Work Text:
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
The lift creaks and groans as it lumbers up to the fourth floor at what feels like a glacial pace. It was one of the things Katsuki picked up on the first time he came to this building with Shouto to take a look at what would later become their apartment. He pointed it out when they got dinner together after, told Shouto how repairs and maintenance would probably be a bitch because it was an older building. But he knew it was futile- he had seen the way Shouto lit up from within as the realtor showed them around the apartment. It has character, Shouto insisted, his face taking on a wistful air. It made sense that Shouto would see all of its imperfections as charm, as something that made the place feel like it could be a home. The things that filled his life had always been presupposed on functionality. Before UA, before he slowly started to learn himself and the kind of person he wanted to be, everything Shouto owned had been tied to a necessity of some sort- he had no posters to put up on his wall or clothes that he bought on a whim or keepsakes to commemorate childhood memories. He didn’t really have many memories worth commemorating. It’s something he has always found difficult to shake off even well into adulthood.
Katsuki had wanted to argue the point, push a little for better amenities, but then he thought of the blank, barren quality of the flat Shouto had been living in then. The way even after all those years, even after knowing better, Shouto struggled to feel like he could leave an impression on a place that was his. That for all the depth of emotion that existed behind his apparent impassivity, he still struggled to externalize it, that he didn’t really know what home looked like for him, that he still hadn’t taken the first step to figuring it out. So if he saw something in worn floorboards and ancient ceiling fans that felt like a home, then Katsuki was probably going to give in. It was the option closest to both their agencies anyway. I’ll think about it, Katsuki had said in a tone that was far from one of concession, but Shouto had perked up nonetheless- a barely there lift of his lips, a crinkling in the corners of his eyes- and tucked into his dinner with a satisfied hum.
Fuck. Katsuki must be more tired than he thought if he’s fondly reminiscing about making bad rental decisions. It’s been an endless day, and he can’t wait to shrug off his work clothes and climb into their bed that’s already warm thanks to Shouto. He unlocks the door and steps into the apartment, a fraction of the unconscious tension he’s been carrying since the afternoon leaving his body. Katsuki was supposed to be home in time for dinner. He’d had an afternoon patrol and had gotten a good amount of paperwork done before it. He’d then had his weekly therapy session/psych evaluation with Dr. Yoshida at half-past six after which he was supposed to make his way home because being in a villain containment situation with that buzzing feeling that accompanies spilling his guts would only spell disaster. But Deku had called him when he was halfway home, talking a mile a minute about a crime scene he was at for a case that was just assigned to them.
“I know you have the evening off, but I’d really like to have your input on it as well, Kacchan. I feel like we’ll lose track of this guy unless we’re really on our toes.” Katsuki could picture the exact way Deku was probably chewing on his lip- no doubt guilty about eating into Katsuki’s time off, but too involved in the case to let it stop him from making the request.
Of course Katsuki went. It might be one of his least favourite things to admit, but he does pretty much unconditionally trust Deku’s judgment, especially when it comes to the investigative side of things. If Deku thinks there’s some insight that they could gain from Katsuki’s presence there, he’s probably right. “Ahh thanks for making it over Kacchan! I’ll apologise to Shouto later,” he had said as Katsuki ducked under the police tape. “Apologise to me first, asshole!” Katsuki snapped. Deku didn’t even bother responding, the little shit.
It’s quiet. Katsuki doesn’t bother turning on the lights as he makes his way to the kitchen, a route he’s travelled hundreds of times- muscle memory and the unconscious way doing something over and over piles up without taking space. He fills a glass of water at the tap and downs most of it in big greedy gulps before setting it on the counter and taking a breath. The living area that turns bright and airy with the natural light that pours in from windows and balcony during the day seems a little smaller in the midnight gloom- washed out moonlight and streetlight from outside and the blue of the curtains Shouto picked out with Fuyumi-nae, the silhouettes of the furniture like brush strokes. Shouto’s probably left dinner for Katsuki in the fridge but it’s too late for that. After years of hero work, Katsuki has learnt to accept that on some days it’s just unavoidable that dinner is a Seven-Eleven sandwich and shitty coffee. It’s probably some kind of karmic retribution, anyway.
Katsuki steps into their bedroom and slides open the dresser drawer full of their sleep clothes, careful not to make a sound. He grabs whatever is on the top of each pile and pads over to the washroom turning on the light inside. It always flickers a bunch of times before settling on a steady glow. Katsuki’s been telling himself that he’ll replace it for months now, and as he blinks away the spots in his vision caused by the sudden brightness he resolves to do it in the weekend. Maybe he’ll actually get around to it this time. The thought seems to only amplify his weariness. Thank goodness he showered at the agency. They don’t tell you about the unending daily slog of hero work when you’re an idealistic teenager at school. Katsuki remembered being aware of it, seeing it in the dark circles under Aizawa’s eyes and the way Mic-sensei’s smile sometimes frayed at the edges, but the practical reality of it is a whole other beast. Nothing could ever be worse than the war, but even without raw existential threat, the unending dirge of crime and violence- big and small- that fills each workday chips away at even the best of them.
It’s why the Hero Commission mandated weekly psych evaluations for all heroes and sidekicks around two years ago. Katsuki had been pissed off about it at first, had vocally resisted getting assigned to some armchair critic. Not because of any principled objection to mental health care. It definitely was something he was considering for himself, especially when he saw how it visibly helped Shouto and Deku. But it was also the sort of thing that he wanted to do on his own terms, not just because the Commission suddenly decided that it was a good idea to look out for the little toy soldiers they so readily used as they pleased. It had been Aizawa-sensei who pulled him aside after a few weeks, handed over a business card and said in his quiet monotone, “Give her a few sessions. She’s the best I’ve encountered so far.” So, Katsuki gave her a few sessions, and a few more and then decided to take his chances and give it an honest attempt.
Katsuki starts undressing with a sigh.
“I’d like to talk to you about control.” Dr. Yoshida had said in today’s session, her legs crossed one over the other and her notes delicately balanced on her knee.
“What about it?” Katsuki snapped, already feeling a strange sense of foreboding.
“Well, I’ve noticed that you’re rather procedural when it comes to most of your day-to-day activities, especially for someone who says things like, ‘sometimes you just gotta fuck shit up and worry about the consequences later.’“ Katsuki grits his teeth at the memory of the interview that has followed him into every PR briefing since.
It’s moments like those when he remembers why he’s been going to Dr. Yoshida for so long. It’s not because he likes or gets along with her, the way Deku had assumed when he first heard about her. She’s whip-smart and good at meeting Katsuki where he’s at and pushing him out of his comfort zone when she needs to and Katsuki hates her. It makes sense that he does. If he liked the person he was hiring to pick him and his issues apart and lay them out in digestible and not-so-digestible chunks he’d be worried for himself. Katsuki has worked hard to ignore the discomfiture of self-awareness his entire life. Signing up to have someone help push him into it will by no means ever be a pleasant experience. The rewards make it worth it, though. So he puts up with how every ingrained thought pattern of his protests at this change. ‘Cause someday, it might bring something that he never thought possible within his reach. Because five years ago he would have laughed in disbelief at the thought of being where he is right now, of having what he does right now.
It’s when Katsuki is finally reaching for the pyjamas that he brought with him that he realizes that underneath the (thankfully) innocuous sleep shirt- worn and stretched out- are the stupid pyjama bottoms patterned all over with pineapples with angry expressions. They were a gag gift from Kaminari around the time they graduated from UA (“They reminded me of you, Kacchan! Sour and prickly and grumpy-“ and Katsuki had shut him up after that). The worst part is that they’re actually pretty comfy, which combined with begrudging sentimentality and the fact that no one will actually see him wearing them means that Katsuki still has them, all these years later. He starts getting dressed with an air of defeat, thinks about what Yoshida was telling him about control today.
“Routine, organization and efficient methods all matter a lot to you. You’ve mentioned that they steady you.” Dr. Yoshida had said.
They do steady him, help him maintain his composure in the face of all the aspects of hero work and life in general that eat away at his already fractious patience. There’s just something satisfying about doing things right, the way they ought to be done, as arbitrary as those labels are. His version of right is routine- morning runs rarely missed, timely meals, cleaning up after himself. A kitchen and workspace where he knows just where everything is, knows he can reach out on instinct to pull out just the thing he needs without a moment’s delay. A wardrobe where the fresh laundry always goes to the bottom of the pile or is hung on the right side of the rack so that the clothes that are already in there don’t get musty- hence the pineapple pyjamas making a biweekly appearance. Sure, grabbing them in the dark and unexpectedly facing the onslaught of their garishness is less than ideal, but he probably wouldn’t have skipped over them even if he could.
He heads to the sink and starts brushing his teeth.
“What about it?” Katsuki had demanded. “We all have a way we like doing things.”
“I didn’t mean it as a criticism, Bakugou-san. With control comes security- a safety that offsets the unavoidable unpredictability of other parts of your life. It’s good to have coping mechanisms- we all have them and we create them to make things easier for ourselves. But it’s good to be aware of them and understand them. So it’s easier to catch on if they turn unhealthy- when the necessity to be organized becomes a form of stress in and of itself, for instance.”
Katsuki shifts a little, stretches his feet where they rest carelessly on the coffee table in front of him and drawls, “I don’t think wanting my plates to be stacked in a particular way in my kitchen is going to stress me out, doc.”
“Hmm, perhaps not. But what about how you navigate control when it comes to interpersonal relationships?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we’ve talked at length about your struggles with pride, empathy and anger during your childhood. And we’ve established that the way you treated your peers was more about how they made you feel about yourself- how they reinforced or contradicted your beliefs about yourself and your place in the world- rather than the qualities they themselves possessed.”
“You can just say Deku’s name, y’know,” Katsuki interjects.
She purses her lips. “This is not just about him, though. It’s easier to accept that the actions of other people are out of one’s control. It’s pretty hard to accept that the way they make one feel is not.” There’s something frightening about her gaze, something that looked an awful lot like understanding. There’s nothing more unsettling to Katsuki than the thought of being transparent. It leaves him feeling strange and raw and fragile. “How did you cope with your lack of control over your own emotions that came with vulnerability? How did you cope with people making you feel things you didn’t want to?” Yoshida asks.
This is harder to face even after all the years that have passed. “Anger. Distance. Abuse.”
“How do you cope with it now?”
Sometimes being seen can feel unbearable, can feel like a loss of some sort. ”Feigned distance, mostly,” Katsuki says, after an uncomfortable pause.
“Feigned?”
It’s grating- to have to explain it, to have to drag it out. “They know- My friends and family know that I find it difficult to talk about how I’m feeling. They read between the lines pretty well.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to acknowledge how you feel more often?” She says it like it’s nothing. Nice- that’s hilarious.
“If you think I’m going to agree to deal with sappy shit like that on the regular, you’ve got another thing coming.” Katsuki bites out, incredulous.
“I really think it would be good for you to let go a little more, to let people in a little more,” she insists. “I’m not saying you have to go around doing and saying things that feel unnatural all the time. We aren’t all demonstrative with our affections, even if that’s what’s considered the norm. But you don’t always have to keep the world at bay singlehandedly, Bakugou-san.”
The way she puts it hits Katsuki like a punch to the gut- keeping the world at bay. It sounds lonely. It makes Katsuki feel lonely- worn and tired at the thought of his own mind. “I wonder… I wonder what it’s like to be the kind of person who doesn’t actively make things harder for themselves,” he says, hating the defeat that colours his voice.
“We all do it, Bakugou-san. I believe there’s a self-destructive little arsonist in all of us. Mitigating that is about recognition, awareness, self-acceptance. I’m not trying to say the way you’re navigating vulnerability is wrong or bad. I just think it’ll be good for you if you don’t feel cornered into it.” For all Dr. Yoshida’s carefully maintained neutrality, there’s still a warmth to her, a vague comfort to balance out how unsteady it makes Katsuki feel to actually tell her the things he does.
“So, what? I do these things the same way that I’ve always done, but I feel better about it?”
“So your plates can remain as they are but to put it bluntly,” she says with a terrible quirk of her lips, “It might not be so bad to unclench from time to time.”
Katsuki spits and rinses out his brush and meets his tired, almost bloodshot eyes in the mirror when he’s cleaned up. His own face seems foreign, in that way it does when he hasn’t looked in a mirror for a while. He feels strangely removed from his body, from himself. He feels untethered somehow. He feels but doesn’t know how to put words to feeling.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Katsuki gathers his used clothes from the bathroom floor and drops them into the hamper as he enters the bedroom. He pauses on his side of the bed, stares at the top of Shouto’s head peeking out from under the blankets he’s hogging. A part of Katsuki- the only part of him that isn’t screaming for rest, that isn’t desperate for the soft, heavenly give of a pillow under his head, his cheek, that isn’t already anticipating the relief of finally closing his burning eyes- is strangely reluctant to climb into bed, to disturb Shouto and disrupt the soothing quiet of this image with the clamour of his thoughts. He stares for what feels like an eternity but is probably just half a minute before his gingerly sits on the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. He reaches over and finds the edge of the blankets that are bunched around Shouto, slowly pulling them over himself as he experiences the bliss that is his head sinking into his pillow. Predictably, all the rustling does, in fact, wake Shouto up.
“’suki?” he mumbles, brow furrowed, eyes still firmly shut.
“Yeah, it‘s me.” Katsuki turns to face him, cards his fingers through Shouto’s mussed hair. He doesn’t remember when his hand got there, doesn’t remember it being a conscious choice. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs.
Shouto, being the contradictory, frankly absurd being that he is, does nothing of the sort. He opens his eyes, at first as slivers that catch the diffused hall light and after a few rapid blinks as the bleary puffy gaze of being freshly awake. “Wha’ time’s it?” he asks through one of those small aborted yawns that are so stupidly adorable that they remind Katsuki of all the cat videos that Shouto clutters their chat with. Katsuki’s not even very enthused about the fluffy buggers, but some of them are so genuinely cute that he’s hit by the irrational urge to just grab them and squeeze, crush them to his chest because there’s nothing else he can think to do. Tonight, it hurts a little to see Shouto like this. Katsuki wishes he could pinpoint why.
“It’s probably around 1. Go back to sleep,” Katsuki says emphatically, closing his own eyes for good measure, hoping that it’ll be enough to convince Shouto to do the same.
Katsuki hears the rustling of their sheets, feels the mattress shift under him, is about to make a genuine attempt at falling asleep when Shouto says, “D’you have dinner?”
Katsuki opens his eyes with a sigh. “Deku and I stopped at a conbini.”
“Hmm.” Shouto is still looking at him, gaze unwavering, a lot closer than he was before. “You look exhausted.”
“It’s not like you’re faring any better asshole. That’s why I want us to go the fuck to sleep-” Shouto cuts Katsuki off by shifting closer and pressing their lips together.
Katsuki should be pissed off at the blatant disrespect, but it’s impossible to refuse the warm crush of aimless kisses. It’s impossible to resist Shouto- sleep-warm and sleep-soft, every part of him so very soft- his hair, his lips, the warmth in his eyes, his stupid hamster cheeks, his heart. Katsuki’s hand finds its way under Shouto’s t-shirt from his hip to his waist to his chest- gently heaving with aborted breaths- touch just for the sake of touch, just because Katsuki can. Muscle memory and the unconscious way doing something over and over piles up without taking space. Katsuki would let this take up space, though. He would fill his mind with all the ways he has learnt to love Shouto if that’s what he had to do keep this careless warmth, this comfort. He squeezes the little bit of baby fat in Shouto’s hips he never sheds (Katsuki likes to call them his love handles just to see him pout about it) to get a gasp out of him, to lick into his mouth, hot and insistent. Because there hasn’t been a tenderness that Katsuki doesn’t love being a little mean about, because Shouto has shown him time and again that he wouldn’t have it any other way.
They pull away after a bit, flushed and out of breath. They’re still so close- the tips of their noses resting against each other- and Katsuki feels it like an ache. All the things he doesn’t know how to say, seeping and bone deep. A terrible restlessness that nothing can dispel. All that he lacks rising within him in a swell of despair. He wishes he could be good, just for once. He wishes he could be enough.
Shouto inches closer, kisses him again, so soft it feels like a blow after the rough press of before. He swings a leg over Katsuki’s hips and hovers over him, propping himself up with an elbow and bunching up Katsuki’s shirt above his chest with his other hand as it moves up the plane of his stomach. All the while he kisses him, slow and deliberate and with the sort of searingly conscious patience neither of them has had the time for lately. Katsuki used to think that the idea of feeling one’s heart skip a beat was just the hyperbole of romance. He used to think it was bullshit people cooked up to feel special. Now he feels his chest clench from the inside as Shouto sucks on his bottom lip. Now, feels his thoughts fall away into nothing.
He’s so immersed in it all that he barely notices Shouto’s hand find its way down to press firm and insistent against his half-hard dick. The touch is heavenly, even through his clothes, the sort of relief you realise you needed only after you’ve already got it. Katsuki’s mouth goes slack with pleasure and he can feel Shouto’s smile along the corner of it.
Katsuki makes a feeble attempt at resistance. Sleep seems like a distant possibility now. “We- ah, we’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”
“Mmhh,” Shouto mouths along Katsuki’s jaw before nipping it, the sharp sting of it perfect. “That doesn’t really sound like a no.” Katsuki can feel the deep rumble of his voice on his skin.
“Fuck,” is about all he manages in response.
Shouto makes quick work of pushing his pyjamas out of the way. When Katsuki reaches over to reciprocate, Shouto grabs his hand and smooths his thumb along Katsuki’s wrist. “Let me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Katsuki’s cheek, agonizingly tender. “I’ll make it good for you,” he says with a kiss to Katsuki’s other cheek, his temple, like that’s what Katsuki’s worried about. Of course it’ll be good. It’s Shouto. There’s just a part of him that wants to give back.
“Okay,” Katsuki breathes, acquiesces because it’s easy. For once maybe he can let it be easy.
Shouto licks along the length of his palm and brings it to Katsuki’s dick. It should be cold, but it isn’t. Katsuki should know to expect it by now but the heat stings, counterintuitively. It took Shouto so long to let go of a decade of conditioning, to truly believe that his quirk and his warmth are two different entities, but it’s a hell of a thing when they come together. All Katsuki can do is revel in it. Shouto just squeezes, starts off with long, slow pulls that have no business feeling as good as they do. For all his impatience, Katsuki knows that any wait with Shouto is its own reward. Shouto’s lips find their way to Katsuki’s neck as his hand slowly picks up the pace. He smells like Katsuki’s shampoo because he ran out of the overpriced strawberries and cream shit he usually lathers up a couple days ago and is too lazy to go to the store and pick up a new bottle. He runs his palm- firm, warm, sure- over the head of Katsuki’s dick and they’ve barely done anything but Katsuki’s stupidly turned on at the fact that Shouto smells like him. It’s heady and possessive and all kinds of irrational but it’s also the truth. Shouto is Katsuki’s, in a way that he is no one else’s and when he presses his thumb into Katsuki’s slit starbursts of pleasure travel to the base of his stomach and settle there.
He flicks his wrist just the way Katsuki likes it, pulls back when Katsuki’s breath hitches, just to watch, to see the pleasure on his face. The exposure, the attention prickles in the best way. Shouto’s hand skits down to his balls and he presses against them with the palm of his hand. “Fuck- Shouto”
Letting go can be a good thing, Yoshida had said. Shouto literally has Katsuki by the balls. Is this also letting go, he wonders. Does this count? Vulnerability has always been Katsuki’s Achilles heel- always to be obfuscated with gruff words and concerned anger and actions that speak louder, that must speak louder. He’s never been good at showing people the ugly bits- the exhaustion, the pain, the fear of failure, of loss, of himself. He used to mask it with a rage that was uglier- a feigned rashness, carelessness, because if he made it look like something didn’t matter all that much, maybe he could get some respite from how utterly draining it was to have everything matter all the time. But here, in his home, in his bed, with his person, maybe things can matter a little less, but mean so much more because of it. Shouto gives them a squeeze, firm and insistent and suddenly Katsuki is back in his body, can feel nothing but the heat of Shouto’s hand on him. He gasps and his eyes fall open to meet Shouto’s. Look at me, they seem to say. What else could be worth your attention? Katsuki feels Shouto’s intent as flash of heat through his body. Nothing, he says through his gasp that turns into a moan halfway through. Nothing, he says through his gaze that never leaves Shouto’s . The world writhes within itself outside but here, now, none of it matters.
Shouto’s lips find Katsuki’s again as he resumes his previous pace. It’s all Katsuki can do to pant into his mouth.
Katsuki is suddenly aware of the helplessness of putting his pleasure in Shouto’s hands, of how he handed it over just now, quiet, unthinking, easy. He is aware of only the soft delight of touch. There are no grand sweeping declarations of love, no quiet and intimate ones either- at least not in any way that’s verbal, or that anyone else would understand. There is just the moment of suspension before giving in to it all, before letting go.
Afterwards, Shouto slumps down to lie on his side, a leg still draped over Katsuki’s, uneven breaths puffing against the side of his neck. If Katsuki had the capacity to right now, he would smirk about how all of this has affected Shouto as well, how Katsuki’s pleasure is enough to get him going, but it’s all he can do to blink blearily at the ceiling as he tries to catch his breath. His body feels liquid and his head is blissfully empty. After the shitshow of a day he’s had, this feels like floating, makes everything that isn’t them seem far away and unimportant. Including the part of his mind that wants to scoff at him for having such inexcusably sappy thoughts over just getting to have Shouto close for a bit. It’s such a relief to let himself have this.
“Better?” Shouto murmurs into the space between them after a few minutes.
“Fuck you,” Katsuki retorts because he still doesn’t know how to respond to being taken care of, because he’s had years and years to get used to it, but still turns lumbering and clumsy when faced directly with the depth of Shouto’s love, Shouto’s understanding, with just how clearly Shouto sees him. He should be better about this- he sees Shouto the same way, after all. But it’s alright. Shouto knows. It’s alright because they’ve spoken this language since before they could put a name to what they had. What they still have.
Maybe one day he’ll be able to tell Shouto even though he doesn’t have to, even though they both know. When all I am is a swarm of thoughts, you make me feel like a person again. Every time I fly too close to the sun, every time I feel like I’ve left myself behind somewhere, you remind me that I am tethered to the world, to you. You remind me that sometimes, to be is enough.
“Mmh, maybe in the morning. I’m too sleepy now.”
And fucking hell isn’t that a thought. That tomorrow they’ll both wake up on too little sleep and Katsuki will skip his run and Shouto- his Shouto, warm and sleepy- will let Katsuki work him open nice and slow. That Katsuki will get to drag it out just to hear him whine about it, just to make him ask for it even though it’s all Katsuki wants as well. That Katsuki will get to fuck Shouto into the bed and see his face scrunched up all pretty and feel the way he’ll grip Katsuki’s shoulders- blunt nails digging in, desperately pulling him closer- and hear him breathe, gasp, moan Katsuki’s name like a prayer.
And it’s probably fucked up that he frames it in his head as some sort of retribution for tonight, as Shouto getting his due. Dr. Yoshida would probably carefully pen it down in her notes if he ever told her about it. Underneath all the posturing and feral desire, it’s gratitude that Katsuki feels, though. Gratitude that he wants to show Shouto the best way he knows how. By taking him apart and putting him back together and making him breakfast afterwards. Maybe bringing it to him in bed if Katsuki’s feeling generous. They’ll have to change the sheets anyway. See? He even sprinkled some romance in there.
Shouto reaches over to his side table clearly in search of tissues and fumbles around for a bit before turning on his bedside lamp. Katsuki squints at the sudden brightness. “Fuck! It’s probably on the floor- you always move it to the goddam floor to make room for all the stupid shit you keep on there.” Shouto reaches down and then places the box in the middle of the bed and looks over with pursed lips.
“I’ll have you know that all that ‘stupid shit’ is pretty useful.” Shouto swears far more than his preppy, pretty boy image would suggest, but he always enunciates even the mildest of expletives all prim and perfect when he wants to be prissy about some careless remark Katsuki makes, the petty bastard. He gives his hand a critical once-over – most of the mess got on there. “I think I’ll just wash it,” he says. Katsuki watches as he slides off the bed and pads out of the room. He cleans himself up by the time Shouto returns, and it’s then that he notices the pyjamas Katsuki’s wearing. He doesn’t even say anything about it, but the twitch of his lip as he looks at Katsuki- gaze steady and lingering- might as well be an open chuckle for all that it conveys in Shouto-isms.
Katsuki loves him; loved him even when he didn’t know to call it love.
“Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t wanna hear it,” Katsuki grumbles already anticipating something terrible that will live on in his memory for far too long.
“What makes you think I was going to tell you?” he says as he climbs back into bed, flicking off the light.
Sometimes Katsuki wonders how he got here, how he got to make a home in Shouto’s silent company and call it his, call him his. Sometimes, the hows don’t really matter to him, because they don’t change the reality of his good fortune. Shouto shuffles close, turns to drape a leg over Katsuki’s, an arm over his waist.
Oh, what a joy it is to be held- without fanfare, with unspoken understanding.
With Shouto all is quiet. With Shouto all is real.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean, blue air,
are heading home again.