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Eijirou is panicking. A building has been completely torn down and dust is drifting through the air, burning his eyes. He has to keep blinking so as not to have his eyes clouded over by water. He’s shaking; even in his half-hardened form, he can feel it. He’s quaking, down to his very bones. Perhaps becoming a hero wasn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe he isn’t cut out for this life, and he lied to himself. He lied to himself, and all the people that he’d promised he’d keep safe. He’d told a dirty, filthy, rotten lie when he’d sworn that nobody who stood behind him would be harmed.
His eyes are stinging, threatening to flood and spill over onto his cheeks as he surveys the wreckage. It’s beyond salvation. It’s so far beyond the replaceable buildings from the Yuuei training grounds. Life is ruthless, and villains even more so. For the first time ever, he was unable to save them. He’d failed, and the cost of failure in his work is higher than any. Failure costs everything. How disappointing, that he’d worked so hard, and come so far, only for this.
A family has lost their lives tonight. A mother, a father, and a child. Only one of four was rescued, one little girl, both inconsequential and a warning in his arms as she’d looked at him, her wide eyes reflecting his own fear. She’d cried and screamed and sobbed as her home was taken from her, ripped straight from the ground and Eijirou had wanted to do the same.
He staggers away from the rubble, the dying flames swallowing up all hope of anything being saved.
“Red?” It’s hazy and his ears are ringing, but he can hear the shout. “Kirishima!” Oh. It’s Mina. Mina, who’s been there from the very beginning, Mina, who understands why this is so excruciating. Mina, who is calling out to him after he’s spent too long in silence. She melts through the police tape seamlessly and runs straight for him, artfully dodging the debris on the ground. Through Eijirou’s welled-up eyes, she’s merely a pink and blue blur, but even that is a comfort.
“Eiji,” she finally slows as she reaches him, her eyes darting about him from head to toe. “Oh, honey,” Her face sinks, and she throws her arms around him. It’s all he can do to deactivate his Quirk so she doesn’t get hurt. He’s at least a head taller than her, but he just feels so small in her embrace, but he still returns it. His torn-up sleeves and wounds won’t stop him.
“Come away from here,” she says gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t quite nod but he follows her nonetheless, his strides greater than hers, but she’s leading him. She leads him away from the permanent imprint of his mistakes, his failure, his cowardice on the city. “I think there’s someone who wants to speak with you — not press, don’t worry,” she adds at his panic-stricken expression.
“Okay,” Eijirou says, but he hardly recognises his own voice. The noise that comes out isn’t much manly or strong; it’s more comparable to a timid whisper, his voice cracking on the second syllable.
“Are you- who am I kidding, of course you’re not okay,” Mina shakes her head dismissively, rubbing his back gently. “Will you be able to do this?”
“Yeah,” Eijirou replies slowly, and this time it sounds a little bit more put together. “I’ll manage.”
“Okay,” Mina says gently — it seems silly, she’s the only source of sanity and grounding amongst the destruction. He keeps pace with her until they reach the break in the police tape that she had made earlier. She moves her hand from his shoulder, down his arm to his hand and noiselessly leads him towards a huddle of officers and fellow pros who’d reached the scene just too late to be of any help. Eijirou can’t resent them for that, and half-heartedly, he still returns the fist bumps with his stained and bloody fist as they offer him futile words of support.
Beyond the police officers and pros, wrapped in a shock blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon is the little girl. His eyes well up again, but he must swallow the lump. At least for now. It will be perfectly welcome behind closed doors.
The girl’s eyes are wide and bright, but they’re filled with something other than wonder and admiration — no, this little girl looks afraid.
“Mis- Mister Red Riot?” She seems to be asking him, asking for permission to speak to him, and if that doesn’t make his chest ache, nothing ever will. He’d been comfortably settled into the casual friendliness he’d have with the public, especially children. But this child seems afraid of him. Perhaps it’s the blood of her family that stains his hands, maybe it’s his hypocrisy, or even-
“Thank you, mister Red Riot.” Eijirou’s eyes widen. What? But as he crouches to meet her eyes, her lower lip wobbles. “B-But Mummy and Daddy and- and-”
“I know,” He does know. The guilt weighs him down further and further as the little girl cries for her family. Her family, who she’ll never see again. “I know, and I’m sorry.” But ‘sorry’ will never fix it. ‘Sorry’ will never bring them back. ‘Sorry’ is just a word and it is not enough. Not this time. “I am so, so sorry.”
He wants to scoop her up into his arms like she’s weightless and tell her that it will be alright — but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because doing so would make it out like he is pretending that this is okay, and it is not. Nothing about what’s happened is okay.
“Will they- Are they going to come back?” This is probably the most difficult question he’s ever had to answer. But he must. This is his duty, no matter how gruesome or harrowing. It’s what they’d hardly taught about in hero theory all the way up until third year because “the chances of such a thing occurring are so slim” and yet.
Yet he has to confirm to this child that no, she will never see her family again. No, they are not coming back. And no, he will never stop feeling guilty for this.
***
Katsuki has a cold. Normally he’d never let that stop him, but even when his hearing aids are out, his head is clanging, a dreadful thrum like metal on metal. Today, he’ll take the day off to recover. His sidekicks will cover for him, just for the day. And today he’ll pay a visit that’s long overdue.
As soon as he’d graduated from Yuuei, he’s been in high demand. Well. ‘High demand’ is an understatement. He’s had calls coming in from all directions: ‘Ground Zero’ this and ‘Bakugou Katsuki’ that. He’d grown tired of it quickly, but it’s died down — and for the money and exposure, it’s been worth the days of no sleep and dependency only on coffee.
Every day, he’s had commitments, meetings and fights, and every night he is too tired to let anything consume his mind other than sleep and the teasing, glowing number one spot. It never seems too far beyond reach until it is and even his best efforts are not enough. But just once, he’ll take advantage of an illness and use it to do what he must. As part of his duty as a hero, but more importantly: his duty as a friend.
He dresses simply; a thick, baggy hoodie and sweats, his hearing aids in, because he’ll probably need them. This is the first day in months that he’s been out of commission, and he’ll relish in dressing as comfortably as possible. It’s been more than three months since he’s heard anything from his best friend. It’s been more than three months since That Mission. The one that threw Red Riot into hiding in spite of the public’s pleas for his return.
As long as Eijirou hasn’t moved, he should answer the door. And if not, Katsuki will blast it down. So he raises his fist and knocks. And he waits. No answer.
He knocks again. Harder.
This time there’s shuffling, a quiet ‘okay, okay, I’m coming,’ and finally, the click of the door being unlocked.
The man who opens the door is barely recognisable. He’s still massive; ever since their second year, he’s towered over Katsuki — fucking genetics — but never has he seen someone so physically huge look so small. His hair is lank and greasy, his signature radiant red having been washed – or grown – out in questionable favour of his natural black. His face is hollower than before, his bright carmine eyes gaunt and dulled with time. He looks unwell, and it’s sickening. This man is not the Kirishima Eijirou, the famous Red Riot that he knew. This man is a shell of his best friend.
But maybe, just maybe, Katsuki can try to help fill the cracks.
Even his flat is worse for wear; the windows are grubby, and dishes have been left unwashed — at least he’s been feeding himself, Katsuki thinks. At least. There’s dust floating visibly in the air and his shoes are left scattered near the door. Katsuki can see a pair of sweats draped over and chair in the kitchen and he wonders how long they’ve been sitting there.
“You haven’t been looking after the flat,” he says simply, surveying the space with mild disgust. “Or yourself.”
“I feel awful.”
“Still?” Katsuki asks, and if there’s any sympathy in his voice, it doesn’t make itself apparent. “The public has moved on from it.”
“But I haven’t,” Eijirou says quietly. “People lost their lives because I wasn’t strong enough.”
Katsuki sniffs. Fuck, he’s so bunged up. Maybe coming on a sick day was a bad idea. “Kirishima.” Finally, his best friend looks him in the eyes. “Do you really believe it went wrong on that day because you weren’t strong enough? Is that really what you fucking think?”
Eijirou doesn’t say a word. Instead, he stares at his best friend, the pain in his eyes contorting his sallow face. He almost shakes his head, but it’s as though his neck won’t move correctly.
“Get a grip. The kid is okay, and you know why? Because you saved her. You got her out of there and the reason she’s still alive is because you were there. It wasn’t your fault and the sooner you get that into your head, the better.” He could be kinder and softer, he could tell Eijirou that it’s okay and nothing went wrong, but that’s not his style. He won’t lie.
“It’s like what happened to Crimson.” Eijirou finally says.
“Yeah, it is. Because Crimson Riot got back up on his feet and let that one bad mission drive him forward rather than push him down.” His voice his sharp and steely; there’s not a blemish in his words, not a drop of doubt.
“But these are people’s lives, Bakugou,” Eijirou pleads back, “and they’re in our hands. So when it goes wrong, it’s real. It’s not like school, where the casualties and villains are just pretend. I don’t… I didn’t want this.”
“I know,” Katsuki steps closer to him, half-tempted to reach out and wrap his arms around Eijirou and at least pretend that he can make it okay for him again. “But that’s the way it goes. People die. Even if they’re not meant to. Even if it’s not fair. So if you’re gonna be a hero — which you are, that shit runs through your veins, Kirishima — you’ve gotta get back up after something like that. Crimson did it. So you should honour him and do the same.”
Eijirou swallows, dumbfounded. He finally pulls the strand of dark hair — it looks wrong on him — that's fallen from behind his ear out of his face, opens his mouth, then closes it again.
“Come on,” Katsuki says, more gently this time. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks, man,” Eijirou deadpans, his sharp sarcasm never quite having left him. He does look like shit, though. He clearly hasn’t been eating enough or working out quite so much anymore, and man, that unkempt dark hair looks so out of place on him.
“I didn’t waste my breath when I called you stupidly strong, dumbass. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. So please, for the sake of me, if not yourself, prove it. You’ve proved it before, so do it again. You hear me?” Katsuki wants his best friend back. They’ve been in the same city this whole time and yet, he’s missed Eijirou.
He misses the loud dinner nights and being invited to karaoke or other equally ridiculous activities, and it had hurt the first time he’d had to tell Kaminari no, I’m too busy.
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“Come on. We’re gonna sort this shit out.”
***
How did I get here? is the one thought running through Eijirou’s head as he sits shirtless in his bathtub while Katsuki bleaches his freshly washed and trimmed hair. It just brushes his shoulders now, and he’ll have it tidied up tomorrow. It’s been months, and now they are back to their quiet companionship and powerful support for one another.
“Stop moving, dumbass,” Katsuki grunts. “I’m gonna miss patches if you keep wriggling.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Eijirou mutters, keeping his shoulders as still as he can when he’s almost shivering as every touch sends a shiver down his spine.
At long last, Katsuki is done with the bleach, and Eijirou wrestles himself from the tub, keeping his head as still as he can.
“We have to wait half an hour. In that time, we can sort out the dishes, yeah?” Katsuki says, stripping his scarred hands of the plastic gloves and crunching them into a sticky ball of sweaty plastic before dropping them into the bathroom bin. Tackling the pile of mangy crockery and filthy has seemed insurmountable to Eijirou until now.
“Yeah. Okay.” Eijirou is still slightly shaken by Katsuki’s sudden arrival. After three months, he re-establishes contact? After his greatest failure, his most horrifying masterpiece left on the city, he comes back to fill the role of best friend again?
Eijirou has been empty these past three months. And yet, tonight, somebody is here, trying to fill his space, to give him purpose again, even if it’s just in trying to tidy up a flat and dye his hair.
“You're going to wash the dishes, and I'm going to dry them.” Katsuki declares, and he does so. Eijirou fills the sink with soapy water and begins his meticulous scrubbing. Somehow, it’s easier when Katsuki is here to stand beside him, even when it’s something as mundane as washing the dishes.
“Thank you,” Eijirou says as he passes a bowl to Katsuki, “for coming tonight.”
“I’m sick,” Katsuki emphasises a sniffle. “‘S the only reason. I’ve been-”
“Busy, I know,” Eijirou cuts over, “and that’s okay. It’s just… good to know that you’re on my side.”
“You’ve done a shit job of being a person these past few months,” Katsuki remarks. “Is this what you become when I’m not around to clear up after you?” Eijirou lets out a bitter chuckle. He knows it’s a joke, but he can hardly find it funny. “Sorry. I’ll always be on your side, dumbass. Surely you should know that by now.”
“I do. I’m sorry. It’s just… been hard, you know? When- When something like that happens and just ‘cause everyone else can deal with it, they think that you can too. But it isn’t like that,” his voice wavers, “and nobody notices until you’re gone.”
“I noticed.”
“I know.”
“And you never picked up the phone.” Eijirou looks at him, and for a moment, he feels all the fear he felt wash over him, until Katsuki’s brow furrows and he’s grounded, his feet firm on the tiled floor.
“I was afraid of what you might say,” he admits. “And I mean, that’s stupid, because we’re best friends, but I was so disappointed in myself for… that, and I didn’t want you to be too,”
“Kirish- Eijirou,” Holy shit. Katsuki’s voice sounds good when he says ‘Eijirou’. “I’m not disappointed in you for that. I’m not even disappointed in you now. It wasn’t your fault, okay? I’m gonna say that as many times as it takes for it to get into your thick skull, understand?”
“Yes,” Eijirou replies quietly. “I know it wasn’t, but… it just feels like it was. I- I know she went to her grandparents but losing your family family is… about as bad as you could get it.” He’s trembling slightly, so he rests on the side of the sink, staring into the suds as though they’ll tell him it’s alright.
He looks up when there’s a pressure on his bare shoulder. Katsuki’s giving him a look, and it’s One Of Katsuki’s Looks. It’s intense but gentle, calculating yet warm and most of all, it makes Eijirou really, really want to have more contact than just a firm hand on a shoulder.
“Listen to me. You don’t need me to get back up onto your feet. You’re powerful, and manly and really fucking strong. I came here of my own accord because I wanted to see you, because you are my best friend. You didn’t make a mistake, you weren’t weak that day, and I don’t want to hear you saying that you were,” Katsuki’s eyes are narrowed, and his voice is low. “Because that hurts me, too. Seeing you like… like this. You’ve been unwell.”
“Yeah.” Eijirou doesn’t deny it. He’s spent months with barely any contact, barely answering texts or calls and when he does, it’s short and blunt, straight to the point. When his friends come directly to his door when they have the time to, he either pretends not to be home or tells them he’s too tired. It’s been bad. He can admit that to himself, if nothing else.
“Go to therapy, Ei.” That’s probably a good idea, but shit. Ei. When Katsuki says that, everything freezes for a second. Eijirou stops short and feels his breath catch in his throat, and he’s quite certain of what the odd twinge in his chest is, but such a notion has never felt so correct.
“I’ll look into it,” he murmurs, and he means it. But, yes, he thinks, he might have fallen in love with his best friend.
“I can recommend you mine.” Katsuki agonisingly takes his hand away and goes back to drying the dishes. “It’s good to have an outlet, even if it doesn’t really seem to help.”
“I bet,” Eijirou says distantly, “and thanks.”
“I’ll drop you the number when I have my phone,” Katsuki tells him, and puts the final glass in the cupboard where he knows it belongs. Even after months, he remembers Eijirou’s flat and where everything goes, and he wonders why they didn’t simply move in together.
Before the onslaught of calls, they’d spent so much time in each other’s company and with the others that it had seemed almost primary to do so. But by the time Katsuki had planted his feet in the ground of his work, he hadn’t had a minute to spare to sort out a flat for himself and instead was thrown into one paid for by Miruko’s agency until he found his feet.
“We should move in together,” He says it as though it’s the most elementary thing in the world, as though it hasn’t just made Eijirou’s chest feel like it’ll explode. “Might as well, when we have time to sort it out,”
“Uh- Okay. Yeah, alright.” Eijirou can’t really say much else. There’s no way, in any reality, that he’d turn down the offer, but all of his words are scrambling in his head to get out of his mouth.
“I want to be there for you, and I want you to be there for me, you hear? If we’re gonna have each other’s backs, I want us to always have each other’s backs.”
Katsuki isn’t ever dishonest. He constantly iterates that ‘he never says anything he doesn’t mean’, but between the lines, he means something else. The way he averts his eyes slightly from Eijirou’s face and how he flushes just enough for it to be visible on his cheeks give him away. Eijirou must look quite ridiculous, certainly, but the fact that Katsuki is looking at him like that washes all and any embarrassment he might feel away. “I’d like that.”
“Hey, it’s been half an hour. You ready to be Red Riot again?” Katsuki slaps the tea towel down on the grimy table and lets his all-too-familiar smirk take over his face as Eijirou’s eyes brighten – just a little bit.
“I think so-”
“With some conviction.”
“Yeah, I’m ready.” Eijirou sets his jaw, giving a half-smile. It seems to satisfy Katsuki’s searching look.
"That's more like it."