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The door closes soundly behind Bakugou and he sags against it. Finally.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” says a familiar voice, amused and delighted.
Bakugou pushes his mask up from his face, using it as a headband. “Kirishima?” he says, inquisitive, brows furrowing low. “You weren’t supposed to get in until later.”
It’s only a little past two in the afternoon. School days end at three.
Kirishima beams. “Today turned out to be a half day,” he says, skipping to Bakugou with his gaze on the grocery bag in clunky gloves. “It’s so close to break, some students were already out traveling with family, so the school decided to let us all go. You got the goods?”
Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Don’t say it like that,” he says pointedly, narrowing his eyes at the redhead’s big grin. “I got the toppings if that’s what you’re fucking asking.” He kicks his boots off and lets Kirishima grab his wrist, pulling him out of the genkan. Dust and rubble flake off his costume, making him wince, but Kirishima remains unbothered.
“I’m surprised you didn’t shower before you got here,” Kirishima comments like he’s just now realizing Bakugou is decked out in his hero gear (minus the large gauntlets).
Bakugou will never admit it, but he was too excited. Spending time with Kirishima after relying on messages and video calls for weeks drove him to haul ass over to his partner’s place as soon as possible. No sense in stalling, right? He halfheartedly shrugs in response to Kirishima’s statement, which earns an adorably confused expression.
Bakugou feels his ears warm, suddenly grateful his headpiece shields them. “The water pressure was shit,” he half-lies.
Kirishima lets it go, and Bakugou’s dignity is spared. “I get that. Feel free to use mine, then!” He takes the bag from the blonde’s slack grip. “I’ll go set this in the kitchen. The dough is on the counter and, man, it’s huge.”
Bakugou’s lips twitch. Fuck, Dunce Face’s pubescent teenage humor is starting to rub off of him.
Kirishima catches it and his expression flattens. “Don’t you dare. I hear enough of those jokes at work.” He tries to keep his expression stern, but it quickly morphs into his usual smile. “Go shower, already. You smell.” Then he pats his side, like how one would pet a dog’s flank, before walking to the kitchen.
Bakugou grumbles lowly but obeys.
After the fastest shower of his life, the pro hero navigates to the kitchen. Inside, Kirishima is snacking on bits of mozzarella. Two lumps of pale dough are set to the side, sitting on thin layers of flour. At least the fiend remembered how to prep.
Bakugou comes up from behind and snatches the ball, nearly squishing it under his grip. Blegh. “Oi, this is for the pizza, idiot.”
“Come on, man,” Kirishima reaches out, but the blonde moves it out of reach. “We’re gonna eat it eventually!”
“Yeah. On top of your fucking pizza, smartass.” He flicks Kirishima’s forehead, then ignores his whine while (gently) pushing him aside. Bakugou sets the wet ball aside before rolling up his sleeves. Short sleeves were preferred for cooking, but this the the cleanest top he took from his boyfriend’s top drawer. “Shut up so I can show you the best way to shape dough. You preheat the oven?”
A pause, then Kirishima’s soft ‘oops’ as the telltale beeping sounds.
Bakugou rolls his eyes. “You’re just as bad as your school brats.”
“Not brats,” Kirishima corrects halfheartedly as he contemplates the numbers on the panel. There’s another beep before his expression lights up, the oven finally raring. “Alright, now we’re cooking!” He bumps hips with Bakguou aggressively, managing to move him a couple of steps. “Now, show me.”
Bakugou gnashes his teeth at him. “Don't tell me what to do.”
Still, his instructions are surprisingly patient as he demonstrates for Kirishima: letting the dough fall off the edge with consistent rotations, until it’s the right size. He shows him how to use the heel of their palms to spread it out more. When they’re both satisfied with the shapes, Kirishima finally busts out the rest of the ingredients.
Kirishima lathers his dough with sauce while Bakugou uses it sparingly. His palm sparks against the man’s wrist when he tries to gorge on more cheese. The expression lightens immediately when the meat comes out.
“What’s’at, baby spinach?” Kirishima asks, teasing, as he haphazardly drops toppings on his pizza. “You’re such a health nut, man.”
“It’s basil, dumbass.” Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima picks up all his pepperoni and rearranges them intently. “Are you making a fucking smile out of pepperoni?”
“It’s cute! And it makes for a happier meal.”
As if. Bakugou finds that ridiculous, tells him as much, and Kirishima in turn sticks half a ball of mozzarella into his mouth. The bastard laughs like he didn’t nearly choke a rising pro hero to death. Torn on whether he should spit it out at Kirishima, Bakugou refrains, nose scrunching with irritation as he chews. The temptation to fling tomato sauce at his smug face is strong, but one of them has to be mature here.
“Spending so much time around brats has turned you into a brat,” he grouses, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Kirishima chuckles. “Loosen up a little, Bakugou,” he says, bumping their hips again but softly. It barely budges him. Bakugou’s soft ‘whatever’ is lost as Kirishima makes a pleased noise, smiling down at his pizza. “Mine’s done!”
The savory pie is just as decorated as Bakugou expected: without a speck of green. He rolls his eyes but decides to be nice today. Despite his teasing, Kirishima is as diligent about health as he is, only indulging himself in fatty foods on special occasions. His own pizza is similarly indulgent, a masterful mix of vegetables and protein, topped with three different kinds of cheese.
Gingerly, they transfer the pizzas onto flat, cooking pans (Kirishima doesn’t own a pizza stone and Bakugou forgot his) and stick them in the oven. Nudging the man’s fingers away before he accidentally turns the temperature off, Bakugou sets the timer.
“How long will they take?” Kirishima asks, crouching in front of the oven window to peer at their meals.
Bakugou grunts, “‘Bout fifteen minutes,” as he brushes his hands together. Flour and herbs burst in small plumes from his palms. “Let’s clean this stuff up.”
Their dark shirts are streaked and spotted once the ingredients are in their respective places: perishables in the fridge and non-perishables in the comically small pantry. Did all of the landlord’s budget go into the appliances? Kirishima gets a mischievous glint in his eye as he hefts the bag of flour, staring at the blonde, but his warning glare is enough to prevent a war. Kirishima cackles and concedes. Once everything is put away, they still have a handful of minutes left on the clock.
“That went by faster than I thought,“ Kirishima says with disappointment. Bakugou shrugs. He’s about to suggest browsing the man’s DVD collection when he faces the blonde with a sly look. “There’s another way we could kill time.”
Bakugou raises a brow.
Kirishima walks towards him, stopping just before their chests brush. He doesn't catch until their noses brush together, intently. Oh.
“Smooth,” his voice is a low rumble, making Kirishima’s cheeks redden pleasantly. Maybe there aren’t only half-baked ideas underneath all that dumb hair.
Bakugou clicks his tongue, closing the distance between them at last. Kirishima’s lips are warm but chapped from how often he bites them. Especially with his sharp teeth. Bakugou thought they were part of the man’s quirk when they first met. Turns out they’re just a part of Kirishima.
Just like his warm-colored skin, red eyes, and tiny scar.
The exchange has them backing up until Bakugou hits the counter rather roughly. He huffs through his nose, a haughty little sound. His arms come around Kirishima’s waist as his bottom lip is nibbled with sharp teeth. Broad palms crawl up and settle on Bakugou’s chest.
He pulls back slightly, brows furrowing. “What are you smiling about?” It’s hard to kiss his stupid face with that dumb smile.
Said-dumb smile grows bigger. “What? I can’t be happy after missing my boyfriend for so long?”
Bakugou chokes a little. It’s been a few months, but the title still sparks fireworks in his chest. Or something equally fiery. Nose scrunching, his face find Kirishima’s shoulder.
The redhead coos, making his hackles raise. “Oh ho. Is the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight shy?”
“M’not fucking shy,” Bakugou bites out.
“You so are,” he teases and—okay, that’s enough. With irritation, Bakugou lifts his head and mashes their lips together again, cutting off any more teasing. He captures Kirishima’s triumphant smile between his teeth and pulls. Kirishima shivers between his arms. That’s more like it.
Kirishima does this thing where his index rubs firm circles behind his ear, making him sag forward. It brings them closer. One hand holds around the small of Kirishima’s back, the other gripping the counter behind. It’s intense, despite the moderate kisses. His rapid pulse and the wet glide of their mouths is all he can hear.
It’s why they don’t hear the timer going off.
“Bakugou..”
For several seconds.
“Bakugou. Bakugou!”
Suddenly Kirishima breaks off and holds him back with a hand.
“Dude, the pizzas!”
Shit.
A little dazed, Kirishima scares the living shit out of him when he grabs the pans with his bare hands until Bakugou catches the jagged edges of hardening crawling up to his forearms. How has the idiot never owned some oven mittens?
“I keep ripping them—" he weakly defends. Bakugou's eye twitches— "so I figured it wasn’t worth buying a new pair after last tim—hey, stop hitting me!”
At least the pizzas are edible and delicious.