Archive of Our Own

Kirishima doesn’t mind crowds.

The airport is flooded by waves of angry passengers, swarming in the halls, buzzing in every corner of the terminal. Overworked employees desperately try to keep the crowd under control, which was going fine for a couple of hours, but once a couple of journalists start walking through the lobbies to ask for reactions and comments, all hell breaks loose. It’s been hours since dozens of flights have been cancelled due to a storm that proved to be much more powerful than predicted; it’s okay, the authorities keep repeating, we have enough room to accommodate you all. They obviously don’t – only a third of the passengers gathered in the waiting areas have found a seat. Some of the others stand around, idle, trying to keep their children from running off to where they won’t be able to watch them. Toddlers trample into place, pulling on their parents’ fingers to bring them somewhere, to do something, and most parents give in, preferring to move around aimlessly than to give boredom the opportunity to turn their child into another hurricane.

The majority of people has decided to sit directly on the floor, not caring about much anymore. They pass snacks around, take optimistic selfies with friends, lean against their luggage to make themselves comfortable… Small groups of travelers do their best to make themselves feel at home, having accepted their fate; someone stretches lazily against a rail, some else opens their small suitcase to change into a cozy sweater. Despite the circumstances, despite the TVs relaying how stressful and terrible this all is, Kirishima only sees people making the best out of it. There’s a warmth to the sight.

Something less nice is his battery percentage slowly, irredeemably falling closer to zero. This flight was supposed to be a formality; he didn’t bring a book, he didn’t bring anything else than his phone and laptop. If they fail him, soon he’ll have to resort to introspection for entertainment – he’d rather not have to do that. He might have passed security checks, the duty-free shops will soon be closing off for the night, and with them Kirishima’s only source of distractions. It’s always so expensive, with all these luxury suits, perfectly shining shoes and refined luxury perfumes. Although he never buys anything, he likes to pretend he could; standing in front of the showcases, he indulges in judging the color of the ties, the detail in the fabric. The mannequins always look down on him but one day, he tells himself, one day he’ll show them how good he can look in Gucci.

Wandering hopelessly in the halls of the terminal with his bag over his shoulder, Kirishima looks for an empty space, a seat somewhere against a pillar, an abandoned spot he could fill. Sadly, every square inch seems to have been reserved by someone who needs it just as much as him. Couples cuddle in the corner to leave room to other people, families huddle around a single power outlet sticking out from a wall, businessmen nervously type away at their computer, making the best out of the free Wi-Fi. Kirishima sighs and stops walking. The introspection option is maybe 15 minutes away from becoming his only alternative, and at this point, so be it.

There’s movement to his left.

Kirishima flips around immediately, hoping for a spot to open and yes, finally, a man stands up from his seat, takes his luggage and walks towards the nearest coffee shop. Without wasting a breath, Kirishima leaps forward – he can see the open power outlet from there, nested under the seat, calling his name. He reaches it in a matter of seconds and throw his bag down, making clear to anyone around him that this spot is his now. He may have a guardian angel to thank because on top of the power outlet, this seat – well, this open space on a couch, really – is well cushioned. It’s not the floor, cold and hard and unforgiving. Kirishima could shed a tear at the thought of his poor butt not having to ache overnight.

With the relief of a marathon runner finally reaching the finish line, Kirishima sits down and exhales with a smile; he lets his back rest against the hard wall behind him, already trying to remember which position he used last time he had to sleep in the corridor of his apartment building - he’s never forgetting his keys ever again, he tells himself for the third time this year. After a couple of seconds spent contemplating how nicely things fall into place, he leans forward, opens his bag and takes his phone out as well as his charger, his laptop and yet another charger. Cables tangled into each other, it’s not without a struggle that he manages to plug his phone in the power outlet. The guy sitting to his right huffs at the mess he makes but doesn’t say a word. Kirishima ignores him; hardly anything on this good green Earth compares to the satisfaction of watching your electronics finally getting the love they deserve. With a smile, he makes sure there’s a lightning bolt in the battery icon of his phone, puts it down next to him and opens his laptop.

He thought ahead before leaving, because he’s smart like that, and charged his laptop fully so he could watch a movie on the plane. Well, now that the plane thing isn’t happening anymore, maybe he can still watch something. He’s not even tired yet.

While his laptop boots up, Kirishima pulls his arm over his head, grabs his elbow and stretches with a grunt; he does the same thing on his other side, leaning over to make his back crack in the process. Finally relieved, he straightens back up with a aaaaah, closes his eyes and rolls his head around to make his neck click in all the right ways. Bending to his left side makes his joints crackle under his ears like pop rocks satisfyingly melting between his vertebrae; the muscles of his shoulders pull and resist the stretch, until they eventually give in and relax slowly, releasing a wave of warm tingles all throughout his arm in the process. Gently, Kirishima takes care of his other side too, eyes still closed when he pull his right shoulder down to aid the stretch.

“Go do that fucking yoga elsewhere. You’re taking up all the fucking space, you asshole!”

Kirishima’s eyes snap open. Was that for him? That must have been for him. He turns to his right and meets the flaming eyes of his couch neighbor, drilling into his skull with the intensity of someone who’s already put up with too much shit today. His blonde hair is so pale Kirishima’s first thought is to ask him whether he bleaches it – he makes a note to ask him eventually, he’s never one to refuse hair care tips – but given how pissed off the guy looks, he quickly decides to play it down.

“Sorry sorry,” he laughs, “just getting comfortable. The night’s gonna be long so I have to!”

“Well don’t do it in my face then, dumbass,” his neighbor snaps at him, turning his head back to focus on this book cradled between his hands.

“What are you reading?” Kirishima asks, leaning to his right to get a better look. The guy yanks the book away immediately.

“Why do you care?” he growls, his lips curled up as he bares his teeth like a feral animal.

Kirishima leans back with a chuckle. “I don’t know, I just wanted to see. It’s going to be pretty boring in there so I was wondering –”

“It won’t be boring for long if I punch your teeth in,” the guy warns, pulling his book back to where it used to sit, right on top of his thighs. His tone is cold, menacing, but Kirishima doesn’t have it in him to take him seriously. The guy looks annoyed, sure, and he’s probably all kinds of tired. Maybe the flights being delayed caused him some personal trouble, maybe he had to be somewhere at all costs. Maybe he’s one of these people who can’t handle surprises and unplanned events. There are tense nerves right under his skin, nerves vibrating with energy and stress - stress, because Kirishima refuses to believe it’s anger.

Or maybe the guy is just a straight-up asshole. Who knows.

He doesn’t look that bad. That mad. Sure, his frown is low; sure, his jaw seems to be clenched constantly; sure, the muscles in his neck twitch with some of his words.

But he has red eyes, just like Kirishima’s. He has a clear profile, clean lines cut as if from stone, as if someone had willingly sculpted him like this. He looks like he was made and built and chosen, because the harmony of his features can only be found so rarely in strangers. He looks like he’s been loved just from the way his skin catches the light; it usually takes Kirishima time to catch the details on people’s faces but new things to look at jump to his eyes with every second. Sure, the guy looks mad, but someone with lashes like that cannot be evil every day. He must have good in him, to slow time like this in his anger.

So Kirishima makes a choice.

He holds out his hand, palm open in invitation. “I’m Kirishima Eijirou, nice to meet you!”

The guy looks at his hand, then at his face again. He scoffs and turns back to his book, leaving Kirishima’s hand untouched.

Kirishima doesn’t mind that much.

Bakugou wants to kill a man.

He’s had murder on his mind all afternoon, ever since the voice over the speakers announced his flight would have to be delayed to the next day. People all around drove him crazy for hours, unable to keep themselves together. They were so fucking noisy, all crawling into each other like insects lost on a path. Stupid, really.

Bakugou wants to kill a man. It wasn’t specific at first, he could have done with any target, but now he has a clear face in mind. There’s an idiot next to him, a loud, ridiculous idiot, and Bakugou doesn’t know how he’s going to tolerate him until his plane takes off. It’s not like he can change seats – if he leaves his spot, he can say goodbye to the comfort of the couch and the power recharging his phone. But this chatterbox is going to drive him crazy.

For the past 45 minutes, the Kirishima guy has apparently started calling every possible number in his contact list, reassuring every friend, aunt and 3rd cousin twice removed that he’s doing fine, he’ll be home soon, he found a nice place to sit, things are going great. His unacceptable brand of optimism is seeping out from his every pore, leaking all over the place and tainting Bakugou’s concentration. He can’t even focus on Into Thin Air; the guy’s fucking voice keeps interrupting his train of thought. It’d be manageable if he hadn’t broken his earphones two days ago, but no, he really has to go through all of this with open ears and no place to hide.

Bakugou wants to kill a man and there’s nothing he can do about it.

So when his Hell spawn of a neighbor finally, for the love of motherfucking God, ends his last call, Bakugou feels like thanking some sort of higher being. He tells himself he’s not paying attention to the guy but he still notices him looking down at his screen fondly – who even does that? Bakugou sighs and leans forward, resting his cheek into the palm of his hand as the other holds a page. It’s only one night. It’s okay. He’ll be back home soon, tucked away into his solitude, just the way he likes it. It’s fine. It’s gonna be fucking fine.

“Wanna watch a movie?” the guys chirps and Bakugou can feel part of his soul leave his body.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles into his hand, not bothering looking up.

“Alright!” the guy answers as though he actually accepted Bakugou’s biting words as a decent way to say no. Doesn’t anything phase him, ever? “First I’ll get some snacks, you want somethin’?”

Bakugou doesn’t answer; instead he looks at the guy in the eyes, knowing the sheer indignation bubbling behind his pupils will be enough.

“Alright!” the guy repeats on exactly the same tone, standing up. “No popcorn for you. Keep an eye on my stuff!” he says, pointing at his bag as he makes his way to the nearest shop. His red hair is so bright it’s almost offensive, making him stand out from the rest of the crowd sitting around them.

“Your stuff can burn for all I care!” Bakugou shouts in his general direction, ignoring the heads turning around in surprise.

Airport food is so expensive Kirishima could cry about it. He gets himself a bag of chips and a bottle of coke and watches the numbers add up on the small screen in front of him. After getting back a pathetic amount of change, he heads back to his spot – and lovely neighbor. Given the mood he left him in, Kirishima wouldn’t be surprised if the guy had blown up his hand luggage. It’s with great pleasure that he finds him sitting still, a leg thrown on the couch where Kirishima used to sit. Aw. He’s keeping his spot for him.

He knew this guy had it in him.

When he spots Kirishima, he immediately takes his leg away as if the couch had bit him. Kirishima doesn’t comment on it but he smiles wide nonetheless.

“Thank you!” he says, sitting back down and putting his food and drink between them. The guy doesn’t react, leaning back against the wall and bringing his book closer to his face. From here, Kirishima can read the title, Into Thin Air, boldly written in white over a picture of clouds.

“What are you lookin’ at, fuckface?” the guy barks from behind his book.

“Is it good?” Kirishima asks.

“I wouldn’t be reading it if it was shit,” the guy snaps back. “Didn’t you have a damned movie to watch or something?”

“Wanna join?” Kirishima offers again, but the guy only sighs in answer.

Oh well. His loss.

Kirishima pulls his laptop to him, pops the bag of chips open – which earns him another twitch from his neighbor – and take a swig from his bottle, making himself at ease. He had been wanting to watch the sequel to John Wick for a while and now was the perfect opportunity. After plugging his earphones in, he starts the movie and lets the world around him drift away.

It doesn’t take long for him to notice his neighbor slyly take a peek or two at his screen over the pages of his book.

Kirishima purses his lips in thought. Should he make a comment on it? He could probably tease him, try to push the guy to admit he wants, after all, to watch this movie. He could take his arm and pull him closer so they share the screen. He could even balance the laptop on their thighs, right in between them. Maybe the permanent scowl the guy wears on his face would melt then; what a sight must it be, to see what’s underneath all that unyielding marble.

He doesn’t do any of that.

Instead, Kirishima turns the subtitles on without a word; the guy recoils immediately, badly pretending he’s offended by the thought of him being interested in Keanu Reeves’ perfect hair.

Half an hour in, the guy’s hand starts making a habit out of slithering in Kirishima’s bag of chips, stealing a few every so often. Kirishima doesn’t protest; if he gets to make himself comfortable, he won’t stop his neighbor from showing he’s doing the same.

“So where are you headed?”

The chatterbox started talking again about 10 minutes ago, once the credits stopped rolling, and Bakugou can’t even hide behind his book since he finished it. The thought of starting it over crossed his mind though.

“Do you never stop talking, shithead?”

“Well I was thinking we’re both sitting here and we have time to kill so –”

“Fucking hell, shut up,” Bakugou groans, shifting to bring one of his knees up against his chest.

“What’s your name?” the guy continues, apparently having never heard of leaving strangers the fuck alone.

“I’m not telling you my name, you personal-space invading shitface,” Bakugou snaps, leaning to the side to get all up into this guy’s face.

“Fine,” Kirishima retorts, not even pulling back one bit, “don’t tell me, mister I’m Not Interested I’m Just Appreciating The Cinematography. I bet you have a lame name anyway,” he taunts him with a smirk. For half a second, Bakugou could swear these red, sharp, stupid eyes of his jump down to his mouth.

How dare this guy be like that?

“Name’s Bakugou, you asshole,” he snaps back, inching just a hint closer in an attempt to intimidate Kirishima. It doesn’t work at all, judging by his wide smile – what are even all these teeth? Does he file them?

“Bakugou,” the other mouths slowly, his lips bubbling around the curve of the vowels as he leans back against the wall. Bakugou leans back too, an arm coming to wrap around the knee sitting against his chest. “So where are you headed, Bakugou?”

“Fuck off,” Bakugou answers, picking up his phone to check on his messages. His father sent him a bunch of texts he decides he’ll answer later.

Kirishima hums and takes a last sip from his bottle of coke. “I’m glad we found a good spot,” he says. Bakugou lifts his head at the use of we.

It doesn’t bother him as much as it should. Maybe he’s just too tired to be bothered at this point.

Eyes in the distance, Kirishima watches a couple of people wandering around looking for places to sit. There’s a small bump on the bridge of his nose; maybe he broke it one day. Under the soft lights of the terminal hall, his skin has a caramel undertone to it, a tad darker than Bakugou’s. Almost invisible freckles pepper his cheekbones, or maybe it’s just an illusion, Bakugou’s not sure. Kirishima licks his lips without thinking, parting them open just slightly. His red hair is starting to sag, its peaks not as sharp and solid as they used to be. How much product he must use, Bakugou has no fucking idea and he doesn’t want to ask. His own hair is enough of a mess as it is; it’s actually quite greasy now, after he’s spent a full day in public transportation pulling luggage around.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he announces, bending to take a few small bottles and a travel towel from his hand luggage. “If any of my stuff has moved when I come back, I’ll make you regret it.”

“Wait, there are showers here?” his idiot of a neighbor gapes. Has he never learned how to read signs?

Bakugou grabs some change to pay the bathroom fees. “Yeah, dumbass.”

Kirishima beams. The corners of his mouth climb so high they press tiny creases under his eyes. “I’ll watch over your bag then.”

Bakugou frowns. With hair this bad, this guy has no business looking this good.

His leg bent over Bakugou’s spot, Kirishima updates his Facebook feed without really paying attention to what pops up. His lids are starting to feel heavy; some groups around him have already prepared for the night. It’s past ten after all. Tiny islands have emerged out of the sea of people, gathering their bags in the center to use them as pillows, strategically leaning against each other to maximize comfort. It’s cute, how much trust they put in each other. Kirishima is pretty sure most of them didn’t even know their companions before.

There are these families, so naturally organized and ready, children nested safely in the crooks of their parents’ bodies. There are these solitary travelers who have not talked to anyone, their head resting heavy against a makeshift pillow, bag straps and handles wrapped around their wrists to deter potential wandering hands. There’s this group of friends in the corner, with a girl flaunting bright pink hair quietly chatting with a blonde guy; he has a Pikachu eye mask sitting on his forehead and another guy with black hair already dozing off against his shoulder.

Kirishima really doesn’t mind crowds when they’re this domestic.

Bakugou’s phone vibrates on the couch, the buzz tickling Kirishima’s thigh. The screen lights up for a second; Kirishima’s not really trying to look but his eyes fall on it anyway. The only thing he really sees, besides a single notification from Dad, is the battery showing a satisfying “100%”. Given how long Bakugou’s been sitting here, it’s probably been like this for a while.

And yet, Bakugou hasn’t moved away.

Kirishima smiles weakly, locks his phone and presses the back of his head against the wall. He should have brought a neck pillow. At least he had his hoodie on – that kinda feels like a cover, right?

When he comes back, Bakugou’s hair is still damp. His face looks much more relaxed, as though the marble had melted; there’s a curve to his eyes now, after the lines of his profile have relaxed under the steam of the shower, there’s a softness to the bow of his lips. A couple drops trail down the strong strings of his neck as he puts his things back into his bag in silence; his throat opens when he stands back up, unprotected, the hard dip at its base deepening with his slow breathing.

Kirishima watches as Bakugou stretches an arm, then another, before sitting back down by his side with a sigh. He doesn’t look exhausted anymore, he doesn’t look annoyed or pissed off; it’s ten thirty and Bakugou looks simply tired, mellowing into a softer, gentler version of the barking hyena he was an hour ago.

“Stop staring,” he grunts, but his tone isn’t as aggressive as it used to be.

Kirishima doesn’t stop staring.

“Wanna watch a movie?”

Bakugou tilts his head and stares back. There’s a drop of water just holding on to one of his lashes.

“Again? Aren’t you tired, shithead?”

“It’s Ki-ri-shi-ma.”

“Whatever.”

Kirishima yawns. “So I was thinking, Iron Man?”

Bakugou yawns back. “Already seen it.”

“I thought you didn’t want to watch a movie,” Kirishima teases him, a smile coming up to his lips. He rests the side of his head against the wall but his eyes don’t leave Bakugou’s.

“Stop making that face,” Bakugou snaps, much sharper this time. He breaks eye contact and takes a hoodie out of his bag. “And I said, whatever,” he grumbles, his face buried in the hoodie as he puts it on.

When his head pops out of the hoodie, hair puffing up, Kirishima could swear he sees him blush.

Bakugou has seen Iron Man too many times, and so has Kirishima, but that’s all this idiot has on his laptop (who only brings two movies with them?) so they don’t have much of a choice. The laptop sits on Kirishima’s lap, slightly turned to the right so Bakugou can see. Kirishima plugs earphones in.

“Here,” he says, handing one earphone to Bakugou. Bakugou takes it without a word and it seems to please this stupid guy, for some stupid reason.

The movie is predictable, the audio disastrous with one earbud and to top it off, they’re all out of fucking chips. This sucks. Everything sucks, Bakugou mentally hammers, shifting ever so slightly closer to the screen. I hate this, he curses, trying to sit more comfortably – because of course it’s a matter of comfort. It’s horrible, he insists, his shoulder just a hair away from touching Kirishima’s. Next time I’ll book a hotel, he promises himself.

He won’t book a hotel next time.

Halfway through the movie, he’ll fall asleep without trying, leaning against the wall. When Kirishima notices, he’ll gently take the earbud out of his ear, careful not to disturb him. Bakugou wouldn’t have liked the look on his face right then but maybe, just maybe, he’d still have wanted to see it.

When Kirishima falls asleep, the terminal is silent.

At 1:27 am, Kirishima wakes up. His mind laboriously emerges from the fog; it takes him a while to remember where he is. The airport is just as still as it was a couple of hours ago; a few people are snoring here and there, enveloping the terminal in this cozy dorm atmosphere. It takes Kirishima a handful of seconds to realize why he’s been woken up.

Bakugou’s head just fell on his shoulder.

His hair smells like peaches; it’s almost cold, barely caressing Kirishima’s cheek as Bakugou breathes. He doesn’t make a sound, he barely moves, but his torso presses against Kirishima’s side as he unmistakably uses him as a glorified pillow. Kirishima can make out his face, though not all of it; Bakugou’s entirely relaxed, his mouth slightly open. Under the dim lights of the terminal, he looks pretty.

There’s nothing on his face, not even vulnerability; sleep stripped him naked but if you didn’t know his mask, you wouldn’t know the skin under it. Bakugou softens without trying, one slow rise of his chest at a time. Thousands of eyes in the crowd would simply be blind to it yet Kirishima is the one blinded by the sight, like a fool who sees a lighthouse where everyone sees a cliff.

Whatever blooms in his throat spreads its warmth down to his stomach, tidal. Basking in the privilege that comes with having Bakugou deeming your shoulder safe enough to sleep on, Kirishima lets it happen.

At 5:31 am, a baby starts crying, his tears echoing against the tall walls of the hall. Like the dozen heads of a Greek beast, the crowd wakes up blearily, groans, grunts and yawns, sleep slowly slipping off the bodies like an abandoned blanket. Children shift in the arms of their parents, solitary sleepers open an eye to see what’s happening; in the corner, three friends groggily turn around, limbs tangled into each other’s.

Did he wake up before or after Bakugou, Kirishima can’t tell, but Bakugou’s moving around lazily, trying to hide from the light in the crook of Kirishima’s neck. Kirishima doesn’t comment or try to push him away. Mornings can be rough. Bakugou’s breath trickles down Kirishima’s throat, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there by accident. Forehead pressed under Kirishima’s jaw, he shifts sluggishly as he pulls himself from the embrace of sleep; when he blinks, his lashes tickle Kirishima like dandelion seed would, making a shiver run down his side. His hair still smells good.

Eventually, Bakugou sits up slowly, a hand over his face. He blinks once, twice, getting used to the luminosity, then yawns without restraint. Bringing both his knees up to his chest, he tries to hide his eyes from the light in the neck of his hoodie but quickly gives in.

“Good morning,” Kirishima says softly, his voice rough and coarse from sleep. Bakugou only hums in return, barely acknowledging his presence. He checks his phone then sighs and sits up, stretching his back. And then he’s gone.

“Hey, where are you going?” Kirishima manages to ask before he goes too far.

“Breakfast,” Bakugou mutters, not bothering to turn around.

Alright then. Kirishima will go to the bathroom later.

He stands up too and stretches his arms and legs, trying to squeeze and pull the cramping out of his muscles and joints. Opening the front camera of his phone, he notes the paleness of his cheeks, this shade of exhaustion sitting right under his eyes; more importantly, he sees his hair has fallen almost flat. At this point, there’s hardly anything to do than to brush the last of his hair gel out.

He’s still busy at it when Bakugou comes back. Carefully pulling his brush down the last strand he wants to smooth out, Kirishima stops his hand when Bakugou shoves a cup in his face. He lifts his head in question and Bakugou looks at him from above. He has another cup in his left hand, on top of which sits a small brown bag.

“Breakfast,” he says flatly, his eyes trailing down Kirishima’s hair.

Kirishima brushes the last knot away then puts his brush down and takes the cup with a wide grin.

“Thanks, dude.” He doesn’t even know what’s in there but it doesn’t really matter.

Bakugou lets himself fall back on the couch; he puts the bag between them and holds his cup close to his face, apparently trying to absorb the coffee’s good vibes. With one hand, he opens the bag and takes a pastry out of it, biting into the fresh crust with close to no enthusiasm. Kirishima sips on his cup in silence – it tastes like a mocha. He wonders briefly if that’s Bakugou’s favorite.

The terminal starts buzzing again, human hive that it is. A father brought enough Danish pastries to feed his family of five and one small kid can’t hold his enthusiasm. In the corner, the group of friends munch on some leftover snacks; the blonde guy still has his Pikachu eye mask hanging around his neck and he laughs at some joke his dark-hair friend just made, an elbow on the girl’s shoulder.

Bakugou pushes the brown bag against Kirishima’s thigh. Kirishima looks down, then up at his neighbor, not getting it.

“Breakfast, for fuck’s sake,” Bakugou groans at his blank face.

There is he. Truly awake, apparently, though he still has quite a limited vocabulary.

Kirishima doesn’t wait for a prayer; he opens the bag and finds another pastry, identical to the one Bakugou has in his hand.

“Th– ”

“Don’t,” Bakugou interrupts him, visibly irritated. He bites into his pastry with more fervor.

Kirishima conceals a smile and gratefully eats his own. They sit in a comfortable silence, and neither of them wants to think about their shoulders touching.

Getting stuck in the airport isn’t so bad.

Bag zipped, empty coffee cup trashed, Bakugou is ready to bounce. He has nowhere to go in particular, he simply can’t stand staying there any longer. His legs are going to turn to goddamn cement if he doesn’t do anything about it.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from your dumb ass face.”

Bakugou can’t see him but he feels the fucker smile at this, as though that was a compliment. What the fuck. What the fuck.

Immediately, Kirishima closes his bag too, shoving whatever he took out it back in a pocket or another.

Of course he has to tag along.

“Don’t you have other things to do?” he grunts at the guy.

“Actually, no, my schedule is pretty free today,” Kirishima answers sarcastically.

Bakugou starts walking without wasting his energy trying to find a comeback and Kirishima trots to come by his side as they make their way through the crowd. If only they could find a place that’s less crowded, where they’d – where he’d being able to sit in silence, that’d be grand.

Walking around feels weird after spending so much time sitting down.

“Wait, I need to go to the bathroom!” Kirishima suddenly says, leaving Bakugou’s side to jog towards one of the large doors on the side of the hall. His stupid red hair bounces and flows from side to side over his shoulders.

“I’m not waiting for shit!” Bakugou shouts at him.

“Yes you are!” Kirishima sings before disappearing behind the door.

Yes, he is.

He doesn’t know why but yes he is. It’s not like he owes crap to this guy. All he did for Bakugou was share his chips, and that wasn’t even intentional. He could leave him there, in his stall, and disappear from his view. He could just walk away and that’d be it; the terminal is so large they probably wouldn’t meet again. Then they’d take their planes and that’d be done. Over. Kirishima would leap out of this bathroom and his face would fall at the sight of an empty space; his knuckles would whiten when his fingers squeeze the strap of his bag and he’d stand there, looking around for a moment maybe, before accepting that Bakugou was his own special kind of one night stand.

He’d get over it. There isn’t a reason for Bakugou to stay and, in truth, his legs itch for a walk right now. It’s not like he’d feel guilty anyway.

But yes, when Kirishima finally gets out of the bathroom, Bakugou still stands where he last saw him. Kirishima does the same annoying jog back to his side.

“Okay, let’s go,” he says enthusiastically, as if he had any power over what Bakugou does, where he does it and when he goes there. As if.

They fall into step easily.

“You still didn’t tell me where you’re headed,” Kirishima chimes. Oh there he goes again.

“Because I don’t fucking want to, maybe?” Bakugou grunts, exasperated.

“I’m going to Tokyo,” Kirishima continues. “I live there.” His tone shifts to something softer. “I can’t wait to be back home.”

Bakugou doesn’t answer.

“You have siblings?” Kirishima asks and Bakugou rolls his eyes at him. When Kirishima refuses to stop staring – one of his eyes is barely hidden by a strand of hair that looks like it’d be soft at the touch and it’s irritating – Bakugou gives in.

“Why do you care?” he spits, but he can’t quite sound as acidic as he’d like to.

“Because I want to know,” Kirishima answers, as though that was the easiest thing he had to say since they met. “You look like the kind of guy who has stories to tell.”

Bakugou scoffs. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I like cool stories,” Kirishima simply says with a shrug.

They pass galleries setting up for the day and large shops just opening their gates. Employees are already hard at work, setting up the last few details before letting the first customers in.

“You own one of these?” Kirishima asks, again, as they pass one of these men’s suits shops. Technically, Bakugou has a suit, but the person who’s going to force him wear it better have good life insurance.

“Stop asking questions,” he sighs. Rising his voice obviously doesn’t work on this guy, so he clings to simple sentences as a last resort. When he turns his head to see if Kirishima has had enough already, he finds him gazing at the suits with a haze over his eyes.

“What? Wanna stop and get one? You’re made of money or something?”

Kirishima laughs at that; it’s earnest and true, and it kind of rings like heavy bells, the way Bakugou knows they do on summer weddings. Kind of.

“No no, I just find them nice!” he clarifies. “They’re so… Manly, ya know.”

Bakugou doesn’t know, and he doesn’t ask.

After a few moments, the distance they put between them and the bulk of the crowd starts being appreciable. There’s nothing to note in this part of the terminal, besides large windows that would have been uncomfortable to sleep next to. The view isn’t that nice; it’s mostly grey and flat, with planes and cars moving around carefully.

Attached to the wall is a series of photos taken in different countries, exposed side by side as part of some advertisement campaign for an airline. Exotic forests spreading as far as eye can see follow grandiose cities towering over those who sit by their skyscrapers. Kirishima slows down his walk.

“If you had to pick one, where would you go?”

“Why are you constantly asking questions?” Bakugou protests.

“Come on, just this one,” Kirishima pleads. “What would you pick, if you had infinite money and tons of free time?”

He’s not even smiling that bright this time, he’s just there, being a bother, but he doesn’t look as tired as he should. There’s a warmth to his face, a sun eager to show through his skin; he has red eyes, too, but he doesn’t scream murder with them. Bakugou wishes he could genuinely hate his kind, the kind of people soft and solid at once, the kind of people he can’t push and pull, use and throw, denigrate and look down upon. It’d be so much easier. It’d be so much simpler, if only this guy didn’t have these shiny lips, these wanting eyes and these sparks thrown all over them.

“You’re so goddamn annoying, you better know that,” Bakugou sighs loudly before taking a moment to consider his options. “This one,” he eventually decides, pointing to a poster of Bora-Bora.

“The beach, uh? I thought you’d be more of a mountain kind of guy,” Kirishima ponders.

“There’s a mountain right here,” Bakugou snarks, tapping repeatedly against the plastic to point out where Mount Otemanu rises behind the water.

Kirishima takes a step back to look at the poster better, brushing hair away from his face with one hand. He has a small scar on his eyelid that Bakugou hadn’t seen before. “Yeah, that looks like a cool place to go to!”

He walks a bit further to the left and puts his finger on a poster promoting Iceland. “That’d be mine,” he says. “I’ve heard there’s so much to see there. All the pictures I’ve seen are beautiful. It’s a great place to go hiking!”

Bakugou joins him next to the poster, not even trying to read the exact name of the location written at the bottom. He seems lost in thought for an instant, contemplating the colorful trails topped by a waterfall.

Kirishima tries not to look at his face for too long.

Kirishima fails.

His voice falls lower, softer. “I wouldn’t want to go alone though, it’s always funnier with other people.” He takes his eyes off Bakugou’s face, fingers coming to touch the poster. “But it looks like such a cool place to go to!” he beams.

Bakugou doesn’t say anything in answer, so Kirishima lets silence fall back over them. They stay there for a moment, Bakugou visibly captivated by something; is it the picture or is it something trapped between it and him? Is it the colors or is it a thought, stealing Bakugou’s gaze from the air before it can focus on anything? Kirishima doesn’t know him well enough but this silence isn’t the one Bakugou has used him to – it’s a working silence. It’s a place in itself, a corner in which Bakugou thinks loudly, clearly, fast. Kirishima doesn’t want to break it.

“I don’t have siblings,” Bakugou says flatly after a minute. He doesn’t look at Kirishima but Kirishima still sees his face soften, these curves Kirishima starts to know reappearing shyly around his lash line, around his jaw, smoothing out this glow he has. Something seems to have clicked within him in this moment, like an acceptance, a step taken over a line; his lips are barely parted, his aura just the right shade of burnt yellow, his calloused hands just ripe for the taking.

Kirishima looks at him, then he looks at him some more, until Bakugou brings his eyes into his own and tilts his head to the side, silently asking they move along. Breaking eye contact doesn’t shatter the spell; even in silence, Kirishima still feels like he’s behind the marble, slithering through a narrow crack this stranger opened just for him.

It’s 11:54 when the delayed flights are given a departure time. The storm has died down, leaving the skies wide open. The bright red “delayed” on the screens is still there but there’s a time written right under it, finally promising they won’t be stuck in here for long. Kirishima goes through the lines until he finds his flight for Tokyo, now leaving at 2:46 pm.

“Nice,” he mumbles. He’ll be home for dinner. He turns to Bakugou. “At what time does your flight leave?”

Bakugou’s eyes are still somewhere on the screen. He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly, then turns around without a word and steps away.

“Hey!” Kirishima calls, catching up to him. “Dude, that’s not cool. I just want to know when you have to go so we can be at your gate on –”

“Tokyo,” Bakugou interjects, still looking straight ahead, “I’m going to Tokyo, dumbass.”

Oh.

“That’s so cool!” Kirishima beams, an arm coming to wrap around Bakugou’s shoulders.

“No its not!” Bakugou barks immediately, his frown darkening his face. “And stay away from me, you stink, you gross bastard!” he warns, swinging away from his path to avoid Kirishima’s arm and put some distance between them.

Kirishima lets him do it, chuckling at the sight. Yes, it is. Bakugou may be fuming – something in his neck is twitching and his lips are so tightly bound together they look like a small line – but Kirishima is glad, genuinely glad he might, if his companion lets him, see this scrunched up face again after today.

Bakugou comes back to Kirishima’s side eventually. On his own.

“You owe me food,” he grunts, hands in his pockets. “Pay for my lunch.”

Kirishima only hums in answer. That’s fair.

They walk until the next sandwich shop, having looped back around the terminal long ago. The crowd is suffocating, still buzzing like a thousand bees, but Kirishima spots familiar faces here and there. The family of five has found solace in video games; the kids are sitting together, probably playing Mario Kart given how they move their 3DSs around. The trio of friends play cards on the floor – the pink haired girl raises her hands to the air when she puts her last card down, flaunting her victory in the guys’ faces.

“Where do you live in Tokyo?” Kirishima asks as they wait in line.

“You want my birth certificate while you’re at it?” Bakugou groans, and Kirishima can’t help noticing there’s no insult this time.

“Just wondering.”

“Whatever you’re thinking about, you better stop thinking about it right fucking now,” Bakugou advises between his teeth. He looks at Kirishima as if he was daring him to do something, to say something about meeting up and staying in contact, but Kirishima only smiles.

“So what do you want? Tuna? Chicken?” he chirps, turning to look at the sandwiches through the window.

Bakugou takes a few seconds to think about it. “Bacon,” he eventually says, pointing at a column of sandwiches. Kirishima nods.

“You know, if you ever want to watch Iron Man 2…”

“Shut up.”

“You’re really not a people person, are you?” Kirishima teases him.

“I said, shut up.”

Bakugou seemingly closes himself off but he doesn’t move away.

Kirishima pays for their sandwiches and a couple of drinks before they find a table to sit at. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Bakugou starts answering texts with one hand while Kirishima takes a few bites off his lunch. He looks around, finding new things to look at in the crowd.

He pretends not to notice the weight of Bakugou’s gaze on his face.

They eat lunch in silence. Kirishima can’t help but think it already feels like the comfort of routine.

“Stop bouncing your leg, Bakugou.”

Bakugou, as expected, doesn’t.

He makes the entire row of seats shake imperceptibly and Kirishima is not ready to deal with the consequences of pissing off this guy sitting to his right, long black hair almost hiding his face wrapped in a thick white scarf. He hasn’t said a word so far but Kirishima just knows.

They’re sitting by the gate, waiting for the boarding to start.

“Bakugou,” Kirishima comes again, but Bakugou’s not listening. His arms crossed, he stares into the distance and ignores him with the disdain of someone who’s so obviously above all of this.

The guy with long black hair shifts in his seat and lets out a long, deep sigh. Oh no.

“Bakugou!” Kirishima insists, his left hand coming down to swat his thigh. “Stop it. You’re bothering everyone.”

Surprisingly, Bakugou stops. He looks at Kirishima intently and lets a couple of seconds fly by.

“I don’t give a shit,” he says simply before his leg starts to bounce again, looking at Kirishima straight in the eyes as he does it.

Kirishima sighs at his stubbornness. How has this guy managed to not get himself killed before today? He probably gets a kick out of pissing off as many people as possible; that can’t be healthy.

Telling himself he doesn’t have much of a choice, Kirishima puts his hand on Bakugou’s thigh and presses down. Confused, Bakugou stops moving – so truly, Kirishima’s technique works.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Bakugou growls, leaning into Kirishima’s space. He’s doing the intimidation thing again.

“Keeping you in check,” Kirishima blurts out as an explanation, raising his head to look at him. “You’re impossible.”

Bakugou puts his heel back down. Kirishima is well-aware of what this could look like but it’s not that at all; his hand doesn’t sit on Bakugou’s thigh because he wanted to feel the muscles, to imagine the skin under the pants. He doesn’t care about the body heat, about the contact and the closeness, he doesn’t care about Bakugou not having bit his fingers off either. He doesn’t give a second of thought to any of that, to the softness right over the steel of the quadriceps, to the hip a finger length away, to the crook under the abs and the warmth of the inner thigh. There’s truly nothing, nothing to the flowers in his throat, smothering his chest under thrumming petals; there’s nothing to Bakugou’s eyes dropping to his lips for a quarter of a second, to his lashes fluttering when he not quite blinks, to the lines of his face going from marble to clay to paint.

Kirishima takes his hand away.

Passing the gate doesn’t take as long as Bakugou thought it would.

He makes his way to the plane through the bridge, Kirishima walking by his side. The guy’s been silent for a while. Fucking finally.

He’s glad Kirishima found it in himself to shut up. He’s glad he doesn’t have to hear that voice, to listen to him rambling about everything and anything; thank god, Bakugou can walk around in peace, not having to be reminded of his glowing, shining, blinding presence.

So he doesn’t really know why he turns to face him before boarding the plane, opens his mouth to say something and, when Kirishima’s eyes meet his own in confusion, blurts “fuck off” instead.

Bakugou leans against the wall of the plane, trying to ignore a trio of friends chatting enthusiastically around him. A guy sitting in front of him has turned around, squeezing his face between the seats to talk to two people sitting on his left. A pink-haired girl hands him an earphone and gives the other to the blonde idiot right next to Bakugou; they comment on her music taste, bobbing their head along to the music.

A few rows ahead, red hair peeks through from between the seats. Bakugou misses his kind of silence.

Exiting the plane is arduous and excruciatingly slow. People trample in place and make their way out one step at a time. It’s frustrating. It’s stifling. It’s the worst fucking thing ever and Bakugou wants to punch his way through it. Somehow, he reaches the other side of the bridge, clutching his bag in one hand. The airport opens up to him, ready to guide him to the baggage claim; the crowd spreads open, splays like fingers of a hand and disperses in a low chatter. People find their bearings.

Bakugou doesn’t. He doesn’t, until he looks around quickly and spots vibrant red hair.

Kirishima is there, standing in the hall with his bag between his feet. Eyes down stuck to his phone, he’s apparently been waiting after leaving the plane. He types something, silently mouthing the words as he does, and a lock of hair escapes from behind his ear to fall down next to his face. Without looking up, Kirishima pushes it back into place. Bakugou knows he’s staring.

“Hey!” he shouts to stop himself from thinking any longer, “dumbass!”

Kirishima’s head springs up – probably because of the volume of Bakugou’s voice, but Bakugou likes to think he took the insult as a name – and a smile appears on his face in the same second. He pockets his phone, bends over to pick up his bag and makes his way over.

“Dude! I was waiting for you,” he smiles. Bakugou doesn’t like the way he looks. He doesn’t like these small dimples in his cheeks and the softness he can see from there; he can almost taste the joy emanating from the guy, sweet and golden like honeyed lips, and it’s obnoxious and over the top and unnecessary and not even that pretty.

“Yeah yeah, get your ass over here,” Bakugou sighs. He doesn’t take a step forward even though, technically, he could have walked past without trying to attract Kirishima’s attention. He could have ignored him but no, he had to want to see him, to want to have him by his side as they go end their journey together, to want him.

Bakugou’s a mess.

“Stop pouting dude, we’re home,” Kirishima chimes when he reaches him, bumping into his shoulder with his own. They start walking again and it’s natural, easy, comfortable. “Is someone picking you up?”

“No, I’ll go back home on my own.”

“Right. Me too,” Kirishima nods. “Let’s go get our stuff – do you have any checked baggage?”

Bakugou nods at that. He bumps into Kirishima’s shoulder in turn, as if that would stop him from asking questions like he always does. He doesn’t really know why he did that, actually.

“I’m so tired,” Kirishima groans, tilting his head back. Bakugou looks at the collarbones, at the neck, at the jaw; he stops before he reaches the lips and he decides to never talk to a guy in his life again.

Familiar faces stand out from the crowd gathered in the baggage claim area; a couple of kids run around an unused belt under the exasperated look of their parents, the man with the long black hair and the white scarf is dozing off against a pillar and both the pink-haired girl and the blonde dude have their head on one of their friend’s shoulders, waiting. Without a word, Kirishima points to an empty space on a bench, right in front of the belt. Bakugou hums in agreement and they make their way to it, sitting down.

Bakugou exhales and makes something in his shoulder crack before relaxing against the wall, eyes closed. His left thigh comes to touch Kirishima’s right; neither of them do anything about it.

It truly does feel like routine.

Bakugou hears Kirishima yawn; he feels him stretch, like he always does, and his thigh trembles for a second when he releases all his muscles at once with a deep sigh. Then Kirishima’s head plops down on Bakugou’s shoulder and Bakugou opens his eyes.

“Hey!”

Kirishima only hums in answer, obviously not worried about what could happen if he pisses him off.

“You’re fuckin heavy, you dumb rock,” Bakugou groans. He’d shout at him, he’d snap if he wanted to, but Kirishima’s ear is right here. Bakugou’s lips are not so far from his temple, from his skin, and with this angle he can see the neck melting into the torso. He realizes then Kirishima took his hoodie off on the plane and the neck of his shirt is too large for his own – viewed from above, it’s open on the collarbones, on a vein calmly pulsing with his heartbeat, on the highs and the lows drawn by the bone.

“I’m sleepy,” Kirishima mumbles, burying his face further into Bakugou’s neck.

Bakugou doesn’t have enough energy to pretend he’d like to push him away.

Bakugou smells like peaches. It’s not only his hair, Kirishima can see it now; he just smells good all the time. Though Kirishima would have expected sweat, musk, something, but it’s overpowered by something sweeter. He nuzzles his face into Bakugou’s warmth and meets no resistance; losing track of time, he feels like he could stay there for hours.

The thud of the first piece of luggage falling onto the belt makes him open his eyes. Without moving, he watches other suitcases slowly rolling around, followed by even more, like a colorful caterpillar. His lashes brush against Bakugou’s skin when he blinks. Bakugou doesn’t seem to mind.

Kirishima doesn’t know how he should say goodbye. He doesn’t really want to. Eyes on the belt, he prays silently to whoever’s listening his red suitcase never shows up.

Whoever’s listening says fuck you.

When Bakugou stands up without warning, Kirishima’s head falls off his shoulder. He goes for the belt lazily and catches a large black suitcase when it arrives in front of him. After checking something on the label attached to it, Bakugou pulls it down the belt, lifts the handle out with a click and walks back to the bench, the suitcase rolling behind him. Kirishima rubs the back of his neck, looking up at his face, but Bakugou avoid his gaze. He stops with a huff, bends forward to grab his backpack and swings it across his shoulder.

He mumbles something Kirishima doesn’t understand then turns around and starts walking away.

Just like that.

Just like that? Bakugou is going to leave just like that? After everything they’ve been through together? Well, of course it’s not much, it’s almost nothing actually, but still!

Kirishima leaps up. “Hey!” he calls, grabbing Bakugou’s arm.

“Let go, Kirishima,” Bakugou groans, pulling his arm back to himself.

“Yeah, see, you know my name,” Kirishima smiles, stepping around him to look at him from the front. Bakugou stops in his tracks since there’s a whole motherfucker in the way, but doesn’t push him to the side. Kirishima pulls yet another lock of hair behind his ear – goddam he’s actually cute.

“I was thinking, do you want to –”

“No, I don’t,” Bakugou cuts him, knowing that if he doesn’t hear the offer, he won’t be tempted to say yes. “I’m tired.”

Kirishima grins, but before he can talk, Bakugou continues.

“You’re in my way,” he says, and he doesn’t flinch when Kirishima’s hand find his arm again. “This whole thing was horrible, I have cramps fucking everywhere.”

Kirishima hums at that; Bakugou complains but the stone is nowhere to be seen on his face. Even in harshness, he becomes transparent when watched by the right eyes, clear and limpid like mountain water.

“I’m never taking a goddamn plane ever again in my entire life,” Bakugou continues with the same rough tone. His voice doesn’t waver when Kirishima’s hand travels to his shoulder. “And you made me deaf with all your stupid questions, I can’t believe I tolerated you for a whole fucking day.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Kirishima says with a smile, not as a provocation or an insult but maybe, just maybe a bit fondly.

“Shut up.”

Still, Bakugou doesn’t push him away. He stands there, one hand on the strap of his backpack, the other around the handle of his suitcase; there are hours spent not sleeping sitting under his eyes and a twitch in his eyebrow. The skin of his neck is soft – Kirishima kind of wants to taste it and he tells himself that maybe, one day, he will. For now he just looks at Bakugou and when their eyes meet, there’s no recoil, there’s no defense; there’s only marble sculpted to flow and shine under the right kind of light, only something Kirishima reads as a hold me back, so when Bakugou lightly pushes back against his hand as though he just inched closer, when the garden in his chest enters full spring, Kirishima lets it happen.

He takes the last step forward, tilts his head to the side, closes his eyes and presses his lips to Bakugou’s. His hand travels up, coming to cup the side of Bakugou’s face gently; after a few seconds, Bakugou leans into it and answers the kiss, his lips slowly moving against Kirishima’s. He’s more tender than Kirishima would have bet, more careful; Kirishima attributes it to his fatigue but doesn’t mind any of it. He moves even closer, his other hand softly grabbing the other side of Bakugou’s face, and deepens the kiss; his heart beats like a war drum and Bakugou’s lips send warm ripples down his spine with every move, every press. Then Bakugou pulls back for a moment and Kirishima opens his eyes, engraving the red of these cheeks in the back of his mind. Without a word, Bakugou tilts his head to the other side and brings a hand behind Kirishima’s neck, pulling him in more roughly. He opens his mouth and nibbles on Kirishima’s lips, bringing his tongue in tentatively. When Kirishima answers in kind and accidentally scrapes his lip with his teeth, Bakugou pulls back again, in surprise this time.

“Watch these teeth, fuck!” he swears, running his thumb along his bottom lip, and Kirishima laughs quietly. Bringing one of his hands down against the small of Bakugou’s back, he pulls him in closer still. Bakugou looks up, his cheeks warm under Kirishima’s palm, his lips flushed red after being properly kissed.

“So I was saying, do you want to hang out this weekend?” Kirishima starts again, but Bakugou’s looking over his shoulder.

“Kirishima.”

“Mmmh?”

“Do you have a red suitcase?”

Kirishima flips around, taking his hands off Bakugou, only to see his suitcase making rounds on the belt. “Oh! Wait here,” he says to Bakugou before jogging to the belt and catching it. A lot of people are already gone but the trio of friends is still there, sitting on the other side of the belt. They make eye contact with Kirishima over the suitcases and the blonde guy lifts both his thumbs up with a knowing smile. Confused, Kirishima looks at the girl, hoping for an explanation, but she mimics applause. The other guy next to her nods at him like he would at a bro.

Kirishima loves people.

Bakugou comes behind him and grabs his wrist, pulling him away from the belt.

“Let’s go,” he simply says, not trying to stay out of Kirishima’s personal space.

Kirishima leans in and leaves a quick peck on his lips, only for the three friends to cheer in the distance. Bakugou’s lips only react when he pulls away, chasing him for a fraction of a second. For the time of a breath, they don’t move, but then Bakugou blinks and pulls back.

“Let’s fucking go,” he insists, but his eyes keep jumping to Kirishima’s lips.

Kirishima nods with a low hum. They leave the baggage claim area, following the exit signs, moving together easily. In a long corridor, the same large posters they saw in the morning are hung up there too, letting travelers on their way back home gaze one last time at what could have been. When they walk past Iceland’s, Bakugou slows down, eventually stopping in his tracks. Kirishima looks at him and slips his fingers through Bakugou’s, holding onto his palm gently. Nothing hardens on Bakugou’s face, nothing really moves, but when Kirishima squeezes his hand, he lightly squeezes back.

“I really like mountain climbing,” he says simply after a few seconds.

Kirishima looks at him yawn, his eyes creasing then relaxing; he blinks a couple of times, then turns his head to look back at Kirishima.

“Come on,” Kirishima says, pulling on his hand. “I’m hungry.”

Bakugou doesn’t protest, falling into step with him.

“So. You still haven’t told me,” Kirishima tries again, “do you want to –”

“Please, ” Bakugou says for the first time since they met, “Kirishima. Shut up.”

“I take that as a yes.”

Bakugou feigns trying to get rid of this hand in his own but the instant Kirishima lets his fingers slip out, he stops shaking his arm around and grabs Kirishima’s palm again. Kirishima leans against his side, bright as a sun, and part of Bakugou wants to tell him that he smells sweaty and gross, that he doesn’t want to be that cuddly, that he’ll spend the weekend alone; but Kirishima looks cute with his hair down, he doesn’t even smell bad and he radiates something that makes Bakugou think about his plans for Saturday.