The wind this evening is so cold it scratches my hands. My fingers are red and the skin on my face feels slightly tight. When I breathe, white steam comes out of my mouth. The smell of tar rises from the bottom of the building, a thick, sweetish odor mixed with the dampness of the manhole covers. I lean against the railing... it's cold, like an iron ruler against my palms; below me, the city pulsates with life: I see lights flickering on and off like a mine ready to explode. Trams spark on the tracks, a dog barks three floors below, a siren catches its breath and dies at the curve.
The balconies hold plants that don't sleep and sway in the wind, sheets that spread out like flags of surrender. I hear the distant roar of car engines, every window holds a story in the darkness: I see a face bent over a telephone, a cup of steaming coffee, a radio blasting out the news. This mechanical breath enters my chest and fills it with electricity. It feels like him: unpredictable, nervous, distant and close at the same time. It feels like me: held back, on the edge, my heart ready to jump.
I arrived early. Too early. About half an hour early.
I count the minutes, once I'm here. Then I count them again, as if I could fold them like an accordion and make them play to my advantage. I count them softly, sliding them across the back of my hand and my fingers like beads: one, two, three...and each time I start over, because starting over gives the illusion of commanding time.
I keep my hand on the doorknob. It's brass, cold, greasy from other fingers. I turn the handle and step inside. Almost immediately, I think about going back downstairs, putting my heart back where it belongs, in the file drawer, among the things we don't use every day. It would be easy. (At least it seems so.)
But I'm not kidding myself. I'm staying here. (We've been through a lot together, and now what do I do, leave?)
I put my weight on my left foot, as if I could stop the world. I don't know if it's courage or another way of hurting myself. I stay, as one stays underwater a moment longer, to see if the fear passes first, or I pass first. I stay to both give myself a chance and to gracefully take it away. I stay until the minute stops resisting and surrenders, and I with it.
The door slams suddenly. The bang ricochets down the hallway, and I get goosebumps from the shock. The orange neon lights vibrate, casting shadows on the opposite wall that are longer than necessary. He advances with rapid steps, his long shadow stretching out and covering my feet.
Katsuki.
His shoulders are tense, he's wearing a jacket that's pulling at the seams, his hands tucked away in his pockets as always, seemingly holding them back. His breath comes out in fine clouds of condensation due to the cold, yet his eyes, those eyes, are warm: two embers seeking nothing, only the truth.
He approaches me in two quick steps. "So you're really here."
He doesn't sound surprised. It's a fact. Almost an order. He plants himself in front of me, and the space on the roof becomes even narrower.
I swallow. My mouth tastes like iron every time I get close to him, like when fear bites. "You wanted to talk," I say.
His hands clench into fists from inside his pockets, the veins bulging on his slightly exposed forearms, like a fuse coming to life. "Talking sucks," he replies. He tilts his chin slightly, a heavy breath rising from his chest, and that alone seems to calm him. He smells of nitro and hot metal, something reminiscent of the road and fatigue. "But it would be worse to let you die without knowing something."
The streetlight high above us spasms briefly, then quiets. I remain still, one foot half a step back, then I sit down. My heart beats against the cage with two uneven thumps, as if to say choose what to do: go or stay?
"About what?" comes out softer than I intended.
He doesn't back away. His eyes burn. And I realize the answer is already there, compressed between his teeth, ready to explode at the first spark.
He holds me still with his fierce gaze, and for a moment I see the same thing I see on a mission when he has to make a decision: no more hesitation, just the detonator. His shoulders square, his chin jerks forward a degree, his eyes focus.
He takes a step. The air between us shortens. Then he sits down next to me.
"That night, in the cave... It wasn't a fucking interlude. Do you think I'm wasting my time? If you think that again, I'll kick you until you change your mind."
The words hit me in the stomach. It wasn't a interlude.
The words bounce inside me like when you bang your fist on metal. The question I've been mulling over for days comes to me: so what are we? but it gets stuck in my throat; if I say it out loud, maybe it will break, and I'll break with it.
He growls slightly. He bends over.
His hands grip my face tightly: his thumbs lock my jaw, his palms feel warm and rough from practice. Meanwhile, the world tightens in that gesture: it all comes down to this.
The kiss comes like a detonation: dry, rough, brief. It's not gentle. It's true. It takes the breath away from me and, for a moment, even the fear. The neon light vibrates again, then stops again; my heart skips a beat, then starts up again, faster.
He pulls away immediately afterward. His forehead almost touching mine, his breath short.
"Now stop saying it wasn't a big deal." His voice is low, grainy. "Is that clear?"
I nod before remembering how to speak.
He immediately steps away, as if he's burned himself. Two steps back. His chest heaves, his eyes widen for a moment, then his breathing quickens.
"Tch." He turns halfway, his jaw snapping. "Don't make me say it again."
I hear the generators humming under the roof, the blood pounding in my ears, my legs staying upright out of sheer stubbornness. My lips burn; every time I swallow, I feel the salt on my skin. "Don't make me say it again" means: I said it, I did it, take it or leave it. A signature, not a plea.
Anger flames in my chest and keeps me sane. I want to tell him that words aren't just landmines, they don't explode if you let them out. I also want to laugh, or push him, or hit him back with something softer. Instead, I breathe.
I take a half step forward, just enough to remain in his shadow without touching him. "I'm not running away," I say softly. His shoulders tighten a millimeter, an assent that isn't meant to be an assent.
"Good." The word comes out rough, but he keeps it to himself. His hands remain in his pockets, but the tendons in his forearms betray that he wants to do something else: grab, protect, destroy...all in the same gesture.
"So, shall we go to the cafeteria?" I add.
He doesn't answer, but the flames in his eyes dim a little. He snorts, a half-smile that he refuses. He takes a step toward the ladder. I follow him. The hum of the generators is now just background noise. The detonator is still there, but for the first time, it's not scary: it feels like a switch.
I think of the times he kept me away with sharp words: short, precise blades that didn't bleed right away. I think of me acting tough, freezing myself so as not to feel, like glass left in the shade.
I have no definition to write on the wall—no closed formula, no name that holds up. I don't even want to ask why. I have this: he who doesn't run away; I don't run away.
I feel like laughing and crying at the same time. I do neither. I fold the tremor like a piece of paper and put it in my pocket. I raise my chin along with my head, and I walk down the stairs with a determined pace.
"Tomorrow, if we go on a mission, remember to stay by my side. If you give up even a foot, I'll rip your head off."
A long, angry breath. Then he continues: "And if I mess up... don't run away."
I smile, just a little, the way you smile before entering a smoke-filled room.
"Okay."
I adjust my collar, shift my weight onto my boots. The door in front of me doesn't feel as heavy as before.
We walk down to the cafeteria together. The floor vibrates with footsteps, the trays clatter like dishes in a storm. We push open the swinging door: the world outside remains behind, while the hubbub inside overwhelms us.
They're all already there: Uraraka, Midoriya, Iida, Kaminari, Kirishima. Their sentences break in mid-sentence, their gazes remain suspended. I understand them: they've watched us scratch each other for pages; now, in the doorframe, we seem like a single silhouette.
I sit next to Uraraka. She tilts her face, her eyes becoming crescents before her mouth. "Explain later."
I nod. Under the table, a light touch on my knee: it's his way of telling me it's okay.
Bakugo slides a tray onto the table; the blow is decisive. He sits next to me, after a long time, with the casualness of someone returning to their assigned seat. His shoulders slump slightly. Kirishima sends him a nod; no growl, just a non-aggressive "tch." Kaminari sketches out a joke; the look that usually stings, today warms. Midoriya mutters something about protocol, Iida adjusts his glasses... and gives up the tirade. The table resumes its chatter, like an engine revving up.
I feel his knee brush mine: a route charted without fanfare. "Pass me the salt," I say.
Our fingers touch a moment longer than necessary: a tiny yes, but a complete one. He talks to the others, ( he really talks!) and in the pauses he doesn't miss the exit, he doesn't look away; he brings it back to where I left it.
I breathe. I don't seek definitions. We have this: him not running away; me not running away.
The mess roars and acts as a blanket: spoons, trays, laughter. It's a good noise, it holds us together. Some pretend nothing's happening, some peek and then go back to their plates. That's fine.
If it had to end, it ends here: in a small gesture that holds. If it had to begin, it begins now.