he whispers to mossy curls that tickle his chin and smell like spearmint.
He whispers it to hands that tangle with his own, to freckles that he traces with gentle fingertips, to wide eyes that are always shining with something that feels like magic. He whispers it when the sun is rising over the horizon and when the moon is retaking its place in the inky depths of night. He whispers it into green hair and against firm shoulders and over chapped lips that taste like strawberries.
And Midoriya smiles with his face full of constellations and his eyes full of galaxies and whispers it right back.