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It’s cold out, is the thing.
Chilly. The breeze dances through the streets of downtown Mustufutu, grazing its fingers along the edges of Katsuki’s exposed skin and digging in with pinpricks of ice. He hunches his shoulders against it and grunts, ignoring the twang of his sore, overused muscles. Fuck, he’s gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow. It’s his own damn fault for pulling a double back-to-back, he knows, but their agency’s been swamped with too many cases and not enough heroes. So. Back-to-back doubles it is.
It doesn’t help that it’s mostly petty shit. Which, should be a goddamn blessing, all things considered, but that doesn’t stop Katsuki’s lip from curling at his own exhaustion because, really? He hardly even did anything, how the fuck is he this tired? The most excitement he got on today’s patrol was the burglar at the corner market downtown. And obviously that doesn’t require a whole lot of firepower. Which. Is most of what he is. Literally. He’s a fucking grenade. An explosive. All flash and boom and heat. Not getting to unleash that power leaves him feeling…like an expired stick of dynamite. Wrung out and brittle.
“God, I could sleep for a year.” Kirishima’s shoulder bumps against his. He looks about as tired as Katsuki feels—eyes hooded and shoulders slumped, feet dragging against the sidewalk. Hell, even his hair is drooping, those carefully styled spikes sticking out at all sorts of odd angles. He’s also covered in grime and scuff marks—leftovers from whatever squirmishes he’d gotten up to on his own patrols. Something about an armed robbery, if Katsuki remembers correctly. Kirishima’d ranted about it when they’d met back in the locker rooms at the agency, but he only sorta half-listened.
Which. Maybe is kinda shitty, but in Katsuki’s defense, his brain’s only half online right now.
“M’also starving, dude,” Kirishima grumbles. “Like, I could eat a whole cow. The entire thing. Just. All of it to myself.”
Katsuki grunts again. Food is nothing but a whisper of a thought in his own head—the bath’s what’s calling his name. Just. Steaming water hot enough to numb the ache in his arms and chase away the springtime chill that lingers in the streets. Distantly, he hears a rumble. Cars honk, people chatter, and beside him, Kirishima waxes more poetry over the joys of steak.
Something something, it’s juicy and tasty, something something. They’ll probably end up getting takeout from that corner market tonight because Katsuki is sure as fuck not gonna cook, and if the way Kirishima’s dragging his feet right now is any indication, he’s not going to either. So. Corner market it is. Which is honestly fine. It’s super fucking convenient—like, it’s literally right on the street corner of their apartment—and there’s always a small set of booths with steaming hot food. Some of the vendors come and go, some stay the same. And it’s usually what they get when they’re both too goddamn tired to cook but also want something a bit heartier.
It helps that the old folks running the joint seem to love Kirishima. Which. Well. Everyone loves Kirishima. He’s all bright and sunshine smiles, and people gravitate to that sort of thing. Especially old people. Literally the last time they got takeout from a vendor at the market, she stuffed a whole extra bowl of curry in there with an insistence that he (read: Kirishima) needs to eat more as a growing young man.
They’re in their fucking twenties. Like, Jesus, if Kirishima grows any more he’s gonna knock into every doorway that exists ever. He’s already tall as fuck—they both are, but Kirishima especially towers over most everyone these days. Broad and well muscled, he’s an impenetrable wall. An ever wavering shield. A mountain.
And he has the appetite to match.
They stop at a street corner. Kirishima’s arm brushes along his, pinpricks of heat sparking at the brief contact. Katsuki’s chin dips low, eyes drooping. He wavers, his exhaustion potent. Around them, the air feels heavy, pressing down on already weary shoulders and laden with a heady petrichor. Katsuki shivers, jaw ticking in a weak attempt to keep his teeth from chattering. Fuck. He hopes the rain holds. He risks a glance to the swollen clouds overhead and grimaces. It’s the worst part of springtime, he thinks—the constant rain. Katsuki’s a stick of dynamite and rain is his kryptonite. Cold and wet and washes away all of his sweat, leaving him shivering and defenseless.
He hates it.
The crosswalk clears. They walk. Katsuki thinks wistfully of his bed and how he’s never leaving it ever again. (He’ll leave tomorrow morning at 5:00 AM sharp like he always does. He’ll do a light jog down the block to warm up, wash up in the sink, and make a quick breakfast, and probably poke his head into Kirishima’s room to throw a shoe at him because the idiot always sleeps past his alarms, only to stumble into the kitchen minutes later, red hair a wreck, and grumbling a sleepy thanks when Katsuki presses a plate of steamed rice and dried mackerel into his hands.)
People surge around them. People in suits, talking loudly on their phones with earbuds in. Or a phone pressed to an ear. Mothers with a baby on one hip and a bag of groceries on the other. Kids in their school uniforms, laughing and shrieking. It all buzzes in Katsuki’s ears and makes him grimace—his temple throbs with the threat of a headache. Fuck, he hopes they still have aspirin at home. Maybe he can sweet talk Kirishima into running to the drugstore later if they’re out.
Something wet splatters on his cheek. Katsuki stalls. Blinks. Another drip splats on his head. And shoulder. A rumble of thunder shakes the air.
And then the heavens open.
“Fuck.” He hunches his shoulders as if that’ll stop the rain from waterlogging his uniform and marches to the sidewalk, jaw clenched and goosebumps running up and down his arms. But the rain is relentless—it’s a torrent, flattening his hair and streaming into his eyes and chilling him down to the fucking bone. Which. Is great. Just great. Exactly how he wanted to end his day, thank you so goddamn much, Mother Nature. Fucking shit goddammit. He swipes at his face, scowling as he squints.
Visibility’s shit now—Katsuki feels like a helpless, drowned rat, floundering in the dark. His shoulder clips against someone and he bites back a curse, stumbling. Stupid fucking rain. He turns, ready to bitch, only to pull up short. Kirishima’s not beside him anymore. Panic stutters deep in his chest and he whirls around, gaze piercing through the torrent’s curtain and fixing itself on the lone figure standing on the edge of the curb, face upturned to the sky.
Katsuki forgets how to breathe, for a moment.
A soft smile paints across familiar lips, and Kirishima’s eyes are closed—there’s a sense of peace that surrounds him like light in the dark, and despite the shadow of the storm, he glows, illuminated by the dancing street lights overhead. His hair’s flattened by the rain, plastered to his forehead and dripping down his back in a curtain of red. Katsuki knows Kirishima will complain about it later. Something about how the rainwater fucks with his hair dye. But now he doesn’t seem to give two shits. Katsuki has the odd thought that he’s beautiful like this—standing here, careless, in the rain.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he says with a croak. Kirishima looks at him, then, gaze gentle and warm and swallowing Katsuki up in a swath of gentle affection that makes him forget all about the rain pelting down on them both. He grins his sharp-toothed grin and holds out a hand, beckoning.
“Dance with me.”
“What?”
Kirishima laughs. “C’mon. Doncha trust me?”
And, gods. Trust feels like a goddamn understatement. They’ve lived through a war together. They’ve faced terrors of the likes that words can’t even describe, together. They fight bad guys shoulder-to-shoulder, day in and day out. How could he not trust Kirishima? And maybe Kirishima doesn’t mean it like that. Or, at least, not at that depth. But still, Katsuki trusts him so wholly and completely that it’s kind of fucking terrifying, and he can’t help the scoff that falls past his lips.
So he reaches for that hand and lets Kirishima pull him close, smile so wide and gleeful that Katsuki can’t help but match it. Another laugh rings out like a bell, and he twirls Katsuki, fingers slick with rainwater. It’s kind of stupid and silly, and people are staring, but Kirishima is so fucking radiant and sweet that Katsuki kind really find it in himself to care.
(Maybe once he would have. Or, maybe once he did. Care. About what other people thought. Which is something he would never admit out loud to a single fucking soul because he’s Bakugou Katsuki, he’s above caring what any extra thinks. And maybe that’s true now —but deep down, Katsuki knows that wasn’t always the case. Not really. Because he cared too much once upon a time. He regrets the shit he did because of it. So fucking much. But he’s grown since then, and he’s here now and that’s what matters.)
They spin around in circles, boots splashing through puddles and rain dripping off their hair, face, clothes. Kirishima twirls him again and fuck it, Katsuki laughs, a grating, wheezy thing. It’s dizzying—lights and people alike blur through the downpour and all he can focus on is the bright, open affection trained on him like a spotlight. Katsuki fumbles, damn near tripping over his own two feet like some clumsy fuck. He’s tired and sore and dizzy and he can’t even think about any of that because Kirishima grabs onto his waterlogged costume and yanks him close and, oh.
Oh, fuck.
The realization hits him hard enough to make him literally weak at the knees. It’s all he can do to keep upright—he scrabbles for a hold on Kirishima’s shoulders, hands clasping behind his neck and breath sticking in his throat as he gets lost in that oh so familiar sunset gaze. Shit. Fuck. Did he really not know this until now?
(He realizes sometime later that he did know. In a way. The same way he knew Kirishima felt the same—in all those late nights curled up on the couch, throwing popcorn at the TV while they shit-talk those pre-Quirk movies Kirishima’s obsessed with watching for some stupid reason. It’s how they always wait up for each other when the other has a late night patrol, no matter what. Or how Kirishima always makes him his favorite curry when he’s had a shitty day, or how he always plays with Kirishima’s hair when he has a headache. It’s in all the little things, the little moments they share day in and day out. How their lives are so inexplicably intertwined and Katsuki can’t even fathom living any other way.)
There’s a hand on his cheek. Kirishima’s so close—Katsuki can see the rain droplets caught in his eyelashes. “Can…can I—” He doesn’t get to finish whatever he’s asking because Katsuki doesn’t let him. He just lurches forward, pressing their lips together with a desperation burning through him like the heat of a thousand dying suns. Kirishima hums, pulling him impossibly closer and oh, fuck, why haven’t they done this sooner?
Katsuki feels like he’s flying. Like he’s soaring high over the city, wind whipping in his air and glee igniting his heart in his chest and fuck, maybe in a way he is. All the shit that doesn’t matter falls away, fades into nothing. All his aches and pains and the rainwater soaking him down to the bone. It’s like a bygone memory. The only thing that matters is this. Him and Kirishima and this—this thing that’s blossoming here between them. This crazy and wild and beautiful fucking thing.
They break apart, foreheads touching, and Katsuki bites his lip as though that can stop the big ass grin from overtaking his lips. Distantly, he’s aware that it’s still raining. He doesn’t give a shit, though, not when Kirishima’s looking at him like this.
“Hi,” he murmurs, voice soft and warm. Their noses bump together. Katsuki’s eyes hood.
“Hi.”
This time, their kiss is soft and gentle, full of promises and affection and so much goddamn love Katsuki fears he might get cavities or something. But, fuck, is it worth it.
Thunder rumbles overhead, and for once, Katsuki finds that he doesn’t hate the rain.