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It was kind of stupid, and kind of risky, but they’d all just taken down a heavy ring of dangerous villains and sometimes stupid and risky work needed to continue into the night. Dressed in dark hats and inconspicuous clothing that’d be tossed five minutes into their first drinks, they hopped into nameless taxis and gathered together at a familiar bar turned nightclub that hadn’t quite been tagged by the paparazzi yet.
The pros shoved tables together while shouting orders for first of many drinks and tried to forget the last week, tried to forget the smell of smoke and sound of panicked yells. Tried to forget that Chargebolt came straight from the hospital, medical bracelet still hanging from his wrist. The music picked up and the lights shifted as the club arranged itself for the evening crowd; alcohol traded hands, tabs were opened, chairs moved from center floor.
Kirishima downed half his first beer so fast the bottle clinked against his teeth. He’d shown up wearing a dark jacket and black beanie, both of which were now in the pile of clothing stacked against the host’s stand. He ruffled a hand through his loose hair and lifted the bottle again.
“Easy, big man.” Kaminari slid next to him, bumping him casually with one easy hip. “I’m not leaving until last call and I don’t wanna haul your ass outta here before that.”
“Just getting the first one out of the way, Denk,” Kirishima answered, sliding the empty bottle towards the middle of the table, where busy servers would collect them eventually. “I can always out drink all of you, anyway. Need a head start.”
“Whatever. Just means I spend less money for a good time.”
“I don’t spend any money when I want a good time,” teased Kirishima. He slipped two fingers under Kaminari’s medical band and, hardening them, sliced it from his wrist. It fell onto the floor, already out of their minds.
Kaminari rolled his eyes. “Not drunk enough to hear about your sex life, bro.”
Another body joined the table,, jostling it enough to have the beer bottle threatening to roll. “I’m drunk enough to hear it,” sang Mina, her pink cheeks flushed dark. She held something brightly mixed in one hand, cherry speared on a plastic sword. “Tell me a good story, Ei.”
“Once upon a time-” he began.
“You turned down a hot piece of ass, the end,” Kaminari finished. “That’s how the story always fucking goes, Mina, stop asking.”
“You’re such a pouty drunk, Denk.” She pulled a long sip from her drink. Lipstick smeared across the edge of the glass.
Kaminari did pout, his bottom lip quivering. “I’m not even drunk. Doctor said I shouldn’t drink on the medicine he gave me.” He placed both elbows on the table and leaned his chin against his hands, tilting puppy eyes towards Kirishima, who shrugged.
“Ugh,” Mina whined, “what’s the point of quirks if we still have to take medicine?”
“Need more people shitting out advil and less of them spitting acid, maybe,” Kirishima pointed out. He slapped a palm on the table and the bottle did tip. “I’m getting another drink,” he announced, picking it back up. Nobody needed glass on the floor quite yet.
“Drink one for me, dude,” Kaminari asked.
“God, if you’re such a downer all night, Denk, I’m not gonna make out with you,” Mina warned. Ice clinked in her near-empty glass.
Kaminari sunk lower against the table. “You always find a hot stranger to mack on,” he said, “we never have to sink that low.”
Mina sucked the cherry off the sword, splitting it between her front teeth before chewing. She set the empty glass on the table. “So you always remind me. Come on, Kiri, let’s hit the bar.” Grabbing elbow, she steered him away from the pouting blond.
“You look cute, Mina,” he told her, “Is that a new outfit?”
She waved his question off. “Naw. Just an old dress I cut up for tonight. How about you, though? I’ve never seen you in pants that tight.”
“Oh, ha.” Kirishima waved the bartender down. They were busy, but staff here knew by now who to serve first. “Laundry day?” Kirishima tried.
Mina snorted. “You have a delivery service do your laundry twice a week. Wanna try again?”
“Another Black,” he told the bartender, avoiding Mina’s pointed gaze. God, it was like she purposefully shaped her eyebrows just for this very expression. “I’ll let you know when I come up with a better excuse,” he said.
“Ooh, I have an excuse,” Mina teased, voice dropping as she leaned closer. Kirishima tilted his head towards her, eyes narrowing. “A blond, angry excuse who’s currently having a very elaborate discussion with Ochako. Is that better? No, don’t-” she looped her fingers around Kirishima’s elbow, stopping him from spinning around like an oblivious dumbass.
“I’m not drunk enough for your teasing, Mina.” He shook her hand away but resisted the urge to turn and look. Bakugou rarely went out with the rest of them, and though a little bird had hinted he’d show up tonight, Kirishima was still surprised to see him. Or, not see him, yet, thanks to Mina. “You ever gonna give up?”
“You haven’t even tried,” she whined.
“Yes, I have,” Kirishima reminded her, taking the drink brought to him by the bartender. “He turned me down hard and I spent a week moping about it until Aizawa kicked my ass back into gear.”
Mina rattled off her own order before insisting, “That was like, so many years ago.”
“So?”
“So!”
“So, what, you want me to go over there and ask him to dance?”
“Yes! I would love that!”
Oh, Mina. Kirishima pulled a heavy swallow from the bottle, enjoying the dark taste of it across his tongue. He felt nothing but a light heat across his cheeks from the first, and knew this second one wouldn’t do much more. “Bakugou doesn’t dance.”
“He does when he’s drunk, sometimes,” Mina said. She was handed another colorful drink, this time lacking a sword but with three cherries floating below the ice. “He did at Momo’s party, last month. Weren’t you there?”
He shook his head. “Called out of town.”
Mina shrugged. “Well, he’s drinking now- no, don’t look!”
“Why can’t I look? He’s my best friend; it’s not weird for me to look at him, Mina.”
“He’ll know we’re talking about him!”
“So? He won’t know what about.”
“God, Ei. I know you’re gay, but you’re the worst at gossip.”
“What- this isn’t gossip. Is this gossip?”
Mina looked him dead in the eyes and chugged her drink. She held her gaze as she dug cherries out with her fingers and ate them one by one. Kirishima felt increasingly uncomfortable with every fruit, no doubt her intention to unnerve him. Finally finished, she set her glass down and laughed. “You’re hopeless, but I’m not. I’m gonna scope the joint out.”
“Have fun,” he told her, turning away from the bar himself. Kaminari had disappeared from their original table and their spot had been claimed by a new group of strangers. It was getting steadily busier in here, the chatter and music making it increasingly more difficult to hear.
Kirishima looked over towards Bakugou finally, watched him wave his hands in the air aggressively, fingers of one hand looped around an olive green beer bottle. Uraraka had her finger pointed into his chest and a wild grin on her face, which meant they weren’t actually fighting. Probably.
Kirishima turned towards the bartender one last time. “Can I get one of whatever he’s got?” he asked, gesturing over at Bakugou.
The barman looked over and shook his head. “Naw, sold out of those quick. Small stock today. Want something similar?”
“No thanks,” Kirishima answered, shaking his head. Oh well. Attempt at being a good friend foiled. He’d buy Bakugou something else later; the guy was picky as hell and Kirishima wasn’t going to get stuck drinking something random himself. He pushed away from the bar and headed over, squeezing through the crowds towards his friends.
Damn Mina, putting thoughts in his head. Or, rather, digging up the thoughts she knew were already there. Yeah, he’d asked Bakugou out years ago, during school. He had thought he was doing the right thing; his friends had convinced him there was no way Bakugou could possibly say no. Teenage Kirishima had rushed into the whole thing bravely, rattled out the words he’d been practicing, and had been immediately turned down.
It wasn’t like Bakugou had been particularly mean about it, just a matter of fact ‘no way in hell’ that Kirishima had replayed in his mind way too many times in the days following. It’d felt like he wasn’t even surprised by the question at all, and that was the most embarrassing part.
Well, whatever. Honestly, dating at UA would have been a terrible mistake. Things were hard enough in those days without adding that sort of mess into it, and Kirishima couldn’t even picture where he’d be now if they’d had a messy breakup and stopped speaking. He’d needed Bakugou in the early hero days, and there was no doubt that Bakugou had needed him. Unspoken truths.
“What’s tonight’s debate about?” Kirishima asked, stepping within speaking range of the two.
God, Bakugou looked good though. He always did; PR screened all his clothes. Pictures weren’t supposed to happen here but there was always the chance that somebody would be going through their selfies later and think ‘wait, I know that guy in the background’. Whitewashed jeans, a dark v-neck, probably a black jacket hanging up in coat check. A smear of something dark around his eyes- shit. Kirishima was going to kill Mina.
He took a long drink and tried to focus on Uraraka’s answer, pulling his eyes away from his best friend’s neckline.
“I’m gonna just go crazy and dye my hair pink!” Uraraka announced. She had an empty martini glass in hand and probably a few more empties in her past, cheeks rosier than usual and voice high.
“Okay,” nodded Kirishima. “Why?”
“Because she wants to give her manager a fucking heart attack,” Bakugou snapped. “You can’t just overhaul your look overnight, Mooncheeks. That’s like dunking all your merch right in the goddamn trash.”
Uraraka giggled, twirling her fingers through her bangs before leaning forward dangerously to lay fingertips across Bakugou’s bare arm. “But I’d look so cuuuuuute; I could match my costume!”
“You went up five ranks last week; that mean shit to you?” countered Bakugou, slapping her wandering hand out of his space.
“Oh shoot, did I really?” She laughed, eyes bright. She tried to take a drink, pouting when her lips met only ice cubes. Kirishima waved down a server.
“You- don’t you even- Do you fucking imbeciles not keep track of that shit?”
“Aww. Why should I? You shout it at me every time I see you, Blasty.” Uraraka really went for the pout, cheeks puffing. “Which isn’t enough. You never come out with us. We miss you; right, Kiri?” She turned her attention his way, trying to drag him him into a familiar argument.
Kirishima shrugged, his second drink now empty. “You’re the one in Rescue,” he pointed out, “I see Bakugou like, every few days.”
Bakugou took a quick sip from his bottle, eyeing Uraraka over the rim of it. “How are you already so drunk?”
“Momo, Kyoka, and I pre-gamed in the taxi,” she grinned, offering an excited thumbs up. Ice slipped from her empty glass and Kirishima pulled the cup from her grip. She turned one thumbs up into two.
“Fucking great; that means they’re sloshed too.”
Uraraka was a fun drunk; Yaomomo and Jirou were a really handsy couple, but typically tucked themselves into a dark corner after a few drinks. It was kind of cute until you turned a corner and walked into a lot of sudden tongue action. Kirishima needed to catch up if that was already on the table.
“Where’s- oh.”
The server had finally meandered over towards them, a tray of shots balanced easily in one of a few hands. She had an order slip open in another, a pen poised in a third. “Thirsty, sweets?”
“Ochako, whatcha drinking?” Kirishima asked.
“Whiskey and rum and tequila!”
“Okay. She’ll have, like. One of those. Your choice,” he told the server. She’d bring the most expensive but that was fine; you didn’t think about money on celebration nights. “What’s in the shots?”
“Vodka lemon.”
Kirishima dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of cash. He counted it quickly and handed it to one of the server’s free hands before picking up a chilled glass and tossing it back. Not his favorite, too sour by far, but it’d work. Shot one, shot two- he picked up two more and offered one to Bakugou, who scowled at it.
“Hell no.”
“If you don’t drink it, I’ll give it to Uraraka,” Kirishima threatened.
Bakugou took it with a grumble that Kirishima didn’t try to translate. He downed the shot and bounced the cup back on the tray before Kirishima could match him, which was pretty disappointing- the best part of shots was doing them together. Oh well. The night so far was a whole lotta ‘oh well’s and not enough ‘fuck yeah’s, but maybe the burn of vodka down his throat would change that. He returned the shot glass and the server wandered off again, quick to be hounded by other too-sober patrons.
“Three fucking shots, Kirishima?” Bakugou snorted, eyebrows raised.
“Dude, I worked hard today,” he argued.
“Yeah,” Bakugou allowed, “you did.”
Things had really changed, huh? Kirishima had been dwelling so much on his school days crush that he was suddenly struck by that comment, that admittance that Kirishima had done something well without an immediate follow up claim to do better. He was struck by a bizarre urge to ask Bakugou how many spots Red Riot had climbed up the hero ranks last sorting, just to see if he knew, just to hear him say it; which was weird, because obviously Bakugou knew it, and Kirishima knew the number too, and- shit, he was starting to feel warm. Maybe three quick shots of vodka after two beers wasn’t quite the brightest idea.
“Wanna dance, Ochako?” he said quickly, asking her before he dared to ask anybody else.
“Hell yeah!” She pumped a fist in the air and grabbed his elbow, careful even as drunk as she was to watch her fingers, conscious of her quirk.
Kirishima set both their empty drinks on the first table they passed and let the tiny woman drag him out onto the designated dance floor. It wasn’t too crowded yet, just pockets of friends laughing in groups under rotating lights. Mina was there already, spinning with a dazzling Hakagure who’d sprayed herself down with a body glitter that reflected brilliantly. He and Uraraka joined their space, a hard bass line and heavy lights blocking out the rest of the bar.
Uraraka turned to face him, her hands coming to rest lightly across his arms as she leaned in. He idly gripped her hips and they swayed back and forth to the changing beat. She giggled almost non-stop, her motions increasingly sloppy, and he could feel it too; the steady fall into tipsy and hard past, liquor settling warm and hot in his stomach. He tried to twirl her and she nearly slipped, the two of them twisting together with a laugh before settling back into something like a dance.
Her hands ended up on his chest and he wasn’t sure if that was her pulse or his pulse or the boom-boom bass anymore. Didn’t matter. Urakaka pressed close and leaned up, her cheeks red, pink spreading down her neck and under the straps of her top.
Kirishima tilted his head to hear her better but she was yelling anyway, loud over the music, “Ei, you wanna make out?” Her fingers tangled in the straps on his tank-top, hot against his hotter skin.
He laughed; considered it, settled on, “Not really, babe.”
“Aw,” she pouted, and she was so cute with her cheeks scrunched up, eyebrows folded together. “We always wonder how you kiss with those teeth.”
Kirishima grinned widely, showing off the rows of bright, sharp cuspids. “How d’you kiss without them?” he slurred through a giddy, open smile.
Her returning laugh was bright like bells, loud; she’d laugh at anything right now, drunk on joy and tequila and the bright surge of hope that came from a hard job well-done. She sighed dramatically, pausing mid-breath to giggle as Mina swooped in to kiss her on the cheek before dancing away again. “I wish Bakugou would make out with me,” she said, a glitter-pink lipstick smear bold on her face.
“Same,” admitted Kirishima, word heavy on his lips. Felt good to say it, would feel even better to do it. He craned his neck around, suddenly very interested in figuring out exactly where the blond had gotten to. Too many people now, the room filled enough that even at his height he couldn’t see past the dance floor.
Uraraka ignored his inattention, fingers still trailing absently across his collarbone, down his biceps, her soft skin clashing with his, rugged, battle-worn. “How come you never- oh shit, wasn’t I supposed to- where’s my drink. Kiri, didn’t you order me a drink?” She spun away from him, focus shifting completely. “I want rum,” Uraraka announced. “Coconut. With an umbrella. Oh fuck, I want an umbrella!”
She’d be real sad when she found out they didn’t have little umbrellas, Kirishima thought, watching her push her way through the shifting throng of people. Damn, now he wanted rum too, though. Where was- oh, Mina was just over there, plastic cup in one hand, her back pressed hard up against a guy he’d never seen before. Kirishima squeezed closer and snatched the drink from her hand.
“Hey,” she complained, loosely trying to grab it back, but his teeth were already crunching the plastic rim, fruity alcohol chasing the lingering taste of lemon down his throat.
The stranger leaned forward, hand sliding across Mina’s stomach possessively. Kirishima could have laughed- he did, probably, cup crumpling in his grip. Did this dude know who he was grinding? Didn’t he recognize her, pink skin, pink hair, pink name on the cover of magazines down every street? Shit, maybe he did, and was getting off on the idea of protecting a hero against some big, bad drink thief as if Mina couldn’t bench-press them both.
A girl slipped into his space then, insisting on stealing Kirishima’s ever-shifting, fuzzy attention. She squeezed against his chest, his hands looping around to fall naturally against her bare waist. “Hey,’ she purred, and he grinned- naw, he wasn’t interested in women, never had been, but there was still the allure meeting a stranger on the club floor that could get anybody hot. His skin buzzed as she turned around, even closer, finding rhythm in the heavy music. She lifted her hands above her head to tangle in his bright red hair, tilting her head backwards to look at him again, and-
“Oh, shit, you’re fucking Red Riot,” she gasped, spinning out of his grip and staring at him, eyes wide.
“Shhh,” he said, finger at his lips. Her mouth gaped like a fish. Damn. He wasn’t going to have any fun tonight at this rate.
She raised a hand to her mouth, the other waving excitedly. “Oh my god!”
Kirishima grabbed her hand and shoved it back down. “Listen,” he said, leaning close- too close, he probably shouldn’t let her smell the alcohol on his breath, but, whatever. It was more important in the moment that she didn’t ruin this night for him. “Listen,” he repeated, forgetting the first time, “I’m just tryna have a good time out with my friends, okay?”
The woman closed her mouth, considering this concept. Kirishima could see Mina over her shoulder snickering at him. The woman’s eyes lit up, and she said, “Oh! Does that mean Deku is here too?”
“Uh, yeah,” Kirishima answered, making a mental note to apologize to Midoriya later. “Somewhere. Maybe the whole other side of the bar.”
She clapped her hands together like he’d just given her the best gift in the world and dashed off without another word to him. Cool. Cool. Too bad nobody had told him at 15 that red hair would be really awesome as a hero but would mean he’d never get a private night out again. He’d still have done it, but at least he would have known, right?
“Shit, you’ve already been made, huh?”
Kirishima spun around, shocked to see Bakugou there, out on the dance floor. His hands were shoved into his front pockets as far as they could go (which wasn’t very far; he was wearing some damn tight pants) and the reflective lights of the stage glowed rainbow over his light hair. Kirishima put both hands on his hips, determined to act casual. “I told her Deku was here.”
Bakugou’s scowl slowly cracked, his expression shifting into a grin full of teeth, a barking laugh summoning Kirishima closer. “Good, he’s puking his brains out in the bathroom,” Bakugou shouted over the music. One hand slipped from his pocket and upwards, ruffling through his own hair and the hard line of his shoulders eased.
God, he looked good. Had he already had that thought? Probably. “Mina said you danced at Momo’s party.”
Bakugou shrugged. “I was drunk.”
“You drunk now?”
A shuffling group behind him nudged Bakugou closer, their loud antics drawing an over the shoulder side-eye from him before he turned his gaze back. His head tilted towards Kirishima, chin lifted in challenge. Pink dusted his cheeks but no more than that. “Enough,” he announced.
“Enough for dancing?” It was a tease and a dare rolled into one, a question that’d get him a palm of flames to the face if they weren’t masquerading in public.
But Bakugou instead said, “Try me.”
And- did he hear that right? Was he drunker than he thought, hallucinating answers? No- here was Bakugou in his space, an eyebrow raised, eyes glittering, daring him with a sharp expression to back out, to admit he’d just been teasing. He could claim ignorance, laugh, admit to being drunk. They were friends, best friends; three days ago he’d carried Ground Zero out of a building thrown over his shoulder and been forced to buy him curry in return - but that was all. Kirishima had blown his shot years ago, had never tried again.
In Kirishima’s stunned, drunken silence Bakugou took over, aggressively knocking over boundaries Kirishima had constructed through the years. They were suddenly touching, Bakugou’s back hard against his chest and his hands gripping hips, the edge of Bakugou’s jeans. Feet inched between his, forcing a space there, and Bakugou’s head fell to rest in the crook of Kirishima’s shoulder.
Okay, okay. Focus. Was the music louder? It felt louder. Felt like it ran through every vein, leaving patterns on his skin. Or wait, that was the spinning lights. Shit, there were so many people here now, crammed tuna in a net, wriggling just the same. How were they not aware of this? Of him, and Bakugou, and- where was Mina? Did Uraraka ever come back?
“You’re overthinking,” Bakugou growled, leaning back. “Just fucking dance with me,” he ordered.
Yeah, fuck. He was overthinking, which was weird for a man often told he never thought about a damn thing. Screw it, he needed to give in to the heady buzz of alcohol and just let things happen. Lyrics vibrated in his chest, vulgar, alluring words that created a beat for them. Bakugou rolled against his body and Kirishima couldn’t stop the way his hands wandered, up and under his shirt, over Bakugou’s smooth stomach, hard abs, the lines of his hips.
Shit, he was handsy, everything outside of them feeling like molasses, but Bakugou never stopped him. One sweaty hand settled over his and pushed, directing him even higher until Kirishima, lips parting, found himself palming Bakugou’s pec, fingers tense against his nipple. The shirt rode against his wrist, lifting, half of Bakugou’s chest just completely bared to the crowd.
Bakugou’s head rolled back against Kirishima’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he said, and Kirishima felt the vibration of his voice more than heard him over the music. Bakugou’s hips rolled back with the beat and there was no question how hard Kirishima was. How overwhelmed he was.
“Hey,” Kirishima murmured, lips ghosting the crest of Bakugou’s ear. “Hey. Is this good? It’s okay?”
“Yeah,” Bakugou replied, voice raw. “Shit.”
“You know I’m like-” Kirishima swallowed as, undeterred, Bakugou continued to grind against him. “I’m like seven drinks in.”
“You danced like this with Roundface.”
“Not like this,” he insisted. He brushed his thumb hard over a firm nipple and the soft sound he earned sent a new wave of heat crashing over him. Definitely not like this. Uraraka didn’t make his pants tight, didn’t make his head swim. “I wouldn’t…”
“Wouldn’t what?”
What? Wouldn’t- oh. “Wouldn’t kiss her.”
Bakugou tilted his head back, crimson eyes catching Kirishima’s. Too many thoughts flashed behind that gaze, too many for drunk Kirishima to follow, not when Bakugou deliberately ground his ass against him slowly, too slow to match the music’s beat, intentionally off-rhythm.
Bakugou turned suddenly in his arms, facing him chest to chest, Kirishima’s hands falling away to settle again naturally around his waist. Surprised, he pulled him close, eye contact between then unbreaking. Bakugou’s hands were like a blur just out of focus as they lifted, falling over Kirishima’s shoulders, around his neck, fingers curling hard into his mane of hair and pulling, pulling-
Bakugou tugged Kirishima’s unresistant head down, pulled lips to his, and then Kirishima’s brain really went liquid. All else disappeared as they kissed, messy and desperate, and Uraraka’s question flashed through Kirishima’s mind. How did he kiss? Carefully- that was the real answer. There were no chaste, closed mouth kisses here, just fire and and tongue and teeth.
Kirishima focused too much on teeth, maybe, because Bakugou drew away, his eyes narrowed, lips shiny in the light. “You’re terrible at this.”
“I’m drunk,” he argued, “I’ll bite you.”
“You won’t,” Bakugou insisted, sounding a hell of a lot more sure than Kirishima felt.
“But ‘m gonna-”
Bakugou interrupted by pressing his open mouth to Kirishima’s, shoving his tongue past sharp teeth, fearless in this as in all other things. They made out heavy on the dance floor, messy like teenagers at prom, their hands shifting and twisting in clothes as they pushed and pulled back and forth. There were no more thoughts left for anybody else, just each other, alcohol heavy on Kirishima’s breath and the zing of a lemon shot still lingering on Bakugou’s tongue.
Then he was being pulled away, Bakugou’s hand tight around his wrist. He was dragged through the dance floor, squeezing through the throng of bodies and past. Kirishima focused on his steps, not drunk enough to fall but tipsy enough to be wary, and let Bakugou pull him wherever he wanted. Past the bar, past the bathrooms, down the hall that led to the kitchens and then outside.
The backdoor was marked with an alarm but nothing happened when Bakugou shoved it open. They probably weren’t the first out this way, wouldn’t be the last; maybe the alarm had been long disabled by tired employees. They spilled out into a back alley, trash by the door. The night air was bright and cool against Kirishima’s hot skin. He blinked into it, the sudden silence sounding bizarrely loud.
Bakugou pressed him against a wall and they were kissing again like they hadn’t stopped, wet and frantic, hands wandering. In the quiet alley Kirishima swore he could hear his own heart beating, the sound mixing with Bakugou’s gentle, absent whines and the scratch of fabric against the brick wall. Kirishima couldn’t keep his hands still, one buried in blond hair, the other making trails across Bakugou’s solid back, falling towards his ass and then back up again.
Both of Bakugou’s hands clutched the straps of Kirishima’s tank top, dragging him back and forward as he wanted. He pressed him against the wall hard and then stepped back suddenly, pulling away and holding Kirishima still when he tried to follow.
“I don’t regret saying no,” Bakugou said, eyes serious and locked on Kirishima’s.
Okay. Kissing he could handle. A conversation was gonna be harder right now. Kirishima tried to focus, the warm grip on his shirt grounding him. “No to what?”
“Fuckin- when we were in school.”
“Uh.”
“You asked me out in school.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Seemed like it was the night for that particularly bad memory. Pretty uncommon for Bakugou to bring it up, though. They’d never talked about it after the fact.
“What the shit, Eijirou?”
Okay. First names. He was being real serious, then. “I was there,” Kirishima pointed out. “I didn’t forget but I’m a lot of drinks in and I can’t follow you.” Why was this a topic? Why weren’t they still kissing?
“You never tried again.” Bakugou shook him, back hitting the brick. He didn’t think to harden but nothing hurt anyway. He might feel it when he was sober, skin raw from rubbing carelessly against rough brick.
“Maybe it’s your turn, dude.”
“Ask me out. Like before,” Bakugou said breathlessly. “Ask me what you did in high school.”
Kirishima took a breath, and asked the words he’d never forget rehearsing that first time, “D’you wanna go to the couple’s karaoke thing with-”
“Fuck, no! I didn’t mean-” Bakugou tried really hard to look angry, voice cracking, but he couldn’t do it. His grumpy facade slipped and when he started laughing Kirishima couldn’t resist doing the same. “Shit,” Bakugou cackled, the two of them giggling like idiots in an alley lit only by a take-out place’s neon sign, five feet away from a pile of night club trash. “You’re fucking impossible.”
Kirishima’s laugh cut off quick as a splash of cold realization hit his mind. “Wait,” he said, “You want me to ask you out?”
“Yes, dumbass,” Bakugou answered, nodding hard.
“On a date? Multiple dates? Dating?”
“Yes.”
“Do I have to officially ask or just. Are we dating? Can we be dating? Bakugou, are we dating?”
“We can-”
“Wait, are you drunk? We shouldn’t. You should be sober.”
Bakugou jerked him forward and kissed him again, Kirishima’s worried rambling melting away as he gave into it. “I’m barely tipsy,” Bakugou murmured between kisses, voice soft but honest. “Stop panicking.” They kissed a moment longer before parting, though Bakugou stayed close, leaning against Kirishima. He untangled his hands from his shirt and pressed them flat against his chest instead.
“I feel like I’m dreaming,” Kirishima whispered. His head was clearing, but a new kind of fuzzy feeling struck him.
“Do you dream often of this?” Bakugou teased.
“Yes,” Kirishima confessed. Yes, he really did. Had, for a long time; day dreams and dreams during the dark of night that woke him lonely and panting.
Bakugou lifted his head, looking up with wide eyes. “Fuck.”
“Sorry.”
“Shit. Don’t apologize.” Bakugou sighed loudly, turning his gaze away and falling to rest his forehead against Kirishima’s skin. “What else happens in your dreams?” he asked quietly.
Kirishima only breathed, watching Bakugou’s hair flutter with every rise and fall of his chest. That was a question with dangerous answers.
In the face of his non-answer, Bakugou’s hand snaked downward slowly, pausing at the waist of Kirishima’s pants. “Tell me if I’m getting it wrong,” he whispered, snapping the button, dragging the zipper down.
Kirishima swallowed, unmoving. “No, this is… close,” he admitted. Maybe he was dreaming, he thought, watching Bakugou slide to his knees in the alley. Maybe the whole damn night was a fever dream. “What-”
“Shut up,” Bakugou said, hooking fingers around his pants and pulling. They were alone in a dark alley lit up in red neon and though the door was closed, street clear, anybody could walk out at literally time- walk out on pro-hero Bakugou Katsuki with Kirishima’s hard as shit cock in his hand.
“Fuck,” Kirishima gasped, knees suddenly weak in a way that had nothing to do with vodka.
Bakugou smirked up at him, eyes wild and bright, tongue still pressed against the tip of his cock. Yeah, this was definitely how his dreams tended to go lately; Kirishima clung to the edges of brick behind him with both hands as Bakugou licked another slow stripe up his length, hands shifting at his base.
Shit, he looked beautiful like this- he always did, but the red flickering light glowed in his hair, dusted his cheeks like blush. Bakugou’s eyes fluttered closed as he pressed forward but Kirishima’s remained wide. He’d burn the whole scene on his retinas if he could, go blind from it, see only this view every time he closed his eyes from now until he died.
A lot of thoughts threatened to interrupt, worries, concerns, fear that they’d be discovered here, but Kirishima found it hard to care about any of them with his dick in Bakugou’s mouth and vodka hot in his stomach. Fuck. He rocked forward and a soft moan rumbled from Bakugou’s throat and- well, that was it, honestly. Kirishima came with a surprised grunt, spilling into Bakugou’s mouth.
The silence of heavy breaths echoed in the alley as they collected themselves. Kirishima put himself back together. Wiping his mouth in his elbow, Bakugou stood, looking at him, face uncharacteristically neutral.
“Do you want me to-”
“No.” Bakugou cut him off with a wave, the beginning of a smile pulling the edge of his lips. “I think I owed you one. For so many years without.”
“Oh.” Kirishima pulled his bottom lip between sharp teeth before saying, “No.”
“What- no?”
“No, we’re partners, right? Here, and out there; wherever. It’s not a game of owing.”
“Oh.” Bakugou frowned, eyes darting towards the ground before pulling back up to Kirishima’s face. “That's surprisingly eloquent for a drunk."
Kirishima shrugged. "I just meant, like. You should let me suck your dick, too."
"You're so dumb," Bakugou said, but he laughed, nudging Kirishima with an elbow. Not drunk, just tipsy enough to let himself laugh freely, smile more- Kirishima liked it. He really liked it, grin spreading unchecked across his face. As if he knew what Kirishima was thinking, Bakugou rolled his eyes, checking himself. "Then take me home," he said. "Date the shit out of me. And suck my fucking dick."