Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was all so fucking loud.

The tormented screeching of cars, the blaring honking as impatient drivers slammed their palms onto the centers of their steering wheels, the rushing of wind as their vehicles sped past, the splashing of filthy puddles of what very well could have been sewer water lining the sides of the roads, and the goddamn incessant chatter of millions of people blathering on and on about who the fuck knows. 

All of this shitty noise clouding his ears, grating on his nerves that were already constantly susceptible to catching alight and burning the world down as he went along with it. His jaw was regularly clenched, and no amount of ear-splitting screamo music blasting in his shitty earbuds would drown all the fucking hubbub out.

 And yeah, he knew he was the literally the last person to call something loud, but his vocal cords were fucking nothing in the face of the city’s noise. Urusai was on some next. 

The worst part was (because of fucking course there was something worse than his sanity steadily being chipped away with each passing day, of course there was), he did this bullshit to himself. Bakugou was the one who decided to pack his shit up and leave that goddamn hicktown in the dust as he went on to “better, brighter things”.

Like fuck this was better than his home in Shizuka. 

But yeah, the city really is. His hometown could have been considered nice, sure. To a no-name, retired, wrinkly as fuck sixty year old. For someone like him, with dreams beyond what anyone in that town could imagine, with pure fucking talent and years of honed skill, that place would do nothing but snuff him out before he could fully grow into a flame. Even the thought of living there any longer has his fingers curling into his palms, despite already escaping to Urusai. 

Was the city anything like what he expected? Hell fucking no. But even though Bakugou Katsuki was a lot of things, fucking none of them a quitter. So he’d cope, no matter how loudly he complained or pissed off he got. It was just—a lot.

His entire life, he had the hag looming over his shoulder and the old coward trotting along behind her. Bakugou escaped his mother’s constant torrential downpour of noise just to be greeted with the relentless sounds of the city. 

Maybe he should have figured that city = people = a constant fucking headache because absolutely no one knows how to take a goddamn breather and shut the fuck up. But as soon as Bakugou had heard back from the big shots of the chem lab he knew he was going to get a job at, he had his bags packed quicker than he could say ‘good riddance’. 

There was absolutely fucking nothing for him in that place, just his stupid parents and the suffocating feeling that he wouldn’t amount to anything because he would never, ever get out of there. He left all that shit behind, wiped his slate clean with fucking fluoroantimonic acid, and there was no way in hell that he was gonna let some stupid sound ruin this for him. 

Except.

It just...was more than he expected. He refuses to say ‘too much’, because he was Bakugou Katsuki, and fucking nothing was ‘too much’ for him. He wouldn’t let it be. 

Despite his mom being as loud as a rabid canary, Shizuka was quiet. It had the occasional children running through the roads, or the women down the street laughing as they gossiped about the local grocery store owner’s fall out with his wife, or whatever else they decided to clutch their nosy as fuck hands onto. 

Other than that, it was just faint white noise that was absolutely infinitesimal to Urusai. Bakugou was sure that with time, he would eventually get used to it, because that's how shit worked. 

But right now, at this moment, and for the foreseeable future, Bakugou was fucked. Work didn’t start for another two weeks as he got settled in, so he couldn’t spend any time at the lab or hang out with chemicals as company in what must have been relative quiet.

To Bakugou, his job sounded like a dream opposed to how the city constantly sounded like a dozen banshees throwing the party of their lives. After such a rapid and drastic change from zero to ten fucking thousand, he, his head, and his ears were sick and tired of it. 

As he walks along the city streets, a disgusting amount of people rushing around him and creating a stupidly suffocating atmosphere of noise pollution, he wishes for just a moment that he was back home. For just a moment, a small, vulnerable moment, Bakugou was homesick.

He sneers at himself because that’s weak shit, and he didn’t do weak shit. Besides, what kind of fucker misses the living hellhole they’d been trapped in for literal years? That didn’t make any fucking sense. Things that didn’t make sense to him probably weren’t worth his time, because if he hadn’t figured it out already, then it was most likely something dumb as hell.

Still, though. There’s something tremulous and stupid and aching in what feels like his bones, in his inner eyelids, in the bloody underside of his skin. He tries to say that it’s stupid, and fucking dumb, and weak, but that didn’t really do anything because he was never someone who was able to bury his emotions. Lucky for him, his emotions usually consisted of angry, pissed off,  and furious, so there was no reason to hide that.

Things like sadness, and longing, and tears because he hated everything but not in the angry way, that shit was far more dangerous than his furious fists smashing everything he could set his sights on. That was vulnerability. 

So Bakugou tries his best to push back that longing that’s gathered into his chest that yearns for quiet summer sunsets and a sky so vast it feels like he could envelop himself in it, and continues walking to a place he isn’t really sure exists. He doesn’t know where he’s going, or what he’s planning to do when he gets there, but he knows that he’s fucking sick of all the noise surrounding him.

(And that he’s upset because he thought that he already escaped. Katsuki didn’t think he’d ever have to do it again.) 

Walking along the city streets, he pushes past the current of people that tries its goddamn best to drown him head first. Even though it’s only been a week and a half, his headphones have seemingly given the fuck up and now serve as nothing but another layer of whiny noise because yippee , that’s exactly what he fucking needed on top of everything else. On top of the unceasing noise that bites at his goddamn bones and threatens to swallow down the marrow, leaving him dry and empty.

Gritting his teeth, Bakugou puts one foot in front of the other and makes sure to grind his sole into the spotted cement, just so this bullshit concrete jungle can eat the goddamn dirt stuck between the grooves of rubber. Just so that the city itself can feel how fucking worthless it is, because he hasn’t found a single thing that he would ever want to marvel over amidst the metal and shining glass. No, there wasn’t anything that would make him want to actually fucking be here. 

He looks up at the blue sky and doesn’t regret his decision, no. But he does wonder if it was worth it. 

As he walks into the chem lab a few days later, coat resting on his shoulders and the smell of bulk-use solvent vapours slightly burning his nose, Bakugou’s gaze falls on the quietly tinkering colleagues that he’ll be working with for the next few years. Red eyes scan the equipment neatly lined up, the rows of counters and idly resting containers of fluids. He looks at it all, breathes in the quiet, and thinks, yes . It was. 

But when Bakugou exits out as the clock hits five, and reenters the living hellscape that is Urusai at rush hour, that insistent asshole of an ache in his chest screams ever louder. The city is relentless, and while that’s never been a quality he despised now Bakugou hates it more than anything. 

He weaves into the crowd, bolting for the train. He’s not going to walk among the throngs of clamoring people on a day where his head finally doesn’t feel like it’s gonna split into quarters then get spliced into eighths over and over again. 

Seated on the harsh plastic bench, Bakugou rests his head against the thudding glass positioned above the plastic seat he dropped himself into, and closes his eyes. Just for a second. 

Blonde lashes meet pale cheeks, and for the first time in what feels like years he thinks he can breathe. He inhales, ready to release it all, fucking looking forward to blow out the stress of the world always curling along his shoulders—

When the train doors close and the sound gets trapped within the tube of metal that he’s placed himself in. The woman on his right starts blabbering into her phone, the person who plops into the seat on his left fiddles with an increasingly annoying Rubix cube. A businessman on the far right loosens his tie and promptly falls asleep, fingers still caught on the knot and chest lifting with alarmingly loud snores. Another child sobs as he gazes at his undone Velcro shoes. 

Same, Bakugou thinks furiously at the wailing kid. Fucking same.

He can’t fucking stand this. 

Day in and day out, it’s noise on top of noise on top of more fucking noise and holy shit, he’s about three seconds away from punching everyone who comes into a five foot radius in the goddamn face. But, if he did that, he’d have to deck over a dozen people because personal space isn’t a fucking concept in this godforsaken city. Shoulders clenched up to his ears, Bakugou shoves through the throngs of people and resists the urge to gasp for air. 

But he can’t fucking find any, and christ, it’s getting really damn hot. He gulps a lungful of air despite his attempts not to but it doesn’t help, since it’s tinged with the taste of  sulfur and tar. Bakugou grabs at his collar, yanking it away from his neck but that doesn’t do shit either. Hands shaking, his eyes dart around for a way to escape but there’s nothing there, just more people and more glass skyscrapers and more cars and more, more, more but all he wants is just fucking less .

Bakugou grips the strap of his backpack in a vice hold, his knuckles turning white with how desperately he’s grasping onto it. Head whipping to the far side of the sidewalk, he holds what little breath he has and makes a hard diagonal because fine, he’ll admit it, he can’t fucking do this, he can’t deal with all of this pressure and he pushes and pushes and maybe he hits a person, he thinks he elbows through a door, maybe, but god knows he’s not in his right state of mind at the moment —

And then there’s quiet. 

Blinking, he takes in his surroundings. 

Shelves upon shelves of books line the walls, the high ceilings making him feel so very small. Golden light pours in from somewhere, somehow, casting the entire place in a warmly saturated glow. There’s a shelf ladder leaning against the far walls, various couches scattered and grouped in seemingly random patterns. There’s the smell of coffee (he traces it to what seems like a mini cafe in the far corner) and worn paper, not a single trace of the sickening tar or burning gasoline just a door away. 

But above it all, it’s finally, at long fucking last, quiet. 

Bakugou hadn’t even realized his heavy panting had escaped him, instead replaced with a steady heartbeat. Blowing out a harsh breath, he went further into the library, wondering how he had never heard of such a goddamn ginormous library being here. 

He sighs, irritation and panic seeping away from him like ink. Bakugou quickly pushes away the lingering feelings, intent on forgetting the moment of brief hysteria away. And, somehow, it’s so fucking easy. 

It’s so much more different from the city here. While obviously he’s aware he hadn’t magically fucking  teleported into an entirely new place by barging through a singular door, it really does feel like he’s in another world. There are no screaming cars or unnecessary shouting, no suffocating crowds of people or the godforsaken smell of gas. There’s no cold silver architecture looming over him. Here, in this place, it’s the very opposite. And while Bakugou had never been one to sit and smell the flowers, there’s something so calming about this place that it’s almost irritating. 

What surprises him the most is the lack of people . Although he doesn’t think a library would be particularly packed midday in the middle of the Saturday, it colors him (pleasantly) shocked. In a city as large as Urusai, he’s come to find that there’s always a dozen someones somewhere, no matter how late or early or hidden away or small. 

Here, there’s practically no one. Sure, there’s a strikingly yellow haired person brewing coffee and another with purple locks by the curtained bow window, but that’s nothing compared to the horde just outside. It's easy to block them out entirely. 

Hesitantly, Bakugou sits on the muted red couch closest to him, widely large for one but could probably squish two. He hasn’t even taken off his backpack, but his body sinks into the plush fabric anyways. 

And here, finally, in this chair in this moment in this space, Bakugou relaxes. 

Here, it’s not quite home, but it’s a haven for his tired bones. Bakugou closes his eyes. 

Quiet.

Naturally, he goes back. He’s practically obligated to, with no other place that bought him any semblance of peace. He’s not allowed to step into the lab after hours and start mixing shit up to calm his frazzled nerves (not yet, anyways). And there’s something undeniably nice about the place, a feeling that Bakugou himself can’t shy away from. 

Bakugou doesn’t bring anything with him, simply surging through the crowd as quickly as possible and holding his breath while he can. He’s long since abandoned his earbuds, intent on buying a much stronger pair eventually. 

He spares a second this time to glance upwards and read the title of the place. Red Riot Reads , it says. Bakugou rolls his eyes at the alliteration but the name sparks something familiar. 

As soon as he steps through the door, it all goes quiet again. 

He closes his eyes, simply breathing for a moment. He feels like he’s practically being reset, his entire being on pause.

This time, faint music trails from hidden speakers. Bakugou frowns, at first miffed at the aura of white noise being disrupted, but the artist’s soft voice and gentle instrumentals just add to the comfort surrounding him. He absentmindedly notes to himself to try to find the song later. 

This time, there are a few more people here. At the coffee station, a girl with admittedly badass stretched lobes and purple hair nods at him in acknowledgement. There’s the same yellow and purple haired people from before, but they’re instead sharing a couch by the same window. A lady with pitch black hair turns the pages of what looks like the classic he forced himself through for a highschool assignment, but she steals glances at the barista too often to be focusing all that hard. 

Gravitating toward the walls, his fingers trail along the spines of the books as he studies the titles. Classics, then cheesy Y/A, then a cookbook from the 1970’s, then a childcare guide. There’s no fucking rhyme or reason to any of the order. Bakugou snorts at it, but instead of being pissed at the disorganization or baffled at the dumbass who thought it was a good idea to mash the genres together, he simply continues taking in the different novels.

“Find something you like?” 

Bakugou whips around, snarl already on his face and his mood expeditiously soured at his peace being disturbed. The main fucking thing he had liked about the place was that there was no one to bother him with their inane chitchat or grating smalltalk. Just as he was about to tear the douche a new one, Bakugou, for the first time in his life, stops and stares. 

Holy shit.  

There, standing before him, was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. 

The first thing that he processes is red , then ‘tall’ and ‘bright’ kick in. Crimson hair is spiked upwards, gravity defying spikes with the cutest mini tufts at the front like horns. 

Bakugou forces himself to tear away his gaze from a jawline sharp enough to kill and broad, somehow handsome shoulders. Eyes so red they should burn right through him are instead crinkled, a fucking blinding smile on his face. Bakugou squints at said grin, and yeah those are sharpened teeth right there. That, paired with the badass scar in his eyebrow should scream danger. But somehow those features are nullified by everything else. 

There’s nothing but warmth here, radiating from this man who offers such a genuine smile so easily. He’s fucking built, clearly defined arms and probably a few inches taller than Bakugou’s own six foot frame. But oh lord is he pretty. 

No matter how attractive he was though, nothing could excuse the absolute abomination he was wearing. A trashy band tee with the shittiest opened neon button up over it, blinding bright cargo shorts and (Bakugou holds back a genuine gasp) bright fucking red crocs. Every possible horrid thing, mashed together on this one person. 

Bakugou despairs at how he still finds him attractive. 

“Um,” he begins to reply. Instead of ‘fuck no, leave me alone’ out comes ‘what are you doing here’ in the most genial tone he thinks he’s ever spoken in. 

Red blinks at him. Bakugou blinks back. 

He blinks at himself, actually because why the hell would you ask that to someone literally in a fucking library . 

But instead of some confused response or snide remark, Red simply laughs and with it Bakugou can physically feel his ears turn pink. 

Why is your laugh so cute, Bakugou thinks, distressed. Why do I not want to punch you in your stupid pretty face. I think it’s best if you or I die instantaneously. 

“Sorry for laughing, I just find that really funny.” Red finally replies, grin still in place. 

“No shit.” Bakugou deadpans, hoping to all hell the blush on his ears is hidden by his hair.  Red simply chuckles again, before spreading his arms wide like a fucking ringmaster. 

“I should be in my bookstore during business hours, man!” Bakugou blinks at him once, twice. A third time, even. 

“You own this place?” He asks, not even bothering to hide his disbelief. But Red’s smile just grows wider, pride edging his grin.

“You bet I do.” He drops his arms to his neon clad sides and spins around as if to say ta-da, giggling lightly as he 360’s. 

Great, Bakugou thinks. He’s cute but fucking insane.

Bakugou narrows his eyes at him, skeptical for a whole lot of reasons. “How the hell did you make this place so fucking big? You’re like twenty something, this musta taken years to have so much shit. Looks more like a library than a damn bookstore.” 

He’s nonplussed by the blond’s words or vocabulary, simply nodding in understanding.

“Answer is I kinda didn’t! This place was my moms’, then they gave it to me. I did a little snazzy reorganizing, redecorating, and re-collecting too though.” Red looks at the bookstore with immense fondness, clearly proud for good reason. “Was a whole lot more boring n’ gray before. It’s much more chill now. You’re right though, I’m twenty five.” (No, Bakugou doesn’t care that there’s only a years’ difference between them. He doesn’t. Shut up).

“Reorganizing, huh?” Bakugou flourishes a hand at the wall behind him, the mishmash of books still standing tall. “Dante’s Inferno next to High School Musical The Book Adaptation? Doesn’t seem super fucking organized to me.” It’s too late to notice how his voice is teasing, not loaded with vitriol. Red shakes his head with a grin, approaching closer to trace his own hands along the books. 

“I was going off vibes, man.” He says, very seriously. “Besides, I think Dante really would have found the conflicts of Troy really heart inspiring, dude. His inner struggles? Man versus society AND man versus self? For sure worth an introspective novel.” 

Bakugou, despite himself, fucking laughs. Like a little dweeb. 

“Nah, Dante for sure would have hyper-fixated on Sharpay. You think he wouldn’t appreciate a fucking icon like her? The crone is rolling in his grave right fucking now because he missed the chance to bullshit a three part book series on her.” 

At that, Red laughs again, this time disrupting the quiet of the bookstore. Bakugou’s ears and neck go completely red, not only because of his pretty laugh but because of how the entire peanut gallery turns toward them.  

“You’d think the owner of a bookstore would know how to be quiet in it.” Bakugou hisses, glaring at their new audience, successfully prompting them to turn back to their stupid lives. 

Still fucking grinning, he laughs once more, albeit quieter. “Who said that you have to be quiet in a bookstore, dude. It’s not a library, after all. Besides, I think owning it means I could do anything I want in it, actually.” He exaggeratingly winks, the scar over his eye tensing and relaxing. 

“Jirou!” he calls, voice carrying over the bountiful space. “Turn on your playlist, will ya?” The girl working the coffee machines—Jirou—grins and nods. With one, two taps to her phone, heavy rock starts playing through the speakers. 

The screaming vocals and loud guitar, paired with the clashing drums, completely change the atmosphere of the room. Bakugou’s lip curls, anger about to explode at the quiet being disrupted despite the song actually being good but fuck you, anyways. 

“Oh man, I love this song!” Red exclaims, enthusiasm pouring from him. (His smile is nothing short of goddamn illuminating. Bakugou thinks he might pass out when it’s directed towards him.)

It doesn’t seem like the bubbly airheaded guy’s taste, but as he starts to sing along word for word, accompanying it with an air guitar? Bakugou decides right then and there yeah, there’s no fucking way he can ever come back. 

“Come on, dude! Where’s your spirit, your youth, your emotion?” He’s still fucking playing the stupid ‘guitar’, laughing along with everyone else who’s watching him once more in amusement. “Why am I the only one moving and grooving! Up and at ‘em!” Some fucking how, that works. All the other losers get up and exaggeratingly start dancing to the song, books and coffee abandoned. 

No way Bakugou had somehow stumbled into a cult on his Saturday. 

Red giggles at his clear disbelief. “They’re all my friends. We do this now and then, spice up the place a lil’.” Bakugou stands shock still as the song comes to an end and they all go back to what they were doing before, the music playing overhead switched back to soft R&B. And that’s it. They sit. 

“You just. Dance. Along to shitty rock songs in your hugeass bookstore and stupid crocs and terrible fucking wardrobe and apparently every customer is your friend, who’s also willing to dance in broad daylight when you say so.” Bakugou clarifies. With a grin and a nod, Red confirms. 

“Yup!” Suddenly the steadfast smile that was previously on his face is replaced with a pout. “And my crocs are gorgeous, actually. Screw you.” And Bakugou can’t help but snort, at how cute but also how loud and wrong Red is. 

“You’re fuckin’ lucky I didn’t say anything meaner, or start on your shitty hair.” At this, Red gasps outright. 

“First my outfit, then my crocs and now my HAIR?” his hands fly up to his red locks as if to protect them. “Insulting me in my own bookstore is so wild.” 

“I’m half convinced you came in here one day and gaslighted everyone into thinking you own the place, actually.” he retorted, crossing his arms and unconsciously replacing his scowl with a smirk. 

“And if I did you would never even know.” Red says smugly. 

“That’s seriously not helping your point, Shitty Hair.” 

“Quit chatting unless you want me to make Jirou play another song. Her playlist is still queued.” He says practically gleefully, mischief written all over his face. At that, Bakugou groans and turns on his heel. 

“Absolutely not. I’m fucking outta here before you can get the damn chance.” Red laughs, amicably rolling his eyes. 

“Sure, sure. See you later then, Blasty.” Bakugou turns back around and narrows his eyes, miffed at the stupid nickname. 

“It’s Bakugou, not Blasty .” Red grins, as if he’s won a prize. 

“It’s Kirishima, not shitty hair.” There, Bakugou realizes that he did. 

“Whatever. Have fun with your bookstore cult, Red.” He exits without a glance, leaving with Kirishima’s laugh at his back and a call of “come again soon!”.

Stoutly ignoring the butterflies making their way from his stomach all the way into his ribcage, he begins the awful trek home. 

Goddamn it , Bakugou thinks. I can never go there again.

He goes again. 

Don’t get him wrong, he tries his fucking hardest not to. 

Bakugou blasts music in his apartment to drown out the sounds from outside until he gets a noise complaint. He invests in a pair of noise cancelling headphones, but the silence makes his tinnitus too loud to bear. He even tries to go to an actual library, but the walk combined with the ultimate disappointment of the shitty library somehow makes his mood ten times worse. 

It doesn’t even make sense for Bakugou to want to go back. With Red being the fucking owner , obviously he’ll run into the shitty haired loser more than once. 

Kirishima was literally a culmination of every single fucking thing Bakugou was trying to escape from. Loud, bright, obnoxious, enthusiastic, smiley. He probably fucking thrived off the city, eating up its’ energy like some kind of laughy incubus. 

Even with their one interaction, Kirishima had single handedly disrupted the entire damn bookstore and ruined the exact atmosphere that had drawn Bakugou to the bookstore in the first place. There was no reason for Bakugou to expect he would ever find that same feeling of peace there, as long as Kirishima was the owner with his godforsaken crocs. 

And yet. 

The thought of seeing Kirishima again, in all his neon glory, tugged Bakugou along the city streets no matter how much he tried to push the thought away. 

What a fucking dweeb, he thinks viciously. 

Entering the bookstore, he doesn’t spare a glance at who’s inside this time. Instead scarlet eyes scan the grand store, intent on hopefully finding the neon menace again. And like a laser focusing on its target, his gaze falls on pointy red and a blinding smile once more. 

Kirishima’s leaned against the coffee counter, chatting with what seems to be a customer as they sip on their respective drinks. Bakugou tries his best to silently kill the small green tendrils snaking around his ribcage upon seeing how Kirishima laughs just as easily with the extra as he did the day they met. 

Tearing his eyes away, he beelines for the shelves again in hopes of actually finding something worthwhile to read. Before he can fully make it, he’s stopped in his tracks with a call of “Blasty!”.

He turns around, and immediately goes breathless. 

Kirishima’s smile is so somehow so much more bright this time around, and it’s aimed directly at him. Bakugou absentmindedly thinks to stop by the pharmacy on his way back home to grab an inhaler because at this rate his asthma very well may come back.  

“What’s up, man!” He exclaims, stopping short to simply grin at him with his hands on his hips. Bakugou shrugs his shoulders, the picture of nonchalance despite his heart now beating hummingbird fast. 

“Nothing, just felt like comin’ in. Didn’t try the coffee last time.” Not only did Bakugou turn into a dweeb, apparently he's turned into a goddamn liar too. 

Kirishima doesn’t say anything of it, but the curve of his smile suggests that neither of them were fooled. 

“In that case, let’s get you a cup of jitter juice.”

“Did you just say jitter juice? What, is it fucking laced with something?” Suddenly, the bizarrity of the entire place makes a little more sense. “This is a weed shop, is it. People come and do drugs n’ shit. No fucking wonder you’re out of your mind, you literally are.” Bakugou’s practically certain in his assumption, if not a little panicked that he might be walking into some pyramid scheme, before Kirishima bellows out laughing. 

“Holy shit, bro, that has to be the craziest thing anyone’s said about the shop, oh my god.” Red can’t contain his laughter, somehow making the sound echo through the store. “ No, dude, I just call it jitter juice because it makes me jittery. I don’t think my moms would be very happy with me turning the place into a drug joint.” 

Kirishima sighs, wiping a tear from his eye. “That would be pretty epic though. I should ask Kaminari about making an infused latte, or something.”

“Sure, because that’s exactly what you nutcases fucking need.”

“Nutcases!” Kirishima exclaims, mouth open in shock before sputtering out into chuckles again . Give this guy a rock and he’d probably lose his shit. (Bakugou wonders if he could buy a stone landfill. They’re probably cheap enough, right? Anything to hear Kirishima’s laugh over and over.)

They walk to the proclaimed jitter juice corner, Kirishima himself sliding behind the counter. Bakugou raises his eyebrow, but as Kirishima handles the machines with ease the blonde slides into one of the barstools and watches him work. 

“Can I guess your order? Think it’ll be fun.” 

Bakugou nods, (surprisingly) amicable. “Sure. It’s your coffee you’re wasting.”

“What, you think I won’t get it right?” Kirishima jabs, mock offense in his voice. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t burned the damn place down. No way there’s more than gel and the fucking High School Musical trilogy in repeat in that head.” 

“I’ll have you know there’s Kirby’s theme playing as background music too, thanks.”

Bakugou snorts, watchful eyes on how Kirishima lets the espresso percolate as he grabs various syrups. 

“Where’d you learn how to be a barista? Didn’t think one of the requirements of being a bookstore owner was being able to draw shitty latte art.” 

Kirishima smiles, holding the cup in one hand as he probably draws shitty latte art. “Was a barista on the side when I was in college, super hipster place. I spent like three weeks trying to learn how to draw a cat and then boom, master coffee maker.” He presents Bakugou with his coffee, a shaky cat with angry eyebrows drawn atop. “Ta da! It’s you.”

Bakugou blinks at it, frowning at the supposed caricature of himself. 

“This looks nothing like me.” He pokes gently at the cat’s coffee whiskers, raising an eyebrow at the redhead. 

“Bro, it totally looks like you.” Kirishima leans closer over the counter, pointing at the fluffy cheeks. 

“Look, this is your poofy hair, right,” —“My hair is fucking perfect , ”— “And THESE are your eyes because you have cat eyes,”—“what the fuck is that supposed to mean!”—“and these eyebrows are not only eyebrows but your personality!” 

Bakugou stares at him. “My eyebrows. Are cream cat eyebrows.” Kirishima rolls his eyes, gesturing with his creamer cup that he used to draw with. 

“Cause you’re angry, man. Duh.” Kirishima’s voice turns sly as he turns back around to the coffee machines to start on his own cup. “And cute like a cat too, obviously.” 

Bakugo’s throat at that moment decides to spasm violently, causing him to cough and sputter all over the counter. 

Fuck you, he thinks with vigour. 

“Oh,” comes out instead. “Least I’m not eager like a damn puppy.” The redhead mock gasps, an amused tint still on the curve of his cheeks. 

"I call you cute and you call me eager? Damn, tough trade." 

"Never said puppies aren't cute too, stupid." Bakugou hides his blush behind his mug as he finally decides to sip the coffee and just as he suspected, it's way too sugary. While he can tell it's of good quality, nicely made, Bakugou's nonexistent sweet tooth recoils from the soft toffee flavor.

"So? What's the verdict, man?" 

But when Bakugou looks up, meets Kirishima's crimson gaze, pretty red blush still high on his cheeks and everlasting smile bright on his face, the blonde can't manage a singular drop of vitriol. 

"It's perfect, Red.”

Bakugou finds himself rushing out of the lab to enter the bookstore yet again. Over the span of the next two and a half weeks, he skedaddles over almost daily in a haste. In no way does he compromise his work, because hell would refreeze six times over before he prioritizes a boy over the lab . No matter how cute or sweet or charming said boy was. 

Regardless, as soon as the clock hits five, he’s always packed and ready to go home to change out of his lab coat before making the quick trek to the bookstore. And it doesn’t even seem like anything weird, until one day he stops in his tracks when he glances down at his wrist and sees that he’s walked through the now familiar glass doors at 5:12 on the dot. 

The walk from his apartment to Kirishima’s store is fifteen minutes.  

The watch is old, Bakugou decides. It’s probably lagging by a lot. Some gear or another stopped grinding right. 

A sour little voice in his head proclaims that his gears have stopped grinding since he set eyes on the redhead two weeks ago. He unlatches the watch and slips it into his pocket. Piece of garbage, honestly. 

This time, Kirishima is sitting next to a massive pile of books, placing stickers on each inner cover with practiced speed before placing them in piles only he understands. He perks up as soon as Bakugou steps through the door, a smile gracing his face as he tosses the book he was sticker-ing up to the side. 

“Bakugou!” he exclaims, joy on his face just from setting sights on the blonde. Below the bare minimum, with no fucking effort, he recieves ceasless warmth from Kirishima simply from stepping into his presence. 

Bakugou feels the urgent need to scream loudly and violently.

“Shitty hair.” he greets, nodding his head as if the action would get his blood flow going and make the blush on his cheeks disappear. He moves towards a longer couch, an emerald green camelback that feels smooth on his skin as he sinks down. Kirishima follows, sitting next to him a polite distance away. Bakugou tries his best not to feel disappointed by it. 

“How was your day? What do you even do for a living, come to think of it.” Kirishima snaps, pointer finger aimed at Bakugou. “You’re from a rival bookstore come to worm your way into my heart and then steal all my secrets, huh.” He tsks, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I knew you were too hot to be real.” 

The blond was feeling awfully warm and awfully flattered and awfully like a dweeb . A stupid little dweeb who was gay and smitten and really fucking gay and very much queer, even. 

“First of all, if I was from a rival bookstore I wouldn’t even bother tryna sneak around because your enthusiastic self would hand me your prized secrets with a smile if I fuckin asked.” Bakugou says, crossing his arms with a sneer. “Secondly, that’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard someone say about me and one time a chick called me Bombshell Blondy Boy McHandsome to try to get with me. So let that really sink in, Red.”

“I dunno man, if someone called me Bombshell Blondy Boy McHandsome I would be pretty flattered.” Kirishima shrugs, an amused smile on his face. “Did you give her a chance?” There’s something in a voice, a darker undercurrent to his grin as if he’s forcing it to stay wide. Bakugou shakes the delusions away and scoffs.

“If you think that would win me over, you’re actually more hair than brains, goddamn. Even if it was a guy saying that nonsense to me, I still woulda turned around and left the building with a fucking quickness.” 

Kirishima quirks an eyebrow, something like relief on his face. “You prefer guys, then?”

“I only like guys.” the blonde replies, crossing his arms and keeping steady eye contact, letting a slight smirk fall to his lips as the covert (albeit pointed) message colors Kirishima’s cheeks red. Clearing his throat, Kirishima’s smile grows on his face again, something so sweet in the curve of his lips this time around. 

“Well, you’re off the hook now, but I’m still gonna keep my eye on you, secret spy man.” 

Bakugou rolls his eyes, annoyed and stupidly endeared. “I’m not a damn spy, I’m a chemist, you moron.”  

Kirishima’s eyes light up, mouth in an almost perfect ‘o’. “A chemist ? That’s so amazing, what the hell! Man, so you’re like crazy smart, huh.” 

Bakugou ignores the burning of his ears and shrugs nonchalantly. “Isn’t that hard. Most of my day is spent running shit through the mass spec, anyways.” At Kirishima's confused look, he rushes to tack on an explanation. “Sounds complicated, but it’s practically jus’ shooting shit with a laser.” And of course that brings back a smile, awe written all over the redheads’ features. 

“That’s even cooler than I thought, bro!” He leans forward, lightly punching Bakugou’s shoulder. Even at this, the briefest of brief contact, the blonde can feel butterflies twirling in his gut. But even when Kirishima’s hand falls, he just—stays. 

Only incrementally so, but now he’s in Bakugou’s space. That polite distance had suddenly become personal, Kirishima close enough for his body heat to radiate onto Bakugou’s skin and warm his cheeks.

His eyes are beyond crimson, shades of carmine and maroon swirling around Bakugou’s mind. And of course the fucker has to have the prettiest lashes too, dark hair framing stupid puppy dog eyes. Stupid eyes that call to him, make him want to blush and sigh and bask in amaranth forever. 

Bakugou could barely blink, much less breathe, at the proximity of him and Red. He faintly registers how his heartbeat speeds to a crescendo, how his fingers twitch at the urge to curl into a fist (or to hold a hand in his own). That small nudge over had bought those eyes, and the person they belonged to, all that much closer. 

Honestly, to anyone else, they may have just been sitting next together as fucking pals do. To Bakugou? There was a supernova close to fucking bursting gathered in his chest. 

“So,” he said loudly, startling the redhead. “How did your moms—you, how did you, you have the fucking, you got the, the place, your moms—the fucking bookstore?”

Holy fucking shit. Bakugou thought miserably. They really do let anyone get degrees, huh. 

Kirishima blinks at him. Slowly, he blinks back. 

Kirishima bites his lips so hard they go white. His body shakes, for a moment, before he brings a hand up to cover the smile fucking yanking at his mouth.  

“Well,” he starts, voice wavering an awful lot, laugh already evident in that one syllable alone. “I had, well,” Kirishima’s hand clamps harder, Bakugou’s ears burn brighter. 

Curses are at the tip of his tongue, ready to be released and lash out into the air. But then the dam holding back Kirshima’s laughter breaks and with it, absolute joy is released. 

Then Bakugou dies a terrible death. 

Because holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit, bro. 

Genuinely, he doesn’t think he’s heard a more beautiful sound before. Sure, he’s heard Kirishima’s light chuckles and various fits of hysterics, but this?

The redhead throws his head back with it, his laughter so deep and somehow so sweet that Bakugou swears he feels a new cavity form in his own mouth. Those warm red eyes crinkle, pink coloring his cheeks with the force of it. Clearly he tries to calm himself down, but that melodious sound still spills from his lips and fills the air around him. 

And with that, Bakugou is struck . Physically, he feels it in his damn chest. 

Bakugou is struck with the intense, practically violent urge to kiss the pretty boy in front of him. To lean forward and press his lips against a pair so pink they probably stole pigment from roses themselves. He wants to cup Kirishima’s cheek and drink the laughter from his mouth, swallow down his joy and let the sugar sweetness crystalize his heart. And he wants to smile right back at him, let their combined joy grow so wide not even the bookstore they were sitting in could contain it all. 

In short, Bakugou fucking dies. 

“I’m sorry man, oh my gosh. I’m assuming you’re asking how I got ownership of the bookstore?” Kirishima finally says, wiping a tear from his eyes as the lingering pink on his cheeks highlight his grin. Curtly, Bakugou nods, not willing to let out a single word about anything he’s thought of in the past three minutes. 

“My moms met here, actually.” Kirishima begins, finally more serious as the lack of that blinding grin allows Bakugou to breathe for once. “It used to be a department store, super gray and depressing and full of shitty NPC clothes.” 

Bakugou scoffs, pointedly looking at Kirishima’s own obnoxiously colored outfit. “You’re one to talk about shitty NPC clothes, walking around like you’ve just stepped out of a crappy indie game.” 

Kirishima playfully glares at him, rolling his eyes. “ Some people,” he says pointedly, “just don’t know fashion. Clearly you’ve never seen real clothing before.” Bakugou snorts, his mom’s fashion design business flashing through his mind. 

“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.” Kirishima playfully punches him again, the both of them laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world. In that moment, with sunlight on his face and red at his side, it is. 

“My moms met here. Mama was a clerk working a terrible 6 to 10, it broke like six different labor laws. And Mom walked in because her terrible boss spilled coffee all over her and she needed a new shirt.” 

Kirishima sighs, fondness in his voice as he relays the story probably for the millionth time. “Then, when Mom walked up to the counter, they met eyes, and they fell in love right there on the spot. Mom kept on spending her crappy paycheck on  grandma blouses and ill fitting khakis, and Mama kept working those stupid hours so she could see her.” 

Here, Kirishima’s grin turns that much softer as clear adoration for his moms (and the story) fills his voice. “They fell in love superrr quick, and eventually they decided to buy the store where they met and turn it into something they loved.” 

He leans back against the couch, raising his arms to gesture around the bookstore. “And here it is! Literally a product of their love.” That smile is directed at Bakugou once more, still warm. He can't help but smile back.

"Sounds like a cheesy romcom. You sure they didn't lie to you? Maybe gaslighting is in the family." 

Kirishima scoffs, playfully rolling his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about, Blasty. You sound like the real gaslighter here. You sure you’re not projecting?"

Bakugou growls, shoving him. "You're doing this way too fucking easy.” Kirishima winked, an effortless grin on his face. 

“You said it ran in the family, right?” Kirishima laughs again as Bakugou shoves him slightly harder, but he can’t deny the smile on his own face as. “Speaking of running in the family, my moms gave me the place around two years ago.” Bakugou fights the urge to pinch Kirishima’s cheeks as the redhead cutely swings his legs upwards and burrows into the couch, shins now pressed against Bakugou. It’s not sweet. It’s not.

“I was in college and I fucking hated it, bro.” He says, resting his head on the couch and revealing the smooth skin of his neck to the air. Bakugou’s eyes are immediately magnetized, eyes latched to the angle of his throat now all too visible. His lips tingle with the urge to press a kiss to the caramel silk.  But his attention is snapped back to Kirishima’s eyes as a deprecreating note sours his laugh. 

“I was never a fan of school, but college was, surprise surprise, even harder. I was majoring in economics, and it wasn’t like I was bad at it. But I was working my ass off for a degree I hated. Mental health was going—” he holds out his hand with his bent fingers level with his knuckles, making a vhoooom sound as his hand descended downwards. Bakugou’s lips quirk at the action, and Kirishima’s smile returns at the sight. 

“My moms are my best friends, so as much as I tried to hide it, they knew how bad shit was sucking. So, they just so happened to coincidentally go into retirement.” Kirishima’s smile is beyond fond, so much warmth spilling out at the thought of his parents. 

“They gave you the bookstore?” Bakugou fills in, voice coming out so much softer than he expected. Kirishima nods, messing up his spikes as it brushes against the vert velvet. 

“I think they really did want to go into retirement, but yeah. They saved me. The bookstore has always been my safe place, ever since I was a kid and especially during college. I was going to inherit it regardless, but honestly? Getting it then meant more to me than it ever would.” 

Kirishima pulls out his phone, pulling up a picture of two women. Both of them black haired, with the brightest smiles Bakugou thinks he’s ever seen. 

Their arms are entwined as they sit on a couch similar to the one Kirishima and Bakugou are sitting on now, rosy cheeks pressed together. One woman, with brown skin and dark curly hair, has a dimple on her left cheek. The other, with paler skin and thick, straight hair has a dimple on her right. Their respective sari and kimono are in an admittedly lovely shade of matching lavender.

But above all, they look kind. It’s no doubting that Kirishima is their son, born and raised from sunlight and love.

“Aren’t they so cute!” Kirishima exclaims, his grin matching the ones in the picture as he gazes at the photo. Bakugou nods, unable to disagree. 

“They really are. You look just like them.” That pulls almost tangible happiness from the redhead. Bakugou can’t help but feel proud at being the reason for Kirishima’s smile gaining an elated edge. 

He points at his moms’ cheeks in the photo, hand dangerously close to Kirishima’s own. 

“They also match. Their dimples are fuckin’ symettrical.” 

“Yes they ARE!” Kirishima gasps, sitting upright as he excitedly slaps Bakugou’s shoulder. “Oh my god! Of course I knew they were soulmates but they’re like soulmate soulmates!” He can’t help but laugh at Kirishima’s newfound energy, shaking his head at him. 

“Twenty five years and you’ve never noticed? It’s a miracle how you made it this far.” Kirishima rolls his eyes, plopping back against the couch.

“Screw you, actually.” 

“A guy makes you one coffee and already wants to get right to it, damn.” He laughs harder as Kirishima splutters, the shove he receives feeling like nothing. 

“Screw you twice over—” “ Damn, twice?” “—but not like that! Jesus!” He shakes his head, mirth moving his shoulders. “You’re secretly a scoundrel!” 

Bakugou snorts, resting his own head against the couch to be level with the boy across from him. “It’s no damn secret.” Kirishima shakes his head. 

“You come in here all grumpy and scowly when you’re actually like, a little goblin dressed up super nicely.”

“You’re right,” Bakugou deadpans. “I’m actually a little green guy stuffed into a cashmere cable knit. Be scared.” Kirishima laughs again, allowing their gaze to connect. And then his eyes flickered down, once, back up, twice, and oh boy was Bakugou getting flustered . 

Overhead, the music softly playing starts sounding a whole lot more familiar. Bakugou frowns in thought, listening more closely as crooning vocals accompany old school guitar. He fails to notice how Kirishima’s eyes follow the curve of his lips. 

“What music is this? Sounds super fucking familiar.” Bakugou is startled by the look of surprise Kirishima gives him, so shocked but so pleased all in one. 

“This is Crimson Riot!” Kirishima says, grin even more sweet and visible excitement written all over them. “You know him? I’m a huge fan.” Bakugou nods. 

“I used to listen to him here and there back when I was in high school. He’s old as shit though, didn’t expect to be hearing him now.” Suddenly, the twinge of familiarity upon seeing the bookstore’s name— Red Riot Reads —makes a whole lot more sense. “Your moms liked him that much? Naming the whole bookstore after him?” 

“Actually, I’m the one who named it after him.” Kirishima says, sitting a little more upright and sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “The place didn’t really feel like mine , ya know? Like, it still felt like I was hiding in my nook avoiding homework instead of actually being the owner. So with my moms’ blessing I rebranded.” Kirishima averts his eyes, suddenly nervous as he gains the courage to say what’s on his mind. 

“I used to be like, super depressed. And super self conscious, too. Didn’t really know who I was or who I wanted to be, and I was always just so scared to even make a sound.” Despite the strained lighthearted tone and obvious effort to make it seem less of a big deal than it was, the anxious fiddle of his fingers and the tightening of his voice betrayed him. 

Before he can really think about it, Bakugou reaches out, putting his own hand atop Kirishima’s. The redhead looks at him, surprised. But he says nothing, nodding to motion him to continue. At the effort to meet him halfway, the uptick of Kirishima’s lips meant all the more. 

“Crimson Riot’s songs were like my main baseline to keep going, y’know? Hearing him sing about having a manly spirit and being true to yourself pulled me out of the trenches. So it really fit, naming the place after him.” 

“That’s cool as hell.” Bakugou says, making Kirishima’s eyes snap up to him. He hates the slight disbelief tinging the other’s features, so he pushes himself to continue. He ignores the fact that it’s not hard to speak at all. 

“Dealing with depression and overcoming it makes you a fucking badass, first of all. But then taking over an entire fucking bookstore, then naming it after Crimson Riot? That’s sick as fuck.” 

Bakugou crosses his arms decisively, daring Kirishima to object. Instead, he’s met with pink cheeks and carmine eyes so bright they’re practically twinkling at him. 

“You know what? You’re right.” Kirishima decides then to lean forward and fucking hug Bakugou. Full, arms around him, chest pressed against him, and oh boy. 

I didn’t think this far, Bakugou thinks, panicked. I didn’t plan on dying yet, shit. I had so much to live for. Round Cheeks is gonna kick my ass for leaving her with the synthesizing project to deal with on her own. 

Hesitantly, he brings his hands up, palms resting carefully on Kirishima’s prominent shoulder blades. And fuck it to all hell, it’s nice. It’s so nice. 

Kirishima’s warmth, radiating from all over him, strong arms keeping him close. He smells good, like vanilla and worn books and poppies. Bakugou unconsciously closes his eyes, melting into the other’s touch and breathing in what he wants to become home . 

They linger like that for a moment, two, maybe a beat longer than what friends should be holding each other for. But then Kirishima pulls back slowly, sudden and abrupt coldness washing over Bakugou. He averts his eyes, sudden embarrassed blush on his cheeks from how Kirishima caught him with his eyes still closed, fucking savoring the contact like a piece of chocolate. Talk about touch starved, damn. 

“So you know how I said I was a huge fan of Crimson Riot?” Kirishima asks, his voice slightly hushed but giddy as he takes in Bakugou’s camelia-pink cheeks. 

“Yeah?” 

He rolls up his sleeve, lurid green fabric scrunching as Kirishima rolls it to his shoulder. Across his bicep and branching over his deltoid, there’s a blood red electric guitar with roses and gerberas snaking around it, deep green vines curling over the body.

 It’s instantly recognizable as Crimson Riot’s iconic one of a kind guitar, the tattooed gleam shiny enough to look like lacquered wood. Along the spine is Crimson Riot in bolded font. Bakugou thinks he might pass out within the next three minutes. 

“Holy shit,” he says, breath absolutely gone. There’s nothing going into his lungs right now, but there sure as hell is blood rushing all over the place. “That’s one hell of a tattoo, Red.” A tattoo . A super fucking badass one, at that, and shit, Bakugou is so fucked, fucking fuck. Shit. Fuck his life. Of course Kirisihima had to have a tattoo, because the universe hates him and wants him to be acutely reminded of how gay he is twenty four fucking seven. Naturally. 

“Thanks, man! It’s not the biggest one I have but it’s probably my favorite, to be honest.” More? Not the biggest? There are more tattoos that are bigger on Kirishima’s body right fucking now, as they speak?

“What a fucking nerd,” Bakugou wheezes out, breath kicking him in the throat as he forces the words out. “Having a Crimson Riot tattoo, s’ practically a tramp stamp.” Kirishima laughs, unfortunately rolling his sleeve back down.  

“My actual  tramp stamp is a lot more classy, actually.” 

There is no point in trying to hide how his eyes bug out of his head viciously. 

Kirishima fucking guffaws , slapping Bakugou’s shoulder good heartedly as he bends over with his laughter. Bakugou will never admit to how his eyes immediately shoot down to see if his shirt would ride up, just a little, only to simply validate the outrageous claims of course—

“I don’t actually have a tramp stamp, man! God, the look on your face.” Kirishima shakes his head, snorting. “Priceless. The only tattoo I have below my pants is cute, promise.” And honestly, that’s not much fucking better. 

Thus, Bakugou simply gives up. Clearly the powers above only want the worst for him and there is no point in fighting back. Goodbye to his peace. 

He flops back against the couch dramatically and shakes his head, lips curling upwards at the sounds of Kirishima failing to stifle his giggles. 

“You’re gonna fucking kill me, Shitty Hair.” He turns his head to get red eyes instantly locked with his, garnet bond holding them in place. The redhead simply shrugs, the fucker, mischevious smile still on his face. 

“That’s the plan, Blasty.”

Mhm. Bakugou’s fucked. 

“Kirishima.” 

“Hm?”

“Why am I staring at six boxes of glorified werewolf porn.” 

Kirishima hums again, idly turning the pages of what’s probably more glorified werewolf porn. “It’s fine literature, actually.” 

As they sit on the floor of the bookstore on a prime Saturday evening, Kirishima and Bakugou are left to their own devices in the empty store as they stock new shipments. It takes a certain type of gay and infatuated to willingly slide dozens of books into shelves and display tables out of your own volition. Very unfortunately, Bakugou is that type of gay and beyond, as he’s also sliding plastic covers onto the aforementioned wretched monster smut.

“The way it’s literally not.” Kirishima huffs through his nose, looking up to meet Bakugou’s mildly annoyed and deeply concerned gaze. 

“Just because you don’t understand the complex intricacies of these novels doesn’t allow you to be a hater, Bakugou.” Then he goes back to his book, like a bastard.

Grabbing a copy from one of the many cardboard boxes, Bakugou flips to a random page. “‘He growled with trembling fury as he gazed upon her marred skin’”, he reads, voice in a complete monotone. “‘No. Don’t leave me.’ He felt his member strengthen under the moon’s light—” 

“Stop!” Kirishima cries out, laughing as he yanks the book away. “Member doesn’t always mean schlong, you deviant.” Narrowing his eyes, Bakugou stares deep into Kirishima’s soul, searching for an ounce of any semblance of sanity. He does not find anything except the sheet music for Kirby and the Forgotten Land.

“We both know you were a Wattpad teen for  long enough, Kirishima. Don’t try me.” Kirishima visibly chokes at that, red rising to his cheeks to meet his hair. 

“That’s a blatant lie—” “You told me that last fucking week!” Kirishima erupts into giggles, dropping his novel onto the floor and falling back as he gives up on trying to gaslight Bakugou into his werewolf smut agenda. 

“Whatever! Me and my works of art are happy, thank you very much." Bakugou waves around the store, emulating a gas station blowup mascot as he gestures. 

"You may be happy, but the six boxes won't be happy when they're sitting there because they're a fucking niche genre and the average sane person does not appreciate damn werewolf erotica." 

Kirishima levels him with a look, raising his eyebrow in a gaze so dry that Bakugou's throat clicks when he swallows. 

(He despairs at how the redhead is so unbearably attractive. At this one look he can feel how color desires to paint his cheeks, brain going into overdrive at how handsome Kirishima is. Is there any reason for all of that beauty? Right now, at this very moment? 

The reasonable answer is 'no', the answer running through Bakugou's head is 'always'.)

"You'd be surprised at how well this sells, actually. Werewolf porn isn't to be taken lightly." Kirishima claims, picking back up his book even as a smile tugs as his lips. 

Bakugou aggressively points at him, grabbing the stupid novel out of his hands depsite Kirishima's complaints. The fully bloomed smile on his face belies it all.

"So you fucking admit that it's werewolf porn!" He snarls through a laugh, shaking the trash in his hand as he dodges Kirishima's attempts to grab at it. Kirishima fingers brush against his side, causing a wheezing laugh to escape from Bakugou's mouth. 

Fuck.

Kirishima stares at him. Bakugou stares at Kirishima.

The most devious smile Bakugou has ever fucking seen spreads on Kirishima's face with a quickness that's frightening.

"Hey, Kirishima," he starts shakily. "Just wanted to let you know that I actually support you in all your werewolf fucker endeavors—" 

Kirishima is diving for him in a blur of red and a flash of sharp teeth before Bakugou could think of finishing his faux truce.

"FUCK youuuu!" Bakugou cries out, hunching over as nimble fingers dance all along his sides. He desperately tries to hold in his laughs, but the relentless tickling makes it absolutely impossible. 

"I can't believe you're ticklish!" Kirishima says gleefully, while viciously fucking tickling him.

Bakugou has no time nor energy to revel in Kirishima's warm hands on him, as the douchebag  is unyielding with his damn torture tickles. 

The blonde continuously laughs, unbidden, as Kirishima's limitless joy seeps into him alongside his motions. He fails to see how Kirishima's eyes melt into honey as Bakugou's laughs echo off the walls.

Unable to sit upright, Bakugou collapses over from his previously upright position. Kirishima follows him down, still sliding his fingers without pattern. They're curved around each other, Kirishima's body giving off heat as Bakugou can't help but curl into it. Their combined laughter fills the entire store, and Bakugou feels happy enough to burst.

"Kirishima, mercy, holy fucking shit," Bakugou gasps, panting as the ceaseless laughter catches to him. Kirishima sniggers as he finally pulls away.

"I still can't believe you're ticklish. Bakugou Katsuki, of all people." Bakugou glares at him but he knows it's halfhearted.

"Think you got plenty of evidence right in front of you, jackass." Despite himself, an evil little voice in his head misses the proximity of the redhead. 

Shut the fuck up, Bakugou tells it.

No, it gleefully says back.

"Hm," Kirishima starts, a mischievous note even in that single sound. "Even though you're so kindly helping me restock, I think that you haven't really understood the seriousness of these very important books, dude." 

"I hope you die." Bakugou says seriously, slowly rising to his feet as he knows he's gonna need the headstart against Kirishima's freakishly long legs. 

Kirishima's grin, so sweet before, is nothing but evil. 

"Not before I tickle the shit outta you, Blasty." 

Even as he runs for his life away from the most troublesome person he's ever met, Bakugou faintly registers the warm yellow glow wrapping around his heart. He can't help but think there's no place he would rather be than here, in this bookstore, with this boy.

“You good, Bakugou?” The voice snaps him out of his reverie, suddenly being reminded of the lab tools in front of him. The beaker with the substance he’s working on starts to bubble threateningly, and he rushes to turn off the Bunsen burner before the gas flame makes matters worse. 

“M’fine.” He says gruffly, unwilling to give any more information to his concerned coworker. Much less reveal that his thoughts were occupied with a certain redhead. Uraraka was good at her job, obviously, but she was a damn pain in the ass and nosy to all hell.

“Sure you are, and you definitely aren’t getting soot all over that bromine sample.” 

“That’s your bromine, dumbass. I wasn’t supposed to be watching Sample C.” She swears, hurriedly cutting the gas until the yellow flame disappears. He snorts to himself as she flushes, bright pink covering her cheeks not so much in embarrassment but in frustration at the sullied glass. 

“Okay, well, YOU were still off daydreaming about something! So spill!” She places her hands on her hips as if the pose will accomplish anything. Bakugou looks at her dryly. 

“Yeah, was dreaming of unicorns and rainbows. Was real fuckin’ nice.” She snorts, dropping the defensive stance and moving closer to tinker with her part of the project they were working on. 

While only meeting two months ago when Bakugou first signed on, they became fast (Bakugou refuses to say to her face) friends as they worked well. And Round Cheeks wasn’t a complete fucking moron, like the vast majority of other idiots at the lab. 

“I’ve seen enough romance dramas to notice that that’s a look of infatuation, right there. Gonna admit that I didn’t think you were humanly possible of it at first—”, she raises her hands as he threateningly holds his crucible tongs at her, “—but like! You look so cute sittin’ and blushin’ over this mystery person.” Bakugou splutters, too surprised to even wave his tongs again.

“Fuck you, I’m not fucking blushing.” 

“Okay, let’s skip over the whole ‘I’m not blushing’ ‘yes you are’ ‘no I’m not’ shebang, who is it!” Her annoyingly slicked bob wobbles like a piece of fucking jello with her excitement. It’s sickening. 

“Back the fuck up, you electrificed piece of flan. ‘M not telling you out of my own free will, that’s for fucking sure.” 

“But there is something .” She says gleefully, triumphant glint already shining in her eyes. Bakugou tchs, focusing on the azure flame of his burner. But he nods anyway. 

“I was right!” 

“Cause you practically hounded it outta me, you witch.” Round Cheeks pshs , waving her hand at him.

“You woulda gave me the silent treatment if you really didn’t wanna share. Now spill!” Bakugou sighs, gently setting down his tools and mentally steeling himself for the hell that’s about to be brought upon him. 

“...his name’s Kirishima.” Uraraka squeals, clasping her hands together as if she’s fucking praying. 

“He sounds cute!”

“I haven’t even told you anything about him yet, goddamn.” Bakugou sneers. “But yeah, he…he fucking is.” Now he can’t deny the red creeping onto his ears. 

And fuck, it all spills out from there. How the bookstore was his safe haven in the city, how he grew attached, and then grew even more attached to the owner himself. How he went almost three or four times every fucking week, how with every conversation and glance and brush of skin with skin his feelings grew stronger and stronger for the redhead who was too perfect to even fucking exist. How with each smile and laugh and warm gaze, Kirishima had taken his heart so quickly he wondered if it was even his in the first place. Maybe, somehow, in some way, it was always meant to be Kirishima’s. 

How he goes about his day and thinks of Kirishima in every corner of life. In the warm orange of sunrise to the aureate shades of red at sundown. He hears the echo of other's laugh in every frozen still of a smile, has Kirishima's eyes bought to mind at the sight of burgundy roses or garnet gerberas. How he goes home and wonders if Kirishima would prefer the green food container over the blue for their lunches he packs. How he lays in bed at night and thinks about whether Kirishima would sleep on the left side of the bed or the right, but ends up dreaming about the two of them entwined in the middle anyways. 

And honestly, Bakugou isn’t even surprised that he was dazing off thinking about him. Because his head’s been filled with a lot of things lately and it’s all just been red, red, Red.

“Woah,” Uraraka finally says, mouth slightly open as pure shock covers her features. “Holy shit, Bakugou.” The embarrassment finally hits and he physically feels the swell of red wash over his face, quickly turning back to his long-cooled beaker as he pretends to fiddle with the tube. He knows she’s smart enough to know he’s not actually doing shit, but she’s too fucking occupied looking off into the void as if she’s communing with god. 

“Don’t say a fucking word.” He hisses, shoulders tensing as the weight of his overspilling catches up to his brain. But she vehemently shakes her head, hair still fucking swinging with the movement. 

“First of all, I would never seriously make fun of you for that,” she says determinedly, eyebrows furrowed. “Second of all, oh my god? You’re a HUGE softie! Obviously I knew you’re not actually scary, but goddamn. Under all those spikes and glares you’re just really fucking gay! ” 

“Obviously I fucking know that by now.” He spits out, shoulders relaxing as he actually starts doing his damn job. The universe has reminded him one too many times how fucking queer he really is. Urusai itself probably had a vendetta against him. 

“So why aren’t you sucking face with this guy every time you prance over to his bookstore? Sounds like you would love to yknow, smooch, get up to heinous deeds, swap some spit.” He shoves her stupid wiggling eyebrows away, ignoring her shrieks of his sweaty hands giving her acne.

“No smooching is gonna happen for a while, you miscreant. I barely know the guy.” But still, as soon as he says the words, the untruth of them weighs heavy on his tongue. 

Truth is, he does know Kirishima. He’s since way back when memorized the shape of his smiles, the soundwaves of his laughter. He knows how intently Kirishima makes each cup of coffee even if it’s not really his job.

 He knows how Kirishima gave the job of barista to his best friend Kaminari as an excuse for him to get closer to the purple-haired regular Shinsou, how he’s enthusiastically rooting for his college friends Jirou and Momo to quit their pining and make a move on the other.

He knows how excited the redhead gets when someone new comes into the store, and how every time “someone new” ends up coming back to Red Riot Reads without fail. 

He knows how Kirishima likes to be loud, both in spirit and physically in his attire, but how cute Kirishima looks in a simple ponytail just as well. He knows how Kirishima’s organized the books seemingly mismatched but really, he could spit out the location of any given novel with strange ease. 

He knows Kirishima’s life, his family, his lingering doubts and insecurity. He knows how the boy loves dogs but has a soft spot for cats and wants to get one to be the “shop’s mascot”. 

He knows how the redhead likes to curl his legs up onto their favorite couch as if he’s snuggling into the velvet like an embrace. He knows how the other loves hiking but also loves staying in to watch sappy romcoms. How Kirishima is the absolute embodiment of all things good and kind.

Bakugou, for all his intelligence and hard effort, has never worked harder to know someone like he has Kirishima. Because there’s a need, an insistent urge to know it all. To collect every piece of sunshine he can, cup each drop of information in his hands to quench the unyielding thirst to know Kirishima like the back of his palms. He wants to know the intimate and the implicit, the subliminal along with the secretly saccharine. 

And sure, he’s never been super selfish, but Kirishima’s made him greedy. Greedy with the want to be someone to the boy. Greedy to cherish the certain miracle that the redhead is. Greedy, simply, to be his love. 

“Well, that’s bullshit.” Bakugou whips his head up at her, mouth open as he frantically wonders if she gained the ability to read his stupid sickly thoughts. “You’ve seen him like what, three times every week since you got here? You definitely know him.” 

Clearing his throat, Bakugou focuses back on his tools, straightening the metal utensils as the real reason for his hesitation creeps up on him. 

Even with his laser focus on the countertop, he can physically feel Uraraka’s gaze softening. 

“He doesn’t know me. ” Bakugou lets out, fingers twitching on the rubber handle of his stirring rod. 

And therein lies the issue and the cause all in one. Kirishima doesn’t really know Bakugou, not in the same way Bakugou does him. Not for a lack of trying, or for any selfish reason. 

If he did, well. 

He would never want to let Bakugou, of all people, be greedy. 

“Bakugou.” Uraraka says, a small but strong hand suddenly placed on his forearm. He just barely resists the urge to flinch away, despite the warmth her palm spreads. “You’re allowed to let him know you. You’re allowed to let him in. And from what I’m hearing, I think he wants you to.”

He turns to his beaker, she does hers. Bakugou goes back to work. 

I think he wants you to(o).

Unsurprisingly, Bakugou’s at Red Riot Reads again. 

Day in and day out, he sees Kirishima and falls all the more deeper in love with the stunning redhead. It’s been months now, and he really thinks he’s never known someone so intimately the way he does Red. 

Kirishima is by far his best friend, of course. But there’s no hiding how the warmth that used to blossom on his cheeks at every glance he was gifted from Kirishima has now traveled, gathering around his heart. 

At this point, he’s memorized the walls of books and how the sunlight washes the place in an aureate haze. He’s also memorized how Kirishima looks cuddled beside him, warm shoulder pressing against him. 

By now, they’ve lost any pretense of polite distance. They’re one step away from laying horizontally with entwined limbs at this point. With how Kirishima inched closer each day and currently has his legs swung onto Bakugou’s lap, he has an inkling that they’re not too far off from it. 

“So,” Kirishima starts. “Great weather we’re having.” Bakugou raises an eyebrow at him, placing the book he’s reading down. 

“It’s literally raining outside.” 

“But you love the rain!” Eyebrows furrowed, he blinks at Kirishima. He did not, in fact, love the rain. He didn't even like it all that much, really.

“...no?” The redhead sighs, flopping deeper into the couch as he abandons his phone.  

“Was worth a guess.” Bakugou snorts, shaking his head. 

“A shitty guess.” 

“Hey!” Kirishima protests, pout on his lips. Bakugou wants to kiss it away. (He stays on his end of the couch). 

“I just…don’t really know that much about where you came from or your past. You’re a chemist, you like your coffee black, you like making fun of old philosophers, you’re super sweet, you come here at least twice a week after work, you like using the ladder to climb to the higher bookshelves like a cute explorer, etcetera etcetera. I know all that. But what about you, you know? Real stuff, not just pop trivia.” 

Bakugou hesitates, hands suddenly itching to be shoved into his pockets. 

You’re allowed to let him know you. 

“There’s not much to know.” He shrugs noncommittally, and it’s not a lie. But it does feel like a cop out. 

“Hey,” Kirishima says, calling Bakugou’s gaze to be magnetized to his own. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, of course. I’d just like to know, if you’d like to share. Whenever you want.” 

Then he smiles something warm like apples and cinnamon, so much comfort bought with the simple curve of his lips. He goes back to his phone, rubbing his legs a little on Bakugou’s lap and leaving no pressure behind. Fuck .

Kirishima is so fucking sweet, like caramel and brown sugar. He doesn’t push or shove, doesn’t take more than what Bakugou wants to give, doesn’t make him feel like he needs to cough up his soul for approval. It’s always been and always will be nothing but kindness proffered out like penny candy. And the boy does it with ease , as if it means nothing. 

Bakugou has the strangest urge to spill out the contents of his heart and then offer up everything behind his ribcage, present it like a cat that just caught a mouse. For you , he wants to say, asking for more and more of that unlimited warmth. Here’s my life, my love, me. Am I allowed to crave your pride?

Maybe I should get a therapist, Bakugou thinks. 

“I didn’t always live here,” Bakugo starts, hesitation in every syllable he speaks. Kirishima looks up, surprised, but he’s Kirishima. He simply smiles, nodding at him to continue. 

“I lived in a shitty town, named Shizuka. Had like two hundred people, maybe? Probably less than that.” Kirishima whistles lowly, making Bakugou snort out a laugh. 

“That’s definitely a difference from Urusai.” He laughs, Bakugou rolling his eyes at how much he’d wondered about that very sentence. 

“You’re telling me.” He says. “I didn’t realize how much of a goddamn difference it was. I moved here two months ago, since I got my job at the lab. I didn’t really like anyone in my old town since it was all fucking old people and homophobes so I was fucking glad to say good riddance to that dusthole.” Kirishima laughs softly, phone forgotten as he focuses on Bakugou. Even in the most unromantic of contexts, Bakugou’s so pleased to be the absolute center of his attention. 

“You must miss the place a little, though, don’t you?” Kirishima asks. Bakugou can’t even hesitate before he nods. 

“I do,” He confides. “Not the people or anything, my parents weren't super great. But the quiet . When I first got here I went outta my fucking mind with how goddamn loud the city is. It was so terrible, I almost packed my bags and left for the mountains to get away from all the shitty people.” 

“M’glad you didn’t.” Kirishima remarks. Bakugou can barely control the small smile that gets pointed at the other. 

“I’m glad, too.” He agrees easily. “The reason why I stumbled in here in the first place was because I was close to a damn near panic attack ‘cause of all the stimulation. But then I burst in like a madman and it was finally fucking quiet. Not quiet like Shizuka but quiet like..” He fails to find the words, tongue trying to form the proper description. 

“Quiet like a safe haven.” Kirishima finishes for him. He nods, safe haven feeling right to label the bookstore. “That’s the same way I feel, man. It’s why I love the place so much. It’s a mini safe haven!” 

“Nothing ‘mini’ about it.” 

“That’s what she said.” 

“Nevermind, character backstory just got locked again.” Kirishima laughs through a ‘noo!’, leaning forward to shove at Bakugou’s shoulder. 

“The opportunity presented itself to me, bro!” 

“The opportunity to get my foot up your ass is gonna present itself to you real soon.” 

Kirishima winks exaggeratedly. “You promise?” 

Bakugou swears at him, taking his turn to whack him on the shoulder as Kirishima rushes to tag on a verbal /j. 

He shakes his head, playfully tch-ing. “You’re more irritating than Urusai when I first came here, goddamn.” 

“That’s so brutal.” 

“That’s what you get.” Kirishima snorts, rolling his eyes goodheartedly. 

“But you love me anyways!” he jokes, elbowing Bakugou. And something fills his throat, something familiar and strange in the same turn. It’s tremulous but bold in his chest, and it feels an awful like the homesickness he felt all those months ago. But instead, the longing isn’t for home. It’s for Kirishima to be his home. To be able to fully say ‘yes, I do love you’ eventually. 

Uraraka’s voice echoes through his head again. 

You’re allowed to let him in. 

“I came back here, didn’t I? Was for a reason.” Bakugou admits, spilling out the words like marbles from a chalice. “And it sure as hell wasn’t for the diabetic coffee.” 

Kirishima laughs, but there’s red painting his cheeks. Bakugou knows what he said didn’t go unnoticed, as the pleased grin on the redhead’s face says it all. 

There’s a certain shyness tinging his grin, like he’s somehow shocked at the admittance. As if Bakugou saying ‘I’m here, just for you’ is something that takes him aback. And it’s so saccharine, so secret and so sure but in the same breath no way he’s actually surprised. 

Bakugou has literally voluntarily come to the guy’s bookstore tri-weekly for months now. He cuddles with him on their designated couch. Bakugou regularly buys him various Crimson Riot merch and he's retouched Kirishima's roots like four times now. He spends his Sundays cataloguing and organizing new books with Kirishima until sundown and after. He’s just fucking opened up, which he rarely does. 

If that’s not a sign he has no fucking clue what is. 

“I’m really, really glad that you stumbled into here, Bakugou.” Kirishima’s voice is soft, eyes softer. 

“Call me Katsuki.” His voice is gruff, but he can’t deny the fact that his eyes are most likely just as sweetly subdued. “I want you to.” And with the look that Kirishima gives him, you would think Bakugou presented him with a field of vermillion flowers. He makes a mental note to actually do that eventually. 

“Call me Eijirou, then.” There is no stopping nor hiding Bakugou’s answering smile. 

“Eijirou.” The name feels perfect in his mouth, syllables sweet and sure. 

“Katsuki.” His name sounds even better coming from the redhead, oh lord. 

“Eijirou.”

“Katsuki.” 

“Ei-ji-rou.” 

“Katsuki!” And he just fucking can’t. He can’t handle how his given name sounds in Kirishima— Eijirou’s voice. Especially not filled with so much happiness, with so much saccharine endearment. He buries his head into Eijirou’s shoulder, burrowing into the warmth to hide the matching warmth on his own face.  

“Screw you.” He murmurs, relishing in the goosebumps that sprout over Eijirou’s skin. And he’s practically confessed at this point, there’s no point in holding back now. Bakugou doesn’t think he even can, anyways. He trails his fingers over the other’s arm, lightly leaving paths of lingering touch along the tanned skin. 

“Can’t handle it, Katsuki?” His voice wavers under the blonde’s touch, but his tone is still teasing. 

“I can handle anything, Eijirou. ” Bakugou pops his head back up to narrow his eyes at him. 

He may or may not have miscalculated, because they’re suddenly very close, very quickly. 

They’re not even an inch apart, proximity close enough to breathe and have the other’s eyelashes flutter. Bakugou’s acutely aware of everything right now, from the ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump of his heartbeat to the light cerise brushing over Eijirou’s nose and across his cheeks. 

It should have him shrieking and shouting and jumping off a cliff, and he sure feels like he’s close to it any second now. But instead, molasses fills his veins with a headiness Bakugou has never felt before. Because it’s him. It’s Eijirou. 

Slowly, softly, the redhead turns his head ever so slightly and places the lightest of kisses onto Bakugou’s cheek. It’s so fucking tender it makes his head spin, but the petal push of his lips is unmistakable and sure. 

Bakugou’s breath stutters in his throat, eyes unconsciously fluttering closed as he lingers for a moment, two, before pulling away with the same molasses speed. 

This is the real moment Bakugou dies. 

Because at that, at the sight of Eijirou looking at him with that smile and saying his name in his voice and kissing him so sweetly. At that, all floodgates are put to rest and promptly drowned with the sea of affection that's released, pent up from all those months of feeling.

He opens his eyes to Eijirou looking at him oh-so-sweetly, moonlight and stardust ceaselessly pouring from amaranth. 

He's suddenly reminded of his mother declaring  to him ' eyes are the windows to the soul'. If that's true, Eijirou's eyes are telling him that his soul is nothing but absolutely enamored with Bakugou's.

He's never seen such pure adoration like this before, so raw and so pure and in such bountiful amounts. There is no doubt in his mind that his own expression mirrors the same. 

"Eiji," he murmurs, begins, can't even finish because the honey his voice has turned into conveys enough. Eijirou melts, ducking his head to hide his silly little smile and Bakugou's silly little heart can't stop beating in the rhythm of his silly boy's name.

He raises his hand, cupping smooth skin in his palm. Eijirou, ever sweet, ever soft, leans into his touch with a little sigh and the fluttering of his eyelids.

Katsuki looks at him and thinks that he's been ruined, now. He's been ruined, because no other sight will ever be as beautiful as the sight of Kirishima Eijirou kissing his palm. What else, in this world or beyond, could ever compare?

Absolutely fucking nothing, he decides. 

"You keep getting me distracted I'll never get to kiss you." He teases, biting his lip hard to contain his laugh when Eijirou's head pops up.

"I'm literally laying in your hand right now. You could snap my neck and I wouldn't move a muscle." 

Bakugou looks at him, incredulous. "Yeah, you wouldn't move a muscle because you'd be fucking dead. "

"Why are we talking about logistics right now when we could be having our super awesome, super romantic, super cute first kiss." Bakugou laughs, shaking his head. The automatic responding curve of Eijirou's smile will echo in his heart forever.

He leans forward, Eijirou meets him halfway. And for them, there's no other way to be.

Katsuki kisses Eijirou and it feels like safety. The press of the redhead's lips feel like comfort. The soft curve of his vermillion feels like solace. The cotton brush of his cupid's bow feels like summer rain.

Katsuki kisses Eijirou, and it feels like home.

Katsuki walks into the bookstore for what seems like the millionth time and certainly isn't the last. He hasn't bothered changing out of his lab coat, since Eijirou loves seeing him in it and he loves seeing Eijirou pleased.

The redhead himself is on a sliding ladder on the farthest side of the store, sliding books into their places and plucking other novels off of the shelves. Katsuki watches him, unable to resist witnessing the miracle that is Eijirou existing in the same life as him. The flex of tan forearms and tattooed biceps doesn't hurt to look at, either.

He walks to their regular green couch, stretching as he places their lunch on the newly installed coffee table conveniently stationed so that they no longer have to rest their plates on the floor. 

"Kats!" Eijirou calls, striding over with a growing grin. Bakugou's own smile can't help but blossom in response. 

He sweeps Katsuki into an encompassing hug, rocking him back and forth as if they haven't seen each other in ages when it's really been maybe nine hours since the morning, where they woke up cuddled in the middle of their bed.

Katsuki buries his face into his lover's neck as if it's been an eternity, because it has been.

"Oh my goodness," Eijirou gasps. "My smart, sexy, chemist boyfriend, in his lab coat ? Today is a blessing." Katsuki rolls his eyes, unmistakably endeared. 

"You should be happier about the food, not me wearing my damn coat." He is not going to admit how pleased he is that his plan worked. He is not. (By the twinkle in Eijirou's eye, he already knows.)

He hums, running his hands down Katsuki's arms and lacing their fingers together. "Both are good." He leans forward, pressing hello and I love you both into Katsuki's lips. Hi and I love you too are given just as easily.

Eijirou gasps, freeing one of his hands to snap. "Food and the lab coat? These spy methods are getting too good, I swear!" Katsuki smirks, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. 

"Yeah, actually. My mission's been a success." 

"So you did come here to steal all my bookstore secrets!" Eijirou says, exaggerated betrayal all over his face. Katsuki shakes his head, smirk pressing against Eijirou's cheek to transform into a kiss. 

"Nah. I came to steal your heart, Red." Eijirou blinks, before his warm blush melts into that lovely smile.

"In that case, mission super successful, Blasty." 

They can't help but grin, pressing their glowing smiles together to form supernovas and sunrises, combined joy growing so wide not even the bookstore they were standing in could contain it all as they kissed.

There, in that moment, Katsuki and Eijirou are home.