'The scars never really did go away,' he thinks to himself as he stares in the mirror, hands halfway raised to poke at the damaged tissue just beneath his pecs. It glares at him in the mirror, discoloured and ugly and a blatant reminder that he had to fight for this, had to fight for the right to be shirtless. His thoughts get suffocating, ugly emotions tugging at his heart and he feels so weak, so useless-
Bakugou's voice isn't exactly quiet- Katsuki didn't know the meaning of quiet -but the rough gravel of Kirishima's name pulls him out of his self-deprecating thoughts regardless. He turns, flashing Bakugou a smile and hoping it doesn't look as strained as it feels. "Hey babe! You need somethin'?"
"You've been in here a while now." Kirishima doesn't bother turning around. By now he knows the way Bakugou's eyebrows must be slanted, expression teeming with unspoken words.
Kirishima reaches for the shirt he pulled out some ten minutes ago. "Yeah, I know, sorry," he's quick too say, because what else is there to say? "I just gotta gel my hair and we'll be out the door, I promis-"
Warm. Bakugou's hands have always been warm. Kirishima can remember a time at the very beginning of their friendship where Bakugou almost always refused to touch anyone's bare skin, insecurities about the glycerin in his palms masked under snarled excuses that he just hates physical contact. But now those hands rest firmly on Kirishima's back, confident and calloused and so very warm. "I can hear you thinking from across the flat, Ei. I'm not fucking stupid."
"Babe, I never said you we-"
"Then stop fucking acting like it." Now those hands are moving, traveling around his back, across his ribs, and before Kirishima knows it, he's leaning back into his fiance's embrace. A sigh escapes him, a tired noise as Bakugou shifts his stance to support both of their weight, leaning against Kirishima in response.
They stand there in front of the mirror, both looking at the Kirishima's scars, and it's a long while before Bakugou's gruff voice is reverberating through the bathroom again, having finally pieced together the words he wanted to say. "You're manly as shit. Those weren't your first scars and we both know they haven't been your fucking last." Bakugou's lips on his shoulder are insanely gentle despite how harshly the words are delivered, despite his chapped lips and rough, sweaty hands splayed across Kirishima's ribs. "Man up. I'm not gonna let you dish out shit to my future husband."
Kirishima can feel the smile that starts to pull at his face, leaning back harder against Bakugou, nasty whispers in his head put on pause. "Oh yeah? Who's the lucky guy?"
Bakugou barks out a laugh, all solid danger as he quips, "It's not gonna be you if you don't get your ass together and take me to go get some soba."
The threat is so very empty and Kirishima can only grin as he finally looks in the mirror, warmth practically oozing out of him at the subtle concern still lingering on Bakugou's face. "I can't really get dressed when Mr.Kirishima is still clinging to-"
Bakugou's off him in an instant, jabbing at his shoulder and now Kirishima really can't hold back the laughter that spills from him in droves, giddy and drunk off the sight of Bakugou's face, emotions poorly masked with fake rage. "Oi! You're gonna be Mr.Bakugou, so shut the fuck up and put on a damn shirt!"
"Yeah, yeah," Kirishina laughs, turning to look Bakugou in the eyes. He's still insecure, and there's always going to be that lingering voice in his head, but it's better now. Katsuki's so good at making it better. "Thank you."
Bakugou grunts, still not quite able to disguise his stupidly fond look as he leans forward to press a kiss to his fiance's mouth. "Don't thank me. Get dressed."
These feelings don't go away, and Bakugou isn't perfect when it comes to all of this, but he does make it better. And sometimes better is all Kirishima needs.