Archive of Our Own ^beta

Kirishima

Eijirou didn't need a fancy birthday. He hadn’t asked for a party or a big celebration, and after a lot of asking and prodding and negotiating - Denki and Mina had finally settled on a quaint birthday dinner, just the three of them. 

Mina had made a reservation at some high-end traditional place, one that he’d heard of more times than he could count. He’d seen the place sprawled over the industry’s social media pages so much that he could trace the inside of the restaurant himself. The industry seemed to flock towards whatever they got their eyes on for the week - but everyone had been raving about how amazing the food was for quite a while now. 

Eijirou knew how hard it was to allow anything in this industry to stick. 

Eijirou was excited to figure out what the buzz was about, or nod off at Denki’s next ravings about the industry’s latest trends by pulling this restaurant’s failure out like his personal ace. 

Either way, a win for him. 

Mina met the infamous chef, Bakugou Katsuki, at a party once. He’s friends with the Todoroki dynasty actor, Todoroki Shouto. Plus, Jirou worked part-time with Bakugou, at least when she wasn’t in the studio recording her debut album. So Jirou managed to get them a table, despite the months long reservation wait, and here they were. 

Apparently, Bakugou Katsuki was exactly the type of guy “Eijirou would trip over his feet for,” or so Mina had informed him when she’d returned from the party, only slightly tipsy. A sharp jaw, and his hands rougher still. Must be the knife cuts digging into his skin over the years. 

Kirishima knew who Bakugou was. Knew the notoriously talented chef and the restaurant he’d speararmed at the young age of twenty three.

The chef was well-known, however little Eijirou’s culinary knowledge may be. The great Bakugou Katsuki, the prodigy who could convert a pile of onions on the edge of expiry, some home grown spices, and a single rosemary leaf into a french onion that made the chef Tsunagu Hakamada throw in the towel, content with Bakugou taking over the business. 

Or so was his reputation. 

When you’re in the circles of some rich and mighty, it starts feeling like you are on the periphery of all the rich and mighty. He’d seen this restaurant splattered across every corner of social media, he’d seen famous directors and even more famous producers eat here, actors and actresses occupying these very seats. 

The place was nice. The interior was supposed to transport you back to the Edo period, looking as traditional and valued and homely without losing its lavish, its panache. Whatever that means. 

But there was something to be said for his talents, Eijirou was sure. The restaurant had earned all three of its Michelin stars within the span of six years - a feat to be achieved and one nobody else had, given the process took decades. The restaurant boomed from the moment it opened, turning the quiet corner of Yanaka into a place where more than one celebrity sighting could be expected day in and day out, all in search of this gold-stilted place. A restaurant known as the cutting edge of tradition and modernity, a menu developed keeping in mind both the smells of comfort and the thrill of adventure. 

The restaurant had an air around it - intimidating, larger than life, lording over them. Gold accents everywhere, high tops and marble tables, lush couches but also the kind of comfortable yet luxurious chairs they were sitting on at the moment. The kind of lighting that made everything look better, like a real life makeup brush filtering them into something worth getting captured by a camera.

And yet, there was some kind of homeliness, some warmth, in the food prepared with such precision. Eijirou looked over the menu, the reasonable prices - as reasonable as they could get for a restaurant that served everything a hundred percent organic and gold-star quality - registering it in the back of his mind. Reasonable enough for middle to upper-middle class, non-famous people to flock towards it, dancing in the thrill of consuming the reputation of a three Michelin and sitting a few seats away from a famous name you can’t help but know. 

“Apparently,” Mina started as they decided on what to get, no doubt thinking of the same thing. “The chef, Bakugou, subsidises the food himself by cutting the costs out of his own earnings. He’s gone on interviews to say that he doesn’t care about the money, it’s about the worth of the food.” Eijirou found himself nodding, despite himself. “He can’t sacrifice the quality of the food he makes, demanding total perfection, but he doesn’t see why a plate of carefully constructed soboro don should cost an arm and a leg. Or at least that’s what he said on Mic Weekly.” 

Okay, yeah, that was interesting. That was an angle you heard few and far between - Eijirou having been a victim of far too many movie scripts with too many stunts and storylines and not enough pay to justify it in his earlier days.

The industry - fuelled by gold-plated chairs and gold-infused caviar - was a hungering machine. A starving set of hands unvanquished no matter how many pounds of meat you shoved down its fangs. An industry that would rather chew you up and dig holes into your raw skin, juicing every last drop of blood to keep itself running, than allow for reticence. 

Than allow for rest. 

So, a mid-priced menu in the gold plated walls of this castle that Bakugou ran like his personal command was a whiplash worth noting, worth prodding further. 

He’d heard stories about him - and in this business, there’s always stories - and Bakugou was, apparently, rough around the edges. 

Eijirou knew what that was code for. 

Precision cut with his knife, with the real thing and his tongue - possibly a nightmare to work with. 

But this menu was crafted perfectly to tell a story, the walls decorated like a love letter to their culture and cuisine -and they didn’t seem to echo the kind of stories he’d heard. 

--

Bakugou

Katsuki knew who Kirishima Eijirou was. At this point, with that man’s flaming red hair and sky defying spikes, with the growing stack of movies under his belt, with that dental commercial plastering his orbit-defying grin on every intersection in the country - there wasn’t a person left in Japan who didn’t know his name.  

What Katsuki didn’t expect was for Red to walk into his restaurant on a random Friday evening. For Kyouka to greet him like old friends, leading him and his absurd hair-colored friends to a semi-private booth across the floor. For him to sit down and marvel at the menu - perfectly in-view through the double doors of the kitchen. 

Katsuki did not remember seeing his name on the reservations page. One that had been booked out for three months. He did not remember approving any special accommodation requests, ones that have to be made well in advance and only through referrals, one that would allow them to have this expedited reservation. 

This was Kyouka’s work, then. She must’ve used her employee reserve seating and booked under Pinky’s name, or the Yellow-Haired Idiot next to them. Katsuki could remember seeing them somewhere - somewhere in one of those parties Camie dragged him and Shouto to and down a few of those dainty cocktails with incorrect garnishes. He was pretty sure that if he wracked his brain, he could remember Pinky’s wild hands motioning through some jumbled story about hair styling and actors that were divas. 

Kirishima, though, on the other hand. 

He remembered watching him. 

[flashback]

It was at one of those fancy charity galas Shouto had begrudgingly dragged him to, because Shouto went wherever he could show his face to piss off his ratpiss father. Todoroki Shouto - the assumed heir of the Todoroki film dynasty, the son of the great Enji Todoroki, the prodigy with two Mainichi awards under his belt before the of sixteen - leaving the business and the glory to star in budget indie movies, scripts about conspiracy theories and absurd philosophies that everyone called grotesque, weird, or straight-up childish. 

Katsuki, a hater of all things luxury and rigid, was happy to oblige in pissing off one Todoroki Enji.

The charity gala was going as it was supposed to go. Katsuki had perfected the art of ignoring all the low-lifes clicking photos and snapshots to upload to their social media, promptly ignoring any actual charity work they could do. 

It was the same bullshit they pulled at the restaurant. 

Ever since he’d earned that damned third Michelin - supposedly a reward for his craft - the vultures had come swarming. The restaurant had slowly become more a rest stop for these celebrities on their way to their third party of the night, a place for them to enjoy the lighting and take some photos to splatter on the internet. Some place to yammer on about how much they appreciate the culinary art, without ever doing more than lifting another bottle of the most expensive Chardonnay about it. 

Ever since the Michelin, it had all become about the way they could move and shine under the lighting of the restaurant, to hell with the actual craft behind it. More than the thought his engineers put in, thinking through the optimal temperatures and lighting to preserve food freshness and good bacteria. More than all his food research team did for them, travelling to the corners of the world to source the most sustainable and fresh cuts possible. More than the hours of training each and every member of his kitchen staff had put in before being allowed backdoors, before being handed an embroidered apron. 

More than the years of work Katsuki had put in - learning all there is about food, specialising in traditional Japanese cuisine, and then spending another set of years developing the design of the place, the feel of the menu, the taste of every dish on their gold-laced tongues. 

More than the work put into constructing the foundation of his soul.

So there he was, dressed to the nines as you had to be whenever you were showing face in the society of tight-ups - occupying his corner of the open bar and nursing a single drink for the past two hours. He was here to stand smug and standoff-ish, to leer at strangers who staggered over and demanded a reservation like they were old friends, to sling his arm around Shouto and roll his eyes at Enji’s obvious disapproval. 

Like he gave a fuck. 

But then something changed in the air, something to draw his attention, and there he was - right across the room. 

Blazing red hair. A tight-pinned red suit, form-fitting and devilish. Dancing circles across the room like it was a party and he, the life of. 

Kirishima Eijirou. 

The redhead in front of him wasn’t like that. 

No, Kirishima Eijirou seemed to be taking a different approach entirely. 

He was making his rounds, greeting everyone that dared stop by - and they were many, Kirishima was the rising industry darling, after all. He was dazzling the room, greeting everyone like an old friend or a new one he just couldn’t help but spill all his secrets to. 

Yeah, that was the job. Everybody who was on the precipice of being anybody had to make their way through the lion’s den and come out foes-turned-friends - fake or otherwise. Hawks had done it - before he’d been given the name Hawks. Back when he was just the irritating Keigo, a begrudging thorn in Katsuki’s side - loitering in his kitchen. And now, Hawks was as big a name as it got, shining and wings spread - and it seemed that Kirishima was on his way to the same fate. 

Katsuki saw him multiple times throughout the night, always with an unsuspecting white slip and a pen in hand. Always stopping by the art displays a little longer than was necessary, a little longer than was needed at a showy event such as this. Nobody would fault him for not winning - they barely ever wanted to themselves. The stars of the industry just came to these events to shine a little brighter for the masses, to get their photographs taken under the gauze of empathy and splatter them on social media to see the likes filtering in. 

These fucks had these things rigged already, had their low-life managers send in their bids days before and items secured - the pieces that matched their brand. Usually, it manifested in the form of a single piece of pottery that would look good on their million-yen mantle for a single week, but live eternally on their social media pages for as long as they were relevant. The pieces that were just expensive enough to startle, to paint them charitable and honest, but not enough to create a dent in their bank account. 

But Kirishima’s manager hadn’t sent in any pre-decided bids, it seemed. 

No, because Kirishima was spending his time - a currency more valuable than any amount of bills these people doted around in their purses.

Katsuki watched him from the bar, nursing his drink in one hand and silently waiting for Shouto to return. Kirishima’s eyes were sparkling as he loitered through each piece, a kid running rampant in a candy store, really - admiring whatever this show had to offer, like it was made just for him. Wandering his eyes over each layer of color, taking the time to understand the infographic cleanly displayed next to it, settling the weight of history beneath his skin. 

It reminded Katsuki of how the nerd would revel during their weekly trips to the comic book store, snatching up each All Might memorabilia like a collection more valuable than the national museum. 

And then, like clockwork and without fail, Kirishima would scribble out a number and drop it in the box underneath. 

No, it seemed like Kirishima hadn’t gotten the memo. His eyes were shining like a newly minted humanitarian out in the world, like he still thought he could make a difference. 

Watching Kirishima watch the art pieces was an experience of its own - like when the stars don’t know they’re the reason the night sky shines. 

Katsuki wasn’t sure how much time passed, too wrapped up in dodging conversations and silently berating the culinary choices. Too busy laughing to himself at the image of one highly coveted Todoroki Shouto giving his fans his famous blank stare, and too enthralled at the image of red hair and red eyes dancing around the room, keeping him cemented in attention. 

So when the auction results came, he wasn’t surprised at least to see the way that man jumped up, excited to be taking home not the one customary piece, but three whole artworks. Each time his name was called, he’d jump up and get on stage, nodding his head at the art piece behind him - one a huge statue, marble and pearly white, depicting the labors of man in the age of Romulus. Another, a beautiful woodblock print from the Edo period, the great Kanagawa wave shining a faded blue. The waves seeping into the deep ridges of the wood, Kirishima’s shining smile seeping deep into Katsuki’s unknowing heart. 

And finally, a simple rice bowl, white at its base and overlaid with chipped blue illustrations of the sky and sea, melding into one. A Chinese dinner bowl, from the 1500s, made for homely dinners and breaking bread after a long day. 

What was special about it, was that it was laced with gold linings of kintsugi art - threading all throughout the piece and pulling it together. A bowl, broken somewhere in its five hundred years long history, and pieced back together by seeping liquid gold through its cracks. 

A fairly simple bowl, something that was commonplace and homely, once - evolving into something sacred by the most delicate of arts. The preservation of mealtime, of family, of the golden glow of love lost - and then regained tenfold.

It looks fitting in Kirishima’s hands. The gold threads of the bowl reflected nicely off his toothed grin, off the reds in his irises. 

Kirishima seemed like the type of man to hold, to prosper, to strengthen under the pressures of time. 

The charity had been dragging for way too long. 

Katsuki had seen Enji Todoroki stomping past a couple hours ago - angry and smoke blowing from his ears, but outerwear pressed prim and clean in a blue suit.

That’s Todoroki Enji for you - heavy and moving for those in society, the apex predator on the pyramid of revelry, the anger in his eyes only reserved for those unfortunate enough to get close. Katsuki had been fifteen when he’d found out all there was to find out about the nation’s top actor, about the esteemed Todorokis - and hadn’t spoken a straight word to him since. 

And now, Enji was storming past, a deep disappointment in his steps - miniscule and controlled. Which could only mean one thing - that Shouto had done his job for tonight; showing his face around and refusing to acknowledge his sad excuse of a father. Katsuki hoped Shouto had glared him down from across the room, just so he could have an amusing story to come out of this hellhole event. 

All of Shouto’s movies were so different and unhinged and sometimes, just downright creepy - and yet, they made him as famous as famous got. At least, in his brand of god amongst mortals, fallen-from-grace, golden-boy-gone-wrong kind of way. The generational talent born of industry titan Enji Todoroki, leaving behind his childhood movie star laurels and a confirmed career as an action or romance lead, and opting for a path of mystery and grey. 

Or so, people thought. Shouto loved doing those movies, personally spoke to each and every director about their vision and only signed on the scripts he absolutely, one-hundred-percent wanted to. 

Plus, he got to sneer at his father every chance he got - by still collecting accolades despite that old man’s threats, by daring to smile despite the old man’s anger, by having, for the first time, some control over where his life was to go.

A child who doesn’t get the luxury to discover and settle into their childhood bares their teeth and claws to take what they want in their adulthood.

If there was one thing Katsuki respected about that Half-n-Half loser, it was this.

So, Enji Todoroki was angry as per usual, and the auction was almost over, and Katsuki was more than ready to make his way home. Shouto must be around here somewhere, smothered by socialites who’re hoping for a little more than just his number, ready to leave himself. Katsuki scanned the room, past the stage and into the quiet corner right by the exit, and finally spotted the obnoxious split dye. 

As assumed, he was swarming in a group of self-proclaimed philanthropists, surely tormenting him with photos of their daughters and requests to go to their off-shore islands. 

Katsuki needed to be up and at the restaurant the first thing in the morning to inspect the latest delivery of raw ingredients, and he would not have those good-for-nothing vendors mess up his order of the highest quality Chinook salmon he’d imported all the way from New Zealand. Not again. 

If Katsuki wanted to go home, he needed to pull that idiot out first. He’s never the one to care for the social niceties of it all, and they keep coming back for his food anyway. He simply couldn’t be bothered to wonder what a bunch of overdue geriatrics think of him. 

Frankly, Shouto needed to start recognising the cues and elbow-shove himself out of these messes, but now was not the time for berating. Now was the time to go. 

He started moving towards him, leaving his half inhaled drink on the counter, a hand already out to grab the boy and drag them both out. 

Shouto saw Katsuki coming, a deadpan stare in his vacant eyes and a slight nod - a signal. And Shouto was all too happy to go, so drag him Katsuki does, a mere twenty steps to the door in front of them and the slew of disgruntled oldies left behind them. 

And they were so close to leaving, Shouto not even bothering to fix his rumpled collar from Katsuki’s hold, so close to the door that Katsuki could grin in the face of the fresh, non-perfumed air of the real world. 

But not soon enough, because Katsuki couldn’t help his ears, and he couldn't help but overhear a snippet of a conversation playing out not too far from him. 

Kirishima Eijirou. 

The redhead was draped over one of the counters, nursing something bubbly and blue in his hand. It clashed with his entire ensemble, it exactly fit the grin on his face. He was talking to a friend of his - one with an equally ridiculous hair color, bright and jarring pink. 

What’s with famous people and bizarre hair colors? Katsuki let out an irritated puff. Half-n-Halfie would fit right in.

But then Kirishima was talking, and his voice cut through the crowd like a melody - sharp and loud and beckoning. Katsuki couldn’t help but tune in. 

“Mina, I’ve been looking for a bowl like that for literal years,” He was throwing his hands around, animated and truthfully excited - like he'd come to the gala not for the clicks, but to enjoy. To not just compete and win, but enjoy. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I got it.” 

Katsuki was foreign to the concept. 

Katsuki was reeling, over this redhead that looked too damn good in that three piece suit, this redhead who was apparently smart and talented and a nerd over something like classical pottery and art. And unlike rest of the fucks there, he hadn’t pulled out his phone and blasted his benevolent acts on social media for all to praise - at least, not yet. 

And then his pink-haired friend, someone Katsuki vaguely remembers - Mina, he thinks - was speaking, equally animated and wondrous. There was something about the two of them, grins bright and eyes brighter, something that stopped him from looking away. Something that makes him want to listen, makes him want to join in that laughter. 

“Eiji, you should bring out your tools this weekend when Denks and I do the paint. You can put it on the shelf you’ve been perfecting for-” Mina was pretending to count, and Kirishima was snickering, and Katsuki couldn’t stop watching, “months now? Just hang it up and free the living room already.” 

Kirishima threw his head back, laughing over some obviously long running joke between them. It was an intoxicating sound, and the gears turned in Katsuki’s head. 

So he’s smokin’ hot, and smart, and his laugh plays like Katsuki’s favorite song on the violin, and now he builds things? With his hands?

A smile filtered itself in and onto Katsuki’s face, the prospect of the first exciting encounter all fucking evening. His eyes raked over Kirishima once more, just to be sure - registering the way his suit hugs his arms, almost tearing itself apart on them. His hair, tied in loose braids and falling all over his shoulders, a blazing red that doesn’t demand attention, but draws it anyway. Magnetic. 

The way his hands move animatedly as he retold a story, the toothed smile that seemed to take permanent residence on his face. The scar above his right eye, a tear in his brow, partially covered by that piercing Katsuki wanted to dig his teeth into. 

The way his eyes crinkle, putting some shine in this dusty old gala. 

Okay, yeah, Katsuki could get behind this. 

He instantly let go of Shouto’s shirt - they’d been here for hours, skipping away from old geezers, nursing a stale drink - so what’s a few minutes more? And if Shouto managed to let himself fall to the clutches of the gold laden and greedy, again, then to hell with him. 

So Katsuki turned on his heel, smoothing over his already-crisp suit as he went, running a hand through his hair to touch up that semblance of organized chaos that he had actually spent years perfecting. He had to look the part - he had a round of introductions to do, a phone number to memorise, and a set of lips to taste. Ideally. 

As he closed in, as he neared the periphery of Kirishima’ view - just waiting for the man to lift his eyes and reach across - he saw it. Because the gods above must have a vendetta against him, there it was - the form of Todoroki Enji, walking with purpose and walking on fumes, a soldier’s march from behind Kirishima and (presumably) straight towards Shouto. He’d been around this hellish family enough to know if he lets Enji catch up to his son, it’s going to turn into some kind of lecture, turned kind of argument, turned some kind of war. One fought too many times, dragging all three of them right back into the whirlpool. 

Katsuki was tired, and he had a shipment to deal with, and a strong sense of vitriol rising in his throat at the image of a stomping Todoroki Enji. Better drag Shouto out and save themselves while he can. 

Katsuki begrudgingly huffed, turning on his heel - but not before he could sneak one last glance at the redhead. Burning something onto his eyelids, a silent promise quickening his heartrate to match the beat of his laugh.

Sorry, Kirishima Eijirou, but today was not the day. 

So much for missed chances. Maybe at the next over the top charity gala Shouto decides to invite him to. 

[present]

Katsuki doesn’t have all that time to ponder, because Kyouka is currently leaving his side and walking out to the tables. Katsuki surrenders to his little flair of irritation, because why would she be doing that when she knows it’s rush hour? 

But it’s Kyouka. He’s learnt to trust her instincts over the years. 

And then she’s walking straight towards the redhead’s table. Her hand on his shoulder, smiling. And then Mina is getting up to hug her, and Kyouka goes like they’re long lost friends and she’s been searching for years. 

Katsuki doesn’t care. 

So he pretends he isn’t watching through the doors of the kitchen, and he beats the eggs like they’ve done him wrong personally. 

He pretends he doesn’t count down the seconds she spends on the table, and he doesn’t wonder what stupid joke the yellow-haired boy said to make Kirishima boom with laughter. 

He has a job to do, a restaurant to work. His massive, starblazing ship, and he, the captain in the rising tides. He definitely does not think about how Kyouka possibly knows these people, and how he can now snag that phone number.

She walks back in, filtering in like she hadn’t just opened a door Katsuki had ruminated over the past couple of months, a twinge in her step. 

She smiles at him, a little knowing, a whole lot smug. 

“Where have you been, Kyo?” He starts, and he’s being really subtle. Sure. “Those cheesecakes aren’t going to garnish themselves, y’know.” 

Yeah, right, Katsuki. As if you give a flying fuck about the cheesecakes right now. 

And that’s exactly the look Kyouka gives him too.  

Fine. Fucking fine. 

“So, who’s Pinky?”

Kyouka smiles, impossibly attuned to the way Katsuki was bristling under his collar at the form of Red sitting a few minutes across from him, on his tables, on his floor, waiting for his food. 

“Y’know,” there’s something gleeful in her usually deadpan tone that doesn’t sit right in his stomach. “That actor you like is here, Kirishima.”

“Oh?” As if. As if he hadn’t glued his eyes to his form the moment the man had walked in. As if he hadn’t spent the past ten minutes peeking through the kitchen doors like a maniac. 

“Yeah,” she starts, eyes slitting into knowing as they meet Katsuki’s across the counter, passing him a bowl of chopped green onions. He likes to make each omuraisu by hand. He turns over the ingredients, allowing the individual onions to graze his hand, allowing their smell to settle underneath his nail beds. Fresh and soft. Ready to deliver. 

He nods, more to the rhythm of his cooking than anything else. Preparing something as simple as a cloud egg over a bed of rice has that effect on him - a safe sense of calm and precision. 

She continues. “It’s his birthday today.”

That gets his attention.

He looks back at her, the knife in his hand stilling for half a second before continuing its quest against the pearl onions. 

“Yeah, Mina brought him here to celebrate. I gave them the table weeks ago.” 

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“No, I didn’t. Thought it would be a nice surprise, huh?”

“Of fucking course you did.” 

She smiles. She knows she’s gotten underneath his skin, and she smiles. He’d find it in him to be pissed at her for giving out a table at prime time without his consultation, if he wasn’t secretly simmering at the opportunity. 

Now, Katsuki can finish what he wanted to start all those months ago. 

“Well, Kyo, I didn’t get a chance to talk to him at the gala - appreciate him for all that talent, y’know,” and he feels the smirk form on his face. Kyouka is looking at him the way she does, when she knows he’s up to no good. “I should make sure his birthday is special enough on its own. Give our birthday boy a day to remember.” 

He’s moving, the omuraisu ready to be plated, one of the linecooks taking over for the transfer. “Bring me the special menu, would ya?”

--- 

Kirishima

First came the complimentary drinks. 

Eijirou tried not to think too much of it - Jirou probably informing the star-studded chef that it was his birthday, and that he was mildly famous, and so comes the affair of complimentary drinks as a common courtesy. 

But Bakugou Katsuki never did anything out of common courtesy, out of social decency. Out of compliance with the unspoken but bloodwritten rules of the industry. 

Eijirou tried not to think too much about that. Tried not to let a blush form on his face. Tried not to let his thoughts gear up into overdrive. 

Three tall cocktails arrived on their table, crystalline glasses of varying liquids, garnished with some salts and petals. Eijirou had seen Jirou carrying it ten steps away from them, and wondered why she was making a beeline for their table when they hadn’t put in a single order yet - until she had ceremoniously self-assigned the cocktails to each of them. 

“We didn’t order thes-”

“Compliments of the chef,” Jirou said, a twinkle in her eye and in her step. Mina blanched across from them, Denki was already reaching for his drink before they could toast to anything. 

“The chef?” 

“Bakugou,” Mina supplies, as if Eijirou doesn’t already know. As if he isn’t already halfway to reeling, half head under water. 

Compliments from the great, prickly, rose-colored-eyes and prickly-exterior, Bakugou Katsuki himself?

Before he could ask why, the infernal question, Jirou kept going. Some long winded explanations he could barely keep up with, pushing each glass toward them. Each drink was a mix of premium alcohol and a series of ingredients he’d never thought of putting together before - be it Mina’s sakura infused soju, garnished with real petals. Or Denki’s ume shiso highball - a mix of gin and local beers, something to get the buzz going. 

Eijirou’s eyes were widening as the descriptions went on. Each tower of drinks was fancier than the last, shining golden and black liquid sitting in front of them. 

“This one’s yours, Kirishima-” said Jirou, finally, and pushed the tall glass of sparkly liquid over. “It’s a kintsugi martini.” 

He stared at his drink. A custom made Bakugou Katsuki drink, just for him. It smelled like something sweet, something lush, hints of melon and pear undercutting the alcohol. It was in a tall, frosted glass, cold to hold but warm inside. And at the top, staring up at him, was the pièce de résistance - gold leaf flake patterns that looked like real-life kintsugi art. Intimate, handcrafted, beautiful. 

“Kintsugi martini?” 

“Well, the proper name would be a kintsugi saketini, I suppose,” she started. “It’s a distilled sake infused vodka martini, with the kintsugi gold flakes to finish it off. It represents replenishment, repair, and renewal.” 

Eijirou’s brain was buzzing a mile a minute. 

Renewal, new beginnings - Eijirou knew enough about kintsugi art, his walls back at the apartment were full of it, after all - to know what they symbolise. 

Finding strength in imperfections, allowing your broken parts to reform into something new and beautiful. Recognising new beginnings, and the work one puts in to get there.

“That’s excessive,” Mina supplied, and you know it’s excessive when even Mina thinks so. “I’ve never heard of these cocktails before.” 

“It’s his personal mixes, special concoctions he’s worked on for the restaurant,” came Jirou’s explanation, a smile akin to pride spreading over her face. Like she’d personally seen the hours and care Bakugou had put in to create drinks as precise and beautiful as these. “He’s very particular about everything he does.” 

Yeah, Eijirou thought, he seems like the type. 

“Well, Jirou,” he rubbed his palms on the front of his pants, and offered her a smile, hoping the jitters would fall away. “Tell the chef I said thank you.” 

“Thank him later,” she said, winking, and Eijirou really needed to ask her what that was about, but she was already walking away. Leaving a shocked Eijirou, and two extremely entertained Denki and Minas behind. 

“Y’know, Eijirou, if I didn’t know any better,” Denki started. 

“Which you don’t,” he supplied, to no avail. Might as well roll over and let them get it done with. 

“I’d say,” and Mina was already sipping her drink, “the chef seems to have a new favorite customer.”

Eijirou met their eyes - sparkling and all too happy at the circumstances - and took a long sip of his drink. 

A gentle sweetness, fruit-filled and buzzing - a hint of melon, of pear, of sake. An undercut of vodka, the dash of a shot - taunting him, challenging him underneath all the garnish. 

Gold flakes, breaking and mending their pattern over and over into something new and beautiful each time. Resting easy atop the drink, like they had all the time in the world to figure it out. 

Eijirou didn’t know if the chef had a new favorite customer or was just feeling generous today, but he sure as hell had a new favorite drink, and what was shaping up to be a new favorite meaning of kintsugi. 

Bakugou didn’t stop. 

It was a performance, Eijirou could map out how one plate and its palette seamlessly blended into the other, how much work Bakugou must’ve put in to make it appear so. 

There was a language to it - the way the dishes were plated, the three course menu he prepared as a walkway to a certain destination the blond must have in mind. Eijirou saw the plates coming, one after the other - not a single one ordered by either of them. Jirou would assure them that this was Bakugou’s special menu, and Denki and Mina would eagerly cheer on the dishes and joke about keeping them coming. 

Eijirou couldn’t help but smile as the night went on. 

Of all the ways people had tried to get his attention, of all the ways people had flirted with him - this was easily the most explicit, over-the-top, go-big or go-home method he’d seen. 

The hardest to say no to so far, by miles. 

First came the appetizers, a small plate of ochazuke croquette balls - filled with salmon and rice, decorated by nori and sesame. There was an undercutting green tea essence to it, the clash somehow harmonizing with the rest. Eijirou took a bite and was reminded of summers spent in his grandmother’s old house, of tall grass fields and the fireworks at the end-of-summer festival. He was reminded of the nights his moms and him would spend, shaping onigiris into their perfect triangular shapes, packing them up and storing them away to eat during school the next day. 

Then came another set of rolls, beef negimaki - thin slices of beef and caramelized scallions dipped in a sauce of soy-mirin and garlic. The sweet-umami was similar  to teriyaki sauce, almost, but the way it dissolved into something bold and playful made it a dish entirely different. It was a welcome change from the last, reminding him of the quick lunches grabbed from the konbini with Denki and Hanta as he rushed from one audition to the next. The bite-sized shape was welcome, the tall glass of alcohol with it - a high-end version of the long nights they’d spent in their favorite hole-in-the-wall bars when they were still trying to make it into something big. 

It was funny, Eijirou thought - sitting in this lavish restaurant, golden lights for as far as the eye could see. The prices on the menu were reasonable, sure, but there had been a time he wouldn’t even dare step towards an establishment like this - let alone assess the menu. 

He was currently being treated by a world-class chef in his world-class restaurant. He hadn’t worn those old shirts with holes that he’d learnt to keep the pockets of his soul in in a long, long time. He’d spent the better part of last year in dressing rooms and trailers, on expenses-paid flights to shooting locations, in expensive clothes that were never his own, never worn twice. 

But somehow, here, in this gold plated restaurant and by the gold-laced hands that prepared these meals - Eijirou was transported right back to before it all began. Back when it was him, and Mina and Denki, sitting around a table much like this one, but far rougher. Back when they’d share a ride into the city and share stories around their dive bar booth, when they’d run audition to audition and internship to internship, hoping for their big breaks. When they’d drink a little too much and too fast, when they’d stumble home to Hanta’s, or Denki’s, or whoever was closest - and wake up sprawled around the living room come morning. 

Heads pounding, a pocketful of new stories to share, hearts swelled to bursting. 

Eijirou almost laughed to himself, reeling at the realization of how much a simple dinner could remind you of. How much power a carefully crafted meal could hold. 

Eijirou was in one of the fanciest places in all of Japan, and somehow, the hands that built it reminded him of the quiet of home. 

Eijirou really, really, wanted to give his compliments to the chef. 

He wondered what Bakugou had in mind. What his game plan was. 

He wasn’t stupid - he knew what he looked like, he knew the way his name had skyrocketed in the past couple of years like a shooting star in the night. He’d seen Bakugou at the charity gala a couple months ago, arm around Shouto Todoroki and a disdained look on his face - like he was already miles above it all. 

He remembered his cutting red eyes, determined and hungry for something, despite seemingly having everything. His blond hair, lush and golden in the lights, ensuring he shines the brightest, wherever he is.

The way his hands moved, lithe in their hold around the glass he’d nursed all night, grip elegant and strong. The hands of a painter and a wielder, all at once. Of someone who achieved effortless grace and perfection in everything he set out to do. 

And now, here he was, months later, hidden behind those kitchen doors but commanding Eijirou’s vision all the same. Once again.

Finally came the entrée, the meal all this was centred around. 

Eijirou had to do a double take at his dish. 

“Chicken karaage with a yuzu-kosho glaze, and miso fried rice for you,” Jirou had explained. He stared at the presentation and almost forgot to thank her. 

Something so simple - chicken karaage and a bed of fried rice, something he'd consider a quick lunch or a hangover meal he could whip up with one eye open. And yet, Bakugou had somehow elevated it into something else entirely. The same dish, the same gentle ease of practice and ease, but the dashing taste of miso somehow undercutting the simple flavor of fried rice and transforming it into something new. The play of garlic and citrus, of soy and spice - all of it dancing on his tongue and keeping him on his toes, unaware of what the next bite is going to bring. The chicken itself, crisp and juicy and made with the care of a loving mother, of a precise bandaid around your heart. 

Somehow, this simple dish had been elated, and had been laced with magic to transport Eijirou's mind somewhere else. However, unlike the rest, where he would look back and think of the nostalgic days of his childhood, or the happy mistakes of his youth - this dish made him think of what’s to come. 

An apartment, painted golden in the evening light. A kitchen, warm and welcoming. The hands of a lover, feeding him this dish after a hard day spent, the feeling of a set of arms cradling him, the satisfaction of cradling them back. The warmth of a home, astutely familiar and bursting anew each second. 

A sanctuary, a place of rest, a set of beautiful eyes - not too far on the horizon.

A few bites in, the clinking of their glasses surrounding him, the bright giggles of Denki and Mina filling his ears, the feeling of soft hands and red eyes warming his being - Ejiirou felt impossibly full. 

As Jirou came back to refill their waters and make idle conversation, Mina threw out a seemingly innocent comment, Eijirou knowing it’s anything but. “So creative, we loved it. You have to tell Bakugou that,” and Eijirou feels all eyes on him. His imagination, surely. 

“Tell me what?” 

There’s a hand on the back of Eijirou’s chair. 

There was a certain gruffness to his voice, something akin to pride and smugness, like someone walking up to the stage already knowing they had won the prize. 

Eijirou feels himself smiling, despite the shock of the Bakugou Katsuki standing behind him - casually, a hand draped on his chair, the heat seeping through and into his bones. 

Making a rare appearance, cause chefs are rarely seen out the kitchen on a busy night, unless the moment demands it. 

“Hey, man,” Eijirou starts, turning around to face him. 

Eijirou allows himself a moment to rake his eyes over his form, taking in the shape of the hands that have crafted their meals, one after the other, to no rest and no less akin to miracles. 

Bakugou’s eyes skip to him instantly. Something cutting, something sharp - and something so red. Eijirou’s favorite shade, making home in the irises of the man in front of him. The one who had a reputation that preceded him, a notorious one - a chef known for his talent and his harsh critique, with an expression so unguarded that you could only think of it as as lovely as the first sunset of the summer.

The smirk on his face, the pearly glint of his teeth that appear more like fangs, ready to tear at Eijirou’s skin, the blazing fire behind Bakugou’s eyes - Eijirou catalogues it all into a folder in his head. One labelled Bakugou Katsuki, and when to go. 

Bakugou grunts in acknowledgment.  “Heard it's your birthday, Kirishima,” he said, and Eijirou finds the melody of his voice as familiar as the smoothness of the martini he had downed. 

Eijirou’s hands fiddled with the ends of his shirt, a nervous habit that he can’t seem to kick. He realizes with a sudden pang that he would like to hear his name again, and again, and again - slipping through the blond’s lips like a waterfall, untethered.

But he was an actor above all else. If he wants to get to know what lies underneath the precision cut knives of Bakugou’s tongue, he needs to put on a brave face. A show that the chef just can’t afford to miss.

So Eijirou put on the flashiest of his smiles, meeting Bakugou’s eyes as he said, “Yeah, it is. This is shaping up to be one of the best birthdays I've had in a while, actually.”

Bakugou smirks back, his gaze entirely focused on Eijirou’s smile, and he realizes that he's a little high off it. “You haven't even seen anything yet, Red. It can't be that easy, can it?”

Red. The hand behind his chair. The sudden quietness of the restaurant around them, despite Mina and Denki sitting across from him, despite the whole place being booked out and buzzing. Almost as though Bakuogu created a quiet sense of peace, a little bubble and only the two of them holding the key. 

Despite himself, Eijirou feels the urge to laugh. He hadn’t been reading the signs wrong, after all. 

He turns his body towards the man behind him, doing that thing with his eyes where he lids them halfway and looks through his eyelashes. The face that he reserves for the most romantic of his movies and the raunchiest of his photo shoots, the face he knows has been retweeted and reposted more than any others on the internet. His voice drips honey sweet, goes down the throat as easily as the drink Bakugou had prepared for him. 

“Really? How else do you want to make me happy tonight?”

There’s a fire behind Bakugou’s eyes, the anticipation of a race filling his veins. Bakugou’s the kind of guy who likes to win above all, Eijirou decides. 

Bakugou leans in, closer into each other’s space than any two strangers have any reason to be, and Eijirou feels an electric charge in the air. Red on red, with miles to go and barely a hair’s breadth between. His being, shattering, as their fingers touch, filling his spine with the kind of adrenaline the sky jumpers speak of. 

“Enjoy your dessert, Red,” he says, pushing a plate of dessert towards him. Eijirou almost chides himself for not noticing him holding it earlier. But then his brain remembers the red, and the feel of his eyes upon his own, and lets himself be. 

Eijirou can’t blame himself for being so overwhelmed by the tectonic presence of Bakugou Katsuki such that he forgets the world, can he?

“Another plate?” Eijirou smirks, eyes not leaving the other man. “You’re spoiling me.” 

“Guilty,” Bakugou says, matching with a ferocious grin of his own. “It’s an ichigo-azuki crepe cake.”

Eijirou decides to tear his eyes away, momentarily, to stare at the birthday cake the blond had decorated for him. Thin layers of flavored crepes stack up to resemble a cake, with whipped cream and a singular birthday candle resting at the top. The plate is decorated with strawberries and powdered sugar, and there’s sprinkles of gold leaves caking the top. 

Amid the gold, rests a single message, written in white icing over the red layers. 

“Happy Birthday, Red.” 

“You knew I have a sweet tooth, huh?” Eijirou asks, ignoring the way his heart moves at the gesture and his intrinsic urge to reach out and hold Bakugou’s capable hands. “You’ve done your research.” 

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot?” Bakugou retorts, quick and honest, his amused tone cutting through the annoyed words. He still hasn’t moved his fingers away from Eijirou’s, he’s still much too close to convey anything but familiarity. 

“Well, here’s another couple words for you,” Eijirou says, turning back to face him. Eijirou allows himself a candid moment to stare, an almost garish movement up Bakugou’s torso, laden with his prim chef’s apron, up his throat, back to his face. 

Bakugou looms over him, tall and golden and shining. Eijirou decides he likes the view. 

“Thank you, Bakugou.” 

Something pink blooms on the blond’s cheeks, travelling up his neck, and Eijirou has an inkling that he’d fight to his grave, rejecting that it’s a blush. He looks pointedly away, seemingly not interested in Eijirou’s method of praise, of thanks. 

“Blow your fucking candle, idiot,” he grits out. “Make a wish.” 

Eijirou grins, eyes flicking to Mina and Denki’s, who seem to have been watching their entire exchange with their mouths agape. He’s sure he’s going to hear it from them the moment Bakugou leaves, but for now, he’s having a lot of fun keeping Bakugou in place where he is. In the little bubble, untouched by all others. 

Eijirou makes a show of blowing out the candle, fluttering his eyes close and leaning closer to the cake. He pushes his fingers impossibly closer to Bakugou’s, still resting on the table, anchoring him into the one thing he’s wishing for more than anything else. 

He can sense Denki rolling his eyes, Mina internally giggling at the exchange. Bakugou simply huffs next to him, feigning contempt. 

He straightens up, boring deep into Bakugou’s eyes, challenging him. 

“Are you gonna make it come true, too?” 

Bakugou raises an eyebrow and waits, as though assessing him, seeing if Eijirou is serious. Ultimately, the blush on his cheeks does nothing to deter the man from rising to the challenge. “I’ve been told I can work magic.”

Eijirou chuckles, his brain supplying him images of the dishes he’d created for him all night, and his hands, and some silly retort like yeah, I bet you could. He actively has to stop his imagination from running wild, from going there - he’s barely had one cocktail all night, and he’d at least like to take Bakugou out on a date first. Maybe not for dinner, not some fancy restaurant that won’t measure up one bit to Bakugou’s vessel. 

The arcade, Eijirou decides. Bakugou seems like the type of guy to let loose in an arcade. 

“I’m looking forward to it, then,” he responds instead. A set of playful jibes and retorts dressing up the promise of something else, something more intimate, something that stands on the edge of something more. Something far wider, that smells of strawberries in the spring and ties them together like golden kintsugi threads. 

Bakugou seems satisfied with the response, with their conversation so far. He offers Eijirou one last smirk, the hand on the back of his chair shifting up to brush past his nape, sending Eijirou into mild shock, before leaving it entirely. Even through the fabric of the plush chair, Eijirou feels the cold of loss. 

“If you make it worth my time,” he provokes instead of a goodbye, silently nodding at the other two before turning on his heel and leaving out the kitchen doors he came through. 

Eijirou watches him go, forgetting the plate of dessert sitting in front of him. His head dizzies, the sheer view of Bakugou Katsuki retreating, the unsaid invitation for more, seeping into his heart like stars tingling on his skin. 

Eijirou turns back to his friends, shaking his head, feeling elated. “Should we dig in?” 

“What,” Denki starts, “the hell was that?”

Mina and Denki spend a good portion of their time turning the pieces of his and Bakugou’s conversation over and over, the rest praising the sweet taste of the dessert. 

As they overflow their mouths full with the crepes - his lips, red and full - Eijirou thinks of kintsugi. He thinks he finally understands what it means to take broken pieces and put them together. Create something new, dazzling, shining and liquid gold - the shade of Bakugou’s lush hair and the warmth in Eijirou’s chest as it blooms at his smile. 

Yeah, this was definitely not the guy the fucks of fame claim him to be. He was definitely the kind of guy Eijirou wanted to spend his time unpeeling, learning anew. 

The dessert devoured, empty cocktail glasses and a slight buzz in his system at all that he feels for in this life, for his friends, for the opportunity to meet someone so dazzling - fill his entire being.

He wonders how he’s going to pull the rest of it off. 

Denki has some ideas - something absurd like stalking Bakugou on the internet or sliding into his Instagram messages later, while Mina offers a more direct approach - simply marching into the kitchen like he owns it and demanding a date. 

He laughs at the prospects, waving them off - and asks Jirou to come over to the table, asking for the receipt of their bill. 

Jirou shakes her head, “It’s already paid for.” 

Eijirou chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck in disbelief. Of course, it is. 

There’s a smile on her face as she adds, “He’s the type to do this, but he doesn’t do it often. Or ever.” 

Well, then, he thinks, he should really capitalize on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

He scribbles some words on a napkin and passes it over to Jirou, and asks, “Thank you, Jirou. Could you hand off this napkin to the chef? Tell him that Red sends his compliments.” He flashes her his most charming smile, the one that landed him that dental commercial just last year. 

She beams. 

Oh, oh, she knows. She’s in on the plan. He can prod more, then. 

“Hey, Jirou, before you go - would you tell the chef I'm free Saturday?”

She smiles. 

Yeah, of course she will. 

-- 

Bakugou

Kyouka almost manages to negotiate a higher pay out of Katsuki in exchange for that infernal tissue Kirishima had apparently handed to her. He settles for a promise (one he doesn’t intend to keep) of an introduction to Yaoyorozu, a famous singer and more importantly, Shouto’s friend - in exchange for the note. 

“Thank you for the food, it was delicious. Let me see if I can one up you next time. 

XXXXX-XXXXX”

Yeah, this fucker is something. Katsuki can see his stupid smile. He thinks charming is the word. 

He pulls out his phone to type in the number. Kyouka leers over his shoulder, smirks that annoying smirk, and says, “He asked me to tell you that he’s free Saturday, by the way.”

“And you waited to tell me this?” He replies, but he can’t find the usual bite in his words as his screen lights up. 

Bakugou: 

So, Saturday, huh? You ain’t got a job or anything?

Kirishima: 

what can i say

i have been known to make space for my favorite chefs from time to time

Katsuki blushes. He’s a veteran chef, he’s got the laurels to prove it - he has three Michelins for god’s sake, he shouldn’t be a blushing mess over some measly praise by some guy who probably doesn’t know the first thing about cooking. 

But his palms are sweaty as he clutches his phone, and the heat rising up his throat and blooming pink on his cheeks has nothing to do with the fumes of his kitchen, and no matter how hard he tries - he cannot bite back a smile. 

Bakugou: 

Favorite chef already? You haven’t even tried anything yet 

Kirishima: 

really? what else you got? 

Bakugou: 

I make a mean cup of ramen, actually. My best work so far. 

The reply comes quick. Too quick for it to be anything but what was sitting on the redhead’s tongue. Katsuki’s wiping down the last of the kitchen counters, the restaurant doors have already been shut - done for the night. Something tugs at his hands, something jitters within him. 

Kirishima: 

oh man i would love some cup ramen right now 

actually, i saw a vending machine just round the corner from the restaurant. want me to grab you some for our date? 

He lingered. Katsuki isn’t surprised, for some reason. Something in the minor exchange they had when he gave him his stupid dessert, something in the redhead’s shining eyes and his earnest face had him expecting that he would. 

Before he can type a response, he’s already taking off the apron. He’s shouting some instructions at the lingering kitchen staff about boarding the back door properly shut as they leave, he’s brushing shoulders with Kyouka as he sprints out and promptly ignoring her call, “Go get your boy, I’m on closing tonight!” He’s turning the corner before he recognises the cold of October seeping into his bones, his blood too warm with the precipice landing he’s standing on to feel much else. He rarely makes social commitments after a night at the restaurant - so he pats down his shirt, his pants, his hair. He’s unruly, he’s on edge, and there’s definitely some food splatters that escaped his apron and landed on his sleeve. 

But then he spots that obnoxious patch of red, waving from across the street, and his legs quicken his pace for him. Kirishima is grinning, wide and bright as the midnight sun, and Katsuki can’t seem to care about something as small as his appearance. 

“Hi,” Kirishima greets. 

“You’re still here, Red,” he says in return. He hasn’t felt this mixture of desire and nerves in a while, this months’ long game he’d been playing in mind finally coming to fruition. 

“Thank you for-”

“Happy birthday-,” they both start at the same time. Kirishima laughs, a little shy, and Katsuki’s signature smirk blooms into something slightly more. A pink dust on his cheeks at the sound, hopefully hidden away by the night hour. 

Kirishima is a bold, bold man. He’s bold in a way that has nothing to do with the dangerous on-set stunts he does himself, not in the shelves he apparently builds with his hands, not in the loud colors he wears and the louder way he laughs. 

He’s bold in what he wants, he’s one to step out and take it. Katsuki comes to realise this as the redhead reaches out to hold Katsuki’s hand in his. 

 Casual. Non-consequential. Familiar. 

Inevitable. 

“Bold, now, are we?” Katsuki says, interlacing their fingers together, pulling the man towards him. His heart pounds, but he’s the last to ever back down from a challenge, to submit. 

“Wanted to know if the stories are true,” the smile never leaving his face. He looks impossibly sun-kissed, even in the moonlight. Katsuki can smell the traces of his own cooking on him, the notes of soy from the yuzu-kosho, the slight burn of his red chilis underneath. He wonders if Kirishima’s tongue would taste of it, of his work, of him. 

The thought dizzies him.

“Oh?” Katsuki plays along. He hardens his grip around Kirishima’s hand, and the twinkle in the redhead’s eyes tells him he’s been noticed. He doesn’t mind. “What exactly have you heard?” 

“Does it matter?”

No. A smile plays on his lips, intrigued and a little wild, mirroring the grin on Red’s face. No it doesn’t, he decides. 

In the end it's just the two of them - no pretense of fame, no two shining stars burning on the edge of glory, too quick and too short-lived to be anything but a blip in the eye of the industry that houses them. It’s just two guys having instant ramen, laughing about the absurd flavors at the vending machine and a joke Kirishima’s yellow-haired friend - Kaminari, Katsuki’s learnt - said a few hours ago, brushing their hands in the night time glow and smiling wide, only for the other to see. Letting that stifling pull of their hearts do what it wants - slotting into place, moving tides, one anecdote exchanged at a time. 

Yes, Katsuki can get behind this. 

“So, Red, I haven’t asked yet,” and Katsuki takes a step closer. “How was the food?”

Kirishima meets him halfway. Their boots brush against each other, Kirishima’s free hand finds his waist. The half eaten cup ramen lies somewhere on the ground, the two of them too high up in the skies to notice. 

“You tell me, Bakugou,” and Katsuki can count his freckles from so up close. Can see exactly how his shining canines slot into his mouth. “Taste it off me.”

Katsuki’s heart stutters, and it feels like explosions going off in his chest, steadied and rock solid by Kirishima’s firm hold on him. Kirishima looks like the charger of the sun in the impossibly dark night, his irises dancing red and gold, drawing Katsuki in. 

So he does. It tastes fantastic. 

As the world falls out of view, as his heart gets patched up by the kintsugi gold of Kirishima’s lips, as the rain fades into the light, Katsuki wonders - who is he to say no to the star that is Kirishima Eijirou?

Two red strings of fate, threaded together through the broken lines in across their palms - Katsuki’s scarred from the knife cuts, Kirishima’s from the raw stunts halfway up in the air. 

The cracks, slotted together into one, letting liquid kintsugi merge them into something impossibly golden. Impossibly bright and inviting, like the promised arrival of the sun. 

Kirishima’s mouth on his, the lingering taste of strawberries and the gold flakes of his eyes reminding him that all that’s broken can bloom that much more beautifully, once renewed.