enuniu

[enuniu]

katsuki hates everything (except he does not)

| one

Katsuki hates red. 

He hates the way it burned against his skin, the way it dragged its color and painted him pretty shades of pink and magenta and everything in between; he hates the way it tasted against the tip of his tongue, his buds begging for more of that sickly sweet flavor. 

Out of all the colors on the color wheel, his mind hesitated and hovered over a strip of stained blood and painted nails—of cheap hair dye and tattered clothing and anything that remotely let the damn pigmentation bleed into itself.

Katsuki hates red—

He hates how much he loves it.

| two

Katsuki hates crocs.

Who the fuck wears crocs these days?

Katsuki will never understand the ideal shoe would be having holes across the expanse of it and enjoying the curved, sturdy platform that wouldn’t do no good in a hazy game of soccer or a walk around the park underneath the blazing sun.

They were the embodiment of impulsive decisions and shark teeth and crimson eyes and the smell of axe body spray; they were nothing but the habit of scratching the nape of a neck or averting eyes every time they were directly looked at—they were pretty and beautiful and manly and all things good—

And maybe Katsuki hated it. He didn’t like the way those piercing grins and pushy hands accompanied with a pair of bright red crocs that were so distracting that he himself couldn’t look away without the utter disgust of a frown forming on his mouth. 

Those shoes needed to be burned to a crisp; no love needed by wearing them every chance they got.

But—

They were his and if he loved them and cherished them like a goddamn trophy wife then possibly, Katsuki did too.

| three

Katsuki hates being a tutor.

Katsuki wanted to rip these damn calculations up and explode them into a dust of ashes, hoping to wash away his traveling thoughts of pencil sketches and doodles that littered the borders of the white stationary. 

He had no patience to teach such intricate and complicated equations to someone who won’t even bother to pay attention to his hard-headed lectures. 

Once in awhile Katsuki felt the urge to roll up pages of homework and bang them along stupid red spikes that shot high up and never faltered after every hit. But no sound of resistance came out, no whine of complaints, no smoothing over the points at the top of a head; there was nothing but the outburst of giggles and counters of insults that were directed Katsuki’s way. 

If Katsuki wasn’t in middle school anymore, he would’ve blasted them through the thin walls of their dorm rooms, hoping to leave a human shaped hole after.

But he wasn’t and he wouldn’t admit to himself, but—

Katsuki quite liked the way that laugh echoed against the shells over his ears and the way it sent unexpected shivers up his arms and had his stomach twisted uncomfortably, but in a good way.

Because even if those funny comments didn’t know how to work a single problem in their textbook—he didn’t not like it.

No—Katsuki didn’t mind.

| four

Katsuki hates when he’s not smiling anymore. 

His smile falters. 

His enthusiastic, blinding, beautiful smile—hesitates.

Katsuki has never been so livid in his entire life. He can’t remember exactly why he’s angry or why the sudden feeling of igniting bombs in the palms of his hand was his go-to course of action because, because, because —  

The boy full of cheerful grins and pumped up fists was no longer smiling and Katsuki will be damned if he lets it continue. He no longer held the world in his hands and his red eyes no longer glazed with the small excitement of a child and he no longer spoke those soft words reserved only for Katsuki. 

So, Katsuki brought anything that could comfort him. He brought a heavy amount of sugary snacks, discs of shitty movies, and the worn out sweatshirt of Crimson Riot that he may or may have not stolen from his closet some time ago. 

And when he sees them huddled into Katsuki’s folded arms, he finally smiles.

He smiles small and low, but it’s genuine and it’s there and Katsuki hopes to never fail at bringing it up again.

Because Katsuki hates when he isn’t showing those sharp teeth he likes so much.

| five 

“Bakugou,”

Katsuki grunts.

The other takes it as his cue to continue. “Do you like me?”

Katsuki has to take a full double turn at the question—because what the fuck was that. He tried to form any sentence that could possibly respond to that absurd and stupid inquiry, but seeing those eyes drop low at his silence has him reeling back to reality and forgetting anything else he was thinking about. 

“What kind of fucking question is that?”

Silence.

Katsuki thinks and he thinks and he thinks—

“What do you think Shitty Hair,”

He opens his mouth,

“Yes?”

Katsuki snorts at the confusion. But, he couldn’t leave him in the dark. Not anymore. He spent too long fantasizing about pink cheeks and sharp edges of skin; thought way too hard at the idea that maybe those chapped lips that were constantly tugged and pulled from pointed teeth were actually soft and sweet. 

Maybe he tasted like orange soda he bought at the convenience store he so rightfully argued was the best beverage out there or maybe he tasted like late night snacks of graham crackers he hid underneath the cabinets from the rest of their classmates (stingy, might he add).

Whatever it was—he did. He really did.

So, Katsuki took one more glance at him , a glance of everything red, of everything matching with those damn crocs he liked, of his inability to figure out how exactly a math equation should be solved, of sad tears on sad evenings and—

“Yes,”

Katsuki breathed one last time.

“I do like you,”

One more sigh—

“Eijirou.”

[enuniu]

plane of memories and golden coins

The chime of a golden coin being collected rang around the small room, it sounds reverberating off the skin of Yoosung and causing a slight shiver of excitement now that he has finally completed such a complicated level. 

His hands gripped the bright red controller in his sweaty palms, the shine gliding beside the handles and causing his ability to control just a bit harder than when he had started. His taped fingers— wrapped in colorful bandages from the countless times he tried cooking from a recipe he had found in one of Rika’s old books —pushed lightly against the small buttons as he maneuvered the pointer to enter a new realm of trees and morbid creatures on the small screen. 

Soft snores echoed against Yoosung’s back, reminding him he had to be extra quiet to let the being behind finally have the pleasure of sweet dreams or a blank slate in their mind as darkness welcomed drowsiness.

Shades of blue and purple and black painted the room beautifully; the only source of light to swirl the colors together was a small television placed on a hardwood floor, without a table to lay on. It flashes of the many different scenes happening on it— courtesy to Yoosung’s fiddling with a joystick —bouncing across the features of the blond and the redhead on the couch. 

If the young boy risked his thirteen lives he worked hard to collect for his red character to hold a clammy hand on such a rough one, experienced one: traces of hard work and tiny, white scars littered across its pale dimension, he would deny the statement. 

Because the feeling of clasping such a boy who tremors in the presence of a religious figure, who tinkers with nails and washers and gift those exact projects to his humble friends; who whispers softly in the shell of your ear— hot breath fanning your neck, sending shivers down to your spine as sweet encouragement of words and praises and love shatter your composure to hear any more of it — it’s all too much and too little and maybe the curious younger boy wanted a taste of it. 

For some time, Yoosung assumed he and Saeyoung were from the same star, the same orbit. Their values were similar in ways which when they shared the same room, it’s almost as if they collided and meshed so well together there was no need for such an imperfect balance. Instead, it was replaced with fits of giggles and boyish teases; pranks that could’ve been taken too far but the blond can’t help and hold a grudge for so long, so Saeyoung knew he always had one more chance left.

It was the way a small smile of slightly crooked teeth that dared to look his way had Yoosung’s grip hold on tighter to the collared shirt he wore too often. It was the way the redhead traced the curves of his young face, complimenting the strange color washed in his eyes and joking about how he possibly got the physical trait from a faraway being— nothing human but all the more the same emotion Yoosung held in his own. 

Saeyoung stopped pushing when Yoosung decided he had enough and pulled such a fragile boy against his chest and rubbed a shaking hand across the surface of his back. No matter how many throws and curses the other tossed his way, Yoosung took it with a grain of salt and hoped it wasn’t all true. He hoped the fumbling sentences that were wretched from his scratchy throat, were all just mere lies and thoughts the redhead had conjured up for the sake of the people closest to move; to leave and never come back because there was only one person who deserved such a far away concept of happiness.

Saeran didn’t ask for it, but Saeyoung gave and gave and—

Here he was. Stretched limbs displayed along the frayed gray couch of Yoosung’s dorm room. Strands of fiery red— (sometimes Yoosung argued with himself that it could’ve been the soft color of orange, shades of autumn and pumpkins and the sweet smell of annual treats he passed by every morning on the way to class, bright or the dark shade of) —hair framed such a peaceful face that the other hadn’t witnessed in a long time. 

There was a bowl of popcorn discarded on the flat of his stomach, almost similar to an elevator the way it descended every time a breath Saeyoung took as he brought it back down. 

He still held his hand. He no longer paid attention to the game in front and instead twisted his body around fully to enrapture such a wonderful sight to see. Yoosung brought his body closer, seeking warm, heat Saeyoung always seemed to radiate off and had the smaller one of the two melt at any slight touch. 

He played with their fingers, tangled up lazily as Saeyoung's grip was pliant and loose, not necessarily hanging on but still curling around the wrist of Yoosung’s. The soft colors that emitted from the television screens painted a nice shade along the sleeping features of the other, eyelashes cascaded low as it shadows underneath his closed eyes. 

Yoosung brought his free hand from the floor to lightly press his palm against the warm cheek of Saeyoung. His nimble fingers carefully rubbing circles on the soft skin, too scared to wake up the being beside him.

It didn’t do much though. In a matter of seconds— of moments where it was just Yoosung brushing away silent tears and coaxing horrible memories and heartbreaking betrayals to leave this desperate boy alone— Saeyoung’s amber orbs flickered open, a hazy smile matching the sleep clinging onto the corners of his eyes.

Yoosung smiled softly, thrumming the pads of his fingers more firmly against Saeyoung; an apology for waking up the other from such a comfortable slumber.

Seayoung’s tried gaze traveled the expanse of Yoosung’s own, soon noticing the bright colors across the room— snorting at the character his blond left idling, getting eaten by a black wrecking ball with chompers for teeth. 

A small laugh came with his playful look as he turned his head back to the boy in front, lifting the hand dangling, tingling with the overflow of blood and covering the same hand Yoosung still declared his property for the time being. 

“You missed a gold coin,” he teased.

The younger boy whipped his head back to the screen, eyeing the black space circled with white, no golden shining coin filling it in. 

His ears perked at another sound of laughter, this time much more awake and alive and everything Yoosung wanted to hear for the rest of his life. Though, he wasn’t going to announce that aloud and have Saeyoung get the upper hand in their little game of cat and mouse. He was quite tired of being the only one to fall for mindless jokes, regardless of whether the small white lies were obnoxious or not— Saeyoung was quite convincing when he put his mind to it: which happened to be the majority of the time. 

“You’re never going to let that down, huh?” Yoosung responded, a hint of annoyance but still too soft. Damn— he sometimes envied Jumin for keeping obvious emotions in check; Yoosung just didn’t have that power too often.

Saeyoung’s eyes crinkled at the outer corners of Yoosung’s tone. The dim light capturing the mix of brown and hazel— maybe orange, (just another thing to add to his list of Saeyoung) —as he breathed, “You’re stuck with me young one.”

Yoosung’s nose scrunched at the teasing nickname but overall gave up on starting a round of comebacks till one of them lost to fits of laughter or a bright pink shade of embarrassment.

Neither said anymore. Too lost in losing themselves in a small bubble they created with a comfortable silence and unspoken words. 

Yoosung can’t help but remember when there were times they couldn’t even share the same space. He recalls meeting up in public places; the arcade, movies, events held during RFA parties, but never at each other’s personal home— more specifically a certain stubborn redhead’s. He remembered the muscle memory he had every time Saeyoung— (or Seven at the time when none of their close-knit of friends were aware of anything more than a jokester with a skill for codes and binary numbers) —would send a ridiculous image of himself with a trail of expensive cars lined behind him and Yoosung would send a collection of annoyed emojis in response. The pictures usually held a signature peace sign formed on slender figures and glasses lowered down to the point where if Yoosung was with him at that moment, he would gladly push them back up to the bridge of his nose. 

For some time, he believed those romantic eyes of his were too focused on the newest member of their charity. Always going on about how they would protect them at any cost, never mind his own well being. 

Maybe, if Yoosung wasn’t so naive or childish, if maybe he looked a bit more closely back then, he could’ve seen the signs of an upcoming breakdown of tears and guilt of a lost brother.

No matter how many times he shook his head at the memories, pleading for them to go away because Saeyoung was with him right now. Saeyoung is no longer tied to mysterious people he once worked with who punished him with girl clothing and exhausting missions. He is no longer brought back down by the same blond woman and her loving companion whose eyes barely saw through the fog of danger. He was home and he was safe and Yoosung would be damned if they had a repeat of what happened so long ago.

“Hey,”

Yoosung wasn’t aware he blanked out. He suddenly felt the weight of warmth on his own cheek, accompanied by no other than the exact person he was thinking about. 

The blond rested his eyes back into Saeyoung’s, filled with adoration and care; everything the other didn’t have the privilege of when he was younger. 

He wanted to forget all that though. No more sad smiles and late-night cries as the moon shed her lovely light through cheap blue curtains. Saeyoung was okay. He is okay. 

And he’s right here with Yoosung, smiling just as softly.

“Hi.”

“You’re still here with me?” Leave it to Saeyoung to continue joking around even if this was a moment neither wanted to break.

Yoosung didn’t mind. He would listen to these kinds of conversations for the rest of his life he hoped.

He took hold of the hand cupping his cheek, a dark blush already forming because no matter how many times they’ve done this routine before, he would always be shy to experience such comforting affection from the redhead. He brought the exact hand to the wide expanse of his lips, pressing them lightly against the palm of it and then peppering more around calloused fingers. 

A giggle escaped Saeyoung’s mouth, no longer containing the exact same embarrassment he constantly harassed on the other.

Yoosung sighed, leaning forward and knocking his forehead against Saeyoung’s. They stared and stared and shared silent whispers of promises neither dared to say aloud.

“Yeah, I’ll always stay here.”

Amethyst eyes met hazel ones and—

“Always. With you."

[enuniu]

compass that leads to home

“He’s your Tubbo,”

A pale shaky hand retrieved a small illuminated compass, glowing with embers of violets and blues, swirling the two colors to create an enchanted effect of something unknown and uneasily beautiful to Tommy.

The ghost in front of him smiled, small and low, crooked teeth of a man once powerful and terminated, held the object up high in the air—body see-through and a sad reminder that someone has been long gone.

Tommy eyed the navigator, it’s pointed red arrows taunting every move as it swished dangerously anytime the distorted figure’s body situated itself uncomfortably against frayed woods and a confused gaze. Fingers itching to grasp the tiny object and run its calloused palms over smooth metal and cold glass; the boy's mind trailed in different directions as the ghost in front only showed curved lips, indicating with a knowing look. The compass itself held a sort of familiarity yet such an unwelcoming presence he was sure his former leader’s crooked smile meant only something great and grand—just like everything else.

Tommy coughed, “What are you talking about?” He situated the nerves skidding about inside and straightened his posture.

Wilbur—what’s left of him—only hummed in reluctance, as if he was calculating the kind of words to say and how exactly to form them. The man always knew what to say to the boy in times of need and desperation; for once when he was full of bright, stringed lights accompanied with coasters of laughs, Wilbur’s presence still held some note of it left behind.

The ghost fiddled with the chain connected to bronze and responded gently, coaxing a silver-feather voice of comfort, “It’s a compass.”

The blond scoffed.

“Of course it’s a compass, Wilbur. I mean—why do you have that?” Tommy decided to go against mentioning that name again. It was only a memoir of haunting words that led to his existence left on unknown planes, an obsidian portal a few grass patches away from somewhere far away he could never return to without the fear of darkness; of death.

The air around them stilled, with breezes directing its way towards blond strands and tattered clothing; a red bandana wrapped around a dirty neck in hope to cover the mist of cold from dark nights to come.

Wilbur’s style never changed. His signature beanie hung loosely from curled, brown hair and threatened to fall after every step but never ceased to hit covered ground, seemingly staying because of different physics in another world. A yellow crew neck only casted a noticeable sign that this man was still here, somewhat giddy and clam compared to vicious growls and crazed eyes for a country he could never have. In some odd, twisted way, Tommy preferred the remnants of a father figure he once had rather than the madman scratching at useless walls, craving for violence—even if death seemed to be the only way out.

The brunette smiled once more and this time, Tommy didn’t mistake it for complexity but rather fondness, something he’s hadn’t seen for a long time.

“This compass, Tommy, is special,” he held it up at eye level, showing off the bouncing colors emitting from the object, “I created it in a way where if you ever want to know where Tubbo is,”

That god forsaken name—

“This compass will lead you to him. It’s tethered to his soul, his body and when you need reassurance or comfort, this will lead you to him. No matter where you are in the world—” Wilbur pointed at the red arrows, pointed jagged triangles opposing the direction of north,”—you can always find your best friend.”

Tommy’s nail dug crescent moons into his palms, fingers tightening and tiny muscles flexing at the thought of sandy colored hair and emerald eyes. Pink, rosy cheeks holding in sputters of laughter that always left the ghost of a smile—of something happy—on Tommy’s own chapped lips. The boy recalls memories of a back pressed against his, a familiar weight as an important reminder that somewhere in this world, someone is right there with him ready to attack demons filled with plagues and men painted in ambushes of green.

Everything that had been done, the two had done together.

Tommy exhaled shakily, limbs shivering at such a simple reference and yet, warm tear tracks had already found a home on his blotched cheeks. They burned as each drop paved a path down his face, sizzling and crackling against his fair skin and holding every piece of emotion he’d been holding back since that dreadful afternoon. Sobs threatened to escape the confined red walls of Tommy’s parched throat but he didn’t let their voices be heard—he couldn’t trust himself to stay upright in front of the dead man.

It seemed as though Wilbur didn't need any words from him to know exactly what stopped his once second in command boy from hollering any profanity in ignorance. He didn’t need to know that the blond’s red-rimmed eyes were a call for help or some sense of comfort in the frozen lands of nowhere.

The ghost traced the outlines of the compass, every bump and amateur scratch made skidded across fingertips not really there and a mind lost somewhere in the expanse of reality and subconsciousness. It is such an odd sight; Tommy exiled under horrible circumstances and promptly taken care of by his dead leader’s ghost—really, the teenager is sure his whole situation was just a mereless nightmare on a winter night. That maybe everything that had led to his life relying on skinned logs was something his brainless head had conjured up in hopes to ensure it was a wake-up call.

But it wasn’t.

This is his wake-up call.

Tommy jeopardized his position in his country and casted aside by the one boy he deemed important. He chose blood, red violence and suffered the long talking and meeting of whether he deserved a home in the mainlands.

He sighed, sadness creeping in faintly as he finally responded to Wilbur’s gift.

“Give it to me,”

Wilbur’s head peeked at the young boy’s voice, a sure smile coming along the way as his giddy hands stretched outwards to give to Tommy.

As he delicately placed the item in the blond’s hands, he repeated—“He’s your Tubbo.”

The ghost's hands simply overlapped with Tommy’s own, reflecting just how opposites they were; one shifting between a dreamless stretch of something beyond and below and the other filled with red blood pumping in between blue veins, covered with scars littered across pale skin.

The compass’s bronze metal felt cold and foreign to Tommy. As he firmly held the object, he concluded it must’ve been borrowed from previous owners, possibly the mysterious and charming presence of Ranboo or the stricken veteran of Phil. Though the glowing embers of violets that reckoned with blues showed just how enchanted it is, Tommy could feel the power against his own pulse. He could feel the raw strength of netherite combined with smelted ores and unknown words coursing through the thin glass and curled chains.

Tommy’s breath shook at the very thought that this compass leads to his best friend.

Tubbo.

He shifted his feet in different directions; left, right and then left, left left right, right right right, left right right left—

No matter where he turned, the arrows pointed south. The exact trail he passed by when escorted by a man in a faceless mask and forbidden from entering the festive planks of his home, held marked footprints that couldn’t have been but his own.

The boy shuddered.

“This leads to Tubbo,” it came out shaky and curdled, but it showed exactly what he thought of his new profound present.

Wilbur nodded, pale eyes seeing through Tommy’s in a certain gaze.

The blond wrapped the rusted chain around his wrist, securing it tightly. The compass swished around at every movement but didn’t dare to drop onto unholy lands. It’s scratched gold shining at the low set of the star above.

Tommy peaked at the sunset casted amongst blue waters. The crystal clean liquid reflecting rows of trees tarnished in the shade of greens and browns, sea creatures floating about along the currents and caught tangled in families of bright corals squeezed in between old weeds. Tommy could hear the faint whispers of animals amongst the forest around, hiding and looking out at the same scene he was with one word on their minds—a word that maybe they’ve found already or still on the search for. Or maybe, a word they have lost.

“Home.”

-

hello! here’s another favorite story of mine i have written. it’s also a proud one of mine. this is set in the timeline where tommy was cast from his home. i hope you enjoyed it! THIS IS NOT A SHIP A POST.

[enuniu]

red, red, red (why must it be red?)

A slow breeze filters past delicate leaves and soft grass, drips of dirty rain slide down small slopes of mud, carrying red pebbles and tiny bugs using the makeshift river for transportation. There are people bustling amongst the streets, footsteps unsynchronised, mumbling voices mixing together into incoherent waves--all innocently unaware of the sky brimming with grey clouds one by one.

Katsuki sits still on a worn-out bench, impatiently waiting for his commute to arrive. The sun was already setting, darkness creepily looming over the jungles of trees and buildings, and though the scenery was something to be appreciated with a slight glance of interest, the blond desperately wanted to go home already. He had no time for meaningless wonders. Despite the numerous times, he glanced at the watch attached to his wrist--a useless and unnecessary weight--the clock seems to tick slower with every peek. He wanted to burn the watch for its incompetence. 

Katsuki’s head is filled with leftover rage. The kind that sinks deep into your veins and burns inside and out, with your screams kept locked tight in the back of your throat. He hates this feeling--hates the frustration and annoyance calling to him from the inner corners of his thoughts. And now he tries to tame the flames by watching people walk back and forth between stations, umbrellas tucked underneath their arms and their feet kicking stray red pebbles all while rushing to get to the next stop. Katsuki forgot to bring one himself and now he sits underneath a crappy metal sheet people claim is for protection from harsh sunbeams and white balls of snow. Though instead, the teen sees it as a nuisance when the rain clashes on rusted silver and splashes onto his well-worn sneakers. It seems the cold shower is somehow making his fire burn stronger.

That’s another thing to add to the list of things that pissed him off today. The attempt of cooling off where there’s a fresh breeze tickling the barest of one’s nape was not helping him. He needed to get home immediately. There would be no way he could contain all this anger inside, and the last thing Katsuki wants is to snap at a random stranger. He’s not fourteen anymore with a desire to blast those who took two wrong steps toward him--Katuski has learned from his mistakes, at least he thought he did.

He can’t decide anymore.

The slight muffling of a speaker can be heard in the distance, and with strained ears, he hears the apologies of a specific train attending later than usual. Thunder cracked along the distant sky, rain pulsed harder on the mud and fractured pavement, and Katsuki’s fist could not get any whiter with the way he tightened it. His eyelashes fought to keep out the threatening water droplets flailing down from the ashen sky and that had somehow found a fissure in the shelter above. He really should have brought an umbrella. The veins inside his body boiled hot, warmer than before, and any minute, the slightest off look from curious eyes will send him into another spiral of white rage. At this point, Katsuki does not wish that the next modest bystander can stand their ground any longer--

“Hey, Bakugou!”

For some reason, Katsuki cannot hear the call of his name. 

It’s almost as if the muted calling did nothing but direct his face back towards the ground where the dirty river rain continues to glide along the black street. Anger not completely vanished, but somehow subdued when the blond notices more colored pebbles washing down.

He’s focused on a particular small pebble. It’s coated in streaks of browns and oranges, a slight tint of red branded on top of compacted earth. The pebble kicks at his shoes from where the river of rain travels in between cemented cracks, landing right next to the tip of the foot. Katsuki thinks he should throw it to the opposite side of the station--hopefully where it can hit someone who deserves their shit rocked to hell.

Ah, looks like his anger could not be simply contained by the miniature rock for so long it seems.

He really needs to get home.

“Bakugou!” 

There it goes again. The pebble stays in its place. A pair of black shoes enter his vision, though no mind is paid attention to it, and instead Katsuki contemplates.

“Hey, man, are you alri--” The sound of a yell rips through Katsuki’s ears, and suddenly, his white collared shirt and black pants are drowned in dirty rainwater. What. The. Fuck. The red pebble vanished somewhere in the splash, probably bounced off the corner of his shoes, and skidded to a place where it would be safe from harm. However, it seemed to be replaced with another rock; one larger, spikier, and a hell of a lot more stupid. (And more vibrantly crimson. The perfect color you find yourself gravitating towards without the trouble of finding the right shade--the right kind of pigment you want to be stained on your blank canvas, a canvas in dire need to be ruined. Katsuki realizes he does not mind this replacement for the run-away pebble.)

The dumbass in front of him whines in distress, “Ah shit, man. I just bought this new uniform too.” Katsuki finally focuses his sight on the person in front of him. Apparently, it just so happens to be the same dumbass he calls a friend. ‘Friend’ is too much. Shut up. The blond sneers at the sight. Kirishima is soaked from head to toe, his school attire drenched in water and dirt. His usual spiked-do sags from the pouring rain above; there’s a slight hole in his right knee, his backpack is hanging from one shoulder that has inked papers poking out, and there’s a small cut on his left arm that the idiot is using to refrain from being swept in the river of water. Sometimes Katsuki wishes he didn’t notice these small things. Makes it easier to ignore. Though, when it came to the red-head, that never seemed to be an option. “Are you fucking serious, Shitty-Hair?” Kirishima glances up at the other from his position, an awkward, toothed smile already formed on his apologetic face for the disruption he just caused. “I’m sorry man. I noticed you sitting alone and wanted to keep you some company, but it looks like I got too excited.” Kirishima sheepishly explained. He lifted his free hand to scratch at the back of his head, eyes casting downwards in embarrassment. Now is not the place and time for stupid shenanigans. The explosive teenager already has to deal with this on a daily basis in the dorms, he does not need it when on his way home either.  Katsuki notices a slight shiver run up Kirishima’s spine when he attempts to get up from the disastrous puddle of cold, hands reluctantly gathering his belongings. The blond looks down at his own clothes and silently groans at the sight. His uniform has befallen the same tragedy it seems. Katsuki decides maybe this new pebble can be his personal kicking bag, considering it made his day much worse than before. Not really. Now, I’m telling you to shut up. Kirishima tries to wipe off the excess dirt bathed into his white shirt, but it does nothing for the way the brown sticks to his wet clothing, seeped in deep--with this, Katsuki rolls his eyes at the sight. “You are so clumsy, aren’t you.” It comes off more as a statement than a question, but Kirishima still gives a lopsided smile in return and apologizes once more. “I’m really sorry for the mess, Bakugou. I promise I’ll make up for it!” Kirishima places both hands together and bows down to his classmate’s level. Katsuki realizes that the other is still standing in the rain and growls in annoyance, “Just sit down already. Don’t need you catching a cold and have you whining to me through the goddamn phone.” His own hair is now damp from the humidity of the weather, so this requires a flip of the hand to keep the ash-blond strands from his eyes. The redhead comes back up and stares, grimacing at the nerving sight of his friend. Katsuki knows another apology is going to escape that shark-toothed mouth. “Shut it.” “I didn’t even say anything this time!” “Doesn’t matter,” Katsuki grumbles. “I know you were about to go off on another pointless apology. Damage is done.” He waves his hand in a dismissal gesture, turning his head to the left to avoid seeing his favorite splash of red in front of his face with a puppy-like frown etched hopelessly across it. Favorite, huh? He hears shuffling, the faint of a sigh, and finally a wet plop! occur right next to him. Of course. The motherfucker has to sit right next to him where Katsuki can feel the heat radiate off of Kirishima. It tingles his skin, creating aloof dizziness from the mere distance of a couple of inches. Maybe that pebble did up hitting up someone--him--because the teen is getting real tired of these stupid feelings. In no way, shape, or form, has Katsuki ever bore witness to such sappy thinking, and he hates that it has to come from the Shitty-Haired individual himself. Lately, Kirishima seems to be the catalyst for most things in his life right now.   The rain pelts harder around them. Whistles of trains come and go. Skies darkening a gloomy violet little by little. There are few people now, most likely waiting for the same stop Katsuki needs to get on as well. Speaking of people… The blond turns his head back to Kirishima, who slouches on the bench mindlessly staring at his surroundings--face placate and relaxed. His hair is no longer spiked, now streaming down his white shirt in vivid contrast. It’s damp with rainwater and tacky with leftover gel, but somehow the strands framing his strong, wide facial features have given him a softer look. Kirishima’s normally sharp dimensions lesson with the way the rain catches on his pointed eyebrows and creates a beautiful wave of crimson down his shoulders. Though the weather and the public have made it annoying for Katsuki to pay any grand attention to, Kirishima now makes it just a little more tolerable. Just a little bit. Kirishima does not notice his friend’s staring and Katsuki takes this opportunity to ask a question. “Why are you here?” He speaks up. It comes across as much more aggressive and forward than intended, but he's never been good at anything else. Kirishima returns Katsuki's stare. Red catching onto red. His doe eyes have an odd tint to them. The question could mean a variety of things other than why Kirishima is taking a different route this time, but Katsuki is not prepared to face answers he’s not ready for yet. A small smile forms on the redhead's face. “I’m here because I need to get home of course.” He responded with a lighthearted tone to his voice. The blond grunts in annoyance—he knows that’s not the only reason. “I mean, why are you taking a train, idiot. Usually, for the holidays your folks pick you up at the dorms, not make you stand in shitty rain.” Katsuki retaliates, eyes narrowed and fists ready to knock a shark tooth peeking from underneath that taunting grin. Kirishima laughs as if Katsuki is not contemplating his death. “The rain isn’t so bad.” “Says the dumbass drenched in fucking mud.” His friend lifts up his hands in feign surrender. “Hey, man. I can still enjoy a nice shower even if my clothes are ruined.” More laughter follows. How many times does Katsuki have to roll his eyes for them to remain stuck in the back of his head? Many,  it seems, with the way his classmate bubbles in giggles at his obvious annoyance. “You didn’t answer my question, Shitty-Hair.” His voice retorts, hoping to scare off the hysterics consuming Kirishima’s throat. It doesn’t.

“Alright,” Kirishima continues with a chuckle, “My Ma’s car broke down a few days ago and it has yet to be fixed. So, here I am. Taking a train just like you to get home.” his explanation is reasonable, though Katsuki can’t help but feel a little disappointed that the reason didn’t have anything to do with him and Kirishima sitting right here on the bench with such close distance between them. Selfish aren’t we?

There’s nothing wrong with hoping.

‘False’ hope you mean. Katsuki wrinkles his nose. “Makes sense, I guess.” It comes out low, and the pounding rain adds to the somber tone of the sentence. He redirects his attention to the few people who surround them, umbrellas open and feet tapping anxiously on splashing puddles. Kirishima smiles once more. He never seems to stop smiling. “Yeah. I could’ve gotten a ride from Denki.” He adds. Katsuki swerves his head back to his friend. Why would he mention that? Why decline such a better opportunity than having to soak in rain in the darkest of evenings with Katsuki of all people? “Why didn’t you?” He reluctantly asks, almost afraid to know what the answer is this time. Kirishima lifts his eyebrow, responding, “Someone’s curious today.” Katsuki remains silent. "Because, like, every time my parents come to pick me up, yours makes you take the train—alone." the redhead sighs. " I just wanted to spend a bit of time with you, Bakugou, before we don't see each other for the rest of the holidays. You really don't answer your phone when we go back home." Katsuki's gaze stays constant. Eyebrows furrowed. Mind feverishly attempting to understand Kirishima's reasoning. Despite this, the same question is raised for each reply he receives: why? Katsuki isn't sure anymore, and he's starting to realize that he isn't sure about a lot of things lately.  Even though all the unnecessary mean comments and anger he's tossed at him since he’s been here, Kirishima chose to skip out on a fresh and rainless ride with Kaminari just to keep him company. It looks to be too good to be true, but Katsuki knows that Kirishima has never lied to him before. Why would he now? It’s hard to believe some people want to be near Katsuki. He’s never made it easy. The two don’t leave each other’s gazes. Red clashes with red once more. Kirishima's red, on the other hand, is gentler, softer, and less threatening to touch. His eyes are wide, his lashes are long and thick, and his reddened cheeks are beautifully fanned by them—all while his shade of red renders Katsuki motionless. No one ever looks him in the eyes without showing their fear or arrogance beneath the surface. Kirishima's is attentive and welcoming. Instead of returning to reality, where the rain gives him goosebumps and his wrath isn't a constant thought in the back of his mind, he can't help but want to stare for a little longer. Katsuki wants to linger in this warm bubble with Kirishima for a bit longer, if not, forever. Kirishima doesn’t look away. Katsuki blinks. Though he has to let go eventually. Good things don’t stay. “You’re such a dumbass.” Ouch. I didn’t mean to. Sure you didn’t. The spell is broken. Kirishima leans his head back, another smile etching across his tan features. He chuckles rather than being fazed by the remark. The faint ringing of a bell reverberates through the intense rainfall. A  train has arrived. Kirishima glances in front of them, where people are sighing with relief as they enter the commute. The location, written in vivid red digital letters atop the entrance, reads Osaka. Katsuki remembers that this is Kirishima’s stop. Kirishima has a frown on his face. "Looks like I'm going to have to leave, man." His voice is filled with disappointment, but Katsuki doesn't want to think about why. No more questions for the night. The blond looks down where his hands fold atop one another. He wants to say something else, to go back and fix what he just said, but there’s a lump in his throat and it makes no room for something--anything--to be released. He notices black shoes moving away from the bench on the ground, followed by a grunt. His ears pick up the sound of papers being packed further inside a backpack with a zipper to keep it all together. It's the dredful sound of approaching abandonment. God, you're dramatic. Kirishima clears his throat to catch Katsuki’s attention. “Alright then, Bakugou. Time for me to go. I had some fun talking to you!” He laughs, “Sometimes you're funny without even trying to be.” Katsuki doesn’t bother to look back up. Instead, he grunts a goodbye that he wishes he had the energy to say directly to the redhead’s face. “See ya later, Shitty-Hair.” Kirishima gives a small giggle. “You and your nicknames.” The wind is blowing a little harder, and the train's last call echoes across the deserted station. Even though he didn't want him here in the first place, Katsuki doesn't want him to leave now. Kirishima always has the power to change things for him with the slightest bit of his painfully unfunny jokes and obnoxious laughter. Katsuki is learning to hate it. Kirishima shifts in his spot. There’s silence between them. But someone has to do something. “Hope you have a good break, Katsuki.” And with that, Kirishima turns around and enters the train with a yell of the word wait! following after. The blond snorts at it--the idiot probably missed the opportunity to enter those glass doors and had them shut on him right when he was going. The swoosh of a door and the brakes of the train release. Katsuki finally looks back up.

He finds a mop of red lost in the dull crowd smushed together on the train. Kirishima stands out amongst all of them, and Katsuki finds himself smiling at the thought. The train slowly leaves his sight and he knows he’s alone all over again. Funny that he preferred the idea when he first sat down on the uncomfortable bench, but now he wishes he wasn’t. The teenager settles his elbows on his knees, chin resting on his palms as he stares at the sky above, not caring for the rain that catches on his face.   A slow breeze enters the area, brushing past delicate leaves and soft patches of grass scattered along the cracked pavement. Drops of rain slide down slopes of mud, carrying assortments of rocks and bugs for transportation. No one is bustling the streets anymore, only fluorescent street lights and the pigeons eating away candy left on the floor. No more unsynchronized footsteps, mixing voices--no one here to stand in the sky where the clouds clash together and pelt their tears onto lonely grounds. His clothes and hair are still damp from the unexpected splash Kirishima made earlier and he sighs at the idea of having to explain this to his mother when he gets home. This should make him angry, something to add to his list that was built today, but instead he feels tired. Exhausted. He just wants to leave this place. Another announcement rings across the station. Looks like his train is taking even longer than expected. So, he waits for the train to arrive and as he does, another small pebble stumbles upon his feet. It’s red. Katsuki kicks it back to the street.

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hello guys! thank you so much for reading. this work is one of my proudest ones and though there was much more planning and plot to the story, i decided to leave it as this simple one-shot. regardless of the ambiguity of katsuki’s anger, the story is mainly focused on his process of emotions and reactions with them towards kirishima. i hope you enjoyed!