Kirishima is always on time to his tutoring appointments because he knows what’s good for him, knows Bakugou wouldn’t let him in if he were even a minute late (or at least that’s what Bakugou has always claimed, and Kirishima didn’t care to burden him with the proof).

Kirishima is tapping his pencil against his chin, in what Bakugou can only hope is a gesture of thought - leisurely so, as though he has all the time in the world to squat in Bakugou’s room and complete his schoolwork.

Despite his own bedtime, Bakugou never makes a single objection to the time he takes.

The out-time for their sessions is never truly set, Aizawa’s curfew is never observed, and as a consequence, they’ve fallen asleep in each other’s rooms more than a handful of times, drooling over graphite and waking up with neck aches. But that’s beside the point.

There should at least be *some* sense of urgency, Bakugou thinks, behind Kirishima’s squinted, somehow confused yet focused, eyes;

it’s Kirishima’s nonchalant lethargy - when Bakugou *knows* Kirishima could be applying himself better, that sometimes prompts Bakugou to swat him with whatever’s nearby…not necessarily the urge to get this whole hanging out thing over and done with.

Kirishima’s been working on the same problem for…well, Bakugou doesn’t know, he doesn’t keep time on a leash when he’s around Kirishima. It’s been longer than he’s spent on the other problems, though.

And now the doofus is chewing on the aforementioned pencil, and Bakugou swears to god if he has to replace *another* pencil before they’re even halfway fucking finished with just math –

He swats it out of his hand, the metal band securing the eraser to the wood clinking against his teeth as it falls to the desk.

“Dude, what-” Kirishima shakes his head. “Oh shit.” He wipes the stray drool from the corner of his mouth after spotting the moisture on the surface of the desk.

“The fucking lights are on,” Bakugou grumbles, invading his space, pointedly looking back and forth between his eyes. “Is anyone home?”

Kirishima grins with one side of his mouth. “Sorry,” He says, not sounding so, only sounding caught. “Can you maybe help me with this one?”

“You mean like I did with the other four?”

He’s smiling fully now. “Yeah.”

Bakugou’s got an archive of jibes and insults, even some fresh ones he’s thought of in the past few days he wouldn’t mind trying, but he sees the tiredness in Kirishima’s eyes, (despite how he’s trying to disguise it with million-watt grins) and cuts him some slack instead.

He keeps his expression neutral. “Where are you stuck?”

Kirishima’s wiping the end of his pencil off on his shirt. “Well I thought I solved it, but the answer didn’t make sense, and then I realized I forgot a rule somewhere in the middle, and I couldn’t remember what I forgot.”

His voice sounds kinda sleepy, and Bakugou smiles almost imperceptibly. He quickly disguises it with a cough. “You really do have hair-for-brains,” He mumbles, leaning in to inspect the error. He looks over his work, scoffs, and then begins erasing.

“You did most of it right, but you forgot the most important rule,” Bakugou explains softly, swiping away eraser shavings. “Lucky for you, it was towards the end of the problem.”

Bakugou straightens his spine, immediately notices their proximity had increased, and stumbles over the explanation of the rule Kirishima had overlooked.

Kirishima smacks his own forehead, looking genuinely annoyed with himself, and grouses, “Of course!”

Bakugou resists the urge to reassure him and simply watches as he gets to work.

He notices the end of Kirishima’s tongue poking out of his mouth, notices the small tip of his canine press into it as his tiny eyebrows furrow in concentration.

After a couple of minutes he sits up, levels his writing a discerning look, and then decidedly swipes the paper toward Bakugou, plopping his head into his folded arms over the desk in the same motion.

Ten seconds elapse before Bakugou speaks, “It’s right.”

“Really?” Kirishima asks, genuinely asking, and faces him.

“Yeah.” He scoots the paper back over. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Kirishima smiles again, the kind of smile that Bakugou thinks must be the extent of his variety of smiles, thinks there’s nowhere further expanse for that grin to reach.

He’s smiling *at him*, and his eyes are sparkling, and if Bakugou had seen him in that second alone instead of the unmarked seconds prior, he wouldn’t have guessed he’s tired.

Kirishima bites his own lip, bashfully and just for a second, before turning back to his paper, replying “I won’t,” and picking up his pencil with renewed vigor.

Bakugou’s heart squeezes.

Kirishima’s already writing when Bakugou takes ahold of their entire atmosphere and shatters it. “Holy fucking shit,” He says, and there’s not really a lilt to it, it’s just how Bakugou usually sounds. “I have a crush on you.”

Kirishima squeaks, hardens his hand, breaks his bite mark-ridden pencil. “You *what?*”

“I fucking-” He sits up stark straight in his chair and grabs Kirishima’s face in his hands, perhaps with too much force.

He’s definitely glaring with what an outsider might perceive as hate (but what definitely isn’t) as he looks on, frantically, between Kirishima’s impossibly wide eyes. His heart – the damn traitor – squeezes again. “I fucking like you.”

Now he sounds angry – there’s that trademark, intimidating and gravelly quality to his tone.

Kirishima, face still held with cheeks squished right in between two hands that have sought enough destruction for an entire lifetime, blanches. “You sure?”

Bakugou lets go of him all at once, and Kirishima has to put an arm forward to prevent himself from falling face-first into his lap.

“Do I joke about that sort of shit?” He crosses his arms as Kirishima collects himself. “I’ve been wondering what’s up with you for a long time – or rather, what it is about you-” He’s started grumbling, trailing off. “And then just now, when you – you know what? Fuck-!"

-this is fucking stupid.” He pushes his chair back almost violently, stands up, and throws himself front-first onto his bed. “I said what I said.”

Half a minute passes and the silence guiding it feels unwarranted. Bakugou rolls over and looks toward Kirishima, face blank, save for a tiny blush atop his cheekbones.

Kirishima’s just staring at him, and he’s visibly red.

Bakugou rolls his eyes. “If you’ve got nothing to say to that, either finish your homework or get out.”

It was as though someone had slammed a defibrillator onto Kirishima’s chest when he jolted and barked out, “No, I-! No,” He stands up, walks over (albeit wobbly so), and sits on the edge of Bakugou’s bed. Bakugou scoots. “I, uh, I like you, too.” He’s looking down at his hands.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not!” Kirishima retorts, suddenly indignant, suddenly facing him.

“You didn’t say anything just now.”

“Because-” He’s starting to look maybe even annoyed now, and he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Because that’s not how people confess to people!”

“The fuck?” Bakugou props himself up on one elbow. “Why not?”

“You can’t just, like-” Kirishima’s eyes dart around the room, as though he’ll find his words written out somewhere on the walls. “You can’t just slap me in the face with your feelings in the middle of a math lesson.”

“Again,” He’s squinting. “Why not?”

“Because it caught me off guard, Bakugou!”

“What, are you mad?”

“No,” He responded immediately, sighing. “I’m not mad at all – that’s just – wow. That’s a lot all at once. Why now?”

“Because I just realized it,” He stated simply, now propping himself up on both elbows.

“You just realized it,” Kirishima repeated, noticeably struggling to comprehend the situation. “And you just…said it to me?”

“What did you expect me to do?” Bakugou sits up all the way, crossing his legs. “Harbor some stupid crush? Gaze at you longingly while you’re not looking, just wondering how you feel? Fuck that shit,” His tone grows angrier as he goes on. “Gonna nip this shit in the bud.”

Kirishima is strangely focused on one corner of the room. “I mean,” He starts. “That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“What?”

“What you said about…just keeping it to yourself. Letting it get worse, I guess. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

Now Bakugou’s blushing, grateful Kirishima’s not looking at him. “S’not very manly,” He quips.

“What was I supposed to do? *Tell* you?” Kirishima looks at him now, but he still looks and sounds embarrassed. “I thought you would’ve killed me. Like, *actually* killed me.”

“Dumbass,” Bakugou grumbles, and with a shot of boldness, reaches out and grabs his hand. “I might’ve.”

“See?!” Kirishima’s smiling again, grasping his hand back, and Bakugou loves to see it. Then, he goes uncharacteristically quiet. “What you said about ‘nipping it in the bud’…would you consider doing the opposite?”

“Hah?”

“Like, instead of nipping it, maybe…letting it grow?” Kirishima bit his lip again slightly, damn him. “I might be willing to entertain you.”

A beat passes – Bakugou’s hand begins sweating and his face flushes as the weight of Kirishima’s words settle in his chest. He averts his eyes when he squeezes his hand and says, “Whatever, shitty hair.”