A gift for @mist-me on Tumblr, for the Boku no Secret Santa exchange. Come yell in my trashcan at @lady-lattice.

Warnings for Bakugou's foul mouth.

*

A Trial in Patience

Kirishima always claimed that he could feel trouble before he knew of it, at least when it came to Bakugou. Always Bakugou.

At Yuuei, Mina had persistently teased him in that taunting, lilting tone about one's instinct regarding the love of one's life, savoring Kirishima's violent blushes and abject denial of any such adoration. Then, Bakugou was distant, insurmountable, a beast unconquerable beyond what tenuous friendship they had managed after Kamino. At least until their gawky high school days had passed and he and Bakugou drifted closer, drawn together by work and coincidence until they collided, knotted up in red strings of fate. Bakugou had thrashed and snarled against those ties again and again like an animal caught in a net, tangled and afraid but full of a ferocity that was sure to get any gentle hand bitten. It had been painful for them both; for Bakugou in his rage and panic and stubborn resistance, and for Kirishima in the pitiful clenches of his wanting heart. Yet, slowly, the connections they shared became no longer burdensome bindings but tender seams that held them together as they held one another. Years it took, and years it had been since, but Kirishima still dreaded that anxious twist in his gut when the vibrations of Bakugou's pain and discontent ran down those little red threads like guitar strings. They had become more tolerable, filtered out by wisdom and understanding and decades together, but never managed to fade entirely.

Kirishima's phone had rung almost as immediately as the nauseous onslaught of worry had begun, and he heaved a heavy sigh of relief to hear Bakugou on the other end of the line, sounding tired and disgruntled but wholly intact.

"Katsuki?"

"Eijirou, before you insist on watching the news, let me tell you that I'm fine,"Bakugou said in his coarse baritone, made rough by years of shouting and growling and breathing in smoke.

An ugly, startled laugh bubbled up from Kirishima's chest, and he could not help but smile even as he kneaded at his belly with his fist, right above the nauseating knot of concern within. "That's not nearly as comforting as I think you meant it to be."

Bakugou did little more than grunt in response, and Kirishima could hear him turning away from the phone to bark something at some poor soul who was in all likelihood simply trying to do their job. A paramedic, if he had to wager.

"Fucking greenhorn moron. Can't trust a god damn person to get a god damn thing done around here," he muttered to himself, and Kirishima did not bother to fight the smirk that pulled at his lips. Many things had changed about Bakugou Katsuki in the years they had spent together, but his propensity for vulgarity was not one of them. "Shit, I'm getting too old for this. Things are quieting down around here, so I'll give my statements now and leave the paperwork for tomorrow. I should be home in… two hours. If everyone will do their fucking jobs."

His voice rose pointedly on the final few words, likely viciously intended for whoever he had been scolding before. Kirishima hummed thoughtfully, finally abandoning the dishes he had been washing to turn on the television and change to the Hero Report, watching as some over-made reporter droned on about the partial collapse of a rather dilapidated apartment complex. Footage of Bakugou in full hero regalia flashed across the screen, a tearful little girl latched around his shoulders as he glared bitterly at the cameras and shouted at passerby. The churning in Kirishima's belly smoothed into nearly nothing at the sight, and he settled back into the couch, pinning his phone between his shoulder and his ear. He twisted the ring on the chain around his neck until it pinched at the tanned skin of his collarbone, flinching as he put the gold band idly to his lips. It was a worn, beaten thing by now, the sheen long faded and the surface scribed with scratches as deep as the engraving on the inside of the band.

"Structural failure, huh? I'm glad no one's too hurt," he observed lamely, and could practically hear Bakugou's disapproval crackling through the line. "Hurry home, yeah? And go easy on the newbies, Katsuki. They're probably just surprised that you'd show up for something like that. Let them stare if they need to, and they'll get used to it soon enough."

"They need to fucking focus. And not ask for my autograph on gauze pads."

"Seriously?" Kirishima breathed, as impressed as he was appalled. The last poor fool with the audacity to ask for the notoriously difficult number two hero's autograph nearly ended up in a burn unit.

"Seriously," another flustered sigh. "I need to go. See you at home."

"Okay. Be careful. I love you."

"Yeah. I know."

Kirishima could see Bakugou shoving his phone into a pocket of his uniform on the live news feed, his back to the camera as his shoulders hunched for a moment before straightening once more into his typical prideful posture. In an instant his tenderness, the Bakugou he saved solely for Kirishima, was gone, and he was stalking off towards the ruined building once more, barking orders. Paramedics and sidekicks and police scattered from his path, jumping into action, and Kirishima could not help but laugh to himself; seniority suited Bakugou well, his bossy demands finally heeded now that he was the most experienced and respected hero among those present. Nearly thirty years of dominating the professional hero scene will do that for a man's reputation.

With a satisfied sigh, Kirishima flopped over onto the couch cushions and kicked his bare feet up onto the armrest, idly watching the report and straining his eyes for brief glimpses of pale hair and a disapproving frown. Bakugou was unhurt, and thankfully so were most of the inhabitants of the ill fated building, courtesy of Bakugou's intervention, but something writhing and queasy still hung low in Kirishima's belly. There was something more in the brief glances he caught of Katsuki's frown and the rigidity of his shoulders that belied tension, discontent, frustration.

But it would not do to call him again, Kirishima knew, even as he tapped idly at his phone where it lay on his stomach. Pestering Bakugou about anything, especially things that made him squirm, like feelings and concern, was a spectacular way to end up sleeping on the couch, alone, for four days. Kirishima knew that he was not a particularly smart man, but he also knew, after thirty-two years of loving Katsuki and nineteen years of calling him his spouse, that Bakugou was a petulant brat when he wanted to be. It was usually best to wait him out, to wait for the pressure of his thoughts against the inside of his skull to overwhelm him and explode like a pipe bomb, even if watching him struggle with the abundance of feeling was enough to break Kirishima's heart. At least by now Bakugou had developed enough awareness to contemplate the idea of expressing a bit of guilt over worrying his doting husband, not that he often stooped to doing so.

Kirishima huffed at the thought, tossing a wayward strand of his greying hair, long since back to its natural black, away from his face. Bakugou claimed to like it this way, threaded through with distinguished streaks of silver and swept back from his brow; and Kirishima was inclined to believe him, with the way he was always pushing his fingers into it and scratching at his scalp. They had both been lucky enough to bear age well, the creases crinkling around their eyes and framing Bakugou's mouth etched into their faces with the same handsome symmetry which they each wore youth, many years long past. Neither looked as weary as Aizawa did at thirty, despite being but a few years shy of fifty themselves, though they each felt it deep in their bones like the rings of trees. And Kirishima imagined that he should take that as the blessing it was, even if he did not feel the pride in the thought that Bakugou likely did.

His thoughts blurred the low hum of the news reel in the background, leaving him nearly dozing against the pillows until the clatter of keys in the door had him spastically searching for the remote and switching the channel to anything but the news. Cringing when some horrendously terrible drama flashed onto the screen, Kirishima tried to ignore the appalled expression Bakugou wore as he stood in the doorway, freshly showered with his work duffel slung across his chest.

"Katsuki!" Kirishima nearly shouted, failing to sound casual. "You made it home quickly!"

"The fuck are you watching, Eijirou?"

"A, um, drama?" he replied lamely, crossing to the doorway and taking Bakugou's coat. Bakugou shrunk away from the kiss Kirishima pressed to his temple, shouldering past and stomping into the kitchen. "Katsuki?"

The clattering of pans was his only response, and he ducked his head into the doorway to watch Bakugou aggressively set about making what appeared to be beef curry. His shoulders were set square and stiff, and they typical lithe familiarity he always seemed to have in the kitchen was conspicuously absent, replaced with something robotic and clumsy.

"What are you making, Katsuki?" Kirishima asked sweetly, cautiously settling into a stool at the island and giving Bakugou some space. "You know, if you're tired, I don't mind just getting something on the way to the agency tonight, you don't have to cook. It's really no—"

Bakugou slammed the knife in his hand down on the cutting board with a startling clatter, and scallions were scattered across the granite of the countertop, rolling aimlessly. "God damn it, Eijirou! Won't you let me do this for you?!"

Kirishima narrowed his gaze, staring with discontent at Bakugou's back as his muscles tensed repeatedly beneath his shirt. Frowning, he rose from seat and closed the space between them, his hands wandering from the firm plane of the blond's shoulders and down his arms, fingertips brushing along Bakugou's calloused palms.

"I'm not sure what's going on, but I don't think I deserved that, Katsuki."

"I know," he replied in a great heave of breath, all the strain leaving him at once as if his soul was leaving his body.

He slumped, hands in brutal fists around Kirishima's fingers, and Eijirou sighed patiently, resting his cheek against the back of Bakugou's head, where a long, jagged scar trailed from beneath his collar up into his hairline. The temptation to press his lips to it, to taste the slickness of the long healed wound, was so strong that he could feel the longing in his gut like eels in a bucket, electric and writhing and restless. Instead, Kirishima turned his face into the soft prickle of that short-cropped hair, nuzzling against the rhythmic knobs of Bakugou's spine until he finally spoke again, voice neutral.

"Deku's kid is graduating from Yuuei in three weeks."

"Oh," Kirishima said dumbly, pulling away from his lazy contentment to study Bakugou's expression over his shoulder, jolted by the sudden change in both topic and demeanor. "I completely forgot. And don't call Hisaya "Deku's kid"; you're her godfather."

"So is fucking Half-and-Half, what do I care?"

"Katsuki," he scolded gently, unfazed by the violent outburst and dangerously crackling palms, and turning Bakugou in his arms to lean against the countertop, chest to chest. The blond refused to meet his gaze, stubbornly staring at one of the wayward bits of scallion that had managed to escape across the kitchen floor, his ears an amusing, adolescent red. "Katsuki, I don't know what's going on, but whatever it is, I'm sure we've seen worse, yeah? You don't have to talk to me now, but we both know you will eventually. We've done this enough times by now."

Bakugou sniffed bitterly, a pained expression pasted across his face that reminded Kirishima of the late nights after Kamino Ward, when the world seemed too small for everything in Katsuki's heart and the silence too quiet even for whispers in confidence. Thirty years of keeping each other's secrets, of knowing each other's fears, of holding one another steady when the tremors of nightmares wracked even their wakeful hours, and that look of silently prideful agony still cut Kirishima like a blade. Bakugou was the only weapon to breach his defenses, and he was glad to take every wound he dealt, if it meant healing one of Bakugou's own.

"Eijirou," he began slowly, voice jerking like the tremors in the fingers that grasped at Kirishima's wrists. "Have… have I given you enough?"

"Wha?"

"There's so much… and… fucking damn it," Bakugou huffed, flustered, as his gaze fell on the ring around Kirishima's neck, and it seemed to Kirishima that the matching band against Bakugou's chest must have weighed eleven tons. "Are there things that you haven't had, or… been able to do? Because of me?"

Kirishima's eyes flew wide and appalled, horrified by the insecurity in the blond's tone. Bakugou was never so uncertain; he merely arrived like a wildfire and burnt everything to ash, taking what he wanted without apology and rarely looking back. But perhaps that was the issue, at the core of it all. He had grown more aware with age, learning to glean with discretion from those around him, and becoming selfish not merely for his own sake but for the sake of others. He refused to admit it as generosity, but it was in essence – and intent – so close that Kirishima's heart sang with pride and wonder at the miracle of Bakugou Katsuki. Still, there was much that had already been taken; things too late to atone for. But Kirishima knew that, long ago. He grinned and bore it, he fought and clawed and screamed for what was his that would not be stolen by Bakugou's flame, and despite the difficulty of it all, he loved him all the same. Everyone one knew that Bakugou was difficult. Perhaps Bakugou was finally realizing it as well.

"Katsuki, there's nothing—"

"No, Ei. I know there is. After I saw Deku today—"

"Midoriya was at the scene from earlier? It wasn't mentioned on the news at all," Kirishima complained, confused.

"It doesn't matter!" Bakugou shouted, tearing away to pace restlessly around the kitchen. "He came by the agency for some paperwork, and he fucking muttered on and on about his damn kids and how proud he is and how perfect his fucking life is, and… and you could've had all of that!"

"With… Deku?"

"No, you idiot! With anyone but me!"

Bakugou was panting, chest heaving hard against his shirt, and Kirishima could only stare, dumbfounded at the absurdity of it all. The creases of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and between his furrowed brows made him look livid, aged, weary down to his core. Kirishima sucked a sad breath between his teeth, moving to smooth his thumbs along the harsh edges of Bakugou's lips, drifting along those aristocratic cheekbones, and threading into greying hair, still unnoticeable amidst the moonlight paleness of his natural blond.

"Katsuki," Kirishima mournfully whined, pulling the other man closer to press his lips to his brow. "Oh, Katsuki. Do you think I'm not capable of making my own decisions?"

"I'm—" Bakugou began indignantly, only to be cut off by the brief flutter of a kiss against his chin.

"I have put up with your bullshit for more than thirty years," Kirishima said with a gentle smile, savoring the way his husband's eyes widened for a moment in surprise. "If I wanted to be with someone easy, or if I really wanted kids to brag about, I wouldn't have married younineteen years ago. Come on, I'm supposed to be the dumb one, remember? Don't outshine me in my own department."

After a long moment of stunned silence, Bakugou made an ugly noise that could have nearly passed for a snort of laughter if his hands were not still shaking, and he sank against Kirishima's chest reluctantly, face buried in the muscular slope of his shoulder. Out of shame or relief, Bakugou stayed burrowed against him for several minutes, seemingly content in their lazy swaying and the calloused fingers tracing the scar along the back of his neck.

"But you love kids," Bakugou added petulantly, long after the tension had drained from his body, as if the notion had just occurred to him. "I don't. So you just let me keep you from being a father?"

"Well," Kirishima said, chin nestled in unruly blond hair. "It's a lot more fun when you can give them back at the end of the day."

At that Bakugou did laugh, just a harsh, aborted thing, and Kirishima smiled like a teenager again, only the happy wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the quiet wisdom of an aged heart tempering his radiance. Time had calmed them both, as it cools hot iron into something stronger, but there would always remain things that could not be cooled no matter how long they persisted; like Bakugou's temper, or Kirishima's patience, or what they felt for each other. Regardless of what they did or did not have, or how difficult it all could be, they at least had each other, and that was enough.

"You know that we still have to go buy Hisaya a graduation gift, right?" Kirishima teased, chuckling when Bakugou groaned as if inflicted with a mortal wound. Pleased with himself, Kirishima draped his arms along Bakugou's shoulders, grinning cheekily against his lips in a lazy kiss and savoring Bakugou's petulant concession. "I love you, you know."

Bakugou snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah. I know."

Satisfied, Kirishima pressed a final kiss to Bakugou's brow before stepping away to collect the errant scallions that littered the countertop and floor. "Don't go fussing over things like that anymore. You know what worrying about you does to my stomach."

"Then don't worry so damn much. Shit," Bakugou swore in response, guilt painted plain across his face as he stared stubbornly at Kirishima's back. "And Ei… I love you too. Even if I don't say it as often as you deserve."

Kirishima grinned. "Yeah. I know."