Chapter Text
Izuku Midoriya sat on the edge of the rooftop, knees drawn up, hoodie damp and sticking to his arms. His hair, dark and messy, was plastered to his forehead, water dripping in tiny streams that traced pale paths down his cheeks. The adrenaline from the mission had ebbed hours ago, leaving a dull ache in every muscle and a heavier one in his chest. He tried to remember why he kept climbing these heights after missions, why the rooftops always seemed safer than anywhere else. Maybe it was because no one could see the cracks here.
He didn’t notice the shadow at first.
Bakugou Katsuki stepped onto the rooftop with that usual, careful-aggressive energy—like a storm contained in a single body. He carried a towel draped over one shoulder, his clothes damp, sleeves sticking slightly, his eyes scanning the rooftop before resting on Izuku.
“Tch,” Katsuki muttered, voice rough but quieter than usual. “You’re sitting in the rain, idiot.”
Izuku flinched at the sound of that familiar tone, and yet there was something softer behind it tonight. Something that wasn’t all sharp edges and explosions.
“I—I’m fine,” Izuku said, though his voice cracked slightly. “Just… thinking.”
Katsuki dropped the towel onto the boy’s soaked hair without another word. It landed like an anchor, warm and heavy against his shoulders. Izuku blinked, startled, then laughed softly, a short, almost embarrassed sound.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, but his fingers twitched over the wet fabric of his hoodie, clinging to the warmth Katsuki had left behind.
“Shut it,” Katsuki muttered. His jaw worked, and for a moment his sharpness softened into something Izuku didn’t often see: care. “You’ve been acting like a wreck since the mission. Can’t have you catching a cold on top of everything else.”
Izuku swallowed and looked down, ashamed but not from anger—just from the raw, tender honesty behind the words. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the right words were caught somewhere between the ache in his ribs and the quiet drum of rain.
They sat in silence for a while. The air smelled of wet earth and ozone, the faint tang of smoke lingering from the city below. Each drop of rain made a soft pattering sound on the roof. There was no need for conversation; no one needed to speak.
Finally, Izuku let out a quiet breath. “You… you always find me after missions.”
Katsuki snorted. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t keel over. Besides…” He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck, and for once the words didn’t come out as a roar or a jab. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
The confession hovered in the damp air, heavier than any explosion Katsuki could make. Izuku’s chest tightened, heart thudding painfully loud, and he dared a small smile. “I… I don’t like seeing you hurt either,” he admitted softly.
Katsuki’s gaze flicked away, towards the distant city lights glimmering through the mist, but his hand moved before his brain caught up. It rested lightly on Izuku’s knee. Not enough to hold him, not enough to claim, but just… there. A tether, grounding them both in the quiet aftermath.
Izuku didn’t move away.
“You’re ridiculous,” Katsuki muttered, voice low, almost vulnerable, as if the words were too heavy to shout. “Just… don’t get used to me being nice.”
“I wouldn’t,” Izuku said, smiling faintly. “Not if it hurts this much.”
Katsuki’s hand twitched, almost to pull back, but didn’t. For a few long moments, they just existed like that—two boys who had fought through storms both literal and emotional, sitting on a rooftop that smelled like rain and quiet beginnings.
The night deepened around them, wrapping the city in shadows and the last hum of rain. The wind tugged at their clothes, whispered against their ears, and the world felt, for once, suspended. Somewhere beneath that stillness, beneath the ache and the exhaustion, something fragile and gentle was taking root.
Katsuki finally shifted slightly, leaning back on his hands, eyes soft in the dim light. “You know,” he said quietly, “for once… it’s kinda nice. Just… sitting here. No missions, no yelling, no explosions.”
Izuku tilted his head, letting the towel dry some of the rain from his hair. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s… peaceful. In a way I didn’t think we’d get anymore.”
Katsuki’s eyes softened even more. “Don’t get all sappy on me, Deku.”
“I won’t,” Izuku promised, though his heart thumped in a way that was entirely truthful.
And for the first time in a long time, words weren’t necessary. The storm had passed. The rain had slowed. The world beyond the rooftop could wait. Here, in the quiet aftermath, two boys who had carried too much found something neither had expected: a moment of calm, a tether between hearts that refused to let go.
Katsuki glanced at Izuku, a small smirk tugging at his lips, and said nothing more. Sometimes, no words were needed at all.
Izuku leaned slightly closer, letting the towel fall lightly over his shoulders, feeling the warmth of Katsuki’s presence like a shield. And in that subtle brush of proximity, in the quiet after the storm, the slow burn began.
It didn’t need to be rushed. It didn’t need to explode. It just… existed.
And for tonight, that was enough.