Second Coat

"Red or black?"

Bakugou had no fucking idea why he'd agreed to this.

"Black," he said, after a moment's thought. Something about red nails seemed more outwardly feminine, but black wasn't so bad. Sometimes punk rockers painted their nails black, right?

"Okay," Kirishima said, picking up the black bottle and giving it a shake. "Now just set your hand down flat on the table, fingers spread apart."

"Nothing underneath it? You're gonna get this shit on the table, dumbass."

"It's my table, anyways," Kirishima said. "And I always do it like this. But I'll get something you can put your hand on, since you asked so nicely."

He returned a second later with a notebook, which he flipped open to a blank page. "Better?"

Bakugou knew when his chain was being yanked. Kirishima was always good at that. The real mystery was why Bakugou still put up with it. "Much better," he said, putting his hand down. "Like this?"

"Yeah, exactly."

Kirishima opened the bottle (the smell of chemicals was nearly immediate. How did Kirishima stand this stuff?) and held onto the cap, wiping the brush on the rim. Everything about the nail polish was so small, and Kirishima's hand so large, that it seemed impossible he should be able to use it at all; intrigued, Bakugou couldn't help but watch.

Kirishima started on his index finger - three quick strokes and it was done, hardly any on the cuticle. To his amusement Bakugou could feel the coldness of the polish through his nail, a sensation he hadn't been expecting. Kirishima didn't hesitate as he moved to the next finger, but nor did he talk: he was focused completely on the task at hand, his face screwed up in a look of concentration.

"Now lift your hand and put your thumb flat on the edge of the table. Like this," he said, demonstrating with his free hand. "So the angle's better."

After that he moved on to the other hand, doing it in the same way. It only took a minute. Then Kirishima sat back, looked at Bakugou's hands, and smiled, like he was happy with his work.

"So is it done?" Bakugou asked.

"No, I have to do a second coat, so the color's more solid. See how you can see your nail through it?"

"Okay," Bakugou said, "then just do it."

"It isn't dry yet!" Kirishima said, laughing at him - as if it was common knowledge, as if Bakugou was an idiot for not knowing everything there was to know about fucking nail polish.

"Well, how long til it's dry, then?"

"Like two minutes," Kirishima said. "Be patient!"

And suddenly there was nothing to occupy them, nothing to distract them - Kirishima was trying not to stare at Bakugou, and failing miserably, and Bakugou was watching him out of the corner of his eye while he pretended to look down at his newly-dark nails. They looked weird, hardly seeming like his own fingers. But as he lifted his hand and looked it over, he had to admit it was cool at the same time - a way he'd never seen himself before. He could get used to this, maybe.

Kirishima watched him, no longer even pretending not to, and Bakugou felt himself blush under his gaze. Bakugou was aware of Kirishima's puppy-love crush, and had been for a while. No one had told him, certainly not Kirishima, but it was the sort of thing that wasn't hard to figure out.

But knowledge wasn't wisdom, and recognizing Kirishima's feelings wasn't the same as knowing what to do with them. So they'd danced around the issue, Bakugou wondering if Kirishima knew he knew, wondering what Kirishima wanted from him, if Kirishima ever planned on telling him or just assumed it would never be requited.

It might be requited, Bakugou wanted to say, though he hated that word - it sounded like something out of a romance novel. But he did like Kirishima, even if he couldn't list the things in particular he liked. He felt different around him. More comfortable. There was no one else Bakugou let lead him around by the nose, no one whose teasing he not only tolerated but had somehow come to look forward to. But it wasn't going to be Bakugou who said these things. Kirishima had to figure them out on his own, damn it.

So when Kirishima had said something like I just painted my nails, look! Want me to paint yours? he'd shrugged and said Okay and had moment of satisfaction at the blank, shocked look Kirishima had given him - as if never in a million years had he expected Bakugou to give an answer other than a flat No.

"You're probably ready for the second coat," Kirishima said. Bakugou knew what to do now without even being told, and placed his hand flat on the notebook. Kirishima was just as quick as the first time; Bakugou wondered how often he'd painted his own nails in the past, or if he'd painted other friends'. How long had it taken him to become this careful and precise, anyway? How many other strange skills was he hiding?

"Thumb," Kirishima said.

When they were done, Bakugou continued sitting there. He couldn't get up until the second coat was dry, after all. "I think it looks good," Kirishima said. Then he looked up at Bakugou, expectant, smiling a little.

"I..." Bakugou glanced down at his hands, just to get away from that cheerful, too-direct gaze. "I think it's good."

"And I didn't get any on the paper, did I?" Kirishima said. Bakugou was still not looking, but he heard the smile in his voice. "My table would've been safe without it."

"Kirishima," Bakugou said, "why me?"

He didn't look until ten seconds or more of utter silence had passed. When he finally did raise his eyes, he saw Kirishima looking at him intently, neither smiling nor frowning - more thoughtful than anything, really. Like he was looking hard for an answer.

"I don't know," he said at last. Then he laughed and shrugged. "Can we even really help these things?"

"No," Bakugou said, thinking of Kirishima's smile, of his sharp shark-teeth and the black roots of his hair, of the broadness of his shoulders and the way he'd looked at Bakugou's hands. "You're an idiot," Bakugou added.

Kirishima blinked.

Bakugou wanted to say without saying - to point Kirishima to the truth, not lead him there by the fucking hand. He wanted Kirishima to figure it out the same way he himself had: without words.

But Kirishima didn't know. He hadn't figured out the truth, after all. Or, in his fear of misunderstanding it, he'd pushed it aside.

So Bakugou shook his head and smirked, trying to ignore his heart beating so hard it was nearly audible. "You're right. We can't help these things," he said. "Or else I don't know why I'd let you get to me like you do."

And he watched realization blossom on Kirishima's face like a flower opening in the sun.