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It's raining.
Katsuki hates the rain. It's cold, and dreary, and it washes away his sweat, his power, leaving him weak and vulnerable and shaking in his boots from the way the water seeps into his clothes, his skin. He's always the first to curl his lip and glower up at the traitorous sky overhead and wish murder on the shitty clouds that have to put a literal damper on his day. Like. Fuck off, clouds. He's perfectly happy without a downpour, thanks. Even now, he's biting back a grimace at the way water slogs in his boots with every step, feet literally numb from the rainwater that's thoroughly soaked his socks. Hell, it's soaked every goddamn inch of him.
God fucking bless support gear, or his hands would be useless as hell right about now. The only thing his past self was any good for—strategizing how to best use his quirk. How to circumvent shitty mother nature so he can win every fight.
He flexes his fingers, still moderately free of rainwater thanks to the way he's designed these gloves, these gauntlets. He ignores the way his shoulder twinges. Instead, his focus flickers forward, to the slumped silhouette of Izuku limping in front of him, supported by Uraraka and Iida as they march through the rain. There's a sense of relief settled in his chest—that the idiot is safe, that he's at least humoring them—but there's also. Trepidation. They've won the fight but the war is far from over, and it's easy to see the way this never-ending battle's worn on Izuku, here in the rain. Costume tattered, stained, drenched. His usually poofy curls lie nearly flat on his head, his shoulders slumped, defeated. And it fucking hurts, seeing him like this. So...broken. So battered. Knowing it's Katsuki's fault, at least in part. He grits his teeth, averting his gaze down to the puddles that dot the uneven, cracked pavement.
His own reflection snags his focus, peering up at him from the depths of one nasty, oil filled puddle. Katsuki's boots scuff at the pavement as he stumbles to a stop, blinking. Crimson that burns with an ache of carrying the weight of a society that chewed him up and spat him out again glares back at him, shadowed by smudged eyeliner that barely covers dark, purple bruises in the hollows of his own eyes.
In short, he looks like shit.
Though, he supposes Izuku doesn't look a whole lot better.
"You're bleeding."
A soft touch brushes along his shoulder, and Katsuki's gaze jerks up to see Kirishima peering at his sopping wet bandages with a look akin to worry etched into his features. Something warm buds in his chest, a stark contrast to the chill that's settled in his bones, and it has his head spinning, a little. He jerks his gaze back to the puddle, the iridescent swirls blurring out of focus, turning into nothing more than a colorful smear. A bit of heat rises to his face, and Katsuki knows if he weren't so fucking cold, he'd probably be blushing. And for that, he's grateful for the guise of the rain.
He lifts his good shoulder in a shrug, not meeting Kirishima's gaze. "S'fine."
Kirishima doesn't answer, but Katsuki can feel the way his stare lingers, sticking to him like the raindrops that cling to his hair, his face, that soak into his skin. His hand slides down between Katsuki's shoulder blades and pauses there, its warmth bleeding through Katsuki's water-logged costume and into his skin and fuck . Instinct has him leaning into the touch before he really realizes what he's doing, and even then, he can't find it in himself to be assed to care. Kirishima is warm .
He looks up, gaze entangling with one emblazoned with emotions like that of a heated blanket—worry and kindness and an affection of the likes that neither has had the guts to put a voice to. And Katsuki can't help but sink into it. He slouches against Kirishima, sighing as his arm wraps around his middle. Classmates pass on by without even blinking— they've all been leaning on each other all goddamn week. Hell, they all just spent like an hour screaming at Izuku to let himself lean on them. So of course no one looks twice. Which.
It's...nice. To just take a moment like this.
Kirishima doesn't say anything when they start shuffling along— he just keeps his arm fixed in place, steady and unwavering, with a touch of gentleness that has that warmth spreading from the center of Katsuki's chest and radiating out to the tips of his fingers.
"That was pretty brave," Kirishima murmurs, then.
Katsuki almost doesn't even hear it over the splatter of raindrops against the sheet of water flowing across the concrete underfoot. He blinks, heart kicking a little in his chest. "Eh?"
"What you said. I know it wasn't easy."
A shiver accompanies the twist in Katsuki's gut. He looks ahead, to Izuku and the atrocious, yellow scarf that hangs off his back, regrets of the past ten years like a never-ending, bitter taste on his tongue that not even the rain can wash away.
Katsuki's not good with words, most of the time. Words are just...words. Shit he uses to hide behind, because if he screams to the world he's the goddamn best as loud as he can, then everyone will believe it, and maybe he can too. But Katsuki's only line of defense is a well-aimed explosion, and like his quirk, oftentimes his words burn hot and bright. He should have known they'd leave scars behind— he's always been good at destroying shit, after all. And now that he's stopped and started looking, destruction is all he sees. The entire world is crumbling around them as they speak for fuck's sake. Let alone the boy he treated like actual shit for so long.
So yeah. He's bad at words. But this? This was only something that words could fix. Words, and backing them up by being here.
"Doesn't matter," he says, quiet. "Needed to be done."
"Yeah. I know."
Katsuki nearly thinks he imagines it, but Kirishima presses his hand firmer against Katsuki’s side, drawing him imperceptibly closer. And, god. Maybe it’s the rain making him feel so clingy, but Katsuki finds himself wanting to just. Drop his head onto Kirishima’s shoulder.
“Still was brave,” Kirishima murmurs. “Putting yourself out there like that.”
There’s a lump in his throat. He sure doesn’t feel brave. He feels…raw. Exposed. Like the rain’s battered against his defenses and worn away his walls, leaving his truth bare for all to see. And that truth? It’s ugly. Disgusting, even. It’s gnarled and ugly and something Katsuki’s spent the past year learning how to man the fuck up and face head on. And even still, he hates it. Because that truth? Is that…he’s weak.
This whole time, everything he thought was strong, everything he strove to be— it was all a goddamn lie. Part of him has always known it, too.
Izuku always shone so bright— he used to hate it, because, well. He was the one with the strong quirk, he was the one everyone said was gonna be the brightest star. So why was it that at every turn, it felt like Izuku lit up even the darkest of shadows, when it was all Katsuki could do to shine half as bright? Even now, looking like a drowned rat that hasn’t bathed in a month, Izuku glows like a fucking sun, their class gravitating to him like planets in a solar system. And for good fucking reason, too. He’s touched them all in one way or another with that light of his.
Even him.
Katsuki jolts, foot sloshing into a pothole hidden by a puddle, and his shoulder throbs like a bitch at the jostling. He grits his teeth and grunts, good hand flying up and grasping at it. Kirishima stops and keeps him steady, thumb rubbing almost idly at his side.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
It hurts like a bitch but he’ll live. The healing he’d been given is enough to keep him alive at any rate. Besides. That crusty ass bitch Shigaraki isn’t gonna get the last say on Katsuki’s life if he has anything to say about it.
Kirishima’s frown—aimed right at him— shouldn’t be as pretty as it is. Worry glitters in the hearth of his gaze, the sight making Katsuki feel almost dizzy. Has he always been so…beautiful? Katsuki takes a moment to wonder. Here in the rain, hair deflating with the weight of the water pouring down from the heavens. Raindrops spilling down the arch of his brow, the slender slope of his nose, pooling in the hollows of his mask, droplets collecting across his thick and pretty eyelashes. Katsuki finds his gaze drifting down to his lips, where his sharp teeth poke out, worrying the skin there. He wonders what they’d feel like, against his own, and normally a thought like that might have him bristling and flushing. But. Maybe it’s just the rain…but it’s as though all pretenses have been washed away. His truth is bared for all to see and there’s no point in hiding anymore.
And fuck, there's something almost freeing with that realization. That he...he doesn't have to fake it. Pretend that he's stronger or better or impervious to the soft feelings nestled in the crevices of his chest, hidden from view. That hiding, putting on a front—it doesn't get him shit. But being open? Honest? Letting himself...just. Be?
Well. They're not walking away from this empty-handed, so clearly there's something to it.
Katsuki looks at Kirishima and his too-pretty face, the way the light glistens on the rainwater clinging to his face, his lips, his neck. Those soft feelings skitter out from where they hide, kicking up shit that makes his insides flutter all weird, and his breath catches a little in his throat. And Kirishima, the goddamn angel, hears and pauses, brow knitting. "Hey, you okay?"
Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek. "Kiss me." The words tumble loose on their own accord, flowing freely into the air with a breathlessness Katsuki will deny, later. Kirishima freezes up, red blooming across the planes of his cheeks, eyes growing wide.
"Wh-what?"
His own face feels warm, and he scowls. "You heard me, Red."
But Kirishima just gawks. Mouth open, face now as red as his hair. "You—but—I— kiss? "
Katsuki rolls his eyes and grabs for his arm, tugging him close enough that their noses brush. Kirishima's breath hitches, the sound like music amidst the droll of the rain around them, and Katsuki lets out a huff. "Just shut up," he mumbles, eyes hooding. And then he presses their lips together, soft and gentle and lingering, heartbeat roaring in his ears. An eternity passes in seconds, and they pull back, gazes entangling in a mess of sunsets and rattling autumn leaves, and Katsuki faintly thinks that he can't feel the rain pelting down on him, anymore. Kirishima's thumb rubs almost absently against Katsuki's waist, the sensation making him shiver for reasons that have not a damn thing to do with the cold.
And it's here, in the broken and abandoned city streets that Katsuki finds himself caught in a different kind of downpour. One that makes him feel like he's burning, soaring up into the sky above the dreary confines of reality. And fuck, he knows this moment will pass. That he and Kirishima both will turn and move forward, walking headfirst into the rest of this goddamn war, but that doesn't stop Katsuki from taking a moment to just stand here and bask in this April storm.
Katsuki hates the rain. But today? He revels in it.