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“Eijirou.”
Big garnet eyes flutter before Kirishima looks at him again. There he is, Bakugou thinks.
Kirishima’s hands press against his chest, his thumb rubbing circles. His touch grazes the edge of his starburst scar, nearly touching the left nipple. He’s warm and solid in Bakugou’s lap. Bakugou reaches up and holds his wrist, thumb caressing the bone.
Despite their state of undress — naked down to their fucking boxers — Kirishima’s cheeks go pink. “Hi,” he smiles.
Bakugou snorts, just a little. “Hi.”
The skin of Kirishima’s hip is warm and soft. Thick. He presses his fingers in, enamored by the give. By his strength. All that time spent training his core has paid off. It’s exhilarating to hold.
Bakugou brings Kirishima’s hand to his lips. He presses them to the jut of his wrist first, then the back, then the tips of his fingers. These strong hands; the very ones that have saved him time and time again. Ones that hold him even when he’s weak; when he crumbles.
Kirishima flushes the prettiest shade of red. “Katsuki,” he says quietly. Shyly. “What are you doing?”
Bakugou huffs. “What’s’it look like I’m doing?” he retorts. “‘M kissing you.”
“Mm.” The redhead’s gaze isn’t on his; instead, it’s low, below his collarbone. “You do that a lot, y’know?”
His brows furrow. “I do what?”
Kirishima’s other hand, hovering idly, moves to the hem of his boxers. Bakugou’s pulse stutters. “Move my hand when I touch it.” His chin gives a small jerk. “Your scar. Not every time, but… I’m not hurting you, am I?”
His eyes are wide and imploring, exacerbating his guilty tone. “The hell? No,” Bakugou says firmly. “You would know if — I can barely feel anything there. It’s just that —“
How does he word it?
“You —“
How does he describe how devastating Kirishima’s gaze becomes when it’s riddled with misplaced grief? When he stares past Bakugou, hot and moving and alive, and pictures an image that’s past them? (Even if it’s been less than a year since the Final War.)
Bakugou knocks their foreheads together gently, closing his eyes, angry at his inability to speak. “I’m here, Eijirou.” It doesn’t begin to convey what he means, not really, but he has faith Kirishima will get it. “I’m here, with you. So stop… stop looking at me like that.”
Bakugou knows it was broadcasted. He knows his parents, his peers — anyone watching a screen that day watched him die. He had to basically threaten everyone else in the class to not go looking for footage. He doesn’t want their pity or their worry or —
He doesn’t want them to dwell on it. He doesn’t want Kirishima to dwell on it.
Eyes still closed, the brush of lips against his startle Bakugou. Kirishima presses firmer, closer, cupping his jaw with the hand Bakugou is still holding. Murmuring quietly.
“You’re here.”
Bakugou hears it and he relaxes into the exchange. He squeezes Kirishima’s hip.
“Here with me.”
He shudders when sharp teeth nibble his bottom lip.
Kirishima pulls back and he finally opens his eyes, only to be met with the softest, tenderest expression directed at him. Made for him. Bakugou’s heart pounds — threatens to tear through the wrinkled tissue over his chest.
“I’m pretty lucky to love someone so stubborn.”
Bakugou snorts, soft and amused. “Yeah,” he says, happy to ease the melancholic air, even a little. He brushes their noses together, nuzzles his cheek. Hears Kirishima giggle so sweetly. “I’ll always find a way to come back to you.”