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You don’t like thunderstorms.
You used to... because, for you, the smell after rain is the only scent that helps you see the beauty in the world; how the sky weeps as hard as humans do when they’re grieving. But tears can’t wipe away sins the way it cleans grime. Saying sorry and sobbing for mercy only adds a bandage to shattered glass.
Hawks had told you so.
You don’t like thunderstorms because they only make you stay up worrying for your friend.
( Friend? Lover? Acquaintance? Hero? You’re not really sure what he is to you. He’s always been too complicated. All you know is that he keeps you around, and he’s never really done that to anyone before. )
Flying in the pouring rain—not to mention the occasional lightning striking down on anything or anyone—is not the brightest idea, but flying is what Hawks is known for. A hero never rests.
Hawks never rests, but he says he does just that when he comes to you. As if you’re his rest.
Frantic knocking on your door startles you out of your train of thoughts, forcing you to stand up and look over to the source of the noise. No one else comes to visit you so late at this hour, so that must mean…
With a frown, you slip off your bed, socked feet meeting the warm carpet. You barely even get an inch of the door open before a feather pushes it back until it reveals the No. 2 hero in all his glory.
“ Hawks!? ”
You gape at the sight before you, of Hawks sopping wet head to toe, creating a trail on the floor. ( Oh, someone’s definitely suing you after this. ) He grins at you sheepishly, posture defeated, but his golden eyes radiant when it meets yours.
“Hey, sweetheart…”
As if you’ve snapped out of your shock with his words, you quickly pull him inside, your hands now damp as soon as you touch him. “You’re an idiot . Why did you come here? You could’ve caught a cold!”
“Exactly why I’m here,” he says casually, after a sneeze. You wrinkle your nose in disgust, which only makes him laugh. “I know you’re the only one who can give me that sweet TLC.”
You think you can give him a whack on his head instead.
He’s shivering the moment he enters your apartment, yet it only worsens when you tell him to take his dirty coat off. He makes a comment about how you need to be more subtle with your need to want him naked, and you silence him with a slap on the back of his head.
As you guide him inside, he’s staring at you, fondness so apparent in his eyes—it should be illegal, the way he looks at you.
“Have I ever told you how pretty you are?”
He does. Everyday . You ignore every single one of them for the sake of your own sanity, but it seems like it only fuels him to say it more.
“I can’t say the same to you,” you muse, leading him over to the bathroom. His soaking wet clothes drench your carpet, but you know better than to complain to a man who’s saved countless lives every day.
“ WHAT! ” he squawks, too offended for someone who’s probably been told worse. But then again, he’s always had a thing for theatrics.
You can’t help but laugh, patting his arm as if trying to soften the blow. “You look like a stray cat lost in the rain.” He pouts, which only makes him look more like a little kitten. You look away from the too-adorable sight and tell him to take his shirt off.
“You should adopt me, meow,” he says seriously while stripping off of his shirt.
You roll your eyes and tell him to sit down, but he keeps on meowing like a crazy person, waggling his feathery eyebrows. Sometimes, you wonder if this guy knows how old he is.
“Stop moving,” you hiss, setting him down on the stool so you can move to get behind him.
“I’d make a great pet, meow,” he continues.
“ Hawks .”
“Meow.”
You sigh in frustration, staring at his delighted face—you won’t lie when you say that it doesn’t make your heart flutter. “ Keigo ,” you begin, stern, yet his grin only widens at the use of his first name, “don’t make me kick you out my apartment.”
His non-existent cat ears droop. “You never get through the day without bringing down my ego, do you, kid?”
Shrugging, you grab the dish soap that’s been stored where you can reach it easily just for him. “Someone had to do it.”
“A menace,” he laments dramatically, like an idiot. The pout on his face never left. You want to pinch his cheeks and then punch him on the stomach after.
Hawks’ feathers quiver under your touch as you start soaking it with cleaner water, your hands gentle against his wings. He sighs happily and leans against you, which prompts you to remind him, “You love me.”
“I do,” he agrees.
You try not to let that affect you too much.
He doesn’t let just anyone clean his wings. You know it; he knows it. His wings are not just his Quirk; it’s special to him—a part of him that he’s both hated and loved as much as everyone else, both villains and civilians. So if he lets you touch his wings, then it means something more.
Not to brag or anything, but you’re somewhat special to him.
It’s because you don’t see his wings as weapons, but a part of him that makes him Keigo . Not just Hawks, but your Keigo. He cried for hours when you told him that, so you try not to say it as much.
“I hate it when you see me like this,” Hawks mumbles. His wings tense along with his words, making you blink and stand up straighter, pausing mid-air.
“Like what?”
“Vulnerable.” He smiles weakly, licking over his lips. “Doesn’t feel very Pro Hero of me, huh?”
You frown, before slowly resuming your care for his wings. He relaxes again, but the tension in the air never leaves.
It’s not often Hawks opens up to you like this. No matter how close he is to anyone, it’s still hard for him to express the feelings he’s been taught to keep inside—it’s natural, after all; they did say something about how old habits die hard.
“I like it when you’re like this,” you tell him, rinsing the suds off of his feathers. He shivers at the temperature, eliciting a soft smile out of you. “Makes me feel safer.”
“You feel safe with someone weak?” He laughs humorlessly.
“I feel safe with someone human,” you correct him, lips curled upwards as an act of comfort—of honesty.
He falters slightly at your words, shifting to get a better look at your face. You feel your cheeks burn at the proximity and thank the heavens that it’s too dark for him to see the wild blush on your face. It wouldn’t be healthy for his pride if he knew how much he affects you.
Then, once you’ve finished rinsing him off, he stands up abruptly.
“Wh— hey! ”
Hawks turns to you, one eyebrow raised. “You also want to clean my chest?” Then, when your face explodes into a full blush, he chuckles. “I know that I’m really hot and all, but you should keep your hands to yourself.”
“Oh, fuck off, you’re not even close to being hot.”
“The red on your cheeks say otherwise, chickadee!” he sings as he swings the door close with a feather, leaving you standing outside of your own bathroom, his black shirt still dripping wet in your clutches.
He’s annoying. You wonder why you have such a big crush on that jerk. He’s just a jerk.
A really handsome jerk —
You throw his clothes straight to your laundry.
“I hate him,” you mutter, staring at his clothes piled up on a basket. “I really, really hate him.”
You hate him , you remind yourself, as you relax at the smell of petrichor seeping out from his clothes and around your room.
Although you hate having to clean your home up because of that idiot, you admit that you secretly like the fact that he comes home . To you. In this tiny apartment instead of the building he owns.
Rain reminds you of him now.
You can only think of him during thunderstorms.
The sound of the bathroom door creaking open brings you back, tearing you away from your dramatic realization of romantic feelings. You toss the basket with his clothes somewhere far from view, hoping he didn’t catch you literally ogling it like a creep.
“Get on the bed!” Hawks calls out when he realizes you aren’t near.
You huff under your breath. “I still need to clean your mess!” you yell back, which is partly a lie.
He doesn’t seem to like that, judging by the feather that flew straight to you, pushing you back to the bedroom. You know it’s no use trying to say no to him when he can just manhandle you to bed, so you give in and let the little thing carry you back.
He’s smiling, lying on the bed when you arrive.
The feather drops you on top of him, causing you to land gracefully. You yelp while he only laughs as he wraps his strong arms around you, delighted. It forces the both of you in an awkward position, your back against his chest with his arms over your waist—and, wow, he’s really making sure you’re close .
“ Hawks ,” you whine, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. He doesn’t budge.
Hawks shakes his head stubbornly. “That’s not what you should call me.”
“I’ll start calling you worse names if you don’t let me go.”
“ Stay ,” he murmurs, his breath fanning the back of your neck. It blooms goosebumps all over until you feel his smile pressed on your skin. “Stay for tonight, please?”
Without meaning to, you loosen up, slightly dazed by his scent along with his skin against yours. “Fine,” you reply, coming off as a weak whisper. Shifting, you move until you’re facing him—facing his soft smile, sharp eyes, and home —
Maybe home just smells like Keigo.