Chapter Text
The first time Kirishima sees him is on a billboard at the busiest intersection in Shibuya, the arrogantly cocked chin contrasting curiously with his blank, uncaring expression. Straw blond bangs are swept to the side away from his forehead, obviously gelled, but he makes it seem effortless, as if he woke up that way. His celestial nose, high cheekbones, and cutting jawline look as if they were brought to life from a sculpture, painstakingly chiseled by one of those big-shot Italian guys Kirishima can never remember the names of. And his skin, as pale and smooth as milk, stark against the fierce red of his eyes and the black shirt that opens to his chest...
Honestly, it’s fairly normal, as far as billboard advertisements go. A gorgeous guy paired with an equally gorgeous bottle of perfume, the tone of it evocative and all that.
But something about him punches Kirishima straight in the gut, leaving him breathless and gaping in the middle of the road. Suspended there as a sea of his fellow pedestrians part around him.
His classmates call his name in alarm and double back to drag him over to the sidewalk. Kirishima tears himself out of the blond man’s spell, apologizing sheepishly, and when he points up at that picture spanning across the building, larger than life, the others tell him that’s one of the most famous actors in Japan. Bakugou Katsuki.
Kirishima feels powerless. He’s just a boring old university student, struggling to balance his classes and part-time job and sad social life. What right does he have to yearn for an unreachable star?
Then again, Kirishima’s never been the best when it comes to impulse control.
When he gets home, he leaves all of his stuff on the floor, throws open his laptop, and spends all night looking up news articles about Bakugou Katsuki. (Yes, it's sad, he knows, especially because he has approximately three assignments due the next day.)
The guy has zero romantic scandals, though there are rumours about his not-so-great temper. Never appears on variety shows, and is apparently childhood friends with another rising star, Midoriya Izuku, who the media has dubbed his ‘perfect rival.’ Same age as Kirishima and voted number three for most dateable man of Actors & Idols Weekly, citing reasons like “his mysteriousness is hot,” “isn’t one of those boring flower boys,” “seems the type to be cold to everyone but his girlfriend.”
And, most importantly, he’s nicknamed “The Explosive Talent” for his ‘genius’ acting skills.
Kirishima binge-watches two of his dramas in the span of half a week. The man is even more captivating when he’s moving and talking, his face so expressive Kirishima immediately understands where the explosive part of his nickname comes from. In the first drama, he acts as a half-unhinged serial murderer and it’s convincing enough that Kirishima almost talks himself into abandoning his crush. Almost being the key word. Unfortunately, his thirst wins out.
In the next one, Bakugou plays a brilliant detective who nearly loses himself as he chases down an elusive killer in the name of justice, and it’s the passion, the desperation, the need for victory emanating from his every pore that cement Kirishima’s pathetic, fluttery feelings. Everyone else pales in comparison. Everyone’s acting is bland, flavourless alongside Bakugou.
Kirishima brings him up one day as he and Kaminari are eating together in the campus cafeteria. Super casual, like, oh-I-saw-this-guy-on-TV-once and not I’ve-watched-literally-every-single-interview-he’s-ever-even-been-in-the-background-of-and-wouldn’t-mind-having-his-babies.
“Oh, him,” Kaminari says. “Eh, he’s popular lately, I guess. Don’t see what all the hype’s about.”
Kirishima feels lightheaded. “You—you don’t see the hype—” he splutters, fisting his dispensable chopsticks. One of them makes a worrying snapping sound, but ain't nobody got time to worry about that. “He’s incredible, dude.”
Kaminari just eyes him. Okay, well there goes Kirishima’s little act of indifference, great. “Yeah, I mean...have you seen the one where he’s a psycho killer? I dunno, man, not my thing.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re only into chick flicks,” Kirishima scoffs, totally not salty at all. “I bet Ashido would get me.”
“Hey!”
Kirishima never forgets about Bakugou, no matter how busy he gets. In between back-to-back shifts during Christmas week and all-nighters filled with nodding off and finishing up his shoddily put-together papers, he squeezes in an hour of Bakugou’s newest movie or re-watches a clip of his favourite interview.
The first time Bakugou is involved in a romantic scandal, Kirishima gives up entirely on the stack of homework lying on his desk, curls up in bed, and broods for the rest of the weekend. He knows perfectly well he’s being stupid, but he can’t help it. The fact that he can somewhat relate to those psycho fans who cry and throw tantrums when their favourite celebrity gets married should've been his first clue that was losing it. He's dragged back into the real world only after Kaminari and Ashido happen to come by one day and discover him moping around because of 'some dumb actor'. They kick his ass back into gear, as true friends do.
After that, Kirishima’s not sure if it’s self-preservation instincts forcing him to subconsciously distance himself from his feelings, or if he just grows out of them. But eventually, Bakugou becomes less of someone he scours the internet for every piece of information for, and more of the occasional luxury. Until he releases a new work, of course, at which point Kirishima finds himself getting sucked into that hole again before snapping out of it and—all right, fine, so it’s a bit of a cycle. A work in progress, maybe. He’s man enough to admit that.
Before he knows it, the last finals season of Kirishima’s educational career is approaching its end. Then it’s time for the job hunt, weeks and weeks of interviews that gradually get easier, his suit becoming a second skin. He finds a position on the sales team of a mid-sized company and starts his first day on a nice spring morning. And in the blink of an eye, half a decade flies by.
Kirishima’s now the leader of a small team in the same company. He hangs out with his friends once every week or two and spends probably too many of his nights socializing for work, but that’s what working in sales is like, so it’s fine. He doesn’t have any hobbies outside of going to the gym and he hasn’t dated anyone in a good few years, so he doesn't have anything better to do, anyway.
The one part of his schedule that remains constant is the two hours before bedtime, which are his sacred, private relaxation period. He usually squeezes in a sports match or two—he’s been getting into watching the national volleyball team lately—or sometimes, if Bakugou’s appearing in something, he’ll go with that. Secretly, he feels proud for being a fan since the beginning, when Bakugou was only starting on his second drama. The blond has grown too, from a beautiful boy to a man who exudes raw masculinity and sexiness just by sitting there and breathing. Kirishima finds himself caught sometimes, even to this day.
He should probably be weirded out about feeling so close to a dude he’s never met...but as cringey as it is, Bakugou has become important to him, not only as a source of entertainment, but as someone who’s had a presence in his life for a long time. An oasis, sort of. Kirishima will always have Bakugou to fall back on after a hard day and that’s a comfort, a part of himself no one knows about.
“Hey, Ei-chan! Another late night, huh?”
Kirishima smiles sheepishly as he brushes aside the doorway curtain that always gets caught in his spikes. “Yeah, overtime again. We’ve been rushing to fill this big order lately.”
The owner of the small donburi diner whistles, his gray eyebrows waggling. “Becoming a bigshot businessman, huh, our boy?”
“Geez, stop,” Kirishima chuckles, settling into an empty seat by the sushi bar. “A busy smallshot, more like.”
“Sure, sure. The usual for you tonight?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
As the older man bustles away behind the counter, Kirishima takes a cursory glance around the tiny restaurant. Apart from him, there are only a couple other tired-looking salarymen and the lone hooded figure who’s always sat in the corner. Not that Kirishima expected many people to be here half an hour before midnight.
He takes his phone out and scrolls through his Twitter feed while he waits for the food, snorting at Kaminari’s sob-tweets about the new girl at work and how she’s the cutest, most rock n’ roll chick he’s ever met but also how she won’t give him the time of day unless he’s sending her memes. Then he finds a post from Bakugou’s management company teasing about his new project. Kirishima’s personal theory after collecting all the hints they’ve been dropping and trying to piece them together, is that it’s going to be some kind of action hero drama. He’s, like, at least fifty-eight percent sure.
“Heyo, here’s your gyudon. Enjoy, son.”
“Thanks.”
The aroma of the beef wafts up to him, making his stomach growl, and he digs in, scarfing down the rice and meat. He has to hold back a groan from how good it is. Sometimes when the company’s really busy, Kirishima doesn’t get to eat lunch, and today was one of those days. He’s been starving for over twelve hours.
He eats too quickly and has to wash down the meal with a steaming cup of sencha tea, perfect for the weather. It’s a cold winter in Tokyo this year, snow still coming down in droves even in early March, mountains of it on the sidewalks where it was shoveled away from the roads. Every time someone opens the door, a freezing draft blows in, bringing with it snowflakes that quickly melt on the entrance mat. Kirishima sits back in his seat for a bit, fighting off the food coma creeping over him. The heating vent directly above blows warmth over him.
“Hey, Ei-chan,” the owner shakes Kirishima’s shoulder. He jolts up in his seat. “Sorry, but we’re closing in five minutes.”
“Oh, crap!” Kirishima shoots to his feet, pulling his coat on and fumbling for some cash. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
The man laughs, taking the proffered bills. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. But you should get going, the last train’s gonna be leaving soon.”
Kirishima checks his watch. “Dammit, I’m gonna run then. Thanks for the awesome food!”
“Anytime.”
Kirishima wraps his scarf around the lower half of his face and leaves the restaurant with a final wave, shivering as the door closes behind him. The sky is gray, the way it gets at night when snow’s falling. The white blanketing everything, the ground, street lights, the parked cars, makes the roads soft and quiet. Kirishima huffs out a breath and begins the trek towards the train station.
As he’s walking, eyes on the ground to avoid stepping into a pile of snow and ruining his work shoes, he spots something black and square half-buried in the sidewalk, rapidly getting covered in white. When he gets closer, he realizes it’s a wallet and quickly picks it up. It looks relatively new, no identifying cards inside, only a bit of cash, a transit card, and what looks like the entry pass to a commercial building. Kirishima whips around, looking for anyone who might be the owner. There's a small figure in the distance walking towards the opposite direction.
“Wait!” Kirishima calls, taking off at a sprint towards the stranger. “Excuse me! Please wait!”
The figure doesn’t appear to hear him. Oddly enough, it seems to be walking even faster, like it’s trying to get away. Kirishima grits his teeth and pumps his legs harder, praying he doesn’t slip on a patch of ice and break his neck.
“Wait!” he yells again as he approaches. “I think you dropped your wallet!”
The figure stops in its tracks. Kirishima sighs in relief and jogs the rest of the way, breaths puffing in clouds as he reaches the man. But the man doesn’t turn to face him, instead holding an arm out behind him, hand open. Kirishima’s eyebrows shoot up, incredulous but amused.
“Um.” He clears his throat. “Do you wanna, like, look at the wallet to make sure it’s yours?”
“Black. Bifold. Cash and two cards,” the man says, his voice low and gruff.
“Oh. I guess it is.” Kirishima places the wallet in his gloved palm. The hand closes around it, retracting, and opens the wallet for a brief check inside. Then he stuffs it in his pocket.
They stand there in silence for a moment, before the man mutters, “Thanks.”
Kirishima doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but it’s such a weird situation that he can’t help letting out a tiny chuckle.
“The fuck you laughing at,” the guy snaps, shoulders rising towards his ears, which only makes Kirishima laugh harder.
“Nothing, nothing! It’s just not every day I have to sprint full-speed at someone ‘cause they’re running away from me when I’m, y’know, trying to give them back their wallet,” Kirishima laughs again. “And then I talk to their back the whole time. I don’t bite, dude.”
The man clicks his tongue loudly, then sighs, long and pained like Kirishima’s forcing him to lick his shoe or something. His left foot shifts first, followed by his right, and he slowly turns to face the redhead.
Even through the fluff of snow falling in between them, even in the dimness of the streetlights with the guy’s humongous hood shadowing his features, Kirishima knows him. He would recognize that face anywhere. His heart stops in his chest.
“Thanks for picking up my wallet,” the man says flatly, chin tilted up haughtily like the first time Kirishima saw him, almost ten years ago on that billboard. “Shithead,” he adds.
Kirishima barely hears him. Standing here on the sidewalk, five feet away from him and bundled in a huge, poofy jacket and the loosest jeans Kirishima has ever seen, Bakugou Katsuki looks like a human being instead of the god Kirishima built him up to be in his mind. He's tall, maybe an inch or two taller than Kirishima. His face is just as gorgeous in person, an ethereal beauty glowing from within (Kirishima’s inner Kaminari hacks and vomits a little).
But there’s more to him, somehow. More life. More...anger? And he’s crass as hell too, did he just call Kirishima a shithead after he picked up his wallet for him?
Bakugou rolls his eyes. “How long’re you gonna stare for? You need an autograph or something?”
Kirishima’s first reaction is to fall to his knees in tears and beg for one. He'd also die for a selfie together, while they're at it. His second reaction is indignation, because damn, this guy sure has an ego and Kirishima’s always known he could be pretty terse in interviews but this is a whole new level. And Kirishima’s not sure he’s about that life.
So what he actually ends up doing is shrugging and saying with a grin, “Sorry, thought you looked like someone I knew. Well, I’m gonna be on my way then. See ya.”
He doesn’t wait to check Bakugou’s expression, instead marching his stiff arms and legs past the love of his life, down the road, into the train station, and on to the train to squish himself into a crowd of other late-nighters.
It’s not until he gets back inside his apartment that he falls to his knees and lets out an ear-splitting wail, rolling around on the living room floor and pulling at his hair with his hands.
“AAaAAaAHHHHhhhhHHH BAKUGOU KATSUKIIII—” he howls, kicking his legs in the air. “AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I DIDN’T GET HIS AUTOGRAPH AHHHHHHHHHH—”
His neighbour pounds against the wall and Kirishima cuts off his grieving with a final, dry sob, sprawling over the floor.
He’s so embarrassed he doesn’t tell Ashido or Kaminari.
To say Kirishima forgets about the incident would be a lie. A really big one. So big, in fact, that if he were to say it out loud, he’s sure he’d get struck by lightning.
But that doesn’t change how busy he is at work, cleaning up messes made by his cute, inexperienced subordinates, trapped in a whirlwind of finishing his own tasks and making sure everything runs smoothly as they fulfill an order for one of their most important clients. Yup, that's definitely why he hasn't been back to the donburi place. Totally not because he's been killing himself over a certain interaction.
It takes a week before Kirishima finally stops cringing at himself enough to drag his heavy body back to his favourite restaurant. The first couple days, he wanted to rush back and set up camp there, just to see if he could get one more chance to meet His Idol. But he couldn't do it.
Now, when he passes by the spot he and Bakugou talked at, he stops for a moment, staring and getting lost in the what ifs. Coincidentally enough, it’s been snowing again the past couple days, which sure doesn’t help the sad memory playing over and over in his mind (accompanied by equally sad background music). But his stomach growls, so he sighs and continues shuffling down the street.
“Ei-chan!” the owner exclaims when he comes through the doors. “It’s been a while, huh? You look a little tired, have you been eating properly?”
“Ah...not really?” Kirishima admits with an awkward laugh. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You young people need to take better care of yourselves! I’ll make you some extra veggies, don’t worry.”
“Aww, thanks, I appreciate it.”
Kirishima settles down into his usual spot, fishing out his phone to see what tweets Kaminari has posted for the day. He’s barely started scrolling when the chair across from his is yanked out and someone slams themselves into the seat. Kirishima looks up in alarm.
It’s Bakugou.
Kirishima drops his phone. It bounces off his lap and lands on the wooden floor with a hollow thunk.
Bakugou looks at the phone, then at him, then down at the phone again. “You just gonna leave that there, idiot?” he grunts.
“Uh—” Kirishima squeaks. He bends down to pick it up but goes too fast and smacks his head against the edge of the table. “Ow!” His hand goes to the sore spot and his face burns as he straightens back up, resting his phone to the side. Bakugou’s staring at him, one corner of his mouth quirked up in a mocking smirk.
Fuck, that’s so damn hot. Maybe Kirishima needs to see a therapist.
He swallows and taps his fingers on the table. “So, uh...what’re you doing here? Lost your wallet again?”
Bakugou’s smirk immediately gives way for a fearsome scowl, his eyebrows scrunching up. “No, fuckmunch. I’m here to pay back the favour. I don’t like owing people shit.”
“Oh.” Kirishima purses his lips. “Um...you don’t really need to. I would’ve picked it up for anyone.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost audible. “Whatever, I’m not here to applaud your morals. Your shitty gyudon’s on me tonight, bastard.” He slides a one thousand yen bill across the table, then stands, shoving the chair out behind him.
“W-wait, how do you know what I eat?” Kirishima blurts out, springing to his feet too. Bakugou sneers.
“You’re loud as hell, it’s hard not to know.”
He stalks away and out of the restaurant, the bell above the entrance jingling as the door swings shut behind him.
Kirishima gapes. He wants to chase after Bakugou so badly because who knows if he’ll ever see him again, but that would be way creepy. Now that Kirishima thinks about it, though, that poofy jacket of Bakugou’s does look quite familiar.
He looks down at the money left on the table, taking it in both hands and smoothing it out. Then he slides it into the compartment of his wallet where he keeps his receipts so he won’t accidentally use the bill.
Bakugou Katsuki treated him to gyudon.
Kirishima lets a dopey smile stretch across his face as he sits back, melting against the chair. When the food arrives, he takes a picture of it, extra veggies and all.
In addition to being the best place in town for donburi despite the restaurant’s tiny size and dingy atmosphere, it has now also been dubbed the ultimate “meet up with Bakugou” spot in Kirishima’s mind. He goes as often as he can, and three days later, finally makes the connection when he walks in and sees the hooded figure who’s always in the corner, out of sight, out of mind. Not so out of mind, now that he recognizes the down jacket.
Kirishima weighs his options. There are no options other than one, of course. After all, Kirishima is a man, and manly people definitely don’t allow second (okay, third) chances to slip by so easily.
He orders his gyudon at the sushi bar, quietly this time, before prancing over and setting his bowl down at the empty seat across from Bakugou.
“Hi!” he chirps, making himself at home. The blond stares at him, jaw slack.
“The fuck—” he snarls, “who said you could sit here!”
Kirishima shrugs. “Well, I figured, since we’re friends now—”
“Who in the ever-loving fuck ever said th—”
“By the way, what’s your name?” Kirishima beams, hoping Bakugou doesn’t notice the way his hands are shaking. “I’m Kirishima! Kirishima Eijirou. It’s written with the kanji for ‘cut’ and ‘island,’ and then—”
“I don’t give a shit,” Bakugou snaps, shooting out of his seat. He stomps off and leaves the restaurant without a backwards glance.
Kirishima gazes at the empty doorway in desolation. Then he looks down at his gyudon and digs in, stubbornly refusing to be upset. If Bakugou’s been coming to this restaurant so often, he definitely has his own reasons, and Kirishima’s not about to give up hope. Maybe it’s selfish and overly optimistic of him, but as pissed off as Bakugou seemed, his words didn’t hold as much venom as Kirishima would have thought. He never really gave Kirishima a real reason for why he didn’t want him around, after all.
Two days later when Kirishima sits across from him for the second time, Bakugou growls and hisses at him like an angry cat. He still leaves after a minute of cussing Kirishima out and demanding for him to sit somewhere else, but Kirishima can’t help but notice his escape wasn’t immediate this time.
On his third try, Kirishima doesn’t even give him the room to protest, promptly sliding into a story about the horrible day he had at work. Surprisingly, Bakugou listens with minimal complaint. He leaves only after a very detailed and passionate rant about how stupid Kirishima is.
The fourth time, Kirishima tells Bakugou his name again, to which the response is, as expected, “I don’t give a shit.”
“That’s fine, but I’d like to know yours.” Kirishima ups the oomph of his smile. The other man glares at him, then clicks his tongue and sits back, arms crossing over his chest.
“Uraraka,” he finally barks out.
Kirishima squints. He’s heard that name somewhere before, but he can’t place it. “Okay, Uraraka! Nice to meet you. So how come you come to this place so often? I think I see you most of the time when I’m here. And I always come late at night, which means you must eat pretty late too.”
“Are you seriously gonna fucking sit here and bother me,” Bakugou grits out, hands curling into fists on the table. “You picked up my wallet, I returned the favour, end of story. We didn’t need to fucking see each other ever again.”
Kirishima blinks a few times, his smile dropping. Maybe Bakugou is fed up for real with him. What if Kirishima's been a total asshole, bugging the poor actor after his long day of work? “I know, but...I just thought it’d be nice to have someone to eat with, y’know? I don’t have anyone else as company ‘cause I eat at this time almost every day, and I thought...well, you seem like a cool guy—” and I kind of have the biggest crush on you, “—so...but if you really hate it, I can go. It’s fine.”
He waits for some sort of reply. Bakugou doesn’t say anything, and Kirishima’s heart falls to his feet.
He picks up his bowl and makes to stand, trying not to look as pathetic as he feels. As he's about to leave, Bakugou pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Then he hooks his feet around the legs of Kirishima’s chair to yank it back under the table. Kirishima stumbles, falling back to a seat with the bowl balanced in his hands.
“Fine, I’ll let you eat here,” Bakugou growls, folding his arms across his chest and scowling hard. “This one time.”
“Really?” Kirishima lights up. Sunshine and rainbows bloom in his chest. “You mean it?”
“Don’t make me regret it, asshat.”
Kirishima thinks he might cry. “Thanks, B—Uraraka! You’re actually pretty nice, huh, even though you look so pissed off all the time.”
Bakugou bristles and straightens up. “You asking for a fight, bastard?”
Kirishima laughs, grabbing a pair of chopsticks and snapping them apart. “That’s not what I meant, bro! So, anyway, as I was saying, what’re you doing here at midnight? I guess work ends late for you too, huh? Actually, have you eaten yet? What type of donburi do you like, I’ve heard the oyako-don here is amazing too but I’ve never tried it myself, how ‘bout I treat you this time—”
“I changed my mind,” Bakugou announces. “Leave now.” But he doesn’t do anything to make Kirishima go, and he doesn’t actually look any more disgruntled than usual. Kirishima's heart flutters.
“Awww, don’t be like that, Uraraka,” he grins. “C’mon, order something. On me!”
“I paid for your goddamn gyudon because of my wallet, letting you treat me defeats the purpose.”
“Wow, look at the picture of the katsudon, it looks so goo—”
“Don’t fucking ignore me!”
“It’s for letting me eat with you!” Kirishima thrusts the menu at him. “So choose something! It’s lonely eating by myself, I don’t like it." Bakugou heaves another sigh and shoves the plastic out of his face.
“Katsu curry,” he grumbles. “Extra spicy.”
Kirishima smiles so hard he needs to dig his teeth into his lip to keep himself from looking deranged. “Gotcha!” He hops over to the sushi bar to place the order before flopping back across from Bakugou, taking a minute to discreetly admire the man.
“The fuck you grinning at,” Bakugou snarks without looking up from his phone.
“Oh, nothing," Kirishima sings. He knocks his knuckles against the table, tapping out a tune that's been stuck in his mind all day. He's halfway through it before realizing it's the opening song of one of Bakugou's dramas, oh god, he's such a creep. Bakugou glares at him as if he knows what Kirishima's thinking. "Uh, you know," Kirishima says quickly, "I've noticed you’re always wearing that jacket. Are you bad with the cold?”
“I ain’t bad with anything!" Bakugou snaps. “There’s just no point in being cold if I don’t have to be.”
"I guess that's true," Kirishima concedes, leaning forward and resting his chin in his palm. “So. You never answered my question.”
“Am I supposed to know which of the ten million you’re referring to.”
“How come you’re always here?”
Bakugou watches him suspiciously for a bit, his phone slowly lowering towards the table. “Why d’you care.” Kirishima holds his hands up.
“It’s just an innocent question! You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” The blond huffs, abandoning his cell and crossing his arms again.
“I live nearby.”
“Ohh.” Kirishima taps his chin. “So you get hungry after work and come here to chill for a bit before going home.” Bakugou’s lack of refusal confirms it. “That’s cool. It’s the best donburi place in town, in my opinion.”
“It isn’t bad,” Bakugou allows. He looks Kirishima up and down out of the corner of his eye. “Why’re you always here?”
“Oh?” Kirishima glows, spotting his chance. It’s going to be a beautiful friendship, he can already see it. “Are you curious about me, Uraraka? Well, you see, when I was a little boy, I had dreams of becoming a superhero but that didn’t work out obviously so I became a salesman instead, and man, I gotta say, it’s a rewarding job, especially for an extrovert like me but—”
“I didn’t fucking ask,” Bakugou deadpans.
“No need to hold back, I’m happy to tell you everything about myself!”
“Die, loser.”
When Kirishima gets home that night, he buries himself under the comforter and screams into his pillow for a good fifteen seconds. He stops to suck in a breath when he runs out of air, then carries on screaming.
He had dinner with Bakugou Katsuki. The guy on TV he’s been low-key in love with for almost a decade. A dude who acts in real, live dramas and wins awards and the whole shebang, and Kirishima didn’t even embarrass himself! Much. Hopefully.
It’s like something out of a dream, not because Bakugou’s one of the most famous actors in the country ‘cause honestly Kirishima doesn’t care about that, but because he’s admired him from afar for so long, and—all right, so he’s hot as sin in person. Kirishima hasn’t had a boyfriend in many, many years, okay, sue him for being a little thirsty.
God, he can't wait to see Bakugou again.