best-spilled secrets

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Eijirou awoke with a snort. His eyes squinted at the early morning glow filtering in through the window, illuminating the décor tacked to the walls. The bold words 'Certain Victory!' cheered him on. Eijirou hummed, content. His motivational posters always gave him a reason to smile.

As his other senses eased into focus, he felt the steady rise and fall of breathing between his arms. Eijirou's chest was against Bakugou's back, face pressed into minty hair and knees tucked into knees. His left arm stretched out under Bakugou, numb and starting to prickle from all of the dead weight on it.

Ow, no wonder he'd woken up! The unanticipated drawbacks of cuddling — no one ever talked about all the crushed limbs!

He tried wiggling his fingers, as if that would beckon the sensation back into them. Nothing more than a twitch. He shifted a little to get the blood flowing, and that seemed to do the trick. The arm twinged uncomfortably at first, like television static, but slowly he regained some muted sensations. And that was strange, because it felt an awful lot like...

Eijirou froze, breath hitching. Bakugou's hand was intertwined with his own.

Woah, woah, hold on a moment! Cuddling in their sleep for mutual comfort was one thing, but holding hands — oh god, they were holding hands! that was another thing altogether!

Bakugou shifted in his sleep.

Nope, nope, nope, absolutely not.

Too spooked for caution, Eijirou tore his hand away and tried to pull his arm out from underneath Bakugou's side, but his arm was trapped under the dead weight. He shuffled back, yanking his arm with more force. It budged. He scooted, pulled, scooted, pulled, until arm slid free — hooray! But then—

Thunk.

Eijirou yelped, his quirk activating a second too late as a flash of pain turned his world white. Oh god, he couldn't breathe, why couldn't he breathe? He sat up, his chest heaving as he struggled to take in air. Ow, ow, ow, he brought his hands up to cradle his head and whimpered at the echoing ache in his skull. With a wince, he looked up from his position on the floor.

...On the floor?

There was a long groan, followed by the creaking of weight shifting on the mattress, then, "The fuck are you doing?"

At the voice, Eijirou froze. He deactivated his quirk and slowly lifted his head, peering over the side of the bed. Bakugou was awake, facing him now, tired and annoyed. No, more like amused.

"I, uh." Eijirou took a gulp of air, still struggling to draw breath. The wind must've knocked out of him. He scratched the back of his neck, trying to cover his pained grimace by glancing unassumingly around the room. "I fell out of bed?"

"No shit, I gathered that much."

Bakugou squinted out the window to the gray and pastel sky. He covered his face with his hands and let out a whine.

"The fuck? Fuckin' seriously, Kirishima, it's like the ass-crack of dawn," he mumbled, still half-asleep, "now's not time for you to have some weird freak-out." He rubbed his eyes. "Fuck. You took all the covers with you, asshole."

"Heh, sorry, sorry..."

"Just get the fuck up here and go the fuck to sleep. Fuck."

With the grumpy glare Bakugou was giving him, Eijirou didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, bunded the blankets in his arms and dropped them haphazardly onto the bed. He spread them out with a few tugs and, before he could lose the nerve, he crawled under them.

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