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A couple years after the war, the blond was still clawing his way toward something that felt like peace. Number two pro hero. Strong. Respected. Ruthless. But the win rang hollow. Shigaraki was gone. Izuku was alive, but quirkless. Nothing about it felt like victory.
Katsuki unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside, into dim light and the familiar mix of garlic, soap, and something warm baking in the oven.
The redhead looked up from the couch, a grin already tugging at his lips.
“Hey. You’re home.”
Katsuki dropped his bag with a thud and let the tension bleed out of his shoulders. He crossed the room, grabbed the redhead’s jaw, and kissed him. Just once. Just long enough to remember what steady felt like.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m home.”
Kirishima tucked his legs under himself, scanning Katsuki’s face.
“How was the agency hunt?”
“Found a place downtown. Good bones. Roof needs work, elevator’s probably cursed, but it’ll do.”
“That’s great, Kat.”
Katsuki sat beside him, slinging an arm across his shoulders like muscle memory.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Baked pasta,” the redhead said, rubbing his neck. “I forgot the timer so it might be, uh… a little crunchy.”
“You made it. That’s enough.”
They ate in the living room, plates balanced on their knees, the TV murmuring in the background. The storm hit around sunset. First the wind, then sheets of rain, then the low, creeping rumble of thunder that made the windows shake.
Kirishima went still.
Katsuki glanced over.
“You good?”
“I’m fine,” the redhead said too fast. His fork scraped the plate, his grip tight.
“Didn’t think it’d storm tonight.”
Another crack of thunder, closer this time. Kirishima flinched. Tried to play it off. The blond saw anyway.
They finished dinner in silence. Katsuki kept an eye on him. Didn’t say anything yet.
Later, lightning flashed like a camera bulb. Rain hammered the roof. Katsuki sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through messages, until he heard soft footsteps cross the wood floor.
“Kat?” Kirishima’s voice barely made it over the rain. “Can I... Can I sleep close tonight?”
Katsuki didn’t answer with words. Just set his phone down and pulled back the blankets.
“C’mere.”
The redhead slid into bed and curled against him, face pressed to his collarbone. His skin was warm, but his fingers were freezing.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Don’t apologize.”
“I should be over this. It’s just thunder.”
“It’s not just thunder. Not after everything.” Katsuki ran his fingers through that mess of red hair. “You think I don’t know what flashbacks feel like?”
Kirishima stilled.
“I didn’t think you noticed.”
Katsuki didn’t answer. Just kissed his forehead, then his temple, then the soft skin of his cheek.
“You’re shaking.”
“I know.” His voice cracked. “I keep hearing the blasts. From Jakku. The ones that flattened whole blocks. They sounded like this.”
Katsuki’s jaw clenched.
“Yeah. I remember.”
They lay in silence, Kirishima curled into him like a secret, Katsuki holding him steady. Another flash lit up the room. This time, the redhead didn’t flinch. Not as much.
“You know,” he said quietly, mouth against Katsuki’s neck, “I’ve been thinking about what I said. About adopting.”
Katsuki raised a brow.
“You really wanna talk about that now?”
“Yeah. I think we’d be good at it. I think we’d give a kid a real home.”
The blond let out a slow breath.
“You want that?”
“I want it with you.”
Katsuki paused. Then nodded.
“Okay. We’ll do it.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. But you’re on midnight feeding duty. And we’re baby-proofing the hell out of this place. No janky-ass safety latches.”
Kirishima laughed, low and hoarse.
“Deal.”
“Tomorrow we’ll check agency sites. Pick one that doesn’t look like a front for human trafficking.”
“You’re not off tomorrow.”
“I’ll call in. Screw it.”
Kirishima leaned up and kissed him. Slow. Careful. Not fiery or rushed. Just full of all the things he didn’t know how to say out loud.
They curled up under the storm. And this time, Katsuki didn’t let go.
The storm passed sometime before dawn.
Gray light slipped through the curtains. The city outside was quiet and wet, humming faintly below. Katsuki woke first.
The redhead was wrapped around him, cheek pressed to his chest, hair spread across the pillow like a halo. He was breathing slow. Deep. No twitching. No tossing.
Katsuki didn’t move. Just rested one arm over his back and stared at the ceiling.
The war had twisted them both. Left marks they didn’t always speak aloud. But the blond knew how to spot cracks in someone’s armor. Kirishima’s were clean, deep, impossible to miss. But he never faked it. Never pretended he wasn’t bleeding.
He just kept smiling through the wreckage.
Katsuki brushed a strand of red hair from his face, fingers drifting down to his cheek.
“You always do this,” he murmured. “Fall apart quiet. Like I’m not supposed to notice.”
Kirishima stirred, brow scrunching.
“Mm?”
“You awake?”
“Barely.” He nuzzled in closer. “But yeah.”
“You should’ve told me the storm still messes with you.”
Kirishima went quiet. Then, softer,
“It’s not just the storm. It’s what it brings back. The rubble. The sirens. That day... I couldn’t hear myself think. And then you—” He swallowed. “I thought I lost you.”
Katsuki’s chest tightened. He didn’t speak. Just pulled him in tighter.
“You didn’t.”
“I know. But my brain doesn’t. Not when it’s dark and loud and everything smells like smoke.”
“I get it.”
Kirishima’s hand found his chest, resting over his heart.
“Do you ever get scared like that?”
“Yeah. All the time.”
“You don’t show it.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
Kirishima looked up. His gaze was soft. Tired.
“So what do you do when it hits?”
Katsuki exhaled.
“I hold on to you. That’s what I do.”
They didn’t talk for a while after that. Just lay there, close and quiet.
Then Kirishima asked,
“You still wanna adopt?”
Katsuki turned his head.
“Yeah. I do.”
“You think we’d be good at it?”
“I think we’ve survived worse than teething and tantrums.”
Kirishima laughed, soft and real.
“Yeah. We have.”
Katsuki cupped the back of his head and pulled him in for a kiss. Slow and steady. A promise wrapped in silence.
“You’re brave,” he whispered. “Not because you fought in the war. Because you’re still soft. Still here.”
Kirishima exhaled, voice shaking.
“That means a lot. Coming from you.”
“You’re not broken,” Katsuki said. “You’re healing. So am I.”
They stayed in bed for the rest of the morning. Not hiding. Just choosing not to rush.
Healing wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy.
It was two hands finding each other under the blankets.
It was breathing in sync after a night of thunder.
It was choosing to stay, again and again, even when everything in you screamed to run.