Brosniff

The first time I smelled him, I thought someone had left a window open to the chemical wash room.

We were sparring. Gravel lot behind the dorms, late afternoon sun cutting sideways through the trees. Kirishima had me in a headlock. His bicep pressed against my jaw, his chest against my back, and I was supposed to be thinking about how to slip out of it. How to drop my weight, twist my hips, get my elbow between us.

Instead, I inhaled.

And my brain short-circuited.

It wasn't sweat. Not exactly. It was deeper than that. Earthy. Like rain hitting dry dirt, like the smell after lightning strikes. There was salt in it, and heat, and something else I couldn't name. Something that made my fingers curl into fists and my stomach drop like I'd missed a step on a staircase.

"Dude," Kirishima said. "You okay? You went stiff."

I made a noise. It wasn't words.

He released me. Stepped back. His face was all concern, eyebrows pulled together, jaw loose. Sweat dripped down his temple and caught the light. His tank top was soaked through at the collar.

"You hit your head? Did I squeeze too hard?"

"No." My voice came out wrong. Rough. I cleared my throat. "No, I'm good. Just. Gimme a second."

I turned away from him. Pretended to stretch my neck. My heart was hammering. My palms were wet. And I could still smell him. The scent was stuck in my nose like smoke in clothes. Every breath I took was a reminder.

This is normal, I told myself. People smell things. People notice smells. It doesn't mean anything.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

We finished the session. I was distracted. He caught me twice more, easy, and I didn't even try to fight it. He asked if I wanted to grab food. I said I had to study. I didn't. I went to my room and sat on my bed and stared at the wall for forty-five minutes.

The thing about being a dumbass is you don't usually know you're being one. You just do the dumb thing and then later, sometimes much later, you look back and go oh. That was dumb. But this time I knew. I knew it was weird. I knew it was something I shouldn't follow. And I followed it anyway.

Three days later, I asked him if I could smell his armpit.

Let me explain.

No. Let me not explain. Let me tell you what happened and you can decide how pathetic it is.

We were in his room. He was doing homework, sprawled on his stomach across the bed, textbook open, highlighter in his mouth. I was on the floor, back against his dresser, pretending to scroll through my phone. I hadn't been reading anything for the last ten minutes. I'd been watching him.

Not in a creepy way. In a. Okay, maybe a little creepy.

He'd just come back from a run. His hair was still damp. He was wearing a loose tank top and the kind of gym shorts that ride up when you move. Every time he shifted, I caught a flash of thigh. Every time he reached for his highlighter, his shoulder blade moved under his skin like something alive.

And I could smell him. Even from across the room. It was fainter than the sparring session, diluted by distance and the open window, but it was there. That same earth-and-salt-and-something-else smell. It was driving me insane.

"Hey," I said.

He grunted. Didn't look up.

"Can I ask you something weird?"

Now he looked up. One eyebrow raised. "How weird?"

"Weird enough that you might say no."

"Bro." He set the highlighter down. Rolled onto his side. "Now I have to know."

I stood up. Walked over to the bed. My heart was doing that thing again, the hammering thing, the thing that made me feel like I was about to do something very stupid. I sat on the edge of his mattress. He watched me, curious, not worried. That was the thing about Kirishima. He never got worried. He trusted me.

I was about to abuse that trust in a way I couldn't fully explain.

"When we were sparring the other day," I said. "I got a whiff of you. And it was. It was weird."

"Weird bad? Did I forget deodorant? I swear I put it on."

"No, not bad. Just. Different. I couldn't stop thinking about it."

He blinked. "You couldn't stop thinking about how I smelled?"

"Yeah."

A pause. He was processing. I could see the gears turning, the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek. Then he laughed. Not a mocking laugh, a confused one. The kind of laugh you do when you don't know what else to do.

"Okay," he said. "That's definitely weird."

"I know."

"So why are you telling me?"

I took a breath. Held it. Let it out.

"Can I smell you again? Just to see if it was a one-time thing?"

He stared at me. I stared back. The silence stretched long enough that I started counting the seconds in my head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"Like," he said slowly. "Smell me how?"

"I don't know. Your shirt. Your skin. Whatever."

"You want to smell my skin."

"Bro, I know how it sounds."

"Do you? Do you know how it sounds?"

"Yes. It sounds insane. It sounds like I've lost my mind. But I swear it's not. I swear it's not a. Thing. I just need to confirm something."

He sat up. Crossed his legs. His tank top hung loose, showing the line of his collarbone, the start of his chest. He looked at me the way you look at a friend who's just told you they believe in ghosts. Like you want to be supportive but you're not sure where the line is.

"Fine," he said.

"Fine?"

"Yeah. Go ahead. Sniff me."

He held out his arm. I looked at it. His forearm was thick, veined, dusted with dark hair. I could see the pulse in his wrist. I could see the small scar near his elbow from a training accident last year.

I leaned in.

Close enough that my nose almost touched his skin. Close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him. I inhaled.

It hit me like a shot of something strong. That smell. That impossible, addictive, electric smell. Earth and salt and ozone and something animal. Something that made my mouth water and my stomach clench and my brain go completely, utterly blank.

I pulled back. My face was hot. My hands were shaking.

"It's still there," I said.

"What's still there?"

I couldn't tell him. I couldn't say the scent makes me feel like I'm about to short-circuit. I couldn't say I want to bury my face in his chest and breathe until I pass out. I couldn't say any of it.

"It's just. Strong. You smell like. I don't know. Like outside. Like storm."

He sniffed his own arm. Made a face. "I just smell sweat."

"No, it's not just sweat. It's deeper than that."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he shrugged.

"Okay. If you say so."

That was it. That was all. He shrugged, picked up his highlighter, and went back to his homework. Like nothing had happened. Like I hadn't just crossed a line I didn't know existed.

I stayed on his bed for another hour. He talked about the history test coming up. I nodded and made sounds. I didn't hear a word he said. I was too busy trying to figure out what was wrong with me.

Nothing was wrong with me. I told myself that. It was a sensory thing. Some people like certain smells. Some people hate them. I just happened to like the way my best friend smelled. It didn't mean anything.

It didn't.

A week later, I asked again.

We were watching a movie in the common room. Everyone else had gone to bed. It was just us, the TV, and the blue glow of the screen. He was sitting next to me on the couch, close enough that our shoulders touched. I couldn't concentrate on the movie. I couldn't concentrate on anything except the fact that he was right there and I could smell him and I wanted more.

"Hey," I whispered.

He turned his head. His face was half in shadow, half in light. His eyes were soft.

"Can I smell you again?"

He didn't ask why. He didn't make a joke. He just lifted his arm, offering his side, and I leaned in.

This time I didn't stop at his arm. I pressed my face against his shoulder. Against the curve of his neck. I breathed in deep and let the smell fill my lungs. It was stronger there. Richer. Like the difference between smelling rain from inside and standing in it.

His hand came up. Resting on the back of my head. Light. Questioning.

"You good?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. My voice was muffled against his shirt. "I'm good."

I stayed there longer than I should have. He let me. His fingers moved slowly through my hair, absent, soothing. Like he was petting a cat. Like this was normal.

It wasn't normal.

But neither of us said anything.

The third time was in the locker room.

We'd finished a joint training session with Class B. Everyone was tired, everyone was sore, everyone was stripping down and heading for the showers. I was sitting on the bench, untying my shoes, when Kirishima walked past me. He was already shirtless. His back was a map of muscle and scars. Sweat still glistened on his skin.

I didn't think. I reached out. Grabbed his wrist.

He stopped. Looked down at me.

"Can I?"

He didn't ask what. He already knew.

He glanced around. The locker room was half empty. Monoma was arguing with Kendo in the corner. Tetsutetsu was flexing at his reflection. Nobody was looking at us.

Kirishima sat down next to me. Close. His thigh pressed against mine. His skin was hot and damp.

"Make it quick," he said.

I leaned in. Pressed my nose to his shoulder blade. Inhaled.

The smell was different after training. Sharper. More intense. The salt was stronger, the earth was deeper, and that other thing, that electric thing, was so present I could almost taste it. My hands clenched. My jaw tightened. A sound came out of me, low and involuntary, something between a groan and a sigh.

Kirishima stiffened.

"Bro," he said. "That sounded. Not platonic."

I pulled back. My face was burning. My heart was trying to escape my chest.

"It's platonic," I said. "I swear. It's completely platonic."

"Then why did you moan?"

"I didn't moan. I made a noise."

"That was a moan."

"It was not a moan."

"Denki. I've heard you moan. That was a moan."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I don't know what to tell you, man. It just. Feels good. The smell. It does something to me."

He looked at me. Really looked. His eyes moved across my face like he was reading something written there. Then he laughed. Not a mean laugh. A relieved one.

"You're so weird," he said.

"I know."

"But I guess it's fine. As long as it's just a smell thing."

"It's just a smell thing."

"Totally no homo."

"Completely no homo."

He nodded. Stood up. Grabbed his towel.

"Cool. Then we're good."

He walked to the showers. I watched him go. Watched the way his shoulders moved, the way his back tapered to his waist, the way his shorts hung low on his hips.

I was not good.

But I was going to pretend I was.

It became a thing.

A routine. A habit. An unspoken agreement between us. He'd be doing something, reading or gaming or just existing, and I'd show up. I'd sit next to him. I'd lean in. He'd tilt his head or lift his arm or shift his weight, making himself available, and I'd breathe him in.

Sometimes it was quick. A few seconds. A hit, a rush, a retreat. Sometimes it was longer. I'd press my face against his neck and stay there, breathing slow, feeling his pulse against my cheek. He'd let me. He'd put a hand on my back or my head or my shoulder, steadying me, grounding me.

We never talked about it. Not really. We had the vocabulary for it. No homo. Platonic. Bros. We used those words like shields, like excuses, like they could make this normal.

They couldn't.

But we pretended they could.

The first time I got hard, I wanted to die.

We were in his room. Late. Everyone else was asleep. I was lying on his floor, staring at the ceiling, and he was on his bed, scrolling through his phone. The lights were off. The only illumination came from his screen, casting blue shadows across his face.

I couldn't sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about the way he smelled. It was in his room. On his sheets. On his clothes. In the air. Every breath I took was a reminder of what I wanted.

"Eijiro," I said.

He hummed. A question.

"Can I come up?"

He shifted. Made room. I climbed onto his bed, settled next to him. The mattress dipped under my weight. His body heat hit me like a wall.

I didn't ask. I just moved closer. Pressed my face into the curve of his shoulder. Breathed in.

It hit me harder than usual. Maybe because it was late. Maybe because I was tired. Maybe because I'd been holding back all day and my body had finally had enough. The smell flooded my system, warm and electric, and I felt myself respond.

Not just in my chest. Not just in my head.

Lower.

I froze. Tried to think about something else. Cold showers. Algebra. Bakugo's angry face. Nothing worked. My body was doing what bodies do, and it was doing it right next to my best friend, and I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

Kirishima shifted. His hand landed on my back.

"You okay?"

"Mmhmm."

"You're tense."

"Just. Tired."

He didn't buy it. I could tell. But he didn't push. He just kept his hand on my back, tracing slow circles between my shoulder blades. The motion was soothing. It was also making everything worse.

I pulled back. Rolled onto my side. Faced away from him.

"I should probably go to my own room."

"You don't have to."

"I think I should."

Silence. Then his voice, soft in the dark.

"Denki. It's fine. Whatever's going on. It's fine."

I closed my eyes. Counted to ten. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

"It's nothing," I said. "It's just. The smell thing. It's. It does things."

"What kind of things?"

I couldn't say it. I couldn't.

"Things," I repeated. "Physical things."

Another silence. Longer this time. I could hear him breathing. Could hear the rustle of sheets as he shifted.

"Is that bad?" he asked.

"I don't know. Is it?"

"I don't know either."

I turned back to face him. His face was close. Closer than I expected. His eyes were dark, unreadable. His mouth was slightly open.

"It's probably bad," I said. "It's probably really bad."

"Probably."

"But I can't stop."

"I know."

He reached out. Touched my cheek. His hand was warm, calloused, gentle. I leaned into it without thinking.

"It's still no homo," he said.

"Yeah. Totally no homo."

He pulled me closer. I went. My face pressed into his chest. His arms wrapped around me. The smell was everywhere now, surrounding me, drowning me. I breathed it in and felt my body relax, felt the tension drain out of my muscles.

I was hard. He had to know. He had to feel it, pressed against his thigh. But he didn't say anything. He just held me, one hand in my hair, the other on my back.

"Get some sleep," he said.

"Okay."

I didn't sleep. I lay there, breathing him in, feeling his heartbeat under my cheek. My body eventually calmed down. My mind didn't.

I thought about what this meant. What we were doing. What we weren't saying. I thought about the word gay and the word bi and the word questioning and none of them fit. None of them felt right. All I knew was that I wanted to be close to him. That his smell made me feel things I couldn't name. That I would do almost anything to stay in his arms.

That was enough. For now.

The escalation was gradual. Like a slope you don't notice until you're at the bottom.

First it was just the smelling. Then it was the holding. Then it was the sleeping. I started spending more nights in his room than my own. We'd lie in his bed, tangled together, and I'd press my face into his chest or his neck or his armpit, breathing deep, letting the smell carry me into sleep.

He started initiating. That was the scary part. He'd pull me closer. He'd nuzzle into my hair. He'd hold me tighter when I tried to move away. Once, half-asleep, he pressed his mouth to my forehead and left it there for a long, long moment.

I didn't say anything. Neither did he.

We developed rules. Unspoken ones. No talking about it during the day. No mentioning it in front of other people. No acknowledging what it looked like from the outside. We were bros. We were friends. We were just. Comfortable. That was all.

The first time I kissed him, it was an accident.

We were in the common room. Everyone was there. Sero was telling a story, Mina was laughing, Bakugo was scowling at his phone. I was sitting next to Kirishima on the couch, close enough that our thighs touched. Normal. Casual. Nothing weird.

I leaned over to grab my drink. He turned at the same time. Our faces collided. His lips brushed mine.

It was quick. A fraction of a second. Barely a kiss at all.

I pulled back. He pulled back. We looked at each other.

"Sorry," I said.

"It's fine," he said.

We both looked away. The moment passed. Nobody noticed.

But that night, in his room, with the door locked and the lights off, he asked me to do it again.

"Just to see," he said. "Just to confirm something."

I leaned in. Slow. Giving him time to stop me. He didn't.

Our lips met. Soft. Dry. Brief.

I pulled back. His eyes were closed. His breathing was shallow.

"Okay," he said. "That was. Something."

"Yeah."

"Still no homo?"

"Still no homo."

He laughed. A nervous, breathless sound.

"Good," he said. "Just checking."

We didn't talk about it. We didn't need to. The rules were clear. As long as we didn't name it, it wasn't real. As long as we called it platonic, it was platonic. As long as we said no homo, no homo was true.

We were lying to ourselves. We both knew it. But the lies were comfortable, and the truth was terrifying, and so we kept lying.

The first time I touched him, really touched him, was a month in.

We were in his bed. Same as always. I was pressed against his side, face in his neck, breathing him in. He had his arm around me, hand in my hair. Comfortable. Familiar.

My hand was on his chest. I could feel his heartbeat under my palm. Steady. Strong. Alive.

I moved my hand down. Slow. Giving him every chance to stop me.

He didn't.

My fingers traced his stomach. His muscles jumped under my touch. I felt him inhale, sharp and sudden.

"Denki."

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know."

He didn't tell me to stop. I took that as permission.

My hand moved lower. Over his hip. Along his thigh. He was warm, so warm, and the smell was stronger than ever, and I was drowning in him.

"Bro," he said. His voice was strained. "This is getting. Not platonic."

"Still no homo," I said.

"That doesn't even make sense anymore."

"I know."

I stopped. My hand resting on his thigh. I could feel the muscle there, the heat, the tension.

"Do you want me to stop?" I asked.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he shook his head.

"No," he said. "I don't want you to stop."

And that was it. That was the moment the rules broke. That was the moment we stopped pretending.

I moved my hand up. He shifted, made room, let me in. I touched him, and he made a sound, a low desperate sound that I felt in my chest. He pulled me closer, buried his face in my hair, breathed me in.

"Still no homo," he whispered.

"Still no homo," I whispered back.

We were both lying. But we were lying together, and that was enough.

Afterwards, we lay in the dark. His arm was around me. My head was on his chest. His heartbeat was slowing, steadying, returning to normal.

"Denki," he said.

"Yeah?"

"I think I like you."

I closed my eyes. Let the words settle. Let them find their place in my chest.

"I think I like you too."

"But it's still no homo."

I laughed. He laughed. The bed shook with it.

"Totally no homo," I said.

"Bros being bros."

"Exactly."

He kissed the top of my head. I pressed my face into his chest and breathed him in.

We didn't talk about what it meant. We didn't talk about labels or futures or what we would tell our friends. We just lay there, together, pretending we were still just friends.

And maybe we were. Maybe we were something else. Maybe it didn't matter.

All I knew was that I wanted to stay here. In his arms. In his smell. In this impossible, confusing, wonderful thing we were building.

The rest could wait.

Morning came hard and bright. Sunlight through the curtains. Birds outside the window. Kirishima's arm heavy across my waist.

I didn't want to move. I wanted to stay here forever, in this warm cocoon of blankets and skin and that smell, that impossible smell that had started all of this.

But I could hear movement in the hall. Voices. Someone laughing. The day was starting, and we couldn't hide from it.

Kirishima stirred. His arm tightened around me. He pressed his face into my hair.

"Five more minutes," he mumbled.

"We can't."

"I know."

He didn't let go. I didn't try to leave.

Eventually, we had to. We untangled ourselves. Got dressed. Went to breakfast. Sat with our friends like nothing had happened.

Mina asked why I looked tired. I said I didn't sleep well. Kirishima nodded along, face blank, perfect cover.

Under the table, his hand found mine. Squeezed once. Let go.

We were good at pretending.

But I was starting to wonder how long we could keep it up.

The answer was: longer than I thought.

Weeks passed. We kept our secret. We kept our rules. We kept each other. At night, in his room, we were something else. Something more. By day, we were just friends. Just bros. Just two guys who happened to spend a lot of time together.

Nobody suspected. Or if they did, they didn't say anything.

Sero made a joke once about us being attached at the hip. We laughed it off. Mina said we were cute together. We rolled our eyes. Bakugo said nothing, which was the most suspicious thing of all, but I chose not to think about it.

We were careful. We were smart. We were lying to everyone, including ourselves.

And then Kirishima said the words I'd been dreading.

"We should probably talk about this."

We were in his room. Late. I was lying on his chest, tracing patterns on his skin. His hand was in my hair. Comfortable. Perfect.

"About what?" I asked.

"About this." He gestured vaguely. "Us. Whatever we are."

I stopped tracing. My hand went still.

"I don't know," I said.

"Me neither."

We lay there in silence. I could hear his heart. Steady. Patient. Waiting.

"I don't want it to stop," I said.

"Me neither."

"But I don't know what it is."

"Me neither."

I lifted my head. Looked at him. His face was soft, open, scared.

"I like you," I said. "I don't know if it's in a friend way or a boyfriend way or something in between. But I like you. I like being with you. I like smelling you. I like. Everything."

He smiled. Small. Vulnerable.

"Same," he said. "I like everything too."

"So what do we do?"

He thought about it. His hand kept moving through my hair, slow and soothing.

"I don't think we have to do anything," he said. "I think we just. Keep going. See where it takes us."

"No labels?"

"No labels."

"No pressure?"

"No pressure."

I leaned down. Kissed him. Soft. Slow. Meaningful.

"Okay," I said. "No labels."

He pulled me closer. I went willingly. His arms wrapped around me, and I pressed my face into his neck, and I breathed him in.

The smell was familiar now. Home. Safety. Want.

I didn't know what we were. I didn't know where we were going. I didn't know if this would end in heartbreak or happiness or something in between.

But I knew I wasn't ready to let go.

And neither was he.

That was enough. For now.