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A gentle breeze flutters by. Each paper-like leaf collapses onto another section of grey pavement; sometimes crushed by the sole of one’s boot or whisked away by the whistle of a train.
There’s rain—cold, blistering rain smacking onto hurried feet. Rainwater glides in between sidewalk cracks, where bugs hide and pebbles tumble, burrowing underneath mother nature's dark. The air is far too uninviting. Some find themselves caught in between aggressive stomps and human whispers; who also attempt to evade a brewing storm above.
Katsuki is slumped over a well-worn bench, impatiently waiting for his commute to arrive. The sun has already start to set, allowing the moon to shadow the train station. He want to appreciate the atmosphere, but there is not enough care in his heart to pay any attention at the moment.
Tapping his foot, the blond takes a glance at his wristwatch. An old souvenir from his father, given on a birthday he no longer remembers. The leather wristband has long faded from its once-brown tinge, having endured common blasts now and again. It ticks slower with every second, mechanical arrows taking their time traveling to the next roman numeral. Annoyance rushes through his body, and in turn, he clenches his palms and digs his fingernails plush-deep into skin. The train is late.
His mind flames with leftover rage. A rage colored in burning yellows and hot oranges. Frustratingly, he sighs, having forgotten to fetch an umbrella this morning. His mother warned him over the phone, but Katsuki ignored her, as always in their back-and-forth routine. Or possibly, maybe, it had been the number of ringing texts and animated emoticons coming from his mobile screen that same moment, blanketing the boom of his mother’s demands.
Yet now, as the wind pushes harder, he learns to regret that decision. (Or maybe think fond at the thought.) It does not relieve the tension in his body, however.
His shelter—a curved roof of scrap metal—does nothing to prevent ropes of rain catching onto his threadbare sneakers. Just another tick to add to his list of grievances. His hands travel to his face, pulling at the eyes; he’s exhausted. Fingers then guide themselves to ears, lowering down the volume setting on their hearing aids to soothe a growing headache. Not too low, but just enough to cloak the conversations of passengers entering and leaving their stations.
Looking back to his sneakers and the ground, there is a tiny red pebble caught in the midst of the wind and tunnels towards the tips of his shoes. Soon enough, as droplets of rain blur his vision and Katsuki attempts to blink, the pebble stops at its destination; it's red, which is an odd place for an underground station. Though, his eyes, cardinal and sharp, squint at the rock—it looks stupid.
Furrowing his brows, he kicks the rock to the right. Where does one find a red pebble anyways?
Once more, the blond sighs, and he leans back against the bench, despite it's crooked and uneven structure that bites at the shoulder blades. It is at least a distraction from today's events. Katsuki's mind is vacant now, no longer taking in his suffocating circumstances, but the feeling does not last long—unfortunately.
There's suddenly something solid hitting the front of his sneakers once more. But instead, there's more force and he feels his toes crush under the pressure. He immediately bends over to see if maybe the pebble came back for a second round.
Except—there was no pebble, but there definitely was a big, dumb rock in front of him.
"Oh man.."
There's a red mane of hair attached to the rock and Katsuki immediately kicks it in the leg.
"Ow! What the hell, man?!" it yells, albeit devastatingly—the rock knows why.
Aggressively, Katsuki shoves his feet away from the weight of his classmate, opting to lean back once again on the bench. He has lost most of his energy for the day.
Though he eyes the red rock clumsily sitting up from a puddle of mud nearby Katsuki, brushing clumps of brown from his clothing. Katsuki ignores his question and instead barks another one, "What are you doing here, idiot?" Once again, most of his energy.
In mud-stained glory and patchy crimson hair, the rock responds, "Trying to keep you company! Also, how many times do I got to tell you, dude. It's Kirishima!"
He continues rubbing his shirt, with dark eyebrows pulled to the middle of his forehead, moaning at the failed attempts of cleanliness. The scene would almost be amusing, if not for Katuski reminded who this boy was in the first place.
"I don't need company. Let alone, from someone who can't take a couple throws." He growls, looking straight ahead at Kirishima.
Kirishima embarrassingly avoids eye contact, resorting to fiddling with his backpack straps, but chooses not to let the comment scurry away.
"Hey, man, I was the only one today who can take as many as you were dishing out."
Katuski shakes his head and snorts, "You still went down."
The redhead puffs and glares at a pair of red eyes, similar to his own.
"Excuse me, you almost tried to kill me!"
"Oh, please, even a pebble could take more."
"And my classmate shouldn't be hurting me the way you did!"
Katsuki begins to retaliate, but instead screws it shut. The cogs in his head scrape against one another, as if what Kirishima said held the oil to the machines. His usual impatience had threatened to dwindle as the conversation went on, but he refuses to let the rock witness this shortcoming.
"I wanted to win." He spits out. Shelling out pain was only to reach his end goal of becoming victorious.
Their eyes lock together. Katsuki feels his irritation slowly wash away from Kirishima's presence. There's crimson swimming in the other's eyes, and the blond becomes almost unnerved with how indistinguishable it was to his own—if only just a slight shade off.
Kirishima sighs, "I know. I hate letting you win."
"You failed."
"Next time I won't."
Katsuki lets out a condescending laugh, "Like I'll allow a next time."
"Then anyone who comes after me won't feel like a real win." Kirishima responds, almost too casually. He finds this opportunity to sit near Katsuki on the opposite end of the bench, as if he knows any closer, a big, bright ball of orange and yellow will spiral his way.
There is a pause, a moment, a silence they both take and give in. It makes Katsuki uncomfortable. It makes him have to think of what Kirishima's words meant; and what it meant, was that Kirishima would not let another take that loss the way he did today. It meant, eventually, Kirishima will win—and Katsuki wants to make sure he does not.
He gives a glance to that red mane now soaked in water, no longer gelled and spiked up high. That fall really brought Kirishima down. Those similar, yet vastly brighter shade of red, eyes stare ahead at the passing of trains—the station now scarce of warm bodies, leaving a cold breeze nip at the skin.
"Then beat me."
It's a quest. A challenge. A chance for someone other than his own mother to prove his brashness is controllable, reasonable, a reason and a trait every hero must have and endure.
Kirishima looks back Katsuki, a slight smirk playing on that dumb face. "Oh, you bet I will."
Katsuki hopes its a promise.
The boys continue to sit in silence as they wait for their commute to arrive, still late to Katsuki's demise. And though any other day this might have triggered into bullying the other to leave, he thinks his energy has finally ran out.
(At least, that's his excuse.)