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The rain hit the windows like shrapnel, cold and angry. Katsuki stood outside Deku’s door, dripping blood and rainwater onto the tile floor. His knuckles were bruised. His left arm throbbed. His voice was somewhere between gone and breaking.
He didn’t even remember walking here.
Izuku opened the door slowly, eyes wide and full of questions he didn’t ask. Instead, he stepped aside.
“Come in,” he said gently.
Katsuki did.
The warmth of the apartment stung in contrast to the chill in his bones. He stood awkwardly in the entrance, fists clenched, heart pounding like he’d just come off the battlefield—which, technically, he had.
“It wasn’t your mission,” Izuku said, closing the door behind him.
Katsuki flinched. “Shut up.”
Izuku didn’t. “You weren’t supposed to be there. You got benched.”
“Didn’t stop me.”
“No. It never does.”
There was no anger in his voice, only tired concern. That made it worse.
Katsuki dropped his bag. It hit the ground with a thud that echoed too loud in the small room. He didn’t look at Izuku. Couldn’t.
“I thought he was gonna die,” he muttered. “That rookie. Idiot jumped into the line of fire like he had a death wish.”
Izuku moved closer, his steps light but certain. “And you took the hit instead.”
“Tch. He had a mom waiting at home. I didn’t.”
It wasn’t the truth. Not really. Mitsuki Bakugou was very much alive, but he wasn’t thinking about her. He was thinking about the fact that no one had asked him to come back.
He didn’t know what he expected, showing up here. Maybe a fight. Maybe a lecture. Maybe nothing.
Instead, Izuku touched his arm.
“Sit down. Let me look at that.”
Katsuki sat.
The couch was soft. Softer than he remembered. Or maybe he was just so damn tired. When Izuku crouched in front of him with the first aid kit, Katsuki didn’t stop him. He let him clean the cut above his eyebrow. He let him check the swelling on his wrist.
He let himself feel human.
“Why here?” Izuku asked quietly, wrapping a bandage with gentle fingers.
Katsuki could have lied. Could have said he didn’t know. Could have said the rain was too heavy, or the trains weren’t running. But none of that would’ve explained the way his chest stopped aching the moment he saw Izuku’s face.
“I didn’t wanna be alone,” he said finally, voice rough and low. “And you’re the only one who ever—”
He stopped. Coward.
But Izuku just nodded. He didn’t press. Didn’t pry.
Instead, he whispered, “You never are.”
Silence settled between them. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just… safe.
And for the first time in days, Katsuki let himself breathe.
Izuku stood slowly, fingers brushing against Katsuki’s cheek as he rose. It was barely a touch, feather-light—but Katsuki felt it like fire. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Just watched him go to the kitchenette, barefoot and calm, as if they hadn’t both nearly broken on the battlefield hours ago.
Izuku came back with a towel, tossed it lightly onto Katsuki’s lap. “You’re soaked.”
“No shit,” Katsuki muttered, but the bite lacked venom. He rubbed his hair dry, gritting his teeth at how badly his shoulder ached. The towel smelled like laundry detergent. Like home.
Izuku sat beside him this time, not too close but not far either. The kind of distance that asked permission. The kind of space Katsuki could cross if he wanted.
“I saw the footage,” Izuku said quietly. “From the drones. You dove in front of him.”
Katsuki exhaled through his nose. “Kid’s a moron.”
“You’re still calling him a kid? He’s twenty-three.”
“Still a moron.”
Izuku smiled faintly. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t pitying. It was just… soft. And it unraveled something in Katsuki’s chest he didn’t know he’d been holding together with wire.
“I hated that you were there,” Izuku admitted, eyes trained on the floor. “I knew you would be. You always are. But still—I hated it.”
Katsuki glanced over. “Why?”
“Because I knew you'd throw yourself into the fire again. Like you always do. Like it doesn’t matter what it costs you.”
“It doesn’t.”
Izuku turned to look at him. “It does, Katsuki. To me.”
The name—his real name—landed like a strike to the gut. Katsuki stared at him, something raw and unfamiliar twisting behind his ribs.
Izuku kept going, voice firm now, trembling only slightly. “I know you don’t think anyone would care if you didn’t come back. But I would. I do.”
Katsuki wanted to say something. Anything. But the words felt stuck, too big for his throat.
“I came here because I didn’t want to be alone,” he muttered again, eyes on his bandaged hands. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You could’ve called.”
“I didn’t know if you’d want me.”
Izuku didn’t answer right away. Then, gently, he reached over and placed his hand on Katsuki’s thigh. Not possessive. Not tentative. Just there.
“You’re always welcome here.”
The silence that followed was thick but not heavy. It was filled with everything Katsuki couldn’t say. Everything he wanted to say.
He turned his head just enough to look at Izuku’s profile—freckles, messy curls, the scar that ran across his cheek from Kamino. Still the same eyes. Still that same unshakeable light.
“You remember third year?” Katsuki asked suddenly, surprising even himself. “When we did that last joint training exercise?”
“The one with the flood simulation?”
“Yeah.” Katsuki smirked slightly. “You almost drowned.”
Izuku huffed. “I was fine.”
“You weren’t. You were coughing up water for ten minutes.”
“You carried me out.”
Katsuki blinked. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do,” Izuku said, eyes wide. “You didn’t even hesitate. Just hauled me over your shoulder and ran.”
“Tch. You were light.”
“You were scared.”
Katsuki didn’t deny it. “You were the only one I was looking for in the chaos.”
That silenced Izuku for a beat. Then two.
And then he said, very softly, “You still are.”
Their eyes met, and something inside Katsuki fractured.
Without thinking—without planning—he reached over and took Izuku’s hand. Rough fingers. Familiar warmth. Izuku didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
He just held back.
“I didn’t come here for this,” Katsuki said gruffly. “I didn’t come for comfort. Or whatever.”
“I know,” Izuku said. “But I want you to stay anyway.”
“Why?”
Izuku gave a shaky smile. “Because when I wake up tomorrow, I want to know you’re still here.”
The clock ticked. The rain softened. Somewhere in the city, sirens wailed distantly—but in this moment, in this space, everything was quiet.
“I’m not good at this,” Katsuki said. “I don’t… do feelings.”
Izuku squeezed his hand. “You’re doing fine.”
Katsuki looked down at their fingers, intertwined.
“Deku—Izuku. I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. I’ve cared for a long time. I just didn’t think I was allowed to say it.”
Izuku exhaled, shaky but bright. “Then say it now.”
Katsuki leaned in slowly. Almost hesitantly. Izuku met him halfway.
The kiss was soft, unhurried. Just lips pressed together like a promise. Like an apology. Like home.
When they pulled apart, Katsuki rested his forehead against Izuku’s.
“Tomorrow’s gonna be hell,” he muttered.
Izuku smiled against him. “Probably.”
“Still want me to stay?”
“I always want you to stay.”
Katsuki let out a slow breath.
Then, for the first time in years, he whispered, “Okay.”
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Katsuki woke to warmth.
Not heat—the explosive kind that burned from his Quirk or the panic that used to keep him up at night—but real warmth. Steady. Quiet. Human.
Izuku was curled beside him, one hand resting gently on his chest like it had always belonged there. His face was relaxed, freckles softened by morning light slipping through the curtains. Katsuki hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. But his body had. His mind had.
For once, he hadn’t dreamed of screaming or fire. Just warmth. Just this.
He didn’t move. Not yet.
Izuku stirred eventually, blinking up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Morning.”
Katsuki grunted. “You drool.”
Izuku snorted, unbothered. “You snore.”
They stared at each other for a beat.
Then, without drama or hesitation, Izuku leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to Katsuki’s collarbone.
Katsuki’s voice was rough. “You really want me here?”
“I really do.”
Katsuki nodded once. “Then I guess I’m staying.”
And just like that, with the rain gone and the city waking, Katsuki finally let himself believe it:
He didn’t have to be alone anymore.