Red was Kirishimas' favorite color.
Red was passion. Red was heat.
Crimson Riot wore red.
Kirishima had held the box dye in his hands, scanned the instructions, glanced up at the bleach blond mess his hair had become. No back, only forward.
Red Riot was born that day.
Red was Kirishimas' favorite color.
Katsuki Bakugou was a walking red flag.
"Hey man! Wanna head to the arcade with me?"
First week of school. Rocky relationships. Bakugou looked at him with twitchy eyes and twitchy hands, gaze simmering red hot anger.
Kirishima caught up to him without thinking. Maybe sick curiosity or a previously concealed death wish.
"Why the fuck would I wanna hang out with a loser like you?"
Kirishima shrugged, not as upset as he thought he'd be, grin still showing and hardly fake. Bakugou was determined, dangerous, he liked that. "Just thought you were cool."
And Bakugou's eye had twitched again. Eijiro guessed it was a nervous tic easy to mask as rage. Hands, previously swinging awkwardly at his sides, came up and forward, palms showing, peaceful. Bakugou eyed him as if to attack.
A silence.
"Pfft, got nothin' better to do."
Red was Kirishimas' favorite color.
Bakugou's palms were covered in it.
"How the fuck do you do this, Shitty Hair?"
"Bro, it's exam week. Can't a guy neglect self care once in a while?"
"It's a shame Ashido took the name Pinky, it would have suited you."
"Bakugou don't be an ass-"
"Pink Riot."
"Just put the damn hair dye on!"
And so Bakugou did, scarred palms meticulously lathered dye onto Kirishima's faded roots. Eijiro didn't know when their friendship had developed from halfhearted insults to hair dye in the bathroom.
Too afraid to admit that he didn't want it to stop.
It was made worse by the fact that Bakugou seemed entirely oblivious, running his fingers over Kiri's scalp in a way he knew was perfectionism but wished was more. Bakugou slicked his hair up into clumpy dyed spikes, poking his tongue out in concentration and nodding.
They'd waited for the appropriate time, Bakugou leaning against the door frame while Kiri held his head over the sink. Then he checked for any patchy spots, running his fingers through once again and Eijiro couldn't take it, because he must of known, must of seen-
Bakugou slapped his back, satisfied and gruff once again, turned around to leave. "That's my Kiri."
Said quietly, obviously not intended to be heard by him or anyone, Bakugou had left before he could respond.
This must be what cardiac arrest feels like.
Red was Kirishimas' favorite color.
Katsuki's burns were this sickly pink shade of it.
It was their second year at UA. Second year of the Hero Course.
When did they slip into this casual companionship? When did given names replace family ones?
When did Katsuki give Eijiro the right to see him cry?
"Katsuki you need-"
"Fuck off!"
Kirishima activated his quirk instinctively, hardened shoulders drawn up to his ears, narrowly avoiding the piece of debris catapulted his way.
Bakugou was stressed, twitching, eyes darting around and hands on fire .
"Stop acting like you know what's best for me. I don't fucking need you!"
And maybe that hurt worse than usual, maybe the slip back from playful to venomous hit him like culture shock.
Kiri wanted to detach, wanted to see Bakugou as another face to save, but couldn't. Wouldn't. Because he'd trekked that slippery slope the moment he'd asked him to that damn arcade. It was a slow hike but he'd liked it, felt comfortable even, and now Bakugou was looking at him in pain and fear and anger that sent his footing astray. Left him tumbling down that metaphorical slope and landing in a heap at the bottom.
Red Riot - no- Kirishima breathed, released his quirk and looked at Bakugou head on, as equals, sword and shield.
"You may not need me but it doesn't hurt to be there, does it? It's ok to be scared, but it's how you respond to that fear that matters."
And maybe Crimson Riot said something similar, nothing wrong with a little teenage idolisation.
Bakugou looked at him. Looked at him. With this raw sense of insecurity that Kirishima never wanted to see again yet wanted to look at always. Like Kiri was getting in his good books before sucker punching him in the heart.
"I didn't mean what I said," Katsuki's voice wasn't broken or tear streaked, more harsh and dark. It was his version of an apology but Kirishima had already forgiven. He'd seen too much to hold grudges over words said in anger or fear. Katsukis' breathing seemed to be evening out.
Kirishima reached out "let me see your hands."
Bakugou bristled again almost immediately, lip twisting into a sneer and hands curling into fists by his chest, "don't fucking touch me."
Fear disguised as anger. Kiri saw it when no one else did. Read Bakugou like a book though never did quite have the confidence to say it aloud.
Eijiro hardened his hands, fingers fusing and immune to Katsukis' explosions, "let me see your hands, man."
And they were burnt, scarred and peeling, missing fingernails and skin blackening in a way that made his stomach turn. Kiri bit his lip and fished a water bottle from his pants pocket.
"I couldn't think," Bakugou said after a time, not flinching when the water was poured onto the wounds," I was so angry and I couldn't think."
"You don't have to explain to me."
"I want to."
Kirishima ignored the way that made his chest swell, finally allowing the hero training to kick in, a belated adrenaline rush. "These are second and third degree burns. We need to call someone."
Bakugou just grunted, apparently reaching his limit for heart to heart convos for today. He let Kirishima lead him away, only spat halfhearted insults at the medical treatment he received.
Leaned his head on Kirishima's shoulder when they both slipped into his dorm room.
Fell asleep that way.
Kirishima carved a promise into his chest as he stared wide awake in the dark, Bakugou's burnt skin keeping sleep far away and mocking.
So angry, so stressed that Katsuki, perfectly composed Katsuki, burned through his own skin.
Kirishima wanted to be the only red he ever saw.
Red was Kirishimas' favorite color.
Katsuki's eyes were a pretty burgundy. Eijiro wondered how he never noticed.
"If you die on me I'm killing you myself!" Bakugou moved, blond falling from his spiky undercut and framing his face and God he's so pretty. "Eijiro open your fucking eyes right now I swear to God-"
They were pro heros, a team, sword and shield.
Red Riot had jumped in front of DynaMight without thinking, proudly taking the blow that would have killed him, the villain faster than his quirk activation.
And now he was left bleeding. Face pale and spikes falling out. So in love with a color that he'll die in a puddle of it.
Or maybe he'd drown in the dampness of Katsuki's eyes.
Bakugou was practically on top of him now, leaning over his chest and enveloping his vision with him, one hand tapping his face while the other plugged the gaping hole in his abdomen. "Don't say that shit! You're not dying on my watch. I've called for help, you gotta keep talking to me."
He hadn't meant to say any of that aloud.
Eijiro let out a shaky, wet breath, bringing a hand up to cup Katsuki's face and missing, wet digits slipping past and smearing blood on his bare shoulder.
Katsuki grabbed it aggressively, forcing the hand onto his cheek and keeping it put with one of his own, not caring when blood smeared his eyebrow. Silently screaming I hate you in a way that felt so loving.
"Kiri? Kiri, look at me , you big bastard." Eijiro opened eyes he didn't realise were closed. Bakugou momentarily removed his hand from his, smearing blood through blond, all tense and stressed as he looked behind him at Kiri's abdomen. Spiky blond strands were now a dull faded pink shade, like a botched color job.
And he laughed, this wet sound, joyful as he could while dying on the floor. Bakugou turned quickly, eyes still wet but lips twitching.
"Your-" Kirishima gestured weakly with the hand on Bakugou's face, "your hair."
Bakugo leaned closer, face to face, so close that Kirishima could see the orange details of his hearing aid. "Keep talking to me, Spiky. What about my hair?"
And with a last bout of energy Kirishima laughed again, bloody but pure, remembering old times for the last time. "Fucking Pink Riot."
Bakugou was confused for a moment, brows furrowed, before something came over him and he laughed too, harsh and rough tuning broken and choked as the pleasant sound became chest rattling sobs. "Yeah, I remember."
A momentary silence, Bakugou looked up from hunched sobs and Kirishima forced himself to meet his eyes, just for a second, not much time. The last red he ever saw.
"I fell for you that night."
Eyes grew wide, too wide, full of tears and anger. "Fuck you! You don't get to do this! You don't get to say shit like that! Open your fucking eyes you coward-" he was picked up and pulled off by a mop of green hair and glowing skn, the debris around him lifting almost magically to clear space for paramedics. Bakugou's horse voice still shouted, arms held tight to his chest in a restraining embrace as he tried to run over, "you're a fucking coward, Eijiro! Wake up!"
But Eijiro couldn't anymore, not after that. If waiting till death to say these things made him a coward then he was willing to take that title and run.
Eijiro Kirishima thought of Bakugou's eyes, while allowing his own to slip shut.
Red was Kirishimas' favorite color.
Bakugou preferred orange.
Orange didn't have the raw energy and aggression of red, didn't have the sunshine and happiness of yellow. Orange was caution, danger. He liked it a lot.
But red was Kirishima's favorite color.
And now Bakugou wouldn't never have the chance to ask why.
The casket was red, and they'd worn red accents over black formal wear because he'd wanted that.
Bakugou stood up, crumbled paper in burnt hands. He hadn't written anything on it, trembling too hard to hold a pen. The crowd looked on, a large gathering.
"Determination. Passion. Strength. Power. Energy. Youth." Bakugou looked up at the sky, sucking in a breath, "he was all those things. A literal Red Riot." He let out a sound halfway between a chuckle and a sob, baring his teeth. Even now unable to say loving words in a way anyone else would. He hated himself for it "Red is danger red is war red is-"
Looking up, the crowd watched with watery eyes.
"Love."
He sank down to his knees.