TodoBaku Stuff

Your Face, My Hands (a recurring theme)

~NO SMUT~

Summary:
It must be raining. Bakugou's hair is stuck to his forehead, the sleeves of his jacket are dripping onto the mat outside Shouto's apartment, and there's pink running down the side of his face in rivulets.

Pink.

Shouto moves before he can think, one hand reaching to cup Bakugou's face, the other going towards his chin to tilt him towards the light.

Bakugou flinches, just barely, and Shouto stops, his fingers less than an inch from Bakugou's skin.

"Fuck," Bakugou says, with feeling, then locks his eyes on Shouto's. His expression is complicated; almost as complicated as Bakugou himself, as impossible a feat as that seems.

It's at war with itself; again, Shouto thinks, not unlike Bakugou. Hesitation and want. Anger and affection.

It's ten pm on a Tuesday, and Bakugou Katsuki is at Shouto's door.

-todoroki shouto and bakugou katsuki keep running in circles around each other.

~~~~~~~~~

It's ten pm on a Tuesday, and Bakugou Katsuki is at Shouto's door.

"Shit," Bakugou says as soon as Shouto opens the door. It's not exactly on the top ten list of reactions Shouto hopes to elicit in people, but Bakugou Katsuki isn't really people. Not to Shouto.

"Bakugou," he says, after a beat.

It must be raining. Bakugou's hair is stuck to his forehead, the sleeves of his jacket are dripping onto the mat outside Shouto's apartment, and there's pink running down the side of his face in rivulets.

Pink.

Shouto moves before he can think, one hand reaching to cup Bakugou's face, the other going towards his chin to tilt him towards the light.

Bakugou flinches, just barely, and Shouto stops, his fingers less than an inch from Bakugou's skin.

"Fuck," Bakugou says, with feeling, then locks his eyes on Shouto's. His expression is complicated; almost as complicated as Bakugou himself, as impossible a feat as that seems.

It's at war with itself; again, Shouto thinks, not unlike Bakugou. Hesitation and want. Anger and affection.

"Sorry," Bakugou mutters, jutting his chin up a little. It's the slightest of movements, but Shouto recognises it for what it is: acquiescence, apology. A request. Wanting.

Shouto's heart is thudding against his ribs, slow, steady, like a battering ram - gradually building, a creeping momentum, ready to break through any defence.

He ignores this, and resumes his motion, reaching for Bakugou's face. He does not think about how Bakugou's skin -soft to the touch, taut with exhaustion, you're seventeen and the world is crashing down around you, or maybe just a building, and he's tired, and you're tired, and his face is in your hands, hey katsuki do you remember when-?- feels beneath his fingers. He tilts Bakugou's face towards the light coming from the apartment, and sucks in a breath.

Pink, meaning blood mixed with rain.

"I shouldn't have come," Bakugou mutters, voice hoarse. He kicks against the ground, scuffing his shoe against the floor, but he keeps his head still in Shouto's hands. Lets Shouto brush a thumb over the cut, barely wincing.

Why did you? Shouto thinks about asking, but he doesn't know if he wants to know. He doesn't want a fight, not tonight, and Bakugou is -everything / volatile / twenty-two and screaming in your face that you don't know him / still twenty-two six weeks later and swearing furiously through tears because he doesn't know how to apologise, doesn't know how to let you forgive him, doesn't know what to do with your thumb on his cheekbone / twenty-two and pressing a kiss to your shoulder when he thinks you're asleep, hey katsuki do you ever think about-?- unpredictable sometimes. It's just a question, and Bakugou might look at it as such, or he might take it as an accusation.