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If he were better with words, he might have compared the sound to something else. Made one of those links between words, using one thing to describe something else. Kaminari was real good with them.
Metaphors. That was the word. Kirishima should probably make a metaphor.
His laughter was
the crackle of a flame, an unrestrained burst of joy, the red glint of sunlight through smoke
Bakugou was kind of an ugly laugher. He sputtered and snorted. He laughed like he’d forgotten how to, rough and loud and unrestrained, somehow both gorgeous and deplorable in its freedom. It choked into a cackle as his head turned down, his teeth bared in a vicious grin, shoulders shaking, face scrunched up, sputtering and snorting until he was wheezing for breath.
Kirishima had imagined a million times what it was like to hear Bakugou laugh. Thought it would probably come unexpectedly. Watching Kaminari’s graceless flirting, a snide remark from Ashido, a play on words from Sero. Maybe, if he was really lucky, it would come from Kirishima himself. Maybe Kirishima would say just the right thing and Bakugou would stare at him and then buckle and laugh and laugh and laugh and it would be the most beautiful sound Kirishima had ever heard. He’d be enamored. He’d be proud.
Instead it came from a single quip from a girl Kirishima had seen maybe once in his life. She had long hair and talked in a drawling (annoying) voice. Said maybe three words that made sense individually but not all put together, and suddenly Bakugou was laughing until it looked like it hurt.
Kirishima watched, first confused, then shocked, then disappointed. He was awful, he thought, because the first time he heard Bakugou laugh, he just wished he hadn’t heard it at all.
Bakugou's laughter was a frigid claw. It gouged into his chest and tore him open, let them see the ugly truth that hid inside.
Kirishima had kind of always wanted to be a little bit special. He was okay with admitting it. Who didn’t? Who didn’t want to be the protagonist, to be the little guy who became a shining star? He was plain as can be, the most unique part of him being maybe the sharpness of his teeth. If not that then certainly his obnoxious fixation on a hero nobody knew or gave a shit about, or his crushing desperation to be something more.
When he gave up on his dream, he had kind of been praying for a miracle. A life-changing event. A secret ability. An unprompted burst of bravery and power in the face of danger. Instead he broke down and sobbed in his bedroom for a good hour, went to sleep, and decided the next morning to start training.
Which, hey, it worked, didn’t it? He was a hero now. He had red hair which made him like his reflection a little bit more, and learned how to line his eyes properly so they stood out, and trained until he had a body he could be proud of. He was strong and muscled and now even scarred, angry starbursts over his forearms that he couldn’t decide if should like or be ashamed of. By all means, he had everything he had ever wanted.
Everything, because for a time, Kirishima could have even considered himself special. Because Bakugou was his best friend. The literal bombshell blonde with a voice as violent as his quirk, standoffish and angry and never in need of another — e
xcept Kirishima had somehow slipped between his cracks.
He still didn’t really know what he did, when or even how it happened. But in the blink of an eye he was apart from the rest of the class, because Bakugou Katsuki liked and cared about him. There was a certain pride he got, when Bakugou let him throw an arm around his shoulders, when the others asked him where or how he was because of course Kirishima would know. And Kaminari was his friend, too, and so were Sero and Ashido, but Kirishima was the first.
But that was then. Now he looked at the girl that made Bakugou laugh and wondered if he’d take her hand, too.
“You’re quiet.”
His eyes shifted to Ashido. “Huh?” He said, like he was confused.
“You,” she repeated, pointing to Kirishima, “are quiet. Weirdly quiet.”
Here he scratched at his neck, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess I don’t have anything to say,” he murmured. His gaze strayed back to Bakugou and the girl. Kaminari was there, too, flirting terribly as usual, and Sero was snickering behind a hand.
Bakugou still had the echo of his mirth crossing his lips.
Ashido hummed beside him. “You don’t want to know her name?” She asked. “Or, you know, how they got so close.”
He stiffened. Glanced down at Ashido from the corner of his eyes and pursed his lips. “Who got close?” Playing dumb. Drop it he was trying to say, because ire was dripping through his veins and he hated the feeling of it. It was poison, eating away at him from the inside out.
“You know what I mean,” she sighed. “Come on, Kiri. You always want to know what’s going on with Bakugou.”
“Or maybe,” he broke in, the second she finished her breath, “maybe I don’t. Maybe this time I really, really don’t care.”
Bakugou glanced at him, an odd glint in his eye. He’d spoken a bit too loudly, a bit too tersely. Kirishima couldn’t even muster up a grin to brush it off, just found himself staring until Bakugou furrowed his brows and turned away again.
Ashido decided to stop talking to him after that. He couldn’t blame her. His skin felt heated and his palms were sweaty. His heart was beating a little too hard. Maybe this was how Bakugou felt all the time, like everything was too hot and too much and there was a little bit of anger constantly boiling beneath the skin, waiting for its chance to burst. It was unbearable.
So when they all began to head out, Bakugou and his friends and that new girl, the girl that made him laugh, Kirishima didn’t join them. “Still a little tired,” he said, which wasn’t a lie. “I’m probably just going to get some extra sleep,” he added, which was.
His eyes strayed to Bakugou. There was a flicker in his expression, shocked, before it hardened. Good. He should be surprised. Kirishima was always there for him, at his beck and call, but today he wouldn’t be.
It helped him smile, wish them all a nice time before he turned and dragged himself to the bus stop. He'd just head back to the dorms, then. The gym would be better but he’s not cleared for training until the end of the week, until his scars settled and his joints stopped aching.
He didn’t know when he would get rid of the spastic twitching of his fingers each time he brushed them over his forearms, but that wasn’t a huge concern.
No friends, no gym. That pretty much took up his things to do list, beyond homework, but he needed to ask Bakugou for help on that —
Only who the fuck knew when Bakugou would be back from celebrating so he should probably scrap that.
For a brief moment, Kirishima entertained the thought of seeking out Midoriya’s help instead. He was a good friend, patient and kind and willing. Which was exactly why Kirishima couldn’t do that. Midoriya didn’t deserve to be a victim of his foul mood.
And neither, he realized, with a spike of guilt, did Bakugou.
He hadn’t even congratulated him.
But there was nothing to do, so he just waited for the bus to arrive. Back to his dorm to lay alone in bed and stew, and wallow, and regret, until his leg was shaking the bedframe and Shouji was knocking politely but insistently on their shared wall to get him to shut the fuck up.
He laid on the floor instead, then, bouncing his heel on the ground, staring up at his ceiling.
No regrets! The poster on the ceiling reminded him.
Kirishima turned his head to the side.
Yeah. That was working out real well for him.
If nothing else, he was pretty good at owning up to his own mistakes. There was no lost pride in admitting you were wrong, his mother taught him. It didn't stop the mortification of relieving exactly what he was apologizing for, but at least he wasn't too stubborn to refuse to do it at all. He apologized a lot, actually. Too much, some said. Which was baffling to him, because you were supposed to apologize when you made a mistake, and Kirishima knew better than anyone that he was rather prone to mistakes.
Kirishima could feel Bakugou’s gaze. Couldn’t see it, because he was folded in half, torso nearly parallel with the floor and frowning down at his toes as he waited for Bakugou’s response. He wouldn't exactly call this a mistake. That was too generous. Implied that he hadn't been consciously choosing to be downright awful.
Bakugou's voice was delayed, uncertain. "The hell are you doing," he muttered, like he was uncomfortable.
Kirishima hesitated, then straightened up in a single abrupt movement. His shoulders were squared up to his ears, eyes still downcast. “I said I’m sorry,” he repeated. And then, because Bakugou’s face only twisted further at that, “I should have been there yesterday to celebrate with everyone else, and it was selfish of me not to be.”
When he tentatively met Bakugou’s eyes, it was only to find a knit brow and half of a glare. Bakugou eyed him up for a good moment. “I don’t really give a shit,” he said, slow, like Kirishima wouldn’t understand otherwise. “It was Black-eyes that dragged me out there, what do I care whether or not you come with?”
And. Ouch. He’d been expecting something a little different. Remembered vividly the shock on Bakugou's face just the day before, like he couldn't believe that Kirishima wasn't tagging along as he always did. Though, now he can't help but wonder if that was just a fantasy conjured by his envy-hazed mind. “You’re not mad?” He asked.
“No.” Flat, short.
“...Not even a little?” He pressed. “Even though we’re pretty good friends and I should want to celebrate with you?”
Bakugou gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Huffed, like Kirishima was being tiresome, wasting his time. “I don’t. Give. A shit. There’s nothing worth celebrating anyway. Like, congratu-fucking-lations, you managed not to fail twice!” His hands spread in a mock gesture of excitement. Sarcasm wasn't really Bakugou's thing, but that was just what keeping Kaminari around did to a guy. 'Cynic' was contagious, apparently.
This was where Kirishima should layer on the reassurance. That this was a sign of his improvement and he should be proud. Instead he just asked, one more time, “So… you forgive me?”
And Bakugou only threw one hand into the air, looking a beat away from detonating. “There’s nothing to fucking forgive!”
“Oh.” His voice came out sounding strange. “That’s good. I’m glad.” And Kirishima forced his mouth to curve upwards.
There was something wrong with him. Nobody in their right mind would be disappointed to find out that their friend was never even mad at them in the first place. That his actions weren’t even worth a moment of irritation on Bakugou’s part. That was a good thing.
Bakugou was watching him. Kirishima forced his eyes to remain steady, to soften, for the exposure of his teeth to relax into an actual smile. It was fine. He was fine.
“I think,” Kirishima said, without knowing what he was thinking. He stopped. Swallowed, and then tried again. “I think, that maybe we should go out ourselves, to make up for me not going with you guys.”
“There’s nothing to make up for,” Bakugou snapped, frustrated now.
But Kirishima spoke over him, just a degree louder. “I want to!”
Bakugou was silent. Just a degree had become quite a bit without him realizing, and Bakugou was gazing at him with a stunned sort of wariness. Kirishima's cheeks flushed with shame. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But, maybe it didn’t matter to you, but I still feel bad, okay? If you don’t want to then that’s fine, I won’t push it.”
That was half of a lie. He wasn’t actually sure what he would do, if Bakugou refused. The sentiment of an apology wasn’t worth much when he was giving it more for his own peace of mind than Bakugou’s. But, it wasn’t as though it could be for anything else, not when Bakugou was so infuriatingly adamant on not caring.
The statement was half a lie, but it counted as a truth, because Bakugou frowned at him a moment longer before huffing and rolling his eyes and growling out, “Fine. Not today, though.”
“Not today,” Kirishima agreed, his smile made from relief.
He wasn’t smart like Bakugou was smart. He couldn’t read a textbook or listen to a lecture and then just know things. Grinding information into his head was the only way to retain it, and then Kirishima would forget it as soon as the test was over.
He wasn’t stupid, either. Not like. Well, he didn’t want to call Kaminari or Ashido stupid — they weren’t. Kaminari had a vocabulary like he’d swallowed a dictionary and reguritated it throughout the day, and Ashido knew how to work with people, to get them to listen to her and to follow in her footsteps with barely a second thought. They both got bad marks on tests, and that wasn’t a reflection on their intelligence.
He could say, though, that he was significantly better at academics than either of them were.
So, in other words, he was average. Kirishima could phrase it in any way he wanted, douse it in glitter and glamour and spin it like a record on a turntable but it all boiled down to the fact that he was perfectly ordinary. That could be said for most things about Kirishima. If there was something he was maybe better-than-good at, it had to be people.
At. Not with.
So he knew that to drag Bakugou out on a whim was kind of a dumbass move, and decided to wait a good handful of days before sending him a text. A coffee shop was gaining popularity within the city, rather pricey but praised for its atmosphere. He’d take him out after classes on Saturday, his treat, and give him several days’ notice for the whole thing like a good and considerate friend.
It was perfect, in his own opinion. Something private without being weird , costly enough to show he was making an effort without being overbearing.
As promised, he walked Bakugou to the shop, an extra bounce in his step. He paid, and they walked upstairs to the second-story loft, slipping into a pair of stools at a bar that overlooked the lower portion of the cafe. The atmosphere was pleasant, everything running smoothly. And Kirishima was pretty satisfied with himself, considering it a job well done and smiling as he listened to Bakugou talk about aesthetic versus practicality in a hero’s costume.
“Because it’s still important to have an image in the public eye, yeah?” He was saying, enjoying Bakugou’s undivided attention, being the focus of his carmine eyes leaving something warm shivering in his chest. “Obviously you can’t have anything that gets in the way, but it’s a morale boost when people can recognize the hero! Getting people to feel safe is just as important as beating up the bad guy.”
He quieted as Bakugou opened his mouth to respond, taking a sip of his coffee, lips upturned around his straw. No words came forth before Bakugou's attention shifted, though, called to a movement in the corner of his eye. He turned, and Kirishima did as well before feeling his heart sink down to his stomach.
She stood just behind them, hip cocked, a cup of coffee in one hand. “Oh shit,” Camie grinned, her eyes wide with pleasant surprise. “Bakugou, whatsup my boy!” She popped the ‘b’ on the last word, sliding into the stool next to Bakugou’s without even a moment of hesitation.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Bakugou returned. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, though, which meant he was happy to see her.
She twirled hair idly about her finger. “Just vibing, man. Inasa wanted to hang with that icyhot friend of yours and I was like ‘that sounds rad, I’ll come with!’” Her grin tilted as she held up three fingers, two on one hand and one on the other. “Didn’t realize I’d be their third wheel. Better to chill here than get in their way, ya feel?”
“No shit, I’d rather not get between… whatever the fuck they are.” Bakugou’s expression contorted. Amusement, disgust — a mixture of both.
Watching them, Kirishima was silent. His mood was a blackened, shriveled thing inside of him, his flourishing joy now burnt into an empty husk. Camie was a pretty girl, he noted, taking every ounce of self control not to bite through his straw. Long, flowing hair no longer trapped underneath a cap. Her chest was full, legs long. Shiny, glossy lips. He didn’t have to be attracted to girls to see that by all means she was gorgeous.
He wondered if Bakugou saw that too. If his opinion wasn’t as objective as Kirishima’s.
The plastic of his cup creaked beneath his fingers. Just in time, he caught himself, staving off his quirk before his hardened fingers could pierce through and make a real mess.
It seemed to catch Camie’s attention, though, her round eyes focusing on him like she hadn’t even known he was there. “Who’s this?” She asked, dropping forward, past Bakugou and into Kirishima’s space. Her elbows were on the counter, chin in her hands, smiling up at Kirishima. He wasn’t discreet about edging away from her, grabbing his drink like somehow its shared contact with her through the countertop would contaminate it.
Bakugou, too, was leaning back, though it was out of necessity rather than distaste. “That’s shitty-hair,” he said, by means of introduction.
“Kirishima,” he corrected, enough bite to his voice to make Bakugou’s eyes narrow. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile as he laid a hand on Bakugou’s arm. “And I’m his friend.”
“Dope,” she said, and swung back into her seat like that was that.
“Best friend,” he added, feeling ridiculous even as he said it. He could feel Bakugou staring at him, at his hand gripping his bicep, a childishly possessive move. Suddenly he wanted to yank his hand away like it burned to touch him. Instead, Kirishima just dropped it, heat flaring beneath his skin as he laid his palm flat on the counter instead.
He didn't have much time to be consumed by regret. Camie snapped her fingers and pointed to him only a moment later. “That’s right! I knew I’d seen your cute face before — you didn’t come with to our celebration. Sucks for you, that shit was lit.”
His irritation spiked. Her voice was getting on his nerves again, the weird slang she used grating at his ears and making his blood simmer. “Sorry I missed it,” he ground out.
“Shitty-hair,” Bakugou started, his voice sharp.
And Kirishima jerked his head up, glaring. “It’s Kirishima,” he snapped. He stood fast enough to make his stool rattle, leaving his drink on the counter as he raked his fingers through his hair, breaking apart his meticulous spikes. “I’m gonna go, okay? Don’t wanna third wheel you guys.”
He had brought nothing but what was in his pockets, was able to turn and stalk out of the cafe without a beat. Behind him, he heard Bakugou’s voice, quiet, incredulous: “The fuck, Kirishima?”
It almost made him pause. Almost made him double back, apologize, and sit back down. But almost never counted, so he didn’t even look over his shoulder before stomping back down the stairs and out onto the street.
He knew that his mom used to brush his hair. It just made sense — every kid’s parents brushed their hair. It was just that he couldn’t really remember it. Dig as far back as he his memories would go, and it just wasn’t there, like he somehow had known all along how to do it himself.
He didn’t blame her. It wasn’t a source of bitterness. Longing, maybe, for the childhood most kids could brag of, because most kids didn’t have a single mother who worked too many hours in the day to even brush her son’s hair in the morning. He always had enough to eat, and a place to sleep, and ever since his mom met his ma they’ve been able to make up for all that lost time.
It just meant that having someone else brush his hair for him was kind of novel. Ashido loved to do it, too, said that his straight locks are so easy compared to her own bouncy curls. His hair had long since been smoothed and untangled, but she was honestly the best because she didn't stop, just kept running the bristles through his hair, sending pleasant tingles from his scalp all the way down to the base of his spine.
Kaminari sat in front of him, a game controller in his hands. They were all piled in his room, because Kaminari was also the best and knew when it was time to call an intervention for his best bro. Having Ashido in there with them was technically not allowed… or no, there was nothing technical about it. They were in deep shit if they were found out, even though the whole school knew Kirishima was a gay boy raised by two women and Ashido and Kaminari were kind of unlikely to have sex in front of him. But. Rules were rules, he supposed. His friends were willing to break them for him, and he adored them.
“Alright, so are you ready for brutal honesty hour?” Kaminari asked, a good couple of minutes after Kirishima himself had stopped speaking. His character had been killed, the three of them watching him clip into the sky before the screen went dark with the announcement of defeat. A sigh wracked out of Kaminari before he set the controller aside.
“I think so,” Kirishima said, resolute. “Lay it on me, man.”
“Great.” Kaminari turned to face him. Ashido stopped brushing his hair. “So, I’m gonna get it all out at once, alright? Just gonna rip the bandaid off. Best to get it over with, quick and easy —”
“Kaminari, spit it out,” Ashido sighed.
He threw his hands up. “He’s my best bro! I don’t just want to say he’s being a total douche.”
There was a beat. Kirishima shut his eyes. When he opened them again, Ashido was snickering, and Kaminari looked stricken. “Shit,” he said. “I mean. Maybe not a total douchebag? Like, three-fourths. One half! You get a bonus cause you’re usually, like, freakishly nice and I honestly didn’t think you were capable of being an asshole. Not to say you’re an asshole!”
Kirishima brought his hand over his face. “It’s fine,” he sighed. “You don’t need to try to sugarcoat it, man. I know I’m being shitty.”
“You do?” Kaminari sounded surprised. “Why ask us, then?”
He only shrugged, staring down at the bedcovers. “Guess I needed to hear it?” If he was being honest, it was difficult to differentiate between rational thought and self-deprecating garbage lately. Since the internships, he thought. But that was a whole 'nother can of worms. “So, uh. I. I’ve never actually had to deal with this before. How do I fix it?”
Kaminari’s expression became suspicious. “You say that like you think I have experience with this.”
Kirishima didn’t say a word. Ashido’s snickering became a sputtering laugh.
“Alright,” Kaminari said, tone deadened. “That’s fair. How about telling him how you feel?”
Okay. So Kaminari was absolutely the wrong person to go to for advice. “Yeah, no. I’m not telling Bakugou I’ve got a crush on him. Next suggestion?”
He looked between them. Both were staring at him.
Ashido was the first to break the silence, tentative, gentle. “...You have a crush on Bakugou?”
And Kirishima burst out with, “You didn’t know?!”
“Why would I!" Kaminari yelled back. "Frankly man, the idea of anybody wanting a romantic relationship with that guy is kind of unrealistic!" He trailed off, eyes distant with the face of a man who had just been given information he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.
Slowly, he reached for Kirishima and gave him a pat on the shoulder. Ashido mirrored the gesture. “That’s rough, man.”
He found himself nodding. “It really is,” Kirishima started to say, only to shake himself, and the hands off of him. “But, seriously! I really want to fix what we already have.”
“Well, yeah,” Ashido agreed. “And Kaminari already told you how to. Tell him how you feel. Not the crush,” she added, when Kirishima’s brow furrowed. “But maybe everything else? Have you ever told him how much he means to you?”
Kirishima thought back on it. He considered himself easy to read. Apparently, though, the crush he'd believed was sickeningly obvious had managed to slip by two of his closest friends. So, maybe he's a lot more discreet than he gave himself credit for. Or maybe both of them just don't know how to read the mood. Regadless, Kirishima winced, dropping his head. “I guess… Calling him manly doesn’t count, does it?”
“No.” The answer was synchronized, Ashido and Kaminari giving looks that were entirely too judgemental.
Kirishima wilted. “Right. Then, no. I really haven’t.”
He didn’t expect Bakugou to answer the door when he knocked. For a long, painful stretch, it seemed like he wouldn’t. Kirishima’s knuckles remained frozen on the wood, breathing heavy in his chest. The beat of his heart filled his ears.
Okay. So that was it. He could — try again tomorrow, he supposed. And if not then, they had class together on Monday no matter what. It would just be another day of anxiety undulating within him, sick with nerves as he just tried to think of what Bakugou would say. He'd be livid, for sure. Disgusted with Kirishima. Probably didn’t even want to see him — and why would he?
Kirishima stared at his own hand. Yeah. He was nothing special.
He dropped his arm down to his side, and the door swung open.
Bakugou glared into Kirishima’s wide eyes. The silence was thick, tense between them. Every practiced word stuck in Kirishima’s throat, a deer in the headlights only Bakugou was a damn supernova blinding his eyes.
“Well?” He snapped.
The spell broke. Kirishima sucked in a breath and pushed it out in a laugh. “I thought you weren’t gonna answer,” he said.
“I wasn’t.” Bakugou frowned at him for a long, expectant moment. When Kirishima didn't speak, he prompted him again: “So?”
Kirishima could barely hold his gaze, swallowing thickly before he tried to speak. “I want to talk,” he croaked out. “Can I…? Come inside?”
His breath stilled, clammy hands curled into fists. Bakugou scoffed, turned away and stepped back into his room. He left the door open.
Kirishima was hesitant, but trailed after him like he was just a stray following him home. He nudged the door shut with his foot, shuffling across the room to join Bakugo. He was sprawled across his bed, while Kirishima perched on the very edge of the mattress.
“I’m sorry,” was the best way to start. Just like last time. “I’ve, um. Been feeling badly lately, and instead of just saying why I thought I could just ignore it. Wait for it to go away, but. I don’t think it will.” He toyed nervously with a lock of his own hair, grimacing down at his knees.
“This is why you keep freaking out and leaving,” Bakugou said. An observation, not a question.
Even so, Kirishima nodded. “Yeah. It’s just cause of. Well, Camie. I mean, not because of her," he hurried to correct himself. "Just, when she’s around, and I see you guys hanging out I get.” Angry, and disgustingly possessive, like he had more claim to Bakugou than anyone else. It’s so childish that it’s humiliating just to admit. “Jealous.”
“Jealous,” Bakugou repeated. And when Kirishima nodded, ashamed, he gave a snort. “You’re telling me that you’re jealous of that illusion girl. What the fuck for?” His voice sharpened. “Her quirk?”
And Kirishima blinked at him, needing a moment to roll that over in his brain. “What — no. It’s you.”
Bakugou’s expression darkened. “You’re jealous of me.”
“No!” His voice was too loud. Kirishima gave him an apologetic look before continuing, quieter. “It’s both of you. Together.”
And, god, his face was burning. It would be easier to take Bakugou’s quirk to the face without hardening than to force the words out between his teeth. “It’s not fair to you guys, I know that. I know I was being really stupid, and petty, and — god, there was another word Kaminari used but I can’t remember it now! Entitled, that’s it. Cause, I always think of myself as your first friend here, and it’s like, it took so long, you know? And meanwhile she knows you for a day and she can make you laugh. And. Yeah.”
Because that was what it boiled down to. He was head over heels for this man, gravity's hold lost on him as he tumbled further and further away — but Camie was the one that made him smile. A bitter pill to swallow, but one he choked down nonetheless.
Kirishima spread his hands out over his lap, looking down at his open palms. “I don’t want that to ruin what we have," he murmured. "So, I promise I won’t let it happen again, okay? I’m sorry.”
All the while he’d been speaking, he hadn’t dared to even glance at Bakugou. Now he dragged his gaze over to him, slow, as though to delay the revelation.
Bakugou only met his stare with a deadpan expression. “You’re so fucking stupid,” he said.
“I know.” It still hurt to hear.
“Seriously. Like, how the actual fuck did you survive all these years?” Bakugou pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut. “You think — fuck. It’s. You. Damn it.”
Kirishima watched him, bewildered, having never known Bakugou to mince his words before. Finally he seemed to seize the words he needed, looking to Kirishima with such abruptness that it nearly made him jump.
“Do you seriously think I’m exactly the fucking same as I was at the beginning of this year? I should blow your ass up just for saying that, idiot.” He bounced his fingers off his temple, words vehement, glare pinning Kirishima down. “If you haven’t noticed — since apparently you walk around with your head up your ass — I have an entire collection of morons gaggling around after me all day! If one more wants to join the shitshow, what’s it to me?”
And that was sort of the thing about Bakugou. For as straightforward as he always acted, he could never seem to stay that way with Kirishima. It was always a roundabout between them. Kirishima would vy for his attention like he was starving for it, hang off of him and drag him out of his dorm, out with friends, but he was always the closest one. And Bakugou would watch him, would listen, would say just the right thing to click in Kirishima’s brain and make him go ‘oh.’ in a voice so furiously calm that it left him starstruck.
They said I care in every way but with those words, and sometimes things got lost in translation.
Kirishima breathed out. He said, “You mean a lot to me, you know that? More than usual." He reached, and set his hand atop Bakugou's open palm. "So, let me try again? I wanna meet Camie for real this time.”
And Bakugou glanced at him. “That so,” he mumbled, like it didn’t matter either way to him.
But it did.