Chapter Text
Mina Ashido walked in front of the dugout, eyeing up the chatter before pointing a long, pink manicured nail directly at Kirishima. He was tucked behind Ojiro and Kaminari, their hands rapidly firing rock, paper, scissors for some unknown debate that he was sure even they had forgotten. If she wasn’t so eye catching, Kirishima may have kept his glance down, invested in best two out of three. Or was it four out of seven by now? But the bright, neon sky blue jacket, coupled with her soft, pink curls, caused him to glance up for just a millisecond; enough that she was able to pounce.
“Kirishima, a word?” She curled her finger, a quick wink as she attempted to make her request inviting. She failed. Kirishima slumped his shoulders and he let out a heavy sigh, trudging his way towards the few steps up to the grounds.
“Don’t seem so happy to see me,” she teased, adjusting her jacket as she glanced from Kirishima to the cameraman standing a few feet away from them. She held out her hand to place on Kirishima’s shoulder, moving him into an acceptable spot; dugout behind them and the sun angled to light her face.
“You know, there are 8 other guys in the dugout. All itching for your attention,” Kirishima said back. He had no bite to his comment as he let her push his hair out of his face.
“Yeah, but none of them are the Star. I give the fans what they want.” She adjusted the hem of his uniform collar to sit flat, reaching out with her other hand to get the wireless mic from her cameraman.
“I’m not the-“ Kirishima started, but was cut off by her pinching his leg just out of frame.
“We are here at Chiba stadium with The Marines’ Star Kirishima Eijirou. Heading into the final bout of the series, The Marines are 0-2 against Tokyo’s Giants. Any insight to those last two loses, Kirishima?” Mina held out the mic towards Kirishima.
He stared at her intently as she spoke, trying to come up with a witty remark to the gut wrenching question that was just thrown at him. He couldn’t help the smile that spread over his face, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Wow, Ashido. Way to punch below the belt with the first question,” he chuckled.
“Warm up is starting soon. And I’ve got more pressing questions to ask.” Ashido nudged his elbow, winking again. Kirishima dreaded the implications behind that wink, but shrugged, pressing onwards.
“I mean, we’re not happy about the losses. Especially not against the Giants. They are a tough team, but they weren’t necessarily playing better than us. We had a few errors and when you’re going against a formidable opponent, you can’t afford to let up.”
Kirishima glanced back at the dugout briefly. He watched as Sero, his arm slung over Kaminari’s shoulder, spoke into his ear; Kirishima only hoped saying words of affirmation. This was not the moment to be razzing on the short stop.
“So what’s the plan for today?” Ashido prompted.
“Clear the bases and solid pitching.”
“No errors?”
“Not a one,” Kirishima promised. They needed this win, especially on home field. If they let a series sweep start off their first run at the Giants, they were fucked. Not only would it suck momentum from the team, but it would loose the fans’ faith in them early on. In no way could they let that happen. In no way was he going to let that happen.
“One more question before I let you go. Any opinion on the new PT joining your organization?” The smirk that graced Ashido’s face was nothing if not obvious.
“Oh, we all met the doc last week. So far he’s fitting in great with the team and really knows his stuff.” Kirishima pushed past the flirty smile Ashido still wore, trying to keep his opinion professional.
“I hear he’s a real looker,” Ashido poked. If he didn’t have a camera pointed directly at his face, he would have rolled his eyes. Instead he tried his best to keep the blood from rushing to his cheeks. He took a moment, keeping his eyes focussed on her while he contemplated exactly how he wanted to follow up his first comment. Double down, just repeat his last sentiment? Or be honest and let the whole Kanto region get a little glimpse into their Star’s personal preferences.
Fuck it.
“Ha! Was that your pressing question, Mina? I mean, yeah, the guy’s hot, what can I say? But it pales in comparison to how hard he’s already pushing himself for the team. We’re indebted to him already and with his efforts, and our hard work, he’ll make an impact on the organization for sure.”
“Quite the impact, I’m sure,” Ashido giggled. Kirishima pushed the hair away from his face, fully rolling his eyes at her. She deserved it.
“I appreciate your time, Kirishima,” Ashido finished up. “Knock ‘em dead and we’ll see you after the ninth.”
She dropped the mic and the cameraman immediately turned, capturing b-roll of the stadium as it quickly filled with patrons.
“Or you could bug any of the other guys on the team!” Kirishima called after her as she was already sauntering away, tossing a polite wave of gratitude over her shoulder.
He trotted down the steps, back into the dugout. Iida held out his cap, Kirishima taking it with a smile.
“Thanks, man.” Shoving it over his hair, he tucked under the few strand of red near his ears that always stuck out. Music started to boom overhead, as the crowd’s cheering escalated. The life of the stadium was waking up just in time for them to take the field for warmups. Kirishima walked the line down the dugout, like he did at the start of every warm up, patting each teammate’s shoulder as they headed out. The last one on the line today was Kaminari. He kept his grip a bit tighter than usual, holding Kaminari in place. Leaning in, he spoke in a low voice.
“No errors today, Denks.”
“No errors, Eij.” Kaminari held his gaze before nodding, pushing away from Kirishima’s hand.
——————————
The volume of the crowd carried down the hallway, nearly following Kirishima into the locker room. He had been captured by Ashido after the win, being congratulated from all angles, making it difficult to hear her. Thinking back to the brief conversation, he hoped he answered her properly and didn’t come off sounding too dumb.
The team had rushed off the field, jumping over each other as Kirishima followed shortly after. He had paused to sign a ball being handed to him, tossing it back softly. The grin spreading over the young kid’s face as he displayed the newly signed memorabilia to his mom swelled Kirishima’s heart. As he disappeared from view down the tunnel towards the locker room, he pulled off his cap, pushing the sweat soaked hair off his forehead.
“So you think I’m hot?” The voice caught Kirishima’s attention. He lifted his gaze to see Bakugo, leaning with one foot pressed flat against the wall, and his arms crossed. The black compression shirt with a white embroidered ‘M’ hugged his chest, and the sleeves were scrunched up to his elbows, showing off the toned forearms Kirishima appreciated so much.
The words stopped Kirishima in his tracks, switching his trajectory from mindlessly walking towards the locker rooms to that of a path aimed in Bakugo’s direction. He slowed his speed, sauntering towards the same wall, leaning on his shoulder so he could face Bakugo.
“It’s an objective fact. I hope I wasn’t out of line stating the obvious,” Kirishima kept his smile coy, watching Bakugo’s face for any change in expression.
He’d met Bakugo a week ago today. The only expressions he’d come to know was an annoyed scowl and a disapproving glare. As Bakugo looked back at Kirishima, he saw a small pull at the corner of Bakugo’s mouth. Could it be? A smile?
“Good work today.” Simple, yet direct.
Kirishima dramatically clutched his hand over his chest, gripping his heart and tossing his head back.
“That’s all I ever wanted to hear. Praise from Doctor Bakugo.” Kirishima peered down to try to get a glimpse of Bakugo. When he saw the smile grow, Kirishima moved his head back, pointing at the newly discovered expression. “Scratch that. This is all I ever wanted. Is that a smile?”
As immediately as it formed, the smile vanished.
“Shut up, moron.” Bakugo retorted.
“Let me take you out.” The words left Kirishima’s mouth before his brain had a chance to process what he was thinking. Most likely a symptom of the winner’s high coursing through his veins. But it was out there and as he held his breath waiting for a response, he watched Bakugo’s eyes dart to the side, avoiding meeting Kirishima’s gaze.
“How’s the shoulder?” Bakugo kept his eyes glued to the floor, intrigued by a stain or scratch or some bullshit.
“Fine. Elbows a bit stiff though.” At the throwaway information, Bakugo snapped back his focus on Kirishima, but this time the disapproving glare was now plastered on his face. He kicked off the wall, stepping closer to Kirishima, reaching out both hands to cup around Kirishima’s right forearm. He guided his palm up, his fingers pressing around Kirishima’s joint. Bakugo’s eyes focused on Kirishima’s face, looking for any sign of discomfort. As an index finger poked near the outside of his elbow, Kirishima frowned reflexively at the sharp pain. Bakugo’s fingers stopped roaming, instead pressing around the area of pain. His other hand, still holding Kirishima’s forearm, moved down to grip his palm, starting to rotate Kirishima’s lower arm as his fingertips pushed deeper.
Standing this close, Kirishima could smell the scent of Bakugo’s soap; a rich, woodsy scent with a hint of sweetness underneath. He stared at Bakugo as he worked on his arm, wanting to say something clever, something witty, something to make that smile return to Bakugo’s lips.
“How’s that?” Bakugo’s touch vanished. Kirishima rotated his elbow in every direction he could. He nodded once in approval. Bakugo reached out to pat his shoulder as he walked the opposite direction down the hall.
“Thanks,” Kirishima mumbled.
“Ice it tonight. I’ll check on it tomorrow morning when you guys are in for practice,” Bakugo’s voice carried down the hall. Kirishima didn’t look back. He instead forced his feet to move the few extra steps into the locker room, to be met with hands pulling him into a celebratory group hug.
——————————
The heat of the shower penetrated into his muscles, finally giving him reprieve from the overall soreness that enveloped him after every game. His shoulders slumped under the water; he moved his neck slowly from side to side, loosening the tightness. He ended up the last one in the locker room, which he didn’t hate. The quietness was deafening, but comforting.
Slipping on the well worn white hoodie, a grey seagull embroidered on the front, and a loose pair of jeans, he made sure to collect an ice pack from the shelf of supplies sitting outside the training room. He pushed his right sleeve up, cracking the pack to activate the chemical reaction, and pressed it against his elbow as he walked towards the exit. The stadium was eerily quiet, only a few janitorial staff still milled about at this hour. Kirishima nodded graciously at them as he reached the door leading to the players’ cars.
The ride wasn’t long. He’d found a place not far from the stadium when he was traded to Chiba, knowing he wouldn’t be home much anyway. Training every day, coupled with a plethora of away games, he would never really get a chance to feel like his apartment was his respite. In fact, he felt more at home in the Chiba locker rooms than here. Not to say he didn’t have a nice place, but he kept it modest.
Nicely furnished, plenty of books and a suitable tv for watching highlights at 3am when he couldn’t sleep, top of the line appliances, even though he really only used the blender. It was only a one bedroom, because even if he ever had a guest, which he didn’t, he was fine taking the couch. It was nice. It was a place to rest his head until he had to get up in a few hours for his morning run.
He dropped his bag on the floor and stepped out of his slides, tossing the now warmed ice pack on the kitchen counter as he moved towards his freezer. Pulling out a box of frozen food, the perfectly curated meal that his nutritionist provided him, he stuck it in the microwave, hopping on the counter beside it as he blindly hit the start button.
Kirishima reached for his phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media, bypassing the endless notifications of likes, follows, comments, and dm’s. He saw a few clips from his game (scrolling back to rewatch Sero’s double play to win the game), a cat compilation of orange tabbies getting caught inside things, and suggested reels of new workout techniques that he didn’t care about.
His texts were full of congrats from family and friends. He had an email from the manager saying he wanted to chat tomorrow. No elaboration, which sunk a heavy rock in the pit of his stomach, but he tried to brush it off. Tashigi was always cryptic with the dull stuff. If it were bad news, he would have spelt it out.
As the ding of the microwave signalled his meal was ready, Kirishima picked up the tv remote, which he had left on the counter from the last time he did this. Sitting on the marble counter in the open kitchen, watching the day’s highlights while a perfectly comfortable couch sat in front of him, Kirishima slowly ate away at the chicken, rice, and sautéed veggies.
——————————
“You’re on thin ice, Kirishima,” Tashigi started even before the door to his office shut.
“For what?” Kirishima took a seat, staring confused at his manager across the desk. The office was small, just enough room for a pine desk, riddled with loose paperwork, two dark leather club chairs, and a white dry-erase board placed behind Tashigi’s back. It had already been erased, but a faint colouration depicted plans for the next starting lineup.
“He’s too good for us and I’m not about to lose him because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.” Tashigi leaned forward, the ball cap he wore covering the shaggy mop of greying hair, the ends protruding out wildly. He rested his elbows on the desk, pushing aside some papers, and pressed his chin into his raised fists. Kirishima sat for a moment, taking in the comment before bellowing out a deep laugh.
“You talking about that stupid interview with Ashido yesterday?” Kirishima leaned back in his chair, feeling more at ease.
“Kirishima-“
“Tashigi. Please. You don’t have to worry about anything. I respect the man and I think I can manage to hold my inhibitions at bay.” Kirishima smoothed out his pants, preparing to stand up, assuming this ridiculous topic was finished.
“I’m serious, Kirishima. Shit like that-“
“Did I say anything offensive?” Kirishima paused.
“No, but-“
“Did I speak of him with respect?”
“Yes.”
“Did I say anything untrue? Come on, be honest,” Kirishima winked.
“Kirishima.” Tashigi’s tone brought Kirishima back to sitting properly.
“Look, boss. I get it. I got roped in by Ashido. Hasn’t been the first time. Won’t be the last. But I promise you, I would never cross the line with our physical therapist. I’m nothing if not professional. Am I allowed to think he’s been chiseled by the Gods? Sure. Should I have voiced that opinion on national tv? Okay, yeah, probably not.”
Tashigi frowned.
“I’m sorry and it won’t happen again,” Kirishima dragged his finger over his heart in an x.
“Work with Kaminari on ground outs today. He can’t fuck it up again.” The rate at which Tashigi switched subjects nearly gave Kirishima whiplash. His manager was shuffling through some of the pile of papers, seemingly looking for some specific document.
“He knows.” Kirishima settled into the chair a bit more, waiting for more directions for practice. When silence fell between them it took far too long for Tashigi to look back up. Seeing Kirishima slumped back, he waved his hand.
“Go! Practice! What the fuck do I pay you for?” Tashigi groaned.
Kirishima stood, shaking his head as he pulled the door open. He headed down the hallway, turning left and then right to pass by the training room. Peeking through the window as he walked by, he saw a few of the guys working out, but no Kaminari.
He tugged his cap on, tucking in the hairs that were too long, and turned the next corner to head towards the field. Setting his pace at a slow jog, he figured he would do a couple laps around the stadium to warm up as he waited for some of the guys to join him outside. His footing faltered when he heard a sharp whistle behind him.
He turned around, keeping his movement towards the field as he slowly walked backwards when he spotted Bakugo, who was easily catching up to him. He was wearing the same black shirt and khaki pants as yesterday, but today had a white scrub shirt over top. His hair was perfectly styled, the undercut doing wonders to accentuate his neck.
“Good morning, Dr. Bakugo.” Kirishima said with as plain a tone as he could muster.
The look that overtook Bakugo’s features made Kirishima’s stomach flip. There was a flash of confusion followed by a laugh. A genuine laugh; albeit short.
“You sick or something? Why so formal?” Bakugo reached Kirishima, still standing a few feet away, with his hand resting in his hip.
“Oh no, sir,” Kirishima cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. “I’ve just been informed that my obvious admiration of you has no place in this organization.”
“Tashigi give you shit?” Bakugo laughed again, softly this time. Kirishima relished the sound.
“Yeah. He doesn’t understand,” Kirishima sighed.
“Doesn’t understand what?”
“That I would treat you so well.”
“Shut up, moron.” But the smile that Bakugo wore warmed Kirishima. Sure, it was harmless, but it was flirting nonetheless. He knew it would go no where, even though Kirishima would give the world for the opportunity to try to make this man happy. And if him being a heart on his sleeve fool made that smile appear, by Gods above he would never stop.
“I’ll shut up on one condition,” Kirishima smirked.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Bakugo took a brief glance behind him at the sound of a few guys heading their way towards the field. So much for Kirishima getting in a few laps.
“You let me take you out.”
“You’re nothing if not consistent, huh?” Bakugo crossed his arms, rolling his eyes, but Kirishima noticed the faint smile on his lips.
“I’m an all or nothing kind of guy.”
“I see that,” Bakugo paused. Kirishima waited, anticipating the polite decline, or the abrupt change of subject that Bakugo so often performed. “Tell you what. In two weeks, when I go to Osaka with you guys…buy me a drink.”
“Wait, seriously?” Kirishima tried to keep his focus on Bakugo as Iida and Shoji passed them, knocking Kirishima’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure he heard correctly, but prayed he did.
“One drink. Hotel bar.”
“Why?” Kirishima shouldn’t have pushed his luck. He should have just shut up and accepted the terms of the date.
“You’ll find out soon enough that I’m not who you think.” Bakugo crossed his arms, taking a few slow steps backwards, anticipating Kirishima following the boys out to the field.
“Did you have a question for me?” Kirishima realized that Bakugo had chased him down and he had never found out why. The falter in Bakugo’s steps made Kirishima raise his eyebrow.
“Nah. It’s nothing. Just saw you pass the training room. Come see me when you’re done and I’ll take a look at that elbow again.” With that, Bakugo turned to head back down the hall towards the training rooms leaving Kirishima smiling to himself.
——————————
Kirishima was in the Osaka hotel room at 9:50pm on Wednesday evening, two weeks later. He tossed his bag on the chair in the corner, pulling out the outfit he planned to wear. In no way was he showing up to sit next to Bakugo wearing the clothes he’d spent four hours sitting on the train in.
Within ten minutes, he was dressed in a pair of dark jeans, a plain black t-shirt, with his hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, walking into the hotel bar. From the brightly lit lobby, the contrast to the dim atmosphere of the bar meant Kirishima had to take a moment for his eyes to adjust. The walls were a deep mahogany, the lighting rich amber hues, making the warmth of the space radiate; a welcoming feeling from the blasted air conditioning of his room.
He couldn’t see Bakugo, so decided to take a seat at the long bar, stretching nearly ten feet before it wrapped around. Even at the late hour, two bartenders were working, one quickly making eye contact with him as he sat down.
“Just a water with lime, please,” Kirishima ordered. The drink was quickly presented to him on a black coaster before the bartender moved back to her co-worker.
Kirishima glanced at his watch to make sure he wasn’t late, and in the corner of his eye caught a glimpse of the blonde hair making its way towards him.
Bakugo looked good. Like, really fucking good. Kirishima had only ever seen him in his work clothes; normally some style of Marines’ issued compression shirt, well fitting khaki pants, and depending on the specific work, sometimes a scrub shirt, or a black zip up hoodie. And always a pair of black sneakers with an orange x embroidered on the side. Today, he wore black pants, tight on the thigh, a dark grey button up under an oversized light grey cardigan. He had black loafers and a small, black hoop earring in one ear.
Kirishima looked back at his water, with more interest than necessary.
“Started without me,” Bakugo said as he took the empty seat beside Kirishima, lifting two fingers in the air to signal the bartender.
“Oh, well, not really…” Kirishima smirked, stealing a glance at Bakugo again as his attention was focused on the girl taking his order. Suntory whiskey on the rocks. They both sat in silence until the highball was presented to Bakugo, placed on a similar black coaster with a napkin beside.
“Excited for the game tomorrow?” Bakugo took a slow sip from his glass, turning to face Kirishima as he rested his elbow against the bar.
“What is this, an interview? You giving Ashido a run for her money?” Kirishima chuckled, also adjusting in his seat to face Bakugo. He dragged his drink closer to the edge, keeping his hand on the glass so he didn’t feel the need to fidget.
“God no.” Bakugo took another sip. This time longer than the first.
“Of course I’m excited. I love an away game. Feels like charging into battle,” Kirishima answered earnestly.
“Are you always this cliche?”
“Hey!” Kirishima nudged Bakugo’s shoulder. “Okay, whatever. Yeah, I’m pumped. Going against the odds and still coming out on top? Who wouldn’t love that?”
“You sure are confident. Never met someone as hopelessly optimistic as you are.” Bakugo let out that low, soft laugh that Kirishima was quickly becoming addicted to.
“Really? Never?” Kirishima knocked the lime off the rim, watching it push the ice around to clink against the glass. “How many teams have you worked for?”
“Just two. Baltimore in the States and Sendai.” Another sip.
“And you went to Waseda University, right? You had to have met a ton of athletes there. I can’t be the only optimist out here.” Kirishima took a long sip of his drink, realizing Bakugo was staring at him with a small smile.
“You looked me up?”
“What do you mean?” Kirishima felt the heat pooling at the base of his neck. He reached his palm to press against the skin, trying to hide the emerging blush.
“You know where I went to school?” The smile was still there. He must not have creeped out Bakugo too much.
“I mean, I gotta know how skilled the hands are that will be fixing me up, y’know?” Kirishima flashed a smile, hoping to keep his asking around the admin offices about Bakugo a secret.
“Right. Sure,” Bakugo nodded slowly, seemingly letting it go. “And no, to answer your question, I have never met anyone as…bright as you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, doc.” Kirishima lifted his glass to his lips, pausing as Bakugo’s faint smile turned into a prominent frown.
“You know, you don’t actually have to call me that,” Bakugo mumbled, turning into his seat to face the bar.
“What? Doc?”
“Yeah. I’m not actually a doctor. Like, no PhD attached on my name. No credentials. No specialties. Fucking nothing but one degree from one university.” Bakugo tipped his glass, downing the remaining third of his whiskey. The ice clinked loudly as he placed the now empty glass back.
“Yeah. Sure. No medical certificate making your name that much longer. But you take care of us. We respect that about you,” Kirishima paused, finishing off his own water. “But if the nickname bugs you, I’ll stop. And I’ll tell the guys to stop, too.”
“A doctorate is a little more than a certificate, dumbass.” The smile returned. Kirishima felt a sense of accomplishment. Bakugo looked at his glass as he motioned for the bartender again. “What are you drinking?”
“Water with lime,” Kirishima answered plainly.
“Wat-“ Bakugo started to order, pausing to look at Kirishima with a raised eyebrow. “Water with lime and another Sentory, please.”
The bartender took their empty glasses away, leaving them as she prepared the new drinks.
“Are you not drinking?” Bakugo turned to face Kirishima again. A little part of Kirishima’s insides flipped in excitement when he felt the brush of Bakugo’s knee on his.
“I don’t drink.”
“Oh. Well…shit.” Bakugo pulled a hand through his hair. His forehead lay bare for just a moment before his bangs fell back. Kirishima eyes immediately travelled to the smooth skin, picturing what it would feel like under his calloused fingers.
“It’s cool, man. It’s not like I’m against it, or like an alcoholic, or something. I just…don’t. Never really have. It’s essentially poison, and I never felt the need to.” Kirishima nodded in gratitude as their bartender placed fresh drinks down, immediately reaching for his water.
“You’re still buying my drinks.” Bakugo could only have made what Kirishima insisted was a pout. Kirishima let out a laugh, loud enough that he was glad the bar wasn’t too full at this hour.
Kirishima shifted in his seat, leaning against the bar, letting his left leg press against Bakugo’s. When he didn’t pull away, Kirishima felt a rush of thoughts flood his brain. The incredulous realization that after a month, he had finally had a moment alone with this man for longer than two minutes.
He had been enraptured with him from the moment Bakugo walked through the clubhouse, and the more he had brief interactions with him, the more drawn to him Kirishima became. In the training room he never flirted; always ensured he kept himself behind the figurative line he would never cross. But walking the halls, after hours in the parking lot, brief glances over lunch breaks; Kirishima took every opportunity he could to get closer to Bakugo. And now, sitting so close their knees pressed in to each other, he finally felt a pull from the other direction. Bakugo was letting him in.
Kirishima cleared his throat, focussing on asking at least one of the hundreds of questions he yearned to know.
“So, studied in Tokyo. Moved to America. Now back home. What brought you to Chiba? Cause I know we’re not the flashiest team.” There was a brief silence as Kirishima watched Bakugo contemplating how honest he would be. Apparently one and a half whiskeys made him honest enough.
“I moved out here to be closer to my mom after my dad passed away.” Bakugo sighed, reaching for his glass, only to put it back down.
“Oh man, I’m sorry Bakugo.” Kirishima wanted to reach out, but let his hand drop, unsure what would be welcomed. Bakugo simply shrugged.
“It’s fi- actually yeah. Thanks. It sucked. I loved my dad. And he was too good to my mom. So I came out to Chiba.” The glass met his lips again, this time he took a small sip.
“So definitely not due to the up and coming fan favourite team, huh?” Kirishima let out a low laugh, more to himself. He felt a push from Bakugo’s knee against his.
“Don’t knock yourselves short. You’ve got a good team. But no, you technically can’t afford me.” The smirk on Bakugo’s lips made Kirishima heart skip.
“Are we a charity case?” Kirishima pressed his hand over his chest, playing it off as jokingly hurt, when in fact he was trying to center himself from his heart beating too fast.
“No,” Bakugo laughed. “Like I said, you’re a good team. But Tokyo would have been paying me more.”
“So what are you saying?”
“Don’t get your feathers all ruffled. I’m not saying shit. You asked why Chiba. I’m telling you. I chose this, I asked to come here.” Bakugo finished his drink with one last, long sip. When the bartender started to walk over to offer another round, he waved her away.
“Are you miserable?” Kirishima tempted fate, begging the gods to reassure him that Bakugo believed he had made the right choice.
“No. Actually, I’m happy here.” Bakugo gaze looked far away as he stared down to his empty glass.
“Seriously? We don’t make you want to pull your hair out?” Kirishima poked Bakugo’s bicep with his finger.
“Yes, you do.” Bakugo laughed again. Fuck, that was such a beautiful sound.
“So what is it? Happier being close to mom?”
“Fuck no. She makes me want to rip my hair out more than you guys.” Bakugo scoffed. “It’s…honestly, I like the team. You’re good guys. You care. Not just about the game. All players care about the game. You guys…you’re tight. You’re a family. And the fans are your family by extension. You make people feel like they are home here. It’s a good feeling.”
Kirishima took a moment to watch Bakugo’s profile. As he memorized the outline of his jaw, the words sunk in, making him smile at the notion.
“Well yeah,” Kirishima hummed as he thought for a moment of his time in Chiba. “We would be nothing without the people around us. The team isn’t just the ten guys and the bullpen. It’s everyone working hard and finding it in themselves to push further every day. Every win is their win. The whole organization. The fans. Everyone. I couldn’t do what I do without their support.”
“Spoken like the true Star.” Bakugo smirked.
“I’m not the-“
“Why do you do that?” Bakugo’s gaze finally looked at Kirishima. Their eyes met before Kirishima looked away.
“Do what?” His hand moved to the back of his neck again, squeezing at the tense muscles.
“Every time someone calls you the Star. You deny it. What’s with that?” Bakugo straightened a bit, keeping his gaze focussed fully on Kirishima, as if looking for a clue.
“I’m not good enough for that.” It was plain to say, no further explanation. There were players with greater longevity on the team who deserved it more than him. The moniker of Star wasn’t earned on friendliness and positivity alone.
“.320 average? 100 RBI? .390 OBP? Sounds pretty fucking good,” Bakugo listed off.
“I guess I just thought it’d be different.”
“What would?”
“If I were the Star. I figured I would feel unstoppable. Feel like I’m the best. But I don’t.” Kirishima willed himself to look towards Bakugo. He felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. He had never felt comfortable having a spotlight shone on him, even though people found that hard to believe. Simply because the light gravitated towards him didn’t mean he felt as if he deserved it.
“The Kirishima Eijirou doesn’t feel like the best?” Bakugo rested his head on his hand. Kirishima’s eyes watched the sleeve of his cardigan slipped down his forearm, showing for the first time tonight that Bakugo’s dress shirt sleeves were rolled up. Goddamn this man and his bare forearms.
Focus on the conversation, Eijirou.
“Ha! Fuck no. I strike out just like every other guy. I miss catches. I throw wide. I fuck up. It’s my team that catches the ball when I fumble. So what right do I deserve to be called the Star?”
“That.”
“Huh?” Kirishima crinkled his brow in confusion.
“That mentality.” Bakugo pointed a finger at Kirishima. “I don’t see it in a lot of players. And I’ve seen a lot of players. So trust me when I say you’re special. You don’t go down without a fight. You push to the very end. You raise this team to a higher standard. Start seeing that in yourself.”
Bakugo pushed off his seat, giving Kirishima’s knee a quick pat. He turned, slowly walking towards the exit.
“You know my stats,” Kirishima called after him.
“It’s my job,” Bakugo turned, walking backwards.
“You know my stats,” Kirishima said again through a lopsided grin, feeling his chest swelling.
“Shut up.” Bakugo smiled back; zero bite to his words.
“Let me take you out. Properly.”
“Can’t.” Bakugo turned, facing away from Kirishima again.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Won’t,” Bakugo called over his shoulder.
Kirishima signalled for the bill, ready to sign the drinks to his room, as he kept his eyes on the exit. The smile remained on his face until the moment he fell asleep that night.