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Anger Management

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When Kirishima dismissed the shadows under his eyes as the result of a sleepless night, no one questioned it. Tape Face slapped him on the back and valiantly offered to knock him out cold in his bed if need be. Katsuki barked that getting a concussion so fast out of recovery after his hospital stay with FatGum would be a dumb fucking idea.

When Kirishima smiled a grin as dim as fireflies upon being called out on his spacey look while sitting at the breakfast table the next morning and brushed it off as mere tiredness, no one questioned it. Privately though, a veneer of unease dragged cool spindly fingers down everybody’s back. Pikachu sat wide-eyed and adjusted his grip on his spoon one too many times.

And when Kirishima followed that exploit with a splitting headache as an excuse for bailing on movie night the following afternoon, no one dared to question it. Ashido sucked on her lower lips as she stared at her clasped hands in her lap.

It is too scary when the person they’ve all come to rely on to cheer up low spirits and turn blues into rock’ n’ roll is the one in need of a radio station change.

Predictably, fucking Deku is the first to come forward one afternoon after Kirishima’s been four days in his slump, his well-loved Notebook n.16 clutched in one hand and a dull-pointed pencil in the other. “I’ve been trying to complete my analysis on Crimson Riot for a while now, though I can’t really pin down what his reasoning was upon this declaration he made to Hero Weekly after the Kitagawa incident. And so I thought, why not ask an expert?”

Katsuki would have scoffed at the blatant lie—because he knows that Deku is nothing but methodical in the way he queues each of his hero analyses based on periods of activity and rankings, Crimson Riot must have come up on his list way before today—if not for the sudden glimmer in Kirishima’s eyes as he righted himself on the couch and patted the spot next to him. “Show me which interview you’re talking about!”

That spark in his voice burned its trail for not even a full week, and yet Katsuki’s chest expands in relief. The positive streak lasts for all the time Kirishima spends sandwiched between Katsuki, who is studiously focused on a Wikipedia article on chronic exhaustion while offering the most noncommittal-looking physical contact he can tolerate for such a long period, and an hunched-down Deku scribbling every syllable out of Kirishima’s mouth on the relation between Crimson Riot’s morals and the abridged code adopted by his sidekicks upon becoming pros.

Yet, the clock doesn’t stop spinning for anyone, and even Deku’s focus wanes after nearly two hours of college-level seminar on the intricacies of heroic conduct. He’s flagging, misunderstanding Kirishima’s words, and pathetically mixing up terms. Where Katsuki would’ve fucking blown him for the disrespect, Kirishima just laughs and slaps him on the shoulder.

“C’mon man, you’re tired,” he says, “if you think you need more any info, just ask me when you’re not dead on your feet.”

Katsuki slings a look at Deku’s sheepish face as he apologizes for his “short” attention span at least six times. Their eyes meet as Deku walks past him on the way to his room, and Katsuki finds that the habitual annoyed spike in his gut is smothered by uncomfortable gratefulness for Deku’s efforts in keeping Kirishima’s mind off whatever is eating at him. He and Deku have come to a tentative truce after their last showdown in Ground Gamma, but now Katsuki can see it grow steadier foundation in their shared friendship with Kirishima. Gross.

Katsuki grunts and nudges his elbow in Kirishima’s ribs. “Just think what you could fucking do if you put all that dedication in your goddamn studies.”

Kirishima laughs and slumps harder against him, his equally noncommittal way of acknowledging Katsuki’s compliments. It’s a fine line they walk. Hero training is hard, and hero life is harder, and this friendship is the easiest element in the equation—it’s too precious to fuck it up on half-digested high school feelings.

“But then I’d have no reason to barge in your room when I want to see you!”

To some, the line is thicker than others’.

Katsuki huffs and locks his phone. “Shitty Hair,” he calls after a moment, “What’s on your mind?”

Kirishima hums, wringing his hands in his lap for a second, two, before he sighs and turns on the couch to slump back on Katsuki, this time pressing on his arm with his chest instead of his spine. “Just—something. I don’t know. It’s—I’ll figure it out.”

If there’s one thing that Katsuki has learned in the months spent observing the way Kirishima deals with woes – his own, Katsuki’s, everyone’s – is that sometimes you have to let up. Even if your idiot looks like he didn’t fucking sleep for a week straight and there’s a line you hate between his brows that’s only now smoothing out for the first time.

He pulls up the picture of a shuttlecock with a red crown of feathers and a yellowish head stabbed on a toothpick to stand upright that he saved to his camera roll earlier in the afternoon and shows it to Kirishima. “It you.”

:::

The effect of the Crimson Riot full immersion lasts for all of dinner and for an hour or two after. Long enough that the whole class 1-A can migrate back to the common room and spread on couches, chairs, and carpets to chat and play table games at which the Frog will mercilessly grind them in the dust.

Long enough that Pikachu can accidentally discharge a zap that singes the floor he’s sitting on when the Tail Guy nails his forehead with a paper ball from the other side of the room, where he’s building paper catapults with the Bird.

Long enough that the girls can commandeer Kirishima’s head against the couch they’re piled on so that they can free his hair of their gel prison and start on four different braids while Ashido ties his forelocks in a ridiculous ponytail that sits three inches vertical and then flops above his forehead.

Long enough that Katsuki’s eyelids begin drooping from where he’s sprawled on the couch across Kirishima. He decided to suffer an evening of socialization to keep an eye on the idiot, but actually spent it riveted by the way all of 1-A touches this softened, almost-back-to-normal Kirishima without qualms. Be it a finger poking at his cheek, a playful foot in the face, a fist bump after a sick burn, man, the entirety of the class comes together to soothe Kirishima’s superficial aches the same way he soothes their deep ones: through touch, camaraderie, and that Lo-Fi brand of humor he only turns on in the early AMs.

The effect of the Crimson Riot full immersion lasts for all of dinner and for an hour or two after—until Kirishima receives a text on his phone telling him that he can forego coming in at FatGum’s for his internship tomorrow since Suneater went and broke his fucking leg in a routine bust, and so he won’t be able to patrol with him as per schedule.

Katsuki dropkicks sleep out of his mind.

“Do you want to go see him at the hospital?” Tape Face asks after an uncomfortable pause in which they all subtly shake off the effect of watching Kirishima’s bright grin falling in real time.

“No, Recovery Girl saw to him and sent him home already. He only needs to sleep her care off, and the day after tomorrow he’ll be fine.”

For some reason, the thought of a swift recovery seems to make him sadder.

“Every broken bone is a lesson learned that will make him less of a shitty hero,” Katsuki says kicking at his shin, because he can only be supportive through one channel of communication at once when there’re so many people around.

Tape Face hisses through his teeth. “Sometimes I wish you would phrase your one-liners in a way I can suitably slap on motivational posters instead of this backhanded, vaguely insulting style you’ve got going on there.”

Katsuki bares his teeth at him. “Here’s another one-liner for you: shut the fuck up.” He wants the tangent cut off, because Kirishima has not raised his eyes from his phone, not even when Katsuki spoke, and there is such a wrong expression on his face, something terrible in the slackness of the muscles of his brow and cheeks. It’s not much about the presence of a frown or a pout; It’s about the absence of either. Kirishima’s face is a blank slate he wiped every emotion off of—an off-white canvas in a dim room.

Just a beat too late to look natural Kirishima laughs—so strained Jirou scrunches up her nose, so disgustingly and perfectly crafted to stonewall their worries, Katsuki wishes his explosions could slam through it.

“Would you look at that,” Kirishima exclaims, aware of the way everyone’s eyes are on him and playing up the plastic vibe he’s giving off because there’s no saving this situation, “It’s so late! I’m heading to bed, people. Behave, my children, while I am away.”

Katsuki’s hands detonate.

Not loud enough to startle anyone, but just enough that everybody’s eyes snap to him, Kirishima’s included. Katsuki ramps up the heat in his glare. If Kirishima thinks he can get away with that indecipherable look on his face and a half-assed excuse, he’s got another thing coming.

Katsuki did not welcome him in every corner of his life to be shut out of Kirishima’s. He will give him tonight to spill the beans, at whichever hour he decides to pull his head out of his ass. Tomorrow Katsuki will hunt him down.

The room is silent for a moment after Kirishima bids the last of his goodnights and the elevator dings closed.

Pikachu puts down his DS. “Hey Blasty, d’you have any idea what’s up with Kirishima?”

“You fucking afraid to ask him yourself that you come to me?” Katsuki snaps, snatching back his phone from the crease in the couch where it fell while he was dozing off.

His provocation is met with silence, and Ashido’s wide, guilty eyes—and Katsuki realizes that yes, they are scared to ask. Kirishima has the supposedly innate ability to recognize pains and insecurities and turn them into something bearable. He throws buoys out to people all day long. And now that Kirishima is the one that needs help, they don’t even know where the fucking buoys are at. They’re scared that if Kirishima tells them what’s weighing on his mind they won’t know how to handle it.

Katsuki’s sight fills with red. Whatever shit—whatever shit Kirishima is going through he doesn’t deserve to fight it alone. He scoffs, stalking out of the room. “Buncha heroes,” he spits.

:::

The next day is Saturday, and it’s raining. Pouring even. Katsuki swears under his breath. The sky looks heavy, laden with dark clouds that viciously murder the morning light so that there’s almost no difference between keeping the blinds open or shut.

And worst of all thunder never comes. That’s the saddest thing of the whole picture, really: an incomplete storm.

His mind runs to Kirishima. Maybe because Katsuki heard him moving around in his room way past midnight last night; or maybe because Katsuki kept replaying the stiffness of his laughter while he laid in bed; or maybe just because the guy is weather sensitive as shit.

But suddenly it is imperative that Katsuki bursts Kirishima’s door down and exacts an explanation for his behavior this week.

Yet, no sound transpired from the thin walls since Katsuki awoke this morning, and while Kirishima is not a late-riser by nature, Katsuki can let him have a few more minutes.

On days like these, Kirishima hardly leaves his room. The guy sobs in front of frustrated kittens mewling on YouTube, of course he’d be idiot enough to empathize with the fucking rain. He’s quoting the dumbass himself here, even the sky is sad. Kirishima is capable of ditching every meal until dinner so he doesn’t feel he’s bringing down the mood when he loiters in common areas hunting for food, the imbecile, so he can’t be left to his own devices.

The first stop Katsuki makes is at the kitchen then, where he whips up a quick breakfast of spicy scrambled eggs for himself he inhales straightaway and graciously holds off on the seasoning for Kirishima’s, and fills a tall glass of water.

Raccoon Eyes is on the couch when Katsuki strides past with Kirishima’ plate of eggs on his way to the elevator. She’s not even completely awake yet, but she pumps her hand at him in encouragement. No amount of Katsuki’s threatening spark-popping rids her of the knowing glint in her eyes.

Katsuki doesn’t bother knocking on Kirishima’s room because like hell Katsuki is giving him the option of shutting him out. Maneuvering doors open with his elbow is an art he perfected in early childhood when his palms would smart too much to touch anything more substantial than smoke, but that he hardly practices these days. Kirishima wordlessly fell in the rhythm of holding them open and closing them after him.

As expected, the room is a goddamn mess that Katsuki must walk like a minefield just to leave the plate and the glass on Kirishima’s nightstand. The blinds are only half open as if Kirishima took a look at the grey morning outside and gave up on the whole day altogether. Dumbbells are scattered on the floor from his late-night training session last night. His uniform lays carelessly folded down the back of his desk chair, and Katsuki eyes the dedicated hanger on the wardrobe handles two feet away, empty.

And Kirishima blinks bleary eyes at him with pillow creases on his cheek, half of his hair smoothed down his face and the other a bushy mess of flyaways and a ponytail he forgot to let loose, holding himself upright on his hands as he puzzles over Katsuki, in the flesh, hovering over his bed with his hands on his hips and glaring down at him at nine-thirty on a Saturday.

Kirishima clears his throat, eyes lowering to the plate on his nightstand. “Is—did you just bring me breakfast to bed?”

Katsuki chokes on his spit. He flounders for a moment, each retort he comes up with making the line under his feet slip one way or the other as if coated in shitty oil. “I—I forgot to spice the eggs. In the pan. Couldn’t fucking stomach eating them this bland.”

Kirishima smiles, and it’s just a fraction of the wattage of his usual smile, but it washes any lingering discomfort down Katsuki’s back and lights a fire under his neck.

There are still lines on Kirishima’s face, and his eyes are puffier than normal, and those might be dried tears on his pillow, but Katsuki feels like he just glimpsed the sun hiding behind the thunderheads. But then the dumbass adds, “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it, because I do, but I—I really don’t have an appetite right now.”

Katsuki stops beating around the bush. He sits on the floor beside the bed, crossing his arms on the edge of it so that he can stare up at Kirishima. “The other extras are scared shitless to ask you what’s wrong. They’re fucking afraid they won’t be able to help you as you help them.” He watches Kirishima’s face fall, eyebrows creasing as he bites at his lower lips. “And so am I.”

Kirishima’s eyes snap up at him.

Katsuki burns under his gaze, but powers through the embarrassment. “Scared of being fucking unhelpful, I mean. You’re always the one doing this shit—the caring shit. I’m not good at it. So you fucking need to tell me what to do because I don’t have the goddamn slightest clue.”

Kirishima is silent so long Katsuki suspects he broke him. Eyes wide and mouth shut, hardly breathing, as if Katsuki just switched languages halfway through a lengthy speech and he was searching for the point where he lost him.

Katsuki only had a reasonable request, which is not being met. He snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Shitty Hair. What the fuck do you want?”

Kirishima shakes out of his reverie like a living statue throwing off the chalk that confined it on its pedestal. He sighs, scratching at his ear. “Just get up here, dude.” He nudges his chin towards the space next to him.

Katsuki unfurls to his feet, and he’s already with a knee on the mattress when he takes one good look at Kirishima and strides backs off to the bathroom. “Fuck, hang on.” He rummages in the drawers under the sink, and when he comes back, he presents Kirishima with a comb. “Brush your fucking hair, I can’t take you seriously otherwise.”

Kirishima’s hands shoot to his head and freezes as he realizes what natural disaster he’s got going on there.

Katsuki climbs on the bed next to him and steals the pillow to settle with his back against the wall as he waits for Kirishima to be done.

To his surprise, Kirishima is still dragging the comb through the tangled side of his hair when he pushes with his spine back against Katsuki’s shoulder, mimicking the way they sat on the couch two days ago as he rambled off to Deku. This way Katsuki can’t see his face but only follow the hypnotic movement of Kirishima’s hands on his hair. And he does, for minutes that seem to drag on forever and last nothing at all—for an unlimited period of time Katsuki only watches the rhythmic movement of Kirishima’s arm straightening his hair with the poise of a violinist around the comb and the implacability of a wrestler taping up his hands, watching a soft lock free itself from the teeth and another get caught in them.

Up, down.

Up, down.

“Lemillion lost his quirk two weeks ago.”

Yes. He did. In the same raid that landed Kirishima in the hospital.

Kirishima tugs at a stubborn knot. “The most promising hero in UA, and he’s suddenly quirkless at eighteen.”

“Fuck, it’s not going to happen to you too, if that’s what you’re scared of.”

Kirishima’s hand stutters on his hair. “It’s—it’s not that. I mean, yeah, I’m scared of that, who wouldn’t be. But this thing—it’s not fear.”

“Then why the fuck are we talking about him?”

His hair is not so tangled anymore that he needs to keep smoothing it out, and yet Kirishima keeps dragging the comb down, up and down. And then Katsuki realizes that he’s synchronizing his breathing with it. What the fuck is making him so upset that he needs a fucking metronome to talk about it?

“Last Tuesday night I went in the kitchen to get a glass of water, and I found Tokoyami there. At almost 3 AM. He said he had a nightmare. I know he couldn’t get back in bed after I left. And then on Wednesday, I was fiddling with the door of my locker and I startled Aoyama straight out of his skin. He said Kurogiri sounded the same. And then last night, Amajiki—it piled up. And it’s not fear. That I’d be able to deal with.”

Katsuki is startled by the bite in Kirishima’s last sentence, and apparently Kirishima is done holding himself back. The stiff line of his shoulders slackens with every word that drips off his lips. “I don’t regret a second of it—I would still do it all, I would still come to UA, and I’d still come to get you in Kamino, and I would still take each of those blows for Fat. But I’m just so tired of seeing us become cannon fodder for—everyone. Villains, heroes. Sometimes it just hits me. I see someone of our class struggling and it hits me that we’re just kids, we’re sixteen, sixteen, for god’s sake. People our age should not be worried about dying before graduation. Midoriya should be able to let his attention get caught by the manga stand at the mall, and not having to look over his shoulder every two minutes. Asui shouldn’t have had to write a letter to her brother to read on his wedding day if she were to die before then.”

He sniffs wetly, and only now Katsuki realizes that Kirishima is crying, crying, and he’s so underequipped to deal with a fallout of these dimensions.

You deserve to sleep an entire night and wake up rested the next day.”

Katsuki is at loss. Here is Kirishima, rock-hard skin, tears Katsuki can’t see sliding down his face, heart ever too big to carry just one person beating in his chest. And now he knows why his Book of Kirishima kept failing him and everyone else in deciphering the blank slate of Kirishima’s face.

They have seen him elated, hurt, content, annoyed, grateful, tired, proud, ashamed, but never angry.

“What the fuck, Shitty Hair, you can’t get pissed at the water for being wet!”

The plastic comb creaks in Kirishima’s tight fist. “But I am!” he snaps, head turning to the side to watch Katsuki out of the corner of his eye. “I am angry, and when I try not to be and tell myself that it’s supposed to be like this, because we’re working to become heroes and we chose it, I feel like I am forgetting something important about the big picture. I feel like admitting that villains attacking us from every direction is normal strips away the humanity that’s supposed to differentiate us from them.”

Katsuki’s eyes travel down the slope of Kirishima’s nose, down the faint watery trail of tears that don’t fall anymore.

Katsuki may one day stand on the top step of the podium, he may burn through every record and stats ever registered, he may have masses of adoring fans waiting for a flick of his finger to go into raptures. Yet he will never be half the hero Kirishima is.

While Katsuki will be the hero of Japan, Red Riot will always be his. The kid whose quirk would smatter him on the ground in seconds, that flew brave and unprotected over his head with a hand extended.

The kid that didn’t break, not in his spirit, and now not even in his morals.

The line slips from under Katsuki’s feet. “I love you,” he blurts out.

Heedless to the war his heart is waging against the confines of his ribs, Kirishima smiles and reaches for Katsuki’s hand between them. “I know.”

Katsuki swallows around the knot around his throat. Kirishima’s hand is rough against the ever-moisturized skin of Katsuki’s and the perfect size to hold onto. The perfect fit. “Coulda fucking looked a bit more surprised.”

Kirishima snorts. “I’m sorry, dude, but you brought me breakfast to bed. It’s got I love you written all over it in pink glitter pen. Kinda hard to miss.”

Katsuki reaches for the first piece of cloth he finds – a stray sock, hopefully clean, surely not – and chucks it at his face. “I said I’m not eating eggs this fucking bland. Little shit.” But he’s smiling. He can’t even reign it in. Not even shrink it, not a centimeter, not a millimeter. It’s fucking gross, but it’s also the best feeling.

But. They’re not done.

“I didn’t—I didn’t come here to distract you with the conf-co—with the thing. It just came out. I’m sorry it was now.”

Kirishima bops his temple against Katsuki’s nose. “I know that too. Bakugou Katsuki, actively planning to talk feelings while dealing with feelings already. Heaven forbid.”

“Just mine though, yours I can tolerate.” Katsuki rolls his eyes through his annoyance. “You’re a fucking pro at stalling.”

Kirishima sighs. “It’s that I don’t want to be angry either. It’s tiring. I don’t know how you do it all the time, man.”

Katsuki grunts. “I ate rice and anger each meal for years. It’s my bitch now. Also, you’re not fucking allowed to call me ‘man’ after what I told you, dipshit.” He tugs on Kirishima’s hand until he picks up the hint and shifts on the bed so that Katsuki can see him, one leg bridging over Katsuki’s thighs. “I think you are allowed to be angry,” Katsuki struggles for words, eyes fixed on the way their hands dangle propped up on Kirishima’s knee next to him. “Things are—shitty. Villains are scum, and their strategies are fucking vile, and always hit where the meat’s fucking tenderer. That’s us, by the way.” His mouth twists admitting to it—their fragility, the unpolished-ness of their diamonds, the fucking inexperience that plagues their decision-making. “We should not have grown up so fucking fast, but we did, Kirishima. We got strong. We’re stronger than them—stronger than whatever the fuck they throw at us, stronger than whatever shitty circuit in our brains keeps getting us back into the fray when we aren’t, and also stronger than the fears that used to hold us down.”

Kirishima’s head is tilted to the side, smooth hair caressing the shoulder of the threadbare Crimson Riot t-shirt he sleeps in, and his hand still hasn’t slackened its grip on Katsuki’s for a moment.

Katsuki maneuvers their hands to expose the fleshy part of Kirishima’s forearm and the thin web of pale scars in the shape of his Unbreakable form. “We always get up, and we always toughen up, and sometimes we don’t win, but we always come back from Hell because we have it fucking conquered already.”

Kirishima blinks and a tear wets his face.

Katsuki has all of one second to panic before the idiot mutters a ‘that was so manly, I can’t believe it’ and wipes it away, the wide smile Katsuki missed so much back to lighting his face.

“Thank you,” he says, “For everything. For trying your best on the couch, and last night too.” He glances at their joined hands. “And also for this. Both times.”

Katsuki’s heart cannonballs out of his chest. Healthy, smart, athletic boy killed by a sudden stroke at 16. Won’t be missed by most.

“I love you too, anyway,” he says then squeezing Katsuki’s hand once, as if it’s a natural follow-up to the conversation—as if Katsuki being lovable is fucking normal, a conceivable concept for people who have more than two brain cells, one of which screams ‘MANLY’ at random intervals while the other overworks itself to pick up the slack.

This kid is gonna be the death of him.

But Katsuki has done enough feelings for the next forty years so he grumbles, “Fucking thank you, I’m sure I could have lasted another twenty-four hours without fucking hearing it back before ejecting myself out of the damn window.”

Kirishima snorts, then scoots closer to drop his head in the crook of Katsuki’s neck. “As if you didn’t know already.”

Katsuki had a reasonable hunch, he didn’t know already, but decides to bury the topic right where it stands for the peace of mind of his cardiologist. He eyes the plate of eggs on the nightstand. They’re cold and inedible at this point, but the idiot brought it on himself when he didn’t shovel them in his mouth right away when Katsuki came to drop them off.

“Now shut up and eat,” Bakugou orders, presenting the plate between them.

Kirishima yay’s softly and rights himself taking the dish out of his hand.

Katsuki mourns the loss of his hand around his but. Dignity first.

“Hmm,” Kirishima hums around his chopsticks, “Scrambled eggs. The food of love.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Stop it.”

“You don’t want me to stop.”

“Yes, I fucking do.”

Kirishima’s repeated exposure to Katsuki’s glaring has made him impervious to it now. It’s proving to be a goddamn problem. In fact, the smartass smirks. “Do not.”

Katsuki takes approximate aim and attacks. The tips of Kirishima’s chopsticks are still in the way, and Katsuki is way off center, but Kirishima’s lips are warm under his and moving, moving, and Katsuki never felt so fucking high on adrenaline as he does now.

Kirishima readjusts the tilt of his head and everything multiplies tenfold when he slides the tip of his tongue at the seam of his lips, every spark, every fire under his skin, every caress of Kirishima’s hair against his wrist as Katsuki’s hand slides up and behind his neck to tangle in the roots there.

“B,” Kirishima whispers on his lips, “B.”

Katsuki merely hums, chasing back his lips and failing, because Kirishima is pulling away to grin up at him.

“You know you taste spicy, right? And so you—”

Katsuki opens his eyes and glares. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

Kirishima snorts and leans up to kiss him again. “So no tongue?”

Katsuki grabs the plate with one hand and explodes him off the bed with the other.

Kirishima hits the floor hard and hardened, but when he pops his head back over the edge he’s wheezing with laughter. “You should have seen your face, I’m never letting you live it down.”

Katsuki doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s flaming red, shiny-eyed, foaming at the mouth, in one word a fucking wreck.

“Shitty Hair, I swear to god, if you don’t finish these goddamn eggs right this fucking second,” Katsuki threatens and loudly praises Satan when finally the plate is clear.

“Thanks, B, they were so good.”

“They were fucking disgusting.” Katsuki knows he’s getting made fun of. He knows it. And yet he falls for it hook, line and sinker.

“But they were made with love.”

“Next time I’ll spice them up with strychnine. Now get up and get ready. I’m leaving in two minutes with or without you.” He kicks Kirishima in motion himself before climbing to his feet himself, then whirls on his heels and points straight at the shit-eating grin on the dumbass’s face. “And don’t fucking comment on the next time thing, I didn’t fucking mean it.”

Kirishima laughs and skips to his closet to dig through his clothes. “But what are we doing?”

Katsuki scoffs. “I am drawing the damn League’s ugly mugs on the training dummies. You are going to fucking destroy them and process your anger like a functional human being.”

Kirishima blinks his eyes at him, half caught in the white tank top he’s pulling over his head. “That’s destruction of school property.”

“Hell no, baby,” Katsuki smirks from the door, “This is anger management.”