Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

SPRING

A groan escaped as he dragged both hands down his face, slumping forward onto the tiny table they used as a study desk. The open textbook in front of him might as well have been written in a dead language.

Across from him, Bakugo looked far from sympathetic. If anything, irritation tightened his features, his usual expression of exasperation sharpening as he tapped a pen against the pages. His blond hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, and his eyebrows were furrowed in that way they always were when someone was testing his patience.

"You seriously don’t remember any of this?” The stare that followed made it clear he considered this some kind of rare, tragic phenomenon.

Lifting his head just enough to squint at the diagrams, Kirishima tried to will the words into making sense. Fault lines. Tectonic plates. Something about igneous rock. None of it sparked recognition. He bit the inside of his cheek.

"Not really?”

A sharp click of Bakugo’s tongue. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight over his chest. "We had this exact shit last year. Same professor, same dumbass slides, same fucking textbook.” The chair creaked as he leaned forward again, jabbing a finger at a diagram. "Come on, idiot. What’s this?”

More squinting. "Uh, mountains?”

The sharp exhale through Bakugo’s nose made it clear how stupid that answer was. "Metamorphic rock, dumbass.”

"Right. Totally what I meant.”

A flat look followed. "Sure.”

Groaning again, Kirishima let his head drop onto the book. "Dude, you know I suck at this stuff. Why do I even have to study rocks? I wanna dig up old bones, not classify different types of dirt.”

Bakugo muttered something under his breath, probably an insult, but Kirishima barely registered it. His brain was already melting, and not just from studying. The cramped space of his dorm didn’t help, the way their knees kept brushing under the table making it hard to focus.

Being best friends with Bakugo Katsuki meant living with a constant level of frustration, but not the bad kind. The way Bakugo insulted him constantly but never actually pushed him away, the way he only ever studied with Kirishima despite the fact that he could ace this test on his own, it was just how things were. He smelled like citrus and something warm, like flint striking stone.

Not that Kirishima spent time thinking about that.

(Except he did.)

Shaking the thought away, he exhaled. "Okay, okay. Gimme another question.”

Suspicion flickered across Bakugo’s face, like the sudden enthusiasm was some kind of trick. But then he sighed and flipped to another page. "Fine. What’s the difference between intrusive and extrusive igneous rock?”

Nodding confidently, Kirishima prepared to answer. "Easy. Intrusive is...” Confidence immediately vanished.

The smirk that spread across Bakugo’s face was infuriating. "Go on.”

"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

"Obviously.”

Resisting the urge to throw his textbook at him, he ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. Intrusive stays inside the earth?”

For half a second, Bakugo almost looked impressed before the usual scowl returned. "Yeah. It cools slowly underground. Extrusive cools fast on the surface.”

Grinning, Kirishima pointed at him. "See? I’m learning.”

"Barely.”

"Still counts.”

An eye roll, but something in Bakugo’s gaze softened. Quieter, less sharp than before. Kirishima felt it settle under his skin like warmth against stone, a slow burn he wasn’t sure how to handle.

He swallowed.

"Alright, next question...”

"Nope, study session’s over.” The textbook snapped shut before he could argue.

Blinking, he frowned. "What? Why?”

"Because if I have to listen to you butcher basic geology for another five minutes, I’m throwing myself out the fucking window.”

Laughter bubbled up as he leaned back in his chair. "Aw, come on, dude. One more. I swear, I’m getting better.”

A scoff. "You said mountains were rocks.”

"Aren’t they?”

A pillow came flying at his face.

Catching it with ease, he grinned. "That’s assault, bro.”

"Yeah? Sue me.”

He could’ve let it go, could’ve just laughed and moved on. But his fingers tightened around the pillow for a second longer than necessary, hesitation pressing against his ribs. The words slipped out before he could think better of them.

"You really don’t mind, huh?” Softer than before, barely more than a murmur. "Helping me with all this?”

Bakugo stiffened. Just for a second. His gaze flicked away, but his answer came without hesitation.

"Tch. ‘Course not.”

Something complicated shifted in Kirishima’s chest.

He nodded, smiling. "Thanks, man.”

Silence stretched between them, not heavy, but not light either. Bakugo didn’t answer right away, didn’t look at him, but when he did, his voice came quieter, almost grudging.

"Yeah.”

Kirishima didn’t know what to do with that.

So he just sat there, feeling it settle, press against his ribs like something too big to name.

During the first year, Kirishima barely passed his first Geography test.

Not for lack of trying, well, kind of. There had been some effort. He listened in class most of the time. He even took notes, though, in hindsight, filling the margins with cool sketches of battle axes and ancient ruins probably hadn’t been the smartest study strategy.

None of it mattered, though, because the second the test was in front of him, his brain decided to cease all operations.

Now, sitting in an almost-empty lecture hall, he stared at his test paper, covered in enough red ink to resemble a crime scene. The grade at the top was a death sentence, and the worst part? It wasn’t even a required course for his major. He’d picked it as an elective, thinking it would be fun.

Big mistake.

Turns out, college-level Geography wasn’t about treasure maps and cool lost cities. It was about rocks. Layers of them. Formations. The way they moved. The fact that they moved at all. Nobody had warned him about that.

A heavy sigh left him as he slumped forward, rubbing the back of his neck. The last few students trickled out of the hall, leaving him alone with his poor life choices. Maybe if he stared long enough, his grade would change. Maybe the ink would magically rearrange itself into a passing score. Maybe...

"Holy shit, you suck at this.”

A voice full of judgment cut through his thoughts. Before he even turned, Kirishima knew who it was.

Bakugo Katsuki dropped into the seat beside him, uninvited, wearing a smirk that suggested he found Kirishima’s suffering deeply entertaining.

They weren’t exactly friends. Acquaintances, maybe. Same class, sat a few rows apart. Bakugo never took notes but somehow knew all the answers, like he had the knowledge hardwired into his brain. He looked like the kind of guy Engineering itself had personally selected for greatness.

Now, he was here, looking at the test like it was causing him physical pain.

Kirishima groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Dude, don’t rub it in.”

Bakugo snatched the test off the desk anyway, scanning through the answers with the kind of expression people usually reserved for truly horrifying discoveries.

"You seriously wrote, ‘probably something about volcanoes’ as an answer?”

"It might have been right,” Kirishima defended weakly.

A slow, unimpressed blink. Then the test landed back on the desk with a sharp thwap. "You’re a lost cause.”

Arms crossed, he huffed. "You don’t even know me, man.”

Bakugo shrugged. "Don’t have to. This is just sad.”

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

Kirishima let out another sigh, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, well, it’s not like I wanna fail. It’s just, none of this sticks. I try to study, but the second I sit down for a test, my brain evacuates the premises.”

Silence stretched for a beat. Then Bakugo sighed, long and aggressive, rolling his eyes like this was his problem now.

"Alright, dumbass. I’ll help you.”

Kirishima blinked. "Huh?”

"I’ll help you study.” Bakugo leaned back, arms crossed. "If I have to sit next to you in class, I’d rather not watch you embarrass yourself every week.”

Staring, he tried to process what had just happened. Bakugo Katsuki, offering to help. Willingly. No threats involved.

"Wait. Seriously?”

"Do I look like I’m joking?”

No. No, he did not.

The grin that stretched across Kirishima’s face was probably too wide, but he couldn’t help it. "Alright, deal.”

Bakugo scoffed. "Don’t make it weird.”

That was how it started.

But studying with Bakugo was an experience.

A merciless, slightly traumatic experience.

Flashcards? Endless. Mock quizzes? Worse than actual tests. Any wrong answer resulted in immediate, scathing judgment.

"You forgot the difference between sedimentary and metamorphic rock?”

"I kinda remember?”

"Oh, yeah? Say it.”

"Metamorphic is, um, the one that exists?”

A deep, slow inhale. Then Bakugo pushed the entire stack of flashcards off the desk.

Yet, somehow, he never actually gave up on him.

The thing was, it worked. Not instantly, not perfectly, but Kirishima passed his next test. Barely. But a pass was a pass, and suddenly, Geography didn’t feel entirely hopeless.

And then somewhere along the way, they just started hanging out.

Not just for studying, outside of class, too. Lunches between lectures. Walking back to the dorms together. It wasn’t something they planned; it just happened.

Bakugo had zero patience for bullshit, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care. If he stuck around, it meant he meant it. And he was always there, to remind Kirishima that mountains were, in fact, not rocks, to call him a dumbass, to sit next to him in class even when he didn’t have to.

They talked about their actual interests, too.

Archaeology had always been the dream. Digging up old bones, piecing together lost histories, touching things people hadn’t seen for thousands of years. That’s what Kirishima wanted.

Bakugo had a plan, too. Mining Engineering. Real excavation. He talked about mineral extraction and geomechanics like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

(And maybe it was. Or maybe Kirishima just liked listening to him talk.)

At some point, Bakugo stopped being just the guy from class.

Somewhere between the studying, the insults, and the late-night walks back to the dorms, he became his best friend.

The coffee was terrible.

Not in the oh, it’s a little burnt way, but in the this might actually be toxic way. Every sip felt like a personal attack on his taste buds and his dignity.

Kirishima took a cautious drink, winced, and placed the cup back onto the table as if it had personally wronged him. "I think this is getting worse.”

Across from him, Bakugo huffed, blowing on his own coffee before taking a sip, completely unaffected. "You say that every time.”

"Yeah, and every time I’m right.”

It was objectively bad. No amount of wishful thinking or extra sugar packets could salvage it, but this shitty little coffee shop was the only place near campus they could afford, so here they were, suffering through it together.

Bakugo had a part-time job at a vintage store, which, in Kirishima’s opinion, was one of the coolest places he could possibly work. The shop had shelves crammed with old records, retro jackets, random trinkets that looked like they had lived a dozen lives before ending up there, waiting to be picked up by someone who appreciated their weird charm. And yet, despite having access to an entire collection of interesting and useless treasures, Bakugo never bought anything for himself unless Kirishima actively begged him to.

Which was precisely why his dorm was slowly filling with increasingly questionable vintage finds.

A lava lamp? Because Kirishima insisted on seeing if it still worked (it did, but it made an ominous buzzing sound).

An old action figure missing an arm? Because, apparently, Kirishima thought it looked exactly like Bakugo. (It absolutely did not.)

A stupid, gaudy cowboy hat that Bakugo would never wear in a million years? Because Kirishima swore it would suit him. (It did not, but that didn’t stop him from laughing for a solid five minutes when Bakugo tried it on for exactly two seconds before chucking it at his head.)

For all of Bakugo’s resistance, he always caved when Kirishima pushed hard enough.

Kirishima, on the other hand, worked at a pet shop four days a week, which, in hindsight, was probably the single worst possible job for someone like him, because he wanted to adopt everything.

Cats? Every single one.

Dogs? Immediate best friends.

Rabbits? He was pretty sure he could fit two into his hoodie and sneak them out without anyone noticing.

Bakugo had to physically drag him away from the adoption center more times than either of them could count.

"They don’t allow pets in the dorms,” Bakugo had snapped the last time, fingers gripping Kirishima’s sleeve as he forcibly pulled him away from a tiny orange kitten that, according to Kirishima, looked just like him.

(Which, by the way, was absolutely not true. The kitten had huge, round eyes and tiny little paws and soft fur and...)

Okay. Maybe a little.

But the point was that Kirishima was a menace and had no self-control when it came to small, fluffy creatures, and that was exactly why Bakugo tensed when Kirishima, in a voice far too casual to be trusted, leaned forward and said, "Hey, so, what if I just, hypothetically, brought home something small?”

A long, unblinking stare.

"No.”

"Like, a hamster? Hamsters don’t even count as pets.”

"They literally do.”

Kirishima sighed dramatically, stirring his coffee like he could somehow mix out the overwhelming bitterness. "Fine, you win this round.”

"There’s no rounds, Eiji. You’re not getting a pet.”

A hum that sounded suspiciously like I’m absolutely still considering it.

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed. "Oi. Say it.”

"Say what?”

"Say you’re not getting a pet.”

Kirishima took a slow, unrepentant sip of coffee, making a show of considering his answer. "I’m not getting a pet... Today.”

The murderous intent in Bakugo’s eyes was immediate.

Leaning forward, he placed both elbows on the table, lowering his voice to a dangerous level. "Listen to me very carefully, you soft-hearted little dumbass. If you sneak a hamster into our dorm, I will...”

"What if it’s really quiet?”

"No.”

Kirishima grinned, entirely unbothered. "Alright, alright, I hear you. No pets.”

The moment Bakugo relaxed, he added, "Unless it’s a fish.”

A sharp kick under the table had him yelping.

The coffee still tasted like regret, but at least Kirishima was having fun.

Walking around campus in April should have been romantic.

Not in a weird, this-is-a-date way, but in the normal, this-is-how-college-is-supposed-to-feel way. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, petals drifting lazily through the air, the breeze was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of fresh grass and new beginnings. If they weren’t drowning in assignments, it might have actually been enjoyable.

Kirishima sipped his god-awful coffee as they walked, grimacing at the taste. "Dude, it’s only the first few weeks, and we already have, like, five papers due.”

A low, aggressive growl was Bakugo’s only response. "Tch. Tell me about it. These dumbass professors act like we don’t have other classes.”

He looked miserable, though not just because of school.

Spring had arrived, which meant Bakugo was losing his annual battle with pollen.

It wasn’t that bad, not enough to fully knock him out, but just bad enough for Kirishima to notice. His face was a little red, his nose slightly pink, his movements slower than usual, probably thanks to the antihistamines, and every once in a while, he’d rub his wrist against his cheek like it might help.

And Kirishima, like the absolute worst best friend in existence, found it adorable.

"You okay, man?” He asked, watching as Bakugo scowled at nothing in particular, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand.

A sharp glare. "I’m fine.”

He was absolutely not fine.

Kirishima held back a grin. "You sure? You look kinda...”

"I swear to god, if you say cute, I’m throwing this coffee at you.”

The grin escaped.

"Aw, c’mon, dude, it’s kinda cute.”

Bakugo’s entire body tensed, like he was physically restraining himself from committing a crime.

"I hate you.”

"Nah, you love me.”

"Hate.”

Kirishima chuckled, taking another sip of his terrible drink. The campus really did look beautiful, soft pink petals floating gently to the ground as students walked between buildings, but neither of them had the chance to enjoy it properly.

Not with the semester already kicking their asses.

Not with Bakugo looking unfairly good, cheeks slightly flushed, scowl softened just enough by exhaustion to make him seem almost approachable.

He shoved a hand into his pocket, glancing up at the sky just as a stray petal landed in his hair. He left it there, because why not?

Bakugo noticed.

"The hell are you smiling about?”

Kirishima sipped his coffee dramatically. "Just appreciating the season.”

A suspicious squint. "What’s that supposed to mean?”

"Nothing, nothing.”

"You’re thinking some dumb shit, aren’t you?”

"Always.”

A long exhale, then Bakugo tilted his head back slightly as they walked, letting the sunlight hit his face just right, catching the soft pink of his cheeks, the gentle furrow of his brows, the way his hair moved in the breeze.

And Kirishima had to physically remind himself not to stare.

He blamed spring.

Blamed the cherry blossoms and the annoyingly romantic atmosphere. 

Blamed Bakugo for existing like this.

And mostly, he blamed himself for liking it too much.

SUMMER

It was summer already, and too damn hot.

The sun had barely set, but the heat still hung heavy in the air, clinging to Kirishima’s skin like an extra layer. First day of summer, and he was already soaked in sweat.

Did that stop him from playing basketball with his friends?

Absolutely not.

Friday night games had been a thing since last semester, and they weren’t about to break the streak just because the weather wanted them dead.

Bakugo didn’t play, never did. Said it was a waste of energy and that running around on a court like a "fucking moron” wasn’t his idea of a good time.

But he still showed up. Every time.

And not just to hang around, to watch.

Or, more specifically, to watch Kirishima.

At least, that’s what Kirishima liked to think.

Bakugo sat on the sidelines, cool as ever despite the oppressive heat, sipping from a glass of Coca-Cola like he was on the cover of a magazine. A book rested open in his hand, the glow from the court lights catching on the sharp edges of his face, on the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone.

He looked stupidly good.

Too good.

Distractingly good.

Which was why Kirishima missed the pass.

The ball soared right past him, bounced once, and rolled away.

"Yo, Red, what the hell?” Sero called, jogging past him to retrieve it. "That was an easy pass.”

Kirishima snapped out of it, blinking fast. "Huh? Oh, yeah. My bad.”

Sero followed his gaze, slowly turning his head toward where Bakugo sat, a knowing grin spread across his face.

"Oh,” Sero said, dragging out the word like he had just uncovered the world’s biggest secret.

Kirishima’s stomach dropped. "Dude. No.”

Sero ignored him completely. "You weren’t even looking at the ball, were you?”

A nervous chuckle. "I mean, I was...”

"You were looking at Bakugo.”

"I was not.”

"You so were.”

Kirishima groaned, swiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "I was just, dude, it’s hot as hell. My brain is literally melting.”

Sero arched a brow. "Right. And that’s why you missed an easy pass.”

"Yup. No other reason.”

"Definitely nothing to do with the hot blonde in the black tank top drinking Coke like a damn commercial model?”

Kirishima choked on air.

"Shut up.”

Sero grinned harder. "I’m just saying, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had a massive, embarrassing crush.”

His face burned, not from the heat. "Dude.”

Sero laughed, bouncing the ball between his hands. "I mean, it’s kinda cute. If you wanna keep staring, I can tell Kaminari to sub in for you.”

"I will end you.”

Still chuckling, Sero tossed the ball back into play, and Kirishima tried, really tried, to focus.

But when he glanced back at the sidelines, Bakugo was still there, still cool as hell, flipping a page in his book like he hadn’t just ruined Kirishima’s game entirely.

He shook his head, forcing himself to get back in the game, because if he missed another pass, Sero was never gonna let him hear the end of it.

The game ended with Kirishima’s team winning, but just barely, not because the other team was particularly good. No, that wasn’t it. The real problem? His own damn brain.

Between the heat, the exhaustion, and the fact that Bakugo looked stupidly good sitting there, sweaty and sharp-eyed under the court lights, Kirishima was barely keeping it together.

By the time they called it, he was drenched. His shirt clung to him like a second skin, sweat dripping down his back. He ran a hand through his messy, damp hair, turning toward the sidelines... And just in time to catch the towel Bakugo tossed at his face.

A lazy, one-handed throw, like he hadn’t even been looking.

Kirishima pulled the towel away and grinned. "Aw, dude, you care.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes. "Shut the hell up.”

Still grinning, he rubbed the towel over his hair before grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. The night air hit his overheated skin immediately, cooling him down slightly.

Then, without meaning to, he glanced at Bakugo, and for two whole seconds, he was staring.

Not in the usual way, not like when he was annoyed or waiting for Kirishima to say something dumb.

No, this was different. 

Sharp red eyes flicking down, just briefly, before snapping back to his book, and maybe it was nothing, maybe Kirishima was imagining things, but.

But.

The tips of Bakugo’s ears were red.

Kirishima bit the inside of his cheek, rolling his shoulders before casually using the towel again, pretending he hadn’t noticed.

It was probably just the heat. Bakugo always turned red in summer, the sun was never kind to his pale skin, and the sweat gathering at his neck and collarbone made him look even warmer than usual. His hands, too, were slick and restless, fingers curling slightly against the book he wasn’t actually reading.

Kirishima almost said something. Almost.

But then Bakugo stood up, snapping his book shut. "C’mon, dumbass. 7-Eleven.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

The nearest 7-Eleven wasn’t far from the basketball court, just a short two-minute walk down the road, past the empty playground and the vending machines humming softly under flickering streetlights. It had become a part of their Friday night routine, as natural as the game itself, even though Bakugo never played, even though Kirishima always showed up drenched in sweat and covered in dust, they still ended up here together, side by side.

And, like always, they bought lollipops.

Kirishima had no idea when it started. Maybe it had been a joke, or maybe one of them had been craving something sweet once, and then it just stuck. Now, it was a rule, lollipops after the game, every single time, no exceptions.

Inside the store, the air-conditioning hit like a blessing, cold against the lingering heat on their skin. They stood in front of the snack aisle, still cooling off, barefoot in their slides, the hard tile floor soothing against aching feet. Kirishima stared at the rack of candy with a ridiculous amount of focus, shifting between two flavors while Bakugo made a beeline for the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and twisting off the cap with one hand.

"What’re you getting?” Bakugo asked after a long swig, voice slightly muffled as he wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist.

Kirishima turned the two lollipops in his hand, squinting at them like the choice actually mattered. "Mango or grape?”

Bakugo barely even glanced over before giving an immediate answer. "You always get grape, Eiji.”

"Yeah, but what if today’s a mango kind of day?”

A sharp, amused snort. "It’s not.”

Kirishima huffed a small laugh, shaking his head before tossing the grape one in Bakugo’s direction. "Yeah, yeah. You win.”

Without looking, Bakugo caught it effortlessly, fingers closing around the wrapper like it had been an easy guess. He peeled it open with one hand, movements smooth and practiced, like he had done this a thousand times before, which, well. He kind of had. Kirishima wasn’t watching exactly, but there was something oddly impressive about how casual it was, the way Bakugo made even the smallest things seem like second nature.

They paid, stepping back out into the warm, humid night, the heat from the pavement still rising in soft waves around them. Kirishima unwrapped his lollipop with one quick twist, holding it out without a word, the motion so familiar it didn’t even register as anything strange.

Bakugo didn’t hesitate.

He leaned in, just slightly, mouth closing over the candy for half a second before pulling back, tongue flicking over his lips as he seemed to genuinely consider the flavor.

There was a brief pause, the night stretching around them in quiet warmth.

Then, with a small nod, Bakugo said, "Yeah. Solid choice.”

Kirishima grinned, popping the lollipop into his own mouth, letting the taste settle. "Told ya.”

A short click of the tongue, a nudge against his arm as they walked. "You didn’t say shit.”

The laugh that left Kirishima was low and easy, the kind of laugh that came without effort, the kind that sat warm in his chest. "Yeah, yeah.”

They had done this a million times before. It was just part of the routine, something normal, something easy.

So why did it feel different tonight?

Why did it feel heavier when Bakugo leaned in? Why did Kirishima’s pulse jump slightly when their fingers brushed, just briefly, as they exchanged wrappers?

Why did every little thing suddenly feel like it mattered?

Maybe it was just summer.

Bakugo hated parties. Always had.

Too many people, too much noise, and at least one idiot who would inevitably spill a drink on him before the night was over. He hated the sweaty crowds, the way music vibrated through his skull, the forced conversations, the way strangers got too damn close without any concept of personal space.

But Kirishima?

Kirishima loved parties.

Not because he loved drinking, though he did enjoy a cold beer, or because he particularly cared about the chaos. He loved them because he knew, without fail, that Bakugo would show up.

And that meant Bakugo would dress up.

It was practically an event.

The black jeans, ripped at the knees, hugging his legs in a way that should be illegal. The tight tank top, just slightly cropped, exposing a strip of toned skin when he stretched. The gold piercings in his left ear flashing every time he turned his head. The sidecut, contrasting the wild mess of blond hair on top.

And the eyeliner.

God.

The eyeliner.

Kirishima didn’t know when Bakugo started wearing it, but he had been suffering ever since. It made his eyes look even sharper, the red even brighter, drawing attention to the intensity of his gaze. It was unfair. Completely unreasonable.

And the worst part? Bakugo barely even tried.

He would show up, looking like a vision, like something out of a dream, and act completely unaware of the effect he had on people, on Kirishima.

And then, because life was deeply unfair, he would drink.

Never a lot. Just enough. Enough to loosen up, to soften the edges, to make him laugh a little easier. Enough to light one cigarette, always just one, after finishing his first cheap beer.

It was like clockwork.

The way he leaned back, rolling the cigarette between his fingers before slipping it between his lips. The way he cupped his hand around the lighter, blocking the wind, thumb flicking the flame alive. The way his sharp jawline caught the dim glow of streetlights when he exhaled.

Kirishima hated it.

Hated how it made his chest feel tight, how his fingers twitched with the urge to reach out, to brush his thumb over the skin below Bakugo’s ear, to press his lips where the scent of smoke lingered.

Because Bakugo was always hot as hell, but like this?

Like this, he was impossible to ignore.

The party was loud, the air was thick with summer heat, and the cheap beer in Bakugo’s hand was half-finished when he shoved it into Kirishima’s without a word.

It wasn’t unusual. They had shared drinks before, passed bottles back and forth between them like it was nothing, like the rim of a glass meant nothing at all.

But tonight, everything felt different.

Maybe it was the heat, pressing against his skin like a second layer, refusing to let go. Maybe it was the way the alcohol sat warm in his stomach, spreading out in lazy waves. Or maybe, probably, it was the way Bakugo had just lit a cigarette, the taste of it still lingering faintly when Kirishima took a sip.

His fingers tightened slightly around the bottle as he swallowed, letting the bitter taste settle on his tongue, letting the phantom hint of smoke and warmth and something unmistakably Bakugo slip through the cracks of his self-control.

It was nothing. It was nothing.

But it was also everything.

His pulse was too fast, the summer heat suddenly heavier. He wasn’t even drunk, but something was making his head buzz.

Shit.

He ran a hand through his hair, the movement absent, fingers brushing over the strands bleached lighter from the sun. His skin had tanned since the start of the semester, freckles more visible than ever across his nose and cheekbones.

A year ago, he would’ve hated it.

Hell, even six months ago, he would’ve stared at himself in the mirror and picked apart every flaw.

But Bakugo had mentioned it once, just once, in passing.

They had been walking back from campus, the late afternoon sun making everything glow, and out of nowhere, Bakugo had said, "You got more freckles."

Kirishima had laughed it off, shrugging. "Yeah, summer’s kicking my ass.”

But then Bakugo had glanced at him again, his face unreadable, voice low and sure when he said, "Looks good.”

And that had been enough.

Enough to make Kirishima not hate them, to make him maybe even like them.

Now, standing here, with Bakugo’s drink in his hand, the warmth of his cigarette still lingering faintly on the rim, Kirishima felt something dangerous curl tight in his stomach.

And then, "Oi, Red! There you are!” Kaminari’s voice cut through the noise, and just like that, the moment was gone.

Kirishima blinked, looking up just in time to see Kaminari grinning like he had news worth millions, and whatever he was about to say, Kirishima already knew it was going to be bad.

"Dude, I gotta tell you something,” Kaminari said, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was too excited to keep it in. "That girl, Setsuna Tokage? From my class? Bro, she’s so into you.”

"Wait. What?”

Kaminari nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! She asked about you earlier. Said you were cute, wanted to know if you were single.” He gave him a playful elbow to the ribs. "Dude. She’s really cute. And she’s kinda your type, right?”

The words were light, casual, but Kirishima felt them hit differently, and when he glanced to the side, when he looked at Bakugo, there was nothing on his face.

No reaction. No shift in expression. No sharp glance, no annoyed grunt, no reason for Kirishima to think...

Nothing.

Just Bakugo, standing there, finishing the last of his cigarette like it was just another night.

And somehow, that made it worse.

But Kirishima had always liked girls.

He liked the way they smiled, the way they smelled, the way their perfume lingered on his hoodie when they borrowed it and returned it days later. He liked long, silky hair, liked fingers soft against his skin, lips plump and warm, the tilt of their heads when they laughed, the small, absentminded touches they gave when they talked.

That had always been his thing.

Always.

And Setsuna? She was cute. Kaminari had been right about that. She was bright and fun, kind of rowdy in a way he usually liked. She had a cool voice, sharp teeth, eyes that flickered with something playful when she looked at him.

He should be into that.

But it’s been a while since the last time he thought about a girl.

A long while.

Even now, standing in the middle of a party, with Kaminari looking at him expectantly, with a girl like Setsuna showing interest, his head is somewhere else.

Somewhere he doesn’t know what to do with.

He didn’t even have an answer, didn’t even say anything, because Bakugo shifted beside him, flicking the half-burnt filter of his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it with the flat of his shoe. And just like that, the conversation felt irrelevant.

Not that it should have.

Not that it meant anything.

But for some reason, Kirishima barely heard the rest of what Kaminari was saying, barely registered Setsuna’s name, barely even felt present.

Because the only thing sitting at the front of his mind was the taste of cigarette smoke on the rim of a shared beer bottle.

The feeling didn’t go away.

Not when he got back to the dorm, not when he stripped out of his sticky, sweat-drenched clothes, not when he collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling like it had the answers to his problems.

And later, when it was quiet, when the only sound was the faint hum of the dorm’s shitty AC unit, Kirishima did what he had been doing a lot lately.

He slid a hand under the waistband of his shorts.

It wasn’t even about anything. It was just habit. The way exhaustion and heat settled into his bones, the way his body leaned into familiarity.

Or at least, it should have been easy, should have been thoughtless.

It used to be.

It used to be girls. Always girls. Random, nameless girls, soft touches, plump lips. Sometimes, someone he knew, an ex-girlfriend, a crush from high school, but it had been a long time since he had thought about a girl.

Lately, it had been nothing.

Or, no. Not nothing.

Worse.

Lately, it had been a name.

A name that crawled under his skin, settled into the spaces between his ribs, looped in his head until it was all he could hear.

Katsuki.

Katsuki, Katsuki, Katsuki.

The echo of a laugh, sharp and reckless. The rasp of a voice after a few drinks. The feeling of his own mouth pressing against the rim of a bottle, chasing the faintest taste of something familiar.

His hand tightened around himself, his breath caught, his head felt empty and too full at the same time.

And for the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do about it.

University festivals were always a big deal. Crowds packed the campus, food stalls lined the pathways, and student-run events stretched into every available corner. It was the best part of the semester, the one time of year when classes took a backseat, and the entire university felt like a giant carnival.

But this year, Kirishima wasn’t having fun.

Not because his job sucked, he was running games and activities, managing booths where people could throw darts at balloons, knock over cans, and try to win cheap plushies that were probably older than some of the freshmen. It was fun, easy work, and he usually loved being in the middle of the excitement.

The problem was that he was barely seeing Bakugo.

They had opposite schedules, barely crossed paths, and Kirishima was going insane.

Not that it was a big deal. Not that he needed to see Bakugo.

But.

Bakugo was working at a food stall.

And that meant Bakugo was wearing an apron.

And Kirishima needed to see that with his own two eyes.

It wasn’t even a weird thing, objectively, Bakugo was good at cooking. It was common knowledge at this point. He knew how to handle a kitchen like he had been born in a restaurant, which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth. His parents could probably open their own chain of five-star places if they wanted to, and somehow, all of that talent had transferred perfectly to their son.

Bakugo could chop vegetables with terrifying precision. He could flip food in a pan like some Michelin-starred professional. He could season something just by looking at it. It was ridiculous.

And for some cruel, unforgiving reason, the universe had decided that this semester, for this festival, Bakugo was going to work a food stall.

Which meant Kirishima was missing out on seeing him in an apron.

And that? That was not acceptable.

He tried to sneak away. Tried.

Between running booths, taking shifts, handling money, and wrangling drunk students who thought they could cheat at ring toss, he made multiple attempts to slip away unnoticed. But every time, someone needed something, or a professor walked by, or another student threw a basketball too hard and sent it flying into the next booth.

By mid-afternoon, he was officially losing it.

"Oi, Red!" Sero waved him down, a half-eaten taiyaki in one hand. "Dude, you haven’t even taken a break yet. Go eat something before you pass out."

Kirishima perked up immediately. "You’re right. I should eat."

Sero narrowed his eyes. "You're gonna go straight to Bakugo’s stall, aren’t you?"

Kirishima tried to look offended. "What? No. I would never..."

"Shut up," Sero said, taking another bite of his snack. "Just go already. You’ve been vibrating with repressed energy since this morning."

And really, that was all the permission he needed.

The food stalls were the busiest part of the festival, packed with students and professors alike, all swarming for freshly grilled yakitori, warm bowls of udon, fried karaage, and every other delicious thing that Kirishima had been missing out on.

But none of that mattered.

Because somewhere in that crowd, Bakugo was wearing an apron.

He wove through the chaos, dodging people, sidestepping groups huddled around food stands, heart pounding in anticipation. It had been too long since he had seen Bakugo today, too long since they had actually talked. He needed to get there before...

And then, just like that, it happened.

One glance. One unwavering second where Bakugo saw him.

It didn’t make sense, there were too many people, too much noise, too much movement. But somehow, through all of it, Bakugo found him instantly, like he had been waiting.

And then, without hesitation, Bakugo turned, said something to the other people working with him, and took off the damn apron.

Kirishima’s stomach dropped.

He slowed, nearly tripping over his own feet, watching as Bakugo tugged the strings free, folded the apron over his forearm, and walked away from the stall without a second glance.

This was the one thing he had been looking forward to. The one thing that had been keeping him going. The one visual event of the year.

And now, it was ruined.

The disappointment hit hard and fast.

But before he could even process it, Bakugo was suddenly there, stepping up beside him, still holding the folded apron, looking unbothered as he said,

"Took you long enough. Was waiting for you to eat.”

Kirishima’s entire body shifted from suffering to deep, pure happiness in less than a second.

"You, wait, really?”

A click of the tongue. "Yeah, dumbass. What, you think I’m gonna let you eat that overpriced festival crap?”

Kirishima grinned so wide it hurt.

Because of course.

Of course Bakugo had been waiting. Of course, he had somehow predicted that Kirishima wouldn’t have time to eat properly, that he would get too caught up in work, too busy running around to stop and take care of himself.

Because that’s what Bakugo did.

He never said it outright, never made a big deal out of it, but he always noticed when Kirishima needed something.

And every time, without fail, he was there to fix it.

They walked away from the festival crowds, finding a quieter spot on the grass, just far enough from the noise but still close enough to hear the faint hum of voices, the occasional burst of laughter.

Bakugo sat down first, pulling out two bentos from a bag Kirishima hadn’t even noticed he was carrying. The boxes were neatly packed, the rice still warm, the food clearly fresh.

Kirishima plopped down beside him, cross-legged, taking one without hesitation. He opened the lid and, immediately, his mouth watered.

"Dude,” he groaned, picking up a piece of perfectly cooked chicken with his chopsticks. "You went all out.”

Bakugo shrugged, acting casual. "Just made extra of my own.”

Kirishima didn’t believe that for a second.

The food was too good, too fresh, too perfectly portioned for him. He didn’t even have to ask to know that Bakugo had cooked this with him in mind.

And really, that thought did things to him that he wasn’t ready to unpack.

So instead, he took a bite, closed his eyes, and let out a long, satisfied sigh.

Bakugo snorted. "You sound like an old man.”

Kirishima grinned, chewing happily. "Because this is the best thing I’ve eaten all week.”

A pause. Then, softer, Bakugo said, "Yeah, well. Good.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything else, the summer air settling around them, the sound of festival chatter still drifting faintly in the background.

Kirishima stretched his legs out, resting his weight on his hands, feeling the coolness of the grass against his palms. His stomach was full, his body tired but satisfied, and for the first time today, he felt like he could breathe.

Bakugo, sitting next to him, popped open the second container he had been carrying and pulled out neatly cut slices of watermelon.

Kirishima blinked. "No way.”

Bakugo glanced at him, unimpressed. "What?”

"You...” He gestured at the fruit, laughing in disbelief. "You even prepped watermelon?”

A small, barely-there shrug. "It’s hot.”

Kirishima grinned, grabbing a slice without hesitation. "You’re incredible.”

A snort. "Took you this long to figure that out?”

They ate in silence for a bit, laying back on the grass, staring up at the sky while the distant sounds of the festival carried on without them. The watermelon was sweet, cold, perfect, and Kirishima let himself sink into the moment, let himself enjoy the simple comfort of being here, like this.

Except, he couldn’t stop watching.

Couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting, from following the way Bakugo’s fingers curled around his slice, the way his teeth sank into the fruit, the way tiny droplets of watermelon juice slipped down his knuckles.

It wasn’t on purpose.

His eyes just kept catching, drawn back over and over, locked onto the sight like something in his brain had decided, yes, this is important, don’t look away.

Before he could stop himself, before he could even think about why this was happening, he wondered how it would taste directly from his skin.

And then, immediately, his entire body betrayed him.

A full-body reaction, the kind that started deep in his chest and spread outward, fast and uncontrollable. His fingers twitched, his throat felt tight, his mind went dangerously blank.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

He swallowed, tearing his eyes away, focusing hard on his own slice, biting down maybe a little too forcefully.

Because this was bad.

This was crossing lines, jumping fences, diving headfirst into something dangerous.

This was Bakugo, lying next to him in the grass, eating the food he had prepared, chewing on a slice of watermelon like it was just a normal night.

Like Kirishima wasn’t having a crisis over it.

And Bakugo had no idea that his hands were suddenly the only thing Kirishima could think about. That the taste of watermelon wasn’t even the problem anymore, because he wasn’t thinking about the fruit.

He was thinking about lips.

And Katsuki’s skin.

And how, if he just leaned in...

Nope.

Nope, nope, absolutely not.

He forced himself to take another bite, forced himself to focus on the festival lights in the distance, on anything else, on absolutely anything but the thought of licking watermelon juice from the fingers of his best friend.

Kirishima focused hard on the feeling of grass beneath his fingers, on the coolness of the air against his skin, on the sound of his own heartbeat that he was absolutely not overthinking.

Because nothing was happening.

Nothing weird, at least.

Just him and Bakugo, lying in the grass, eating slices of watermelon like they hadn’t just spent the whole day running around in festival chaos. Like Kirishima hadn’t just embarrassed himself internally over something as stupid as juice on Bakugo’s fingers.

It was fine.

He was fine.

Until Bakugo suddenly reached over, thumb brushing against Kirishima’s chin, and he froze. Didn’t breathe, didn’t move, didn’t do anything except exist in that exact second, completely helpless to the sensation of Bakugo’s skin against his own.

For a split second, it didn’t even register why it was happening.

And then Bakugo rubbed his thumb over the spot, a slow drag, before pulling back and muttering, "You had juice.”

Oh.

Right.

Juice.

Kirishima didn’t say anything, just watched, wide-eyed and completely ruined, as Bakugo wiped the remnants off on the leg of his jeans like it wasn’t the only thing in the entire universe he could focus on.

His stomach twisted itself into a knot, his pulse kicked up into something dangerously loud, and, for the love of god, why was this happening.

Bakugo had never touched him like that before.

Had never wiped something off his face so casually, so thoughtlessly, so effortlessly like it wasn’t sending Kirishima spiraling into a mental freefall.

His body refused to move on from the moment. His skin still felt it, still tingled from the ghost of Bakugo’s touch, and then, as if completely unaware of the absolute devastation he had just caused, he stood up, grabbed the empty bento boxes, the wrappers, the bag, and said, "Let's go back?"

Just like that.

Like nothing had happened.

Like Kirishima wasn’t currently fighting for his goddamn life.

It took a full three seconds for him to remember how to function, for his brain to restart long enough to nod and push himself up, still feeling the faint, phantom press of Bakugo’s thumb against his skin.

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, pretending nothing was weird.

"Yeah," he said, hoping his voice sounded normal. "Let's go."

And as they started walking back, Kirishima did the only thing he could, forced himself not to think about it.

Not about the touch, not about Bakugo's hands, and definitely not about how badly he wanted more.

FALL

Fall suited Bakugo.

The heat of summer had finally settled into something crisp and bearable, the air was cool but not biting, and everything around them was turning rich shades of orange and red.

It was the kind of weather that made Bakugo comfortable, not sweating through his clothes or pulling his sleeves over his hands for warmth. The kind of weather that let him breathe easy, that made him actually enjoy going outside.

And, as Kirishima had discovered last year, Bakugo fucking loved fall flavors.

Pumpkin lattes? He drank them without shame.

Ginger tea? Practically a ritual.

Anything with cinnamon? An immediate yes.

It was hilarious and kind of adorable, but Kirishima never teased him for it. Mostly because he liked watching Bakugo enjoy things.

So when Friday rolled around and Kirishima had the afternoon off, he made a decision.

Bakugo’s part-time job was at one of the coolest places on campus, a tiny, tucked-away vintage shop that had too much personality for its own good. The store was small and cluttered, packed with old band tees, rare records, beaten-up books with yellowing pages, and furniture that looked like it had been stolen straight from the '80s.

Kirishima had no idea how Bakugo had ended up working there.

But it fit him somehow.

Maybe because Bakugo had always been the type to appreciate things with a history. Maybe because he liked things that weren’t mass-produced, things with character, with longevity.

Or maybe because, and Kirishima would bet money on this one, the shop owner paid him in cash and didn’t ask questions.

When Kirishima walked through the door, the old bell above the entrance gave a sharp jingle, and the scent of dust, old books, and faint vanilla-scented candles wrapped around him.

And there, standing behind the counter, arms crossed, wearing a black long-sleeve shirt rolled up to the elbows, was Bakugo.

He didn’t even look up from the record he was flipping through.

"Took you long enough.”

Kirishima grinned, stepping further in. "You knew I was coming?”

A snort. "You get bored on Fridays. Could set a clock to it.”

Okay. Fair.

Kirishima pretended not to be pleased by that answer and made his way to the counter, eyeing the drink sitting next to Bakugo’s elbow.

It was a pumpkin latte.

"Dude,” Kirishima said, leaning on the counter with a lazy grin. "Fall’s really treating you well, huh?”

Bakugo finally looked up, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "Shut the hell up.”

Kirishima laughed. "I didn’t even say anything!”

"You were gonna.”

"Yeah, probably.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes, setting the record down and reaching for his drink. He took a slow sip, like he was daring Kirishima to comment.

Kirishima didn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to, he really did, but because he was too busy looking at Bakugo’s hands.

The way his fingers curled around the cup, the way the steam curled up near his face, the way the sleeves of his shirt were pushed up just enough to expose the veins running along his forearms.

Shit.

Kirishima looked away, realizing too late that he had stared for too long.

"Anyway,” he said, forcing his brain to restart. "Got any cool new stuff in?”

Bakugo huffed, but didn’t press him. "Depends on what you mean by cool. Kaminari came in yesterday and bought a bunch of old band shirts ‘cause he said they’d ‘enhance his aesthetic.’”

Kirishima laughed. "Did he at least buy a real band this time?”

"Nope.” Bakugo smirked. "Dude walked out with a Fleetwood Mac shirt and didn’t even know who they were.”

Kirishima shook his head, grinning. "Unbelievable.”

Bakugo picked up his drink again, took another sip, and then, just as casually, just as naturally as breathing, he said,

"Got some new jackets in. Your size.”

Something warm settled in Kirishima’s chest.

Because Bakugo never bought anything for himself. Not unless Kirishima begged him.

But somehow, he always remembered Kirishima’s size, and somehow, he always made sure there was something here for him.

He swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah? Might have to check those out.”

Bakugo didn’t respond, just nudged his cup slightly closer to Kirishima’s side of the counter.

The second Kirishima said he’d check out the jackets, he was already moving, stepping around the counter with the same sharp sense of purpose he brought to everything in life. His hands skimmed through the hangers with practiced ease, flipping through the options like he already knew exactly what he was looking for, like he had taken mental inventory long before Kirishima had even set foot in the store.

It took him less than ten seconds to find what he wanted.

"This one,” he said, pulling a jacket from the rack and holding it up with one hand, giving it a quick once-over before nodding, sure of himself. "This is so Eijiro.”

And just like that, Kirishima forgot how to breathe.

Not because of the jacket itself, though it was pretty damn cool. Black, just the right amount of distress, silver metal details that weren’t too much but still had enough personality to stand out. The kind of thing he would’ve picked out for himself.

But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was the way Bakugo said it, like he knew Kirishima’s style better than anyone else.

And, maybe he did.

Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck, ignoring the way something too warm, too dangerous curled under his ribs at the thought. "You think?”

Bakugo didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink. Just gave him a look that was equal parts unimpressed and matter-of-fact.

"Yes.”

And, yeah. Okay.

This was bad, because suddenly, he wasn’t just trying on a jacket.

Suddenly, he was standing in the middle of the store, slipping his arms through the sleeves like it was something serious, something stupidly important, like there was something else about this moment that he needed to get right.

The fabric settled over his shoulders, warm and surprisingly comfortable, fitting like it had been made for him. Kirishima ran his hands down the front, adjusting the way it sat, already liking the way it moved with him, the way it felt.

And when he glanced up, when he finally looked over, Bakugo was watching him.

Not in the usual way.

Not in a quick glance to make sure it fits kind of way.

Lingering.

A slow, dragging look, eyes catching on the way the jacket sat on Kirishima’s shoulders, the way the sleeves bunched just slightly at his wrists, the way he was standing there like he was waiting for something.

Just when he thought maybe, maybe he was imagining it, Bakugo hummed.

Quiet. Approving.

Something in Kirishima’s stomach tightened.

The sound barely lasted a second, but it did something that made him feel like his body wasn’t completely under his control anymore, because Bakugo had just looked at him like that, and now all he could think about was getting him to do it again.

His fingers curled slightly at his sides, pressing into the fabric, his pulse not quite normal.

Before he could even think about it, before he could stop himself and remember that he was currently living on a balance of instant noodles and discount meal deals...

"I’ll take it.”

Bakugo raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. "Yeah?”

Kirishima nodded, too quickly, too eager, feeling just slightly out of his own skin. "Yeah. I mean, it's perfect, right?”

Bakugo didn’t answer right away, just stared at him for a second longer than necessary before finally shrugging, turning toward the counter.

"Yeah,” he said, voice a little lower than usual. "Looks good on you.”

And Kirishima, knowing full well that this was a terrible, irresponsible decision, had never swiped his card so fast in his life.

Bakugo had not stopped complaining about this party for the last three days.

It had started with an angry rant about how Western holidays were a scam, then spiraled into a detailed explanation of how and where Halloween actually originated, and somehow Kirishima had managed to get him to come anyway.

Dressed as Jessie.

From Pokémon.

Which, according to Bakugo, was the worst decision of his life.

"This is so fucking stupid," he snapped for the fiftieth time, tugging at the short skirt like it physically pained him to be wearing it. "This whole holiday has nothing to do with Japan! You assholes are just looking for an excuse to act like idiots!"

Kirishima, fully dressed as James, blue wig and all, grinned as he adjusted his gloves. "And yet, here you are.”

Bakugo glared. "Only because you wouldn’t shut up about it."

Which, okay. Fair.

Kirishima had pushed pretty hard, but it wasn’t like he had forced Bakugo into anything. And honestly? The end result? Completely worth it.

Because Bakugo, against all odds, against his own relentless resistance, against every fiber of his stubborn being, looked fucking amazing.

It wasn’t even the skirt that was getting to him.

That part? Whatever. It was fine. It was funny. It was already causing enough chaos at the party that Kirishima had to physically stop Kaminari from taking pictures.

No, the real problem?

The top.

Because who the hell had designed this outfit?

And why had they made it cropped?

And why was it clinging to Bakugo like that?

Kirishima was suffering.

His entire existence had boiled down to not looking too long at the way the tight fabric hugged Bakugo’s chest, at the way his bare stomach flexed every time he moved, at the faint line of definition that disappeared beneath the skirt’s waistband.

And to make matters worse?

Mina was thrilled.

She bounced up beside them, cat whiskers painted on her face, fake ears perched proudly on her head, grinning like she had won the lottery.

"Guys,” she beamed, clapping her hands together, "we look so fucking good.”

"You should’ve been Jessie,” Bakugo grumbled, arms crossed as he scowled at his own existence. "Your hair is literally pink.”

Mina just cackled. "No way, babe. You’re perfect.”

Bakugo’s eye twitched. "Shut the hell up.”

Kirishima bit the inside of his cheek, fighting back a laugh. Because, honestly? Mina wasn’t wrong.

And if Bakugo was suffering now?

Well.

The night was just getting started, and the party was loud.

The kind of loud that made it impossible to think, the kind that pulsed through the floorboards and rattled the walls, shaking the windows like they weren’t meant to contain this much bad decision-making energy.

Kirishima had already lost his wig.

It lasted an hour, maybe less, before he ripped it off and tossed it onto a pile of coats in the corner, tired of feeling like his scalp was suffocating. Now, his real hair was messy and wild, slightly damp from sweat, a few strands sticking to his forehead as he took another sip from his half-finished beer.

He had drank a few already, just enough to feel that easy, warm looseness settle in his limbs, that familiar buzz in his veins. Not drunk, but definitely not sober.

Bakugo, on the other hand, was exactly the same.

Still grumpy.

Still standing beside him, arms crossed, expression deeply unimpressed as he scanned the sea of young, dumb, reckless college students making all the wrong decisions.

Mina was already long gone, disappearing into the mass of bodies on the dance floor, wholly committed to her own bad choices. Last Kirishima saw, she had been dancing with two girls at once, beaming, throwing her arms up like this was the best night of her life.

Which meant, for now, it was just the two of them.

Just Kirishima and Bakugo, hovering near the edge of the chaos, the kind of spot that let them see everything without fully being a part of it.

The party wasn’t slowing down. If anything, it was getting worse, louder, sweatier, filled with even more bad decisions than when they had first arrived. The entire apartment felt like it had been swallowed up by the heat of too many bodies, packed with students who were too drunk to care that they were shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing too loud, making choices they were absolutely going to regret in the morning.

The air was thick with the scent of cheap alcohol, spilled soda, and something sickly sweet from whatever questionable punch Kaminari had thrown together in the kitchen. The bass from the speakers was so deep that Kirishima could feel it in his bones, rattling his ribs like a heartbeat that wasn’t his own.

And through it all, Bakugo stood beside him, unmoving, unimpressed, and just as miserable as he had been since the moment they got here.

Kirishima had lost his wig a while ago, had tossed it somewhere in the growing pile of coats in the corner of the room, already tired of feeling like his scalp was suffocating. He was on his third beer, body warm with the pleasant buzz of alcohol, his limbs a little looser, a little lighter, but Bakugo? He was still the same.

Still standing there, arms crossed, glaring at every person who even remotely came too close, like his mere presence would be enough to ward them off.

And for the most part, it worked.

Except for her.

The second she walked up, Kirishima noticed her, bright-eyed, looking effortlessly pretty in her Sailor Moon costume, her skirt swaying as she moved with the confidence of someone who knew she was cute.

And she wasn’t looking at him.

She was looking at Bakugo.

Something tightened in Kirishima’s chest, a slow, twisting sensation that he didn’t know what to do with, something he didn’t even fully understand.

Not because she wasn’t flirting with him, but because she was flirting with Bakugo.

And yeah, sure, logically, this was bound to happen at some point.

People weren’t blind.

Anyone with a set of working eyes could tell that Bakugo was ridiculously good-looking, that he had the kind of face that belonged in some fancy magazine, all sharp angles and perfect bone structure, his scowl doing nothing to make him any less attractive.

Kirishima had always known this, had always been aware of it in some distant, detached way, in the same way people understood that the ocean was deep or that fire was hot.

But somehow, seeing someone actually act on it felt different.

And, he didn’t like it.

"Hey,” she said, smiling up at Bakugo in a way that made it very clear she was interested, her voice sweet but just a little teasing, a little playful, the kind of voice that people used when they wanted something. "Are you a Pikachu?”

Kirishima saw it happen in slow motion.

The moment Bakugo’s attention finally shifted, his red eyes flicking toward her with a look that was so unreadable it almost looked calculated, the weight of his gaze settling on her like he was trying to figure out what the hell she was talking about.

She giggled, shifting her weight slightly, the edges of her lips curling in something that wasn’t quite nervousness but wasn’t quite confidence either.

"Because you’re shockingly handsome.”

For a second, the music felt too loud.

Kirishima didn’t know why he was waiting for something to happen, didn’t know why he suddenly felt on edge, his grip tightening around his beer as he watched the exchange unfold.

Because Bakugo didn’t react.

Not a blink, not a twitch, not the faintest hint of amusement or even irritation.

Just silence.

A long, heavy, painfully drawn-out silence, the kind that practically hummed with secondhand embarrassment for everyone involved.

Kirishima had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

But at the same time, he was annoyed.

Annoyed at the fact that this girl, who seemed nice, who was clearly just trying to shoot her shot, was standing way too close, looking at Bakugo way too softly, clearly not deterred by his lack of reaction.

Annoyed that she was the first person he’d ever seen be brave enough to do it, because no one flirted with Bakugo.

At least, not in front of him.

But now, here she was, cute, confident, unafraid, standing in front of him in a damn Sailor Moon costume, still smiling, still holding her ground, still looking at him like she was trying to figure out how to crack him open.

"I mean,” she added, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "That was a pretty good pick-up line, right?”

Kirishima turned slightly, watching as Bakugo blinked once, his expression remaining entirely blank, and then, without saying a word, he just took a sip of his beer.

And that was it.

That was his answer.

No words, no acknowledgment, not even the courtesy of rejecting her outright. Just a long drink, like he was already moving on from this conversation in real-time.

Kirishima’s laughter slipped out before he could stop it.

It was small, quick, quiet, but it was definitely there, and Bakugo’s head snapped toward him immediately, his glare sharp enough to kill a man.

He was going to die, but at least he’d die knowing this was funny as hell.

The girl, however, was not discouraged.

She just laughed again, a little looser now, a little more comfortable, as if she had just decided that Bakugo’s complete lack of social cooperation was a challenge.

"You’re really intense, huh?” She said, tilting her head slightly, fingers playing with the hem of her skirt.

Bakugo let out a sharp exhale, clearly over this entire interaction, his patience already stretched too thin for someone who never had much of it to begin with.

"What do you want?” He asked, voice flat.

And Kirishima didn’t like the way she bit her lip at that.

Sailor Moon Girl wasn’t giving up.

If anything, she seemed more determined, her smile tilting into something more playful, her fingers still twisting in the hem of her skirt like she was thinking, recalculating, trying to figure out how to break through whatever wall Bakugo had thrown up between them.

Kirishima should have looked away. Should have pretended not to notice the way she leaned in, the way her voice dropped just enough to be coy without being desperate.

But instead, he just stood there, beer halfway to his lips, body tense in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol in his system.

Because, honestly?

He wanted to see how Bakugo would handle this.

"I mean,” she started again, her voice dipping into something lighter, more teasing, like it didn’t matter if she was rejected because she’d just shrug it off and move on. "You haven’t even let me introduce myself,” she said, like that was the key to unlocking his attention. "Maybe if you knew my name, you’d reconsider.”

Bakugo let out a short exhale. Not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff, something in between, something already exhausted despite the conversation barely lasting a minute.

Kirishima could see it happening in real time, the exact moment Bakugo decided he was going to be nice.

Well, nice for him.

His expression didn’t soften, but his posture shifted just slightly, shoulders losing their tension by a fraction, his fingers tapping against his beer before he spoke.

"I’m not interested,” he said, simple, to the point. Not cruel, not dismissive, just factual, like he was correcting her about something small, something that wasn’t up for debate. Because he just had to twist the knife a little deeper, "You should go try to catch another Pokémon or something.”

Kirishima choked on a laugh.

It wasn’t even a big laugh. More like a snort, a quick sound that slipped out before he could stop it, but it was loud enough.

Sailor Moon Girl heard it. Bakugo definitely heard it.

And when Bakugo’s red eyes flicked over, already irritated, Kirishima just grinned, taking a slow sip of his drink like this was the most entertaining thing that had happened all night.

"What?” He said, voice just a little too casual. "That was a good one.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes, turning away from both of them, already dismissing the entire conversation like it had never happened in the first place.

Sailor Moon Girl, to her credit, just laughed it off, shrugging one shoulder before lifting her hands in surrender. "Alright, I get it. No hard feelings.”

She turned to leave, but not before shooting Kirishima one last look, something just a little amused, and for some reason, he felt like she knew something he didn’t.

Kirishima watched as Sailor Moon Girl disappeared back into the crowd, her blonde wig bouncing slightly as she weaved through the mess of bodies, her presence fading into the party like she had never even been there in the first place.

And yet, something about it clung to the edges of Kirishima’s thoughts, lingered like a weight in his chest that he didn’t know how to shake off.

Instead of ignoring it, he just said the first thing that came to mind, the easiest thing, the thing that should have been harmless.

"She was cute.”

The words hung there for too long.

Not long enough to be uncomfortable, but just long enough to feel heavy in the air between them, just long enough for Kirishima to notice that he had expected it to pass unnoticed.

But then, Bakugo turned, his red eyes locked onto Kirishima, expression unreadable, his shoulders just tenser than they had been a second ago.

When he finally spoke, his voice wasn’t filled with the usual gruff exasperation or the dry irritation that he so often threw at the world when it frustrated him.

No, this was different.

This was harsher.

"So go talk to her."

Kirishima blinked, a split second of pure disorientation settling in his chest, a flicker of something he didn’t quite understand burning beneath his ribs.

Because for all of Bakugo’s intensity, for all of his sharp edges and jagged words, he was never like this.

Never with him.

Sure, Bakugo was blunt, he was the definition of brutally honest, unfiltered in a way that was sometimes exhausting, but never cruel. Not to Kirishima. Not ever.

And yet, there was something about the way he said it, something about the way his voice cut through the noise of the party, something about the way he refused to break eye contact, that felt off.

A crack in something that had never cracked before, like Bakugo himself didn’t even know why he was saying it.

Kirishima’s lips parted, a response forming, an attempt to pull the conversation back onto familiar ground, to make it lighter, to make it normal again.

But for the first time in his life, he had nothing to say, because what was he supposed to say?

That he hadn’t actually been thinking about the girl at all? That her presence had barely registered in his mind beyond the fact that she had been standing too close, flirting too boldly, and that all of his focus had been on something else entirely?

So instead, he did the only thing he could.

He forced out a small chuckle, tried to brush it off, tried to play it cool like something in his stomach wasn’t curling too tight, like something in his chest wasn’t pulling in a direction he didn’t understand.

"I don’t want to.” 

That should have been it.

That should have been where Bakugo rolled his eyes, called him an idiot, said something about wasting opportunities, and then let it go.

But he didn’t.

Instead, the blond let out a scoff, the kind that usually meant he was losing his patience with something.

Except, Kirishima wasn’t doing anything.

He wasn’t arguing, he wasn’t pushing back, he wasn’t giving him a reason to be irritated.

And yet, Bakugo still sounded like he was about to snap.

"Kaminari keeps saying you should find a girlfriend,” he said, taking a long sip of his beer, his grip around the bottle just slightly too firm. "Says a bunch of girls keep trying to confess to you, but they get scared because I’m always around.”

Kirishima frowned, the words hitting in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

"That’s...”

"So go,” he said, voice still sharp, still clipped, still so much harder than it needed to be. "Have fun. Find some titties to hold.”

That was what made everything snap into focus.

Not in anger, not in frustration, but in realization, because this wasn’t normal.

This wasn’t how Bakugo talked to him.

Kirishima should have left it alone.

Should have let Bakugo’s words slip into the noise of the party, let them drown under the weight of everything else happening around them, the music that was too loud, the laughter that was too easy, the drunken conversations happening in every corner of the room. Should have let the tension between them die where it started, left unspoken, just another moment they would brush aside and pretend had never happened.

Instead, words left his mouth before he could think too hard about them.

"I don’t want a girlfriend.”

The moment it was out, he knew.

Knew it wasn’t the answer Bakugo was looking for. Knew it didn’t explain anything, not the way he felt, not the way his skin was too hot, not the way something restless had been building inside of him for months now, waiting for something, waiting for him to figure out what the fuck he was supposed to do with it.

And he knew, without even needing to look, that Bakugo wouldn’t let it go.

Because of course he wouldn’t.

Not now.

Not when something in his posture was too rigid, too tight, too tense in a way that didn’t make sense. Not when his fingers were curled too tightly around his beer bottle, his jaw set just a little too firm, his eyes just a little too sharp.

And sure enough...

"Why?”

A single word. Low, demanding, cutting through the noise around them like it didn’t belong there at all.

Like it was meant for Kirishima alone.

And that was the problem.

He didn’t know why.

Or, he did.

He did, and he didn’t, and it sat just under the surface, pressing against the inside of his ribs, curling low in his stomach, making his pulse too fast, too unsteady, too much.

His mouth opened, then closed again.

Because what the hell was he supposed to say?

That girls weren’t the issue?

That he liked them, always had, probably always would?

That it wasn’t about that, not really, not even close?

That when he thought about what it would feel like to kiss someone, to want someone, to need someone, it hadn’t been a girl in a long time?

That when he was alone, when his mind was blank, when he wasn’t actively trying to think about anything at all, somehow, it always circled back to the same thing, the same person, the same sharp voice, the same red eyes, the same hands that always burned too hot?

How the fuck was he supposed to say any of that?

So instead, he just stood there, silent, caught in the space between too many things, body tense with the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

And Bakugo, who had never been patient a day in his life, took that silence for what it was, turned on his heel, and pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his skirt.

Kirishima watched him.

Watched the way Bakugo brought the cigarette to his lips, the way the filter settled between them so effortlessly, the way his fingers barely trembled as he flicked open his lighter.

But it wasn’t casual.

Because Bakugo hadn’t even drank enough for this.

This wasn’t the usual post-drunk cigarette, the one he always lit with lazy hands and half-lidded eyes, the one that always came with a smirk and a slow, drawn-out exhale.

This was something else.

And Kirishima noticed.

Not before Bakugo lit the cigarette.

Not before he took the first slow drag.

But before any of that, before he even brought the flame to the tip.

His hands were shaking.

Barely.

Almost nothing.

But they were.

And Kirishima, who had spent years memorizing every version of Bakugo, had never seen that before.

Something in him moved before he could stop it.

A step closer than before, closer than he should be.

Before he could think, before he could second-guess his own body, his own impulses, the restless heat curling in his gut, he reached up, plucked the cigarette from Bakugo’s fingers, and brought it to his own mouth.

The lighter was still in Bakugo’s hand.

He didn’t need it.

The cigarette was already burning.

And Kirishima, who had never smoked before, who had never wanted to smoke before, who had spent his life watching Bakugo make it look like something sharp, something effortless, something unreasonably attractive, took a single drag.

It wasn’t sexy.

It wasn’t effortless.

It wasn’t like the way Bakugo did it, like it belonged to him, like it had always been a part of who he was.

It was just Kirishima, standing there, dragging something bitter into his lungs, holding his breath like he was waiting for something to happen.

And when he exhaled, when the taste of it sat thick on his tongue, dry and unfamiliar, he realized the cigarette wasn’t the thing making him feel like this.

Because Bakugo was looking at him.

Really looking at him.

Not irritated. Not amused. Not even angry anymore.

Just watching.

Without a word, he reached up, took the cigarette from between Kirishima’s lips, and put it between his own.

Kirishima swore he felt it.

The moment Bakugo’s mouth pressed against the same place his had been seconds before, the moment the heat curling low in his stomach turned into something thicker, heavier, something he didn’t know how to name.

Bakugo inhaled.

Slow.

Then he exhaled, right in Kirishima’s face.

A slow stream of smoke curling through the air between them, warm and thick and too much, too close, too intimate in a way that Kirishima didn’t know how to handle.

Bakugo’s brows were furrowed, but his expression was unreadable, his lips just slightly parted as he blew the last of the smoke into the space between them.

Like he was daring Kirishima to react.

And Kirishima, for the life of him couldn’t do a damn thing.

Couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t ignore the way his pulse was hammering against his ribs, couldn’t pretend that this wasn’t exactly what it was.

His mouth felt dry. His chest was too tight. Everything in him was coiling, winding, twisting up into something that had no name.

And then, finally, finally, finally, Bakugo spoke.

"You’re so fucking weird.”

His voice was lower than usual. Rougher.

And Kirishima, with absolutely no clue what the hell was happening anymore, with absolutely no way to fix the mess they had just walked into, just laughed.

The laundromat on campus had never been this empty, at least not when Kirishima had been here before.

During the day, it was always packed, a mess of students fighting for the last available machines, people running back and forth between classes and part-time jobs, others hovering impatiently near the dryers, waiting for their clothes to finish tumbling so they could fold them on the metal countertops that were always just a little too cold. Someone was always forgetting their detergent and begging strangers for a scoop, and the air was thick with the sounds of hushed conversations, loud music blasting from someone’s phone, the occasional frustrated groan from a person who realized they had mixed colors with whites.

But at three in the morning?

The place was a ghost town.

Dim fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting the room in a pale, almost eerie glow, making everything feel colder, more surreal. The only sounds left were the rhythmic hum of the washing machines, the occasional click of the dryers, and the quiet rustling of pages being turned.

The smell of detergent still lingered, that familiar warmth of freshly cleaned clothes clashing against the crisp night air that filtered in through the barely cracked-open window near the back.

Kirishima took a slow sip from his peach-flavored juice, the artificial sweetness thick on his tongue. He had forgotten about it for weeks, shoved into the tiny freezer in his dorm room, left untouched until earlier that night when he had realized it was on the verge of expiring. And even now, as he stood there, sipping it lazily, watching the neon liquid swirl inside the bottle, he wasn’t even sure if he liked the taste anymore.

Still, it was better than thinking about how weird this night had turned out.

Because right now, Bakugo was sitting on the floor.

Not leaning against anything, not even using his bag as a cushion, just sitting there, cross-legged, as if he had decided this was the most comfortable place to be, like sitting on the hard linoleum at an ungodly hour was completely normal.

A book rested open in his hands, the pages slightly worn from too much flipping, thin-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, slipping down ever so slightly every time he looked down. His hoodie was oversized, loose and heavy around his frame, the sleeves bunched at his wrists, but the hood was down, leaving his hair messy from where he had probably run his fingers through it too many times.

It was so casual, so unguarded, a stark contrast to the way Bakugo usually held himself, always alert, always tense, like he was bracing himself for something to happen.

But right now? Right now, he was just sitting there, completely lost in whatever he was reading, and Kirishima couldn’t stop looking at him.

Maybe it was the glasses, maybe it was the way his fingers turned the pages slowly, like he wasn’t just studying for an exam but actually interested in whatever complicated, scientific, explosion-related thing he was reading, or maybe it was because everything felt different at this hour.

Normally, he was out by midnight, like his body was programmed to shut down at the same time every night, as if sleep was just another task to complete on his endless list of things to do, but not tonight.

Tonight, he was awake, and sitting on the laundromat floor, hoodie hanging loose around his shoulders, red eyes scanning over words that Kirishima wouldn’t have the patience to understand.

Kirishima took another sip of his juice, trying not to think about how easy it would be to sit down next to him, how easy it would be to lean into that warmth, how stupidly tempting it was to push up the sleeves of that hoodie and feel how warm his skin was underneath.

Instead, he cleared his throat, "You usually sleep at this time.”

Bakugo didn’t look up. "Usually,” he said, uninterested, as he turned a page.

Kirishima frowned. "But not today?”

A beat.

Then Bakugo sighed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger, his shoulders shifting as he adjusted his posture. "Had to study.”

Kirishima hummed, watching the way Bakugo’s lips barely moved as he spoke, the way his brows furrowed slightly like he was still half-distracted by the words on the page.

"We both did,” he pointed out, shifting his weight against the washing machine. "Doesn’t explain why you’re still awake now.”

Bakugo finally glanced up at him, barely a flicker of movement, just his gaze sliding over the top of his book, expression unreadable, like he was debating whether or not Kirishima was worth answering.

"Couldn’t sleep.”

And somehow, that made something in Kirishima’s chest pull, because Bakugo was never outright vulnerable. Even when he was exhausted, even when he was barely holding it together, he always made it sound like it was on purpose, like it was his choice to be tired, like it was just another thing he could control.

But this?

This wasn’t that. Couldn’t sleep, like something had been sitting in his head for too long, keeping his body from shutting down.

Kirishima didn’t try to figure out what was running through Bakugo’s mind that was enough to keep him awake when he should have been asleep hours ago. Instead, he just set his juice down on top of the washing machine, let the silence stretch between them for another second before he moved without thinking.

He slid down to the floor next to Bakugo, close, too close, their shoulders barely brushed, just the faintest press of warmth, but it was enough to make his heart pick up a little faster, enough to make his stomach feel just a little too tight, enough to make him wonder if he had made a mistake.

Bakugo didn’t react, and somehow, that was worse, because now Kirishima was just sitting here, pretending like he wasn’t thinking about it, like he wasn’t hyper-aware of how close they were, like he wasn’t losing his mind over the way the edges of Bakugo’s hoodie were barely brushing his wrist.

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his palms over his knees, trying to get his brain to slow the fuck down.

"So,” he said, clearing his throat, forcing himself to sound normal. "What’re you reading?”

Bakugo turned another page, barely glancing at him. "Chemical reactivity of unstable compounds.”

Kirishima made a face. "Dude, it’s three in the morning.”

Bakugo snorted, the smallest flicker of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, and?”

Kirishima huffed, shaking his head, and he hadn’t expected an explanation.

Most of the time, when Bakugo read about shit Kirishima didn’t understand, he didn’t bother explaining. Didn’t care if people didn’t get it, didn’t waste his time breaking it down for them, but this time, for whatever reason, maybe because it was late, maybe because they were both too tired to put up walls, maybe because Kirishima was sitting just a little too close and Bakugo could feel the weight of his attention on him, he actually answered.

"Chemical reactivity," Bakugo started, flipping the page without looking away from the words, "is basically just how unstable something is. How easy it is to set off. How much energy it needs before it reacts."

Kirishima took another sip of his juice, letting the sound of Bakugo’s voice fill the empty space around them.

He could have left it at that. Could have given Kirishima the short answer, the basic explanation, and gone back to reading, but he didn’t.

Instead, he kept going deeper, drawing the words out slow, like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Some materials need a shit-ton of heat before anything happens, they won’t react unless you really push them. High activation energy. Means they’re stable, hard to ignite, hard to make them change."

Kirishima hummed, pretending to focus on the actual science instead of the way Bakugo’s lips shaped around the words.

"And then," Bakugo went on, tilting his head, letting the light from the shitty laundromat bulbs catch in his glasses, making his eyes brighter, a little more dangerous, "you’ve got unstable compounds. The kind that don’t need much at all, the kind that go off at the slightest touch, the slightest change in temperature, the slightest shift in pressure." His voice dropped. "The ones that just sit there, waiting," Bakugo continued, fingers tapping idly against the book, as if he was thinking about something else entirely, "until the right condition comes along..."

He turned another page, not looking at Kirishima at all, but feeling him, knowing exactly what he was doing.

"And then they fucking explode."

Kirishima swallowed, hard.

Because, what the fuck? It wasn’t fair. Bakugo should not have been able to make a goddamn science lecture sound like that, like he was talking about something else entirely.

Kirishima blinked, his throat dry, fingers flexing against his knee, trying not to react, and to ignore the way his skin was suddenly too hot, too tight, too aware of how close they were.

But then, the real problem, because when he looked back at Bakugo, when he finally let himself glance over, he caught something he definitely wasn’t supposed to see.

Bakugo’s gaze.

On his mouth.

Lingering.

Just for a second. Just long enough for something to crack open between them, for the air to shift, for Kirishima’s pulse to hammer against his ribs, for his breath to catch in his throat.

And then, the washing machine beeped, loud, shrill, cutting through the air like a warning shot.

Kirishima jolted slightly, blinking hard, the sudden noise snapping everything back into place, shoving them both back into reality.

Bakugo didn’t move, didn’t even pretend to notice what just happened. He just turned the page, exhaled slowly, and went back to reading, like he hadn’t just spent a full second staring at Kirishima’s mouth like he was considering something.

And Kirishima, still too warm, still too aware, still gripping his knees like he needed something to hold onto, pretended he didn’t notice.

He just stood up to get his laundry.

WINTER

Winter had arrived with no mercy.

The wind bit at Kirishima’s face, his fingers already numb despite being shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, breath coming out in short, visible puffs as he trudged through the streets, half-awake and shivering.

It was too early for this.

Working at the pet shop was something he loved, but waking up before sunrise, stepping out into the freezing morning, walking a few streets in the bitter cold just to get there, that was the part that sucked.

The city wasn’t awake yet. The usual buzz of people moving, cars honking, conversations spilling onto the sidewalks, it wasn’t there. Just the occasional delivery truck rolling past, the sound of shoes crunching against frozen pavement, the sharp gusts of wind howling through empty alleys.

By the time he reached the shop, his ears were burning from the cold, and even though Kirishima didn’t usually get cold, was built for warmer weather, always ran a little too hot, today, it was impossible to ignore.

The bell above the door jingled softly as he stepped inside, the blast of warm air immediately hitting his face, thawing the ice in his bones just a little.

Kouda was already there, standing near the back, quietly refilling the food bowls for the rabbits, hands gentle and practiced, face calm in that soft, peaceful way that always made Kirishima feel like the world wasn’t such a chaotic place after all.

Kirishima exhaled, shaking the cold from his limbs as he shut the door behind him, glancing around at the sleepy shop. The animals were still waking up, some curling deeper into their bedding, others blinking drowsily as the first hints of morning light filtered through the windows.

He flexed his fingers, still stiff from the cold, before pulling out his phone, scrolling absentmindedly as he made his way toward the small back room where he kept his work clothes.

And then, he saw it.

A message from Bakugo.

Sent at 5:27 AM.

Which, what the hell?

Bakugo wasn’t awake at this time.

Kirishima stopped walking, frowning slightly as he tapped on the notification, rubbing his thumb over his frozen nose as the message popped up on screen.

Bakugo: Wear more layers, dumbass.

Kirishima blinked. Then read it one more time, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

Wear more layers.

Like Bakugo had somehow known, had somehow sensed that Kirishima was freezing his ass off on the way to work, like he had been thinking about him before the sun even came up, before Kirishima had even started his shift, before he even had the chance to complain about how cold it was.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating for a second too long before he finally started typing back.

Kirishima: you up this early just to tell me that?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Bakugo: Shut up.

And Kirishima, standing there in the back of the pet shop, cheeks still red from the cold, toes still numb in his shoes, warmth finally creeping back into his body after the long, freezing walk...

Did not stop smiling for the rest of his shift.

The morning passed slowly, the shop warming up as the hours ticked by, but Kirishima’s fingers stayed just a little too cold, just a little too stiff as he worked. The rabbits huddled together in their enclosures, the puppies curled up in soft piles of warmth, and even the cats, normally indifferent, normally too proud to acknowledge the cold, were curled up in patches of sunlight, tails tucked neatly over their noses.

Kirishima had warmed up a little, but his toes were still numb, his breath still visible whenever he stepped outside to take out the trash, and by the time his shift was almost over, he was already mentally preparing for the walk back to his dorm, for the inevitable chill seeping into his bones again.

The bell above the door jingled.

He barely looked up at first, half expecting a customer, or maybe Kouda coming back in after a break, but then he heard it, the sharp stomp of boots against the mat, the familiar rustle of someone shaking off the cold.

And when he turned around, Bakugo was standing there.

Holding a cup of hot chocolate from the good coffee shop, the one they only went to when something important happened, when there was something to celebrate, when they felt like spending a little extra on something that actually tasted good.

And Kirishima, for a solid five seconds, forgot how to breathe, because Bakugo looked ridiculous.

Ridiculously cute.

Wearing too many layers, bundled up in a heavy winter coat, scarf wrapped tight around his neck, thick gloves covering his hands, his hood pulled up over messy blonde hair, and his nose...

God. His nose.

Red from the cold, just slightly pink at the tip, his cheeks flushed from the biting wind, his breath coming out in short little puffs that made him look so soft, so warm, so goddamn kissable that Kirishima had to physically stop himself from leaning forward.

Instead, he swallowed, hard, forcing himself to focus on something else, anything else, as he cleared his throat, trying not to let his voice crack.

"The hell are you doing here?” He asked, because that was safer than saying literally anything else.

Bakugo huffed, shaking the snow from his sleeves before stomping his way over, shoving the cup into Kirishima’s hands without even looking at him. "Shitty weather," he said, voice rougher than usual, lower from the cold. "Figured you’d still be freezing your dumbass off."

Kirishima blinked down at the cup, fingers wrapping instinctively around the warmth, the rich scent of chocolate hitting him immediately. "Wait," he said, grinning before he could stop himself, "you brought me hot chocolate?"

"Shut up."

Kirishima laughed, shaking his head as he took a slow sip, letting the warmth seep into his chest, into the frozen parts of him that hadn’t thawed out yet.

It was good. Not just because the chocolate was rich and smooth, not just because it came from the expensive coffee shop, but because Bakugo had woken up, left his dorm, walked all the way here in the freezing cold, bundled up in layers he probably hated, just to hand Kirishima a cup of hot chocolate without saying a word about it.

Kirishima felt his heart lodge itself somewhere in his throat, but instead of letting himself acknowledge whatever this feeling was, whatever the hell was sitting between them, he just smirked, nudging Bakugo’s arm.

"You got class soon?"

Bakugo grumbled something under his breath, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "Not ‘til later."

Kirishima hummed, glancing at the clock. His shift was basically over.

"Then let’s walk," he said, grabbing his bag from the back room, still holding onto the cup like it was something precious, something he wasn’t ready to let go of yet. "I got class in the evening too."

Bakugo didn’t argue, he just exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl in the cold air as they stepped outside together, boots crunching against the thin layer of frost covering the sidewalk.

And as they walked, side by side, shoulders almost touching, the world cold and biting around them but somehow not feeling so bad anymore, Kirishima let himself take one more glance at Bakugo.

Let himself look at his flushed cheeks, at the tip of his nose, red from the cold, at the way he kept tugging his scarf higher, like he wasn’t used to wearing this many layers.

Let himself think, just for a second, just for a moment too long, that he really, really wanted to kiss him.

Kirishima sat on the edge of Mina’s bed, a towel draped around his shoulders, the sharp scent of hair dye filling the tiny dorm room as she worked, hands moving fast and practiced through his hair.

She had been retouching his color for months now, ever since he figured out he couldn’t be trusted to do it himself without turning his bathroom into a murder scene, and Mina, bright, talented, dangerously good at convincing people to do stupid things, had never once let him down.

He sat still as she combed through his roots, fingers deft and careful, coating each section with dye, humming some pop song under her breath as she worked.

The dorm heater was on full blast, filling the room with a stuffy warmth that made him a little drowsy, a little too comfortable, a little too willing to let the thoughts in his head spill out without thinking.

So when he spoke, it was casual, like it was just another part of their usual conversation.

"You like girls, right?"

Mina hummed, focused, not looking up from her work.

"I do."

Kirishima nodded, like that was all he needed to know, but then, before he could stop himself, before he could overthink it, he asked, "But you're, like only into girls?"

The words felt too heavy the second they left his mouth, not because of the question itself, because it was normal, right? Just curiosity. But because of the way his own chest tightened slightly, the way his fingers curled a little too tightly around the towel draped over his lap.

Mina paused for a fraction of a second, not long enough to mean anything.

And then, completely unbothered, completely herself, completely Mina, "Only into cuties."

Kirishima blinked.

Mina kept working, unfazed, not even looking at him as she said it, and for some reason, that answer lodged itself deep in his chest, settled there, something that felt a little too much like understanding. He didn’t know why he had expected Mina to say something different. Didn’t know what he had been waiting for, what kind of response would have made him feel any less like the ground underneath him had shifted.

But it had, because it was so simple, so easy, so fucking obvious when she said it like that, like it was just a fact, just a thing she had figured out, just a thing she had accepted about herself without hesitation.

Mina hummed, rubbing the dye deeper into his roots, her voice lighter than the weight in his chest, untouched by the way his own thoughts had suddenly tangled themselves into knots.

"For a while, I thought I liked guys, too,” she said, casually, like she was telling him about a dream she had once, like it wasn’t a big deal at all. "Took me a bit to figure out I didn’t.” She tapped his cheek, barely a press of her finger against his skin, careful not to smudge any of the dye. "But, y’know,” she continued, shrugging, "it would’ve been okay if I did.”

Kirishima’s breath hitched, just slightly, just enough for him to notice it. He swallowed, too slow, too aware of the way those words settled in the space between them.

Mina just grinned, her eyes flicking toward him for a second before she went back to her work, her tone playful, teasing, but not dismissive.

"Bisexuality’s a thing, you know.”

And just like that, something clicked in Kirishima’s head.

Something that had been half-formed, half-understood, lingering in the back of his mind for months, maybe longer, something he had never quite put into words.

Because, yeah.

Yeah, he liked girls. He liked their smiles, their perfume, their soft hands and bright eyes, the way they laughed when he said something dumb, the way they pulled him into hugs so easily.

But that wasn’t all he liked, that had never been all he liked.

Because when he thought about his heart racing for no reason, when he thought about the way his stomach twisted, when he thought about the feeling of wanting, really wanting, he thought about Bakugo.

He thought about red eyes flicking toward his mouth.

He thought about a cigarette being passed between them, lips pressing over the same filter.

He thought about the soft glow of a laundromat at three in the morning, the heat of someone’s shoulder pressed against his own, the low drawl of a voice explaining something that shouldn’t have sounded as good as it did.

He thought about hot chocolate being shoved into his hands on a freezing morning, the pink tip of a cold nose, the urge to kiss it just because he could.

And, fuck.

Fuck.

Mina didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t push. Didn’t press. Didn’t act like this was a big, earth-shattering revelation.

Just kept working, kept humming, kept running her fingers through his hair, letting him sit with his own thoughts.

Because, in the end, it really was that simple.

Winter break had always been something Kirishima looked forward to, something that felt natural, familiar, like stepping into a warm bath after standing in the cold too long.

A few weeks at home, just him and his mom, the air inside the house thick with the smell of fresh food, the familiar weight of home wrapping around him, softer, easier than the ever-moving, never-quiet rhythm of the city. The streets were calmer here, a little slower, the winter air sharp but not unbearable, crisp enough to wake him up, to remind him that this place was where he had always come back to.

And for some reason, this year, he had assumed Bakugo would be doing the same.

He had figured, without thinking too much about it, without even asking first, that at the very least, Bakugo would get a few days off, that he would take the time to go home, see his family, get nagged by his mom about his diet or his grades or something stupid like that. That he would come back after the break, complaining about whatever ridiculous Christmas tradition he had been forced into, groaning about spending too much time with his parents, his room feeling too small after living on his own.

That he would be gone, just like Kirishima would be gone.

But when he had asked, casually, like it wasn’t a big deal, like it was just a passing thought and not something that had been sitting in the back of his mind for the past week, when he had thrown out an invitation to come home with him instead, because why the hell not, because his mom wouldn’t care, because it wasn’t like Bakugo had anything better to do, Bakugo had just shook his head.

And Kirishima, who had known him long enough to pick apart the layers of silence he hid behind, who had memorized the way his voice shifted when he didn’t want to talk about something, who had always been able to tell when Bakugo was brushing him off, had immediately felt something sink inside his chest.

"Enjoy your time with your mom," Bakugo had said, eyes still trained on the book in his hands, not looking up, not giving him anything, not making this a conversation.

Kirishima had waited, had given him a moment, waiting for a better excuse, for something that actually made sense, for some kind of half-hearted insult about how stupid it would be for him to invite Bakugo to his house like they were middle schoolers, but there was nothing.

Just a shrug, a quiet sigh, the faintest flicker of something in red eyes that didn’t quite make it to his expression.

"My parents are out of the country," Bakugo had finally admitted, after a beat too long, after Kirishima had stared at him for just a little longer than he should have. "Work shit," he had added, as if that was enough, as if that was all the explanation needed, as if that made everything completely normal. "So what’s the point of going home?"

And what the hell was Kirishima supposed to say to that?

Because Bakugo had said it so simply, so plainly, like it wasn’t even a real thing to consider, like the idea of spending the holidays alone didn’t register as anything unusual, and that was the worst part.

Not that he would be alone, but that he didn’t even seem to care.

Kirishima had wanted to push, had wanted to grab him by the sleeve and shake some sense into him, tell him that just because his parents were away didn’t mean he had to spend Christmas locked in his dorm, that there was more to going home than just his family, that he should come with him, just for a few days, just so he wouldn’t be stuck in an empty apartment, in an empty room, with nothing but a pile of books to keep him company.

But he didn’t, because Bakugo had already made up his mind, so Kirishima went home, and he enjoyed it.

He really, really did.

The first few days had been exactly what he needed, slow mornings with his mom, homemade food that tasted like childhood, warm tea pressed into his hands while they watched variety shows on TV, the city a little smaller, a little softer, a little easier to breathe in.

His bed still smelled the same. His walls were still covered in posters of old bands, little pieces of the past he had left behind but never really gotten rid of, everything was the way it had always been.

But.

Something was missing, because every time he reached for his phone, every time he scrolled through his messages, every time he saw Bakugo’s name sitting at the top of his inbox, he hesitated, every time something funny happened, every time his mom made a joke, every time he found himself laughing at something dumb, his first instinct was to tell Bakugo, every time he lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet sounds of his house settling, he wondered what it would have been like if Bakugo had come with him.

And fuck, that was stupid, right? Because he had spent winter breaks without him before, and it had never felt like this.

But it did now, and he didn’t know what to do with that, so he did the only thing that made sense: he bought Bakugo a Christmas gift.

Not because he had planned to, but because he had been wandering through the shops downtown with his mom, picking out last-minute gifts, hands full of shopping bags, trying not to think too hard about the weight sitting heavy in his chest. Without realizing it, without hesitating, without even thinking, he saw it, and he thought of Bakugo.

And then he was walking back home with it tucked neatly into one of the bags, still trying to tell himself that this wasn’t a big deal, that this was just something normal, that this was just a thing friends did. And then he was sitting at the kitchen table, wrapping it up in dark red paper, tying a neat little ribbon around it, staring down at the box like it would somehow give him answers. And then he was holding it in his hands, feeling the weight of it, feeling the weight of everything, realizing that this wasn’t about the gift.

That it was about the fact that he missed him.

Really, really fucking missed him.

Kirishima had planned to go back to Tokyo in the afternoon. It made sense, one last slow morning at home, one more meal with his mom before heading back, one more chance to soak in the quiet before throwing himself back into the city, back into the constant movement of trains and people and responsibilities, but when his mom mentioned, casually, over breakfast, in the way that moms always did when they assumed something wasn’t a big deal, that she was going to visit a friend later that day, Kirishima had hesitated for all of five seconds before deciding there was no real reason to stay.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t already itching to go back.

So he packed his things, zipped up his bag, made sure he hadn’t left anything behind, grabbed the single, neatly wrapped gift that had been sitting on his desk for the past two days, the only thing he carried carefully, the only thing that stayed on his lap the entire trip, as if letting it out of his hands would somehow make it disappear.

Then he was on the train, then back in Tokyo, then stepping off onto the platform, pulling his coat tighter around himself as the cold city air hit his face.

It was still early, Campus was quiet, winter break still keeping most students away, the streets not yet as crowded as they usually were. He could have gone straight to his dorm, could have dropped off his bags, taken a nap, pushed back seeing Bakugo for at least a few hours.

But he didn’t even think about it.

Instead, he tossed his bag onto his bed without even bothering to unpack, grabbed Bakugo’s gift from where he had set it down, careful, always careful, and left his room again, heading straight to Bakugo’s hallway, feet moving like they already knew where they were supposed to go.

And then, he saw it.

The door to Bakugo’s dorm cracked open just enough for someone to step through.

A guy.

Tall.

Handsome.

Tanned skin, messy hair, the sharp lines of his jaw still a little soft from sleep.

He was pulling a hoodie over his bare chest, shoulders rolling as he adjusted the fabric, his movements slow, casual, familiar.

And Kirishima froze, because sure, sure, this could be anything. A classmate, maybe. A friend crashing for the night. Someone who had needed a place to stay, someone who had fallen asleep on Bakugo’s floor, someone who had gotten too drunk and stumbled into his bed, but that wasn’t how Bakugo worked.

That wasn’t who Bakugo was.

Bakugo didn’t do sleepovers. Didn’t let Kirishima crash in his bed, didn’t even let him linger too long in his space before snapping at him to get lost. Bakugo had never slept over at his dorm, had never treated him like anything more than the one person he could tolerate, the one person who got to be close without question, the one person who didn’t get shut out. And Bakugo, for all his blunt, sharp-edged, untouchable personality, didn’t have friends.

Not really.

Not the kind that showed up at his dorm at night and left in the morning, stretching lazily as they threw on a hoodie, movements slow, satisfied.

And Kirishima, for all the things he wasn’t willing to say, for all the things he hadn’t let himself think about too hard, for all the things he had spent the past few weeks trying not to acknowledge, wasn’t fucking stupid.

He knew what this was.

A walk of shame.

And somehow, that was worse than anything he could have imagined, because it was so obvious, so casual, so completely normal for this guy to be here, for him to be pulling on his hoodie in the middle of Bakugo’s hallway, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes like this was something he did all the time.

And Kirishima, standing there, still holding onto Bakugo’s gift like it meant something, like it was going to change something, felt like an idiot.

He didn’t leave.

He should have turned around, walked the other way, let his feet carry him anywhere but here, anywhere but this goddamn hallway, standing frozen in place like a fool, still gripping the neatly wrapped gift like it meant something, like it hadn’t just been reduced to the most pathetic thing in the world.

But he stayed long enough for the silence to stretch between him and the door, long enough for the guy, the tall, tanned, effortlessly attractive stranger with sleep still clinging to his movements, to disappear down the hallway, footsteps echoing in the empty space between them. Stayed long enough to realize that his breath had shallowed out, that his fingers had curled too tight around the edges of the ribbon, that something inside him had just cracked wide open.

As if the universe wasn’t done with him yet, the bathroom door across the hall opened, and there he was.

Bakugo, fresh out of the shower, his hair damp, his skin flushed from the heat, wearing an old hoodie with the hood pushed back, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, sneakers already laced, ready for his morning run, ready for his usual routine, ready to walk out the door like this was just another day.

Then he saw him, and he stopped. Bakugo never stopped. Not for anything, not for anyone, but he did now, because the second their eyes met, the second Bakugo registered Kirishima standing there, the second he put the pieces together, the second he realized that if Kirishima was here now, still standing in the same spot, still gripping something in his hands, still looking like he had just seen something he wasn’t supposed to see, he knew.

And Kirishima saw the way Bakugo’s posture shifted, barely noticeable to anyone who didn’t know him as well as Kirishima did, just enough to let Kirishima know that he had put it together immediately. If it had been a second, a single fleeting moment, Bakugo might have thought he had only just arrived, might have assumed he had missed it, might have given him the benefit of ignorance, but it had been longer than that.

Long enough for him to know.

Bakugo’s face didn’t change. Didn’t twitch, didn’t shift, didn’t show anything close to guilt, because there was no guilt to be found.

He didn’t wince, didn’t look away, didn’t offer an explanation.

He just looked at him.

And Kirishima, who had known Bakugo for almost two years now, who had memorized the way he carried himself, the way he scowled at nothing, the way his sharp edges softened in ways he never let anyone see, for the first time, he had no idea what the hell was going on in his head.

He had always thought he understood Bakugo.

Had always assumed that whatever Bakugo didn’t talk about, whatever he didn’t bring up, whatever parts of his life he kept to himself, were things he simply didn’t care about, things he didn’t want, things that weren’t a part of who he was.

They had never talked about this kind of thing. Never sat down and had an honest conversation about who they liked, what they wanted, what they had done or dreamed of doing. And Kirishima, for some completely unfounded, naive, fucking stupid reason, had just assumed that Bakugo didn’t do casual.

That Bakugo didn’t do sex.

That Bakugo didn’t do guys.

But he had been wrong, because there had been a guy in his dorm this morning, with the easy movements of someone who had spent the night exactly where they wanted to be. Because Bakugo hadn’t looked at Kirishima like he owed him an explanation, that was nothing to explain, really, because this was normal.

And he was still holding that stupid fucking present, so he did the only thing he could: he forced a grin; too wide, too stiff, not right, not real, not even close to convincing, but it was all he had.

"Hey,” he said, voice rougher than he wanted, like something had gotten lodged in his throat.

Bakugo didn’t answer right away, he didn’t even drop his gaze from Kirishima’s face, and he hated that this was the first time Bakugo had looked at him like he didn’t know what he was supposed to say.

But then, finally, after too many seconds, after the tension had curled so thick between them that Kirishima thought he might choke on it, Bakugo exhaled, like he was giving him one chance to fix this, one chance to pretend this moment didn’t happen, one chance to step back before they crossed a line they couldn’t uncross.

"What the hell are you doing back early?”

Kirishima, who had spent months knowing exactly how to joke with Bakugo, how to navigate his moods, how to keep things light when they needed to be light, jumped at the chance to let it go.

Shrugged, lifted the gift just slightly, the pit in his stomach still pressing deep, still lingering. "I'm helping Santa Claus."

Bakugo snorted, shaking his head, not even a real laugh, just a forced exhale through his nose. "You're not even Christian."

That was it, that was the moment they decided, silently, without saying it outright, that they were going to pretend like things were normal. That whatever had just passed between them, whatever had curled in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating, whatever had made Bakugo pause, whatever had made Kirishima’s stomach twist, wasn't going to be addressed.

Maybe that was for the best, because they weren’t walking toward Bakugo’s bedroom like they usually would. They weren’t falling into the usual rhythm, weren’t stepping inside, weren’t tossing their coats onto the floor, weren’t leaning against Bakugo’s desk, weren’t pulling up something dumb on Kirishima’s phone while Bakugo groaned about whatever stupid video he was being forced to watch.

They weren’t acting like this was just any other day, because Kirishima couldn’t go in there, couldn’t look at the bed, at the messy sheets, at whatever was left behind, whatever the space still smelled like.

Couldn’t pretend that it wouldn’t fucking kill him.

So instead, they walked in silence. Down the hall, through the building, out into the cold, without another word, without another glance, without acknowledging that neither of them had suggested where they were going, because they always ended up at the same shitty coffee shop when things felt off, when things needed time to settle.

And today, everything was wrong, so they went. Boots crunching against pavement, hands shoved deep in coat pockets, breath visible in the frozen air, Bakugo still looking straight ahead, Kirishima still gripping the stupid fucking gift like it was the only thing keeping him together.

And neither of them said a word.

The coffee shop was as shitty as always, the heater barely working, the air thick with the scent of burnt espresso and whatever half-stale pastries they were selling at the counter. It was quiet, mostly empty, a couple of students hunched over their laptops in the back, an old man flipping through a newspaper near the window, the barista barely looking up as she rang up their order.

Bakugo paid for their coffees without saying anything, just tapping his card against the machine like it was a reflex, like there was never a question of whether or not Kirishima would be covering his own drink.

And of course, he knew exactly what to order, because Kirishima, predictable, transparent, easy to read when it came to certain things, always went for the sweetest thing on the menu when he was stressed.

Today, that meant a white chocolate mocha, extra whipped cream, some caramel drizzle for good measure, the kind of sugar rush that would probably make him feel sick later but would, for now, give him something warm to hold, something to focus on, something to fill the space between them.

Bakugo didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t comment, didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t mutter anything about "rotting his damn teeth" like he usually did, he just took his own coffee, plain, black, steaming, and led the way to the farthest table, back in the corner, away from everyone else, the same place they always sat when they came here.

They didn’t speak as they sat down.

Kirishima wrapped his hands around his cup, holding onto the warmth, trying to ignore the way Bakugo was still shaking slightly, still dressed too lightly for the cold, still in nothing but sweatpants and a hoodie, the same hoodie he had thrown on after his shower, the same hoodie that wasn’t nearly enough for the freezing weather outside.

And maybe, maybe it was just an excuse, maybe it was just the easiest thing to do, maybe he was just looking for something, anything, to take up space between them, but before he could second-guess it, before he could talk himself out of it, he reached into his bag, pulled out the gift, and set it on the table in front of Bakugo.

The box was wrapped neatly, dark red paper, smooth edges, a ribbon tied perfectly in place.

Kirishima had taken his time with it, had made sure it looked good, had made sure it didn’t just feel like something he had grabbed last minute, because it wasn’t. Because he had thought about this. Because he had picked it carefully.

And now, with everything that had happened, with the weight still sitting in his chest, with the way his fingers were still a little too tight around his cup, he wasn’t sure if he wanted Bakugo to open it at all.

But it was too late.

Bakugo stared at the box, then at Kirishima, then back at the box, and for a second, just a second, barely long enough to notice if Kirishima hadn’t been looking so fucking closely, something in his face shifted.

It wasn’t much, just a flicker of something behind his eyes, but it was enough for him to know that Bakugo hadn’t expected this, enough to make Kirishima wonder if anyone had ever given him a Christmas present before.

"Just open it," he whispered, forcing himself to take a sip of his coffee, forcing himself to act normal, forcing himself to pretend like the weight in his chest wasn’t getting worse.

Bakugo scoffed, but it wasn’t real, wasn’t the usual kind of scoff that came with irritation or exasperation or anything else he usually threw around so easily.

He didn’t argue, he just reached forward, tugged at the ribbon, peeled back the paper, movements slower than usual, like he wasn’t sure what to expect, like he was trying not to let something unfamiliar settle into his chest.

And there it was, a jacket; black leather, heavy and well-made, expensive, the kind of thing that was built to last, the kind of thing that fit Bakugo’s style better than anything Kirishima had ever seen him wear.

Something good, that would actually keep him warm, that had made perfect sense when Kirishima had seen it in the store, because Bakugo never spent money on himself, never bought nice things for no reason, never let himself have something just because.

Kirishima had wanted to give him something that he didn’t have to think about, something that was just his, something that he didn’t have to justify owning.

Bakugo didn’t say anything, just stared at it, jaw tight, hands still resting on the edges of the box, fingers curled slightly, expression unreadable.

And Kirishima, who had already been feeling too much, who had already been on edge, who had already spent the past hour shoving too many things down his throat, felt something in his chest collapse completely.

The silence between them stretched, settling thick in the small corner of the coffee shop, the heat from their drinks curling into the cold air, dampening the sharp edges of the tension that still lingered beneath the surface.

Bakugo didn’t throw the box aside, didn’t make some offhand comment about how Kirishima was an idiot for spending money on him, didn’t pretend like it didn’t mean something. He just exhaled before reaching forward, fingers brushing against the smooth leather as he pulled the jacket out of the box.

It was a really good one.

The kind of jacket that would last him years, the kind of jacket that felt right in Bakugo’s hands, the kind of jacket that made Kirishima feel a little stupid for how long he had spent picking it out, for how certain he had been that this was the one. And then, without a word, without a single sarcastic comment, without anything but a sharp inhale through his nose, he pulled it on.

And fuck, it fit perfectly.

The leather sat just right across his shoulders, molding to his frame like it had always belonged to him, like Kirishima had somehow gotten the exact measurements without even trying.

And he looked good. Really, really fucking good.

Kirishima felt his pulse stutter, his throat dry up, his fingers dig into the edges of his coffee cup, gripping it too tight, like that was going to do anything to stop the way his chest suddenly felt like it had been cracked open.

When Bakugo finally spoke, voice lower than usual, a little quieter than Kirishima had expected, it was just a single word, a small, simple, quiet "Thanks."

That was it. Just that. And it sat so heavy in Kirishima’s chest, so much heavier than he was prepared for.

He swallowed, forced his eyes down to his coffee, forced himself to breathe through whatever the hell was curling in his stomach, forced himself to pull his thoughts back into something safe, something normal, something that wasn’t spiraling out of control.

And Bakugo, maybe knowing, maybe not, maybe just deciding to let it go, to not push, to not make it a thing, took a sip of his own drink, shifting slightly in his seat, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his cup, before muttering, "So, how was the visit?"

Kirishima, still not knowing how to answer any of the real questions in his head, forced a smile.

And then, he started talking.