Katsuki was tired.

So, so fucking tired.

Patrol after patrol. Battle after battle. Too many easy wins. Interviews. Photoshoots. Press coverage. More battles, more patrolling. Being followed by people with cameras. Fans showing up to his fucking house, for fuck's sake. Too much fan mail to keep track of, so he stopped opening it and eventually closed the damn P.O. box altogether.

It was exhausting. It was mundane. Repetitive. The thrill was long, long gone.

It didn't matter that he had a lot of money. Didn't matter how famous he was. He hardly cared about his ranking anymore, despite the fact that he was already in the top ten, and climbing. He'd surpassed everyone he wanted to long ago, save for All Might. Once the once great hero's funeral had passed, though, he lost the will. Endeavor, close to retiring now because of a spinal injury he sustained, had already fallen below him.

There was nothing pushing him anymore.

Rather than waking up every morning with a kind of eagerness he started out with, he now waited until the very last second to force himself to get up, not bothering to make the stupid bed, and throwing together a meager breakfast before heading out the door for his patrol shift to deal with it all over again.

At first, on days off or after work he'd head to the bar and grab a few drinks, sometimes joining the few people he kept in touch with (read: who kept in touch with him) after high school or other heroes he became acquainted with along the way, but even that started to get to be too much. He couldn't simply go wind down at the end of the day without people bombarding him, recognizing him and asking for photos, autographs, and gushing about him. Even when he tried to brush them off, give the cold shoulder or flat out act rude toward them, it seemed to make them go even fucking crazier. It was like they enjoyed how much of an asshole he was, like they thought it was an act when really he just wanted to be left the hell alone.

So he stopped, and almost every moment he wasn't out saving the shitty day or whatever, he was holed up in his house. At least there he had a home gym so he didn't have to go out anywhere to keep up his strength...

Don't get him wrong--Katsuki didn't hate being a hero. Fuck no. He just needed something new. Daily patrols where nothing ever really happened anymore, what with the League of Villains having been taken out a few years back and crime at an all time low--even with the death of Toshinori Yagi--there was nothing to stimulate him, nothing to keep him on his toes. When it came to the few villains who did pop up now and again, taking them down was too fucking easy.

Sometimes he wanted to move. Maybe go back to Tokyo (even if that was probably a bad idea, given the reason he left in the first place) where all the action seemed to happen, find an apartment and sign on with a new agency. Problem was, he was in a contract with his current one that bound him for four more years; unless he wanted to pay out the fucking ass to end the contract or deal with legal troubles for breaking it, he was stuck. Trapped, almost. And as a result, he was at a loss.

Yet, even now, life had a funny way of fucking him over.

It was a usual patrol day, and of course he hadn't expected it to be anything more than that. Maybe a few hiccups here and there—attempted robberies, some weak villain trying to assault a citizen, or a car accident he had to rescue a survivor from. Nothing unusual. Boring. Tiring. Stupid.

So no, he definitely wasn't expecting a fucking building to topple over, just a few blocks from where he was at and seemingly right smack in the middle of his patrol area, and he sure as fuck was not expecting to literally run into someone he hadn't seen in years on his way there; someone who, as soon as their face registered, brought back about a thousand different memories he'd been working to bury under his work since the day they went their separate ways.

He'd skidded blindly around a corner in the direction of the smoldering building, plumes of black, black smoke curling up into the sky, when they hit. He staggered backwards, spitting out a curse and catching his balance on the brick wall beside him. In the next instant his eyes were focusing in on the figure that hadn't been so lucky and toppled down onto the concrete, having landed right on their ass.

"Watch where the fuck—" he started, but then that face registered. It was so, so fucking familiar yet had changed so much that it was almost completely foreign at the same time. Black hair, bright red eyes that'd been diminished by years of crime, surely, and the same muscular frame, even if it was taller than it'd been last time he saw it.

The guy was wearing rags, too, like he'd been homeless or someshit for a while. His skin was dirty. And, most striking of all, a large gash across his left shoulder was spilling blood all over his clothes and the ground.

It was a face that thrust his conscious mind several years back, to times he'd done everything he could to forget about. Darker times, full of villains and pain, physical and emotional alike. It was like he'd work to unstitch every little feeling from himself only for every single one to slam right into him in the blink of an eye—literally.

"Ki—Kirishima?" Bakugou choked out, taking another step backward. The word was strangled by the way his throat felt like it was constricting all on its own, his heart dropped down, down, down into his stomach.

The other stared up at him, the shock on his face reflecting just how Katsuki's heart was thudding relentlessly in his chest at the sight of him. Those red eyes were wide, pink lips popped open just slightly as if he'd stopped in the middle of saying something. He blanched, though whether it was due to the shock or the evident loss of blood, Katsuki had no idea.

His mind reeled at a mile a minute, trying to make sense of what the fuck was happening, why Kirishima was here of all places, and not still in Tokyo. Not on the run, or still with some other shitty villain friends of his, or whatever. Wondering why the hell he was bleeding so badly, and what the fuck he was doing, seemingly running away from the very scene Katsuki was in pursuit of.

In the midst of the mind-babble he could hardly make sense of, he blurted out the first thing he could think of—which was, typically, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Kirishima resembled a pale deer in the headlights, his eyes somewhat glossed over. "Um..." he stumbled. "I—I guess I could ask you the same thing..." A forced laugh bubbled out of his throat and ended in a wince with his hand pressing more firmly over the wound.

"This is my patrol area," Katsuki muttered, almost defensive.

"Mm... right." Kirishima nodded vaguely. "Anyway... sorry for uh, smacking into you. I should be on my way..." he murmured, backing up almost blindly.

"Wait. What the fuck? What're you doing running away from that building?" Katsuki jerked his chin in the relative direction. "And why the hell d'you look like you're about to bleed out?"

Kirishima glanced down at his wound, almost like he'd forgotten about it. "...well, you probably won't believe me," he panted, "but I kinda... got attacked, and I have no idea what caused that building to topple over." He paused. Swallowed. The fucker looked like he was about to pass the fuck out.

He was right, Katsuki didn't believe him. Or... didn't want to, anyway, but the drained state of his skin and the pained tension on his face on top of his slightly hunched over position and the blood pouring from his shoulder didn't scream 'lie' to him—and he should know. He had years of experience with liars.

"...I don't suppose you'd be willing to help a guy out?" Kirishima panted.

Bakugou's eyes narrowed. "Give me one good reason why I should."

Kirishima's throat bobbed with a swallow. "I... can't," he murmured. "Sorry again." He turned, swaying with his instability and, with one hand on his wound and the other using the brick wall to his right to hold himself up as he shuffled away, back toward the main road.

Katsuki's eyes flicked toward the ground, toward the puddle of blood that had been pooling onto the asphalt, bigger than it should've been for the mere minute Kirishima had been standing there.

And then words were tumbling out of Katsuki's mouth without giving him any chance to wonder if he'd regret them later.

"You're not gonna make it on foot," he said.

"S'okay," Kirishima called back weakly.

"...you're still just as much of an idiot as you were back then, huh?" Katsuki muttered, crossing his arms. "Maybe even moreso, since you dropped out and everything."

That was all it took for Kirishima's feet to halt, his head to dip a little. "Y'don't have t' do that," he managed, words beginning to slur together.

"Like hell I don't," Katsuki hissed. Before he could grow a damn brain and stop himself, make himself continue on his route toward the ever-growing cloud of smoke from several blocks over, he was lurching forward. It took two and a half steps to close the distance between himself and the other, seize him by the arm, tear off his sleeve in one swift motion. He used the fabric to press against the gaping wound—a bullet hole?—and then press one of Kirishima's bloody hands over.

"What... are you...?" Kirishima mumbled, stupefied.

"I'm a goddamn hero, you moron. It's my job to help injured people. So shut up and let me help you. Besides, you asked."

Bakugou was already in the midst of pulling one of Kirishima's arms up around his neck and gathering him to his side, holding a steady arm around his waist to keep him upright. The dumbass was so weak he didn't put up any kind of fight; hell, he was more or less a ragdoll, probably using what was left of his strength to stay on his feet.

Bakugou refused to think about what the hell he was doing as he limped Kirishima down that more or less deserted street. They were, after all, in the more poverty-stricken part of the city.

"Where're we goin'?"

"Where the fuck do you think? I'm taking you to the hospital."

Kirishima clearly bore more strength than Bakugou had given him credit for because he stopped, tugging himself back, though not quite hard enough for Bakugou's grip on his wrist to fail.

"I—I can't," he stammered. "No hospital. Either... take me somewhere else or... or just lemme go." His eyes were wide, brows drawn together in pain, lips parted as he panted. Clearly he was prepared to try and run if that's what it took.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Bakugou asked. "You lost too much blood or someshit? You're probably gonna die if you don't get to a hospital."

"...so be it," Kirishima huffed. "I—I really can't go, so please—"

"Fine," Bakugou growled, pulling the dumbass back to his side. His face was growing paler by the minute. Bakugou didn't allow himself to think about what the hell he was doing or why, but only focused on Kirishima and the fact that if he didn't help him and get his wound patched up soon, he'd end up dead in the street.

--

This is a thing I've been dabbling into in a very non-committal fashion for months. I'm excited about it but I think posting it will encourage me to continue it more frequently n' shit lmao. It's not gonna have a consistent update schedule by any means (like I'm good at that anymore, please ahaha) but! I think if y'all are into it I'll get more into it and we may have ourselves a full fic on our hands, who knows?

Also fore warning: angst. And I'm not sorry. I'm never sorry. Y'all already know.