Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wet pavement digs into the soles of his bare feet as he runs, ragged breaths tearing their way from his chest. Thunder explodes the silence, startling a gasp from him. He nearly trips over his own two feet, sloshing through a puddle, arms flailing at his sides, hands trembling, body shaking— from the cold, the rain, the adrenaline, he doesn’t know. He just. Knows to keep running. Down the next street corner, through the next alley, hair sticking to his forehead as he whips his head and tosses his gaze over his shoulder. 

The street behind him is empty. 

Rain fills the space between each breath, pounding down from the heavens above. It soaks through his clothes, runs down his face, his hands. He turns sharply, shoulder catching on the brick corner of a building and making him stagger but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. He can’t he can’t he can’t . His throat constricts, eyes burning and he keeps running. He can’t feel his feet but it doesn’t matter, he has to get to the phone booth he has to. 

He spares another glance over his shoulder. And still, the street is empty. 

The phone booth glows like a beacon in the night, and relief has a sob pulling from him as he scrambles for it. His hands catch on the old worn handles, and he heaves the doors open, the screech of unoiled hinges making his teeth grit hard enough that his jaw throbs. Rain beats down on the glass panes that surround him, a discordant harmony to the way his breaths heave from his chest. He looks over his shoulder as he fumbles for the receiver, hands shaking so hard he almost can’t push the buttons. One breath. Two. He dials the only number he knows. Distantly, he’s aware of the red that smears across everything he touches. Distantly, he’s aware of the throbbing across his eyelid, the ache in his throat, his side. He doesn’t dwell on it. 

He can’t. 

“Please oh please oh please,” he croaks, a desperate prayer as the dial tone rings in his ears. Please pick up. Please. He looks out to the streets, something hot and wet blazing down his cheeks. 

Please. 

“Hello?” 

His eyes squeeze shut. “Ashido.” 

Silence. Then, “Kirishima? Is that...is that you?” 

Eijirou sucks in a breath. “Yeah. I…” A choked sob wrestles its way loose, and he clings to the receiver, shaking as he swallows it down. “I didn’t know who else to call.” 

Rain patters against the metal roof, the window panes, filling the chasm of silence broken only by the soft, faint breathing from across the line. Eijirou bites his lip hard enough that it stings, vision blurring. 

“Tell me where you are.” 

Eijirou breathes. 

It doesn’t take long for her car to skid to a stop at the curb. Eijirou darts to it, flinging the door open and clamoring inside, somehow managing to slam the door shut behind him. His body sags, sinking into the old leather seat beneath him, the glove compartment blurring out of focus. He squeezes his eyes shut, curling in on himself. 

“Oh, Kirishima…” Ashido’s voice cracks, and Eijirou flinches. He blinks, gaze finding hers, breath catching at the worry and pain and sadness that wells up there. He tries to swallow down the lump that builds in his throat, but it’s hard. He looks away, instead. The silence stretches between them, filled with unspoken questions, words, unperformed actions. Eijirou waits for the “I told you so,” waits for the “I’m bringing you home,” waits for the ball to drop. For the nightmare to continue, like it always seems to, in a never-ending loop of trying and failing to fight his way free of it. 

Ashido clears her throat. “Can you...can you put your seatbelt on?” 

Eijirou nods, clumsy, and fumbles with those shaking hands of his. Once, twice, three times, he tries, but he’s trembling too hard and he can’t get it in and oh, god, this is how it ends— and then Ashido is reaching over the console, her small hand grasping his bloodied ones and pulling them free of the buckle, clicking it in place for him. 

He cries, then. 

He cries, and she lets him. 

Eijirou has no idea where she takes him. He sits in the car as if in a trance, tears and blood mingling as they track down his cheeks, looking but not seeing as the cityscape passes by in a blur just outside the window. At some point, they stop, and Ashido speaks to him in hushed, soothing whispers as she coaxes him out of the car and through the doors to what must be her apartment complex, somewhere within the city. She leads him into her apartment, hands on his shoulders, guiding him to the tiny little box of a bathroom and encouraging him to sit on the toilet. He stares down at the old checkered, tiled floor, where muddy footprints smudge from under his own feet. 

“Here.” Ashido kneels in front of him, lips pursed, a first aid kit at her side. She reaches for his face with an alcohol wipe in her hand, hesitating. “May I?” 

Eijirou bites his lip. “Yeah.” 

It stings when she cleans the cut over his eye. Eijirou can’t help but flinch. Ashido stops, golden gaze simmering with a bizarre cocktail of remorse and anger that Eijirou doesn’t yet have the strength to decipher. She eases back, running a hand through her wild, bubblegum pink hair. “Sorry.” 

He shakes his head. “S’okay.” His voice is barely a whisper, but Ashido doesn’t comment on it. She just nods and tries again, slower, more gentle. One swipe at a time, and she cleans away the blood and the tears until Eijirou’s skin tingles and his cuts and scrapes are bandaged. Then, she puts her tools away and tells him to use her shower, and she’ll find some clothes he can wear. She leaves, and he’s alone. 

Eijirou stares. 

He feels...numb. Cold. Exhausted . He blinks. Those muddy footprints stare back at him, his own dirt-caked feet foreign in his gaze. It’s as if they’re not his, that they belong to someone else. And in some ways, it feels as though they do. This...nothing about this feels real. And something in Eijirou’s chest aches, sharp and painful enough that he’s gasping, hand reaching up to fist at the fabric of his rain-soaked t-shirt. A sob tears its way loose, and another. Eijirou curls around his knees, whole body shaking with the effort to keep the tears at bay. He’s cried enough already, but it seems as though his body isn’t finished. 

Eventually, he uncurls. There’s a neat pile of clothes on the counter— Ashido must’ve slipped in without him noticing. He bites the inside of his cheek and sniffs. No. No more crying. Eijirou turns to the shower and reaches up to peel his drenched shirt off his body. And then his pants. And boxers. And then he steps into the shower, standing under the warm spray and watching mud and blood swirl down the drain at his feet. And he breathes. 

He’s safe. 

He’s safe. 

Eijirou repeats it like a mantra in his mind, over and over and over again, as though the words themselves can erase the nightmare he’s lived through. He’s here, he’s alive, he’s safe. 

Safe . 

He clings to the mantra as he puts on the barely large enough hoodie and too-small sweats that Ashido gave him. He clings to it as he shuffles out into the tiny living space, standing awkwardly amidst a space foreign to him. Clings to it when Ashido coaxes him to her little round table with mismatched chairs, a steaming bowl of okayu set out, accompanied by glass of ice water with cheesy, screen-printed hearts that have long since started to wear off. Eijirou’s eyes sting all over again, and he shakes his head, long, damp hair swinging. “You don’t have to—” 

“Yes, I do,” Ashido says, gentle and kind. “Sit, please.” 

Eijirou sits. And eats. It’s warm, and smells nice, but Eijirou can hardly register the taste. He feels almost robotic, going through the motions. But Ashido doesn’t press him. She just smiles and sits across from him, turning on the television to fill the silence. 

“—breaking news. We have a report of a missing person. Kirishima Eijirou, last seen on fifth and main, wearing a bright red t-shirt. If anyone has any information, please call the hotline at the bottom of the screen—” 

His spoon clatters onto the table. 

The television clicks off, and Ashido lurches across the table to grasp at his hand, the sudden motion ripping a gasp from him and he yanks his arm free with enough force he nearly topples his chair. The shakes follow immediately, and Eijirou starts babbling. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I’m sorry—” 

“It’s okay. Kirishima, it’s okay.” 

Ashido’s hands hover in the space between them, her eyes wide, sorrow burning within them. “It’s okay,” she says again, but it’s not okay— nothing is okay, right now. He sucks in a ragged breath, eyes burning all over again, and curls his arms around himself, fingers twisting into the soft material of his hoodie. Fear grips him like a vice, throat constricting as though there’s a hand there, squeezing, fingernails digging into his skin and fuck—his hand darts to his neck on instinct, clawing at the phantom hand that’s not really there. His other hand darts out to the table, gripping the edge to steady himself at the sudden onslaught of dizzy that overwhelms him, and Eijirou grasps for his mantra. He’s safe. He’s safe.  

But the words are hollow, overshadowed by the words of the news anchor echoing in his head. 

There’s a creak. Ashido leans over the table, expression grim, determined. “It’s gonna be okay, Kirishima.” She slides a hand to him, her fingers splayed—a reassurance. And then she’s gone, marching to the back room, leaving Eijirou staring at the space she’d stood. 

He doesn’t eat. 

He’s frozen, stuck in place. It’s only the feeling of the wooden table beneath the palm of his hand that keeps him fixed to the present, that reminds him that he’s not there, anymore. 

“Kirishima.” Ashido’s voice draws his focus, and he blinks. She’s got a hand outstretched, a soft, gentle smile on her lips. But it’s strained, and she stands stiff, as though afraid that one wrong move will have him spooking, bolting. And maybe that’s not all that far off. He pries a hand free and jerily places it in hers and lets himself be pulled to his feet. Ashido leads him back to the bathroom, pushes him back down to sit on the toilet. She plucks something from off the sink countertop and brandishes it— a pair of scissors. Eijirou blinks. Scissors? He looks from the gleam of the silver blades to Ashido, eyes growing wide. An understanding kindles inside him like a growing flame, passing between them in a silent conversation. Eijirou jerks his head in a nod. And slowly, cautiously, Ashido reaches for his long, black hair. 

The first snip rings out like a clap of thunder. 

Eijirou sits stiff, hands curled into fists and eyes squeezed shut, as Ashido cuts his hair. Time passes in the push and pull of his head, the snip-snips by his ear, the feeling of loose hair clippings tickling his neck and shoulders. At one point, Ashido runs her hands through his damp locks, shaking out any loose bits. She leans to the side, setting the scissors down and picking up a little plastic bowl that smells strong of chemicals. “Hold still,” she murmurs. Eijirou just closes his eyes again. She’s gentle, as she works in the bleach. The push and pull continues until his hair is plastered to his head. 

And then they wait. 

Rinse, wash, and repeat. 

Literally. 

Only this time, instead of bleach, it’s dye. Red dye, if the minor glimpse he catches of the little bowl is right. Ashido paints it on as carefully as she did the bleach, and Eijirou lets it happen. He’s...he’s always wanted to dye his hair. 

Eijirou bites his lip, eyes stinging. He wishes it didn’t happen like this. 

Another rinse, and it’s over. Ashido helps him dry his hair with care, gentle around his bruised and cut face. The towel falls away, and Eijirou blinks as Ashido drapes it on the edge of her tub. He reaches up, hand trembling. It’s...so short. Eijirou can’t remember when he last cut his hair— a year? Two? It’s been so long. 

Too long. 

He swallows. It’s strange, having hair that barely brushes his shoulders. He grasps at his short bangs, breath hitching. Ashido places her hands on his shoulders, hesitant, and pushes him forward, steering him to the mirror. A stranger stares back at him. “Whoah,” he whispers. Ashido gives his shoulders a gentle squeeze, smile gentle. 

“Yeah.” 

They take a moment. A moment of peace, a moment of quiet. But moments can’t last forever, and this moment takes its leave all too quickly. The next moments that pass, pass in a blur of activity in which Ashido darts around her small, quaint apartment and collects a small bag of things that she pushes into Eijirou’s hands with a fierce look. Things like deodorant—spring breeze, according to the label—toothpaste and a toothbrush, an old comb, spare socks, another hoodie, and a bundle of what looks to be a couple thousand yen. Eijirou gapes and shakes his head. “N-no, Ashido, you don’t have to—” 

“Take it, Kiri.” 

He bites his tongue and accepts the bag. It’s a faded pink, with white polka dots all over and worn, leather straps. An old bag. Eijirou grips it fiercely, knuckles white. It’s a lifeline. It’s hope. And he’s half afraid that if he loosens his grip, that hope will slip right from his fingers and god, that can’t happen.

It can’t. 

So Eijirou clings to the bag tightly, heart thudding in his chest. He slips his feet into borrowed crocs that are three sizes too small and follows Ashido out the door and back into the night, dashing through the rain to her small, beat up car. It’s quiet as they drive, the silence only filled by the thwump thwump of the windshield wipers. When he risks a glance across the console, Ashido’s tense, gripping the steering wheel so tight he’s nearly surprised it doesn’t break into pieces. He looks away, fixing his gaze out to the street. 

The city lights whip past, street after street, and Eijirou loses track of how many they pass until they pull to a stop at the Metro station. He hugs the bag to his chest. 

“Hey.” 

Eijirou turns, meeting Ashido’s gaze. She’s smiling, but the sorrow flows freely within the gold of her eyes. “Call me when you’re somewhere safe,” she says, voice quiet, heavy. Eijirou nods, a lump lodging in his throat. 

“I will,” he croaks. “Thank you.” 

Ashido just shakes her head, smile taking a turn for the teary. Eijirou wants to say more, wants to do more, but...there’s no time. He fumbles for the door handle and turns away, darting into the rain one more time. 

🪸

A breeze, light and airy, brushes along Eijirou’s skin. He stands on the edge of the platform, staring out across the rolling hills beyond, polka-dot bag slung over one shoulder. Behind him, the Metro clacks along the tracks, hissing and screeching as it picks up speed, leaving him behind. He doesn’t mind. Eijirou’s gotten a little tired of being cramped in a train car, and the allure of the salty air is too difficult to pass up. 

Besides. His destination is entirely of his choosing. The thought is freeing, and for the first time in what feels like eons, Eijirou feels almost light inside. Almost. He breathes in that salty air, lips twitching, eyes drifting closed. It’s easy, to stand here like this and just enjoy the afternoon. He can’t help but savor it, savor the easy anonymity of being nobody from nowhere, the pressing, consuming terror of being found easing off for once. 

Eijirou opens his eyes. As much as he wants to, he can’t really stand here forever. His stomach grumbles, as if to echo the sentiment, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Well. No better cue to go find some food than that, huh? He turns, adjusting the pack on his shoulder, and sets off, weaving his way through the small smattering of people milling about. 

Aside from the station, there’s really...not much around. Eijirou finds himself walking out onto the country road, gaze drifting up to the rippling rippling edges of the tree canopy overhead. Birdsong echoes from beyond the shadow of the understory beside him, and clouds dot the blue skies overhead. It’s a perfect day out, and Eijirou is grateful. Walking probably wouldn’t be nearly as nice. 

Which is an added blessing, because the next town? It takes Eijirou nearly an hour’s walk to even hit the outskirts. Small, older houses, built with a more traditional style, sparse out until Eijirou gets deeper into town. There, he finds a strip of small shops and a market and some docks, all along the coast. It comes to life, too, as he approaches— people shouting greetings and walking or biking or rumbling past in old, worn down cars. The docks in particular are full of life, fishing boats coming in with their morning’s haul. 

Eijirou reaches up to wipe at the sweat beading his brow. The sun is high and bright, warming the afternoon considerably. It’d be a good day to hit the beach, and Eijirou has half a mind to just head right to the water, but the angry grumble of his stomach keeps him on track. The beach can wait. Right now, he needs food. 

His feet carry him to a little ramen shop, tucked between what looks to be a little tourist shop and an antique sorta shop. A bell dings as he pushes his way through the weather-worn door, and floorboards creak underfoot. It’s small in here— with only a handful of mis-matched stools at a bar top and a couple of tiny tables tucked in either corner. Photographs line the walls in a myriad of mismatched frames, and a pot of bamboo sits tucked beside the doorway. 

“Welcome!” a voice calls, boisterous and chipper. Eijirou jolts, blinking at the hulking form of a man leaning over the bartop, an old rag bunched in one hand. Their gazes lock, and the man’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly as he stares for a moment too long—Eijirou’s breath hitches, hand darting up to the bruises and cuts that mar his face, and he ducks his head, face burning and heart thumping. But the man says nothing, and instead smiles and gestures warmly. “Sit wherever you’d like, my boy!” he says. “Amajiki will be with you in just a moment.” The man disappears then, behind a latticework partition that seems to separate the dining and kitchen area. Eijirou can still see it, if he peers closely enough. Steam rises up from what must be the stove, and there’s glints of pots and pans hanging on the wall peeking through. 

Eijirou settles for sitting at the bartop. He sets his pack on the counter beside him and shifts in place, the stool letting out a foreboding groan underneath him. He steadies himself, planting his hands on the counter, and bites his lip. Well, crap. He hopes the stool doesn’t break. 

“Um, hello.” 

His body jolts on instinct, and Eijirou lets out a strangled yelp, stool teetering dangerously. He manages to grip the edges of the counter and steady himself, face hot and heart racing. “So-sorry,” he stammers. His companion blinks owlishly at him, dark eyes wide and troubled. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the guy murmurs. He ducks his head, those inky bangs of his  sweeping into his face like a curtain. Guilt sweeps through Eijirou like a tide, and he waves a hand, lips quirking into a wobbly grin. 

“Hey, no, dude, it’s okay! I just uh, didn’t notice you were there! Sorry, my bad.” 

The guy, who Eijirou thinks might just be Amajiki, peeks at him with knit brows. “Oh..okay. Um. Would you...like to make an order?” 

“Yes, yes please.” 

One order of a traditional ramen bowl later, and Eijirou’s alone again. He finds his gaze meandering to the photographs that decorate the walls with myriads of colors and patterns. Some are places— the beach, the market, the docs. But most are people. People, standing side by side, showing off their daily catches, or candids of people existing downtown, or even people just together. Friends, family, lovers, all of them smiling and laughing, and happy . Something aches deep within his chest, and he drops his gaze to the wood grain of the counter. He thinks of the many photos that surely still hang on his walls at home, and how he sits in them, posing, looking the part, looking happy. It’s easy, to fake happiness for a brief moment in time. It’s easy, to play a part. To pretend. 

Even when reality is nothing like the snapshots show. Or, maybe especially when. Because pretending is like a brief relief from the overwhelming darkness of reality that threatens to swallow him whole. 

Eijirou squeezes his eyes shut and takes a measured breath. No. That’s not his reality. Not anymore. 

“Here.” Amajiki sets down a platter with one steaming bowl on it, and Eijirou’s smile comes easier. 

“Thanks.” He reaches for the chopsticks, ripping through the plastic wrappings with his teeth. The savory smells have his mouth watering, and Eijirou doesn’t waste a second in twirling the noodles and stuffing them into his mouth, groaning at the explosion of flavor across his tongue. “S’good,” he mumbles through a mouthful. Amajiki’s face turns a tad pink, and he shuffles to the side, pointedly staring at some fixed point beyond Eijirou. 

“Tha-thanks. Ramen’s our specialty at Shidomori…” 

No kidding. This is probably the best bowl of ramen he’s had in...forever. Eijirou shovels down another mouthful, nearly melting in his seat at how good it is. Just the right kind of savory, with enough of a kick to add to the overall flavor. It really hits the spot. 

Eijirou stays long enough to eat and pay, and then he’s pushing his way back out into the street, full and content. His feet carry him on their own accord then, through the streets and past the houses, until concrete and pavement give way to sand. He keeps going, only stopping when he reaches the waterline, the waves lapping at his too-small shoes. He toes out of them, body going lax as his toes sink into the soft, cool sand underfoot, an unbidden sigh falling from his lips, the sound mingling with the music of the waves and the harmonies of the birds, crying out as they sail overhead. It’s…

...calm. 

For miles and miles, an expanse of water furls out before him, seemingly endless except for where it meets the bright blue sky. Eijirou lets his pack slide from his shoulder, eyes sliding closed as the salty breeze caresses his face and combs through his cropped, red hair. In the distance, shrieks of children playing carry over from the rolling hills that divide the beach from the town. It’s a stark contrast to what he’s known before— busy streets filled with the constant hum of cars and squealing tires and blaring horns. The never ending stream of sound that always filled the silence, like a constant buzz beneath Eijirou’s skin, not once leaving him room to breathe, to think. Just. Suffocating. 

But here? Here, he has room to breathe. Room to just…let himself be. To exist, without fear. 

The realization has his breath catching in his throat, and Eijirou couldn’t stop the grin that tugs at his lips even if he tried. 

Because for the first time in oh so long, Eijirou isn’t afraid. 

Chapter Text

Morning’s light warms the beach slowly, like a kettle set to boil. Eijirou cracks an eye open, and then the other, blinking into dawn’s golden rays as they stretch across the sand. There’s nothing but the sound of the waves lapping against the shore to greet him, and his lips twitch up into a small grin. 

He’s on the beach. 

There’s a chill that lingers in the air—leftover from the night—and Eijirou suppresses a shiver as he sits up, sand falling from his t-shirt. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers lingering to toy at the cropped edges, and stares out into the sunrise. And god, is it breathtaking. Oranges and golds and pinks bleed across the inky sky, bringing with it light and warmth. Eijirou watches, breathless. He’s...he’s never seen anything like it. Like this.  

Back at home, sunrises and sunsets happened behind imposing buildings, often under layers and layers of smog. Sometimes he liked to sit out on the balcony in the early hours of the dawn, when he could slip away. But there wasn’t this...peacefulness, that he finds here. Cities, after all, never sleep. There’s always movement, noise, action. Here, though, it’s just. Eijirou and the lapping waves along the waterline.

No noise. No people. No lingering anxiety pressing its fingers into the meat of his heart. 

Just. Him. 

Everything else? Feels so far away...like a whole other lifetime. Eijirou’s eyes drift shut, the smile tickling his lips warming into something bigger. He sits like that until there isn’t a blot of ink left in the sky, and the sun sits above the water, bright and ethereal as she begins to burn daylight. And then he stands, stretching his stiff body and pausing to dust off loose sand from his rumbled clothes. 

He should...probably find some breakfast. 

The very thought of food has his stomach grumbling, and that pretty much solidifies any half formed plans into something a little more concrete. Find food. Then...then he can figure out his next steps. 

Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good idea. 

Eijirou stoops over and picks up his crocs and pack, taking the time to dust off as much of the loose sand that seems to have found its way into every crevice as he can. He spares one last lingering glance at the golden waves as they dance along the shoreline, and then Eijirou is off, trekking back towards the town proper. 

The streets are silent as Eijirou wanders through them. It seems as though the town itself is still asleep, with the only flurry of activity to be seen out by the docks, where fishermen are loading up their boats for a day on the water. He wanders past, gaze lingering on the weather-worn people lugging old, patched nets onto boats that look like they’ve lived through more storms than Eijirou can count, with faded, peeling paint and rust stains all over. And yet they still stand, still float, still go out to sea everyday. He wonders what it might be like, to stand amidst the fury of Mother Nature herself, and manage to hold firm every single time, steadfast and unwavering .  

His hand drifts to his side, the ache still lingering every time he draws in to sharp a breath, or when he presses too hard on the heavy bruises that hide under the fabric of his clothes. Eijirou squeezes his eyes shut. 

He wishes he could be like those boats— unbreakable.  

Maybe then he could have done something different, somehow. If he was stronger, better, maybe he wouldn’t...maybe he wouldn’t have had to run away. Maybe he wouldn’t be here now, alone and with nowhere to go. Eijirou clutches at his belongings, a sudden awareness leaving him feeling as though the ground itself is shifting beneath his feet, leaving him stumbling to stay upright because all he has to his name? A pair of ill-fitting crocs, the clothes on his back, and this pack with a couple hundred yen. 

Eijirou whirls around, sucking in a breath, and another, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to steady himself. Maybe he wasn’t strong enough to stay, but he’s here now. He’s alive. That’s enough, right now. 

It has to be. 

When he opens his eyes, his gaze snags on the glimmer of blue waves in the morning’s light, and the panic swelling in his chest abates enough for him to breathe easier. Being alive means he gets to see the sunrise and sunset on the beach. And breathe in the ocean air. See the stars beneath a nighttime sky, uninhibited by light. It’s not a lot, but...it’s better than anything he’s ever experienced so far. 

His feet carry him back to the same ramen shop he ate at yesterday. Eijirou blinks. He didn’t mean to come here, because surely, they’re not open. Most ramen shops wouldn’t open until noon back in the city— breakfast isn’t much of an ordeal, and most people eat that at home or at a cafe. What stops Eijirou short, though, is the man out on the doorstep of the shop, sweeping. The same man from yesterday, who Eijirou guesses must be the shop owner. Why is he out here sweeping, so early? Surely, he’s not planning on opening soon, is he? Eijirou’s stomach grumbles, loudly. 

It’s at that very moment the man looks up. There’s a splash of surprise, and a wide, warm grin. “Mornin’, my boy!” he calls, cheery. “What brings you to this side of town so early?” 

Eijirou’s face heats, and he shuffles in place. “O-oh, uh. I’m just, um. Wondering if there’s somewhere I can get some food?” 

There’s a beat, and a peal of laughter like that of bells rings out in the morning air. “A boy after my own heart, it seems. Come on, lad, follow me.” He beckons, turning to open the shop doors, which…

“O-oh, no, it’s okay! You don’t have to open up shop for me!” Eijirou stammers, waving his hands in front of him. “I-I just mean, like, a cafe or mart that’s open—” 

“Please, my boy, don’t worry. You’re hungry, yeah? Come on in, let me give ya’ something warm for that belly of yours.” 

Eijirou’s words die in his throat. He stares with wide eyes, hovering, uncertainty prickling at the back of his neck alongside a healthy dose of bafflement, because who is this man and why is he...being so nice? It. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t know Eijirou, and Eijirou doesn’t know him. Like. Yeah, he’s hungry, but he can easily just go walk to a local mart and pick up something— 

There’s another loud, angry grumble from his stomach, and Eijirou’s shoulders shoot up to his ears. Another low chuckle shakes in the air, and the man’s expression goes soft. “My boy, it’s okay to be hungry. Come on, please, it’s no bother for me.” The man pushes the door open wider, the old hinges creaking. It shakes Eijirou from his stupor enough to nod. Okay. Okay, yeah. He follows the nice man inside, stepping back into that comforting atmosphere of the little ramen shop. 

“What would you like to eat, my boy?” the man asks. Eijirou fidgets, shrugs. 

“Um. Whatever’s easiest, s’fine.” 

He’s met with raised brows. Eijirou feels himself shrink under the scrutiny, and he fixes his stare at the wooden floorboards underfoot, tracing old gouges worn into them from years of use. 

“Alright, gyudon, then. Please, sit, make yourself at home!” He leaves Eijirou standing there to duck behind the counter, pots and pans banging from beyond. Eijirou just fiddles with the strap of his pack, sharp teeth digging into his bottom lip. It feels as though his feet are stuck to the floor. Guilt sits heavy in his gut, and Eijirou suddenly isn’t sure he can even stomach food, which makes that guilt feel even heavier because here this man, this stranger even, is making him something to eat just because he’s hungry. And he can’t just leave, that would be rude! But he can’t bring himself to move. 

He’s just.

Stuck. 

It doesn’t help that the savory smells have his mouth watering, either. God, he’s so hungry, and the food smells so good—he almost can’t help but mindlessly stumble forward, the basal desire for sustenance enough to unstick his feet from the floor and send him nearly careening into the counter, where he’d sat the night prior. The food’s prepared quickly, and all too soon, the man returns with one heaping, steaming bowl of gyudon and noodles and sets it down in front of him with a flourish. Eijirou slides into the seat with a mouth hanging open, almost drooling onto the countertop. 

“Eat up, my boy!” the man says, hearty. Eijirou reaches for the chopsticks with shaking hands, his bottom lip quivering. 

“Th-thank you, sir,” he murmurs. The man laughs. 

“Please, call me Toyomitsu.” The man, Toyomitsu, smiles, wide and bright, his cheeks rosy and cheerful. It’s infectious, and Eijirou finds himself smiling back. All that unease he felt moments ago melts back, and he feels himself relaxing into his seat as he takes a bite. And, gods, the flavor. An explosion of savory and spice spreads across his tongue, and Eijirou can’t help the groan that rises in his throat. 

“S’good,” he slurs through a mouthful. Toyomitsu winks. 

“It’s an old family recipe. Glad you like it!” 

Like it? That’s a hell of an understatement— Eijirou nearly inhales the contents of his bowl, it’s so good. Like, even better than his ramen bowl last night, and that was insanely delicious. Maybe it’s the fact that this food, now, is made from a little extra kindness? Eijirou isn’t sure, but if there’s anything that tastes like kindness it’s this. Just. Warm and savory and everything Eijirou wants in food. In life.  

God knows he needs more of it. 

“You know,” Toyomitsu says, voice casual, “I don’t know if I’ve seen you in these parts, before. Just travelling through?” 

Eijirou stills. He stares at the chopsticks clutched in his grasp, heart thudding against his ribcage. “I uh. I just got in town,” he says. He doesn’t answer the second part of the question, though. Not because he’s dodging it— he just. Isn’t sure if he’s leaving. Or when. Eijirou supposes he probably...should. But he doesn’t exactly have a lot of yen left, so it’s not like he’ll be able to get much farther. 

Unless. Unless he gets a job. 

He swirls his chopsticks and peeks up at Toyomitsu, the thought turning in his head. “I’m...I’m actually looking for work, if you have any recommendations. Or know anyone that could use uh, temporary help.” 

Toyomitsu scratches at his chin, looking thoughtful. “Well, I’m sure plenty of fishermen would be happy for some help at the docks...but, tourist season’s gonna be picking up here in town, and I could use the help here for the season.” 

“Really?” Eijirou blurts. Toyomitsu smiles, merriment crinkling at the corners of his eyes. 

“Yes, really. When can you start?”

Eijirou pushes his bowl away and beams. “How about right now?” 

🪸

Soft music drifts from the little radio stored up on the shelf behind Eijirou, filling the quiet. He’s not familiar with the genre— it’s something traditional, if the tones and notes that ring in the air are of any indication— but Eijirou finds himself humming along anyway. He leans over the counter, the heel of his palm pressing into the cool, polished wood, and he scrubs at an old, dried patch of broth with a wet rag. Soapy water squeezes from the cloth, leaving swirls of foam as he scrubs harder and harder. Damn, this stain really doesn’t wanna let up, huh? Eijirou’s brows knit, and he leans closer, as if being nearly nose to nose with the stain will help lift it. 

It’s slow in the shop. It’s slow more often than not, actually— Amajiki tells him this is pretty normal. Hinansho—the town he’s in—is apparently only occupied by a few hundred people year-round. So there aren’t that many dine-in customers. 

Eijirou doesn’t mind. It’s kind of nice, being able to just hang out and listen to music for a few hours, minding the dining area, if a bit lonely. He’s not always alone of course. Amajiki will wander up between orders when he’s on shift. And while he might not be much of a talker, he still tries his best to humor Eijirou, telling him an occasional story of the town or some of the people in it. Like, the time he and a friend rescued a stranded shark pup— presumably getting stuck while hunting smaller fish when the tide went out. Which. Is pretty rad. Eijirou’s never even seen a shark outside of the tv. Let alone in real life. 

“Yeah, it scraped up our hands,” Amajiki says, face scrunching. “It wriggled too much. But Mirio insisted on helping it.” 

“Scraped up your hands?” Eijirou echoes. “What do you mean?” 

Amajiki just shrugs. “It was...rough. And all the wriggling made it scrape up our hands.” 

Sharks are...rough? Eijirou just blinks, mind twisting over this new knowledge. He’s always imagined they’d be smooth because, well, why wouldn’t they be? It’s almost hard to reconcile because the thought is so jarring. Maybe it’s because fish are always described as slimy? Eijirou frowns. Weird. 

Tonight, though, he’s on his own. Or, well, not completely alone— Toyomitsu is in the back, prepping the swath of pick-up orders they’ve gotten from the next town over, because apparently they get a lot of those. But Amajiki is off today, so Eijirou is manning the lobby alone. And it’s not bad! There’s music, and he’s kept himself busy by cleaning everything. But, still. Eijirou sighs, and leans against the counter, staring down at the polished wood grain beneath his hands. He wishes he could do more , if only to dull the monotony of just standing here in an empty ramen shop. But as it stands, he’s yet to be trained in the actual kitchen part—mostly because Toyomitsu wants to wait until Eijirou can get some better shoes. Which. He shifts in place, grimacing at the way his too-small crocs rub against his feet. Eijirou gets it, really. Crocs aren’t safe shoes for a kitchen. He just...kind of doesn’t have anything else to wear. At all. 

That was an embarrassing conversation. Toyomitsu had offered to buy him some at first— which Eijirou had adamantly refused. He would not take advantage of Toyomitsu’s kindness, he just wouldn’t. He’d already done so much as it was, feeding Eijirou and hiring him on the spot like that. On top of continuing to let him eat for free, insisting it’s an employee perk. Eijirou can’t even argue with that one. Like. Amajiki doesn’t pay for a bowl, either, so it’s clearly not something done just at his expense.

Besides, it’s not like Eijirou can’t just buy some shoes himself— he just needs to earn a little more yen first. Which, Toyomitsu relented on, thankfully. So yeah. Here at the end of the week, he’ll be getting his first check, so he’ll be able to get some shoes then, hopefully. 

And maybe some pants. 

And underwear. 

And socks. 

He got a few t-shirts with the shop logo on them— a sea star and the shop name’s kanji in a bubbly, white print. Shiodamari. It’s a little odd, because they’re a ramen shop, but Eijirou guesses they’re right by the ocean so it fits well enough. And they do have some seafood type options. But...chicken and pork are their most popular proteins according to Toyomitsu. 

But yeah. What he needs is shoes. And pants and underwear and socks. But shoes, first. 

The ding of the bell startles Eijirou into bolting upright. A guy pushes through the door, lips pursed as he stares down at his phone, its glow highlighting delicate features. “Welcome!” Eijirou calls. “Sit wherever you like!” 

The guy waves a hand, not even bothering to look up. “Nah, bro, I’m not sitting. I’m here to pick up some take away orders.” 

Oh. “Oh. Um, what’s the name on the order?” 

That earns Eijirou a look. The guy blinks, face scrunching up in bafflement and head tilting, those styled bangs of his shifting. “Well. You’re new. Where’s Amajiki?” 

The scrutiny has Eijirou squirming, and he reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. “Um, sorry. He’s off today. But, uh, if you tell me the name on the order I can get it for you—” 

The guy hardly seems to register what Eijirou says. He sighs, dramatic, and shoves his phone into his pocket, striding up to the counter and hopping onto one of the stools, propping his elbows on the counter. “Nah, dude, it’s fine. Not all of them are ready yet. Listen, uh…” He leans, squinting at Eijirous’ shiny nametag. “...Kirishima? Nice to meet you, dude. The name’s Kaminari— I’m the Ubereats guy.” Kaminari grins and waggles his brows. “So you’ll be seeing a lot of me, around.” 

Ubereats? Eijirou didn’t even realize they had that, out here. He’s certainly used Ubereats before, back in the city—some nights it was more...convenient. 

Like when going out in public just wasn’t an option. 

Eijirou’s throat gets tight, flickering thoughts and flashes of memories bolt across his mind like a streak of lightning across a dark sky. Memories of trying to tiptoe through the apartment, quivering as he held his breath, hoping his unsteady footsteps wouldn’t make too much noise. Or the days he floated through space, avoiding the bathroom so he didn’t have to look into the mirror. 

Those days, he always requested the driver leave the food on the doormat. 

He swallows around the lump that’s stuck in his throat and shoves the memories back into the box he hides them in and slams the lid shut, plastering a too-tight smile onto his face. “Nice to meet you,” he croaks, hoping to god that Kaminari doesn’t notice how he’s all shaky all of a sudden. And thankfully, he doesn’t. Seem to, anyway. He just snorts and rests his chin on his hand, one brow raised. 

“So, Kirishima, what brings you to this sleepy little town?” 

Eijirou grips the rag in his hands like a lifeline. He drops his gaze to his own white knuckles, teeth digging into his lip. “Just...a change of pace, I guess.” 

A change of pace. A chance to feel safe...to feel like himself, again. He doesn’t say this, but the thought lingers anyway. 

Kaminari barks out a laugh. “Change of pace, huh? This sleepy little town? Heh, that’s definitely not something I’ve heard, like, ever. Nothing even happens here, dude. Unless, like, you count fishing as something.” He raps his knuckles against the counter, mirth dancing in his expression. “Nah, a real change of pace would be heading out to the city, you know? All the lights, the action, the music. ” There’s a wistful note in his tone, and Eijirou can’t help but chuckle at that. 

“I mean, I guess.” His gaze finds the window, where the streets lie in the dwenking light. It’s quiet out there— no car horns or shrieks of excited teens or wail of sirens. It’s peaceful. Calm. 

Safe. 

“I like the quiet,” Eijirou says. When he looks back at Kaminari, he’s eyeing him with raised brows, bafflement mingling with the bright merriment that shimmers in golden eyes. 

“You’re a weird one.” An almost wild grin breaks out on his face. “I like it.” 

Toyomitsu appears, then, carrying four bundles of carefully packaged ramen. “Kaminari! How are you, my boy!” 

“Ah, you know. Just another day collecting tips, saving up for getting the hell outta here. The usual.” He reaches for the bags and throws a glance at Eijirou. “You know, if you want anyone to show ya’ the highlights of Hinansho, hit me up. Gimme your phone, I’ll give you my number—” 

Eijirou goes stiff. “That uh, that’s okay! Thanks, though.” 

Kaminari frowns, and guilt flares up like a wayward flame, burning inside Eijirou’s chest and up his throat. He shrinks, skin buzzing, tongue twisting in his mouth as his instincts scream to apologize, backpedal, laugh it off. But shame keeps him fixed in place because how can he laugh off not having a phone? How can he even begin to try and explain that, without divulging... everything, and possibly putting Kaminari and even Toyomitsu at risk? Hell, Kaminari is a stranger! A nice stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. He doesn’t deserve to get tangled in Eijirou’s mess, and neither does Toyomitsu. So he just. Stands there. Frozen. 

“Well, okay then,” Kaminari says, shrugging. “I’ll be around, if you ever change your mind, bro. But I gotta bounce and deliver these.” He leaves after that, the bell accompanying the thump of the door slamming shut. Eijirou feels his body twitch, and he blinks down at the rag clutched in his trembling hands. He sucks in a breath, loosening his grip. Everything’s okay, he tells himself. It’s okay, he’s okay.   

“He’s a good kid,” Toyomitsu says. He shifts, raising a hand, and Eijirou flinches, heartbeat roaring in his ears. The smile that glows on Toyomitsu’s face flickers, and panic swoops through Eijirou’s gut and leaves him feeling like he’s spinning. 

“S-sorry,” he blurts. Toyomitsu waves him off. 

“You’re fine, Kirishima, please. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” His hand hovers in the space between them, and Toyomitsu hesitates, before letting it fall. “Just, don’t be afraid to make friends. There’s good folks around these parts, alright?” He smiles, warm and gentle, and shuffles back towards the kitchen, leaving Eijirou alone again. 

Friends. Eijirou...can’t remember the last time he had any, really. Well. Except for Ashido…

Wide, sad eyes drift to the forefront of his mind, alongside gentle words spoken aloud in a storm in the night. Call me when you’re somewhere safe. 

Eijirou’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, and he fiddles with the rag still clutched loosely in his grasp. He. He should probably do that, huh? At least, to let her know he’s okay… Eijirou glances back towards the kitchen. Toyomitsu’s silhouette flits about, accompanied by the ever familiar bang of pots and pans. He looks back to the front, which sits empty. Again, Eijirou wrings at his rag. 

Well. What better time than now? 

His heart bangs against his ribcage so hard, Eijirou fears it may fall out of his chest. He sets down his rag and tiptoes to the store phone, hands shaking as he pulls it free of its charger. Anxiety cloys his veins, prickles at his skin, and he clings to the phone with a death grip lest he drop it. There’s another thump, and Eijirou starts, gaze whipping over his shoulder. No one is there of course, and he lets out a shaky sigh. Okay. It’s okay. 

Eijirou looks down at the cordless phone clutched in his grasp and dials the only number he knows. 

It rings and rings and rings, until the voicemail picks up. There’s a spike of disappointment—it would’ve been nice to hear a friendly voice, again—but Eijirou doesn’t let that stop him. He lets it play until the beep, and then he sucks in a breath, gaze drifting to the doorway and out to the fading twilight. 

“Hey, Ashido. It’s...it’s me. I just wanted to let you know I’m somewhere safe.” 

⛈️

It’s quiet. Too quiet. 

Rain splatters against the wide windows that extend the entire wall of their living space, the patter patter just enough to drive him mad. His jaw flexes, teeth grinding, and he paces past an overturned coffee table, glass crunching underfoot. Anger and despair swirl in tandem in his chest, and he rips open the fridge, a sigh sliding past his lip the second his fingers curl around the cold neck of a beer bottle. 

There’s a hiss and a pop, and the aluminum cap falls to the floor, rattling uselessly. He steps over it, not giving a damn that it’s there. 

He hasn’t given a damn about much of anything, these past few days. 

The living and kitchen area bleeds into the bedroom, where blackout curtains cloak the space in darkness. It’s only the vivid glow of the dual computer monitors that cast any modicum of light, sharpening shadows and highlighting the desk and its contents in shifting colors— whites, reds, yellows. All it takes is a nudge with his foot to push out the office chair just enough so that he can collapse into it, the damn thing creaking loudly in the silence. Stupid piece of garbage. 

Bruised and scabbed hands tap at the keys, aggressive, impatient, and the monitors fire up, several boxes splitting across the screen— different camera feeds, all across the city from that night. Two taps is all it takes to hit play, and he watches, intent, not looking away for a second. It was way too easy to hack into the network that stores the video feeds. So easy, it was almost disappointing. 

No matter. More time to sift through, to find him. 

An ache splits in his chest, throbbing once before giving way to an all consuming anger. His teeth grind, hands twitching with a want to punch something. Instead, he grabs the beer bottle and takes a swig. 

Movement in the corner of the right monitor snags his focus. He slams on the keyboard hard enough that it rattles, lurching forward to squint at the screen. There, frozen in place, is Eijirou, appearing almost frantic as he reaches for the handle of the phone booth. Lips twist up into a wild grin on his face, and he jabs play. “Found you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and unused. “Now, where do you go?” 

The scene plays out. Eijirou tears open the door and stumbles inside. Seconds pass. Minutes pass. An unfamiliar car careens to a stop, right at the curb. He watches as Eijirou darts to it, bare feet kicking up puddles. The car peels off, swerving out into the street. There isn’t a shot of the license plate from this angle, but there is on the camera just above, there, at the next light. 

He hits pause, laughter spilling from his lips and into the room. “Found you,” he whispers. 

“Found you.”

Chapter Text

Music thumps through the workshop. 

Katsuki doesn’t have a damn clue what’s playing— he just picked the first playlist that his thumb hit on his phone and cranked the dial on the speakers. What it is doesn’t actually fucking matter anyway, it just needs to be loud enough to make the air thump against his sternum. He’s probably pissing off the neighbors. 

Good fucking riddance. 

He reaches up, wiping away the sweat that beads at his brow, and glares down at the chair leg sticking out from the clamp it’s set in. Carving in the clawed feet on these bitches is always a pain in the ass, but it’s his most popular style, for whatever fucking reason. Katsuki doesn’t actually care why. Not really. Hell, people could order something as stupid as wooden dildos for all he cares. He’d carve it, because he doesn’t give a fuck what it is he’s carving. He just. Needs it to be something. 

Katsuki’s always liked working with his hands. He doesn’t have to fucking think when he’s carving. He just has to do. Visualize, cut, shape, until the block of wood turns into something beautiful. Rinse, wash, and fucking repeat, over and over again, until he’s standing in a pile of wood shavings, sawdust clinging to his sweatdamp skin. And then he can stumble back into the house, strip, shower, and climb into bed and pass the fuck out. All the while, keeping his head blissfully empty. 

S’better than being riddled with a bunch of bullshit that’ll just leave him spiralling into an angry mess, anyway. 

He grabs the scrap of sandpaper from the bench, the gritty material scraping against the pads of his fingers, and sets to work on the claws. All the while, music thumps and vibrates in the air, against the floor, the sound a distant buzz in his ears. 

He always keeps his hearing aids on low while in the shop. Wood carving requires the entirety of Katsuki’s focus, and noises are just one more distraction he doesn’t fucking need. And sure, he could just not wear his aids, but it’s easier to just keep the damn things in, if only to be able to hear the shrill tone of his shitty ass doorbell when it goes off. Not that he regularly gets visitors. But sometimes clients come directly to him to pick up their shit, and Katsuki figures it’s good practice to wear his aids just in case he forgets one’s coming.

Katsuki lowers his hand, scrutinizing his work. There’s no obvious imperfections, and when he reaches up with his free hand, the wood’s smooth to the touch. Perfect. He shifts to the main portion of the dragon’s toe, teeth gritting as he sands the bumps and edges away. Slowly, gradually, the roughly hewn foot is smoothed out flawlessly, talons sharpened to dangerous points. Katsuki tosses the sandpaper back onto the bench and grins. 

Fuck yes. Now for the best part. 

What makes his tables so fucking popular is the fact that Katsuki takes to time to carve in the scales, one by one. It’s hard as fuck— it takes well over a month to do one goddamn table, and that’s if he hardly sleeps— but it’s fucking worth it. The end look is badass as hell, and people pay a fuckton for it. Plus, no one else can do the same level of craftsmanship that he can do in that amount of time. 

Katsuki reaches for his toolkit and plucks up his favorite chisel and hammer, brandishing them, and drags over his rickety ass stool, not giving a damn that he’s dragging it through sawdust. Cleanup is an afterthought— it’s a pain in the ass to have to stop and sweep a million fucking times, and to have to worry about where he’s cleaned or not. So. He just waits until he’s done for the day and sweeps all of the shit up at once. It’s easier, and he doesn’t have to worry about where he’s tracking sawdust and wood chips. Besides, it’s inevitable that it’ll end up in the house. Katsuki’s accepted that fact of life a month into this gig, after nearly breaking a broom in half with a frustrated shriek after sweeping for the twentieth time that day. The damn thing sits in a corner in the shop, sagging, handle only holding itself together by a few fibers of wood. It still works, even if it’s flimsy as hell. And, yeah, sure, he could duct tape it together, but Katsuki doesn’t have a fucking clue where the hell his duct tape even is. 

He’ll just. Buy a new one, at some point. 

Maybe. 

Probably. 

But the commission comes first. So. Katsuki shifts one the stool, feeling the old wood shudder as it creaks under him. He leans over the leg, at the toes, and sets to work. Carving the scales is tedious as fuck. They’re small and curved, and Katsuki likes to score the wood to give the scales the illusion of ridges, like some real life reptiles have. So yeah. Tedious. He throws his entire focus into it, too— one wrong hit, and he could fuck the whole thing up and have to start over. 

And like hell does he want to start over. 

Time slides by in a haze, with only the weight of his tools in his hands and the vibrations that buzz up his right arm with every practiced hit serving as a loose tether to this plane of existence. Everything else drops away— the shop, the thump of the music, hell, even the ache settling into the line of his shoulders. It’s just him and the wood, his tools mere extensions of himself as he brings the table leg more and more to life with every passing second, scales shaping the feet, the ankle. He shifts the chisel to the next spot, raising the hammer just so, when something has him...faltering. There’s a shift. A change. The air isn’t vibrating, anymore, and Katsuki’s brows knit, head tilting. A trickle of sound hits his awareness, but it’s not whatever loud ass music he had on, and he lets out a hiss. Fucking piece of shit phone. 

Katsuki lowers his tools and tosses them back onto the bench top, sliding off his stool with a grumble. Blegh. He might not be listening to his music, but it still helps set the fucking atmosphere, or whatever. Sometimes this shit happens—technology is a goddamn joke and Katsuki can’t be assed to figure out what the hell he’s doing wrong, since he’s connected to the fucking internet, but whatever. He usually just rips his phone off the speaker and jabs at it  until it’s playing again. And he goes to do just that, teeth grinding hard enough his jaw aches, only for the flashing screen making him freeze. 

His playlist is gone, replaced with the incoming call screen, and the caller ID reads Deku in bright, bold kanji. 

Ice floods his veins, followed by an inferno of anger. Katsuki’s face twists, and he whirls around, hands twitching, fingers curling into fists. Stupid, shitty, motherfucking asshole. Who the hell does he think he is, calling Katsuki? Red blurs the edges of Katsuki’s vision, and he snarls, lunging for the crooked broom and flinging it across the room with a shout. It clatters somewhere beyond his scope, harmless. And still, breaths saw from Katsuki’s chest, whole body trembling with the effort to fucking contain himself. He screws his eyes shut, breathes, counts backwards from ten. Tension eases just a little from his stiff shoulders, and Katsuki whirls back around and jabs at the decline button. 

Fuck him. 

He stalks back to his work, not bothering to put his playlist back on. 

🦀

It’s dark outside, the next time Katsuki looks up from his work. He’s stiff as hell, hands cramping bad enough he knows he’ll probably need to take a painkiller, and his head is throbbing like a bitch. 

He’s also starving. 

Katsuki squints down at his handiwork. He could possibly do another row, but with how bad his hands are throbbing right now, there’s high probability he’ll fuck something up. And that’s not a risk Katsuki’s willing to take right about now. So instead he chucks his tools onto the workbench and takes a minute to flex his hands, rubbing circles into each palm to ease some of the tension and pain. It helps a little— enough that he can probably pick up his shitty broom, anyway. Which is all he needs right now. 

He slides off the stool, grimacing at the way his muscles in his back twinge, and sets to work straightening shit up. The tools go back into their kit, the workbench gets dusted. Katsuki moves the stool off to the side, away from the sawdust, and steps around the bench looking for the broom. It sits on the floor, the handle no longer in one piece. He grimaces. 

Well. Fuck. 

Katsuki stoops, picking up the broken pieces, grimace deepening as he stares at the jagged and splintered wood where the break is. His broom is now short as fuck, and he still doesn’t have a damn clue where his duct tape is. He could root around the innumerous boxes stacked inside the house for it, but he’s fucking tired. And hungry. 

His stomach grumbles, the familiar ache that follows enough to have Katsuki slamming the top half of the broom handle onto the workbench and just accepting his fate, stooping low to attack the floor and sweep all the damn wood chips and sawdust into a pile. It takes about twenty minutes to sweep the entire workshop, and Katsuki heaves a sigh as he dumps the last pan-full of sawdust into the trash can. Fucking finally. He gives the shop one last once over, satisfied that it’s not a whole ass mess, and shuffles to the old tool cart that the speaker sits on to grab his phone. He got the thing from a town or so over— it’d been sitting in someone’s front yard with a for free sign. And, well, Katsuki’d been drawn to the vivid red paint and shiny, metal knobs on the drawers. The cart’s in damn good shape despite its age, and Katsuki didn’t even think twice before taking it home. 

He unplugs his phone and jams it into his pocket, ignoring the missed call notification that flashes on the screen. 

It’s quiet, inside. Katsuki carelessly kicks off his shoes and slams the sliding door shut, shuffling past the stacks of boxes that line the hallway, filled with his personal shit he hasn’t cared to unpack yet. It’s not like he needs any of this shit— obviously he unpacked all the essentials as soon as he moved in. He’s just. Been too fucking busy to care about the rest of it. 

The floorboards creak underfoot as Katsuki makes his way into the kitchen. He stalks past the small, round table and goes straight for the fridge, yanking it open and peering inside. Only for a bunch of empty shelves to stare right back at him. Or, well, mostly empty. There’s like, a box of baking soda in the back and a mostly empty bottle of sake sitting on the bottom shelf, but that’s about it. Which. God fucking dammit, he forgot to go shoping again, didn’t he? Katsuki curses and slams the fridge shut. Well. Guess he’s getting takeout. 

Ugh. 

He hates going out. Going out means dealing with people, and Katsuki fucking hates people. People are annoying, and rude, and always insist on fucking small talk and Katsuki isn’t going out because he wants to talk. He’s out to run his errands and get his ass back home so he can throw himself into his workshop and not think for the next twelve hours. Besides, who wants to dance through a bunch of meaningless small talk? It’s not like he’s suddenly gonna become friends with the random strangers that insist on talking to him. It’s stupid and pointless and Katsuki has better shit he could be doing. So usually he just avoids it altogether by turning off his hearing aids and glaring daggers at anyone that gets too close.

It doesn’t always work, though. Because people are fucking stupid and love trying to make his blood pressure spike. 

That, and ordering take out means unavoidable human interaction. 

Katsuki lets out a huff as he stalks to the genkan. And like. Okay, he knows he could use one of those delivery apps. But the last time he tried that shit the driver never showed up, and Katsuki had to go in anyway. So yeah. He jams on his shoes and reaches for the keys, irritation smoldering in his veins. Dammit, he should’ve gone to the fucking grocery at the beginning of the week like he was supposed to. Then he could’ve avoided this whole mess. But no, he had to double book commissions back-to-back like a fucking idiot, and now he has to go out.  

People aren’t the only thing Katsuki hates about leaving the house. Just the sheer act of going out is exhausting. Putting on shoes, driving, going into whatever establishment he’s going to, the fucking noise. It makes Katsuki wanna rip his aids out and dunk his head underwater, every damn time. So yeah. If it weren’t for the fact that his stomach feels like it could just eat him whole from the inside out, Katsuki’d just say fuck it and climb straight into bed. But, his stomach grumbles angrily, as if to say don’t even fucking try. 

Katsuki pats down his pockets, double checking that he has his wallet, and steps out into the late evening. Dusk is in full swing, with only a sliver of glowing orange striking across the otherwise dark sky. It’s brisk out, the breeze that curls around Katsuki’s skin giving rise to goosebumps. He shivers and grits his teeth. Ugh. He should be inside, maybe curled up on the couch washing trashy tv. But no, he has to drive to town and hope one of the shops in town is still open. Which. Would fucking suck ass if they aren’t, because then he’ll have to go all the way to the next town over and Katsuki is not about to deal with a whole ass twenty minute drive. 

He reaches for the jacket slung over the seat of his bike and shrugs it on, sighing as the comfortable leather blocks out the evening’s ocean breeze. It’s an old jacket he’s had forever— a gift from his dad, when he first got the bike. The leather is supple from use, worn in places from a few bad falls. But Katsuki doesn’t care. Style is secondary to the functionality. He turns up his hearing aids, then, the sounds of the twilight streaming into his senses, before he grabs his helmet and tugs it on. Immediately, the tinted visor colors the twilight a shade darker, and it takes Katsuki a moment to adjust. He grasps the bike handle and throws one leg over the seat, settling into the cushioned leather and jamming the keys into the ignition. A flick of the wrist, and the bike roars to life under him. Katsuki grins. Well. There’s one fun thing about leaving the house. And that’s his bike. 

He kicks the kickstand and throws the bike into gear, peeling off down the drive and onto the road. 

Wind claws at his jacket, licks at the exposed skin of his neck. Scenery flies past in flashes. Katsuki flies, disregarding shit like speed limits. There’s no one out on these tiny ass country roads, and even if there was, he can bob and weave around any cars trundling along with practiced ease. Is it dangerous? Probably. Does Katsuki give a fuck? Not really. Not when his heartbeat pounds in his ears and his blood sings, the sensation of flying around sharp curves a euphoria he can never get enough of. He only slows when he hits the town, letting go of the gas and sailing downtown smooth as can be. 

When Katsuki stops, the bright, neon sign of the little ramen shop, Shiodamari, blinks back at him. He kills the engine and kicks down the kickstand, a sigh easing from him. Well, thank fuck. They’re open. 

Katsuki yanks off his helmet and slides off the bike, hanging the helmet off the handle. He pockets the keys and shoves them and his hands into his pockets, ducking his head as he strolls up to the storefront. 

Shiodamari’s a small little hole-in-the-wall place. Katsuki’s gotten food from here frequently— it’s damn good noodles, and it's perfect for a night like tonight, when he’s forgotten to stock his fridge. Katsuki pushes his way inside, bell dinging overhead. 

“Welcome!” a chirpy voice greets. Katsuki’s eyes narrow. There’s a guy he doesn’t recognize standing behind the counter. Which. Is weird, because this town is so goddamn small, he knows just about everyone by face at the very least. Sure, there’s tourists, but those idiots can be spotted a mile away, what with their baffled expressions and the way they stop every two seconds to take a stupid picture. But this guy is so clearly not a fucking tourist—he’s standing behind the counter like he belongs there, wearing the damn uniform t-shirt and grinning so wide, Katsuki’s surprised his face doesn’t split in half. The bright expression is a jarring contrast to the marring on his face— a bruise blooming on his cheek, a cut on his lip. The angry red cut over his right eye. The dark bruises that circle his neck, like a necklace gifted by death’s shadow. Katsuki can’t help but stare. Like, jesus, what the fuck did this guy do, fight someone in an alleyway? 

Shitty hair—because yeah, his hair is shitty, it looks like he hacked it off one handed with a pair of scissors and did a sloppy ass dye job with the most obnoxious red Katsuki’s ever seen—seems to falter, a bit, smile flickering. He rubs at the back of his neck, shoulders creeping up towards his ears. “Uh, what can I help you with?” he asks, voice wavering. 

Katsuki’s face scrunches. “Who the fuck are you?” he blurts out. Shitty hair blinks, eyes going wide. 

“Oh, um. I’m Kirishima, I’m new.” 

Yeah, no shit. Katsuki tisks and looks away. “Gimme the Shoyu Ramen to go, make sure there’s extra chili paste.” 

“Okie dokie!” Shitty hair chirps. “Anything else?” 

“No.” 

“That’ll be eight hundred yen!” 

Katsuki pulls out his wallet and forks over the yen. Shitty hair takes it, tapping away at the old fashioned register and depositing the cash into the drawer. The drawer slams shut, and he beams that too bright grin. “It’ll be just a few minutes!” he says. “Make yourself at home, dude.” Shitty hair whirls around then, poking his head behind the partition, and rattles off Katsuki’s order. Good fucking riddance. Katsuki glares at the pictures on the wall and wishes they could hurry the fuck up so he can leave. ‘Course, it doesn’t work that way— noodles won’t cook any faster than physics will allow. But that doesn’t mean Katsuki can’t feel impatient anyway. 

The weight of someone’s gaze settles across him, and Katsuki stiffens. He shifts his glare to behind the counter, scowl deepening. Shitty hair’s eyes go wide and he looks away, cheeks turning a shade ruddy. Katsuki’s brows knit. The fuck is his problem? 

“Um. You can sit down, if you want,” Shitty hair blurts. Katsuki just looks at him. Sit down? Why the fuck would he do that? He’s just here to get his food and leave. Fucking idiot. He doesn’t move, just crosses his arms and resumes glaring at the photos on the walls. They’re nice photos, he guesses. Just a bunch of personal shit, probably family photos of the guy that owns the place. Katsuki’s seen him before, numerous times—hell it’s usually either him or that nervous, mousy looking dude that always looks seconds away from shitting his pants that are up here taking orders. He’s nice enough. Knows to leave Katsuki the hell alone, which he appreciates. 

Unlike the dumbass he just hired. 

Shitty hair clears his throat. “So...have you lived here long?” 

Katsuki’s eye twitches. Yeah, fuck this idiot. He reaches up and twists the dials on his aids, turning them down low enough that Shitty hair’s voice becomes little more than a muted sound. 

And then he waits. 

It takes probably ten minutes total for his food to be ready, and as soon as Katsuki sees the take away bag, he lurches forward and tears it from Shitty hair’s grasp, turning on his heel and stalking out without another glance. 

Finally. Now he can fucking eat.  

And pass the fuck out for the next twelve hours. 

Rinse, wash, and fucking repeat. 

Katsuki tugs on his helmet and slings himself onto his bike, careful to balance his takeout in his lap. He twists on the ignition and kicks it into gear, taking off. 

The moon hangs in the sky when Katsuki gets back home. He leaves his helmet on his bike and marches back to his house, a sigh easing from him as he slides the door shut behind him. 

Thank fuck. 

Shoes get tossed off, along with the jacket, which Katsuki hangs on the antique coat hanger situated by the door. He shuffles into the kitchen, plopping his back of takeout onto the table, and goes back to the fridge, grabbing that bottle of sake. No reason to not finish it off, right? It’s not like he’s got shit going on tomorrow, other than working on the damn table. Besides. He deserves a fucking drink. 

Katsuki yanks back a chair and plops into it, tearing into his takeout. The savory smell curls into the kitchen as soon as he pops the lid, and his mouth waters, stomach grumbling in anticipation. The first bite is always like a taste of heaven—savory, heady broth with that kick of spice Katsuki loves, and noodles soft and chewy. The meat, too, is fucking perfect, seasoned just the way Katsuki likes it. God, he needs to eat here more. 

His mind skirts to the weirdo with shitty hair, and those fucking nasty looking bruises decorating his face and neck. Katsuki frowns into his bowl of ramen. Something uneasy tickles in his gut. But Katsuki shoves the thought away with a scoff, because who the fuck cares how the hell he hurt himself? Katsuki sure doesn’t. He slurps up more noodles, kicking his thoughts instead to the shitload of work waiting for him tomorrow. The customer wants this shit done by next month, so he’s got to finish the scales and start on the next leg, at least. He should probably check and see if he’s gotten any other orders, too. There’s a waiting list, because Katsuki’s damn good at what he does, and he usually gets at least one commission request a day. Though, lately, he’s been pulling like fifty commission requests a week. He doesn’t even accept them all, either— some of what people request is dumb as fuck, and he gets enough business that he can pick and choose. Like, sure, he can carve out a shitty initial keychain, but that’s hardly gonna buy an hour. And Katsuki likes the kind of shit that takes time and patience and skill. So. 

Yeah. 

He pulls out his phone, glancing down at the screen. There’s a notification banner that pops up as soon as the thing lights up— a text. He squints. 

round face bitch (9:00 PM): Deku says you’re still not answering him. You can’t ignore him forever, you know

Katsuki’s face twists into a scowl. Of course Deku would go cry to his shitty girlfriend. Fucking bitch. He tosses his phone onto the table and jabs at his bowl of ramen, fuming. Fuck her, he’ll ignore her too. Not like he doesn’t already anyway. He doesn’t need her and he sure as hell doesn’t need Deku’s shitty, traitorous ass. 

His vision blurs, and he blinks, angry. Fucking fuck. Katsuki grabs the bottle of sake and takes a swig, teeth gritting as it burns a trail down his throat. God, he needs to go get more of this shit. Then maybe he can fucking fry his shitty brain enough that he can just. Never think about that ever again. He slurps up the egg, the spice making his mouth tingle. 

Whatever. Uraraka’s just a nosey piece of shit and she can leave him well enough alone. He’s perfectly happy here, alone. 

Perfectly.  

Chapter Text

A breeze drifts through the late evening air, ruffling at his hair, catching at his coat. He’s unbothered by it— a little wind is meaningless. No, his gaze is fixed on the bar across the street, settled just within the downtown district and already buzzing with activity, despite only having opened an hour or so prior. 

The bar’s not anything to sing home about. It’s geared to a younger audience— with plenty of flashy drinks and cheap finger food, made to look fancier than it really is. There’s always some local band playing, too, which is a big part of the appeal. The few times he’s been here, it was always with a group, Eijirou latched securely to his arm. Or, at least. So he had thought. 

Apparently, he was wrong.  

Striding across the street takes merely a second— he waits for a break in traffic and strolls across, hands in his pockets. His head dips in a nod as he passes by a couple strolling along with their rat-looking dog, hand reaching for the wrought iron door handle and giving it a tug. Warm air greets him as he steps inside. 

It’s quiet— the music hasn’t started. The stage is empty, save for a girl tinkering around a half assembled drum set. Still, there’s plenty of patrons clustered about, talking quietly amongst themselves. But he’s not here for any of them. 

His gaze cuts to the bar, lips pulling into a grin when he spots her— there, behind the bar, elbows on the counter and face bored as she looks at her phone, that ridiculous pink hair standing out like a sore thumb. 

Bingo. 

The smack of his palm on the counter echoes, and his grin is cutting. “I’ll have an umeshu tonic.” 

Ashido Mina jerks back, golden eyes going wide. Something flashes across her gaze— anger? Disgust? He doesn’t know. But she’s quick to stitch herself back together again, and offers an easy smile that’s only a little strained around the edges. “Oh, hey! What brings you in here?” 

He shrugs. “Oh, you know...just. Trying to keep busy.” It’s so easy to put on a sad look, to lean against the counter and sigh like the weight of the world sits on his shoulders. It’s so easy to play the game to get what he wants. “I’ve been running ragged trying to find Eijirou...I’m so worried.” 

A guarded look shadows the edges of Ashido’s expression. He takes notice. 

“Oh, gosh, I saw on the news. I hope he’s okay…” 

A long, heavy sigh slides past his lips. “Yeah. We haven’t gotten any leads…” He drags a hand through his hair, tugging at it as though distressed, and peeks up at her from beneath his bangs. “You...you haven’t heard anything from him, have you?” 

She goes stiff. “No, I haven’t. Why do you ask?” 

“Oh, well, you know.” A simple lift of the shoulder. “You two seemed...friendly, last time we were here. Like you knew each other. I thought, maybe…” Another sigh. “Nevermind. I’ll take that drink, if I may.” 

Ashido nods, smile fraying at the edges, and steps away. He watches as she reaches for the drink ingredients, those manicured brows of hers knitting, glossy lips pursing. She’s distracted. Good. His gaze flicks to the counter, tracing over the glittering, rhinestone-encrusted phone left unattended, right within his reach. A smile slides onto his lips. 

Perfect. 

🪸

Eijirou marvels at the stack of yen in his hands. It’s not a lot— just two weeks’ earnings and a fair split of the tips—but it’s more money than he’s ever held in his entire life. It’s even more than what Ashido gave him when she helped him escape— that had only lasted long enough to buy a ticket on the first train he could catch. With this, he could definitely buy a nice pair of shoes, maybe even some pants. He grins, a sense of giddiness bubbling in his chest. 

He’s doing this. He’s surviving.  

“Make sure you put that somewhere safe,” Toyomitsu says, voice gentle. “You don’t wanna be losing that, now.” 

Eijirou grins and dips in a shallow bow. “Yessir!” 

He immediately goes to his pack, which hangs on a hook in a cubby beneath the counter. What’s left of the yen Ashido gave him sits in the bottom, held together with a polka-dot clip. Eijirou pulls it out and tugs off the clip, carefully shuffling in the crisp new bills Toyomitsu just gave him and reclipping it all together in one thick stack. He shoves it back into the bag and tugs its drawstrings shut, carefully hanging it back on its hook until it’s time to leave. 

It’s a slow day at the shop. There’s a steady drizzle outside, so not a whole lot of people are out and about. Eijioru’s not too upset, though— being here means he can stay dry, instead of being stuck out on the beach in the weather. So he accepts the slow, rainy day and takes it in stride, humming along to the radio and organizing the pantry in the back. Which, usually involves taking everything off the shelves, wiping them down, checking expiration dates, and ensuring everything is orderly and neat. It’s pretty time consuming, actually— they have a lot of produce and noodles and spices and things of the sort. It’s important to stay clean and organized, Toyomitsu always says, so that they can always be sure to bring forth their best service and cooking. Eijirou thinks it’s an admiral sentiment, and he takes to the task with gusto, throwing his entire enthusiasm into it, surrounded by a myriad of dry ingredients. He’s so into it, actually, that he nearly misses the ding of the door’s bell. 

“Hey-yo!”

Kaminari’s cheerful call has Eijirou yelping, hands fumbling with the jar of paprika, nearly dropping it. He sets it down and scrambles to his feet, careful to not knock anything else over as he hops over the mess and stumbles out to the main lobby. “Hi,” he squeaks out. “Sorry, I was, um, organizing.” 

He’s met with raised brows. “Right...anyway. I’ve got two Ubereats orders, they ready yet, or nah?” 

Eijirou’s face heats and he bites his lip. “Um, let me check.” He shuffles back to the partition and peeks around it, gaze landing on Toyomitsu’s bustling form over the iron stovetop. “Kaminari is here,” he says. “Are the orders ready yet?” 

Toyomitsu tosses a hearty grin over his shoulder. “Not yet! It’ll be just a few more minutes.” 

Eijirou dips his head, but Toyomitsu’s already turned back around. He turns back to the lobby and offers a nervous smile. “It’ll be just a few more minutes.”

“Awesome.” Kaminari strolls right up to the counter and slides onto a stool with a sigh. “Ugh. I hate the rain. It’s awful to drive in. Like, suddenly because the road’s wet, no one knows how roads work! Like, bruh, it’s not hard to stay in your lane and stop at lights— it’s no different than sunny weather driving! There’s just, a little bit of water, that’s all!” He slumps, cheeks puffed up in a pout. “And Jirou cancelled practice, so now I have like, nothing to look forward to tonight. Who wants to sit by themselves on a rainy night? Not me. Gross.” 

Eijirou bites his lip. His gaze skirts to the window, where the drizzle is constant, shading everything in layers of grey. He’s still got a few hours left of his shift, but it doesn’t really look to be letting up anytime soon… His thoughts jump to the bundle of cash in his pack, and Eijirou looks back at Kaminari, hands fiddling with the edges of his uniform shirt. “Um, I could use a shopping buddy, maybe. I-if you still wanted to maybe hang out…?” 

Kaminari stares at him. He blinks, mouth hanging open. “Wait. Wait, really? Bro! Hell yeah, I’ll go shopping with you!” He leans forward, grin splitting across his face. “I know some of the greatest shops. What’re we looking for? Date night outfit? Something stylish?” 

“Just! Some pants,” Eijirou says, waving his hands between them. “Work pants, actually.” 

“Oh. Boring.” Kaminari makes a face and shrugs. “Still, I gotchu, dude. What time are you off? I can swing by and get you or we can like, meet somewhere? Or, wait, here, gimme your phone—” 

Eijirou waves him off, feeling almost dizzy. “Meeting here is fine! Um, I get off in a few hours, if that’s okay?” 

Kaminari beams. “Yeah, dude! That works perfect.” 

The order’s ready not even a minute after. Eijirou hands it over, watching as Kaminari waves on his way out, feeling...light. 

It’s...it’s been awhile, since he’s made a friend. A new friend, anyway. Ashido was a happy accident, a reconnection that saved his life. But beyond that, well. Eijirou frowns. 

He can’t even remember the last time he genuinely made a friend. Something in his chest aches, at that. So many nights spent laying on the bed, knees to his chest, staring at the shadows dancing on the wall and trying so desperately to ignore the way his whole body throbbed. Ignore the blooming bruises on his arms, hips, throat. Ignore the twisting of his heart every time the bed shifted beside him, the hollow realization that if the worst were to happen, there’d be no one there to care that he’d be gone. And that maybe that was for the best—it’s not like he was worth anyone’s time anyway. 

Maybe that’s changed, now. He hopes it has. 

Eijirou swallows the lump in his throat and blinks, eyes burning, and shoves those thoughts away. Now’s not the time for sad thoughts. He’s got shelves to re-organize. 

It takes some maneuvering to get back to his spot, what with everything all strewn on the floor, but Eijirou manages. He plucks his forgotten rag off the floor and shakes it out, before wiping off the last of the shelves. Then comes the process of putting everything back. He goes by size order and item—spices go on the shelf that’s at eye-level, so they’re easier to grab, noodles go just below, produce that can be on a shelf goes under that and so on and so forth, until everything gets a place and Eijirou can step back to admire his handiwork. His lips curl into a grin, and he nods to himself. 

There. 

He dusts off his hands, feeling accomplished. Maybe it’s silly to be so happy about organizing a shelf, but Eijirou can’t bring himself to care. It’s small, but it’s something. Something he did all on his own, to pass the time, sure, but also to really earn his worth. Pull his weight. Something to do his part to make the ramen shop run smoother. 

Eijirou smiles as he folds up his rag, tossing it in the small hamper in the back. Maybe it’s small, but Eijirou lets himself revel in the pride, anyway. It feels nice, this light feeling bubbling in his chest. He’s...not used to feeling so light. Eijirou grins wider. 

It’s freeing. 

The jingle of the bell jolts Eijirou from his reverie, and he darts back to the counter, sliding a little on a grease patch on the floor and stumbling to catch himself on the counter. He’s met with an unimpressed expression, burning red irises glittering like hot embers in a hearth, and Eijirou’s heart lodges in his throat. 

Oh. It’s him.

For a moment it’s like he’s struck dumb, lost in the swirling fires in his gaze. But the moment ends when irritation crackles hotter, and Eijirou’s flinches, heat blooming across his own face. He manages an awkward smile, barely masking the grimace that simmers under the surface. “O-oh, hey, dude. Um, what can I do for you?” 

There’s a moment of reprieve when he looks away from Eijirou and tisks, jaw twitching and shoulders tense. “Shoyu Ramen to go. Extra chili paste.” His voice is curt, cold. Like a slate door slammed in Eijirou’s face. Sudden and decisive, just like last time. Eijirou shouldn’t be surprised, he really shouldn’t, but that tone still has him tensing all over all the same. 

“Right.” He ducks his head and rings in the order. “A-anything else?” 

The silent glare answers in lieu of words. Eijirou bites his lip and drops his gaze to the register, tapping through the last prompts. He clears his throat. “Eight hundred yen, please.” 

Rustling fills the silence, accompanied by soft grumbles as he pulls out his wallet, thumbing through some bills. Eijirou peeks at him from beneath his curtain of bangs, gaze tracing over a sharp jawline, smooth skin. Blonde hair sweeps effortlessly across his forehead, and Eijirou is helpless when his gaze slides down to the peak of the guy’s collarbone that teases from the edges of his v-neck. A splash of heat flashes through him, sudden and unbidden and leaving Eijirou almost dizzy because he can’t breathe because fuck, this guy is pretty. It’s not like he didn’t notice the last time— he did. Oh, gods, he did. And last time he felt just as dizzy. 

It’s been so long since he’s looked at anyone that he feels almost overwhelmed, chest twisting, hands sweating, stomach knotting. His neck prickles with a familiar anxiety, urging him to look away, avert his eyes. Don’t look, don’t think. Pretend to not notice. Stamp out the heat blossoming in the bottom of his belly, don’t let anyone notice the warmth burning in his cheeks. Because if anyone notices, if anyone says anything, well. Eijirou sucks in a sharp breath, side twinging hard enough that he can’t contain the grimace that twists across his face. He hopes it goes unnoticed. 

Eijirou looks up and their gazes entangle, an inferno of something he can’t quite parse nearly leaving him as nothing more than a pile of ashes, and he looks away and fumbles to take the money, muttering a soft thanks under his breath as he works to opens the register and stuff the money into the drawers, hands shaking. 

“Hey, we have an order for Shoyu Ramen to go with extra chili paste!” he calls. Toyomitsu’s chuckle drifts to the counter. 

“Comin’ right up!” 

The silence, after, is stark. Eijirou fidgets in place, trying and failing to keep from peeking at the stranger in his midst. A stranger who’s been in the shop at least once before, ordered the same exact thing. Behaved the same way— standoffish and rude and glaring at everything like it offended him, just like now. Eijirou doesn’t dare try to make small talk this time— not that he could, if he tried. His tongue feels limp in his mouth, unwilling to work and make words. Which, if anything, is probably for the best. Last time he tried to talk, this guy glared at him and turned off the hearing aids that are perched in his ears— telling Eijirou to shut up without even opening his mouth. 

Effective. He’ll give the guy props for that. 

Still. Eijirou tries to fix his stare onto the counter, tries to focus on the swirls of wood grain, looking for patterns, looking for distractions. But his gaze slides away, drifting up to catch fleeting glances of pale skin and strong arms and weathered, calloused hands before he catches himself and looks back down at the blurring lines and swirls of the counter’s grain. Rinse, wash, and repeat.  

It’s eons before the food is ready. Or, it feels like eons. A stretch of endless time, where Eijirou is stuck staring down at the swirls of wood grain on the counter, heartbeat pounding in his ears and face flaring up into flames everytime his focus shifts until finally, finally Toyomitsu calls for him. Eijirou gets the packaged bowl and carefully bags it, a nervous smile flitting its way to his lips. “Here you go, dude,” he says, holding it up. The guy grunts. He stalks forward and reaches for the bag, his knuckles brushing against Eijirou’s as he grasps it, the touch like a spark that has Eijirou’s breath hitching. He stares dumbly after him, watching as he whirls around and stalks off, shoulders hunched. The bell dings as the door opens and shuts, and still Eijirou stares, hand still tingling. 

🪸

It’s still drizzling outside when Eijirou gets off. He waits in the main dining area, sitting at the bar and fiddling with a mug of tea Toyomitsu made for him. The warmth of the mug seeps into the palms of his hands, making his fingers tingle pleasantly. He’s never been much of a tea drinker— if he had to choose, he’d probably pick something sweet, like hot chocolate. But the tea is good. Warm and smooth. And Eijirou sips at it while he waits, the soft music tinkering in the background, barely masking the sounds of the rain that patters against the roof. 

There’s a hitch in his breath, a knot, dark and thick, twisting somewhere deep in his chest. Eijirou’s grip on the mug tightens and he squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on the music, the song. But the notes blur in his ears, fading back until all he hears is the steady thrum of the rain staccatoed to the beat of his bare feet against the sidewalk as he runs and runs, breaths sawing from his chest and god, he’s shaking he knows he’s shaking but he can’t stop— he’s stuck in a loop, running, rainwater spilling down his face and into his eyes and he has to get away he has to he has to he has to—

The shop door opens with a bang, bell ringing, and Eijirou jolts, hot tea sloshing over his hands and a yelp tearing from his throat. 

Fuck. 

“Hey-yo!” Kaminari calls. He shuffles into the shop, dripping. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there, yeesh. You uh, oh...you okay?” 

Eijirou shakes his hands, grimacing. “Uh. Yeah, sorry. Um. Let me...clean this up quick.” He stands, trembling, dripping hands splayed out in front of him. It. Takes a second. For him to breathe, to shuffle to the counter and grab a rag. A second of coming back to himself, remembering where he is. He’s in the ramen shop after a shift, waiting to go out with a new friend. The rain is a harmless drizzle that’s been on and off all day, and he’s safe. It shouldn’t bother him. He’s gone all day without it bothering him—working, sure, but still. It’s just rain. He’s okay...he’s safe. 

He wipes up the tea and shoves the lingering memories away. 

“Sorry if I spooked you, dude,” Kaminari said. Eijirou balls up the rag and offers a smile. 

“You’re good. I was just kinda zoned out, I guess.” It’s the only explanation he can offer. Anything else is either too dangerous or too much of a lie, and Eijirou can’t bring himself to outright lie about...about anything. Luckily, he doesn’t have to— Kaminari accepts it with the wave of his hands, grin easy and friendly. 

“Boy do I get it. It’s been a long day driving around getting people their food, and half the people I delivered to didn’t even give the courtesy of a tip. Which. Rude.” He makes a face and huffs. “Ugh. Anyway, I’m ready when you are, dude. Let’s go get you some work pants.” 

Right. Shopping. Eijirou dips his head and shuffles back behind the counter, where he deposits the tea-soaked towel into the hamper behind the counter. He stoops to grab his knapsack from where it hangs, pausing to tug it open and shove his hand inside, fingers brushing against the bundle of yen down at the bottom. Tension drops from his shoulders, and Eijirou lets out a breath. Good. It’s still here.

Not that there’s any reason it shouldn’t be, but still. 

He straightens, tugging the knapsack on and meeting Kaminari’s curious gaze with a smile. “Let’s go.” 

It’s a dash out to Kaminari’s car. They scramble inside, doors slamming shut against the drizzle. Eijirou’s back thumps against the old, grey seat, blinking at the rainwater that drips down the cracked passenger window. His heart thumps in his chest, hands curling against the material of his sweatpants, vision blurring. Something cool and wet drips down his forehead and his breath hitches, hand darting up to swipe it away hastily, but when he looks there’s nothing but a smear of wet. Eijirou squeezes his eyes shut and tries to stop trembling. Rain. It’s just rain. 

“Whew! Ugh, I hate the rain, it messes up my hair,” Kaminari whines. There’s a jingle of keys and then the car sputters to life, hacking and coughing like an old smoker. He leans over and fiddles with the ancient looking radio, turning it on. The speakers pop as they burst to life, loud pop music of some kind pounding against Eijirou’s ears. Kaminari shouts an apology and fiddles with the dials, bringing it down just enough to not be painful. “Okay! To the shops!” He grins, and throws the car into drive. 

There’s not much in the way of clothing stores in town. So they have to drive out to the next town over. Which according to Kaminari, is a twenty minute drive, unless he speeds and cuts the time down to ten. Eijirou must give him a hell of a look when he says that, because he just laughs and assures that he won’t speed, this time. 

“I only drive like that when I’m running late on deliveries, I swear,” he says. Eijirou...isn’t sure he believes him. But he sticks true enough to his word while Eijirou’s in the passenger seat, and for that he’s grateful. Flying through sharp curves and up and down steep hills does not sound like a fun time. Honestly, being in a car at all is making Eijirou feel almost lightheaded. It’s only Kaminari’s constant chatter that keeps Eijirou tethered to the present. He talks about anything and everything. His family—or, rather, his parents, a mom that’s a teacher and a dad that’s an electrician who wants Kaminari to take on the family business, and his cousins and grandparents that live nearby. He talks about his job, and the people he delivers to. 

“Seriously, dude, when I tell you this lady was nuts, I mean it. Like, I feared for my life, man. She threw a shoe at me! Because they didn’t give her sauce in her order! Who does that?” 

 “I...I dunno—” 

“Exactly!” 

He talks about his favorite music— mostly indie pop or rock from the eighties— and how he wants to join a band and play for a living. And how his parents most definitely don’t agree with that idea. “It’s so not fair,” he says, glowering out the window. “Like, it’s my life, you know? I get that making music isn’t, like, financially sound or whatever, but I don’t care. I want to play. Music’s like, my whole heart and soul and they just don’t get it and it’s not fair, you know? Like. I don’t care if they think it’s stupid, I just wish they’d care enough to listen, or whatever.” 

Eijirou looks out the window, eyes stinging. “Yeah...I get that,” he murmurs, voice thick. God, does he get that. Wanting someone, anyone to care. To listen. Everything blurs, and Eijirou squeezes his eyes shut. Maybe if he had that before, he wouldn’t be here now. Maybe he’d still be home. Safe. Happy. 

There’s a beat. He can feel the weight of Kaminari’s gaze settle on him from across the console, and Eijirou curls in on himself, shying away from it. It’s instinctive. Reflexive. And then it’s gone, and when Eijirou risks peeking over his shoulder, Kaminari’s staring out the windshield again. 

“So, uh. Where are you from?” 

Eijirou tenses. “Um. Where am I from?” 

“Yeah! I mean, you’re obviously not from here— you said the other day you came here to Hinansho for a change of pace, so. Where’re you from? Got any family around, or…” 

It’s said conversationally, but Eijirou can’t help the panic that ignites inside him. He’s gripping his pants hard enough his fingers tingle, heart thumping wildly against his ribs. “Um. I’m...I’m from Tokyo.” The lie tastes bitter. Horribly so. He shrugs, keeping his gaze trained on his hands and away from Kaminari. “I’m just travelling through. Trying to see some sights n’ stuff.” 

“Right, right. Well. I dunno how sightful Hinansho is, but, I know some cool spots we can visit. Like, there’s a neat little cove just outside of downtown a lot of us like to hit up,” he says. “It’s pretty nice, away from tourists and stuff. I’ll have to take you sometime. Introduce you to some of the other cool people in town. Not that Toyomitsu and Amajiki aren’t cool, but. You know. People to hang with and stuff.” 

Eijirou lets out a breath, lips twitching. “People to hang with?” 

“Yeah! Like me! Or my best bro, Sero. Or Jirou. You know, someone you can chill with and drink a beer.” He grins and waggles his brows. “Or better yet, someone pretty you can romp around with.” 

Glittering, burning eyes flash across Eijirou’s mind, and his face heats. He shakes his head reflexively, a nervous chuckle spilling from his lips. “I uh, I’m good. I mean, friends are nice. But um. Not really...looking for anything else.” 

Kaminari scoffs. “Aw, c’mon, really? I know some great bars that are the perfect spot to pick up some girls that I can show you to!” He spares a look, brows raised. “Or...if not girls, guys. Or both. Whatever floats your boat, bro.” 

The affirmation is startling, and Eijirou blinks, warmth budding inside him. There’s a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips, unbidden, but he can’t help it. He. He hasn’t had many people in his life just accept him like that. Kaminari may be barely an acquaintance, but...it’s still nice. He shakes his head anyway, huffing a laugh. “Thanks, man, but I’m good, really.” 

There’s a huff, and Kaminari pouts. “Okay, okay, whatever you say. I can’t just not ask, since Sero’s flaking on me next week like an ass.” He gives another dramatic huff and shakes his head. “Buzzkill. But hey, if you change your mind, just say the words. Though, the best haunts are either in the city or a few towns over, ‘cuz Hinansho is so damn small, everyone knows everyone and that’s a hell of a killjoy.” 

Well. Yeah, that makes some sense. It’s kinda hard to meet new people when there’s no one new around to meet. And Eijirou definitely gets the small town feel already— he’s been here barely two weeks and he’s already seen the same handful of people in and out of the ramen shop. Again, he thinks of burning red eyes and a fierce scowl, and he frowns. 

“Do you...know everyone in town?” he asks. Kaminari gives him a look. 

“I mean, I’ve lived here my whole life, so yeah for the most part. Why?” 

Eijirou bites his lip. “Oh, uh. No reason. Just. Someone that’s come by the ramen shop a few times…” 

“Oh?” 

Heat floods his face, and Eijirou shakes his head. “I-it’s nothing like that, I just. Am curious, I guess. He’s...kind of rude, actually.” 

Kaminari makes a face. “Rude? Is he blonde and looks like he’s constipated, like, ninety percent of the time?” 

Eijirou blinks. “Uh, I wouldn’t say he looks constipated, but he definitely seems...angry, all the time. He’s only been in twice, but the um. The first time, when I tried to talk to him he turned off his hearing aids…” 

“Of course he did.” Kaminari snorts and shakes his head, rolling his eyes dramatically. The car veers as he turns, and he spares Eijirou a glance. “Yeah, I know that asshole. That’s Bakugou Katsuki. He’s not been around for long— he’s lived here, what. A year? If that? He’s a huge dick, keeps to himself mostly. His house is just outside of town, overlooks the beach.” Kaminari makes another face. “He definitely does not tip, either.” 

Eijirou hums, distracted. His gaze drifts to the window, fingers tingling with the phantom memory of calloused ones brushing against them for the briefest of moments, the name turning over in Eijirou’s mind. 

Bakugou Katsuki…

Chapter Text

Warm water trickles down Katsuki’s back and shoulders in rivulets, trailing down, down, down until it drips off onto the tile underfoot and swirls down into the drain. He sighs, head tipping forward and eyes drifting shut. His muscles ache from stooping over the workbench for hours at a time. Which. Katsuki knows it’s a terrible idea, he knows. But he has shit to get done, and he’s not a decrepit old man so it’s fine. He’ll live. He’ll be sore as fuck, but he’ll live. Besides, the warmth helps, seeping into his skin and loosening knots in places he didn’t even realize they existed. Katsuki reaches for the bar of soap on the small shelf hanging just above the faucet, sliding it lazily across his chest and stomach, a trail of bubbles rising in its wake. He’s fucking tired— he stayed up way too damn late finishing the second table leg, and now he just wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed. But he can’t. Duty calls, or what the fuck ever. Like the next leg of the table. 

Yay. 

Soap suds join the water that pools on the floor and swirls its way into the drain. Katsuki scrubs hard enough his skin goes pink and tingly, before slapping the soap bar back onto its shelf and reaching for his shampoo. The bottle is smooth in his palm, slender, with pictures of coconuts on the label. Katsuki doesn’t know the brand— his mom got this shit for him, once, and he’s never bothered to read the label. All he cares is that it doesn’t smell like garbage and it keeps his hair soft. 

The important shit. 

Washing his hair takes barely a minute, and then Katsuki’s dunking his head under the spray, eyes squeezed shut so soap doesn’t burn his eyeballs. He tugs the faucet off, the warm water cutting off and leaving him standing naked amidst the cooling steam. Goosebumps spread across his arms, down his legs. Katsuki shivers and reaches for a towel. The rough fabric scratches against his skin as he drags the towel all over his body, drying himself. He doesn’t bother with a robe or even tying the towel— why should he? He lives alone. Who the fuck cares if he’s butt ass naked? No one, because it’s his fucking house. So he slings the towel over his shoulders and strolls back to the bedroom, ignoring the chill of the morning settling across his skin. 

It’s always cold in the mornings. Doesn’t matter the time of year. Living right next to a massive body of water does that sort of shit, what with the wind always blowing across the shoreline. So Katsuki tends to prefer warm, comfortable shit, at least until the sun rises and warms everything up. 

Katsuki tugs on his clothes— grey sweats and an All Might hoodie he’s had since eighth grade— and chucks the towel into the hamper in the corner of the room. Which. Is getting kind of full. So he’ll have to do laundry soon, probably. He hopes he has enough detergent— he still hasn’t gone shopping. 

He’s busy. Sue him. Tables don’t build themselves, and he needs the money anyway. It’s fine. He’ll shop later. When it’s done. Probably. 

It’s fine. 

Katsuki pads over to the wooden nightstand by his bed and plucks up his hearing aids. They’re a bitch to put in every morning— finagling the in-the-ear piece to sit right in his fucking ears so it doesn’t hurt is annoying as hell, especially when he’s half asleep and his dexterity is shit. Katsuki can’t even count the number of times he’s dropped the damn things in the sink, squinting blearily at the mirror as he fussed around with one of them, followed by the blinding panic of oh, fuck, it didn’t go down the drain, did it? And the relief, every time, when he finds that no, they did not slip down into the fucking drain. It’s a stupid fear—he’s well aware of that, thanks. Obviously they’re too big to actually fit down the drain. But try telling his stupid, half asleep brain that shit. It rarely gets the memo. 

Years of practice has made it a hell of a lot easier, though. Nowadays, he doesn’t even need a mirror. He just slides them into place and squeezes his eyes shut, tension coiling in his spine like a spring as he flicks them on. Noise floods his senses like a wave slamming into the cliffside— the hum of electricity, the creak of wood against the wind, the rattling of the shutters against the side of the house. Katsuki grits his teeth and turns the damn things down low. 

Life is too fucking noisy. 

Even here in the middle of nowhere, it’s too damn loud. Katsuki gets used to it, obviously. The sound becomes normal again after an hour or so. But the shift from what’s essentially utter nothing to everything is enough to give him a headache, sometimes. 

Katsuki wanders to the kitchen, stifling a yawn. Dawn’s light trickles in through the windows, bathing everything in a rosy, golden hue. It’s pretty. But Katsuki doesn’t really give a rat’s ass about the pretty sunrise. He has shit to do, after all. There’s no time to stand around and gawk out the window— not when he needs to eat and check his email and get out into the workshop so he can get on with that damn table. Katsuki reaches up for the rickety-ass cabinets that definitely don’t match the interior of the house and peers inside, shrugging to himself as he grabs the nearly empty box of granola bars. It’s fine. He kind of hates granola bars, but they’re easy. Even if they’re old as fuck and probably kind of stale.

Besides. Later. He can shop later. First, though, he’s gonna work. 

Yeah. 

He pulls out a bar and rips the packaging open with his teeth, not giving a damn where the shiny plastic-foil-shit goes when he spits it out, and takes a bite. And grimaces. Blegh, this shit is nasty. Processed and way too sweet. And yeah, kind of stale. But it’s kind of all he has so he swallows it down while he flops into a chair and throws open his laptop. The damn thing takes an eternity to boot up— he might be due for an upgrade, but fuck if he’s gonna buy one before this piece of shit peters out. It works, mostly. No reason to spend a fuckton of money when he has something that works. Maybe not well, but. Well enough. 

He gets it on and goes straight to his email. 

Most of it’s junk. Katsuki’s not even actually sure how the fuck he gets half these junk emails. He never goes anywhere to sign up for these, so how in the hell did these random ass companies get his email? Like? He knows for a fact he’s never bought shoes at that place before, what the fuck. Those are ugly, too, gross. Like, who actually would go out in public wearing that shit on their feet? Embarrassing. And, he hates that restaurant. Nasty, greasy shit. Why is he getting their emails? And is that…? Katsuki’s eyes go wide, and he nearly breaks the delete button by slamming it as hard as he does. Nope, no. Gross. Disgusting. He scrubs a hand over his face, skin crawling all weird. How in the hell his spam filter missed that one, he doesn’t know, but he wants a fucking refund. 

There are at least some emails that are actually worth his time, thank fuck. A bunch of inquiries about his commissions, a deposit for his next project, which he’ll be starting here soon, and a response from his current client in regards to the update he sent them the other night. He clicks through them all and shoots out some responses, all the while chewing on the nasty ass granola bar. 

‘Course, it’s the last one he reads that nearly has him choking. 

From: Deku 

Subject: Wedding Invite

Kacchan, 

I know you’re not answering my calls or texts, or even Ochako’s. But...we both still want you there. And since we don’t have your address, this is the next best thing. 

Best regards, 

Midoriya Izuku 

Attached is a photo. It’s them, standing close with their foreheads touching, arms all wrapped around each other, a date artfully imposed over it in a fancy font at the bottom. The background stands out almost immediately— it’s the gardens where they had their first date. Katsuki remembers that day— Deku was freaking out so hard, he thought the idiot was gonna shit his pants. He’d laughed his ass off the whole time he helped his dumb ass get ready, because he wasn’t about to let Deku and his stupid, shitty excuse of a style dress himself. Cheeks would have probably died or something if Deku’d have shown up in his own outfit of choice, which. Was a fucking graphic t-shirt that said polo on it. A graphic tee. For a first date. And Deku was baffled when Katsuki took one look and dragged him to the closet to pick something else out, insisting that Cheeks and him agreed on something casual or what the fuck ever. As if that made it okay to pick out that garbage to wear. 

So yeah. Katsuki’d basically saved their date just with that.  

His jaw clenches, vision blurring. Fucking. Has he not made it clear that he wants nothing to do with him and his shitty friendship, anymore? He reaches forward and slams the laptop shut, scrubbing a hand over his face and muttering a string of curses. God fucking dammit, why won’t he just let Katsuki go? He got what he wanted. He won. What more does that bastard need? To laugh? Rub his perfect little life with his perfect little job and perfect little relationship in Katsuki’s face? Well, jokes on him because he doesn’t give a fuck about his stupid wedding. Romance is stupid. People either want a quick fuck or can’t keep up, and Katsuki’s not about to slow down for some shitty extra. His job, well. 

Fuck him and fuck that job. 

Katsuki pushes away from the table and stands, hands twitching as he marches straight for the workshop. 

Deku can go fuck himself. If he wants Katsuki to answer him, he’s gonna have to find his address and drive his stupid ass down here himself. But he won’t. No one will. Because no one knows where he is, and Katsuki’s gonna fucking keep it that way. 

🦀

It’s late when he pulls up to the ramen shop. 

Katsuki shuts off his bike’s ignition and kicks down the kickstand. A gust of wind curls around the buildings and rustles at Katsuki’s jacket, carrying with it the savory smells from the shop. His stomach grumbles, huger sharp as it gnaws at his insides, reminding him that he skipped out on eating for most of the day besides that nasty, shitty granola bar. 

He’d gotten...a little too into carving. It was fucking worth it because he finished the next leg, but. Katsuki is starving, to say the least. 

He pockets his keys, hands shoving deep into his pockets, and shoulders his way inside. Shockingly, it’s empty, save for two people standing behind the counter— Shitty hair and that nervous looking twig that always looks seconds from passing the fuck out or bolting out a window. 

“Hey, welcome, dude,” Shitty hair calls out, a small smile flickering on his lips. Those bruises of his have faded drastically— the one on his cheek all but gone, and the ones circling his neck now a shade lighter than purple. The cut over his eye, though, is scabbed five ways to hell and looks really fucking uncomfortable. That shit’s definitely gonna scar. He wonders how he got the damn thing. It’s not the first time he’s wondered. 

Katsuki drops his gaze and lets out a grunt. 

“Do you want your usual?” 

Something prickles in Katsuki’s gut, and his brows furrow. His usual? His gaze darts back to Shitty hair, who’s smile turns a tad sheepish. “I mean...you usually order the Shoyu ramen with extra chili paste...right?” 

Well, fuck. This guy remembers his order. In retrospect, Katsuki supposes it shouldn’t be all that surprising. He does order the same damn thing every time. It’s easy, it’s good, and he doesn’t have to waste time thinking about what he’s gonna get. He can just order. Simple. And it’s not like this place is so huge or gets so many patrons that they’d all blur together— hell, Katsuki rarely sees another person even in the shop besides him. So yeah. He should probably have figured they’d remember his fucking order. 

But Shitty hair’s the first to ever...ask like that. 

Katsuki grunts an affirmative because yeah, that’s what he wants. And Shitty hair beams, as if remembering his order is the best fucking thing he’s ever done, and rings him in. Weirdo. Katsuki rolls his eyes and pulls out his wallet. He thumbs through the bills and hands over the correct amount and watches as Shitty hair recounts it carefully before shoving it onto the drawer. 

“We’ve got one Shoyu ramen with extra chili paste!” he calls over his shoulder. 

“Coming right up!” 

Shitty hair turns his focus back to Katsuki, then, and he smiles— only, this time, it’s wide and bright, so much so that Katsuki has to fucking squint. He draws back, brows knitting, because what the fuck, how can someone smile like that? S’fucking weird is what it is. But Shitty hair doesn’t even seem to notice, he just leans on the counter and starts chattering. 

“It’ll uh, it’ll be ready here in a few. So uh. Yeah. Not too many people here tonight so it won’t take very long! But, um, can I get you anything while you wait? We can change the music if you want, or, oh, um, I mean—” 

“S’fine, Shitty hair.” 

He shuts up immediately, face going all blotchy and smile winking out. “Oh. Right. Sorry.” Shitty hair ducks his head, that choppy, red curtain obscuring his face, and an unsettled feeling twists inside Katsuki’s gut. Which. His own face twists, and he throws a scowl at the floor. This is why he doesn’t do talking to people— he always manages to fuck it up, somehow. Not that he cares. He doesn’t. At all. He’s just here to get some fucking food so he can go back into his stupid workshop and finish that damn table and move on to the next order. And the next. And the next. Until his hands are bloody and cramped and his head is blissfully empty. That’s all he cares about. 

Not weird dudes with shitty hair who talk too damn much. 

Katsuki shoves his hands in his pockets and stalks away from the counter, leaning against the wall closest to the door and keeping his glare fixed on the worn wooden floor underfoot. He pointedly ignores the weight of innumerous glances that skirt his way. Luckily, Shitty hair takes the hint and doesn’t try talking again. Not until his food is ready, anyway. But Katsuki sees the hulking shape of the owner dude peer around the partition, Katsuki’s packaged take away in his hands. So he stalks up to the counter before Shitty hair can even blink and snatches it from him, turning around and walking out without a second glance. 

“O-oh, have a nice night—” 

The door slams shut behind him, bells rattling. 

The takeout bag thumps against his thigh as he marches back to his bike, and Katsuki lifts it higher to keep the damn thing from sloshing around too much. The last thing he needs is to spill this shit everywhere and have to go back inside to get another one. Katsuki grimaces. Not only would that be fucking embarrassing as hell, but then he’d have to interact with Shitty hair again. And Katsuki’s already fucked that up enough for one night. No need for a repeat.  

His grimace deepens, and he balances the takeout on his bike’s seat, reaching for his helmet. Yeah, no. He’d rather not. Fuck that shit. He’ll stick with what he’s got now, thanks. 

Katsuki tugs the helmet on and slings his leg up over the bike, grabbing his takeout and cradling it with care. He jams the keys into the ignition and twists, the bike roaring to life beneath him. And then he’s off, racing down the street, leaving the ramen shop and Shitty hair far behind him. 

🦀

Once, when he was a kid, Katsuki got into a fight. Some asshole kids a few years ahead of him cornered him and his friends. Started talking shit, pushing them around. Said some bullshit about how weak they were—as six-year-olds , for fuck’s sake—and what crybabies they were, cooing, “Oh, do you want your mommies? ” when they saw Deku’s teary eyes. 

Katsuki’d had enough of that shit. He jumped. Punched the lead bully right in the mouth. He’s pretty sure he knocked out a tooth, he punched so fucking hard. Shit hit the wall after that and it turned into one hell of a scuffle, but Katsuki’d chased those dickheads off and stood victorious. He spat blood on the ground and held his little head high and swore he’d always come out on top. He’d always win. No matter the odds. 

Maybe that’s why this shit hurts so fucking much. 

Katsuki slams the hammer and chisel down onto the workbench and hisses through his teeth. His head’s throbbing like a bitch, even with his hearing aids turned down as low as they’ll go sans turning them off. Which. Ugh. He squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces, jaw twitching. He needs to get this shit done. But fuck, does he want to rip his own skull open right about now. Katsuki leans forward, pressing his forehead against the bench, and huffs out a sigh. 

Yeah. It hurts alright. 

He pushes away from the table with a growl. Fucking god dammit, this is stupid. Katsuki reaches for his chisel, fingers brushing against the handle, only to pause. Stiffen. The air shifts, the thump of the music dampening, stilling. Katsuki’s head whips around and he glares in the direction of his phone. His jaw twitches. 

God fucking dammit. 

He stomps over, boots catching against the floor, and snatches the phone up, glare settling on the bright kanji of Deku that lights across the screen. That motherfucking asshole is calling him again and Katsuki’s head pounds harder.  

A yell tears from his throat, and he chucks the damn thing, eyes squeezing shut and face twisting into a pained grimace. Fucking fuck. Katsuki presses the heel of his hand to his temples and staggers for the door. Fuck it. The table can wait. He needs...air. 

Yeah. Air. 

It’s cool out, when he throws open the backdoor. Katsuki shivers at the ocean breeze that curls across his skin, through his hair. But he doesn’t turn back. He slams the door behind him and strolls out into the night, towards the beach. 

His house overlooks the ocean. Most do, in this shitty town. That or they’re right on the beach. Katsuki didn’t give a damn really when he bought the thing— he just found the first deal as far from the city as he could bear to go and threw his money at the realtor. Not that it fucking matters. He hardly leaves the house as it is. He just wakes up, works in the workshop, showers, eats, sleeps and rinse wash and fucking repeat over and over again. And it’s fine, he doesn’t give a fuck. But on nights like tonight when he can’t fucking breathe, Katsuki can’t say he hates being so close to the pulsing waves. 

Katsuki closes his eyes and breathes in the heady, salty air, shoulders loosening. When he looks again, his gaze drifts up to the starry blanket hanging across the sky. It’s clear out tonight, not a single cloud obscuring the view. Katsuki traces over some of the constellations he knows by heart, the shapes glimmering with a familiarity that has more tension bleeding out from his body. He breathes. In and out, along with the inky waves lapping along the shoreline. Katsuki’s gaze drops, and he stares down at them, mesmerized by the dappled reflections of the stars amidst the churning waters. His hands find their way to his pockets, and he turns to the small footpath beaten into the earth that leads down to the sand. It meanders a bit, steep, but it’s smooth and steady, worn into the jagged hillside by all the people that lived here before him. It’s one hell of a contrast to the sand— soft and pliant, shifting under his weight with every step. 

Another breeze catches at his t-shirt, traces its fingers across his goose-bump ridden skin. Katsuki braces against the chill, stifling another shiver. He probably should have grabbed a jacket. But he’d be lying if he said the chill isn’t nice. The air feels sharp when he breathes it in— clear. Clean. Already his headache is easing, the quiet of the night like a balm to Katsuki’s frazzled senses. He stands right at the edge of the waves, staring down as water laps at his boots. 

It’s nice. Peaceful. 

So why in the fuck is his head still so goddamn loud?  

Deku’s shitty voice echoes in his head, his last words ping-ponging around until his ears are fucking ringing. Kacchan, wait, please listen, I-I didn’t mean—

Katsuki’s hands dart up to his head, fingers curling into his hair, tugging. Fuck. “Shut up,” he whispers, the words dripping from his lips. “Shut up, shut up! Shut up! ” His throat burns as he screams out into the night, something hot dripping down his cheeks, his chin. Katsuki scrubs a hand over his face and kicks out at the waves that lick at his feet, water spraying up and wetting his clothes. Breaths tear from his chest, ragged and painful, and Katsuki wavers. He staggers back, just enough, and his legs buckle beneath him, sending him crashing down onto the sand. 

Fuck. 

He’s sprawled out, whole body throbbing. Wet sand clings to his skin, his clothes. It’s gonna be a bitch to get off later, but he doesn’t care. Not now. Katsuki tips his head back, the dappled blanket of starlight blurry and out of focus. He laughs, body shaking, fingers curling into the wet sand, ears still ringing. God, he’s so goddamn pathetic. Look at him. Laying here in the fucking dirt, crying like a little bitch and screaming over something that doesn’t even matter anymore. 

He needs to get up. Wipe his tears, dust himself off. Stalk back to his cave and throw his middle finger up at the world like it did to him. 

But. He’s fucking tired.  

Tired of hurting. Tired of being angry. Just. Tired. 

So for once, he stays put. Lays on the sand and stares up at the stars, gaze sliding to Alpha Phoenicis, to Phoenix, and he breathes. His eyes drift shut, the glow of Phoenix still etched into his mind’s eye, and Katsuki imagines himself as a phoenix, rising from the ashes of his own making. 

God. If only shit could be that easy.

Chapter Text

Eijirou leans forward, brow notched as he scratches away at the scrap of paper with an old, nubby pencil. He sketches in light, jerky motions, shading with a messy, lazy crosshatching because it’s nothing special. Just a little doodle. But it’s not a bad doodle— when he leans back to admire the handiwork, a bubble of pride floats up in his chest and he grins. It’s a little crab. He saw one on the beach last night, scuttling its way across the sand with spindly legs. When Eijirou’d gotten close, it froze and threw up its massive claws, flexing them menacingly. He recreates that moment now on the back of someone’s forgotten receipt and it doesn’t look half bad. It’s not great, but. Not terrible. And Eijirou will take that as a win. 

He blocks out the little crab’s shadow, humming along to the shop music that trickles out into the lobby. It’s been...way too long since he’s drawn, last. Mostly because, well. He never liked it when Eijirou doodled. Always saying that it’s a waste of time, that Eijirou should do something useful, goddammit. Instead of wasting time away doing shit like doodling and making him do all the work around the goddamn apartment. God, Eichan, you’re so pathetic, you know that? You think you’re going somewhere with this bullshit? What the hell even is that, a person? A hero. Wow. How fucking conceited of you, thinking people would give a rats ass about some lame hero that looks like a boulder. Look at me when I’m talking to you— not that look. You know I hate that shit, baby. Come on now. Smile for me. 

Eijirou’s jaw clenches, and he stills, gaze blurring. His whole body seizes up— the lingering ghost sensation of fingers gripping his face in a vice grip licks across his skin and he trembles, panic twisting around his heart like barbed wire, tightening, squeezing. His ears are ringing, ringing, ringing, the counter fades and when Eijirou blinks again he’s pressed up against the wall, gasping, desperate, black spots dancing across his vision as he tries to cry out for him to stop, please, please he’s sorry he’s sorry he didn’t mean to he’ll clean it up just let him go let him go lethimgolethimgo —

“Kirishima?” 

He jolts, hard enough that the stool he’s perched on tips and has him flailing to maintain balance. His hands catch on the edges of the counter and he clings to it, shaking all over. Eijirou sucks in a breath, and another, blinking until his vision clears. He peeks up at Amajiki, who’s staring with wide, worried eyes. 

“S-sorry,” he croaks. Amajiki shakes his head. 

“Are...are you okay?” 

Eijirou bites his lip. And nods. Slow and jerky and reflexive. He...he isn’t, really. He still feels shaky around the edges, throat tight and throbbing from the memory of it all alone. But explaining that isn’t something he can do without telling the whole truth, and it’s...it’s safer if he doesn’t. For everyone. 

Yeah. 

Amajiki doesn’t look convinced in the slightest, and honestly, Eijirou can’t really blame him. He knows he must look like a mess— his cheeks feel wet and he’s still shaking like a leaf. A bubble of self consciousness wells up from within, and Eijirou ducks his head, hastily wiping at his face. “Really, I am,” he croaks, inwardly cursing at the way his voice wobbles. There’s a shuffle, and then a pause, and when Eijirou peeks, Amajiki is stooping over to pluck something up off the floor. He straightens, his brow knit as he peers down at—at Eijirou’s doodle. Oh, gods. Eijirou lurches forward with a squeak and snatches it, paper crinkling as he clutches it to himself, face burning. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, voice pitched, “just, um.” 

“Did you draw that?” Amajiki asks, hushed. Eijirou looks away, that embarrassment curling around him tighter. 

“Um. It’s just a doodle, that’s all. Sorry, I’ll uh. I’ll go scrub the counters again—” 

“It’s really good.” 

Eijirou freezes. His wide-eyed gaze darts back to Amajiki, who flushes and ducks away. He. He doesn’t think it’s stupid? A waste of time? He thinks it’s...it’s good? The silence lingers as Eijirou fumbles to come to grips with this reality, and he blinks, grip tightening on the scrap of receipt paper. “Really?” 

Amajiki nods. “Yeah. Really.” He fiddles with his long and slender fingers, gaze darting all about, nervous and shy. “You should draw more often,” he says. “We have...paper in the back. If you want. Toyomitsu won’t mind…” 

“Thank you.” The words tumble forth without a second thought. Eijirou smiles, wide and real, the tension coiled in his spine and bones sloughing off him in an instant. He sets the receipt paper down and smooths it out, smile softening at the smudged little crab that stares back at him. He feels...lighter, somehow. And maybe it’s silly to feel so light after getting one offhanded compliment on his stupid little doodle, but. Eijirou’s spent so long being told his doodles were pointless that having someone else think it’s worth a few nice words? Well. It helps, at least. A little, anyway. But as it is, even just a little bit feels like it goes a long way— that shadow hanging over his shoulder shrinks back ever so slightly, and Eijirou feels...like he can breathe again. 

And that’s a feeling that he’s quickly getting addicted to. 

The smile lingers hours after, too. Eijirou hums to himself as he scrubs at the counters. What the tune is, he doesn’t actually know, but that’s not really what matters. What matters is the ease he feels, working here. Already this quaint little shop feels a lot like home. Especially now. Because between customers, Eijirou steals to the back and finds that printer paper. It’s there in the small little printer, tucked away on the tiny, built in desk that sits in a cubby beside the pantry. It almost feels wrong to take one, but Amajiki doesn’t even bat an eye when he creeps past, one crisp, blank page cradled in his grasp. Which, only makes it easier to sit and just. Doodle. And doodle and doodle, numerous sketches coming to life from beneath the tip of his pencil. Crabs and sea stars and shells of varying shapes and sizes. The curl of the waves as they crest just before hitting the sand, outlines of houses in all sorts of shapes and sizes. These doodles aren’t any more complicated than his first little crab on the receipt— Eijirou keeps them loose and easy, using the same sketchy lines and messy crosshatching. Because there’s no hard and fast goals. Just passing the time with something he enjoys. 

Before long the sun sinks away and the dark of night presses against the windows. Occasionally, Eijirou glances out, peering at the lights that drift past with the occasional car that rolls by. But the day is slow and his attention stays mostly on cleaning and doodling. Only the sharp jingle of the door’s bell tears him from the calm monotony, and Eijirou’s gaze jerks up to find one familiar smoldering one. 

“Oh, Bakugou! Welcome!” 

Bakugou grunts, the same greeting he always gives, gaze averting to the ground. But not soon enough for Eijirou to miss the dark circles under his eyes, prominent against his pale skin— which, is…is it paler than usual? Eijirou isn’t sure. He doesn’t stare too much—really! He doesn’t! He’d have to be blind to not notice that complexion, though. Perfect, no blemishes…well. Usually. Not tonight, though. He eyes Bakugou’s pronounced slouch as he rings in the usual order, how he seems to bend under the weight of some invisible force that’s just pushing him into the dirt, little by little. Something twinges in Eijirou’s chest. He’s felt that, more times than he can count. Just. The overwhelming pressure of holding himself together despite the cracks and splinters spreading across the mask in his facade, growing and growing until the pressure’s too much and he breaks into a thousand little pieces, the brokenness within bared for all to see. 

Eijirou’s teeth dig into his lip, the sting doing little to distract him from the swirl of his thoughts. “Um, eight hundred yen, please,” he says, voice low. But he’s met with nothing. Bakugou just stands there, staring, and Eijirou wonders if he’s turned off his hearing aids. He hasn’t seen him touch them, though, and Bakugou did give his usual greeting—but maybe that’s just a reflex, and he’s had them off the entire time…? He frowns. “Um, Bakugou?” he asks, louder this time. Still, nothing. Eijirou leans over the counter and waves, trying to catch Bakugou’s line of sight. He must succeed, because Bakugou starts, blinking up at him with dazed, tired eyes, one hand darting up to a hearing aid. 

“What?” 

“I, uh, just need to cash you out. For your order.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

Eijirou watches Bakugou fumble to pull his wallet from his pocket, a grimace flickering across his features. His frown deepens. Worry kindles in his chest. He murmurs a thanks when Bakugou hands him the cash, and makes quick work of putting it in the cash drawer, gaze sliding back to those slumped shoulders and that faraway look. His teeth dig into his bottom lip. He wants to say something, to ask if he’s okay, but words don’t come. They die in his throat before they can even blossom, because, well, what could he even say? Bakugou’s not one for words—he’s endured enough abrupt and snappish responses to see that—and Eijirou’s still trying to find his. There’s a pang in his side, and Eijirou’s face twists at the ghost sensation, mind prickling with memories too raw. 

Yeah. Words are hard. 

“Here you go,” he mumbles, handing over the change. Bakugou takes it, hand only half curling around the coins, fingers twitching. His grimace cuts deeper and Eijirou’s bafflement and worry only increase tenfold. But still, no words come. He can only watch as Bakugou shoves his change into his sweatshirt pocket, jaw ticking. 

Eijirou looks away. “Shoyu ramen, extra chili paste,” he calls. There’s a clang, and he knows Amajiki heard him. Unlike Toyomitsu, Amajiki doesn’t really holler back when he’s in the kitchen. He’ll just get right to work, so Eijirou’s had to learn to listen for the bang of pots and pans to know he got the order. 

He turns back around, gaze falling onto his doodle page. Beady little eyes sketched in pencil stare back at him from the corner of the page— those little crabs he doodled. An idea sparks in his mind, and Eijirou reaches for the receipt. 

Usually he doesn’t give Bakugou one. He’s never really asked for it, to begin with and after like, the first time or two he’s come in he flat out refused it. But…Eijirou shrugs to himself and reaches for his pencil. It’s worth a shot. 

So he doodles. 

It’s nothing special— just another little crab, with big claws skittering across the sand. But it’s something. Eijirou’s gaze darts up to Bakugou, who’s still just standing, staring. He leans forward and waves again, snagging his attention. “You forgot this,” he says, thrusting out the receipt, doodle up. Bakugou’s brows knit, lips curling in a frown, and Eijirou’s throat goes tight— gods, he messed up. Bakugou’s annoyed, he’s gonna take it and throw it at him. Shit, why did he think this was a good idea? This was a stupid idea, a dumb idea, his doodles aren’t worth enough to just give to someone, even if it’s on a receipt—he knows this it’s only been drilled in his head a hundred times over and over—

Bakugou reaches out and plucks the receipt from him. The suddenness of it has Eijirou jerking back, eyes wide. 

He. He took it. 

Eijirou’s heart leaps up to his throat where it pounds erratically, rattling at his very bones. He took it. He took it, he took it. Eijirou almost forgets to breathe as he watches, stock still, while Bakugou stares down at the doodle with knit brows and pursed lips. It’s impossible to parse what’s going through his head and that only makes the anxiety squeeze in Eijirou’s chest tighter. Maybe it’s stupid, but Eijirou can’t help the burning in his heart to be…seen. This doodle isn’t much, but it’s still a part of him. What if Bakugou doesn’t like it? What then? And he knows Bakugou’s basically a stranger. He knows . But that doesn’t keep him from wondering…if he doesn’t like this simple, easy piece of Eijirou, what would he think of the rest? The blistered and broken parts, hidden from view? 

Would…would anyone like him, with all his broken pieces? 

There’s a crinkle. Eijirou flinches, the noise like a gunshot in the silence. Bakugou folds the receipt, slow, careful. He pulls out his wallet and flips it open, tucking the receipt into it with care before shoving it back into his pocket. “Thanks,” he says, voice gruff. A smile warms across Eijirou’s lips, and all at once, the tension he feels dissipates. 

“No problem.” 

He might be imagining it, but Bakugou seems to stand a little straighter, after. Like the weight of the world feels a little less heavy. 

Eijirou’s smile only grows wider. 

🪸

The bath house is quaint on the outside. Small. The roof has the traditional curvature to it, with gray, clay tiling on the roof and intricately carved wooden doors, depicting a scenery of dragons playing in water. Eijirou’s never seen anything quite like it— it’s honestly beautiful. The closer he gets, the more details he notices. Like the scales, shining almost golden in the light. Or the waves of the water, or the boughs of the trees laden with leaves. Even the knobs on the door are pretty— made of polished brass that seems to glow. He hesitates, teeth digging into his lip, his bag with everything he owns cradled to his chest. 

He needs to shower. And wash his clothes. Badly. And he has money, now, so he can, it’s just…this is very. Public. Because it’s a bathhouse. Granted, it’s a small bathhouse— since this town is tiny. But it’s the only bathhouse, and according to Toyomitsu, it’s highly popular, especially among the fishermen who take advantage of the sento. Which. Isn’t a bad thing at all, it’s just. Popular means lots of people. And lots of people means lots of stares fixed his way. 

Eijirou grips his bag tighter. His bruises are fading, but he still feels them. If anyone looks hard enough, they’ll see them and any number of scars that littler his body— leftover memories of nights Eijirou’d give anything to forget.

But. He needs this. The little washing up he could do in the bathroom of the ramen shop really isn’t enough. His hair is greasy, he feels gross. A shower and a soak in the sento sounds like a dream. Plus, his clothes are starting to stink, not to mention the sand…

Eijirou sucks in a breath and squares his shoulders. Okay, okay. He can do this. He can do this.  

With one shaking hand, he reaches for the doorknob and twists, tugging the massive wooden door open before he can change his mind. A blast of warm air, heavy and humid, greets him. The front reception is small— some tropical, potted plants give the space some color. There’s a wooden counter with an older woman perched behind it, her lined face folded into a warm smile. “Hello! Welcome to Kiyomeru! Would you like a locker to check your belongings?” 

A nervous smile flits across his features. “Um, actually, I was wondering if you guys have a laundry service here, too?” 

The old lady blinks. “Oh, er, no…not for guests, at least.”  

His shaky smile falters. “Oh.” It makes sense that they wouldn’t. Often in the city, a laundromat would be nearby, but most bathhouses are just that— a bathhouse. Still, the wave of disappointment hits Eijirou with a sharp jab, and his shoulders slump. Well. Crap. Maybe…maybe he can just. Wash them in the sink at work… Eijirou sighs, forcing the smile back onto his lips. “I’ll uh, just do the bath, then.” 

A frown lines the old lady’s face, and she hesitates, gaze flickering— to his neck, the bag in his arms, his greasy hair. The lingering stare has Eijirou’s skin prickling, and he curls in on himself, embarrassment like a hot coal burning holes in his gut. He knows he looks like a mess. He hasn’t washed his hair since…since fleeing Ashido’s place. And the sink can only do so much…not to mention that his only clothes are his work clothes. It’s why he forced himself to come in the first place—he needs to get clean. Badly. So the stares don’t really help— he’s already painfully aware of how he looks. 

“Tell you what. Let me take what clothes you need washed, and I’ll throw them in with the towels, free of charge.” 

Eijirou blinks. “Re-really?” 

That worn and lined face of hers melts into another warm smile. “Yes. Just leave them here.” She pats at the counter with a knobby hand, metal rings clicking against the polished wood. Eijirou tugs open his bag, reaching in to pull out the balled up shirts and pants. 

“Um. I do want to wash what I’m wearing too, if that’s okay,” he says, hesitant. The old lady nods. 

“Alright. Leave them in the shower room and I will fetch someone to get those for you.” 

The relief that swells in him is almost too much, and heat prickles at his eyes. “Thank you.” He bows, stiff and awkward, and fumbles with his bag to pull out his wad of yen to pay her with. But when he goes to hand her the cash, she waves him off. 

“Keep that. It’s on the house, this time.” 

Eijirou can only stare. “On…on the house?” 

“Yes,” she says, voice solemn and serious. “New member discount. Now go on, while it’s peaceful here. The fishermen will be in soon.” There’s a brief flicker as she glances at his necklace of bruises again, and Eijirou almost imagines that a shadow flits across her features. But it’s gone as quickly as it comes, and she’s smiling again. 

Oh. Oh.  

He has the place to himself right now. The realization blooms like a blossom in spring, and it’s like a weight just snaps and falls from his chest. He doesn’t have to fend off awkward stares. Fleeting looks. Whispers. He can just get clean in peace. A wide grin stretches across his lips, and he bows again and again as he shuffles to the sento doors, a stream of thanks spilling from his tongue. 

His shoes come off first. Eijirou places them inside the cubby just outside the sento, shivering at the cool tile underfoot. He pulls out the tiny bottle of shampoo and single bar of soap he got at a convenience store an hour prior, and tucks the bag into the cubby with his shoes. There’s no real lockers, which isn’t ideal— at least, not any with locks. Eijirou can’t help the twinge of anxiety at walking away from his bag. It’s. It’s all he owns. Literally. Faded pink polka dots on a once white background— now stained with gray and black smudges, grains of sand clinging to the woven fabric. It sags, now that it isn’t burdened with the handful of clothes he’s collected for himself. The only thing still residing inside is his bundle of yen, his lifeline. 

But. Eijirou reminds himself he’s all but alone. There’s not other cubbies occupied, and the only person here is the nice lady at the desk. And…any other workers that are here. Probably family, if another glance at the quiet, homey reception area is any indication. 

So he lets out a breath and squares his shoulders and turns away from the worn, wooden cubbies, stepping through the doorway into the sento. 

It’s small. Which, he supposes, makes sense. The building itself isn’t very big, and it also has to house the girls’ portion. Still, there’s only six shower heads, and the bath dominating the back of the room looks like it only holds six grown men. It’s a stark contrast to some of the bigger sentos Eijirou’s been to, back in the city growing up. Those had been double this size, at least. A dozen shower heads on either side of the room, with massive, decorative murals painted across the walls. Here, there’s a pretty, glass-tiled picturesque scene of the beach above the bath. Steam rises from the water, giving the space a hazy feel. It’s comforting, somehow. Eijirou shuffles to one of the little plastic stools, hands dancing along the hem of his shirt. Gosh, it’s been so long since he’s actually been to a sento. The last time he’s been to one was probably before…

Well. Before.  

Eijirou sets his soap and shampoo on the narrow, tiled ledge beneath the row of oval mirrors and bites his lip. His gaze darts about the room, nerves prickling under his skin. He’s alone, he knows he is, but he can’t help but hesitate. What if someone walks in? What’s his excuse? Does he even need one? Eijirou’s hand drifts up to his side, palm pressing against his shirt. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Maybe…maybe it’s okay? He sucks in a breath through his teeth and meets his reflection, gaze glittering, determined. It’s fine. He’s alone. He can just. Strip. No stares, no questions. 

So he reaches for the hem and does just that— tugs his shirt up over his head, eyes squeezed shut and heart hammering in his chest. The shirt falls from his grasp, landing on the floor at his feet, and Eijirou just. Stands. Eyes closed, ragged breaths falling from his lips, pulse thundering in his ears. 

He hasn’t seen himself since…since… 

His hands curl into fists, nails biting into his palms. Eijirou’s shaking and it’s not from the cold. Something warm and wet blazes down his cheek and he grits his teeth, anger and frustration and fear thick as it swirls inside his ribcage, sticking to his insides and making it so hard to breathe. 

Okay. It’s okay. He can do this. It’s just. Just his body. It’s not like he hasn’t seen these bruises and marks before because he has, god he has. So this time shouldn’t be any different. 

He sucks in a breath and opens his eyes. 

The bruise is faded. Blotchy and just barely darker than his skin. Eijirou stares, fingers brushing against the edges of it. His brows knit. Fingers press harder. His breath catches, stars dancing in his vision and he chokes, knees buckling as he feels the table’s edge slam into his side, hands flailing, grasping, nails digging into fine mahogany, that rough, slurred voice echoing in his ears as he yells, fingers entangling into Eijirou’s hair and yanking —

He hits the ground, hard. A choked gasp rips from him and Eijirou’s teeth clack together painfully. His vision blurs, knees throb, and he squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead against the cold tile and tries to just. Breathe. In and out, in and out, over and over. He’s okay, he’s safe, he’s not there anymore. 

Eijirou blinks, the patterned tile blurring into focus beneath him. He focuses on the black and white squares and wills his body to stop shaking. 

It’s okay. 

He’s okay. 

He’s okay.  

It takes a minute. Or two or three. Honestly, Eijirou isn’t sure how long he kneels there. Time blurs in the wake of his pounding heart and shaking hands, arms, legs. But he stays long enough for his body to ease enough that he can move again. Slowly, Eijirou rises, from his hands and knees back to his feet. He wobbles, but he stands. 

This time, he doesn’t look at the mirror. 

Eijirou peels off the rest of his clothes and bundles them up, setting them on the adjacent stool. He keeps his gaze fixed firmly on his hands as he twists the shower knobs before sitting on his own stool beneath the warm spray. 

God, this feels nice. Tension bleeds from him in an instant, and Eijirou sighs, head tipping back as he relishes in the warm, refreshing water cascading down his face, his body. For a moment he just sits, like that. Unmoving, unthinking. Just, existing. 

It’s exactly what he needed. 

He reaches a halting hand for his bar of soap, carefully peeling the plastic wrapper away for the gem beneath. It’s a simple bar of soap. Ivory. It cost two hundred and thirty yen at the little convenience mart just five minutes up the road, near the station. But it still feels blissful when he slides it across his skin. Eijirou scrubs away weeks of filth and sand until his skin is pink and tingly. He moves to his hair next, lathering with shampoo and squeezing his eyes shut as he dips his head beneath the spray. The few times he peeks, he sees swirls of pink water at his feet— the dye, probably. Eijirou doesn’t know much about hair dye, but he does know it washes out, eventually. He grimaces. Another thing he’ll have to save for. That’s a later problem, though, so he just focuses on getting all the shampoo out of his hair and rinsing the rest of the soap off. Once he’s clean, he twists the little shower knobs and the water turns off, leaving him there in the steam-ridden silence all over again. 

Goosebumps pebble across his skin, and he shivers. Of course, he’d forgotten to grab a towel. Eijirou lurches to his feet and pads across the room, arms curling around his middle. Near the entrance is where the towel rack is, with neatly rolled, crisp white towels stacked on each shelf. He’s almost hesitant to take one and ruin the display, but. He’s cold, and he has to towel off before entering the bath. So he reaches for one on the end and pulls it out carefully, to avoid disturbing the rest. It’s soft and thick, and Eijirou hums as he scrubs it across his damp skin. 

There. Better. 

Eijirou slings the towel across his shoulders and turns his focus to the bath. Steam still curls from the surface, warm and inviting. He shuffles close, lips curving up into a smile as he lifts a leg and dips his toes in. 

It’s really warm. 

One step, two, and he slides in, a sigh easing from his lips. Oh, gods, this is exactly what he needed. He tips his head back against the tiled edge of the tub, gaze skirting across the mural of the beach that dominates the wall beside him before his eyes drift shut, a sense of peace settling across him at last.

Chapter Text

The house is dark when he stumbles his way through the door. Katsuki kicks his door shut, the wall rattling behind him hard enough that the floor vibrates beneath his feet. His shoes go next, unceremoniously kicked off in the genkan, left to the shadows to be picked up tomorrow when he actually gives a fuck. 

If he gives a fuck. 

Katsuki shuffles into the hallway past his mountain of boxes, takeout thumping against his leg. It’s pure reflex that drives him to his dark kitchen, that has him lifting his arm to deposit the bag with steaming-hot ramen onto his little round table. Turning on the lights is too much effort, so Katsuki just fumbles for the chair and drags it out, flopping down onto it with a heavy sigh, eyes drooping. Fuck, he’s tired. So fucking tired. He stares at his takeout, lips tugging into a grimace, because is he actually hungry? How does he tell, again? He tries to feel, but his body doesn’t give any signals. It’s just. Numb. Exhausted. 

Somewhere in the haze in his head, he knows he should eat. He hasn’t eaten all day, and logically he knows his body needs the food. But eating takes so much fucking effort that Katsuki’s not sure he has right now. All he really wants to do, is flop down onto the floor and curl up in a ball and stop fucking existing for awhile. Maybe then he can charge up his battery enough to do some work and forget about everything that’s chained him down. 

But no. He can’t do that. Or. He can, but if he does that he’ll fucking starve and won’t be able to work. So. Katsuki heaves a sigh and leans forward, clumsily working to untie the stupid fucking take-out bag. ‘Course, that’s when he feels something digging into his ass— his wallet and phone. Katsuki pauses and reaches for his jeans’ pockets, pulling them free and tossing them onto the table. Only for his wallet to bounce and flop down onto the floor because it’s stupid and wants to spite him, apparently. Katsuki glares. Fucking dick. He leans down and swipes it up, gaze landing on the glow of paper peeking out from the pocket. Katsuki stills, thumb sliding against the edges of the receipt. 

Oh yeah. 

Katsuki bites his lip and pulls it out, smoothing out the creases with care. It’s hard to see the sketch in the moonlight streaming through the window, but Katsuki stares anyway. He knows what’s on the damn thing. A stupid fucking crab doodle. A stupid fucking crab doodle that he kept, for some dumb reason. He can’t explain why. Because honestly, it’s just. A doodle. It’s got good form, he guesses— the crab’s anatomy is solid. The shading is unpracticed, but adds some character. He recognized the damn thing immediately because he’s seen hundreds of those fuckers anytime he’s set foot on the beach. But still. It’s a doodle on a receipt. Which Katsuki doesn’t keep, because receipts are just a pain in the ass and a waste of paper. And yet here he is, sitting at his kitchen table staring at a stupid fucking reciept because some guy that’s weird and smiley doodled him a crab and gave it to him. 

It’s stupid. 

And yet…

That too-bright grin flickers across his mind’s eye, nervous and sweet, and Katsuki feels himself deflate. He folds the receipt with care and tucks it back into his wallet with a sigh, a strange warmth flickering like a flame deep in his chest. It’s…weird. But not uncomfortable. Katsuki’s face twitches and he rubs the heel of his hand against his sternum, as though that’ll stop the weird feeling. It doesn’t, because of course it doesn’t, and he lets his hand fall away with another sigh. Whatever. He’ll just eat and go the fuck to sleep. Then maybe shit will make sense. 

Maybe. Hopefully. 

His phone dings, then. Katsuki only notices because the screen lights up like a beacon in his dark kitchen, making him jolt. He leans over the table, brow furrowing because who the fuck is bothering him at this time of night? 

Deku (10:00 pm): Hey Kacchan. I just wanted to see how you’re doing…and ask again if we can just talk

That weird feeling in his chest evaporates in the wake of the fury that ignites there like an inferno. He lunges, swiping the damn brick and throwing, a yell sawing from his throat. How’s he doing? How’s he doing? Ha. Ha ha ha! He’s fucking great— the best fucking woodworker in town! People come from everywhere to buy his shit, and the best part? He doesn’t even have to talk to them! He can just live and breathe his work and ship it off to whatever sorry loser bought it and the best fucking part? There’s no annoying assholes to annoy him into sleeping. Or eating. Or being nice and respectful and keeping his voice down. Like it’s his fault he can’t fucking hear how loud he’s being. Or that he can’t fucking hear the judge mumbling from across the fucking court room. Because he doesn’t need to interact with people! And it’s the best fucking decision he’s ever made in his stupid life. So Deku can fuck right off. 

Katsuki shoves away from the table, no longer caring to force down the takeout sitting on his table. Fuck it. Who the hell needs food, anyway? Instead, he stalks to the bedroom and tries to scrub thoughts of Deku and the past from the recesses of his mind. 

🦀

His phone is broken. 

Or. Well. The case is. 

Katsuki finds it laying on the kitchen floor, the shitty plastic casing that’s supposed to protect his phone in like, four pieces and a hundred splinters. The phone itself is mostly in one piece, save for the big crack that cuts diagonally across the screen. He frowns down at it, tapping at it with his thumb and watching as the screen lights up, flashing with another couple of notifications from Deku. 

Maybe he should have broken the damn thing. Then at least he could get a fucking break. But breaking his phone means clients can’t get ahold of him which fucks with his business which means he can’t carve shit. And if he can’t carve shit, he can’t stave off the inferno swirling inside his shitty ass head. Plus. It’s a fucking hassle to get a new phone. Hell, it’s a hassle to get a new fucking number— he’d know. 

When he first moved out to this god forsaken town, he’d done just that. Changed his email. Phone number. Shut off all his socials. Everything. And for a few months, it was bliss. Motherfucking bliss. No one bothered him. The only calls he got were from clients. And that suited Katsuki just fine. He threw himself into carving, hardly doing anything else. 

Of course, he had to go and step on one of his hearing aides. He’d taken the damn things out and thought he’d deposited them onto the nightstand, where he always puts them. Except he didn’t. Which he discovered pretty fucking quickly when he rolled out of bed and felt the crunch of his aid under his foot. 

So yeah. He had to call his mom. Because he had no fucking clue how to get that shit fixed. The last time he’d ever gotten new hearing aids was when he was just out of high school and still on his parents’ insurance, and they’d handled it all for him. 

Katsuki knows she gave his number to Deku, after. 

She denies it when he asks, the bitch. 

And Deku being Deku can’t fucking resist himself. Katsuki should’ve expected that he’d try to reach out, to salvage the burning rubble that used to be their friendship. Because of fucking course he would. He’s just…like that, and it pisses Katsuki the hell off because he shouldn’t be like that— he should be angry. He should hate Katsuki as much as Katsuki wants to hate him. Fuck. It’d be easier if he hated Katsuki. 

So much easier. 

His jaw ticks as he shoves his cracked phone into his pocket. But hiding the phone doesn’t do shit to quell the cacophony building in his head, beating at his temples, at the inside of his skull. Katsuki reaches up to his hearing aids, but they’re practically off as it is. And still, his head pounds harder. Fuck. He squeezes his eyes shut, hands curling into fists at his sides. Somehow, it feels like he’s spinning in circles even though he’s standing still. The cold of the floor bites at his bare feet and his skin feels like it’s fucking buzzing and fuck— he spins around, vision blurring as he bolts for the door. 

He doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going. But that doesn’t really matter. He just. Needs to get away. 

So he walks. 

Hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched, head down. It’s windy as hell out here— that shit tousles at his hair and tugs at his clothes, nipping his skin with its chill. The sharpness of it punches a breath from him. He can’t say he was expecting it to be cold out, but he guesses he didn’t check the fucking weather before storming outside. Still, it’s not bad. It feels nice, almost. Like a distraction from the crawling under his skin, the pounding in his head. He closes his eyes as he walks, head tipping back, and breathes in the smell of the sea and asphalt. It’s probably stupid to walk with his eyes closed when his hearing aids are practically off, but fuck it. Katsuki doesn’t give a shit. There’s not many cars that drive down this road. This town is small as fuck and mostly fishermen to start with. Besides. It’s not like it’s dark out. He’s not fucking invisible. Unless someone isn’t paying attention they’ll see him and avoid him. 

Or not. Katsuki doesn’t really give a fuck either way. If he gets hit then maybe he can fucking forget his problems for once. It’d be a pain in the ass, though. 

His feet take him into town. Katsuki finds himself standing in front of the Ramen shop. Admittedly, he’s been here…a lot. Probably more than he should. Which. Katsuki grimaces. It’s not that he doesn’t like to cook— he does. He just. Forgets. And by the time he stops carving shit and realizes what time it is, it’s too late to even really try. So. He doesn’t. But yeah. Katsuki guesses he shouldn’t be so surprised to find himself standing here.  

It’s the way his stomach rumbles, though, that has him sighing and pushing his way inside. 

Warmth drapes across him like a well-worn blanket, easing the evening’s chill from his body. Katsuki’s mouth waters at the savory smells drifting their way through their lobby— familiar smells that somehow make him feel a little more at ease. His gaze drifts to the counter, locking onto the recognizable shape of Shitty hair tucked behind the counter and entangling in that bright-eyed stare that always seems to follow him around when he comes. Katsuki grits his teeth, shoulders creeping up to his ears because that weird feeling tumbles in his chest and his palms sweat and that stare is just. Too fucking much, right now. Like. Like Shitty hair sees him. Because there’s a crease forming just over his brow, that bright smile of his dimming a little as concern crowds his expression and fuck this is just what Katsuki doesn’t need. More hurdles of people worried about him and other bullshit of the like. 

He’s had enough of that shit and he’s so fucking tired of tripping and falling on his face. Hell, he’s half tempted to turn around and walk right back out the door but now Shitty hair’s opening that stupid mouth of his because of course he is. Katsuki’s feet stick to the floor, hand drifting up to crank up one of his hearing aids, leaving him to suffer his fate. 

“—just your usual, bro?” 

Katsuki blinks. Oh. He’s just asking him about his usual. Something unclenches in his chest at that, and he grunts, shoving his hand back into his pocket. Shitty hair beams, but it’s wobbly around the edges. “Okie dokie,” he says. “Eight hundred yen.” 

He hands over the cash, gaze fixed on the counter. There’s a stack of loose papers just beneath the register’s monitor— Katsuki catches glimpses of pencil scratched across the paper scraps. More sketches. Seems like Shitty hair likes to doodle. That weird feeling taps harder against the insides of his ribs and Katsuki has to resist reaching up to rub at his sternum. Fucking, ugh. He doesn’t know what’s more annoying— the feeling itself, or the fact that Katsuki can’t. Pinpoint. What the fuck it is or why he’s feeling it. Like. Where the fuck is the logic? Those are doodles. Nothing important. And Shitty hair? He’s just some guy at a ramen shop he’s only said a handful of words to like, ever. Even now, Katsuki says nothing while he waits for his stupid change because he doesn’t want to. All he wants is to claw himself out of his own fucking skin because existence is stupid and he hates it. So fucking much. 

But that’s…it. 

So why the fuck does this feeling keep coming back? 

“You know…I uh. I can’t help but notice you seem…tense? Today?” 

Katsuki’s jaw ticks. He says nothing. 

“Just. I mean you’re usually tense, I guess, but you seem…worse. And I…I know we don’t talk, but, um…” 

When Katsuki sticks him with his glare, Shitty hair’s wringing at his hands, sharp teeth poking into his lip. He shrinks under the scrutiny, and Katsuki thinks maybe he’s gotten him to shut the fuck up, but the idiot keeps going. 

“Listen I guess I just wanna let you know that you can. Talk. If you want.” 

Shitty hair keeps talking and Katsuki’s head is just getting louder and louder. His palms are sweating and his chest is tight and his head throbs and, and—

“And I’m sorry if it’s overstepping a line, but—” 

—that ticking time bomb inside him sparks. And he blows. 

“Shut the fuck up!” 

His voice booms. Echoes through the ramen shop loud enough that Katsuki can hear it clear as day despite how low his hearing aids are. It’s loud, and Shitty hair flinches. Jerks backwards and slips. Katsuki can even hear the crack of his head against the shelves behind him, a sound that makes him jolt. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. He darts forward, heart in his throat, hands catching against the counter so he can lean over it. 

And. Fuck. Shitty hair— he’s. He’s crumpled on the floor and that’s when Katsuki fucking panics. He vaults over the counter, curses falling from his lips, and scrambles to the prone form. Except when he reaches for him, Shitty hair blinks, unfocused eyes going wide and he flinches all over again, a terror of the likes Katsuki’s never seen before stamped across his features. Katsuki goes stiff, hands hovering between them, chest clenching in ways he doesn’t fully understand. Fuck. Fuck. “Hey,” he croaks. “Hey, s’okay. I…I didn’t mean it. Shit, m’sorry, are you okay?” 

Shitty hair peeks at him. He…he doesn’t look good, fuck. His skin is pale and he’s—he’s shaking like a fucking leaf and, fuck, shit—anxiety twists in Katsuki’s chest like a rusty knife in cheap wood. He seems…unfocused, almost. Like he’s looking at Katsuki and seeing something that’s not actually here. Shitty hair blinks, slow, dazed, and reaches a shaky hand to his head. It comes away smudged with red, and Katsuki watches him stare at it as though confused. “Ow,” he says. Fuck. 

“Here, lemme…lemme help you up.” 

Katsuki says it like a certainty, but he hesitates. Shitty hair looks scared shitless and reaching for him feels wrong, so he just. Offers a hand. There’s a whole beat where it lingers there in the space between them, dangling uselessly. Shitty hair stares, face twisting with an array of expressions Katsuki can’t even begin to decipher and he thinks for a minute that he’s just gonna bat Katsuki’s hand away and tell him to leave, which, fuck, would be deserved. But then he reaches out with a quaking hand and takes it. Katsuki lets out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding and reaches for his other hand to help him stand. Which. Shitty hair’s legs nearly buckle beneath him the second Katsuki hauls him up, and his eyes roll back into his head and yeah, fuck , that’s not good. He stumbles, cursing as he grabs at Shitty hair’s shirt to keep him from hitting the floor again. 

“Fuck, don’t pass out on me.” 

“Sorry,” Shitty hair slurs, voice small and wobbly and distant. Quiet. Katsuki drags him to the stool behind the register and curses his stupid, shitty self. 

“Don’t apologize, fuck. Just. Sit.” He deposits Shitty hair on the stool, gaze darting to the too-red hair. He’s definitely bleeding— Katsuki can see the shine of it under the lights, wet and definitely too damn much of it. He glances around, gaze landing on a stack of napkins off to the side. They’re not the greatest thing in the world but fuck, it’s better than nothing. So he leans over and swipes a handful, brushing against Shitty hair, who goes all stiff at the movement. Which. Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek to keep the curses from spilling out. “Sorry,” he mutters instead. He takes care to move slower, makes sure Shitty hair sees him before reaching up to press the wad of napkins to his head. Shitty hair still flinches again, face all screwed up. It’s…so wrong and Katsuki feels the guilt of it all gnaw at his insides harder. 

“What...what happened?” 

Katsuki’s head jerks up and he blinks. The other weirdo that works here hovers in the doorway, dark eyes wide as he takes in the scene. And fuck, is it a scene. Just. Fuck. He looks at Shitty hair and his pallor expression, the bloody wad of napkins he’s pressing onto his head, and grimaces. God, what the fuck does he even say? What is there to say? That he let his own bullshit get the best of him, and someone else got hurt because of it? Again? Katsuki almost fucking laughs at the irony of it all. God, he’s a disgrace, huh? He can’t even order a goddamn bowl of takeout without hurting someone. Pitiful. 

“I um. Slipped and hit my head.” Shitty hair’s voice is a croak at best, distorted and so fucking quiet . Distantly, Katsuki registers that it probably sounds like that because his hearing aids are still turned down really fucking low. But his hands are too full to let go and fix it, so he doesn’t. 

The nervous twig’s brows furrow, and he shuffles closer. “May I see?” 

Katsuki bites his lip, gaze flickering to Shitty hair, who nods. And fuck, what else can he do but listen? So Katsuki pulls away, bloody wad of napkins clutched in his fist as he watches whats-his-name peer at the gash on Shitty hair’s head. His frown deepens, and Katsuki feels his throat tighten. 

“It’s bleeding a lot, but…I think you should be okay— it doesn’t look deep enough for stitches. Let me get the first aid kit.” He darts back towards the kitchen, leaving them both alone all over again. Katsuki bites his lip and holds out the wad of napkins, gesturing. 

“Can I…?” 

Shitty hair closes his eyes, head jerking in a tiny nod. So, Katsuki reaches out and resumes pressing the napkins against the gash as gently as he can while still applying pressure. And Shitty hair sags in his seat, looking like absolute garbage and Katsuki feels like garbage because it’s his fault this shit happened to start with, and now he’s left standing here, awkwardly staunching the bleeding with a wad of napkins of all fucking things because he feels so pitifully guilty and he doesn’t even really know why. 

Whats-his-name returns, then, a red bag in tow. Katsuki catches the flash of an embroidered white cross stitched onto the front flap before it goes out of view. There’s a beat where the dude fucks around with it and then he’s in Katsuki’s sight-line again, a bottle of peroxide in hand. “Here,” he says, voice low. Katsuki blinks at it. Oh. Okay. Right. First aid. He reaches for it, chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

He has. No fucking clue what he’s doing. Hell, he thought twiggy dude was gonna shove him aside or something, or Shitty hair’d ask him to go. But neither happens and Katsuki finds himself carefully soaking some gauze with peroxide and dabbing it at the oozing gash on Shitty hair’s head. ‘Course, he flinches again, face all scrunched and Katsuki curses himself for the thousandth time in the past twenty minutes. He gets more clean gauze and resumes pressing down on the gash, muttering more apologies under his breath because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to do. 

“Are you okay, Kirishima?” Nervous twig asks. “Is there anything I can get you?” 

Shitty hair— Kirishima—frowns. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “N-no. I think I’m okay. Thanks, though.” 

Nervous twig eyes him for a moment longer, those thin lips of his drawn tight. For a moment, Katsuki thinks he might argue or press harder, but he deflates instead, lips parting and shoulders drooping in a soundless sigh. “If you’re sure,” he murmurs, so fucking quiet that Katsuki has to strain to hear it. He shuffles back, gaze dancing to the front. “I’ll, um. I’ll close the store for a bit. Catch up on some orders…let me know if you need anything or if the bleeding doesn’t stop.” 

Kirishima smiles, a dim, tired thing. “Thanks, Amajiki.” 

And then they’re alone. 

Katsuki’s suddenly all to aware of how fucking close they are— he’s got one hand pressed to the top of Kirishima’s head and the other hesitantly braced on his slim shoulder because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to do with it. And Kirishima’s just. Sitting here all slumped and shit, looking half a second from passing the fuck out and that has white hot nerves burning just beneath his skin. It’s fucking confusing. Because why the hell does he care, so much? Kirishima—Shitty hair— is just a stranger. A nonfactor. A blip in Katsuki’s life. 

And yet…his mind jumps to that stupid fucking sketch on the back of that reciept that’s still tucked in his fucking wallet. That stupid fucking sketch on that stupid fucking reciept that was given to him with a too bright, too sweet smile. A smile Katsuki finds trained on him way too damn much, a smile he doesn’t…deserve. He grimaces. Fuck. 

“M’sorry,” he says again. He stares at the too-white gauze clutched in his grasp and grinds his teeth, chest still too tight with a fucktonne of unnamed things Katsuki doesn’t have the faintest idea how to decipher. “Just. Had a shit day. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to yell— ” 

A hesitant touch of his arm has his fumbled words grinding to a halt. Kirishima smiles— it’s still too small, but it’s warm. “S’okay,” he says. “I shouldn’t have pushed.” 

Katsuki frowns. He hears the quiet apology, and it feels. Wrong, somehow. Which is even more fucking confusing, because, well. Twenty minutes ago, Katsuki’d fucking agree. He shouldn’t have pushed. Katsuki doesn’t have any interest in divulging his private bullshit or deep conversations, he’s just here for some goddamn food. But…he bites his lip, the flash of terror shadowed across Kirishima’s face burned into his memory like a brand. 

Something twists in his chest. 

He fixes his gaze on the gauze and shoves the twinge to the back of his mind because fuck that. If Kirishima insists it’s fine, it’s fine. They’re even, or whatever. He’ll just. Make sure he’s okay and move the fuck on. 

Yeah. 

Katsuki leans forward, carefully peeling up the gauze to peer at the gash. It glistens with red, but it doesn’t seem to be actively bleeding, for once. A sigh eases past his lips, and a knot loosens in his chest. Thank fuck. “Looks like it’s stopped bleeding,” Katsuki mutters. “So you should be fine. Or whatever.” 

There’s a soft snort. Kirishima leans back, bemusement sparkling in those bright eyes of his. “You’re not very good at the whole doctor thing, huh?” His tone is lighter, teasing, and the shift nearly has Katsuki’s head spinning. His face twitches, as though unsure whether or not to grin or scowl or roll his eyes or all the above. He settles for a huff and a frown, and steps back, hands falling down to his sides. 

“Fuck off. I’m great at this shit.” 

Kirishima chuckles. “Well, I guess I do feel a bit better. So maybe you’re not terrible. ” 

“Good. Because I’m the goddamn best at first aid.” He balls up the bloody gauze in his fist and leans back against the counter, chin raised, which is apparently fucking hilarious because Kirishima snickers some more. Something soothes inside Katsuki at the sight, and he finds himself grinning too. Which. Is probably weird, how easy this fucking stranger can make him smile. But something about this small moment feels…right, somehow. So Katsuki doesn’t bother analyzing it. He just grins, and Kirishima grins with him. And for a tiny sliver of a moment, his head’s quiet and Katsuki feels…okay. 

Chapter Text

“Hey, Ashido. It’s...it’s me. I just wanted to let you know I’m somewhere safe.”  

The recording plays over and over and over again until it’s all he hears. He’s memorized it. Hears it in his sleep. Agonizes over it. Seethes over it. 

Because of course Eijirou doesn’t give anything away. It’s all he says. One simple, stupid, absolutely infuriating sentence that has anger curdling in his chest and boiling through his skin until he’s fit to screaming. Because safe? That implies he’s done something wrong. That Eijirou thinks he’s better off without him. Eijirou, who he’s given everything to. Every thought, every action, every goddamn thing he’s done has been for Eijirou. And the ungrateful son of a bitch has just up and left him, galavanting off to god knows where. Or. Well. Where is a simple thing to find. Tracing phone calls is something he can do in his sleep and he’s already deduced that it’s a landline. 

A landline for some rickety little ramen shop down the coast. 

He just needs time. Time to get there, to investigate…

He runs a hand through his hair, a bitter, callous laugh spilling from his lips. Yes, and when he does, he’ll find Eijirou and drag his sorry ass home, and never let him see the light of day ever again. 

🪸

Eijirou blinks at the soft light of dawn, dusting sand off his shirt and fighting off a yawn. It’s early—a glance at his cheap, gas station watch he got earlier this week while hanging out with Kaminari after a shift says it’s barely seven. Which means he has plenty of time to walk over to the sento and clean up before work. Still, Eijirou finds himself pausing to stare out at the waves that lap against the shore, dark and glazed with highlights of pinks and oranges from dawn’s early morning light glowing in the sky overhead. There’s a peace, he feels, at the sight, and Eijirou absently wishes he could just stay here and draw it all instead. 

But he can’t. Partially because, well, he doesn’t have anything to draw with. But also because he needs to go to work. The reason why comes almost instantaneously in how his stomach rumbles, reminding him how long it’s been since he’s eaten food. Eijirou closes his eyes and sighs. Yeah, okay. He needs to go. 

Eijirou stands, and stops, a spell of dizziness crashing over him like a wave slamming into the surf. The back of his head throbs and he grimaces, eyes slamming shut. Ugh. His head. It still hurts, which all things considered, shouldn’t be surprising considering how hard he hit it when he fell yesterday. Hell, it’s nothing short of a miracle he didn’t need stitches. Eijirou wouldn’t entirely be surprised if he has a concussion, or something. He bites his lip and squints at the sand, trying to assess how blurry it looks. A pale seashell glows in the morning’s shadow, its outlines clear as can be. Okay. Cool. He straightens slowly, face twitching with a grimace at the throbbing that doesn’t stop. 

Maybe he does have a concussion. 

Panic twists in his gut like a lance. Eijirou sucks in a breath, and another, hands fisting into the material of his sand-coated t-shirt, gaze latching onto the rosy sky. It’s okay. He’s okay. Concussion or no, he’ll just take it easy. It’ll be fine. No need to go to the clinic. No need to dodge questions, come up with a cover story for the faded bruises and ill-hidden scars. 

He just. Needs to go get that bath. And eat. 

Yeah. 

Eijirou stoops with care, teeth gritting at the throbbing of his head, and gathers his things. Which, is mostly just his knapsack of clothes and money, and the towel he bought to sleep on. It’s a nice towel—bright red, with the logo of one of his favorite comic book heroes stamped across it. He’d also gotten it at the gas station. Kaminari had teased him, saying it was for kids, but, well. Eijirou didn’t really care. He needed something to sleep on, and he likes Crimson Riot. So he got it, and has yet to regret it. It’s soft, and provides a nice barrier against the sand. 

Not that the sand isn’t comfortable! It is. Just. Even more so, now that he has something a little softer to lay on. 

He drapes it over his shoulder with a sigh, and sets off for town. The walk to the sento is an easy one, thankfully. No big hills or rugged terrain. He’s able to just follow the beach, which is thankfully still quiet in the early morning. Of course, his head pounds something fierce, and he takes care to go slow. Slow enough that dawn’s colors begin to fade to a bright blue by the time he gets to the sento’s massive, decorative doors. The familiar humid air curls around him the second Eijirou pushes through them, and an easy smile warms his face as he greets the old lady Shimizu. “Good morning, Shimizu-san,” he chirps. 

Shimizu smiles back, expression warm and soothing. “Kirishima-kun, good morning! I was just thinking about you.” She sets a stack of towels down onto the counter and gestures. “Please, your laundry.” 

Eijirou feels himself flush, and he fumbles with his stuffed knapsack. “O-oh, here.” He pulls free his balled up, dirty clothes, and hands them over. He also tries to hand over some yen, which Shimizu waves away with an indignant huff. 

“Nonsense. It’s on the house.” She whisks away before Eijirou can argue, and he’s left standing there staring after her. Just like the past few times he’s visited. And just like the past few times, he leaves a couple of yen on the front desk. It’s not much, but it makes him feel better about the whole affair. 

Eijirou sighs and shuffles back to the sento. 

Thankfully, blissfully, he’s alone. He usually is—it’s too early for the fishermen to be here, too early for anyone, really—but there’s always a small ball of anxiety that rattles in his gut every time he pushes the door open. And every time, he’s met with the quiet echo of water dripping from a faucet and the blanket of steam rising from the sento’s bath. 

Eijirou pads over to the stool he’s grown accustomed to sitting at, setting his measly shampoo and soap onto the ledge and busying himself with stripping. He avoids his reflection, throat tight at the whisper of a thought of his fading bruises, and settles for grabbing the shower head. A sigh eases out of him as warm water wets his hair and slides down his back. The throb of his head eases just a little, too, which Eijirou’s grateful for. Pain seeps out of him and washes down, down, down the drain with every passing second. His eyes drift closed, another sigh easing from his lips. He relishes in it for as long as he’s able. 

‘Course, washing’s harder. It’s tender to the touch, his head, and Eijirou’s face twists with a grimace as he oh so delicately goes through the motions of washing his hair—a necessary evil, seeing as he only comes here every three or so days. He squints through the bubbles, watching swirls of pink dance around the drain at his feet. Soon, he’ll have to get some dye. 

He wonders if he’d be able to do it here. 

Once he’s clean, Eijirou pads his way across the room to the bath. The hot water licks at his skin, warmth bleeding right into his very core, and he leans back against the edge, tension unspooling from him in seconds. He tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. Shiplap wood, old and weathered, with a smattering of fans that spin slowly in an effort to scatter the humid air. Eijirou’s eyes hood. His mind wanders, drifting like sand in the current, swirling around fleeting thoughts and ideas and images. It settles on fleeting glimpses of smoldering red, of a wild, daring grin, and Eijirou’s heart skitters all weird in his chest. His hand drifts up to his sore head, fingers grazing just below the gash, and he frowns.

Somewhere deep down, Eijirou’s aware he should probably be mad. Or offended. Bakugou was kind of a huge jerk, after all. But, well. He was and then very much wasn’t—Eijirou’s skin tingles with the phantom memory of those rough hands gently pressing napkins and gauze to his head, the murmured apologies, awkward and hoarse and oh so painfully genuine. It’s enough to make him dizzy all over, just thinking about it. Eijirou sinks lower into the tub and squeezes his eyes shut, hand falling back into the warm water. 

Gentle touches are a scarcity, for him. 

There’s a lump in his throat. Eijirou swallows around it, pushing the thought back into the shadows of his mind to be looked at later, under the blanket of the night with nothing but the stars and the waves as his company, where there’s no risk of another soul to see. Where he’s not already at his most vulnerable, with only the bathwater to cover the fading bruises decorating his skin. His breath hitches, a hand creeping along his side, pressing into the mark there. The ache’s long since faded—if he were to look, it’d be little more than a yellowed smudge, probably. 

He doesn’t look. 

No, instead, Eijirou looks at the tiled beachscape glittering in the morning’s soft light, admiring the swirled patterns making up the crashing waves meeting the bespeckled sand. He wonders how long it took to tile it all. How many hours were spent, painstakingly picking and placing colors just so? How long until the full picture was put together, until it made sense? 

He wonders until his hands are pruny and he needs to climb out, towel off, put his clean clothes on. All the while, he doesn’t look at the bruise on his side, all the while, he wonders. 

Eijirou finds his clean clothes folded neatly inside his cubby with his pack. It’s something Shimizu offered to do his second time here. “Less questions, that way,” she’d said with a kind wink, something Eijirou couldn’t refuse or deny. He takes the bundle, carefully tucking it into his pack. He’s got at least three of everything, now, not counting the uniform tees. It all hardly fits—his pack is near bursting at the seams. But it’s all his, purchased with his hard earned money, and despite how little he has, Eijirou can’t help the smile that flickers across his lips alongside the spark of pride. 

It’s not much, but it’s his, and right now that’s all he needs. 

🪸

“The first step to making ramen, is washing your hands.” Toyomitsu winks, smile jolly as he bends over the small metal sink. He pumps some soap onto his hands and washes them vigorously. “There’s aprons hanging on the hooks right here—” He nods to the latticework wall that separates the tiny little prep area from the stove. Sure enough, there’s gleaming metal hooks with a hodgepodge of aprons hanging from them, some with clearly visible stains or tatters. “—I recommend wearin’ one, just in case. You never know when you’ll spill broth on yourself, and it’s always better to spill it on an apron than your clothes.” 

Eijirou bites his lip, thinking of his measly three shirts and two uniform tees, and nods. He watches as Toyomitsu turns to grab one of the aprons—an old, yellow thing, with bubbled kanji stitched along the breast that reads Fatgum, the same apron Eijirou always sees his boss wear. He wonders, idly, if it’s a nickname as he reaches for the soap. 

Today’s the day where he finally gets to learn how to work in the kitchen. There’s a tingle of excitement at the base of his spine—finally, he gets to do more than just polish the countertop and wait around for customers. Finally, he gets to be a little more useful. His new shoes, a simple pair of red chucks, squeak against the old tiled floor as he turns around.

He hovers, brow knitting, gaze sticking to the aprons. There’s so many to pick from…does it matter which one he uses? Eijirou bites his lip. His hands twitch, and he reaches up, grabbing a faded, red one he hasn’t seen either Toyomitsu or Amajiki use. The strings are frayed at the edges, and there’s a dark stain down the front. He throws it over his head and ties the strings around his waist, gaze darting to Toyomitsu, who smiles on, approving. 

Something in him settles, a little, at that. 

“Our broths take quite some time to make, as we render them all ourselves. So we usually make those ahead of time, and store them for use the next day,” Toyomitsu explains. He reaches up for a shelf over the long, iron stove, pulling down a couple of large pots. “These bad boys are our stock pots. We usually make chicken stock and pork stock, since those are our popular dishes.” He sets two stock pots onto a couple of burners and shows Eijirou where the various other tools he may need are, like the measuring glasses, the knives, cutting boards, ladles. He takes Eijirou to the tiny walk-in freezer—which barely counts, he thinks, as Toyomitsu himself can hardly fit—and pulls out some of their ingredients. Some of it goes in the fridge to thaw for tomorrow. The genkotsu—or pork bones—come with them back to the prep counter. 

They pull out some chicken necks and backs, too, which goes in a bowl of water in the sink to soak. “We wanna soak these for at least thirty minutes,” Toyomitsu says, “replacing the water regular-like. We want these bones nice and clean.” The pork bones don’t get the same treatment. “Chicken’s a delicate meat. Needs to be treated just right.” 

They then turn their focus to the aromatics. Toyomitsu preps a myriad of ginger, onion, garlic, and long green onion, all the while pausing to check on the chicken. He shows Eijirou how to wield a knife so as to not cut himself, how to fill the stock pots and turn on the stovetops, how to keep his station as organized as possible. “There’s no one way to be organized, of course. But you gotta make sure you know what goes where, so you don’t put the wrong ingredient in the wrong place.” 

The chashu is next. Toyomitsu tells him they get their meat sourced from a local butcher in the next town over, and they cut and skin it themselves. He walks Eijirou through it with a calm patience, showing him how to carefully peel and slice. It’s…it’s kind of nice. Relaxing, in a way. He finds himself falling into the beats of it all with an ease, the warmth of the stove and heating stock like a warm blanket that curls around him with a familiarity. 

Toyomitsu produces a spool of twine from a drawer and waves it. “We always make sure to tie the belly with some butcher’s twine, so it stays nice while it simmers.” He shows Eijirou how to do that, too, thick fingers moving deftly through the motions with a practiced ease. 

The genkotsu and aromatics and chashu goes into one pot, the chicken necks and backs into the other. Toyomitsu sets a timer for two hours for the pork. “Once the chicken pot comes to a boil, we’ll drain ‘er and wash the bones again. Remember, we gotta treat chicken right,” he says, waving a ladle and winking, grin wide. Eijirou nods along and prays he’ll remember it all. He’s glad, suddenly, that the store is closed and empty. Prep hours, as Toyomitsu calls them. The perfect time to learn, Eijirou supposes. Less distractions with no customers demanding attention. 

Once the pot with the chicken hits a boil, Toyomitsu grabs some heavy duty oven mitts, worn with use, and carefully carries the pot to the sink, where he dumps out the hot water. “We wash these bones under cold water,” he says with a grin. “Make sure you really get those thumbs in there, now. Like this.” He shows Eijirou, gently massaging out any leftover blood. “I know it seems like a lot, but it helps the overall flavor. And that’s what we’re after.” 

Makes sense. Flavor is pretty important, what, with them being a ramen restaurant and all. But washing isn’t the only thing they do to accomplish this—they also cut the bones down to a couple centimeter long chunks, as apparently that also helps flavor seep into the broth. They re-add the now chopped chicken bones and water to the pot, and bring it back up to a boil. 

“Now’s the time I usually wash the cutting board and knives, since we just had chicken on it.” Toyomitsu gestures to the sink. “You can go ahead and do that while we wait, if you’d like.” 

“Yeah, sure!” Eijirou grabs the cutting board. He turns, takes one step, two, and—and his foot slips out from beneath him, sending Eijirou crashing down to the floor, hard. The clatter of the cutting board and knife hitting the tile ricochets through his head like a gunshot, and suddenly, Eijirou’s back on that godforsaken kitchen floor, broken ceramic littered around him like confetti, a voice screaming, “This is all your damn fault! Look at this mess! You seriously can’t even hold a stupid plate without dropping it? Well, here!” Another smash. Eijirou flinches, gasping, wet tears dripping down his face. He curls in on himself, trembling. “There’s your fucking plates. Clean it up and maybe I won’t have to choke some manners into you, you worthless piece of garbage.” 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. He fumbles, shaking hands sliding across the bleary, smudged floor. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean, I’ll—I’ll clean it up, I promise.” 

“Woah, woah, Kirishima, my boy, it’s alright. Easy, easy, it’s just an accident.” 

Toyomitsu’s gentle, calm voice pierces the veil of terror that’s overtaken him, and the image of the old kitchen floor littered with broken pieces of ceramic fractures. Eijirou blinks, chest heaving, the familiar warm tile of Shiodamari’s floor greeting him as he blinks away the thick tears. Eijirou swallows around the lump in his throat, fingers curling as though to hold onto the tile like a tether, uncaring about the grease and dirt. “Sorry,” he croaks. Toyomitsu hums, soothing. 

“Don’t apologize. You’re okay. Just breathe for me, alright?” 

Breathe. Yeah. That’s. He can do that. Eijirou squeezes his eyes shut, breathing in, out, in again. The shakes slow, his heart stops hammering, the ground feels steadier beneath him. Eijirou sits up, shoulder pressing into a cabinet. He reaches up and swipes at his cheeks with the heel of a palm. “Sorry,” he says again. “I—I mean, um.” He bites his lip, ducking his head. 

“It’s alright.” Toyomitsu’s kneeling beside him, close, but far enough for Eijirou to have a little space. A rush of gratitude swells within him like a rising tide, threatening to drown him. Eijirou blinks, vision blurring all over again. Toyomitsu shifts, slow and purposeful, and offers a hand. “Need help?” 

And all at once, he’s hit with another dizzying deja vu. Only, this one brings to mind gruff but gentle apologies and a careful, gentle touch. Eijirou gulps, nods. His hand shakes when he reaches out, but Toyomitsu doesn’t comment on it. He just smiles, soft and easy and tinged with a color of sadness, and helps Eijirou up onto his feet. Which. Is hard—his legs buckle, whole body still trembling despite his efforts to make it stop. Toyomitsu steadies him. “Easy.” He guides Eijirou out of the kitchen and beyond the bar to a stool. “Why don’t you sit awhile? I can bring you a bowl of whatever you’d like.” 

Eijirou’s arms curl around himself. He averts his gaze, hiding away from the gentle understanding, shame curling around his insides like cold, groping tentacles from some deep sea monstrosity, squeezing, pulling, tugging, taunting him with the abyss. “What about the stock?” he asks. 

“Eh, it’ll be alright.” Toyomitsu waves a hand. “There’s plenty of time before the next steps. You just sit and relax a bit, eat some food. I can bring some paper, too, if you’d like. Amajiki mentioned you like drawing.” 

Oh. Heat floods his face. “It’s—it’s just doodling.” 

“Nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with that at all.” 

He bustles away, leaving Eijirou staring after him, only to return with a small stack of paper and a pencil, which he leaves on the counter with a smile. “So, what would you like? Pork or chicken?” 

“Oh, um, I’m okay—” 

“My boy, I’ll pick myself if I have to.”

He shrinks, a little. Toyomitsu frowns, brow knitting, and guilt laps at Eijirou. He fixes his stare on the good grain, hands fiddling with the rough fabric of his apron, and murmurs, “Pork, please.” 

“Alright.” 

And it’s. It’s nice. Eijirou’s hands smooth across the stack of pages, fingers twitching a little when he plucks up the pencil. The quiet gurgle of boiling water and the quiet humming from Toyomitsu fills the space and soothes the tension vibrating beneath Eijirou’s skin. He scribbles some mindless doodles—an abstract shape, a rock, the contents of the shelf across from him—only pausing when Toyomitsu reappears with a steaming bowl of ramen, which he sets in front of Eijirou, patting the counter. “Here you are, son. Let me know if you need anything else, alright? I’ll tend to the chicken broth until you’re ready to jump back in.” 

“O—okay, if you’re sure—” 

“Of course! Please, eat!” Toyomitsu gestures to the bowl, grin wide and merry, and Eijirou’s so painfully overwhelmed with this simple little gesture. His eyes burn something fierce, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking apart all over again. He smiles back, a wobbly, sad thing, and reaches for the bowl. It’s a simple dish—some chashu pork, broth, noodles, and egg, but it’s achingly good and warm, and Eijirou melts a little in his seat with every bite. By the time he’s done, he feels. Okay. Enough that he feels confident he can carry his bowl back to the kitchen sink before rejoining Toyomitsu at the stove. 

The rest of the prep time passes without incident. Eijirou learns a lot—how to make the special shoyu sauce, how to periodically skim the broth of extra fats, how to store the broth when it’s done. They use glass jars, labeled with the date made and kept in the fridge. Toyomitsu even shows him how they heat up the broth for the dinner rush. 

‘Course, he’s back on the register at that point. Not that there’s many customers beyond the handful of fishermen stopping by on their way off the docks and Kaminari swinging in every hour or so to pick up some Ubereats orders, chattering about some of his interactions with people the past week. 

“Seriously, dude, be glad these people don’t come into the restaurant.” He leans with his elbows on the counter, rolling his eyes and huffing dramatically. “I swear the last guy was trying to lure me inside to strangle me, or something. He kept asking about my choker and, like, skirting around asking if I’m into BDSM. Totally freaky, like, who just asks that?” 

Eijirou can’t help but snicker. “Sounds freaky,” he says. 

“I know, right? Like, jesus.” 

Kaminari’s always fun to talk to. Eijirou looks forward to the nights he’s driving—his dorky demeanor breaks up the monotony tenfold over. Sometimes, he thinks about asking to hang out again. They have, a few times. But mostly when Kaminari asks. And Eijirou wants to ask, too—he likes Kaminari. He’s friendly and easygoing, and doesn’t ask too many questions when his hands shake and his mind frays out of focus. He just cracks some jokes and gets Eijirou laughing again and it’s nice, not having to contend with the overwhelming pressure to explain himself. 

So yeah. He wants to initiate, but…well. He never manages to. 

Between Kaminari’s drop ins are long stretches of quiet, where Eijirou keeps himself busy by polishing the counter, taking inventory, or doodling. The sun sinks its way below the horizon, the blanket of nighttime darkening the little seaside town in her wake, and with it, creeps closing time, closer and closer. 

The bell jingles. Eijirou’s head pops up, heart skittering in his chest when his gaze collides with a familiar, fiery one. A grin splits his face. “Hey, Bakugou! Want your usual?” 

Bakugou grunts an affirmative. He stalks up to the counter, money already in hand. Eijirou takes it, ignoring the way his fingertips tingle when they graze Bakugou’s. He turns, shouting, “Shoyu ramen, extra chili paste!” 

“Got it!” 

“How’s your head?” 

Eijirou nearly drops the money. He fumbles, face heating, and laughs all warbly and awkward. “Oh, um, fine! It’s a little sore, but nothing too bad.” 

Another grunt. Bakugou’s gaze lingers, settling on him like the sunlight across the sea. Eijirou busies himself with opening the register, trying and failing to open it once, twice, hands trembling a little under the heady scrutiny. He gets it open, finally, and fumbles with the change. “Here you go, dude,” he says, peeking up through his bangs as he offers the change and, yep, Bakugou’s still staring. 

The coins clink together when they fall into Bakugou’s waiting hand. Those deft fingers of his curl around them, slivers of old cuts and scars catching in the light, before Bakugou retracts his hand and stuffs the change into his leather jacket’s pocket. 

“You sure draw a lot.” Bakugou jerks his head towards the counter, where Eijirou’s scattered doodle pages lay. And, well, he’s not wrong—so far, he’s filled up at least three and a half pages. Eijirou huffs a laugh and rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. 

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s been pretty slow.” 

He’s kind of not sure they’ve ever not been slow. Not that Eijirou minds. There’s a sense of peace that permeates the shop—through the whole town, really. An ease. Eijirou feels like he can breathe, here. Like he’s free to just…be. 

Maybe that’s why he likes it here so much. 

“You…you mostly just sketch shit?” 

Eijirou blinks. Bakugou shifts, arms crossed, expression almost stony. His shoulders are taught, rigid, and he kind of looks a little bit like he wants to just. Implode. But he keeps his focus trained on Eijirou, watching, waiting. Eijirou bites his lip. 

“Oh, um. Yeah. Like I said, it’s just doodles.” Another strained laugh wrenches out of him, and Eijirou shrugs. “I’ve never gone to school for it or anything. S’just a hobby.” 

“S’good.” 

“What?” 

Bakugou nods to the paper. “Your sketches. They’re good.” 

And, oh. Eijirou’s face burns anew, and he ducks his head, scratching at his cheek. This is the second time someone’s complimented his silly little doodles, and still, his skin prickles and he wants to both burst with delight and hide away forever and it’s woefully confusing. Like. Well. For one, Eijirou can’t help but feel like his doodles aren’t anything special. They’re just. Doodles. Loose and sketchy and half formed ideas and vague shapes that bleed one into the next. Some are concrete—like the soaring bird, or the drifting boat. But those are few and far inbetween across his loose doodle pages. And two, he’s still getting used to drawing at all. Still getting used to being allowed to do things for fun. 

“Oh, um, thanks,” he says, lips curving into a small smile. Something flickers through Bakugou, then. The lines of tension keeping him rigid and stiff seem to ease, a little. Like the tide flowing out beneath the glow of the moon. He nods, seemingly satisfied. 

It’s then that Toyomitsu calls, “One shoyu ramen, with extra chili paste!” 

Eijirou whirls around and takes the takeaway bowl, packaging it up in a bag and handing it off. “Here you go, Bakugou!” 

Bakugou takes the bag and mutters a quiet, “Thanks,” before turning on his heel and stalking out, leaving Eijirou staring after him, wondering.

Chapter Text

Going into town is Katsuki’s least favorite activity, like, ever. 

People are irritating as fuck. Obviously. With their annoying ass small talk and stupid fucking questions and pointed looks. Katsuki loathes it all. If he could, he’d never leave his goddamn house. He’d live and breathe his woodworking, survive solely off of spite and sawdust. But that’s not fucking possible, regrettably, and Katsuki is completely and wholly out of food. And he can’t eat fucking take-out every damn meal. 

So. He’s out in town. In the broad fucking daylight. Yippee. 

Katsuki kicks down the kickstand of his bike, killing the ignition. The town itself is small as fuck—there’s a smattering of shops down the main strip, and some surrounding houses. A little post office. And then, of course, the docks where the fishing boats anchor. So his options are pretty fucking limited, unless he wants to drive a town or two over, or take the time to drive a couple of hours to the big city, but like hell does he want to do that. Luckily, they have a little convenience store here, where he can get enough shit to survive off of and continue his strike of isolation from everyone and everything. 

He slides off his bike and yanks off his helmet, squinting into the afternoon sun. The convenience store, named Lunch Rush, a stupid name since the place is open damn near all hours of the day, is a dinky little place. The building’s a squat structure, with a roof that’s missing tiles and a foundation that seems like it’s bowing in the middle when he looks too close. There’s a sad little sign with peeling paint hanging beneath the awning, and the siding is cracked and so fucking faded, it’s impossible to know what color the wood’s supposed to be. Katsuki’s pretty sure this place’s been here since before the fucking dinosaurs. Inside is just as decrepit—old, buckling floors and a weird drip that seems to always be dripping into a forlorn bucket near the door, rain or shine. Somehow, the bucket’s always half full. Every damn time he looks. 

Katsuki wanders in, hands in his pockets. While the store’s old as shit, it’s got decent stuff. There’s some basics, like bread and milk and eggs, as well as shit like rice and ramen and some granola bars and other odds and ends. They also sell pre-made bentos, but Katsuki rarely gets those. He also doesn’t get any meat from here, either—if he wants fish, he can go down to the docks where the fishermen sell their shit fresh. Otherwise, he’s gotta make a trip. 

So he’s making due without. 

Not that he cooks all that much. Like. He can cook. He can cook damn well, thanks. But does he want to? Fuck no. Cooking takes effort he doesn’t have to give. It’s fine. He’s fine. 

He grabs what he wants, arms loaded, and makes his way to the tiny little counter near the front. The clerk sits perched on a stool behind it, an old and battered book cracked open near his elbow. There’s various little displays of knick-knacks and candies and shit dominating the limited space, as well as a giant ass, old register that looks like it’s begging to be put out of its fucking misery. Behind the clerk are warped shelves, lined with dusty bottles of sake and beer and other various liquors. He smiles at Katsuki, way too chipper for someone who never seems to leave this godforsaken place, and says…something. Fuck. Katsuki dumps his shit onto the counter and reaches up, twisting the dial on his aids to turn them up. Immediately, he’s slammed by a wall of sound—a fan, whirring in the corner, the hum of the refrigerators, that awful drip drip behind him, the trickle of music from a radio behind the counter. Katsuki grits his teeth, head already aching. 

“What?” he spits out. The clerk’s grin falters, a little. 

“Oh, sorry. I asked if that’s all for you.” 

No, he’s just walking to the counter for shits and giggles. Katsuki resists the urge to roll his eyeballs out of his head. “Yeah.” 

It takes ten minutes to get rung out. The register doesn’t have a scanner because it’s old as shit, so the dude has to ring it all by hand. He doesn’t say anything more, though, which, thank fuck. Katsuki’s barely able to focus as it is—the clack clack of the keys crashes alongside the drip drip and he’s balling his hands into fists so tight he can feel the bite of his nails against his palms in an effort to keep from screaming. He manages. Barely. 

But finally. Finally, the clerk rings him out and packs his shit into a couple of bags, and Katsuki forks over some yen and high-tails it the fuck out, teeth gritting something awful when the bell clacks obnoxiously against the glass door. 

Blegh. Stupid fucking noise. 

Katsuki stalks to his bike and plops his groceries on the ground so he can unbuckle the buckle of his side bags. They’re nice—supple leather, and large enough to carry a simple haul of groceries without being too obnoxious. Katsuki’d gotten them not long after getting the bike as a means of practicality. His bike is his independence. It made zipping through city streets a breeze, it meant he didn’t have to put up with shitty public transit and dealing with shitty people as a direct result, and obviously he needed a way to carry his shit to and fro from the office. So. Side bags. He doesn’t always have them strapped onto his bike—they’re not always necessary. But they’re damn good to have for shit like this. Katsuki carefully packs his groceries inside, ensuring the buckles are nice and secure because the last thing he needs is for his eggs to fly out and smack a windshield. 

Not that there’s many cars driving around in these parts. There’s probably only a couple hundred people living here, and most people walk or bike. And public transit does exist, for better or worse, so a lot of people around here use that shit when they need to travel outside the sleepy sea-side town. 

Not Katsuki. Obviously. 

He’s reaching for his helmet, ready to get the fuck out of here, when his gaze strays to the little shop across the way. It’s a stupid little bookshop. Katsuki’s passed it by a hundred fucking times. He’s never been inside, but the main window’s got painstakingly painted kanji that read Used books, Journals, and Audio Books! There’s some books propped up on the inside sill for display, too. Stupid shit, really. Except. Katsuki finds himself pausing, squinting. His hand falls to his side and he steps closer, closer, until he’s crossing the street. 

The books in the window wear their age. Faded colors, cracks or tears in the flimsy, paperback covers. Still, Katsuki recognizes a couple of titles. I Am a Cat, The Silent Cry, How Do You Live —this is the kind of shit he’s read years ago back in highschool. Which. Makes sense, he guesses, since this is a used book store. But those aren’t what’s snagged his attention. No, Katsuki finds himself staring at a simple, leatherbound book with a blank cover. Or, journal, he guesses. 

And all he can think about is one, too bright grin and a necklace of bruises. 

He scowls. What the fuck does he care about that weirdo? He doesn’t know him. Kirishima is a goddamn stranger—he’s just some dude working in a ramen shop. With shitty hair and weird, fading bruises, who flinched so hard he damn near cracked his own skull open and trembled with a terror of the likes Katsuki’s never seen. Which. Guilt broils up within him, sudden and scorching, making his chest go tight. Katsuki shoves it away, scowling, and lurches for the door handle. 

It’s. Quiet. 

Blissfully so. 

Tension drips off him as he stands on the worn out rug inside the doorway. Katsuki tilts his head as he surveys the space. Warm lamplight bathes the space in a gentle glow. There’s an assortment of old, mismatched rugs along the floor, worn down the middles where footsteps tramp most commonly. Bookshelves dominate the floorspace, their shelves packed tightly with books of all sizes and types. Handmade signs advertise certain genres or highlight certain works with carefully inked kanji. Katsuki finds himself wandering closer, peering at the titles on the spines. He’s not much of a reader. Like. Yeah, books are fucking fine or whatever. But it’s not his favorite hobby by a long shot. Still, the shop is…nice. 

It doesn’t take him long to find the journals. They’re hidden away in a back corner, underneath an old staircase roped off from customers. There’s spiral bound ones and multi-colored ones and sleek, leatherbound ones. Katsuki reaches out, fingers tracing along the spines. Unbidden, he thinks about the haphazard pages filled with penciled doodles and the way Kirishima smiled when he complimented them. Small and hesitant and warm. Something warm curls through his insides, and Katsuki scrunches his nose at the feeling. Fucking weird. He eyes the sign taped to the shelf. About ¥1800 apiece, huh? 

Katsuki pulls one free and cracks it open. The paper’s rough under his fingers, and blank. No lines across the pages. He bites the inside of his cheek. This is stupid. What the fuck is he even doing? He doesn’t need a stupid journal. What he needs is to get his ass back home so he can finish the damn table and get on to the next fucking order already. 

He snaps the journal shut and turns on his heel, stalking towards the back. It’s here, tucked between a doorway and a towering bookshelf, that the register sits. Another old thing, because this town us fucking ancient, apparently. Except it wears its age with a lot more grace, perched on a glass display case with a myriad of old texts inside with titles Katsuki doesn’t recognize. Clearly, they’re valuable if they’re being stored there, though. Spread across the top of the display case-turned counter is a massive, old ass book, with a cover that’s seen better days. An old wrinkly woman bends over it, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses sliding down her pointed nose. She hums, quiet and soft, bony hands smoothing gently across the old pages. “Well, Daichi, I think we can save this one yet, eh?” 

The massive cat sitting perched on a cushion at her elbow blinks slowly, whiskers drooping.

Katsuki clears his throat. Old lady looks up, blinking like her fucking cat, before her expression cracks into a warm smile. “Oh, hello there, lad. What can I do for you today?” 

He holds up the journal. It’s one of the plain, leatherbound ones. “I’m getting this.” 

“Alright. Twelve hundred yen.” 

He quirks a brow. Twelve hundred, huh? That’s a good chunk of change cheaper than the sign says. But like hell is he gonna point that out. No, he just forks over the money and goes on his merry way, one stupid journal clutched in his hands. 

🦀

Sweat drips down his brow. He maneuvers his chisel just so, digging into the wood once, twice, three times, the wood beneath the sharp edge giving way to the shape he’s been working towards for upwards of a week. Katsuki pauses, smoothes his thumb along the scale, lips flickering up into a grin. 

He’s so fucking close to finishing this third leg. All he’s doing now is the detail work, bringing these scales to life by carving in the intricate details and textures scales have. In the end, it looks almost fucking real. Like you could blink and suddenly the wood is flesh. Like it’s alive. Like the table is one moment away from breathing fire into a dining room or some shit. 

Katsuki blows away sawdust and fine curls of wood and squints at his handiwork. There’s a spot on the next scale over that doesn’t quite look right, so he bends closer, digs into the wood to carve out fine whisks, adding just that much more depth. He leans back and squints. There. Better. Katsuki reaches up to swipe at his forehead when the air stalls around him. He scowls, gaze bouncing to his phone. 

What the fuck is it now? 

He slaps the chisel down onto the workbench and slides off his stool, grimacing at the twinges in his back. Fuck, he’s been bent over for awhile. Though, he supposes he’d be bent over for even longer if his phone wasn’t fucking up the music. 

It better not be someone fucking calling him. 

Katsuki stalks over to where his phone sits by the speakers and squints at the screen. 

Hag glows back at him. Goddammit. He swipes his phone, reaching up to crank up the volume of his aids, and hits the stupid green button because as much as he wants to ignore the damn call, he knows the hag will fucking break through his phone to throttle him, probably, if he tries. Hell, last time he tried to ignore her, she nearly broke his fucking phone shooting off text after text after text. He had to email her from his laptop just to get her to shut the hell up long enough for him to get it to function so he could call her back. 

So. Answering is easier. 

Katsuki immediately taps the fucking microphone button, too, turning on his stupid captions. Because even though his aids are synched to his phone, it’s a good habit, or something. 

“What,” he barks. A sigh echoes in his ears. 

“Hello to you too.”  

“I’m fucking busy. What do you want?” 

His mother, Mitsuki, aka the hag, sighs again, sending a stream of indecipherable nonsense across his captions. “Am I not allowed to call my own son every now and again?”  

“Not if you don’t have any important shit to say.” 

“Oi, I always have important shit to say.”  

She doesn’t. She never fucking does. 

“Spit it out then, or I’m hanging up.”

“Fine. I just wanted to check in, see how things were where you are. Are you eating enough? Making friends?”  

He grits his teeth. “Fine. Bye.” 

“Katsuki, wait!”  

His thumb hovers over the red button. He doesn’t push it. 

Another sigh. “I’m just worried about you.” 

Katsuki’s jaw twinges. The kanji of the captions bleed together, blurring into black blotches. He grips his phone tight enough for his fingers to tingle, a little. “Well I’m fucking fine,” he snaps. 

“If you say so...” 

“I do.” 

A beat. 

“Have you spoken to Izuku-kun recently?” 

Katsuki has to physically resist from hurling his phone. “Why the fuck would I do that?” he spits. He’s shaking, insides alight with a raging fire threatening to spew out from every fiber of his being. 

“He’s worried about you, too, you know.”  

“Oh really? Well if he’s so goddamn worried, maybe he should’ve thought twice about taking that fucking promotion from me!” 

“Katsuki—” 

He hangs up. Slams his phone down onto the cart. The raging fire within boils over, and Katsuki lurches to the sad, piece of shit broom held together by duct tape and wails at the floor of his workshop with it, a scream rending from his throat. Over and over and over, until splinters fly and the broom is a mangled piece of shit. Only then does Katsuki let it fall to the floor, useless, tears dripping down his cheeks and chest heaving. He squeezes his eyes shut, hands curling into fists. 

Stupid fucking bitch of a mother. What the hell does she know? Huh? She doesn’t know shit. 

None of them do. 

Katsuki sucks in a shaky breath. Holds it. Counts. Lets it out. 

When he opens his eyes, the splintered remains of his broom stare back at him from where they’re scattered across his shop floor. Katsuki’s shoulders droop. The fire dissipates, leaving behind an empty husk where his heart’s meant to be. He swipes at his cheeks, all motivation gone. Fuck. He has half a mind to crawl into bed and curl under his covers and never come out, but, that’d just prove the shitty hag right. So instead he drops to his knees and begins to pick up all the pieces of his fucked up broom. 

Duct tape won’t save it this time. 

Guess he needs to buy a new one, now. 

Katsuki deposits the carnage into the trashcan, gaze sweeping across his shop. Organized chaos stares back. Racks of different types and sizes and shapes of wood line one wall. The main workbench dominates the space, the current leg in progress sitting in a clamp. The other legs’re stacked neatly and carefully against the opposite wall, waiting for the wood finish. He’s got a smaller workbench where he stores his tools, his saws, his safety gear. Smells of sawdust and wood permeate the air. 

It’s his haven. 

He huffs a sigh and rakes a hand through his sweat-damp hair. Well. Usually it is. Now, though, his skin crawls, his gut twists, his chest grows tight. Katsuki marches over to the workbench and grabs his tools, chucking them into the tool bag, before swiping his phone and killing the lights, escaping into the house. 

The too-dark, too-empty house. 

Katsuki’s gaze lands on the innocuous journal laying on his kitchen table. Immediately, thoughts of bright, cheery smiles fill his head, and Katsuki scowls. His hands twitch. He looks to the wall of boxes looming from the hall behind him, skin buzzing more. 

Fuck it. 

He swipes the damn journal and stomps to the genkan, shoving shoes onto his feet. The door’s slamming shut behind him before he can think twice. 

There’s not a single soul on the road. Sunset bleeds across the sky, painting the town in oranges and purples. Katsuki’s bike flies, unimpeded, wind tugging at his jacket, his jeans. He gets to Shiodamari with ease, engine thrumming beneath him ‘til he twists the key in the ignition. Katsuki stares. It’s lit up, because why the fuck wouldn’t it be. He can’t see much of anything from here, but his heart jumps to his throat all the same. Which. Is fucking confusing, because, what the fuck? So Kirishima might not be here today. So what? He can just. Give the stupid thing to him another time. Probably. Maybe. 

Katsuki scowls, throwing a glare to the sky, and wonders what the hell’s possessed him to care about some weird random ass extra he doesn’t even know. 

The sky doesn’t give him any answers. 

He should go home. Work more on the leg. He’s so fucking close to being done, and there’s a stack of commissions waiting for him. Besides. S’not like Kirishima wants a stupid journal.

The image of Kirishima on the floor, sheet white and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane tears across his mind. 

Katsuki tugs off his helmet and slides off his bike. 

And, of fucking course, Kirishima’s there behind the counter when he stalks inside. Katsuki stands in the middle of the ramen shop and stares. He’s humming to himself, bent over a scrap of paper, that faded red hair of his falling in his face. It’s in dire need of a touch up. He can see the dark, black roots creeping in from here. Does he dye it himself, or go somewhere? If Katsuki were to guess, he’d land on that shit being box dye. It’s obnoxious as shit.

He scoffs to himself. What does it matter, anyway? 

Kirishima’s head snaps up, eyes going wide. “Oh! Hey there, Bakugou, dude! What’s up? You’re here awful early. Want your usual?” 

Katsuki blinks. Early? He glances over his shoulder to the door, brow knitting. Sunset oranges and purples stain the sunlight patterned on the floor. Oh. Yeah, he…he guesses he kind of is early. He usually only shows up here when night’s fallen. Damn. Katsuki shrugs, gaze flicking back to Kirishima. “Sure.” 

The noodles, for once, aren’t the primary goal. But like fuck is he gonna show up and not get some. That’d be fucking weird. So he lets Kirishima ring him up for his usual, taking in how his necklace of bruises’ve mellowed out into a faded yellowish tint. The cuts on his lip and over his eye seem to be healing nicely, too, having scabbed over and looking much less red and angry. Soon, the remnants of whatever’d happened will be gone. 

Katsuki finds himself wondering, again. 

Like. Who in the fuck could Kirishima have pissed off so much? Because it’s obvious those bruises were left by someone. Katsuki’s not a fucking idiot. He has eyes. Working ones. And the yellowing shadows of hand prints are impossible to ignore. Something ugly twists deep in Katsuki’s gut, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Maybe…maybe Kirishima’s just into some really kinky shit. People like that kind of thing, apparently. Katsuki may not give a flying fuck about fucking, but he’s not some pure little angel, either. He’s more than acquainted with the fact that people like crazy ass shit—maybe Kirishima does too. 

Or maybe someone really wanted to hurt him. 

Goosebumps blaze across his skin. Katsuki’s fingers itch, an urge to punch something swelling up within him like the rising tide. He sucks in a breath, sharp, sudden, and tries to tamp it down. 

“Eight hundred yen, please!” 

Right. Paying. Katsuki hisses the exhale and diverts his focus into pulling out his wallet. He thumbs through the bills, counting out what he needs, and hands it over, watching as Kirishima bites his lip, cheeks ruddy, and fumbles his way through double-checking. He manages, somehow, and the register drawer pops open. 

“So, uh, what um, whatcha up to, tonight, dude?” he asks, voice wavering with uncertainty. Katsuki can’t decide if he hates it or not. He shrugs, averting his gaze to glower at the floor. 

“Been working on some commissions.” 

“Commissions…?” 

“Yeah. I do woodworking.” 

“Oh, like carving and stuff?” 

Katsuki grunts. Kirishima snaps the drawer shut and offers his change, which he takes. He notices the whisper of dry skin brushing against his palm, the cool metal of the coins on his skin. Katsuki stuffs the coins into his jacket pocket, knuckles brushing the leatherbound cover of the journal hidden there. His heart thuds weirdly in his chest. 

“Oh, that’s cool. What do you make?” Kirishima asks. He leans against the counter, palms splayed across it, grin wide and way too fucking bright. Katsuki can only stare. His gaze sticks to the shitty red apron thrown haphazardly over his usual uniform t-shirt. There’s a stain down the front of it—probably from spilling one too many bowls of broth. It matches his too-red hair—bright and a little faded. 

“Depends,” he says, voice gruff. Depends on what he’s in the mood for, what’s being requested, what takes the most skill, the most time. What’s gonna stop the shitty thoughts, make his head go quiet? Make his fingers ache? What can he pour every fiber of his scorched soul into? 

“Right, yeah, I guess that makes sense. You gotta do whatever sells, right? I wish I had the patience for something like that.” Kirishima huffs a laugh, eyes bright and glittering like sunlight across water. He tilts his head, looking almost wistful. “Doodling is hard enough, you know? I can’t even imagine carving shapes out of wood.” 

And, well. Katsuki’s brows raise, and he looks pointedly at the scraps of papers that always seem to litter the countertop these days, penciled sketches covering every page from top to bottom. Katsuki bites back the urge to scoff. Yeah, sure seems hard. Not. Literally, Katsuki half wonders if this guy ever doesn’t draw. He clearly has no issues filling up a whole ass page. And another and another. A collage of idle drawings of anything and everything, the skill of which is easy to see the closer Katsuki looks. 

It’s then that the nervous twig guy—Amajiki, if Katsuki’s remembering correctly—pokes his head around the partition and holds up a styrofoam bowl. “One shoyu ramen, with extra chili paste,” he says quietly. Kirishima takes it, bags it up, hands it over. 

“Here you go, dude.” 

Katsuki lets the bag thump against his leg. He stuffs his free hand into his jacket pocket, fingers clutching at the journal. He hesitates. This is fucking weird. Right? Fuck. 

“Um. Bakugou?” 

Fuck it. 

He yanks the journal out and slaps it onto the counter, ignoring the way his face burns, the way embarrassment curdles deep in his gut. “Here,” he bites out, before turning on his heel and bolting like a goddamn coward, shoving his way out the door and into the descending twilight.

Chapter Text

Waves crash along the surf in a gentle melody. Eijirou watches some gulls drift along the morning breeze, their calls sharp and punctuated and a discordant harmony with the otherwise gentle sounds of the waves and the wind. He sits, legs tucked to his chest, fingers tracing idly along the edges of the leatherbound sketchbook in his grasp. A warmth spills across his insides whenever he looks down at it, and Eijirou can’t help the way his lips twitch up into a little grin. 

Bakugou gave him a sketchbook. 

Just. Like that. 

He clutches at it as though it’ll up and disappear. Which, he knows, is silly. Objects don’t vanish into thin air. But he clutches at it all the same because, gosh, when was the last time he’d gotten a gift like this? Eijirou…doesn’t know. 

The bag and clothes from Ashido don’t count. Those weren’t gifts. Those were necessities, those were a means of escape, of survival. And he’s grateful for them, he really is. That bag of his sits tucked beside him, the white now smudged and dirty from the weeks he’s been here on this beach. He takes it everywhere with him—it’s his lifeline. Stores his clothes, his money, his sleeping towel, when he’s not using them, of course. But Eijirou doesn’t consider it a gift. Not like this, anyway. 

No, this is different. This is something given for the sake of giving and nothing more, and Eijirou fears he’ll float up into the stratosphere with how… light he feels. A hot, pretty guy bought him a present, just because he knows Eijirou likes to doodle. Giggles bubble out of him. Eijirou feels a little bit like a schoolgirl with a crush, laying on his bed at home and kicking his feet in the air and not having another care in the world. It’s. It’s actually kind of nice, hanging in this moment. This sweet reprieve from the bitter reality—he’s not a schoolgirl with a crush, he’s a guy adrift on a beach, who’s whole life’s been ripped asunder with not a thing to his name aside from a simple bag of clothes, a towel to sleep on, and this little sketchbook clasped in his hands like something precious. But for a moment, he can exist outside of it all. For a moment, he can grin up at the morning sky and let himself giggle and be deliriously happy over this simple little thing.  

Eijirou slides his hands across the cover. It’s simple, plain. A rich taupe color, soft and smooth beneath his fingertips. He gently cracks it open, staring down at blank pages. His fingers itch. He reaches for his bag, sorting around until he finds the pencil he’d taken from the shop—with permission, of course. Eijirou smooths the page, gaze sliding to the shoreline, taking in the waves lapping along the sand, the gulls, the rocky outcroppings. It’s serene. 

The first place he’s really felt safe. 

His pencil touches paper. 

He draws.

🪸

Water spills into a waiting bucket in rivulets. Eijirou makes a face, giving the rag an extra squeeze. It’s kind of really gross, how dirty his bucket gets after he wipes everything down. He slaps it onto the counter, scrubbing away the day’s grit and grime, humming along to the radio a little under his breath. It’s some older alternative song—Toyomitsu likes a lot of ‘80’s western rock and other songs of the like—and it plays enough that Eijirou knows the melody. The words, though, are a bit of a different story. 

He pauses, squinting down at his handiwork. A clean counter shines beneath the warm lights, and Eijirou grins. There. Much better. He tosses the rag back into the nasty bucket, wincing at the splash. Whoops. He grabs a dry rag and wipes the counter down for a final polish, grin growing wider. 

It’s not much, cleaning the shop. But Eijirou doesn’t mind it. It’s calming, in a way. The repetitive nature of it all. And, when it’s done, the swell of pride he feels is like a breath of fresh air. Like. He did that. Him. With his own hands. And sure, maybe customers won’t notice, but he does. 

In some ways, it’s a lot like drawing. One stroke of a pencil at a time, and he can piece together anything he can imagine. Swirls and stars and abstract shapes devolve into unique patterns that draw the eye, circles and lines and triangles become rocks and shoreline and a beach. And look, Eijirou knows he’s not the best artist out there. Like. He’s not bad! He likes his little doodles. But he’s also new at it, and some things escape his abilities. Like shading, or consistent lighting or the shape of the chair across the room. Still, he’s been practicing his forms and stuff, drawing a lot of sceneries. The beach, the shop, the main strip through town. 

Eijirou’s gaze slides to his sketchbook where it sits next to the register. Warmth bubbles up from within, and he bites his lip to hide the smile that threatens to split his face. He’s already filled three pages. Or. Well. Almost. He’s working on the third. The buildings are kind of hard, and Eijirou really wants to get the details right. 

The shop doors jingle, ripping his focus. 

Bakugou steps inside, hands in his pockets and hair all windswept, cheeks rosy from the cool evening breeze. Eijirou’s heart flip flops in his chest, and he grins. “Hey, dude! What’s up?” 

His face twitches and he shrugs, all stiff lines and tension, and the ice of panic has about thirty seconds to creep beneath Eijirou’s skin before it’s dispelled by an awkward and gruff, “Just. Getting food.” 

Right. Yeah. Food. Eijirou doesn’t even bother asking before calling Bakugou’s usual order over his shoulder. He rings it up, punching in the right keys by heart. “Eight hundred yen.” 

Bakugou’s jacket creaks as he shifts, pulling out his wallet and counting out the bills. Eijirou can’t help but watch. There’s something oddly intimate and familiar about this—like a song and dance just for them. Bakugou holds out the money and Eijirou takes it, skin tingling when their fingers brush. He ducks his head, fighting the heat in his face, and counts out the bills despite knowing how much he’s been handed because Bakugou always hands over the exact same amount—nine hundred yen, every single time. He hands back the change. They stand in silence, exchanging glances, the silence heady, weighted. 

“So…” 

Bakugou’s brows raise. Eijirou taps his fingers on the counter, jittery, and smiles. “Whatcha working on now? You uh, you said you carve wood, right?” 

And, oh, the way the red on his face darkens. Bakugou scowls, seemingly hunching in on himself, as if…embarrassed. “A table,” he says. “I carve the legs to look like dragon feet ‘n shit.” 

“Woah, really?” 

A terse nod. “Yeah.” He hesitates, before pulling out his phone and tapping at the screen, stepping closer to the counter to flash it at Eijirou. He squints, leans closer. It’s a website—Dynamight Woodworking Co. in sleek lettering across the top. But the thing that grabs Eijirou’s attention is the picture. A table, much like Bakugou said, with a glossy dark finish that seems to almost glitter in the light, and intricately carved scales down the legs and along the edges. He gasps, unbidden, eyes going wide. 

“Holy shit, dude, that’s amazing! You did that?” 

Bakugou’s grin is downright manic, glowing with pride, and he tucks his phone back into his pocket. “Yeah,” he says, “I did. Takes for-fucking-ever to do, though.” 

Gosh, he can imagine. Carving every individual scale like that, by hand? It surely takes an insane level of craftsmanship. He’s awed, wildly so, and he can’t help but grin back. “Dang, I bet. It looks incredible, though. I bet those are popular.” 

“S’the one that sells the most, yeah.” 

Eijirou leans on the counter, chin on a hand, and sighs, wistful. “That’s so cool. I wish I could do something neat like that.” He thinks of his dream, his simple, complicated, wild dream oh so many years ago, and an ache radiates through him, sudden and swift. It was a stupid little dream. One that got crushed swiftly and soundly by him . One Eijirou never dared to think about again…until now, anyway. 

His hand slides across the counter, fingers brushing along the leatherbound cover of his sketchbook in a gentle caress, and he bites his lip and wonders. How different would his life be, if he pursued it? If he went to school, like he wanted to? Would he have gotten somewhere? Would he be someone else? 

Would he be happy? Unscarred? Happy?  

“Do you…like it?” 

Eijirou blinks. Bakugou’s looking at the sketchbook, brow furrowed. And, gosh—that too-familiar warmth burns through him, accompanied by a swarm of butterflies that swirl through his stomach and up into his throat. “Yeah,” he croaks, smile wobbly and oh so genuine. “Yeah, I love it. I…you really didn’t have to, you know.” 

He shrugs, averts his gaze. “S’whatever.” Maybe Eijirou’s seeing things, but…the lines of tension clinging to his shoulders seem to have vanished, replaced by an air of contentment. Heck, he thinks he even spies the corners of his lips twitch up, a little, but surely, it’s a trick of the light. Surely, he’s seeing what he wants to see, and not what’s actually there. Because, really, what would Bakugou have to be smiling about? Him? Impossible, the little voice in the back of his head whispers, he’s not someone worth smiling over.  

The door bangs open behind Bakugou, sudden and loud, tearing Eijirou’s focus in two. He jolts, heart leaping to his throat, and blinks. 

Kaminari tumbles into the shop in all his energetic glory, keys dangling in one hand and phone in the other. “Kirishima, my man! Do I have the perfect—oh, hey, there.” He stops short, gaze bouncing from Bakugou to Eijirou and back, brows raising up to his hairline. Bakugou’s all raised shoulders and scowls again, hands deep in his jacket pockets, and just like that, a chasm opens up between them and Eijirou’s suddenly hundreds of kilometers away. 

He wishes Kaminari didn’t come in and the guilt of it tastes bitter on his tongue.

“One shoyu ramen, extra chili paste!” 

Eijirou busies himself with bagging it up and passes it off to Bakugou in a move all too familiar, a motion he’s performed oh so many times, smile wobbly and awkward. “Here.” 

Bakugou reaches out, takes it. Their fingers brush all over again, and goosebumps blaze up Eijirou’s arm, making him shiver. Heat blisters at his face, buzzes under his skin, sparks to life deep in his chest. It’s sudden and swift and all Eijirou can do is stare, lost in the blazing fires of Bakugou’s gaze as it consumes him whole. They’re bright and hot and oh so easy to sink into, and it’s. It’s exhilarating. And terrifying. Because all of a sudden, it’s so vividly real. He’s not a school girl with a crush, he’s a boy staring into the eyes of another and it’s—it’s too much. 

He lets go of the bag like he’s been burned. “Seeya around dude,” he says, voice warbly, gaze bouncing to the floor, the walls, the ceiling, anywhere but him. “Have a good day!” Eijirou can feel Bakugou’s stare stick to him, heavy with a whole lot of somethings, but he doesn’t look. Can’t. There’s a prolonged pause, the creak of a leather jacket. 

“Yeah. See you.” 

And then he’s gone, and Eijirou’s left to spiral. 

“Um. What was that?” 

He blinks. Kaminari’s staring at him like he’s got two heads, and, oh, right. Eijirou sighs, slumping onto the counter. 

“Nothing, just…nothing.” 

“Right, uh-huh, and pigs fly.” He crosses his arms and quirks a brow, frowning. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much sexual tension from two people in my entire life. And from Bakugou no less! I didn’t even think it was possible for that guy to feel anything but extreme anger, like, ever.” 

Eijirou hides his face in his hands. Is it possible to melt through the counter and disappear? Gods, does he want to. “It’s nothing,” he mumbles into his fingers. “Bakugou was just picking up food.” 

That’s all it was. Is. Like. Yeah, sure, he got Eijirou a sketchbook—something he totally didn’t have to do! But that…that doesn’t mean anything, right? And…and even if it did it’s not…not like he’d…they’d… 

The ghost of a memory of hands gripping his throat and squeezing tighter and tighter grips him, and Eijirou’s hands slide off his face to grip the counter, whole body quaking. He tries to breathe. In. Out. Squeezes his eyes shut and listens to the pots and pans rattle in the background, the reminder that he’s not there, anymore. 

He’s safe. 

He’s safe.  

“Dude, you okay?” 

Eijirou peels his eyes open. Kaminari hovers over him, expression knit with worry. “You kinda got really pale all of a sudden.” 

He manages a weak smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Sorry, guess I forgot to eat lunch.” It’s a simple little lie. An easy one. One colored with truth—he’s forgotten to eat many times before, getting caught up in cleaning or cooking or doodling. Or even sometimes he skips on purpose, if he’s off work and doesn’t feel like walking into town to buy something. 

“Jeeze, seriously? Man, you gotta take care of yourself.” 

“Sorry.” 

Kaminari waves at him. “Don’t apologize, just, sit down or something. You’re making me nervous.” 

He shrugs, ducking his head. “S’fine, I’m okay. I’ll grab a bite after this.” He won’t. He already had lunch. But the shakes are fading, a bit, and he feels steadier. More present. So he stays in place behind the counter, focusing on the feeling of the smooth wood beneath his palms. 

“If you say so…” Kaminari sighs. “Well. Anyway, I wanted to formally invite you to come hang after you get off, you know, if you’re feeling up to it. My friends and I are gonna have a little bonfire on the beach—super casual, some drinks and snacks and stuff, but it’ll be loads of fun and I thought it’d be cool for you to like, meet some new people and stuff.” 

And, oh. Eijirou blinks. A…a bonfire? Him? “Where on the beach?” he asks. Kaminari grins. 

“Oh, down south, a bit. There’s a nice and private little cove we like to hang at, it’s great during low tide.” 

It’s…it’s been so long since Eijirou’s been to a party. Or, hang out. He’s been to a bar a handful of times, never alone. But. He can’t…he can’t remember…the last party he went to was probably back in high school. So. Years ago. A smile, slow and hesitant, spreads across his face. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “That sounds like fun.” 

Kaminari raps his knuckles on the counter, grin wide and reckless. “Heckin’ yeah! I can swing by and get you, if you want, since I know where it’s at. If that’s cool?” 

“Sure!” 

“Sweet! Now, how ‘bout them orders of mine?” 

A laugh startles out of Eijirou, and he shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah, comin’ right up.” He whirls around and darts behind the partition to grab the orders, face fixed in a grin. 

He’s. He’s really making friends. 

Eijirou grins a little wider, giddy and oh so light. 

🪸

Twilight’s draped across the down with her deep royal blues when Eijirou steps out of the ramen shop. He shoulders his pack, one hand plunged deep into his hoodie’s pocket. Kaminari isn’t here, yet, which, he guesses isn’t super surprising. There were a lot of pickups for him, tonight. 

Eijirou wanders over to a nearby bench, gaze sweeping across the town. The street lamps emit a gentle, orange glow—a warm contrast to the blues and indigoes of the shadows painted across the landscape. Most of the other shops around are closed, their windows dark. There’s not any pedestrians out at this time, either. Just him and Toyomitsu, who’s keys jingle as he locks up. 

“You need a lift, my boy?” Toyomitsu calls. It’s an offer he makes every time. Eijirou clutches his pack closer and shakes his head. 

“No, I’m okay! Thanks, though!” 

“Alright. Seeya in the morn’.” He waves, smile jovial, and turns to amble off in the opposite direction. Toyomitsu lives within walking distance, apparently—sometimes he rides a bike, but usually he walks on foot. He’s pointed out the direction of his house several times, always saying it’s a modest little thing in town, but Eijirou’s never actually seen it. 

He always evades the question when it’s turned on him. 

Eijirou hugs his pack to his chin. Eventually, he’ll get a roof over his head. Eventually, he’ll move on from this town. Go further. Somewhere he’ll never, ever be found. But for now, he’s content. For now, he’s safe. For now, he can earn money and save until he can travel to the ends of the earth itself without having to worry about the simple things, like food, or clothes. 

One day, maybe he’ll be able to pay Ashido back, even. 

Kaminari’s car careens into the little drive in space, headlights slicing through the twilight with a brilliance that leaves Eijirou squinting. He stands, awkwardly waving, while Kaminari parks and throws his car door open. 

“Who’s ready to party!” he cheers. Eijirou laughs. 

Kaminari ducks back into his car, rustling around, only to reappear with full arms. He kicks his door shut, hopping precariously on one foot, and takes several minutes to finagle his keys enough to lock his door. “I brought all the goods,” he says cheerfully,  “got some snacks and some drinks, so we’re all set!” 

And, jeeze, it sure seems that way. Eijirou bites his lip. “Do you…want me to carry anything?” 

“Nah, I’ve got it. C’mon, let’s go!” 

He leads, and Eijirou follows. 

The beach itself isn’t far from the ramen shop—probably a five minute walk, past the docks, which are eerie and quiet in the night, boats bobbing on the water beneath the moon’s light. They pass by Eijirou’s usual spot—a simple plot of sand backed against the rocky hill face—Kaminari chattering easily, none the wiser. 

“—wrote this sick song. I’ll have to play it for you sometime. But it’ll be killer to play at our next gig, you know. Anyway, it’s about, like, the droll of time blending together and like, the feeling of wanting change, you know? But, yeah—” 

They wander further and further, until the hill side grows steeper, rockier, and Eijirou can make out the shadows of houses smudged along the tops. They’re well past what’s considered public beach, he thinks, but still Kaminari treks, bags swinging from his hands and cheery voice rising and falling over the rush of the waves. Eventually, they come around a bend, and a crackling bonfire ignites the night in shades of orange and gold. Eijirou blinks. There’s a couple of worn logs ringed around the fire, and what looks to be a blanket. Three people lounge about, looking to be close to his age, if he were to guess. 

“Hey, guys!” Kaminari calls. 

“Took you long enough,” one of the guys calls back, voice lilted and teasing. 

“Yeah, well, the bills won’t pay themselves, you know.” Kaminari throws a glance to Eijirou, grin bright and easy. “C’mon, meet my friends!” 

Nerves buzz just beneath his skin. All of a sudden, Eijirou is painfully aware of his too-small, bright pink hoodie and his old, second-hand sweats, and the dingy, polka-dotted bag clutched in his hands. He shuffles his feet in the sand, nerves prickling just beneath his skin. Why did he come, again? Eijirou bites his lip. He looks at Kaminari, who inclines his head, encouraging. 

Eijirou sucks in a breath. He takes a step. And another. 

And then he’s at the fire, the warmth of it curling around him like a thick, woolen blanket. He watches the oranges and reds dance amidst the logs and chunks of wood. It’s mesmerizing, in a way—Eijirou almost feels as though he could stare at it forever. Kaminari sidles up beside him and unceremoniously dumps his load at their feet. 

“Who ordered snacks and alcohol?” 

“Me!” The same guy who’d spoke moments ago raises a hand, grin wide and lazy. He’s reclining on the blanket strewn over the sand, shaggy, dark hair peeking out of a knit beanie. Kaminari stoops, rifling through the bags and producing a bottle of what looks to be beer, which he tosses over with glee. The guy catches it, eyeing the bottle with a quirked brow. “Is this that happoshu shit?” he asks. Kaminari rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t bitch at me—I’m poor.” 

“We’re well aware,” the girl says. She leans forward, long earrings gleaming in the firelight. Eijirou can’t tell what they are—chains? Something dangly, he thinks. Her short hair, ruffled by the light breeze, falls to her chin. Beside her’s the other guy, dressed in nearly all black, dark makeup drawn thick around his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles with his thin lips. 

“Owch,” Kaminari says, hand clutching dramatically at his chest. “That hurts, you know.”

“Sure it did, sure it did.” Beanie guy laughs as he takes a swig of his drink. “You gonna introduce your new friend, or just make him stand there all night?” 

“Oh! Right!” Kaminari bolts upright, clapping Eijirou on the shoulder. “Guys, this is Kirishima! He works at that ramen shop, Shiodamari. Kirishima, these are my friends, Sero—” He points at beanie guy. “—Jirou—” And earring girl. “—and of course, Tokoyami.” And then goth guy. Eijirou waves, awkward and uncertain. 

“Hi.” 

“It’s nice to finally put a face to a name,” Jirou says kindly. “Kaminari’s mentioned you more than once.” 

And, well, Eijirou doesn’t really know what to do with that. He ducks his head, face warm, and bites his lip. What could Kaminari have said about him? Is he really that interesting of a person? Eijirou tries to imagine himself. All he sees, though, is his old reflection staring back at him, with limp, dark hair and hollow eyes, the bruise of the week yellowing on his cheek.

He pushes the image out of his head. 

Instead, he forces out a chuckle. “It, uh, it’s nice to meet you guys, too.” 

“C’mon, dude, sit, drink, be merry.” Sero raises his beer in a mock cheer, and takes another impressive swig. “If you pass me some of that sucorn, I’ll love you forever.” 

That gets Eijirou to smile. He squats, digging through the bags Kaminari brought and finds a plethora of salty and sweet things to snack on, including some sucorn as Sero requested, which he tosses along. He takes a simple bag of chips for himself and plops down onto one of the logs, setting his bag at his feet with a sigh. 

“What’s in the bag?” Sero asks. “Anything fun?” 

Eijirou goes rigid. “Um.” 

“Pretty sure it’s just his stinky work uniform,” Kaminari says, rolling his eyes. “I brought him straight from work, you know.” 

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” 

He shoots Kaminari a grateful look. Which, goes unnoticed as Kaminari flops onto the sand next to Jirou, head tilted back to the night sky. “You guys ever wonder what stars taste like?” 

“Not particularly,” Tokoyami drawls, “considering they’re fiery balls of gas millions of miles away.” 

Jirou gives Kaminari a nudge with her foot. “Dude, you been pregaming or something? It’s a little early to be spitting out the goofy questions.” 

“God, I wish. I think my brain’s just fried. Work was long.” 

“You’re telling me.” Sero leans forward, bony elbows propped on his knees and beer dangling from his fingers. “I had this lady ring out, like, a bajillion coupons today, and half of them were expired. Pretty sure she would’ve tried to fist fight me if Shishida didn’t take over for me.” 

Tokoyami shakes his head. “Alas, the plight of the common worker is one all too relatable.”

Jirou laughs. “And this is why I don’t work with the general public.” She pops the cap off a fresh bottle, the hiss echoing over the crackle of the fire. 

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in. You’re super cool and get to work for, like, a radio station.” He makes a face as he rips open a bag of chips. “Which, by the way, I’m still waiting for you to get them to play one of our songs.” 

The comment seems to leave Jirou flustered, because she ducks her head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m just a glorified secretary,” she mumbles. “All I do is answer the phone sometimes.” 

“Doesn’t that count as working with the general public?” Sero asks. Kaminari and Tokoyami share a look. Tokoyami shrugs. 

“Probably.” 

Jirou rolls her eyes. “Sure, technically, I guess. But it’s mostly just fielding calls for, like, contests. So not much talking on my end.” 

Eijirou stretches his legs out in front of him, lips curled into a small smile as he listens. It’s obvious they’ve been friends for awhile, with how they rib at each other in such a casual, familiar way. There’s a piece of him, deep in his chest, that aches a little. Like a forgotten splinter wedged in his heart that hurts when he bumps into it. 

He thinks of his old friends. 

A hazy memory plays out in his head. Him, there, in the midst of a group of boys, giggling over something or another during lunch hour at school. Before, when he was a normal kid with a normal family in a normal home. Before he opened his big, stupid mouth. Before, when his biggest worry was passing algebra. Before he fell for sly smiles and sharp tongued teasing. 

Before he hit Eijirou for the first time. 

The crackling fire grows blurry, and Eijirou blinks, forcing the memory back into its neat little box. 

“So, Kirishima.” Jirou smiles at him from across the fire. “Where’re you from? Not here, I presume.” 

A bolt of alarm rips through him. He smiles, strained, and shrugs in what Eijirou hopes is a casual way. “Oh, uh, around.” 

Sero snorts. “That is wildly unspecific.” 

His hands start to tremble. A warbly laugh wrenches from his throat. Eijirou ducks his head, wind-mussed hair falling in his eyes, and tries to breathe, to will the panic rising in his throat like the tide down. “I…I guess so.” 

There’s the crinkle of a bag of chips. “Didn’t you say you’re from Tokyo?” Kaminari asks. And, Eijirou lets out a shuddery breath, mind sticking to the life ring with a wild desperation. He’d forgotten that particular lie, honestly. But Eijirou doesn’t hesitate to nod along, rubbing bashfully at his neck and praying to the gods above that no one can see the way his hand shakes. 

“Yeah, I did.” 

“Tokyo, huh?” Sero whistles. “Damn. What’re you doing all the way out here?” 

“I imagine it’s not to see the sights,” Tokoyami says into his beer. Eijirou laughs. 

“Just wanted a change of pace, s’all.” 

“Well, if that’s what you want, you’re definitely in the right place,” Jirou says. “This sleepy little town is leagues different from somewhere like Tokyo, that’s for sure.” 

A smile flickers across his lips. Eijirou’s gaze slides beyond the fire to the dark waves beyond, barely visible against the moonlit, star-dappled skyline. It’s like they’re here in their own little slice of the world—only the pop and crackle of flame and the lapping waves fill the silence between bits of conversation. There’s no cars, no honking, no music or thumps or thuds of dumpster lids or car doors. Here, there’s peace. Calm. 

Safety.

“Yeah, it is.” 

“Okay, okay, enough questioning the new guy.” Kaminari scrambles forward on his hands and knees and plunges a hand into one of the many bags on the sand. “Let’s get this party pumping, people!” He yanks out a drink, grin almost feral, and Eijirou can’t help but laugh. He leans back and smiles up at the sky, picking out different shapes amongst the stars. 

This is nice, he decides. Eijirou’s gaze drops back to Kaminari, who prances back and forth, loudly re-enacting one of his more wild deliveries of the night, all three of his friends laughing and throwing out their own commentary. It’s easy to let himself follow along, to laugh, throw out a few quips of his own. It’s easy to sip at a warm beer, to sample one of the many snacks spilling out of the bags Kaminari brought. It’s easy to let himself exist here, in this moment. Warm and happy and carefree.

Chapter Text

A bead of sweat slides down the back of his neck. 

Katsuki ignores it, sitting with hands clasped atop the cold table, a thick manilla folder in front of him. The room’s humid as shit—the air is still. Dead. Beside him, Deku shifts in his seat for the umpteenth fucking time, and Katsuki’s jaw twitches. Stupid idiot, can’t he keep still for more than five seconds at a time? All this squirming’s gonna make them look like they don’t have their shit together. His neck prickles, and Katsuki resists the urge to tug at the noose of a tie he’s wearing. 

Across the room, the defendant—some asshole responsible for murdering several women—sits with his head bowed, balding head shiny under the too-bright courtroom lights. 

Katsuki hopes the bastard gets to rot in prison. 

A sharp nudge jolts Katsuki out of his reverie. He jerks his head, throwing a scowl at Deku, only the idiot doesn’t seem bothered at all because he’s gesturing to the left, where the judges sit. And, sure enough, one of them’s speaking. 

But Katsuki can’t hear them. 

Heat blisters beneath his skin, sweat slicks his palms. Katsuki stares at their lips, trying desperately to parse out what’s being said. …defendant…evidence…speak… Only a few words stick out at a time. Knots twist and twist deep in his gut, over and over. Several judges look at him, waiting, expectant. But Katsuki doesn’t…doesn’t know what they want. His hands clench. He looks at Deku, eyes wide, and watches him lean close, lips moving. 

He still can’t hear a goddamn word. 

“What?” he rasps. “I can’t hear you. What’s going on?” 

Deku’s brow knits, worry as thick as a thicket of evergreens, and he starts gesturing, lips moving rapidly— too rapidly. Katsuki’s gaze bounces around, from him to the panel of judges and back again, throat tight and mind spinning. Fuck. Fuck. Did he forget his aids? Why can’t he hear?  

The room bucks, spins, shrinks in on itself until Katsuki’s surrounded by the judges, who all lean forward, severe expressions piercing him like bullets as they speak words Katsuki cannot hear over and over again. He grits his teeth, hands reaching up to fist at his hair. 

“What?! What do you want? I can’t fucking hear you! I can’t—I can’t hear —” 

He jolts awake, chest heaving. 

Fuck. Katsuki hauls himself upright, swiping a hand through his sweat-damp hair. His skin buzzes, heart thumping erratically in his chest. The air is still in the bedroom. Dead still. Katsuki swallows, tongue thick in his mouth and throat tight. Something thick and viscous sticks to his insides, burns at the back of his throat, and Katsuki’s dream spills into the forefront of his mind, the gaggle of judges leering around him, speaking silent words. He lurches sideways, fumbling for his aids on the nightstand, and hooks them into his ears. Sound crashes through the oppressive silence, and Katsuki sucks in a shaky breath. Fuck.  

That’s. Better. But, the air is still heady and thick, and he needs to get. Out. He claws his way free of the covers and stumbles to his feet, tugging on some sweats and a t-shirt. And some socks. And then he’s stalking through the hall to the kitchen, and the genkan, where he grabs some sneakers. He marches back through the house to the backdoor, throwing on his sneakers and unlatching the door. 

And then he’s outside. 

Katsuki stares out at the sea. Waves churn down below, their white crests stark against the deep blue hues. He shivers—the breeze has a bite to it. A welcome one, though. He can damn near taste the threat of rain in the air, meaning a storm’s brewing, probably. Which. Fine by him. He doesn’t give a shit about a little rain. 

He treks down the footpath towards the beach. 

A gull cries overhead, sharp and loud. The sound, while normally irritating as shit, is a breath of fresh air for once. Katsuki breathes, eyes squeezing shut as he listens to the roar of the waves echo in his broken ears. 

Sometimes, he tries to remember what things sounded like before his hearing went to shit. Like. Did the waves always sound as faint and distant as they do now? He hears them, thanks to the hearing aids, but Katsuki knows if he pulled them out, he’d be met with silence. 

He doesn’t mind the silence. Normally. People are annoying as fuck and the world they’ve built is just as obnoxious with the constant neverending noise. But, some days…well. Katsuki huffs a sigh, blinking away the early morning light. Some days the silence is too fucking loud. 

Katsuki rolls his shoulders, stretches his legs. He stares down the length of the beach. In the distance, he can see the rise of buildings from town. He rolls his head, breathes, and starts running. 

Once upon a time, running was a standard passtime of Katsuki’s. He likes the rhythm, the strain on his muscles, the way his mind goes blissfully blank and all there is to focus on is breathing in and out and in and out and in and out over and over again. Sand kicks up from his feet—running on the beach is a hell of a lot harder than running on pavement, but Katsuki embraces the challenge. 

The burn feels good. Maybe because he’s feeling something beyond the cavernous emptiness inside of him. He chases it. Like the Devil himself is on his heels. Running and running, the shoreline a blur beside him. He runs until his side hurts and his throat is raw and he needs to fucking stop unless he wants to keel over, and then he slows, jogging for the cooldown. 

He’s close to the docks when he stops. Or. Closer, anyway. 

Katsuki stoops, hands on his knees and sweat dripping from his brow, chest heaving. He stares at the sand underfoot. It’s dark, damp from the waves, and pockmarked with tiny holes where little crabs and shit hide away during the day. Like the ones that Kirishima drew on that damned receipt. 

A receipt that’s definitely not still tucked carefully into his wallet. Fuck off. 

And, maybe it’s fucking fate or some shit, because when Katsuki looks up, he spots the very person stitched across his frayed thoughts, sitting several kilometers away with the sketchbook Katsuki got for him balanced on his knees. He’s very intently scribbling in it, and it—it does something to Katsuki. Suddenly, his insides feel all weird and goopy and warm. 

He straightens, one hand reaching up to press against his chest. The fuck is this shit? His lip curls, and Katsuki has half a mind to whirl around and stalk away, lest the goopy feeling gets worse, when he spies a dirty, overstuffed bag propped against Kirishima’s side. Katsuki’s brows knit. The fuck is that? 

His feet propel him forward all on their own. 

Kirishima doesn’t even fucking notice him, all lost in his own world as he scribbles with an intensity Katsuki knows intimately—the same kind of intensity he feels when he’s mid-carving. Katsuki shoves his hands in his pockets and watches, waits. 

And then decides waiting is a load of bullshit. “You’re out and about early.” 

Kirishima startles, a wheezy yelp escaping him. He fumbles with the sketchbook, damn near dropping it, and peers up at Katsuki with wide eyes. “Oh—hey, Bakugou,” he croaks. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” His voice sounds awful, all craggy and hoarse and shit. Katsuki frowns. 

“The fuck is wrong with you? You sick or something? You sound like shit.” He kind of looks like shit, too, the longer Katsuki stares down at him. His faded red hair is all clumpy and greasy, his face paler than usual, dark smudges under his eyes. He seems all hunched in on himself, too. Like he’s trying to look smaller. Take up less space. 

Katsuki turns and plops down onto the sand beside him. 

“Oh, uh, no, I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep all that well last night s’all.” 

Somehow, Katsuki doubts that’s the truth. Maybe it’s the little sniffle Kirishima makes. Or the dimness to his usually too-bright smile. He stays quiet, though, despite the twisting deep in his chest—a twisting Katsuki vaguely registers as worry. Which. Is fucking stupid. Why should he be worried? Kirishima’s a grown ass adult, he can handle himself. 

His gaze slides to the overstuffed, filthy bag, and the towel stretched across the sand beneath Kirishima, and his frown deepens. 

“Drawing?” he asks. A bit of color stains Kirishima’s cheeks. 

“Yeah, a little.” 

Katsuki hums. He stares out at the water. It wreathes and rolls in an unending dance with the shoreline. Wind buffets them as it dances in step, tugging at Katsuki’s shirt as if trying to get him to join. He doesn’t. Fuck the wind. Fuck dancing. His legs are sore, anyway. 

“Um. You…you wanna see?” Kirishima asks, voice all croaky and hesitant. Katsuki looks at him. He’s biting chapped lips, thumb fiddling along the edges of his sketchbook’s pages, watching Katsuki with an expression he’d harken to a fucking, puppydog or something. It twists something up in his insides. Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek, skin prickling. 

“Sure.” 

Kirishima hands over his sketchbook, cheeks all blotchy red. He wrings his hands, hunching down even smaller. It’s. Weird. And it makes a weird lump thicken in Katsuki’s throat. He swallows and looks down at the book. And stares. 

Jesus fuck. Katsuki’s jaw damn near drops because there, on the page, is the skyline, a damn good replica of the one he sees whenever he peers over the edge of the book. “Damn,” he says. “You’re really good at this shit, huh?” 

Something bright and hopeful glimmers in Kirishima’s eyes. He unfolds a little, confidence blooming within him like a delicate little flower. “Really?” 

“Yeah. You’ve got a good eye.” 

Kirishima beams, then, all too-bright and happy, and the tension coiled inside Katsuki unravels. He can’t help but smile back, a little, as he hands over the sketchbook. Kirishima immediately hugs it close, smile softening to something almost tender and private, and Katsuki averts his gaze, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place. He clears his throat. 

“You always come out this early to draw?” 

A beat. Another. 

“Yeah, something like that.” 

It’s evasive as shit. Katsuki squints up at the graying clouds. There’s a part of him that wants to push, wants to press. A part that coils tight in his gut, throwing red flags across his mind like fucking party streamers. The other part of him—the louder part—says it’s not any of his fucking business. Kirishima doesn’t owe him a straight answer if he doesn’t want to give it. 

So he shrugs to himself. Stands. “Don’t get rained on,” he says, gruff, “you’ll ruin your sketches.” 

He walks away without waiting for an answer, hands shoved in his pockets and gaze stuck to the pockmarked sand underfoot. 

🦀

Katsuki slaps the scrap of sandpaper down onto his workbench with a scowl. Sweat drips down his brow, sliding down his nose, into his eyes. He reaches up to scrub at it with the back of his wrist, not giving a shit if he’s smearing sawdust on his forehead or not. Sawdust is an inevitability he’s learned to live with—that’s what taking a fucking shower is for. Something he’s definitely doing the second he’s done with this shit. 

He’s almost done with the last leg. Fucking finally.  

Katsuki glares at it. The leg sits, innocuous, in its clamp. Taunting him. Like a bitch. He heaves a sigh, hands twitching at his sides. All that’s left is sanding the damn thing down so he can do the detail work. Which. He can’t do after sanding, lest he ruin it. And the detail work is the bread and fucking butter of this whole thing—it’s what really sells it. ‘Course, he’s been bent over sanding for the past hour and he sure fucking feels it now. Jesus, fuck. A grimace twists his way onto his features as he rolls his shoulders, muscles twinging something awful. His hands’re starting to cramp, too, a sure sign he needs to stop for the day. 

Or. At least. For a while. 

He massages one hand and turns to shuffle his way back into the house, leaving the leg in the clamp. He doesn’t bother to sweep, yet—that’s a later problem. Preferably when he’s not half stooping like an old man. 

It’s dark, inside. It’s dark outside, too—a glance out the large windows overlooking the beach shows turbulent, inky waves down below and rivulets of rain running down the glass. Katsuki frowns. It’s finally raining, huh? Katsuki could swear the sky’s been threatening to for the past day and a half, staying all gloomy and gray and shit. Or. Well. It has every time he’s looked out a window. Katsuki hasn’t actually gone outside to see since his run on the beach. 

Not when it’s light enough to see the fucking sky, anyway.

Whatever. He stalks past his mountains of boxes, very pointedly ignoring last night’s takeout garbage that’s still on his kitchen table. The same takeout boxes that’ve been on his table every night in a row for an entire fucking week. 

Katsuki pushes his bathroom door open. It’s a tiny box of a room, with old, white-tiled floor and creamy, off-white walls bare of anything beyond the dingy mirror over the sink. He reaches up and removes his aids, setting them onto a dry spot on the tiny counter, jaw twitching at the stark and suddenness of the silence. 

Transitions always suck ass. It was weird as shit, though, when he first noticed it—how goddamn noisy life is. Who fucking knew a quiet house could be so fucking loud? Katsuki sure didn’t—not until his hearing deteriorated, anyway. Still. He vastly prefers to not have to take this shit off and put it on again over and over because that’s usually a quick recipe for a migraine. But Katsuki also hates being sweaty, so. What’s the saying? Choose your battles wisely? 

He peels off his clothes, leaving them in a bundle on the floor, and pads over to the shower room. Katsuki twists the knob, ducking out of the way of the stream of water so it can heat up. His house is old as shit, and it usually takes a minute. So he stands off to the side with crossed arms, squinting at the old, tiled tub sitting unused in the opposite corner. Part of him’s tempted…it’d be nice, to sit and soak in warm water for a bit. Loosen up his knotted muscles and shit. But baths take effort Katsuki doesn’t have. 

So he sticks with his shower. 

Hot water spills over his shoulders, back. Katsuki tips his head forward, blinking water out of his eyes. His mind wanders to the half finished table in his shop. The client wants a dark finish, and Katsuki thinks through what colors of stain would look best. They didn’t specify what hue it had to be, and honestly? Katsuki’s leaning on something like a dark mahogany. 

He reaches for the soap. 

Once this project’s done, he’s probably gonna do a couple of quicker ones. Things like chairs or coffee tables or hell, even some trinkets. Those are easier to do in tandem, too, and Katsuki can knock out some of his waiting list before tackling another big project. 

He finishes lathering and rinsing, and twists the knob off, goosebumps dancing across his skin in the chill left in the absence of the hot water. Water drips off him, and Katsuki pads over to where his towel hangs off the door, ripping it off its hook and scrubbing it across his body and through his damp hair. His stomach rumbles, and Katsuki remembers he hasn’t eaten since morning. 

Whoops. 

Katsuki throws on some sweats and a hoodie, and replaces his hearing aids. Sound slams into him all over again—rain pounds on the roof like it's trying to blow right through it. He turns them down and heads for the genkan. 

Is it stupid to drive through the rain after taking a shower? Probably, but Katsuki doesn’t really give a shit. Sue him, he’s hungry. And sure, he could cook. But, again, effort. Why waste time cooking when he could just go get shit made for him? His mind skips to one too-bright grin, a grin that has something weird and warm buzzing in his gut, and he scoffs and shoves the image out of his head because who cares if Kirishima’s there? Not him. He’s just going for the food. 

Yeah. Definitely just the food and no other reason at all. Fuck off. 

‘Course, being out in the rain is objectively worse. Katsuki barely steps outside and he’s already fucking soaked. He scowls, squinting, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. He looks back at his door. His stomach growls. 

Whatever. Fuck it. 

Katsuki ducks his head and jogs out to his bike, fumbling for his helmet. 

There’s not a damn soul out on the roads. Which. Makes sense—visibility is shit. Katsuki drives slow, hunched over his handlebars and squinting into the evening in an effort to stay on the fucking road. A streak of lightning ignites the sky, bathing the town in a white light, and then it’s dark again. Katsuki’s sure if he had his aids up, he’d hear thunder. 

In town, shop lights glow through the downpour like beacons in the night. Katsuki pulls up to the ramen shop, throwing down his kickstand and killing the ignition, eager to get the fuck inside. He rips off his helmet, squinting against the rain, and hooks it on his handlebar, before sliding off the bike and dashing inside. 

Warmth greets him the second the door swings shut behind him. Katsuki breathes a sigh, raking a hand through his sopping wet hair, and twists the dial on his aids. His gaze darts to the counter, and he goes still. 

There’s no one there. 

The clang of pots and pans echoes from the back, alongside a cheery voice calling, “Be right out!” Still, Katsuki can’t help but frown, the unexpectedness of the empty space behind the counter jarring. Because, well. He’s used to a certain red-haired weirdo being there, grinning at him with his weird sharp teeth and too-cheery grin. And, okay, look. Katsuki’s well aware that most sane people don’t work every fucking day. For several reasons. Including but not limited to needing time off to rest or do chores and shit. Blah, blah, blah, normal forty hour work-weeks mean two days off, minimum for the majority of the workforce, and Kirishima’s no exception. Like, fuck, he wasn’t here yesterday—he’s always off on Wednesdays. But. Well. Today’s Thursday. 

Kirishima’s always here on Thursdays. 

He scoffs to himself. Whatever. It’s not like he fucking cares. Why would he? Kirishima’s just some weird dude with shitty hair. Whether or not he’s here at this stupid restaurant doesn’t fucking matter. It doesn’t. Katsuki’s just here to pick up his food and go home and eat. That’s it. End of story. 

A guy strides out from the back, wiping large hands on an old ass, stained apron. Katsuki recognizes him, vaguely—it’s the owner dude. He doesn’t remember the guy’s fucking name, but that doesn’t really matter much. Katsuki doesn’t give a shit about the owner. Or anyone. Why bother learning his name? 

Owner dude smiles, though Katsuki can see the imprint of worry lines etched across his forehead. “Sorry. What can I do for you?” 

“You by yourself?” he asks. Not for any real reason. Fuck off. 

Owner dude’s smile falters. “Ah, yes. You noticed, huh?” He scratches at his chin, looking towards the window. Rain smears across the weathered glass, obscuring the darkening landscape into a coalesce of water. “Kirishima was supposed to be in today, but…well. Guess he couldn’t make it in.” He smiles again, but it’s thin and brimming with thinly veiled worry. 

Katsuki blinks. “The fuck do you mean? He just didn’t show up?” That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Katsuki might not know much about Kirishima, but not showing up for work without at least giving some kind of heads up seems wrong, somehow. Out of character. He thinks about the other day on the beach, how worn down Kirishima seemed. Alarm bells go off in Katsuki’s head, blaring louder and louder with the way the owner dude sighs, shoulders drooping. 

“No, he didn’t. Which I admit is very strange for him—usually he’s in early.” The worry lines deepen, and he looks out the window again. “I closed shop around noon to walk through town, see if anyone’s seen ‘im, but no luck. I’d try calling, but I don’t have a number to call…” 

No number? Does Kirishima not have a fucking phone? Katsuki’s hands twitch at his sides. “Where’s he live?” 

Owner dude shrugs, expression all twisted and miserable. “I dunno. He didn’t say.” 

And. That’s. Fuck. Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek, thinking about the overstuffed bag and the towel spread across the sand like a fucking blanket. How early he’d been on that goddamn beach. And if his own fucking boss doesn’t know his address, then…then he probably didn’t have an address to give.  

A lead stone drops into Katsuki’s gut at the thought. His gaze jumps right to the rain streaked window. 

What if he’s hurt or some shit? 

Distantly, Katsuki tries to wonder why he should care. Tries to remind himself Kirishima’s a stranger, that he doesn’t give a shit about random extras. That he should order his fucking food and go the fuck home so he can finish his stupid fucking table. But there’s a pit in his stomach. Eating’s lost its appeal. 

He scowls. “Where’ve you looked?” 

“Just in town. Didn’t have much time to look elsewhere.” Owner dude rubs at the back of his neck. “I wanted to check around the beach…I think I’ve seen ‘im walk that way sometimes, but we had a rush of orders due ‘round that time and I couldn’t leave the shop for that long.” 

The beach. Katsuki whirls around and yanks open the door, stepping right back out into the downpour. 

“Wait!” 

He pauses, sparing a glance over his shoulder. Owner dude leans over the counter, expression pensive. “If it’s not too much to ask, could ya’ let me know if you find ‘im?” 

Katsuki’s face twitches. He dips his head in a shallow jerk of a nod. And then he’s out in the downpour. 

The beach is a five minute walk from here. Katsuki makes the trek with his head down, leather jacket zipped up, hands in his pockets. He tries to keep his eyes peeled but it’s fucking hard—the rain is relentless, coming down in sheets. He’s already soaked before he even passes the docks. The boats tethered there buck and sway in the churning water, tugging against the rope restraining them fiercely, as though they’re desperate to be free. 

Idly, he wonders how common it is for the dock to splinter to bits during a storm like this. 

Katsuki grits his teeth and squints. Wind tears at his hair, his clothes. Visibility is utter shit, too—the stormclouds’ve obscured the setting sun, and it’s already dark as fuck out. Not to mention the rain stinging at his eyes and face. Katsuki stumbles closer to the rockface. There’s bound to be some relief from the storm, there, and if anyone is out here—well. His chances of finding anyone out in this weather increase significantly, he thinks. 

Though, he has a vague idea of where he might be. All he has to do is walk just a little bit further. 

“Kirishima?” he yells. His voice is muted, drowned out by mother nature’s onslaught. “Where the fuck are you?!” 

If anyone answers, Katsuki doesn’t hear it. 

He stumbles forward, yelling into the storm in intervals. Waves, large and choppy, slam against the surf to his left on beat with the pounding of his heart. Katsuki ignores the way his hands shake, how the knot in his gut grows bigger and bigger with every goddamn step. Surely, he’s being fucking stupid. Overreacting. Looking too deep into shit. His gaze sweeps across the empty, dark sand. Kirishima’s probably fine. Maybe he just. Slept in. Forgot to call. Maybe he skipped town—he’s not from here, that much Katsuki knows. So maybe he went back home. Or somewhere else. And just. Didn’t say anything. 

The knot twists fierce and painful, and Katsuki swallows. 

“Kirishima!” 

Nothing. 

Katsuki grits his teeth, shaking rain out of his eyes. Something catches his gaze—there, tucked up against the cliff, between some rocks. A smudge of red. 

His heart trips in his chest. Katsuki strides towards it without a second thought. The closer he gets, the tighter his chest gets, his suspicions unraveling into a bitter reality that hits him when he’s a few kilometers shy: it’s a person. 

He breaks out into a jog, damn near sliding to a stop and dropping to his knees beside the curled up form. And then his heart drops right out of his goddamn chest because it’s not just a fucking person, it’s Kirishima . 

“Fuck!” Katsuki reaches out, shaking fingers pressing against cool, rain-slick skin. He presses them at the junction of his jaw and neck, damn near crumbling into pieces when he feels the thready thump of a pulse. Jesus fuck. “Hey, Kirishima.” He grips a bony shoulder and gives it a shake. “Wake up!” 

Kirishima doesn’t stir. His lips are blue, skin pallid, and he’s curled into a soaked red towel. The same red towel he’d sat on while he sketched the skyline, just over a day ago. That dirty ass bag’s slumped over in the sand beside him, alongside a pair of crocs. Katsuki shakes him again. Nothing. Fuck. He grabs the bag, slinging it onto his shoulder, and gathers Kirishima up in his arms, staggering to his feet. And then he’s off, back towards the sanctity of the ramen shop. 

It’s not fucking easy. Kirishima’s a whole grown ass man—he’s lighter than he probably should be, but he’s a deadweight in Katsuki’s arms, all tangled in this stupid towel that’s done fuck-all to protect him from the elements. The sand doesn’t help either—he slips and stumbles and nearly falls one too many times. It feels like an eon and a half that Katsuki staggers his way back across the beach, begging any deity above that doesn’t hate his stupid piece of shit ass to please let Kirishima be okay. 

Making it to solid ground is a fucking miracle. 

Katsuki shoulders his way into the ramen shop, stumbling a little when his boot catches the rug. He steadies himself, grip on Kirishima tightening, rainwater dripping off them both. Distantly, Katsuki’s aware of the shop door bell jingling. But the sound is distorted, muted. He doesn’t pay it much mind—his focus is stuck to Kirishima and the way his head lolls on his shoulder, rain soaked hair sticking to his forehead. 

“Oh, goodness.” Owner dude bursts out from behind the counter, voice as warbly and distorted as the door bell. “Here, you can set him down in one of the chairs. Is he alright? Where did you find him?” 

Katsuki grunts. “He was curled up on the sand, not far from the docks. Think he’s cold—he wouldn’t wake up.” He carries Kirishima to the table tucked in the far corner, gingerly lowering him into a chair against the wall, making sure he’s steady, that he won’t fall. He then peels off the nasty, drenched towel, letting it flop onto the floor. 

“Let me go get some dry towels,” owner dude says. “I think I...some dry shirts, too.” He bustles away, disappearing into the back. Katsuki lets Kirishima’s sodden bag slide off his shoulder and drops it at his feet. He shrugs off his jacket, which is still relatively dry on the inside, and drapes it over Kirishima like a blanket before plopping down beside him. He drapes an arm across the back of his chair, lips pursed and heart twisting in his chest. Kirishima looks so fucking small all curled against the wall like this. So…frail, almost. There’s a burning, in his chest, sudden and molten hot and nearly leaves him gasping. Katsuki reaches out, slowly, gently, and brushes those matted, rain-soaked bangs off Kirishima’s forehead, noting how he’s already feeling warmer. 

Owner dude reappears, towels in hand. “Here,” he says, offering them. “Let’s get ‘im dried off, and…if we need to take him to the clinic.” 

Katsuki takes one of the offered towels and turns to gently tug Kirishima upright. ‘Course, this is when he decides to rouse, apparently, because those long eyelashes flutter, and his face scrunches. 

“Nnngn, wha…” 

“Easy,” Katsuki murmurs. “You’re okay. We’re at the ramen shop. I found you in the rain—we gotta get you dried off and warm. Okay?” 

Kirishima squints at him, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Bak’gou?” he croaks. Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek. 

“Yeah. Your boss is here too.” It’s a weird fucking thing to say. He feels awkward and out of place and woefully entangled in whatever this bizarre feeling is that’s engulfed his chest as he watches Kirishima blink, gaze shifting to owner dude, brow pinching and lips pulling into a frown. 

“Oh. Oh! M’late, m’sorry. I…I didn’t mean to fall back ‘sleep…” He’s shivering, Katsuki realizes. He smooths a hand up Kirishima’s arm. His skin feels hot. There’s a litany of fucks echoing in Katsuki’s head, and he pushes them aside, willing himself to pull his shit together and focus. 

Owner dude leans over Katsuki, smile gentle. “Yeah, it’s okay, little red. Don’t…about it…just glad we found you, s’all.” 

Katsuki clears his throat, awkward, and gives Kirishima’s arm a squeeze. “Let’s get you dried off, yeah?” 

Kirishima teeters in place, leather jacket sliding off him, head dipping low. “‘Kay.” 

And so he does. Slowly, gently, he runs the towel through Kirishima’s hair, down his neck, shoulders, arms. Owner dude hands him a dry t-shirt, the kanji spelling out Shiodamari all bold and bubbly. Katsuki nudges Kirishima, who’s slumped forward, and asks, “Oi. We need to get you out of those soaked clothes. Can I take this off?” He tugs on the sleeve of Kirishima’s soaking wet t-shirt. Kirishima blinks. Shivers. 

“M’kay.” He shifts, fumbling to peel it off himself. Katsuki helps, ensuring he doesn’t get entangled, and Kirishima lets it fall to the floor behind them with a wet slap . He teeters in place, face pallid and shivering so much Katsuki wonders if it hurts. He catches a glimpse of a yellowed, blotchy bruise along his side, and his heart clenches in his chest. Fuck. What happened to you? he wonders. 

“Here.” Katsuki offers the dry shirt. “Put this on.” 

Kirishima takes it with shaky hands, and they repeat the process in reverse. It’s not a perfect solution—his pants and socks and shoes are still utterly soaked, but fuck, it’s better than nothing. Katsuki pulls the leather jacket back up over his shoulders. He reaches up and presses a hand to Kirishima’s forehead, frown deepening at the way it burns against his palm. Kirishima sighs, eyes drifting closed, and leans into the touch. 

“You’re burning up,” he says softly. Kirishima doesn’t answer. 

Owner dude frowns, wringing his hands. “Maybe we should go to the clinic.” And, that gets an answer. Kirishima jerks upright, fever-bright eyes wide and wild, and he shakes his head, fervent, knuckles white where he grips Katsuki’s jacket. 

“No, no—no, please, m’fine, I—please don’t take me there—” 

“Hey, hey, easy.” Katsuki cups a shoulder, frown deepening at the way Kirishima flinches. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to. But you’re coming home with me so I can make sure you’re okay and shit. Okay?” 

Kirishima stares, trembling wildly. “I…with you?” 

“Yeah.” Katsuki ignores the heat in his face. “I’ve got plenty of room.” It’s not a lie—he does . His house has two bedrooms, one’s just sorely out of use because he doesn’t. Need it. So there’s some boxes and shit in there that he hasn’t touched in months that’ll need clearing out. But he doesn’t say that out loud. 

It seems to appease Kirishima anyway, because he nods and relaxes, drooping against Katsuki. Which. He feels the sigh Kirishima breathes against his neck, and goosebumps blaze up and down his arms. Beside them, owner dude shifts in place, scratching at the back of his neck. 

“You sure about takin ‘im?” he asks. “I’ve…the house, too—it’d be no problem at all.” 

Katsuki grunts. “I’m sure.” 

“Alright. Well…a truck back at the house…can drive you both, if you’d like. That way you don’t…the rain, and you can get ‘im in more dry clothes sooner.” 

And, fuck, as much as Katsuki loathes the idea of asking for more help, he can’t deny how needed it is. All he’s got is his bike, and with Kirishima as out of it as he is, it’s already pretty fucking unsafe. Not to mention the rain, and how wonky his aids make shit sound right about now (they’re wet—he should’ve fucking taken them out when he ran out into the torrential downpour)— it’s a recipe for disaster. So he grunts an assent. Owner dude pats his shoulder, something that makes Katsuki go stiff, jaw twitching, and says, “In that case, I’ll be right back. Feel free…yourself off, too, if you’d like.” He sets down the stack of towels he’s got, a shirt matching the one Katsuki’d wrestled onto Kirishima on top. Owner dude leaves them, then, locking the shop doors and flicking off the sign behind him. 

Katsuki watches the rain pelt against the glass door for a moment. 

Fuck. Fucking, fuck. His throat’s all tight, and Katsuki has half a mind to lurch to his feet and throw something, if only to let out the broiling anger that’s brewing inside him. The universe is a piece of shit, he decides. Kirishima doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t. Katsuki’s certain of it, and he wants to punch whoever’s responsible for hurting him right in their stupid face. 

Because it’s their fault he’s been sleeping on a fucking beach. That he got caught in the rain while sick as shit. And it’s not fair.  

Kirishima shifts, murmuring something unintelligible, hot face pressing further into Katsuki’s shoulder. The suddenness of it’s got his heart leaping up into his throat, and Katsuki blinks down at him. And, something about the way he leans against Katsuki like this has his jaw twitching, heart burning. He doesn’t get it. But he finds himself winding his arm around his bony shoulders anyway, as though to hide him away from the rest of the goddamn world. 

And for a moment, it’s just the two of them here in this tiny ass sanctuary. Like a small little tide pool on the beach, a haven against the harsh terrestrial climate threatening to dry them both out. 

The moment doesn’t last forever. 

Owner dude bursts back through the door, rain dripping from his raincoat. Behind him, the storm rages in full force, a streak of lightning igniting the darkness in a flash of bright white light. 

“Alright,” owner dude says, voice garbled. “I…something from the back…” 

Katsuki blinks, frowns. Fuck. He really needs to dry out his aids. He watches owner dude disappear into the kitchen, before shifting his focus back to Kirishima. “Hey.” He shakes his shoulder, rousing him. “Time to go.” 

Kirishima shifts, blinking blearily, eyes glassy with the fever. He mumbles something Katsuki doesn’t catch, but stays upright. 

Owner dude reappears, arms laden with several packages of ramen. “...figured it’d be…some pre-prepped food.” 

Katsuki frowns. He’s giving him free food? There’s a spark of anger that crackles in his chest, and he opens his mouth to tell this asshole old man to fuck off, only for his mind to trip over the image of his sparse cabinets and the words stick in his throat. Fuck. He swallows. 

“Uh. Thanks.” 

They get Kirishima and his things into the truck. It’s a small thing. Yellow and white, with two seats in the cab and a bed filled with a stack of empty crates. Katsuki offers to lead the way with his bike—one, because he doesn’t want to fucking leave it here, and two, because the idea of squeezing into a tiny cab with a stranger and a sick Kirishima has his skin feeling prickly. Owner dude just nods along, which, thank fuck. 

So he shoves on his helmet and takes off, the truck ambling along behind him. The rain falls in sheets, lightning dances in the sky. Katsuki’s shivering like a bitch because he left his jacket with Kirishima. But they make it, and he manages to get Kirishima inside without much fuss. 

Owner dude follows to his doorway, standing awkwardly inside the genkan as Katsuki settles Kirishima into a chair, arms laden with the food. He hands it over, brows knit as he looks over at Kirishima’s slumped form. 

“...care of ‘im…” 

Katsuki jerks his head in a nod. “I will.” 

Owner dude nods back and takes his leave, then. 

And then it’s just the two of them. 

Katsuki puts the food on the counter, lip curling at the muddy tracks he’s left across his kitchen. He tugs off his shoes, tossing them to the genkan, and goes to peel off Kirishima’s too. He also takes off his soaking wet socks. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get you dried off n’shit.” 

It takes a lot of coaxing, but eventually, Katsuki gets them both into dry clothes and gets Kirishima settled into his bed, where he curls up under the blankets in a shivering little ball. Katsuki takes out his aids, then, and turns them off, gently shaking them free of any water. The silence isn’t quite as stark—probably because sound’s not been filtering properly since he ran out into the damn downpour. He wanders out into his kitchen and grabs a paper towel, dabbing carefully at them, before getting a container for some rice. 

This isn’t the first time he’s had to do this. It won’t be the last, either. 

Katsuki sets his hearing aids on their bed of rice and seals them up, leaving the container on his counter. He grabs a glass, fills it with water, and pads his way back to the bedroom to check on Kirishima. 

Kirishima’s sitting up on the bed when he walks in, eyes wild and glassy. He’s saying something, but Katsuki doesn’t know what. He bites back a grimace. 

“I…I can’t hear you.” 

Kirishima frowns. He reaches out, fingers wiggling, as if asking Katsuki to come close. So he does, setting the glass of water on the nightstand. Kirishima latches onto Katsuki wrist and squeezes, lips moving in the shape of what looks like stay, please.  

Katsuki’s throat goes tight. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.” 

He sits on the edge of the bed, wrist still firmly in Kirishima’s grasp, and stays, long after Kirishima drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

When Eijirou awakes, he doesn’t know where he is. 

He blinks, brows knitting. Something soft and plush presses against his cheek. His fingers curl against fabric—not his sand-covered towel, but something softer, silkier. He hears the thrum of a fan, sees a dimly lit room. Eijirou bolts upright, gasping, world tilting dangerously—one hand splays against the plush mattress beneath him, steadying himself as his gaze bounces about, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. 

It’s…a bedroom? 

His throat goes tight. The walls are dark, sparse. The only window’s got dark curtains blocking out the sunlight. There’s a nightstand beside the bed, with a lamp, an empty glass, and a thermometer. On the floor sits a rumpled futon, unmade and clearly used. And, there, peeking out from the other side of the nightstand—his bag. Eijirou’s heart hammers in his chest, breath shuttering out of him. He paws at the sheets entangling his legs with a shaking hand. 

The door swings open, and he freezes. It’s…Bakugou. 

What the what? 

“You’re awake.” Bakugou’s holding another glass, this one full of water. He pads closer, and Eijirou—Eijirou flinches, shrinks back. He’s shaking, he realizes. Bakugou must realize that too, because he stops, brows knitting. “Hey,” he says, voice low and soft. “S’okay. You’re safe.” 

“Where are we?” Eijirou grimaces. Talking hurts. Feels like he hasn’t spoken in…days. 

“My house. Found you on the beach. You were pretty sick.” He holds up the glass—an offering. Eijirou hesitates. He looks at Bakugou and finds a warm hearth, brimming with a quiet acceptance. Tension bleeds off him, and he relaxes against the pillows and headboard. Bakugou steps over to the bed and hands him the glass, which Eijirou accepts readily, nearly groaning when the cool water slides down his throat at the first sip. 

“How’re you feeling?” Bakugou asks. Eijirou bites his lip. 

Well, isn’t that a loaded question? He fiddles with the edges of the silky sheets, staring blankly into space. He feels…shitty. Groggy. The water’s helped, but the glass grows heavy in his hand, and he reaches over to set it on the nightstand, the motion making the bedroom tilt and spin around him. Eijirou slides down against the pillows and squeezes his eyes shut. “Kinda shitty,” he croaks. 

Bakugou hums. There’s a rustle. Eijirou peeks with one eye—Bakugou holds out the thermometer. He must’ve grabbed it from the nightstand. 

“Here,” Bakugou says. “Check your temperature. It goes under your tongue.” 

Eijirou takes it, face going warm. It’s a simple thing, similar to ones he’s used before as a kid. Sleek and white, with a little digital screen. He sticks it in his mouth, fixing his stare at the bedsheets. A deep orange. Bakugou hovers close, watching. Waiting. Eijirou tries desperately to not think about Bakugou doing… this for him. Because, surely he has. He knows he has—hazy memories of calloused hands gently cupping his shoulders, his face, helping him sit or stand float across his mind, and Eijirou blushes harder. He’s. He’s really glad Bakugou didn’t just. Stick the thermometer in his mouth, or something, now that he’s lucid. 

It beeps. 

He reaches up and plucks it out of his mouth, peering down at the screen. 37.2°C. 

“What’s it say?” Bakugou asks. Eijirou hands it over. He scrutinizes it like it’s the most interesting thing, brow notching and lips pursing. A hum falls from his lips, and he sets it back on the nightstand. “Fever’s broke, at least. Should feel better with some rest n’shit.” 

Right. Rest. Eijirou blinks, gaze flitting to the blank wall across from him. A sudden thought has his breath sticking in his throat. “How…how long’ve I been…” 

“Sick?” 

He nods. Bakugou huffs a breathy sigh. “‘Bout a week and a half.” 

A week and a half? Eijirou shoots upright all over again, dizzy with anxiety because oh, gods, what about the shop? His job? Does Toyomitsu know where he is? Amajiki? Oh, gosh, he’s missed so many shifts, that’s so so so bad. He scrambles against the sheets, trying to throw them off of him because he—he has to let them know— 

Bakugou’s at his side, calloused hands hovering between them, placatingly. “Woah, woah, easy, it’s okay. Your boss knows where you are. He said you can call him and shit when you’re ready and feeling better, okay? Just. Relax.” 

“He—he does?” Eijirou stills, staring up at Bakugou with wide eyes. Bakugou nods. 

“Yeah. So relax. ”  His hands fall away and he steps back, expression all twisted up with things Eijirou can’t decipher. He sighs, reaching up to scratch at the side of his neck, gaze flickering like a wayward fire. There’s a beat. And another. Eijirou slumps against the pillows, skin prickling. 

“Want something to eat?” 

He bites his lip and nods, tentative and small. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

Bakugou nods another terse nod, and turns to stride out of the room without another word, and Eijirou’s left staring into the barren, too empty room, alone. His head tips back against the headboard and he frowns, room all spinny. His eyes squeeze shut. Jeeze, he’s a mess. A shaky breath falls past his lips, and Eijirou blinks into the dim room. 

He…doesn’t remember much from the past week. Just. Snippets of things. Moments in time, all mish-mashed together in a hopelessly entangled mess. Like…he remembers the beach. Seeing Bakugou. Feeling…gross. Tired. Coughing nonstop, nose dripping like a leaky faucet. He remembers work that evening, Amajiki offering to let him leave early. Going back to the beach. Being so cold. And then…Bakugou’s voice. Warm blankets. The shop. Something hot and savory being dribbled down his throat. Something cool draped over his forehead. An overwhelming fear of being left alone…

Heat burns at Eijirou’s cheeks, and he reaches up to rub at them, as if that’ll erase the embarrassment prickling at his skin. He peers over the edge of the bed at the empty futon, heart thudding strangely in his chest. It’s a beacon of the obvious: Bakugou’s been sleeping there. Taking care of him. 

His stomach erupts into butterflies and his skin prickles harder. He sighs, hands falling away from his face, and leans over to grab the glass of water. ‘Course, some of it misses his mouth and dribbles onto his shirt. Eijirou gulps, spluttering a curse. He glances down only to freeze, because the shirt he’s wearing isn’t his. 

The glass nearly slips out of his hand. Eijirou sets it down, hand trembling, face on fire. He tugs on the cotton fabric and stares. It’s a black t-shirt, not unlike the ones Bakugou usually wears. This one’s clearly well-loved—the color’s faded to an off-black from overuse, and the graphic on it, a white skull, is cracked and peeling. Eijirou thinks he may burst into confetti. 

He ignores the way the room spins and finally throws off his blankets, sliding off the bed and stumbling onto his feet. He shuffles the several steps past the nightstand where his bag sits and sinks to his knees, a breath easing from him when his fingers graze the soft fabric. It’s whiter than it was. Like someone cleaned it. Eijirou pulls it open and stares at the carefully folded clothes within, mind fuzzy and blank. He pulls them out. His money, stashed in a wrinkled envelope, is carefully tucked into his sketchbook, both intact and seemingly unharmed. The money’s all there, too. Eijirou looks back at his meager stack of clothes. 

Someone washed and folded everything. And washed his bag. 

He looks beside him at the rumpled futon, heart leaping to his throat. He feels a little bit like he’s burning and it’s—it’s so much. Eijirou stuffs everything back into his bag and clutches it to his chest as he stands, swaying as the room bucks a little. The longer he stands, the less wobbly his legs feel and the less the room bucks and spins. He sucks in a breath. And another. And shuffles his way to the door, one step at a time. 

The bedroom spills out into a hallway full of dusty boxes stacked atop each other lining the walls. There’s still nothing at all on the walls, and the only breaks between the boxes are for doors, of which there’s two. Eijirou doesn’t dare open them. No, instead he creeps his way towards the sounds of clanging pots and slamming cabinets until he stumbles into the living space, blinking. 

It’s just as sparse as the bedroom. 

There’s a squat, plush couch, its slate gray color peeking out from beneath a dust cover. It’s positioned in front of a TV stand devoid of anything except for a sleek television—no movies or books sit on its shelves, just a layer of dust indicating a lack of use. Beyond the couch is a large, sliding glass door, overlooking the ocean and letting in the evening’s light. 

The kitchen, while still sparse, contrasts the living area with its warm overhead lighting and savory smell drifting off the stove. Bakugou stands at the counter chopping something, knife thudding rhythmically against a cutting board. There’s a small round table taking up most of the space, sleek and wooden, with a darker finish. Four matching chairs sit around it, and Eijirou sees a laptop with a single, worn sticker he recognizes as the comic hero All Might. It’s a silly thing, but it makes Eijirou smile, a little. 

“Oi, what’re you doing up?” 

Eijirou jolts, gaze flying up. Bakugou’s eyeing him from his place by the stove, one eyebrow quirked up. His gaze flickers down and up again, and a wrinkle forms in his brow. “Going somewhere?” he asks. And, oh. Eijirou ducks his head, face hot.

“Oh, uh. Yeah. I…I figured after the food I’d, um, get out of your way.” 

The sound of something sizzling in the skillet fills the silence between them. 

“The fuck do you mean, get out of my way?” Bakugou snaps, voice crackling with a seething anger. Eijirou flinches. Hugs his bag tighter. 

“I—I—I just, um, sorry, I didn’t mean—I just—” His vision blurs, voice cracking. Tremors wrack his body. There’s a vice gripping his chest, thorny and tight, puncturing his lungs and making it oh so hard to breathe. Distantly, he hears a swear, and a clatter. Footsteps draw close, and Eijirou shrinks in on himself. He…he didn’t mean to make Bakugou mad, he really didn’t.

“Kirishima, breathe. You’re okay.” 

He blinks rapidly. Sucks in a breath. Lets it out. 

“Yeah, just like that,” Bakugou says voice gruff but soft. “Do you wanna sit?” 

The next breath sticks in his throat. He peeks at Bakugou through his bangs and nods, tiny and unsure, shaking so hard he feels as though he may vibrate out of his own skin. Bakugou hovers, hands flexing in the air between them, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know how. Eijirou doesn’t know, either. He lets out a breath. Sucks in another. Squeezes his eyes shut. 

He takes a step towards the table. And another. And another. Until he can collapse into a chair, tension bleeding off him like water from a spigot. He hugs his bag to his chest and stares at the cheesy grin of the All Might sticker. There’s a bubble of kanji that says, I AM HERE! All Might’s famous catchphrase. Eijirou bites his lip. 

Bakugou slides into the chair across from him. “I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t…” He sighs, harsh, and rakes a hand through his hair, scowl tossed to some corner of the room. “You’re not in the way,” he says. “So don’t fucking think that. If you want to leave, you can. I won’t make you stay. But I have another whole ass room no one’s using—you want it, it’s yours. Pay rent if you want, I don’t give a shit. But it’s a roof over your head, if you want. Or not. Whatever. Just. Think about it while you eat, I guess.” 

And, oh. Eijirou’s entire soul is aflame. He. He doesn’t know what to even say. So he just stares, dumbly, watching Bakugou push himself back to his feet and shuffle over to the stove, mind spinning like a broken record. Could it. Could it really be that easy? Could he just. Live here?

The echo of dishes clinking together rings in Eijirou’s ears. He risks peeking through his bangs. Bakugou’s got two bowls on the counter that he’s spooning stuff into. Whatever it is, it smells amazing—savory and light, and it’s got Eijirou’s mouth watering. Bakugou opens a drawer, pulls out some chopsticks, and swipes the bowls, turning around and carrying them over to the table. 

“Here.” He sets a steaming bowl in front of Eijirou. It’s okayu, with grilled mackerel draped across the porridge, garnished with scallions. And he feels almost stupid for the way his throat gets tight—this is the fanciest homemade meal he’s had since, well, since he was a kid. 

“Want anything to drink?” 

Eijirou clears his throat. “Oh. Um. Water, please.” 

Bakugou jerks his head in a sharp nod, and turns on his heel to raid the cabinets. He brings back a glass, sets it down, and slides into his own chair across from Eijirou. He plucks his chopsticks off the table and hesitates. “Sorry if it’s shit,” Bakugou says, gruff. “S’been awhile since I’ve made this for anyone.” 

Heat burns at Eijirou’s face. He ducks his head, swallows down the apologies bubbling at his lips. Somehow, he thinks Bakugou wouldn’t like him apologizing, right now. You’re not in the way, so don’t fucking think that. Instead, he sucks in a breath, and reaches for his own chopsticks with trembling fingers. 

It’s good. It’s so good. Bursts of flavor dance across his tongue—the mackerel isn’t too spicy, and the okayu is soothing and warm. Eijirou inhales it, blinking when his chopsticks scrape the bottom of the bowl. The bowl thumps against the table—when did he pick it up?—and he looks into the crackling hearth of Bakugou’s gaze and blurts out, “Okay. I’ll stay.” 

Bakugou freezes, gawking at him. “You…you will?” 

“Yeah.” 

A smile, small and soft and oh so fleeting, flickers across his face, like flames in a hearth. It’s gone as quick as it comes, and Eijirou finds that he misses it. Yearns for it, even. But there’s no chill rising in its wake—Bakugou calmly spoons more okayu into his mouth, shrugging easily. “Okay,” he says. 

And just like that, Eijirou finds a place to call home.  

🪸

It’s weird, being in a house. 

Eijirou’s gotten used to the feeling of sand pressed against his cheek, the lap of water against the shoreline, the glow of starlight bleeding through the night sky. It’s alien, almost, the brush of a pillowcase against his skin, the accompanying quiet blanketing the dark room. Early dawn’s light bleeds from beneath the curtain. Eijirou sits up and squints. 

He’s alone. 

The space where Bakugou’s futon sat yesterday is empty, making the floor look oh so bare. He’d said something about washing it for Eijirou to use—he doesn’t have another bed. Which, Eijirou doesn’t mind—sleeping in a bed is weirder than sleeping on the ground, these days. Even just using Bakugou’s bed for one last night’s got slivers of guilt twisting knots in Eijirou’s gut. 

It was Bakugou’s insistence. Eijirou didn’t know how to say no. 

He still feels guilty. 

Eijirou reaches up and scrubs a hand across his face, huffing out a breath. It’s okay, he tells himself. You’re okay. The shaky self-assurance doesn’t help quell the sharp twists, and Eijirou slides off the bed, bare feet hitting the hardwood floor and sending a shocked chill through him. It’s cool, outside of the safety of the blankets. Eijirou hugs his arms around himself and creeps out into the hall. 

The rest of the house is lit in warm shadows of grays and pinks. Bakugou’s nowhere to be seen, but Eijirou can hear the hum of the laundry running and the distinct thump of music. Loud music. Eijirou drifts towards it like a moth drawn to flame, following the trail of sound until he’s face-to-face with a door with a worn mat in front of it. He reaches out, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the knob. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing in my office? Did I say you’re allowed in there? No? Then get the fuck out!” 

He flinches back. His skin prickles, the phantom memory of a slap imprinted into the fabric of his psyche. Eijirou swallows a lump and shuffles backward. The hallway spins around him. He sucks in a breath, and another, and teeters as he careens back towards the living room, beelining for a couch. Couches are safe. Couches are neutral. Eijirou crashes down onto it with an oomph, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to calm the racing of his heart and the shake of his hands. 

You’re okay. 

Eijirou repeats it in his head like a prayer. Maybe if he says it enough, he’ll start to believe it. Maybe these spells will finally just, go away. 

Maybe one day he’ll forget the way fear tastes like blood dripping down his lips. 

The music cuts out. Eijirou bolts upright, gaze flying across the room. There’s a vice in his throat. The door bursts open and Bakugou stomps his way inside, glowering fiercely at something on his phone. The vice tightens, making breathing oh so hard. Spots dance across Eijirou’s vision. He grips the cushions like it's a lifeline. 

Bakugou’s stomping stops. Eijirou blinks. 

“You’re up,” Bakugou says, voice soft and colored in surprise. And Eijirou doesn’t know why, but suddenly the vice in his throat is gone and he can breathe. He smiles, a wan, wavering thing, and shrugs, hoping to whatever god’s listening that Bakugou doesn’t notice how flimsy it really is. It seems they’re not listening, though—Bakugou’s lips purse, a furrow deepening in his brow, and he reaches up to fiddle with his hearing aids, fingers stained with blotches of something. Paint, maybe? Or wood stain? Eijirou doesn’t know for sure. 

“Hungry?” he asks. “I can make something if you want.” 

Eijirou bites the inside of his cheek. “Oh. Um, yeah, sure.” 

He nods and pockets his phone, padding his way to the kitchen. Sounds fill the space—creaking cabinet doors and pots and pans rattling against each other. Eijirou’s gaze lingers on Bakugou’s wide-set shoulders for a moment, sticking to the dark fabric of his t-shirt like the specks of sawdust clinging to the old, worn cotton. A sense of peace blankets the room. Something warm blossoms deep in Eijirou’s chest, growing and growing until his ribcage feels as though it’ll burst, and all at once, it’s all too much. He tears his gaze free, turning to stare out the glass door instead. 

Outside, dawn paints across the skyline with her hues of lavender and gold. Waves lap against the shoreline in a gentle caress. Eijirou can almost hear it—the calm melody of the beach is etched into his very soul, and an overwhelming longing grips him by the heart, squeezing hard enough to bruise. His fingers curl into the couch cushions, clinging for dear life. 

He…he misses the beach. 

Guilt crashes over him like a tsunami. Eijirou squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a shaky breath, shoving the thought away like it’s burned him. Bakugou opened his home to him. He should be grateful. Happy, even. And, he is! Really! It’s. Nice. Sleeping in a bed. Weird, but nice.

But. But.  

Eijirou’s eyes peel open, and he stares at the dusty floorboards underfoot. They’re pockmarked by dents and scratches of the likes Eijirou doesn’t know the origins to. And it’s strange—alien, almost, seeing his own, pale feet against the dark finish of this unfamiliar floor. 

“Here.” Bakugou sets a bowl onto the table. Steam curls up from it—Eijirou’s stomach rumbles, and he slides off the couch and up on his feet, teetering a little as he shuffles to the table. It’s a bowl of steamed rice and natto, with some mackerel from last night. His mouth waters, and he settles into the chair with a smile. 

“Thanks.” 

“S’whatever.” 

They eat in silence. The food is delicious, of course. A simple dish, but it fills him with warmth all the same. He eats it so quickly, it’s a shock when his chopsticks scrape against the ceramic bowl all over again. 

“You should probably call your boss today,” Bakugou says, voice gruff and low. “At least let him know you’re okay now, or whatever.” 

Eijirou blinks. Oh. Yeah, he probably should, shouldn’t he? He fiddles with the chopsticks in his hand, gaze bouncing around the kitchen. Only a single stove light illuminates the space, chasing away the shadows left by dawn’s pale light. Eijirou notes the old tiled backsplash—white and orange squares, with pale flowers stamped across them—and the polished wooden countertops, and the bare, off-white walls. There’s no landline anywhere in sight. He frowns and bites his lip. 

“Um, do you have a phone I could use?” he asks quietly. “I, uh, I don’t. Have one.” 

The admission falls heavy from his lips, and Eijirou’s face burns something fierce. He doesn’t know why. Just. He feels…naked, somehow. His shoulders curl inward, and he stares at an orange tile across the way, unable to meet Bakugou’s gaze. It’s. It’s weird, not having a phone. Eijirou knows that oh, so intimately. He thinks about the hastily scribbled phone number pressed into the palm of his hand all those months ago. The only number he knows. 

Phones are a luxury he doesn’t deserve. A freedom just out of his reach. A means of connection. 

A means of escape.

Something slides across the table. Eijirou blinks, gaze jerking down. Bakugou’s phone stares back at him. There’s a jagged crack running across the screen, and the background is devoid of any personalization—just a swirly design Eijirou thinks might be one of the pre-installed wallpapers. Not that he knows, or anything. He…well. He hasn’t had his own cellphone in…years. Eijirou reaches for it with a smile. 

“Thanks,” he says. Bakugou grunts, shrugging. He leans across the table and takes Eijirou’s bowl, standing abruptly. His gaze snags Eijirou with its heat, and he hesitates. Sighs. 

“Just give it back when you’re done.” He turns and stalks to the sink, dishes clattering when he dumps them in and yanks on the faucet handle, filling the kitchen with noise all over again. 

Eijirou looks back down at the phone. His thumb hovers over the screen. He…doesn’t actually know Toyomitsu’s number, or the shop’s number, either. Crap. Something twists in his chest. His gaze skitters to Bakugou. His back’s the Eijirou, shoulders lax as he scrubs the dishes. Surely he knows one of the numbers. Right? Or. Well. Maybe that’s too much of an assumption. Eijirou’s lip stings—he looks back down at the phone and swallows the lump in his throat. It’s fine, he can just. Look it up. Yeah. Bakugou won’t mind. Probably. 

He clicks on the safari button before his thoughts talk him out of it. 

Looking up the shop is shockingly easy. Eijirou gets a little distracted scrolling through their website, admiring the nice pictures of some of their ramen dishes, when the phone in his hand buzzes with a notification, the banner appearing across the top in a burst of light. 

Deku (8:00AM): Hey, Kacchan, just checking in and seeing if we could talk, maybe. Hope you’re well. 

Eijirou’s face scrunches. Deku? Who’s that? He sneaks another glance at Bakugou. He’s still bent over the sink, faucet running and the clatter of pots clanking against each other echoing through the kitchen. It’s calm and peaceful and a little picturesque and Eijirou’s hit with a strange dissonance—he feels a little like he’s here with both a stranger and an old friend all at once, and it’s dizzying. He sucks in a breath and swipes the banner away. It’s not his business. 

Besides. Bakugou’s not the only one with skeletons in his closet. 

The shop’s number’s at the bottom of the webpage. Eijirou mouths the numbers to himself as he swaps over to the keypad and dials it in, pressing the bright green call button and lifting the phone to his ear. His heart thumps in his chest as it rings once, twice, three times. 

“Hello, Shiodamari, this is Toyomistu speaking. What can I get for you today?” Toyomitsu’s cheery voice booms through the phone’s speaker, and Eijirou can’t help the wobbly grin that warms across his lips. 

“Hey, Toyomitsu-sensei. It’s me, Kirishima.” 

“Kirishima! My boy! How are you? Feeling better, I hope?”  

He nods instinctively, flushing a little when he remembers Toyomitsu can’t actually see him. “Uh, yeah. Much better. Thanks. I can probably come back…whenever, really. If—if that’s okay…” 

“Of course, that’s more than okay! The shop’s not been the same without you here, you know. Amajiki’s been worried—we both have, of course, and Kaminari’s been asking for you.”  

And, oh. Eijirou’s face burns hotter, something warm curling inside his chest. He ducks his head. “Sorry,” he mumbles. Toyomitsu tisks across the line.

“Don’t apologize, Kirishima. As long as you’re feeling better, that’s all that matters. Alright?” His words are laden with a care Eijirou doesn’t know how to handle. He traces along the wood grain of the table, hunching as though he can hide from Toyomitsu’s kind words. It doesn’t work.

“Okay.” 

“Good.” There’s a pause, and some rustling. “Think you can make it in tomorrow morning?” 

Eijirou’s head bobs. “Yeah, sure.” He has no idea how to get to the shop from here, but that’s something he can ask Bakugou later. Hopefully it’s not a far walk. 

“Alright, Kirishima, my boy, I’ll see you then. You take care of yourself now, you hear? Make sure that Bakugou feeds you.”  

He sinks down, chin resting on the table and curls an arm over his head. Embarrassment prickles at his skin like thorns from a briar patch. His gaze darts to the kitchen, where Bakugou’s stacking wet dishes—dishes from the breakfast Bakugou made for him—onto a drying rack that wasn’t there on the counter yesterday. “Yeah—yeah, okay.” A chuckle echoes in Eijirou’s ears, warm and knowing, and then Toyomitsu hangs up. Eijirou slides the phone away from his ear and sets it carefully down onto the tabletop, heaving a sigh. 

Well. There’s that. 

“What did he say?” 

He starts. Bakugou hovers at the edge of the table, brows raised and face artfully blank. Eijirou pushes himself upright and clears his throat. “He, um, he says I can come in tomorrow. So, uh. Yeah.” 

“What time?” 

Eijirou’s brow furrows. “Uh, I usually get there around eight-thirty?” 

Bakugou nods, lips pursed. “I can take you. S’like a ten minute drive from here on my bike.” 

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Bakugou’s been…good. To him. So good. Eijirou has half a mind to pinch himself to see if he’s dreaming. But then he’d wake up and he really, really doesn’t want that. So he doesn’t. He just nods, throat suddenly tight, and wonders how he could ever repay Bakugou for all these things he keeps doing. He feels unworthy, almost—like, they’re practically strangers. And Eijirou isn’t anything special. He’s a broken person, a broken soul, trying valiantly to find the pieces to put himself back together again. 

So, how then, does he deserve all this kindness? 

Bakugou reaches over and plucks his phone from the table. He glances at it, expression splintering into something almost raw and angry, before shoving it roughly into his pocket. His eyes close and he hisses out a breath. “I’m gonna be in the shop,” he says, voice strained. “Do whatever you want. If…if you need me, flick the lights. My aids will probably be off.” 

“Okay,” Eijirou says quietly. His mind skips to the text—is that what’s upset Bakugou? Who on earth is this person? He watches, feeling a little helpless, as Bakugou turns and practically prowls towards the back door, shoulders all tense lines and hands flexing and curling at his sides. The door creaks as it opens, and then shuts, leaving Eijirou alone. 

A sigh eases from him. Well. Guess he could take a shower. 

He casts one last wayward glance, before sliding out of his chair and padding to the bathroom, mind churning with more questions than he has answers to. 

⛈️

Time, as it turns out, is the root of all evils. 

For as angry as he is, for as belligerent that stupid little whore of a boyfriend he has makes him feel for pulling this, this stunt, he knows he has to play his role. His part. The grieving boyfriend, clueless and worried. There’s only so much he can call out from work before suspicion arises. There’s only so many strings he can pull, so many ways he can toe the line. 

So he plays. 

He goes to work. Accepts condolences and worried questions. Assurances that surely, the authorities will find Eijirou and bring him back safely. Ponderings if he’s had contact with his abhorrent family. Maybe they’re the ones responsible! It’s the perfect cover. He waxes poetry about calls from a narcissistic, homophobic mother, about threats and begging and demands they break up, lest Eijirou’s soul be lost to hell. 

It’s not like it’s far from the truth. 

And still, he waits. Plans. Bides his time. 

Watches that bitch from the bar. 

Eijirou can hide, but he’ll find him soon. That’s a promise.

Chapter Text

Katsuki grits his teeth so hard they hurt. He scrubs at the wooden leg fixed in the clamp with a scrap of sandpaper. Stupid piece of shit. Literally none of the scales look right and he needs to fucking stain it tonight if he’s gonna finish on time. A hiss escapes him. He pauses, squinting at the wood. The chisel bumps gleam in the light, mocking him. Katsuki snarls, whirling around and throwing the sandpaper. 

Fuck. Fucking fuck.  

Anger broils hot beneath his skin. Itching. Burning. Begging to be let out. Katsuki’s hands flex at his sides, and he squeezes his eyes shut and counts. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

Four. 

Five. 

He holds his breath. Lets it out. 

The anger dies back, some. His eyes peel open and he blinks, gaze finding the discarded scrap of sandpaper laying crumpled on the floor. God fucking dammit. Katsuki’s face twists into a scowl, and he stomps across the room, stooping to pick it up. 

This is stupid. He’s stupid. Like, seriously, what the fuck is he doing, right now? Hiding like a little bitch? Katsuki’s gaze bounces from the table leg to the cart he knows his phone’s on, and the sparks of anger crackle in his chest all over again. 

Stupid fucking phone. Stupid fucking Deku. 

Katsuki huffs out another breath and shoves the damn text out of his head. It’s not worth getting angry over. Not when being pissy fucks up his work and freaks out Kirishima. 

The memory of Kirishima’s panicked apology echoes in Katsuki’s head like a broken record, pleading with a fear so visceral it’s gut wrenching. A grimace twists across his features. He forces his shoulders to relax, shifts his focus back to his work. Katsuki sands the scales until all the imperfections fade away, his own broiling anger bleeding off him with every passing second until there isn’t any left, and then he sands some more. He doesn’t know how long he works—minutes? Hours? But he doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied and his mind’s empty. Only then does he set the sandpaper down and take a step back, squinting as he scrutinizes the leg. 

A grin ghosts across his lips. There. Finally. 

Katsuki’s gaze sweeps across the shop. He could stain this shit now, and he would probably on a normal day, but. Well. Fuck. He frowns. What time is it? His gaze cuts across the room to where his phone sits, and his frown cuts deeper. Shit. He should really find his fucking watch. Katsuki leaves the sandpaper on the workbench and stalks across the room, tapping aggressively at his phone’s cracked screen. It illuminates, bold numbers reading 2:00PM glowing in the dim light of the shop. Katsuki’s frown twists into a grimace. 

Fuck, is it that late already? 

He stuffs his phone into his pocket. Fuck it, he’ll stain the leg later. 

Kirishima’s curled up on the couch when he stomps his way back into the house. It throws Katsuki for a minor loop of deja vu—those wide, glittering eyes peer at him from over the back of the couch, alarm and intrigue colored in shades of red. Katsuki’s heart twists strangely in his chest, and he scowls and averts his gaze, beelining for the kitchen. 

‘Course, opening the cabinets proves fruitless as fuck. Which. He probably should have fucking expected since he hasn’t cooked an actual meal for himself since…well. Since god knows when before Kirishima. Katsuki grimaces and shuts the cabinets. Normally, this is when he’d either get takeaway or eat a slice of cheese and call it a day. But Kirishima’s here. And, look, Katsuki’s the first to not give a shit what other people think of him, but he was raised to have manners and shit. Just because he often chooses to not use them doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them. Kirishima’s his guest or whatever, and he deserves home cooked food. 

Which means he has to run to the store. Goddammit. 

He sighs and turns up his aids. “Oi. I need to run into town and pick some shit up. You can stay here or come or…whatever.” His face heats, and Katsuki scowls at the countertop. What the fuck is he even saying, right now? Jesus christ. He resists the urge to scrub a hand across his face and ignores the prickles of embarrassment that dance across his skin. If Kirishima senses his awkwardness, he doesn’t say. Which. Is probably for the best. 

“Oh…um, if. If that’s okay?” 

Katsuki shrugs. “Sure.” 

He risks a glance across the room and watches a soft, warm smile from Kirishima, and something sparks in his chest at the sight. Katsuki’s breath lodges in his throat, and he purses his lips. What the fuck…? He shakes himself. Fucking hell, get it together. Kirishima’s just a fucking person living in his house. No need to be weird about it. He stalks over to the table, plucking up his bike’s keys, and inclines his head. “C’mon, I don’t have all day.” 

“O—oh,” Kirishima stammers out. He springs up from the couch, fumbling with something in his hands. “Uh, can…just. Just a minute, let me grab something, if. If that’s okay.” 

Katsuki shrugs. “Knock yourself out.” He has no fucking clue what Kirishima could possibly need—it’s not like the guy has much of anything. Like, fuck, Katsuki could literally list out his belongings on one hand. Maybe he wants that ratty ass sweatshirt? His lips twist into a frown. Is it cold enough to even need one right now? A cursory glance to the sliding door shows a sunlit afternoon. 

Kirishima’s back before Katsuki’s ponderings can wander much further, a crinkled envelope clutched in his hands. He smiles, all soft and a little hesitant, and says, “Okay, ready.” 

Something warm curls inside Katsuki’s chest. He ignores it. Instead, he stalks to the genkan, Kirishima trailing behind him, and shoves his feet into his worn combat boots. He grabs his keys off a hook on the wall and tugs open the front door. 

It’s definitely not cold out. The afternoon sun warms the air, and a nice breeze dances across Katsuki’s skin. He casts a glance over his shoulder to Kirishima, who squints a little as he steps outside, door closing behind him. The breeze tousles at his faded red hair, and Katsuki can’t help but stare. 

“So, um. Are we walking, or…” 

He blinks and scowls. “Why the fuck would we walk? I have a goddamn bike.” 

Kirishima looks from him to the bike and back again, uncertainty spreading across his features like a drop of paint in water. “I…I’ve never ridden a bike before…” There’s a tension in the way he holds himself, clutching tightly at his envelope. Katsuki bites back a sigh. 

“You trust me?” he asks. Kirishima blinks at him. 

“What?” 

“Do you trust me?” 

A beat. Two. Kirishima bites his lip, dipping his head in a shallow, jerky nod, something resolute and determined glimmering in his bright eyes. Warmth fills his chest, and Katsuki’s lips twitch with the threat of a grin. He tamps it down. “C’mon,” he says, jerking his head. “Let’s fucking pop your bike riding cherry.” 

It’s a stupid thing to say, but the laugh he gets from it’s worth it tenfold over. 

Katsuki grabs his helmet and chucks it at Kirishima. “Put this on.” 

Kirishima fumbles, nearly dropping his envelope, brows knitting as he looks from the helmet to Katsuki and back again. “What about you?” he asks. Katsuki shrugs. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

Look. Is it smart to drive without a helmet? No. But Katsuki only has one, and he’d rather not be responsible for scalping Kirishima if shit goes haywire. Not that it will—Katsuki’s a damn good driver, thank you very much. Still. His mind jumps to the flickering memory of Kirishima curled into a tight little ball beneath the blankets on Katsuki’s bed, shivering with fever, and something swells up within his chest, something burning and fierce. 

He closes the distance to the bike and grasps the handlebars, swinging a leg up and over to straddle the seat. His gaze slices to Kirishima, one eyebrow arching, waiting. Kirishima stares for a beat longer before shoving the helmet on and following. 

“Do I just…sit behind you?” he asks, voice low and soft. Katsuki grunts. 

“Yeah. Put your arms around me to hold on.” 

There’s a beat. And then trembling arms wind around Katsuki’s middle, and Kirishima clutches at his shirt, clinging to him like he’s a fucking lifeline or something and—and, fuck. Katsuki feels like he’s boiling from the inside out and it’s weird and strange and feels a little bit like he’s dying, which makes no fucking sense. He grips the handlebars in a vice grip, jaw ticking. Fucking, get yourself together. It’s fine. This is fine. He’s fine. Kirishima’s chest is pressed against his back and Katsuki’s skin crawls and buzzes beneath his clothes and it’s—it’s fine! He jams the keys into the ignition and twists, engine roaring to life beneath him. “Don’t fall off,” Katsuki grits out. 

He doesn’t give Kirishima a chance to respond, peeling off down the street and zipping towards the town. Not that Katsuki’d be able to fucking hear him anyway—the roar in his shitty ears consumes everything. But he can feel the way Kirishima’s hands twist in the fabric of his shirt, how his heart jackhammers against Katsuki’s back. Scenery whips past them in a blur of colors. There’s no cars out here on the roads—there rarely is. Katsuki feels a little like he’s flying as he drives, wind raking through his air and stinging at his eyes. 

They pull to a stop in front of Lunch Rush, bike idling until Katsuki throws down the kickstand and shuts it off. Kirishima’s quick to scramble off, hair an absolute wreck when he tugs the helmet off. His expression is a mish-mash of horror and awe, and he stares at the bike like it just tried to murder him. “How…how on earth do you ride that everyday, dude?” 

Katsuki slides off with a shrug and a snort. He pockets the keys and takes the helmet from Kirishima, hanging it off one of the handlebars. “I’ve had this bike for years,” he says, and leaves it at that. 

The store’s empty as shit when they stroll inside. Katsuki grabs one of the piece of shit shopping baskets near the door—usually he just grabs an armload of whatever the hell he needs, but he’s not just shopping for himself today. His gaze darts to Kirishima, who looks about with wide eyes, clutching that crinkled envelope like something precious. Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek and strides towards the groceries. 

Realistically, he needs to go into the city and shop for real. As convenient as this dinky ass little store is, the selection’s…lacking. Still, Katsuki’s able to pick up enough of the basics—more rice, natto, nori, some spices, packages of noodles, among some other things to at least get some foundation items for some meals. And he knows he can walk down to the docks and pick up fresh fish. Most of the fishermen are around selling their catches until around four. So they’ll survive for a while until Katsuki can actually make the trip. 

Kirishima trails behind him like a lost puppy. He doesn’t speak, which Katsuki’s honestly grateful for. Having to maintain a fucking conversation while deciding between which brand of creamer he should pick up would be obnoxious as shit. Not to mention the fact that his temples are already throbbing thanks to all the fucking noise that’s here. Katsuki’s jaw twitches, and he resists the urge to turn his aids down. 

Across the shop, he can hear the goddamn drip drip of that stupid fucking leak that’s apparently never getting fixed. Katsuki shoves a carton of eggs into his cart with a huff. 

Stupid fucking noise. 

He turns around to an empty aisle and blinks. Where the fuck did Kirishima go? Katsuki’s gaze darts about. The store’s not very big. Just a couple of aisles of limited food items and pharmaceuticals and soap and shit, so he can’t have gone far. And, sure enough, he spots Kirishima’s faded dye job a couple of aisles over, back in a corner. Katsuki scowls and stalks towards him, basket thumping against his thigh. 

“The fuck are you doing?” he asks. Kirishima yelps, startling and whirling around. A box of red hair dye’s in his hands. Katsuki quirks a brow. 

Huh. 

“S—sorry. Just, ah.” He holds up the box, a sheepish grin flickering across his lips with layers of uncertainty. “Kinda need a touch up, I think.” 

Katsuki grunts. He eyes Kirishima’s dark roots. “Better get some lightener, too. Otherwise the color’s not gonna show great.” 

Kirishima’s lips purse, and he looks from the box in his hands to the shelf again. And, it’s a little endearing, the crease in his brow as he stoops to read the different boxes. Which. Is a weird fucking thought to have. So Katsuki elects to ignore it, huffing exaggeratedly and turning tail to go glare at the grocery aisle some more. Just. To make sure he’s got all the shit he needs for the week. Fuck off. 

He stares at the shelves. They stare back. 

Eventually, Kirishima wanders back over, two boxes clutched in his hands and a sheepish, shy expression painted across his face. Katsuki pretends he doesn’t see it. Instead, he leads the way to the front and pays, stepping to the side and watching with feigned disinterest as Kirishima does the same. 

“Heya, how’s it going?” the clerk asks cheerily. Kirishima smiles. He smooths out that crumpled envelope of his before opening it and rifling around inside. 

“Oh, fine. S’nice out today!” 

“Sure is.” There’s a pause as the clerk pokes around the till. “That’ll be three thousand yen.” 

Kirishima counts out his bills, all of them wrinkled and creased to hell, and smiles that warm and gentle smile of his as the clerk opens the till and gets his change. He watches as Kirishima carefully tucks it into his envelope—which he gets the briefest glances into and sees the thick ass stack of bills. Katsuki’s lips press into a thin line, brow creasing. He doesn’t question it. He didn’t when he emptied out Kirishima’s bag to clean it, and he isn’t gonna start now. But, still, the ghost of a question lingers at the edges of his mind all the same. 

His gaze flickers to the back of his neck, and Katsuki thinks of the long-faded bruises that once decorated the base of his throat like a necklace of death, and he wonders. 

They leave the tiny ass store with their goods. Katsuki makes a sharp right, paper bag crinkling in his arms as he strides down the sidewalk. The ocean breeze is sharp, stinging his nose and throat with its salty tang. 

“Um, where’re we going?” Kirishima asks from behind. 

“The docks. Need some fish.” 

“Oh.” 

The shitty excuse of a port is lively. There’s a myriad of fishing boats bobbing in the bay, and people milling up and down the warped and worn dock. Wooden boards bend and bow underfoot, weary with age and sea damage, but that doesn’t stop townspeople and fishermen alike from mingling. Folding tables commandeer so much space that it’s tough to squeeze through the gaps, and atop them sit mountains of ice and freshly caught fish. Some are fileted, some are whole. Voices raise and lower in an indecipherable cacophony, and Katsuki instinctively reaches up and twists down his aids to lower the noise into a droll hum. He strolls down the pier, Kirishima damn near plastered to his back, scrutinizing the tables. 

Most of these assholes jack up the prices of their catch. Katsuki can respect the hustle—people gotta eat and all that shit. Still. He’s not about to pay five-thousand yen for one lousy half kilo of fish. No, he walks until he finds the usual prick he buys from. 

Seruki’s a grizzled old bastard, with skin so tan it’s practically leather and whiskers so thick Katsuki can barely see his mouth. Which, is usually a fucking problem when dealing with the hearing because if Katsuki can’t see someone’s lips, understanding them can get hard as fuck unless he’s got his aids cranked to full fucking volume. Something he hates doing on the pier. Luckily for him, Seruki doesn’t give a shit if Katsuki can’t hear and doesn’t try to be a cheating asshole, either. 

He says something, eyes crinkling around the edges in what Katsuki can only assume is a grin. Katsuki grunts back, and points to the mackerel. The old man gestures with gnarled hands the amount—three thousand yen, which Katsuki dutifully fishes from his wallet—and goes about wrapping a kilo’s worth of fish. He sees Seruki’s sharp gaze dart over his shoulder, and he must say something because Kirishima goes all tense beside him. Katsuki crosses his arms over his chest and scowls, harsh and scalding. That doesn’t seem to perturb Seruki, though, because the asshole’s shoulders shake with laughter. There’s a twinkle in his eye when he hands Katsuki the fish, and he winks. 

Which. S’fucking weird as shit, but whatever. Katsuki rolls his eyes and elbows Kirishima to move his ass, brow knitting at the way he’s got his shoulders raised and head ducked, like he’s embarrassed or something. 

Weird. 

He shrugs to himself and moves the fuck on, leading the way back off the damn pier and away from the pungent smells of fish and body odor. Katsuki turns up his aids once they’re far enough away that he’s not risking a fucking migraine, taking care to tuck the package of fish ino the bag of his other groceries. He eyes Kirishima, a curiosity flickering just beneath his skin, and he huffs. 

“The fuck did that old bastard say, anyway? You looked like you were gonna explode or some shit.” 

Kirishima blinks, face going bright red. “What? Oh, uh, nothing. Just asking how we were and—and stuff.” 

Katsuki squints. It’s obvious that’s not true, not with the way Kirishima’s avoiding his gaze like he’s getting paid to. Whatever. If he doesn’t wanna say it, Katsuki’s not gonna make him. So he lets it be, and they walk in silence back to the bike. 

The road’s just as empty driving home as it was coming into town. 

Kirishima seems a little less wobbly when he slides off the bike at the house, but only a little. He tries to take the bag but Katsuki swipes it with a scowl, marching to the front door and trying valiantly to ignore the ghost of Kirishima’s heartbeat pressing against his back. He only moderately succeeds. 

“I’ll make lunch,” he grumbles, keys jingling as he jams them into the lock and unlatches the door. It won’t be anything special—just some quick and dirty udon. But still. It’s better than a slice of fucking bread. 

Katsuki heads straight for the kitchen after haphazardly kicking off his shoes, setting the grocery bag and his wallet onto the counter and reaching for the cabinets where the pots and pans are. Kirishima trails behind him, stopping to hover by the table. 

“Um.” 

Katsuki tosses him a glance. Kirishima fidgets, his own bag crumpled in his hands. 

“Is. Is it okay if I…if I use the bathroom to…uh.” He holds up the bag and bites his lip. Katsuki blinks, lips pulling into a frown. Is he seriously asking permission to dye his fucking hair? Something hysterical and angry twists in his chest, and Katsuki has to put some effort into schooling his features into something impassive. 

“What, dye your hair? Knock yourself out. Use the black towels and don’t fry off your scalp.” 

Kirishima’s smile is soft and warm. “Thanks.” 

He waves him off and ducks, face warm. It’s a stupid thing to be thanked for. Like, fuck, he lives here too, now—the bathroom’s a fucking shared space. Mostly because there’s only one. But that’s neither here nor there. Katsuki rifles through the groceries, putting what he doesn’t need away. Which, is most of it. He grabs the pot, setting it on the stove, and reaches for a can of chicken stock. Fuck, when’s the last time Kirishima’s had a bathroom? 

The thought hits like a sucker punch. 

Katsuki stares at the can in his hand. He. He lived on a beach. For weeks. Obviously he managed to keep clean and shit—he doubts Kirishima’d have been allowed to work with food if he didn’t—but, fuck. Katsuki tries to imagine not being able to shower whenever he wants, and his throat goes a little tight. 

He whirls around to yank open a drawer and rifles around for a can opener, sucking in a breath through his teeth. Whatever, it doesn’t matter now. No one’s sleeping on a goddamn beach unless it’s for fun, so there’s no use in wondering. 

Udon’s a versatile dish. Not exactly Katsuki’s favorite in the world—he’s got a soft spot for spicy ramen—but the noodles are still good and easy enough to make. He dumps the stock into the pot and turns on the burner to heat it up. Then in go the noodles. Katsuki gets out a cutting board and chops up some onions and scallions and tofu. Those also go in the pot, along with some spices. 

And then he waits. 

Which mostly means leaning against the counter, scrolling his phone. He’s got a couple of socials—only for his woodworking business. Katsuki’s never been much of a social media guy to begin with, and after…well. After, he’d obviously shut everything down. Burned his bridges and ran like hellfire was on his heels and shit. But staying offline in totality isn’t possible, especially when he’s running his own business. So he made a couple of accounts to promote his work. He doesn’t use them much beyond that, but he does like to scroll Instagram for the stupid cat videos that fill his feed. 

They’re cute. Sue him. 

So he scrolls, lips quirking at the goofy videos and pictures of cats doing goofy shit, checking every so often on the noodles to make sure they don’t boil over. It’s entirely mindless. Something to fill the time. Harmless. 

Until a photo damn near has him dropping his phone on his fucking foot. 

Katsuki’s heart drops like stone into his gut, and he stares. Deku’s stupid, freckled face stares back, nose crinkled in that stupid way it does when he’s laughing about something. He’s holding something—what, Katsuki can’t tell, because Todoroki fucking Shouto dominates the bottom left of the frame. Or. Well. His eye does. The fucker took a close up of his fucking eye with Deku behind him. It’s a stupid picture. A really fucking stupid picture, and yet Katsuki’s breath hitches in his chest all the same because he recognizes the walls in the background—those’re the same goddamn walls he saw every fucking day for two years before his entire life went to shit. 

He reads the caption before he can stop himself.

todoroki_shouto1 🍜Soba is the best noodle. @smallmight610  

Fucking idiotic half-and-half bastard. Katsuki slams his phone face down onto the counter, shaking. He’s not even following the asshole, how in the hell is he on Katsuki’s feed? His eyes squeeze shut, and Katsuki swipes a hand down his face, hissing. Fucking damn it all. He’s half tempted to take his phone and throw it out a window, over the goddamn cliff. Maybe the ocean’ll take it, and his shitty problems with it. 

Too fucking bad it’s not that easy. 

Even if sacrificing his phone to mother nature’s hungriest beast gets him some peace and quiet, he’s stuck with the memories. And, that’s somehow worse. 

Katsuki’s hand drops back to his side, and he sighs, long and weary. 

A hiss from the stove snags his focus. The pot’s at a healthy simmer, steam spewing out of the lid’s vent. Katsuki grabs a ladle from a drawer and gets to work with stirring. It doesn’t take long for the noodles to be ready from there. He gets some bowls and some chopsticks, and sets the table. And then just. Stands there. 

Well. Now what. 

He looks at the dimly lit hallway. Katsuki admittedly has no fucking clue how long it takes to dye hair. He knows it’s a process, usually involving lightener, but that’s where it starts and stops. His lips pull into a frown. Should. Should he…go get Kirishima? Or just. Leave him alone? Katsuki looks at the pair of steaming bowls sitting innocently on their places across from each other on the table, frown deepening. Yeah, no. Fuck. Another sigh heaves from deep within, and he makes his way down the hall, only pausing when he reaches the bathroom door. Katsuki raps at it with his knuckles. “Oi, food’s ready.” 

There’s a beat. And another. He thinks he might hear a thump, but, well. It’s hard to say. Seconds stretch. The door remains an impassive barrier, refusing to yield its secrets. Katsuki grimaces. Knocks again, this time harder. “My hearing’s shit, so just come out if you’re hungry!” He doesn’t wait for an answer—not that he’d know if he got one. So, he stalks back to the kitchen and slumps into a chair, plucking up some chopsticks and jamming them into his bowl of noodles, ignoring the heat that burns at his face. Katsuki slurps at his noodles, gaze flickering over his shoulder to his forgotten phone there, by the stove. 

Anger digs her fingers into his heart with a bruising grip. His jaw twitches, hands trembling. Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a breath. Lets it out. 

S’not worth thinking about. Not now. Not ever. 

Kirishima appears, then, hair damp and messy and a black towel draped around his shoulders. Those dark roots of his are long gone, replaced with a bright blonde. It looks weird as shit, what, with the faded streaks of red that make up the rest of his hair. Kirishima doesn’t seem to notice or mind, though, plopping right down into his seat and tucking in with gusto. 

“This is really good, dude,” he says between bites. A warm smile lights across his face. “Thanks.”

Katsuki’s face heats and he shrugs. “S’whatever.” 

Kirishima bites his lip and lowers his chopsticks. “Can I ask…why’re you doing all this?” His voice is soft, low, but still clear enough that Katsuki can hear him. He fiddles with the chopsticks in his fingers, gaze fixed on the steaming bowl in his grasp and shoulders lined with tension. “I mean…you don’t even know me.” 

And, fuck. Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek. Isn’t that the million yen question? He throws a glance to the counter, where his wallet sits, innocuous, a single piece of paper just barely sticking out from the top. Something warm twists in his chest and his head fills with images of a shitty little doodle given with only the intention of making a stranger smile. Katsuki shrugs again and twirls his chopsticks in his noodles. 

“Fuck if I know.” 

They eat in silence after that.

Chapter Text

Walking into Shidomori is a little bit like coming home. 

Eijirou’s shoulders ease, a little, as the savory smells of the shop drape across his senses like a thick, warm blanket. It’s kind of silly—he’s not been gone long, just a couple of days if he only counts the time he was aware and cognizant—but Eijirou’s hit with how much he missed this place. Like, sure, it’s a job, but it’s more than that to him. He trails his fingers on the counter as he breezes past, lips pulling into a grin. This little shop gave him the pieces he needed to feel human again. 

So. Yeah. 

He takes one step behind the partition and nearly smacks right into Amajiki. “Oh!” Eijirou quips, arms darting up and eyes going wide. “Sorry, dude.” 

Amajiki blinks, rearing back. “Your hair’s different.” 

And, oh. Eijirou’s face burns, and an awkward chuckle rends from deep in his chest. He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, knuckles brushing against the fringe from his loose ponytail. “Oh, uh, yeah. I, um, figured it was time for a freshen-up.” 

“It, um. It looks nice,” Amajiki says, stammering. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be weird. You just got back. Sorry.” He ducks his head, dark bangs falling in his eyes and hands wringing together, and there’s something so…endearing, almost, about it. Eijirou can’t help the soft laugh that falls from his lips. 

“It’s okay.” He peers over Amajiki’s shoulder, gaze catching on the steaming pot on the stove in the back. “Is uh, is Toyomitsu here, too?” 

“N-no. He had to run some errands, so it’s just us.” Amajiki fidgets in place, sighing. “Sorry. I’m a mess. I’m glad you’re back—we were both really worried about you.” 

Eijirou blinks. Oh. Oh, that’s. His smile splinters, a little, and the sound that escapes him is strained, because there’s so much he could say to that but gods, words are hard. “Thanks. Me. Me too.” 

They fall into the rhythm of the morning, after. And it’s nice, this sense of normalcy. Eijirou preps vegetables and meats and takes inventory and wipes beads of sweat from his brow, humming along to the beat of whatever tune plays on the radio and he feels oh so light. He listens as Amajiki haltingly fills him in on the goings on around the shop for the past week and a half. Which, isn’t much. But still. It’s nice all the same. 

Not that the past couple of days haven’t been—they have! Bakugou’s been, like, super nice. Way more so than Eijirou could have ever expected. Like, he’s not exactly sure what he even expected when Bakugou offered to let him stay. Maybe just. Keeping to his empty little room, trying to stay out of the way. 

He didn’t expect to be given a futon and hangers for his clothes and homemade meals everyday. It’s a little overwhelming, if he’s honest. Like, they’re barely acquaintances—why does it matter to Bakugou that he sleeps on a beach or in a bed? It shouldn’t. And yet, he cares so much Eijirou feels a little like he’s suffocating with it. He cares and can’t even say why and it’s as thrilling as it is terrifying. Eijirou doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth but he’s been burned before, and the scars are still all too fresh. So he thinks he’s allowed to feel…a little mixed up about it all. 

Eijirou hums to himself a little as he strolls to the front and unlocks the door. Sunlight streams in through the bent blinds—it’s a nice day out. The breeze had felt refreshing on the way in. His heart thumps a little harder in his chest, and heat blooms across Eijirou’s face as the memory of Bakugou’s warmth buzzes in his veins. They rode the bike again. Which. Is fine. Mostly. Definitely. Eijirou bites his lip and shakes his head. 

Okay, so the motorcycle is kind of terrifying. And thrilling. Kind of like Bakugou himself. Fitting, really. 

He blushes harder and shoves that thought so far into the corners of his head he feels dizzy with the force of it. 

The day passes in a comforting haze of warm and savory smells and quiet conversation. Eijirou sits on his favorite stool, sketchbook open, and fills the time between patrons with lazy pencil scratches. He’s been working a lot on spacial studies of, like, rooms and geometry and stuff. Which, hasn’t been particularly easy, and he’s shredded a couple of erasers on this singular page in the span of just a few hours. But Eijirou’s determined to get it right, erasers be damned. He hunches over the sketchbook, nose scrunching as he looks between the table across the room and his evolving sketch, pencil flicking across the page in smooth, practiced movements. 

Of course, it’s right about then that the door slams open. Eijirou’s whole body jerks, pencil nearly gouging the paper. 

“Holy shit, you’re alive!” 

Kaminari tumbles into the shop with all his clumsy energy, smile wide enough that Eijirou needs to squint against it. He strides to the counter and slaps his hands down on it, leaning forward like an overeager puppy. “Where the heck’ve you been? Amajiki and the bossman said you were sick…?” 

Eijirou’s face warms, and he huffs a strained laugh. “Oh, uh, y—yeah. I’m fine, now, though.” 

“Well I sure hope so considering you’re here now,” Kaminari says, rolling his eyes. He pokes Eijirou in the arm. “I’m glad that someone at least knew where you were, at least. But, like, dude.” He pokes Eijirou harder. “Never do that to me again.”

All Eijirou can do is stare. “Um. Sorry?” 

Kaminari waves him off. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Or. Well. It isn’t, because I was worried you like, died or something and I had no way to check on you. But I get it—being sick sucks. Seriously, the last time I was sick was probably the worst week of my life.” He grimaces, cringing, and mutters, “I didn’t leave the toilet for like, twenty hours straight.” 

Which. Eijirou grimaces in sympathy. He fiddles with the pencil in his grasp and bites his lip, guilt swelling up within him like a tidal wave. “Sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.” He didn’t. Really. Eijirou didn’t realize so many people actually…care. About him. Like. Okay, okay, sure, he thinks of Kaminari as a friend! But it’s…loose. Casual, almost. They’ve hung out a handful of times—outside of work that is. They see each other almost daily at work, but Eijirou doesn’t feel like that really counts? It’s work after all. So, yeah, they’ve hung out a handful of times and it was fun every time and he likes Kaminari, but, well. Eijirou’s throat goes tight all of a sudden. A whisper, coarse and ugly, curls inside his head, murmuring, “You’re a pathetic waste of space, you know that? Why should I care about how you feel ? You don’t care about how hard I work every goddamn day, putting food on this table for your lazy, bumming ass.” And he feels so dizzy he’s damn near sick with it. The whiplash of everything he’s ever known to be true and the truth now staring him in the face is almost too much. 

Eijirou clings to the pencil in his grasp like it's a life preserver in choppy waters, and tries to swallow the lump in his throat. 

“Yeah, well, I’m just glad you’re better now, bro.” Kaminari pats the counter and grins at him, bright and cheerful. His expression shifts to something a little more playful, and he waggles his brows. “And, also, love the new ‘do.”

And, that gets a smile blooming across Eijirou’s face again. He ducks his head and laughs, cheeks warm. “Thanks. I’ll, um, I’ll check on your orders.” 

“Sweet. Oh! We should plan another bonfire night again! Jirou’s been working on this new song that’s totally sick—she’s kinda shy about playing stuff, but I can definitely convince her to play it for you. You’d totally like it, dude, I swear, she’s like, so talented it’s crazy—” 

His chatter follows Eijirou as he slides off his stool and crosses to the divider, poking his head around it to the back kitchen. The takeaway orders sit in a neat pile at the end of the counter, and Eijirou peers at the tickets, plucking all the ones labeled Ubereats and carrying them out to Kaminari. 

“—and I can never figure out how she does that. Sero says it’s ‘cuz I’m stupid, like a jerk. But I think it’s because she’s a magician, you know? A musical magician.” 

Eijirou hums along as he passes Kaminari the food, watching as he unfurls the special insulated bags to put the various takeaway orders into, not missing a single beat in his detailed rant as he carefully tucks each order inside and zips it up. Eijirou’s definitely lost track of what he’s saying, now, but it’s fine because Kaminari’s happy to keep talking anyway. He slides the bag off the counter and slings it over his shoulder. “Anyway, I’ve gotta run. I’ll seeya later, dude.” Kaminari says it like a promise, casual and kind, and throws a goofy finger gun on his way out. And Eijirou can’t do anything more than wave after him, heart in his throat and wondering if this is really… real.  

Did he really escape? Did he really stumble into having actual friends who care about him? A place to stay? A job? 

Does he really deserve any of this? 

Is he really more than a waste of space?  

His gaze falls to his open sketchbook, and warmth blooms in his chest like a flower unfurling beneath a summer sun. Eijirou bites his lip and shoves away from the counter, snatching a rag to wipe down counters with hunched shoulders and tries to not think too hard about it all. 

🪸

Sunset colors the town in gold and orange when Eijirou steps out of the shop. He’s got takeaway boxes balanced precariously in his grasp, something Toyomitsu’d insisted he take with him. (He’d come back to the shop after lunch and swept Eijirou into a bone-crushing hug that still makes Eijirou tear up a little thinking about, telling him he’s glad Eijirou’s better and to never pull something like that again, please. Eijirou’d mumbled some half-hearted promises, feeling oh so overwhelmed all over again. Amajiki had to save him by asking about the freezer inventory.) 

He stands at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting. Bakugou’s supposed to pick him up, he’s pretty sure. He’d grumbled something about it, anyway. So Eijirou waits, humming to the last song he’d heard on the radio under his breath. His gaze catches on the slope of the roof of the building across the street, and Eijirou’s hand itches with a want to sketch it. It’s got a particular grace to it that’s enamoring to look at, and he notes the layers of shade on the tiled shingles, wonders if he could replicate it with some creative cross-hatching. 

The roar of a bike engine snags his attention. Bakugou’s bike cuts into view, pulling to a stop in front of the shop with a practiced ease. He tugs that helmet off, and Eijirou’s breath sticks in his throat, helplessly caught in the inferno of his gaze. His face heats, but he can’t look away. The sun’s dying light paints enchanting patterns across Bakugou’s skin—he’s ethereal, picturesque. Bakugou eyes him with a quirked brow, lips cutting into a severe frown. “Are you fucking coming, or what?” 

Eijirou jolts. “Oh, yeah. Right.” He hurries to the bike, takeaway cradled to his chest. “Um. Toyomitsu insisted I bring dinner,” he says with an awkward laugh. Bakugou grunts. 

“Put it in the sidebags.” He leans on the handlebars, all cool and casual while Eijirou juggles his sketchbook and the takeaway as he fumbles to undo the sidebags’ straps. It takes a moment, but he gets it, and shoves the takeout inside, clamoring onto the bike. Bakugou passes off the helmet and says, “Here.” 

The helmet’s warm when Eijirou shoves it on. Which. He definitely tries to not think about. Nope. Very much does not think at all. 

Except, well. He very much does. 

The bike rumbles to life, and they take off. Eijirou catches glimpses of the pink and purple stained skyline between the trees and buildings as they soar back to Bakugou’s—their?—house. It’s beautiful, and an ache throbs beneath his sternum. Gosh, he misses the beach. Maybe after dinner, he can go take a walk…

The house is dark when they get back. Bakugou cuts the ignition of the bike, and Eijirou slides off, tugging the helmet off his head. He holds it out in a silent offering, trying valiantly to ignore the sparks that dance from his fingertips up his arms at the whisper of contact from Bakugou’s calloused fingers. It only works marginally. His skin still tingles as he fumbles with the sidebags, tugging free the takeaway, heart thudding in his chest. 

Bakugou’s keys jingle as they trek up the walkway to the house. The lock clicks. Door creaks open. Bakugou toes out of his shoes first, Eijirou right behind him. He carries the bags to the kitchen, the plastic rustling loudly in the quiet when he sets them onto the table. What Toyomitsu’s given them, Eijirou’s not a hundred percent sure, but he can hazard a guess. 

A guess which proves to be right when he cracks open one of the carefully packaged bowls and catches a whiff of Bakugou’s favorite order. He pushes it across the tabletop, a wobbly smile coloring his lips. “This one’s yours,” he says. Bakugou sits with a grunt, chair creaking under him. 

“Thanks.” 

His own takeaway is, unsurprisingly, a steaming bowl of ramen with chashu pork and all the fixings. Eijirou’s stomach rumbles appreciatively, and he makes a note to thank Toyomitsu, again, before tucking in. 

They eat in silence. A common occurrence, it seems. Eijirou’s gaze flickers up to Bakugou as if it’s a moth and he’s a lamp ablaze in the night—the evening glows golden across the planes of his cheekbones, igniting a halo against his messy hair. Still, no tension lines his shoulders, his brow. He seems…relaxed, for once. And, it’s strange, but Eijirou feels his own body sink into the chair, his own tension bleeding off him with every slurp of noodles. The warmth of the ramen sure helps, too, settling in his stomach and spreading to his muscles, his fingers and toes. By the time he slurps down the broth, he’s full and satisfied and so very cozy and warm. 

Eijirou twists in his seat. His gaze slides across the empty expanse of the living room out the sliding glass doors, where the cliff gives way to the expanse of oceanic horizon ignited in shades of golds and oranges and deep, vivid purples. A longing aches in his chest—he rises to his feet, teeth digging into his lip, skin buzzing with a want for gentle breezes and cooling sand. 

Plastic rustles behind him. “I. Got a lot of shit done today, so. I won’t be in the shop.” There’s a pause. A huff. “Dunno if you wanted to, like, watch a movie or something. All my shit’s in boxes, but.” Another pause. “We fuckin’, can or whatever. If you want.” 

And. Oh. Eijirou turns, blinking, and takes in the awkward hunch of Bakugou’s shoulders, the way he glowers at the takeaway trash clutched in his hands as if the bags and boxes’ve somehow offended him. It’s surely a trick of the light, but it almost looks as if there’s pink darkening his cheeks, the tips of his ears—Eijirou’s heart rattles against the inside of his ribs hard enough it’s got him sucking in a sharp breath. There’s something so wildly endearing about the way Bakugou refuses to look at him, and the longing for the beach slips to the wayside in favor of pressing his lips to hide a smile. 

“A movie would be nice,” he murmurs. When…when was the last time he’s watched a movie? Eijirou isn’t wholly sure. Surely sometime before he….Before. Before he left.  

He lets the thought go before it can swell, before it consumes him. 

Bakugou gestures towards the maze of boxes lining the hall. “Most of the boxes are all labeled with whatever shit’s in ‘em—I’ve got some DVDs, but if we can’t find them there’s a cord somewhere I can use to hook my laptop up to the tv with.” He turns, then, busying himself with yanking open some cabinets and stuffing the trash into a trashcan, leaving Eijirou to wander towards the aforementioned boxes. 

Shadows drape across the hall. It takes a little bit of sliding his palm along the wall, but Eijirou manages to find a light switch, which he flips on. The harsh light cuts the shadows to ribbons—it takes a moment to blink, but Eijirou can see clear as day the scrawl of kanji in messy sharpie across the sides of every box. They all appear to be a random mish-mash of things—books, pictures, a box labelled ‘collector shit’, whatever that means, kitchen stuff, bedroom stuff…Eijirou finds a box labelled ‘movies and videogames’ at the bottom of a stack, and he carefully pulls the top two boxes off to access it. 

It takes a bit of work to peel up the tape enough to open it up, but Eijirou manages, and he pops open the flaps and peers inside. Rows and rows of DVDs and video games alike stare back at him. He runs a finger ling the tops of the cases, eyes wide. Why on earth would Bakugou just…keep all this packed away? 

He bites his lip. 

“Didja find ‘em?” 

Eijirou jumps, gaze whipping up fast enough to make him dizzy. Bakugou hovers at the edge of the hallway, hands shoved deep into his sweats and brow knit into a deep crease. A smile pulls onto his lips. 

“Yeah, it was at the bottom of this stack, ha. Should I bring the whole thing, or…?” 

Bakugou’s lip curls. “Fuck. I guess. Probably should unpack this shit.” He stalks forward, stooping to swipe the box, brushing against Eijirou in the process. It’s the slightest of brushes. A whisper of an arm against his shoulder. And, somehow, a shower of sparks ricochet across his insides in a spectacular display that’s got his breath hitching in his throat. He watches, wide-eyed, as Bakugou stands, grunting a little as he hefts the box. The light overhead glows above him like a halo, etching shadows across the cut of his jaw, the bulge of his arms. Eijirou’s fingers itch for a pencil. 

“You can just shove those back for now,” Bakugou says, jerking his chin towards the two boxes scattered around Eijirou. He turns, then, stalking towards the living room and leaving Eijirou to stare after him. 

Can I ask why you’re doing all this? 

Fuck if I know. 

There’s a distant thump, accompanied by muttered curses. Eijirou’s gaze dips to the boxes next to him. The scrawl of one catches his attention: garbage. His brow knits. Garbage? Why on earth would Bakugou have a box labelled garbage, of all things? Eijirou tilts his head, lips pursing. He reaches out, skims a hand along the edge. Clearly, whatever’s inside isn’t actually garbage, or else it wouldn’t be here. Bakugou’s a clean sort of guy—there may be a coating of dust from lack of use on areas of the house, but there’s never any actual garbage or clutter laying around. Aside from the stacks of boxes here in the hallway, anyway. Judging by the harsh sharpie lines riddled with anger, whatever’s in here must be something Bakugou wanted to throw out but never managed to. 

Eijirou slides it into place, kanji facing out. It’s heavy, whatever it is. He grabs the other box, stacks it on top, and makes for the living room, casting one last, lingering glance at the mystery box before cutting out the light. 

He finds Bakugou sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by stacks of DVDs and videogames, grumbling as he unwinds a cord around what looks to be a Bluray player. Eijirou peers into the box. There’s another set of cords, and some kind of console. Playstation, maybe? He’s not played since, like, high school—he…he wasn’t. Allowed. To touch the console back at home, so Eijirou’s never really paid it much mind. 

“Pick whatever the fuck you want. It’ll just take me a minute to plug this shit in.” Bakugou shuffles over to the tv, swiping at the layer of dust on the tv stand with his arm before setting the Bluray player onto it. Eijirou bites his lip to smother the snicker trying to wriggle its way free. He drops down to the floor amidst all the DVD cases and starts going through them. 

One thing becomes apparent very, very quickly. 

“You really like action movies, huh?” 

“Ha?” Bakugou turns around, lips pursed. Eijirou waves a DVD. 

“The movies. Most of these are all action-y.” 

“Oh.” He shrugs. Turns back around. “Yeah, I guess.” Cords whack against the wall. Bakugou huffs. “There’s less talking when there’s explosions.” 

It…takes seconds longer than it should for Eijirou to connect the dots. He stares down at the cover of the case in his hands. A fireball colors the background in bright oranges, and the main characters decorate the foreground in a classic movie-theater-poster type of pose, with the title, Operation Jakuu, in bold, white kanji. He’s. He’s not sure he has a favorite genre, if he’s honest. Has he watched enough movies to have one? He’s always liked superhero movies, though, which Bakugou has aplenty. Lots of All Might movies…

One in particular sticks out to him. Eijirou bites his lip. Thumbs at the cover. Except, he’s twelve again, clutching this very movie for the first time and begging his momma to please oh please get it for him. 

“Find one?” 

He jerks his head up. Bakugou looks at him, expectant. Eijirou chuckles, an awkward, creaky, forced thing, and holds it out. “Um. If—if it’s okay, I mean. You can pick something else if you want, I just—” 

Bakugou swipes the movie, gives it a glance. “Shit, I haven’t watched this one in forever.” He pops it out, puts it in the Bluray player like it’s no big deal at all, and Eijirou’s…not sure why it feels as if he’s just missed a step walking down a flight of stairs, but it does. He sits, hand hovering in the air, vision blurring just enough for the shadows to blend with the floor and blot out the details. Bright, blue light bathes the space, and he blinks, hand falling to his lap. The movie menu ignites across the tv screen, with an animated circle drawing around the kanji for play. Bakugou shuffles over to the box, leaning over it to fish out a remote. Pauses. Shoots a look at Eijirou. 

“I watch with captions on.” There’s an edge in his voice, one sharpened with an ire Eijirou feels in his chest, an ire built from decades of barbed and pointed questions. He manages a smile. 

“Fine by me, man.” 

They end up side-by-side on the couch, Bakugou sprawled with his legs spread out in front of him and Eijirou tucked against the arm rest, knees to his chest. ‘Course, being a DVD, there’s previews, and the first one’s loud enough to make Eijirou wince. Bakugou grumbles, fiddles with the remote. 

“Fuckin’ loud ass shit.” He turns it down, lips carved into a frown. “...s’not too quiet, now, is it?” 

Eijirou shakes his head. “Nah. Thanks.” 

He tosses the remote onto the cushion beside him. 

“—catch this action packed film in theaters next summer!” 

Flashy action sequences splash across the tv screen—people running, guns firing, the works. Eijirou has no idea what the movie is they’re advertising, though. It’s funny, but he finds himself staring more at the way colors bounce off the smooth planes of Bakugou’s skin, the way they catch in his messy, pale hair. He’s a watercolor come to life, and Eijirou’s entranced, can’t look away. 

Why are you doing all this for me? he asks again in his mind, but Bakugou has no answer to give and he’s left adrift and wondering.

Chapter Text

Having a roommate, Katsuki’s learning, is fucking weird as shit. 

Like. Look. Katsuki grew up as an only child and, aside from his parents, has pretty much existed as a solo body for the grand majority of his life. He’s not used to walking into his living space to a whole ass person sitting on the goddamn couch. It’s kind of giving him heart palpitations, a little. Like some kind of weird jump scare to walk in and suddenly find a person looking at him with too big, too round eyes like that. 

Fucking weird.  

All of a sudden, Katsuki’s hyper aware of all sorts of shit he’s never bothered to give a flying fuck about, before. Like, making sure there’s food stocked, because how the hell else is Kirishima gonna make himself food? Nevermind the wad of cash the guy carries around in his ugly ass napsack he’s got. Katsuki’s house is on the outskirts of town—unless Kirishima plans on walking a couple of miles to eat out every fucking day of his life, there needs to be food here. And, sure, Katsuki could, theoretically, tell Kirishima to buy his own groceries. But, well. Why bother when he can just buy shit his damn self? Besides. Having food means he gets to eat too, so it’s a win-win, or whatever. 

Anyway. There’s other shit, too, like the utter sparseness of his house and all the many boxes lining his hallways. He stares at them now, arms crossed over his chest and lips pulled into a scowl. 

The thing is. The thing is, Katsuki crash-landed into this house and threw himself straight into his work because doing anything else made him want to claw his own damn skin off. Unpacking the old, abandoned pieces of his life? Yeah, thanks but no thanks, he’d rather drown himself in sawdust for twelve hours. 

Except. Well. Except here he fucking is, staring down the wall of boxes with a pair of fresh eyes, seeing how damn cluttered the house looks with them here. Irritation prickles at his skin. What does it matter if his house looks cluttered? It’s his fucking house. Kirishima’s just some stray he’s graciously allowed refuge, here, if he’s bothered by the damn clutter he can fuck right off. 

Katsuki’s gaze slides to the TV stand, where all his movies and videogames now sit in neat rows on the dust free shelves, and he grinds his teeth, fingernails digging into the meat of his own arms. 

Goddammit. 

He stalks to the boxes and yanks the first one he gets his hands on, carrying it over to the kitchen table and slamming it down with a hiss through the teeth. His fingernails scrape against cardboard in the scrabble to peel up tape and rip it off. He flings the box flaps open. Stares inside. A bunch of dishware stares back. 

Well. Shit. Katsuki glances over his shoulder to his cabinets. There’s not really a pantry, here, so he’s been using most of the cabinet space in place of one—mostly because he never unpacked most of his dishware. Just enough plates and silverware to get by, as well as a couple of pots and a pan or two. A sigh tears from deep in his chest. 

Guess he’s just gonna have to fucking. Reorganize. 

So that’s what he does. The box moves to the floor and all the food shit he’s got goes on the table, and all the dishware dominates the counters until the cabinets stand empty, and he can see what kind of space he’s working with. And then it’s a matter of organization. Katsuki puts the larger shit—the rice maker, the large pots, the large pans— underneath the sink. His chopsticks and spoons and ladles and remaining silverware all go in the same pull out drawer he’s already been using since the damn thing was probably built for housing that sort of shit. Plates and bowls go in the bottom of the longer hanging cabinet to the right, glassware and mugs cram into the shelves above them. And then what’s left becomes his pantry. Katsuki leaves his spices along the back of the stove, eyeing a blank spot on the wall to the left that he can hang some shelves, maybe. 

He’s got the wood for it in the shop. Should he waste time making shelves for his spices? Fuck no. Is he going to? 

…no. He’s not. Definitely not. 

(The idea lingers in the back of his head like an unwelcome shadow, anyway.) 

Katsuki doesn’t stop there, though. No, he keeps grabbing boxes and ripping them open. Stacks of books now sit next to the TV. He unpacks boxes of figurines—most of them collector All Might figurines—and tucks them away into his bedroom. Frames of various art pieces and family photos sit stacked against a wall in the living room. One by one, box by box, Katsuki begins to dismantle the wall of cardboard lining the halls. The house is a fucking wreck with shit everywhere, and his shirt  plasters to his back from sweat, but it’s. Good. Real fucking good, actually. He’s feeling great when he throws the next cardboard victim down onto the table, grunting at how damn heavy the thing is, before stabbing the tape with his house keys and ripping a line through it. The keys drop onto the table. Katsuki flips open the flaps. Stops. Stares. 

His framed law degree stares back at him. 

Fuck. Katsuki’s throat goes tight. He slams the flaps shut, cardboard blurring out of focus. His jaw clenches. Teeth grind. Anger crackles bright and hot in his veins, and something thick and dark churns in his gut. Katsuki’s entire body vibrates, split between a desire to throw the box across the room and bolt out the door. God, fuck, how did he manage to—to forget he had this shit? He hisses a breath, bares his teeth, grabbing for the anger with both hands like a lifeline. It roars to life, burns across his soul with all the intensity of a wildfire in a drought, and propels him to yank the box up and off the table. He marches to his bedroom, kicks the door open. Katsuki drops the damn thing without a single fuck given to the contents inside, and shoves it with his foot beneath his bed as far as he can. Hopefully it’ll rot under there. Or get eaten by the eaves of the house. 

Something so he never has to fucking look at it again. 

Blazing anger propels him back down the hall. Katsuki abandons his little pet project and beelines for the workshop, flinging the door open hard enough it bounces. He stomps down the steps. Slams the door shut. Breaths saw from his chest, anger crackles just beneath his fingertips—there’s a scream bubbling inside his chest, begging to claw its way free. Katsuki clenches and unclenches his hands. Slams down onto the bottom step. He swallows down the scream in favor of clutching the hair on his head and tugging, squeezing his eyes shut as if he can forever erase the unwelcome reminder of everything he’s ever done wrong from his mind. 

It doesn’t work. 

It can’t work. Because no matter how much he tries to run from it, his past lingers, haunting his present in all the shitty, mundane, unsuspecting moments, dragging him into an unending loop of guilt and regret that winds around him in thick chains he can’t break free from. 

Katsuki sits on the step for a long, long time, after, fingers curled into his hair and anger ravaging him with all the intensity of a rampaging wildfire, burning through him until all that’s left is a charred wasteland. 

And still the image of his old degree remains, like a blister, festering and throbbing and refusing to heal. 

He sighs. Drags his hands down his face. Stares across the workshop to his in-progress commission. And, fuck, maybe it’s a shitty coping mechanism, but if there’s one thing Katsuki knows will pull him out of his head, it’s drowning himself in work. 

So he does exactly that. 

🦀

Katsuki slows to a stop, killing the ignition of the bike. He pops off the helmet, the salty ocean air pungent the second he breathes in. It’s late. Evening colors the sky in purples and oranges—it’s a little past 6:00, and Kirishima should be off any minute now. 

He reaches up, cranking up his hearing aids. Sound magnifies—gulls shriek nearby, voices call out across the street. His nose wrinkles, and he flexes his hand, trying to work out the ache lingering there. It’s a familiar ache borne of hours spent bent over a piece doing detail work, something he’s spent the better part of today doing—carving scales into the sides of the tabletop. The last part of the commission. 

The shop door opens, and Kirishima appears, expression brightening when his gaze lands on Katsuki, and. It’s. It’s weird, but something about the wide, sunshiney smile has a knot untangling inside Katsuki’s chest and he’s not sure why. He thrusts the helmet at Kirishima, which the dumbass takes and plops onto his head. 

“Thanks again for coming to get me.” 

Katsuki has to swallow back a scoff. “S’whatever,” he grits out instead. Kirishima’s arms wind around his middle, fingers hooking into his shirt, and his skin prickles at the contact. He fumbles a little with the key in the ignition, bike sputtering a little in his effort to turn the damn thing on. But he gets it, and they push off, speeding down the streets back towards the house. Katsuki’s hyper-aware of the way Kirishima’s pressed against his back—he can feel Kirishima’s rapid heartbeat, the steady rise and fall of his chest. 

He. He doesn’t know why this shit sticks out to him, and Katsuki’s not sure he likes the way his skin feels as if it’s burning. 

Whatever. The ride is short, and soon enough, they’re back at the house, Kirishima on his heels as he toes out of his shoes at the genkan. (Goosebumps blaze up and down his arms. Katsuki chalks it up to the sharp ocean breeze because it sure as fuck can’t be anything else.) He flips on a lightswitch, tosses his keys onto the table. 

He’s half a step into the kitchen when Kirishima says, “Oh!” 

Katsuki turns around. Kirishima hovers in the threshold of the living room, which, is an absolute shit-show with all the books and frames still everywhere. Katsuki’s shoulders creep up, and he grimaces, cheeks stinging. “I started unpacking some shit. Haven’t had a chance to put anything away, so. Sorry.” He’s not sure why the fuck he’s trying to justify the state of his own house. It just. Comes out. Something that seems to surprise Kirishima as much as it does himself, because Katsuki’s met with a baffled, wide-eyed look. 

“You…you didn’t have to do that, you know. I—I mean, I don’t mind the boxes…” 

Katsuki tisks. Crosses his arms. “I don’t do shit I don’t wanna do,” he spits. A shy little smile blooms across Kirishima’s face at that, which, is a much better look than the shitty, nervous one Kirishima’s been wearing. Something strange and squirmy wriggles around inside Katsuki’s gut. He ignores it like he ignores most shit he doesn’t wanna deal with, choosing instead to march his ass into the kitchen and beeline for the cabinets. 

He throws them open, brow scrunching. Dinner’s not going to be a fancy affair—they’ve got enough food to throw something together, but it’s not much. Still, Katsuki starts pulling out ingredients. Rice goes into a strainer and gets washed before getting set up into the rice cooker. Out comes dashi packets and a package of miso paste, as well as tofu and wakame. Pots, pans, and a cutting board and knife join the fray. Katsuki gets water in one of the pots and turns on a burner, setting it to boil. He cuts the tofu into manageable squares, sets it aside. He also pulls out the fish—mackerel—and some scallions. The fish gets set aside, and he chops the scallions, setting those aside too. 

It’s when he’s grabbing for the fish again that Kirishima’s voice snags his attention. 

“Hey, um, is it okay if I, uh. If I take a walk on the beach?” 

The scoff is reflexive. “The fuck’re you asking permission, for?” he asks, throwing a look over his shoulder. “I’m not your damn mother.” 

‘Course, looking is a fucking mistake, because it gives Katsuki a front row seat to the full body flinch Kirishima does, expression shuttering and frame shrinking back, as if he’s trying to take up less space. Guilt bitch slaps Katsuki with the weight of a fucking brick right to the face. He grimaces, glares down at the fish on the damn cutting board. Its glossy, dead eye stares back. 

“Sorry, I just.” He huffs a breath. Looks back over his shoulder. “You don’t have to ask permission to do shit. Just. Don’t go far, so I can find you when dinner’s ready.” 

There’s several seconds where Kirishima just. Stares. Eyes wide and body riddled with tension, like, shit, like he’s expecting Katsuki to fucking yell at him again or some shit, and it makes the guilt gnawing at Katsuki’s insides chew harder. And then the tension begins to bleed off him, a sheepish sort of smile flickering across those lips of his. 

“Okay, yeah. I can stay close.” He ducks his head, red bangs hanging in his face. “I just kinda miss the ocean, y’know?” 

No, Katsuki doesn’t know. Not really. Like, sure, he goes outside sometimes when his head gets too damn loud or he needs a breath of air, but it’s just a bunch of fucking water and sand. Still, he grunts, inclines his head towards the direction of the living room. 

“There’s a path down the overlook out back you can use as a shortcut if you want.” 

“Thanks, man.” He vanishes, then, leaving Katsuki with too many questions rattling around inside his head. 

Like. Like, why the fuck does Kirishima think he needs to ask permission to do something as asinine as going outside? He thinks of the necklace of bruises Kirishima wore when he first showed up around the ramen shop, and suddenly, food doesn’t seem all that appetizing, anymore. Katsuki grimaces, knuckles white as he grips the knife. He glares at the fish as if it’s got answers, and, predictably, none come. It’s a fish, and. Well. 

Dead fish can’t fucking talk. 

A flash of movement catches in the corner of Katsuki’s eye. Kirishima materializes into the living room, his sketchbook and crocs in hand and a smile on his lips. He scurries to the sliding glass door, fumbling a little with the latch before throwing it open. A salt-laden breeze whisks into the house. Kirishima stoops, setting his crocs down, and toes into them. “I’ll be back in a little bit!” he calls, cheery, and the door shuts and Katsuki’s alone. 

Steam rises from the pot of water—a quick glance shows it’s at a boil now. Katsuki pops off the lid and adds the packet of dashi, lets that mingle. He picks up the knife again and makes quick work of filleting the mackerel, which he dresses with some salt and spices before heating a pan of oil to pan fry them on. He’d grill them, but, well. Katsuki doesn’t exactly have a damn grill, so pan frying is the next best thing. 

And, it’s funny, how easy it is to fall into the rhythm of cooking. Once upon a time, Katsuki cooked all the damn time. It’s a lot like woodworking in a way—the repetitive, mindless tasks of chopping and slicing and stirring and shit means he’s able to keep the buzz in his head to a minimum. He’s good at it, too. Maybe not five star chef good, but good nonetheless. 

Katsuki turns down the dashi to a simmer. Lets it cool a bit before adding in the tofu and wakame. He takes the time to flip the mackerel in the pan, steam billowing and bringing with it a mouth-watering, savory smell. A quick glance at his rice cooker shows a flashing light indicating it’s done, so Katsuki pops it open to give it a quick peep. Sure enough, the rice looks fluffy and soft. He pops it closed, checks the soup. The tofu’s heating up nicely—should be about ready, soon. Katsuki adds the scallions, stirs the pot. Then off come the filets onto a plate so he can throw the next pair on. 

All told, he’s not sure how long it takes him to make everything, but once all the burners are off, the sky’s filled with deeper oranges and purples beyond the sliding glass door. 

He pulls down a pair of plates, bowls, and glasses. He doesn’t set the table—the food is warm, and he doesn’t want it to cool too much before they can actually eat it, so everything gets covered with a fucking lid. Katsuki grabs his shoes from the genkan, then, and slips out back. 

It’s cool, out. A breeze tugs at Katsuki’s clothes with eager fingers, and he tamps down a shiver. With it comes a piercing, shrill sound that’s got Katsuki clawing at his aids to turn them down and rid his ears of the fucking agony. He grimaces. How in the hell do people deal with this sort of shit all the time, he’ll never know. Hopefully it’s less loud down by the beach, where the wind’s less eager. Katsuki stuffs his hands in his pockets and makes for the path, gaze cutting to the horizon. The sun bleeds reds and oranges as it sinks into the waves. A pretty sight, if someone gives a shit about this sort of view. 

Katsuki spots Kirishima the second he’s able to see the beach—the fucker’s sitting right at the edge of the water, his crocs discarded beside him and feet buried in the sand, sketchbook propped on his knees. His heart does something funny in his chest. Katsuki frowns, rubs at his sternum. Fucking weird. The feeling doesn’t go away, though, instead kicking up a few notches when he makes it to the sand and treks closer. 

Has he ever seen Kirishima so… relaxed? Katsuki’s not sure. It’s a good look on him, this sort of peaceful look. He’s curled over his sketchbook, his freshly dyed hair ruffling in the breeze. Not a single ounce of tension exists in his frame, and his focus is locked the fuck into careful pencil strokes. Katsuki dials his aids back up, lips pursing as he stands over him and peers at the myriad of sketches decorating the pages Kirishima has open. And, shit. He makes out skyline with damn good shading. “Oi. Dinner’s ready.” 

Kirishima startles, head whipping up and sketchbook snapping shut. “Oh! Uh. Sorry, dude, I, um. I didn’t hear you come up.” 

And, Katsuki can’t really help the snort that escapes him. There’s some sort of irony in that statement. “Get your shit so we can eat before it goes cold,” he says, turning to stalk back towards the path. He doesn’t wait to see if Kirishima follows. The fucker will if he wants to eat—Katsuki isn’t just making dinner for the hell of it, after all. 

Sure enough, when he gets to the back patio—which is little more than a concrete slab—Kirishima’s there, crocs and sketchbook in hand. Katsuki wrinkles his nose at his sand-covered feet, and tisks. “Lemme get you a fuckin’ towel or something. Wait here.” 

Off come his own shoes, kicked haphazardly into a heap on the patio, and Katsuki beelines for the bathroom. He squats, popping open the cabinet beneath the sink, and swipes a washcloth, which he dunks beneath the faucet and soaks thoroughly. Katsuki kicks the cabinet door shut and pads back to the living room, tossing the washcloth at Kirishima. “Here. Wipe off your fucking feet, first.” 

Katsuki goes to plate up their dinner, then. It’s a decent spread if he says so himself. Maybe it’s not fancy, or whatever, but it’s a whole fucking meal, so. He sets the plates and bowls onto the table, satisfaction crackling inside his chest like a damn firecracker at the bright-eyed look it earns him as Kirishima slides into a chair. 

“Thanks for cooking again,” he says, soft and almost bashful. “You really don’t have to do that, y’know.” 

It’s Katsuki’s turn to be bashful, apparently, which, ugh. Heat stings at his face, and he glowers down at his soup as he thumps down into his own chair. “S’whatever.” He grabs his chopsticks and stuffs rice into his mouth, because he’s fucking hungry and not because he doesn’t know how to articulate the weird, confusing-as-shit concoction of feelings swirling around inside him at all fucking times, lately. Nope, he just wants to eat his stupid rice and fish that he cooked with his own two hands. And, if he glances up in time to see Kirishima’s face melt into pleased bliss at the first bite of food, well. That’s incidental. Fuck off. 

“Sh’good,” Kirishima says through a mouthful, because he’s a fucking animal, apparently. Still, Katsuki can’t help but preen a little. 

“Sure fucking better be,” he quips. Kirishima laughs, eyes crinkling around the edges, and, look, Katsuki doesn’t pay much mind to sounds because half the time he doesn’t even fucking hear them. But there’s something about the way Kirishima laughs, bright and warm, that Katsuki finds he likes the sound of. Another confusing as shit thought to have because, why should he like hearing Kirishima laugh? It’s a fucking laugh.  

“I, uh. I’m not, like, much of a cook, but I kinda feel like I should give it a shot. Make this a bit of a fair trade, y’know?” 

And, that’s the stupidest thing Katsuki’s ever heard in his life, because he didn’t ask Kirishima to ‘trade’ anything, he’s cooking out of his own free will. He nearly says as much, too. But one look at Kirishima’s got Katsuki huffing and rolling his eyes to acquiesce, because the fucker’s got those annoying, wide eyes that gleam with a sort of eager energy, like a damn puppy or something. 

“Do whatever you want,” he mutters, “I don’t give a shit.” 

The smile he gets is blinding, and Katsuki has to squint against it. 

“Tomorrow’s my turn, then!” 

Something strange wriggles inside Katsuki’s gut. He ignores it in favor of burning his mouth on the soup. Which. Hurts like a bitch, but whatever. 

Kirishima also insists on helping him clean up, after, too, springing up the second Katsuki does. “Wait—let me help—!” 

Katsuki shoots him a withering look. Kirishima ducks his head, shoulders raising. “You’ve…you’ve been real nice to me, letting me stay here and eat your food. I don’t wanna just, not pull my weight, y’know?” 

And. Well. How the hell can Katsuki say no to that? 

So, he washes and Kirishima dries. They don’t talk while they work, though Kirishima hums beside him, a sound low enough it takes Katsuki an embarrassingly long time to register its existence. 

Look, his hearing aides only do so much, and half the shit in the house hums, too. Life is too fucking noisy as it is, nobody needs to be expecting Katsuki to distinguish between a house hum and a person hum. That’s part of why he moved out to bumfuck nowhere—nobody’s around to expect that kind of shit from him. 

His lips press into a frown, gaze trained on the swirling water draining out of the sink. Funny, how he’d still end up existing around another person. Luckily, it seems Kirishima doesn’t expect anything out of him beyond what tenuous existence they’ve established together. 

Kirishima folds the towel, a faded, ratty piece of shit he’s had for years, and hovers. Shadows cut dark creases along the edges of his face—it’s late enough that the house grows dark in the rapidly fading light. “Are, uh. Are you gonna do more work, tonight?” The question comes out halting, hesitant, and Katsuki’s brows knit in the face of it. 

“What, you wanna another movie, or something?” He shoves away from the sink, casting a lingering glance towards the workshop. And. Well. Normally the answer would probably be yes. Hell, he’s so fucking close to finishing this goddamn table—he probably could finish it, tonight, if he goes now and puts in a couple of hours of work. His skin prickles with a yearning for the simplicity of turning his brain off and drowning in the rhythm of work for awhile. “You don’t need me to do that,” he says, except he makes the mistake of looking at Kirishima again, the burning, earnest sunset gleaming there in those too-wide eyes of his enough to drag a sigh right from Katsuki’s lungs. 

“But, I guess I can go for a movie.” 

Kirishima squirms in place, all hunched weird and shit, as if trying to make himself small, again. “You don’t have to, man,” he murmurs. “I mean, I was just—” 

Katsuki huffs, rolls his eyes, stalks forward and snags his wrist, tugging him along. “Shut up and pick a damn movie.” 

He flops down on the couch, arms crossed, and watches as Kirishima drifts to the TV stand, dropping down to his knees to inspect the movie cases filed away neatly on its shelves. Katsuki half expects him to pull out another superhero movie, since he liked the last one so damn much, except Kirishima manages to surprise him by bypassing the movies altogether to pull out one of the videogames Katsuki has filed on an adjacent shelf. His brows raise. It’s. Been a long fucking time since he’s played a videogame. 

“Thought you wanted to watch a movie?” he grouses. Kirishima jolts, throwing a sheepish look over his shoulder. 

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Just…got distracted.” 

Another scoff escapes him. “If you’d rather play a game, just fucking say so. I don’t give a shit.” 

Kirishima ducks his head. “Nah, that’s okay. I…I’ve never really played any, before—or, well. It’s been a really, really long time, so I’d be bad at it. I just saw the title and got distracted, s’all.” 

And, something about the admission rankles Katsuki. Never played video games before? What the fuck? Like, look, it’s been an eon and a half since Katsuki’s touched his game consoles, but, well, shit. He’s at least fucking played before. And, okay, maybe Kirishima’s just had other hobbies growing up. Like drawing and shit. Still, Katsuki can’t help but squint at him with pursed lips. 

“What game did you pull?” 

Kirishima peers over his shoulder. “Huh?” 

“The game, idiot. Which one is it?” 

“Oh. Uh.” He holds it up. Katsuki goes tense when he sees the cover—Super Mario Smash Bros, a game he used to play a lot with…with Deku and fucking Todoroki. He swallows around the lump that lodges in his throat. Fuck. Of fucking course Kirishima would grab that one. His fingers curl into the couch cushions, whole body shaking with a want to—to—to leap up, scream, throw something. To bolt and hide away in the workshop and choke on sawdust until he can’t fucking think, anymore. 

Except. Except, Kirishima’s there, sunset eyes trained right on him, wide and open and trusting, and he can’t blow his lid or else he’ll freak Kirishima out. So he forces himself to suck in a breath. And another. And, an anger crackles just beneath his skin—an anger at himself for being a little bitch and having a full body reaction over a goddamn videogame, of all fucking things. It gets him on his feet and stomping over to Kirishima, swiping it from him and popping it open. 

“Guess you’re gonna learn how to play, today,” he says, because fuck watching a movie and fuck Deku and Icy Hot for always managing to ruin shit for him and fuck himself for letting them. It takes a minute to set up his stupid switch—perks of never unpacking a goddamn thing until now—but he gets it booted up and drags Kirishima back to the couch. “Here.” He thrusts the controller at him, before flopping back down onto the cushions beside him. Katsuki fires up the game, taking the extra two minutes to explain what the buttons do before hitting play.  

‘Course, Kirishima’s prediction is spot on. He sucks. Badly. More than half of Katsuki’s wins are because Kirishima’s character falls off the fucking map because the dumbass can’t quite grasp the controls. But he makes up for it with enthusiasm, lighting up whenever he manages to land a hit. And it’s. Fun. Actually. 

Katsuki laughs more than he’s laughed in a long, long fucking time, and, when one hour turns into three, well. He can’t say he regrets a single second of it.

Chapter Text

Graphite smears beneath his fingertips. Eijirou bites his lip, wincing. Ah, crap. He lifts his hand, inspecting the pencil smudges decorating his skin. Fortunately, he’s managed to not ruin his sketch—if anything, he’s accidentally blended the shading a bit better. His brow knits, and he tilts his head, considering. Hmm…actually, maybe he should rub it in, some…

The sliding door bangs open behind him, and Eijirou jolts, yelping, head whipping around hard enough he nearly gets whip-lash from it. Bakugou leans in the doorway, scowl sharp and fierce. “Oi, s’time to go, unless you wanna skip work.” 

Oh, crap. Eijirou slams his sketchbook shut and scrambles to his feet. “Coming!” 

Getting his knapsack and shoes is a whirlwind of effort, but soon enough he’s on the back of Bakugou’s bike, speeding down the road faster than his own heart can race. Pinks and yellows and soft oranges paint the sky overhead, the landscape aglow with the gentle hues of dawn’s light. Houses and trees speed by in a blur of shapes and colors. He clings to Bakugou, fingers twisted into the soft sweatshirt, and tries to watch through the helmet visor, taking in the lean of a roof, the texture of bark. 

Something does manage to catch his eye—a blip of what registers as a red bike, propped at the end of a drive, with a flimsy cardboard sign Eijirou doesn’t quite catch. He swivels, tries to read it, but they’re already up and over the crest of the next hill, the bike and sign long gone. 

The town’s sleepy when Bakugou rolls through it. Most of the shops aren’t open, quite yet. A handful of people mill about, performing the early morning chores like sweeping a stoop or tending to plants or checking for the morning paper. It’s quiet, gentle, much like the waves lapping against the shoreline. Eijirou prefers it to the city’s hustle and bustle—life doesn’t slow in the city. It’s constant motion all the time, an unending cog turning to what’s next and next and next. There’s never any room to breathe. Not like here.

Their bike crawls to a stop right outside the ramen shop. Eijirou unhooks his fingers from Bakugou’s sweatshirt and slides off, suppressing a shiver at the sudden absence of warmth wrought by the scant distance between them. He tugs off the helmet, passes it over. “Thanks again, man,” Eijirou murmurs. Bakugou grunts. There’s a scowl carved into the lines of his face, softened just a little by the hint of pink splashed onto his cheeks. Eijirou’s heart rattles strangely in his chest at the sight. He looks away, heat stinging at his own face. 

“Stop fuckin’ thanking me,” Bakugou grumbles. “S’fine.” There’s a pause. A sigh. “Usual time, right?” 

Eijirou bites the inside of his cheek, nodding. There’s another thank you burning the edge of his tongue. He swallows it down and shuffles backwards, instead, waving awkwardly. “Seeya later, dude!” 

Some flicker of emotion ripples across Bakugou’s expression, too quick for Eijirou to gauge before he tugs on the helmet, hiding away any chance to read him at all. The bike roars, then, and Bakugou peels off, leaving Eijirou to stare after him until he vanishes around a bend, the rumbling engine’s echo smothered by the shrill call of gulls and gentle birdsong. 

He takes a breath. Closes his eyes. 

The cool morning air feels nice. He shivers, a little, but lingers anyway, relishing in the salty tang in the air. Seconds bleed into a minute, and Eijirou sighs, opening his eyes and turning to push his way inside. 

Savory smells welcome him with their warmth. He drops his bag onto its hook beneath the counter and pokes around the latticework separator, grabbing his apron and tossing it on over his work shirt. 

“Good morning, my boy!” Toyomitsu cries, eyes bright and sparkling. His face is rosy with heat, a thin, black headband pushing his bangs out of his eyes as he hovers over the steaming pots. “How are ya’ today? Eager to cook, I hope.” 

Eijirou laughs. “Sure am!” He makes quick work of tying his apron and joins the fray, humming to a tune stuck in his head as he works. The morning passes in a haze of steam and easy conversation. Toyomitsu tells him about his previous evening playing cards with some of the local fishermen in town. 

“Ya’ get enough sake into some of them, and their games get a touch sloppy,” he says with a wink. Eijirou smothers a smile beneath his hand. It’s a little difficult to imagine his cheerful, smiley boss being so mischievous, but he tells it so earnestly, Eijirou can’t help but believe it. 

“How’re things with you, my boy? Is Mister Bakugou treating you well?” 

Heat splashes at his cheeks, unrelated from the heat of the stove. “Oh, um, yeah, he is.” Eijirou stirs the stock, smile a touch wobbly where it blooms on his lips. “He’s been teaching me how to play video games and stuff.” 

Toyomitsu arches a brow. “Video games, eh? What kind?” 

He fiddles with the ladle handle, peers at the bubbling liquid in the pot beneath him. “Uh, it’s called Super Mario Smash? It’s a fighting game, I think.” Eijirou shrugs, bashful, and leans to twist the burner dial lower. “I’ve not played too much, so, he’s been, um. Showing me the ropes and stuff.” 

There’s a twinkle in Toyomitsu’s eye when he hums. Eijirou’s insides get all twisty, and he decidedly doesn’t look too hard at any of it, stammering as he swaps topics to something less.. .less.  

They open shop with little fanfare, and Eijirou finds himself perched in his usual spot on the stool, sketchpad out and pencil scratching across its blank pages. Today, he’s scribbling more perspective sketches, trying to refine the shapes of things he sees even more. It’s. It’s difficult, because regardless of how much he squints and tilts his head, the lines just don’t come out quite right. 

The bell rings, and his pencil jerks. Crap. 

“Hi there, welcome in—oh!” He blinks, straightening. “Oh! Miss Shimizu-san!” Eijirou jerks into a bow so low he nearly smacks his head onto the counter. “What brings you in here?” 

Shimizu chuckles, warm, gentle, and waves a hand at him. “Please, no need for such formalities. It’s lovely running into you, dearie, I didn’t realize you worked here!” 

Eijirou rubs at the back of his neck, head ducking. “Yeah, ha. It’s a real nice place to be. Toyomitsu’s been great.” 

“That’s good. I take it you’ve been well? I’ve missed you at the sento.” Her expression is kindly, creased with a lick of worry, and Eijirou nearly chokes on the swell of guilt surging up and over him. 

“Sorry!” He bows again, bangs hanging in his face. “I didn’t mean to—to make you worried! I’ve been well, just—busy! I haven’t had any time to swing by!” It’s not the whole truth, but it’s the best he can give because, what else can he even say? He was homeless on the beach before and now has a place to stay? While he…wouldn’t be surprised if Shimizu guessed as much, Eijirou’s not super keen on spelling it out with words. That tends to invite more questions he’s not ready to give answers to. Eijirou bobs back up, fingers scraping against the counter. “What can I get for you, today, Shimizu-san?” 

Shimizu reaches over and pats at the back of his hand, her smile a warm and fuzzy blanket. “Don’t apologize, dear. You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m just happy to see you’re alright.” She pauses, purses her lips. “As for my order, I’ll just take a classic bowl of tonkatsu roman, please. All the fixings will be fine for me.” 

He taps the appropriate buttons on the till. “Of course! Coming right up!” 

Her order doesn’t take very long to make, and all too soon, Eijirou’s passing it over the counter. She clasps his hands again in her weathered ones, giving them a squeeze. “If there’s ever anything you need, Kirishima-kun, please don’t hesitate to let me know,” she tells him sweetly. “You’re always welcome at the sento.” 

It’s all he can do to stammer out a thanks. 

She pats his hand again and takes her leave, and Eijirou’s left to grapple with this—this assault of kindness. He presses his face into his hands, tries to quell the racing of his heart, the prickling at his skin. A bitter tasting question floats up to the forefront of his mind, asking, where was all this kindness before, when he needed it most? When he was at his lowest? Why did it wait until now to caress him so? 

Something hot and wet streaks down a cheek. He wipes at it hastily, sniffing, and shoves the thoughts away. They’re. They’re not important, right now. He’s at work—he’s gotta focus. 

But, focus is hard to achieve when the sinister whispers echo at the edges of his thoughts during the long lulls of the shift. Eijirou finds himself on the razor’s edge of spiralling, held together with the most tenuous of grasps thanks to the pencil in his hand and the sketchbook spread open on the counter. Whenever the whispers get too loud, he forces himself to focus on the page, drawing careful, painstaking strokes that require all the attention he’s got to give until the whispers subside and he can breathe, again. 

Distraction comes hours later in the way of Kaminari bulldozing his way into the shop. And, gods above, is Eijirou grateful for it. 

“Dude! Hey!” He strides up to the counter and slams his hands down onto it, grin wide and wild. “Tomorrow! You, me, the rest of my bros, and a bonfire. You in?” 

Eijirou blinks. “Tomorrow?” 

“Hell yeah, bro! I can show you that song we’ve been working on! Plus, Tokoyami says there’ll be a planet out in the sky then, too, which is hella cool.” 

A planet? Eijirou’s gaze skitters out the door, as if he can see it right across the street. He can’t, of course, but a smile warms his lips anyway. “Yeah, okay! That sounds fun!” 

Kaminari beams. “Heckin’ yeah! I’ll meet you here again like last time, if that’s cool.” 

“Sure!” 

“Sweet!” He leans forward, peering over Eijirou’s shoulder back towards the kitchen. “Anyway, is my stuff ready? I’ve got hella orders tonight, dude.” 

Eijirou laughs. “Let me go see.” 

Sure enough, they’re all stacked neat on the counter waiting. Eijirou grabs them and passes them over with a grin. Kaminari stuffs them all into his go-bag with a practiced sort of ease. “I’ll seeya tomorrow, bro! Y’know, unless more people order stuff before you’re off.” He throws a peace sign over his shoulder as he skips his way out, and Eijirou finds himself feeling just a little bit lighter. 

🪸

He sees the bike again on the way home. 

“Stop!” Eijirou tugs at Bakugou’s shirt, snagging his attention—Bakugou throws a baffled look over his shoulder, before slowing, pulling off to the side of the road. He reaches up to fiddle with his hearing aids, lips pulled into a frown. 

“Ha? What’s wrong?” 

Eijirou slides off the bike, popping off the helmet. “There’s a bike with a sign over the hill—” He points behind them. They’re not too far, thankfully. “—I wanna go take a look at it.” 

Bakugou, predictably, scoffs. “The fuck do you wanna look at some shitty bike for?” 

The flinch is reflexive. Eijirou bites his lip, head ducking. Anxiety and embarrassment pierce his skin with their sharp talons, digging in deep and not letting go. “I…I dunno, I just…sorry, it’s stupid. We can go.” He moves to replace the helmet, but Bakugou stops him with a hand on his arm. 

“You said it’s over the hill?” 

Eijirou peers at Bakugou through the curtain of his bangs—his expression is impenetrable. He plasters on a smile, tries to wave it all off. “It’s fine, dude, like I said, it was a stupid idea. Don’t worry about it.” 

Bakugou huffs, harsh and angry, a curse spitting out under his breath. There’s a twitch in his jaw, and his hand falls away. And. And, Eijirou trembles, because he’s gone and fucked it all up and made Bakugou angry, and now he—he probably wants Eijirou to walk home, or—or, gods, maybe he’ll make Eijirou sleep on the patio. Tell him he wasn’t fast enough walking back, that he’s gotta earn his right to sleep inside, make it up to Bakugou, somehow, for his transgressions—

Except. Except he doesn’t. Eijirou watches, wide-eyed, as Bakugou inclines his head. 

 “C’mon.” 

Haltingly, Eijirou tugs the helmet back onto his head, climbs back onto the bike. He’s stiff and awkward wrapping his arms around Bakugou, half certain the guy’s gonna shove him off, but Bakugou hardly seems to notice or care. No, he simply revs the engine and kicks off. 

And fully turns around. 

“Wa–what’re you doing?” he asks, but his voice must get whisked away by the wind and the roar of the bike, because Bakugou doesn’t answer. Eijirou doesn’t dare try to stop him again, either, instead choosing to hold on for dear life as the sail over the hill and back towards the house with the bike and sign out front. 

They slow to a stop. The bike sits propped against an old and weathered mailbox, its red paint peeling in spots and its tires flat, the rubber mottled and cracked. There’s a few spokes busted on the back wheel, and a close look at the chain shows it completely rusted over. The sign—made of a flimsy cardboard—reads, Free to take!!!! 

Bakugou snorts. Kills the ignition. “S’pretty fucking easy to see why it’s free.” He peers over his shoulder and quirks a brow, lips pursed. “You…want this piece of—” He stops. Nose scrunches. “—this. Bike?” 

Eijirou flips up the helmet’s visor, biting his lip. He…didn’t really have a plan at all beyond an innate curiosity to take a look. And, yeah, now that he’s looking, it seems…well. Like he’s just gone and wasted Bakugou’s time. 

“I…I mean, I was just. Curious, y’know? I—I do really appreciate you always driving me back and forth, that’s not—I’m not—I. I just. It. It would be nice to be able to get around, y’know? But, like, this bike’s shitty, and it was stupid, so we can just go, it’s no big deal—” 

“Oi.” Bakugou pins him with a sharp look. “S’not stupid, alright? Quit saying that.” He nudges at Eijirou, then. “Move your ass.” 

They both slide off, and the bike engine cuts out. Eijirou watches with complete and utter bafflement as Bakugou marches up the short walk to the front door and bangs on it. There’s a beat. Two. Four. And then the door creaks open, revealing a small woman with age lining her features and a stained apron tied around her waist. 

“Yes?” 

“That old-ass bike out there—we want it, but I don’t have a way to haul it back to my house. Any way I can swing by tomorrow to get it?” 

She blinks, owlish, peering around Bakugou to Eijirou and the motorbike. “Oh! Yes, of course! My husband has a truck—I can have him drop it off for you if you don’t live too far. He’ll be happy to get it off our hands. It’s our son’s old bike, you see, and it’s been collecting rust back back in the shed.” 

Bakugou’s polite but curt as he rattles off his address, allowing the woman to chatter at him for a few minutes with some polite pleasantries, and then he’s marching back to Eijirou and slinging himself back onto the bike. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Eijirou feels almost dazed, clamoring up behind him. They peel off, flying down the road back to the house, and Eijirou…doesn’t really remember half the journey. He’s stuck, standing there at the edge of the driveway, watching Bakugou get him a bike without so much as a question. A bike that’s got rotted out wheels and a rusty chain, no less. A litany of why’s echo un his head in an unsung song, and it’s only when the bike stops and the engine cuts again that he’s startled back to the present. 

“You…you didn’t have to do that,” he says once the helmet’s off. Bakugou takes the helmet from his hands, fiddles with the way it hangs on the handlebar. One shoulder lifts in a shrug. 

“I know.” 

There’s one, singular, fleeting moment where Bakugou’s gaze catches his own, and Eijirou’s ensnared in a sweeping wildfire that nearly rips his breath from him before it’s gone and he’s left shivering against the slight ocean breeze. 

🪸

Sparks dance up into the sky to the beat of laughter. Eijirou leans forward on his log, feet digging into the sand, lips tugged into an easy smile. Across from him, Kaminari wrestles with Sero over a bag of chips, their ribbing jovial and familiar in a way that makes his insides ache, a little. 

“Let go, I had them first!” 

“You literally didn’t—I did, dummy.” 

“Ow! Don’t elbow me! Jirou! He elbowed me!” 

“I saw nothing,” Jirou says, not looking up from the guitar she tunes in her lap, “did you, Tokoyami?” 

“Nothing besides the blanket of stars above us.” 

“Aw, come on! Sero totally tried to bruise my ribs just now with his freaky sharp elbows!” 

Eijirou smothers a snicker in his hand. They’ve been out at the bonfire site for awhile, now. How long, Eijirou isn’t sure—the sun’s disappeared beneath the waves, her glow illuminating twilight in shades of reds fading into indigoes. The planet’s already just barely visible, twinkling alongside the more eager stars in the deepening night sky. Tokoyami’d pointed it out almost right away, managing to spot it in spite of the dusk’s light still coloring the sky. 

“How’ve you been since the last time we encountered each other here on the mortal coil?” Tokoyami asks, rings plink-plinking against the beer bottle in his hands. Eijirou blinks. It takes a second for the question to register, and he chuckles, awkward, one hand rising to rub at the back of his neck. 

“Oh! Uh, I’ve been good! Mostly been working a lot to save up some cash!” He bites his lip. Looks down at the shadows flickering and dancing across the ground. “I got a bike yesterday! It needs some work before I can ride it, though.” 

“A bike? Like, a motorbike, or a bike-bike?” Kaminari asks. The chip bag crinkles in his grasp—he’s the apparent victor in the chip scruffle. 

“A bike-bike! Riding a motorbike is fun and all, but I don’t really wanna try to drive one. Besides, I just need it to get to and from work, y’know?” 

“Yeah, that’s fair.” 

“I usually just take the bus,” Jirou says, shrugging. “The bus routes don’t really go through town, though.” 

“You also commute to the next town over,” Sero says. 

“True.” 

“Yes, well, in Jirou’s defence, cars are unfortunately rather expensive and the bus fare is not. I too take the bus—a consequence of existing within a capitalist machine is that I need to work to survive, and there’s not much work to be had in this tiny little town.” 

“Amen to that!” Kaminari chirps. “If I could never deliver another Doordash order again, I’d be a happy man. Seriously, the amount of crazy I deal with delivering is insane. Like, just tonight—! There was this guy who answered the door in his underwear!” 

Shocked laughter crackles alongside the fire. Kaminari devolves into what surely must be an exaggerated retelling of the situation—complete with wild arm gestures and a mishap of chips spilling into the sand—and, Eijirou sinks into it, laughing so much his ribs hurt with it. 

They stay late into the night, lounging beside the crackling fire. Jirou plays their new song, her soft, raspy vocals creating a soothing harmony with the waves lapping against the shoreline. Eijirou may not be the most musically versed person, but he likes it. There’s…something almost haunting, about it, that resonates with him, leaves the melody lingering in the eaves of his mind hours later.

Eventually, the fire dies back, and they cobble together their things—blankets and goody bags and empty glass bottles—and stagger their way off the beach. Sero and Kaminari sling their arms over Eijirou’s shoulders, swaying him side-to-side and singing some snatches of a song he doesn’t know. He feels floaty and warm despite the chill, laughing along all the way back to Kaminari’s car. 

“Seeya later, sparky!”

“Text me when you’re home!” 

“Yeah, yeah, you too, assholes!” Kaminari fumbles with his keys, car lights flashing as he unlocks it. “Alright, Kiri-bro, your chariot awaits.” He bows. Eijirou snickers, head ducking as he pops open the door and clamors inside. 

“Thanks again for driving me, dude,” he says softly. Kaminari waves a hand, jamming the keys into the ignition. 

“No worries, man! I’m always happy to help out a bro! Especially if it means you get to hang.” The car rumbles to life, and Kaminari pulls away from the ramen shop where he’d parked, leaning a little to poke at his radio. “You gotta direct me, though, ‘cuz I have no clue where we’re going.” 

So Eijirou does. 

It’s a real good thing he’s paid attention while Bakugou drives him back and forth, or he’d be so very lost right now. Everything looks different, cloaked in night’s shadow. It takes a little extra concentration to puzzle out where they’re at, so Eijirou keeps his gaze fixed firmly out the windshield. 

“So…you staying in a house, or…?” 

He bites his lip. “A house. It’s. It’s not mine—I’m…there was an extra room.” 

“Ah, yeah. I thought about renting a room, but I ended up going for my own place instead. Or. Well. It’s an apartment in some old lady’s attic? It works, though, so we roll with it.” 

Eijirou hums. “It’s the next house on the right.”

The car slows. Stops at the end of the drive. There’s a single light aglow on the side of the house—Bakugou must’ve left it on for him. For some reason, his insides flutter at the notion. 

Kaminari stares. “Wait. Wait, wait— ” He leans over the console, face scrunching as he squints. “Um. Are you sure this is right? Because I could’ve sworn this is mister grouchy pants’ house. Like, it’s been awhile since I’ve delivered here, but it’s hard to forget the place where an asshole like him lives.”

Heat scorches at Eijirou’s face. He fidgets in his seat, eyes wide. Oh, gods, he’d forgotten that Kaminari knows Bakugou’s address. “It, um. It’s right.” 

“...you’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.” 

Eijirou clutches at the seat belt across his chest and fixes his stare at the moths flitting around the light, heart thumping hard against his ribs, and prays Kaminari can’t hear it. “Um. No?” His voice squeaks, a little. Kaminari gawks at him. 

“Holy shit, are you, like, fucking him or something?!” 

He flinches, gaze whipping to Kaminari so fast he’s damn near dizzy with it. “No! No—no, he just, offered his spare room, s’all!” It’s a reasonable explanation, Eijirou thinks, except Kaminari’s still gawking at him like he’s got three heads. 

“What do you mean, he offered you his spare room? Where were you staying before?” 

Fear lances through Eijirou like a pike. His hands shake and he fumbles with the seatbelt, a strangled chuckle creaking past his throat. “Th—thanks again for dropping me off, man,” he croaks. “I’ll catch you later!” He tumbles out the door, then, the need to flee pounding through him to the beat of his own pulse. Kaminari calls something out after him, but the words don’t manage to break past the bluescreen of panic in his own head. 

It’s only when he’s safe in the dark of the genkan, back to the front door, that he can breathe, again. 

Guilt creeps in like a stray with its tail tucked between its legs, gnawing at his insides with sharp teeth. He overreacted. Of course he did. Kaminari probably thinks he’s crazy, now. Eijirou slides to the floor, picking idly at his sand-encrusted shoelaces, a weary sigh slipping past his lips. He’s. He’s not wholly sure why he reacted that way. Maybe that’s the most frustrating part. Even still, his heart pounds, his hands shake, and at the root of it all is one, simple, innocent question asked by a friend. 

Albeit, a question with a…rather embarrassing answer. What would Kaminari say, knowing he used to sleep on the beach? A grimace twists onto Eijirou’s features. He tugs off a shoe, picks at the shoelaces of the other. Yeah, no, it’s. It’s for the best this way. 

The house is dark when Eijirou tiptoes his way further inside. Moonlight spills through the sliding glass doors, illuminating the shadows enough to parse the living room, the kitchen. A trickle of music catches his focus—Eijirou’s gaze swivels in the direction of Bakugou’s workshop, and he blinks at the glow of light bleeding from beneath the door. Is. Is Bakugou still awake…? 

When he’d first told Bakugou about the bonfire tonight, Bakugou’d offered to come get him. Which. Eijirou couldn’t accept, because, well. He knew it would go late—much later than Bakugou prefers to be awake, if he’s learned anything about the guy since he’s started sharing space with him. Like. Whether he spends the evenings in the shop or on the couch with Eijirou, Bakugou usually drifts to his bedroom by 10:00 at the latest. 

And, well. A quick glance at the microwave shows the time to be nearly midnight. 

He’d waved Bakugou off, insisted he’d find his own way home, figuring Bakugou would’ve long since gone to bed, by now. 

So, why is there music playing and a light on? 

Eijirou drifts to the door. Hesitates. A hand of his splays against the wood, feeling the way it vibrates from the swell of sound coming from the other side. He digs his teeth into his bottom lip hard enough for it to sting, casting a glance back over his shoulder. Surely, Bakugou wants to be left alone. It’s late, he has an early shift tomorrow…

Moonlight gleams off a picture frame on the floor. Eijirou thinks about the light left on outside, his heart thudding strangely in his chest. 

His hand slides down to the doorknob, twisting it open. 

Bakugou sits hunched over his workbench, a piece of wood braced in a clamp, a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other. He tap-taps it in rhythmic motions, the sound hardly rising above the thump of music bleeding from his phone’s speakers. Eijirou leans in the doorway and watches, entranced. There’s something smooth and methodical about the way Bakugou works. He’s sure in his movements, each strike of the hammer made with a certainty Eijirou can’t quite comprehend. How is it he knows to chip at the wood there? What is it he’s even making? From here, it looks like a shapeless lump, but Bakugou seems to see something Eijirou can’t—which, admittedly, makes a whole lot of sense, given that this is his profession and all. Still. He finds he can’t look away. 

“What’re you making?” he calls out. But Bakugou doesn’t react at all—his hearing aids must be turned down. He wavers in place, frowning. Should. Should he just. Leave? He should, right? Bakugou’s clearly busy. 

Eijirou’s gaze flickers to the backdoor, where the inky abyss of night cloaks outside. His hand strays to the lightswitch. He flicks it, once, twice. Bakugou startles, head jerking up, and blinks. The hammer thunks onto the workbench, and Bakugou reaches up to fiddle with a hearing aid, presumably to turn it up. And, the guilt’s immediate in how it slams against him. Eijirou curls in on himself, one hand rising to rub at the back of his neck. 

“Hey, sorry. Uh. Just, noticed you were still up and wanted to let you know I’m—I’m back, now.” 

Bakugou’s brows pinch. “Oh. Hey.” He glances at his work, frowning, before looking back at Eijirou with an expression as rigid as the wood in the clamp. Down goes the chisel, and Bakugou pushes himself to his feet, stalking closer. He swipes his phone, pausing the music, the following silence almost startling. His lips purse. “You…work tomorrow. Right?” 

Eijirou nods, jerky and unsure. Bakugou grunts. 

“When’s your next day off?” 

And. That’s. Not really what he expects Bakugou to ask. He’s. He’s not really sure what he’s expecting, exactly, but somehow this still throws him for a loop, and he grasps at the doorway, steadying himself. 

“Um. Wednesday, like usual.” 

Another grunt. Bakugou sets his phone back onto the cabinet, turns away, a sheen of sweat gleaming across the exposed skin of the back of his neck. Eijirou swallows, mouth suddenly dry. 

“I’ll keep the music down—m’about done, anyway,” he says, not sparing Eijirou another glance. 

“Oh. Um. Okay.” Eijirou hesitates. “Goodnight.” 

“Night.” 

He lingers long enough to watch Bakugou lean over the worktable, brow knit as he squints at whatever it is he’s carving, before turning back into the quiet sanctuary of the house, workshop door thumping shut between them.

Chapter Text

Katsuki’s in the middle of trying to carve a curve into the piece he’s working on when his stupid phone starts going off. 

It’s a new commission—the table’s done and waiting pick-up from the client, so he’s moved onto knocking off some of the easier shit in his waiting list before trying to start another big ass project. Or. He’s trying to, except some asshole’s decided it’d be a great idea to interrupt him while he’s fucking busy. 

He slams his chisel down onto the workbench and stomps his way across the shop, swiping his phone up off the speaker it’s on with every intention of throwing the damn thing—that is, until he sees his damn mother’s contact flashing across the screen. An irritated huff rips from him, and he pauses the music and jacks up the volume of his aids. Two taps—one to turn on captions and one to accept the call—is all it takes before he snaps, “What?” 

An aggressive sigh rips through his hearing aids. “And here I thought you’d be happy to talk to your own mother.” 

He scoffs. Debates hanging up, if only to prove a point. “Fuck off and tell me why the hell you’re bothering me.” 

“You still make tables, don’t you?”   

His jaw twinges. Temple throbs. Of fucking course she’d be asking about this. “I’m not making you shit. I’ve got a damn waiting list a thousand kilometers long.” 

“Wow, lookit you, mister fancy-pants. That doesn’t answer my damn question!”  

“I don’t gotta answer shit!”

“Yes you do, ya’ damn brat! I need a table for a housewarming gift. Unless you want your own damn mother to go get some second rate table, you’re gonna push me to the top of your shitty commission list and make me a table that’ll knock these people’s socks right off. Or do I need to tell everyone that my son is a pussy who can’t hack it at carving a stick?” 

Katsuki grinds his teeth, anger volatile and crackling through his veins. Gods above, how he wants to scream until his throat’s raw. His hands twitch, gaze sticking to a hammer—it’d be so fucking easy to slam his phone down into the workbench and pound it into tiny little pieces of glass and metal. Maybe then the hag would finally fucking get how much he doesn’t wanna talk to her. 

But, the damn bitch knows him too well, using just the right words to slice beneath his skin and burn there, hotter than even the roiling inferno of anger he carries. “When do you need it,” he spits out. 

“Two weeks. Think you can handle that, punk?” 

Fucking christ. “Yeah, sure, I’ll just be sure to not fucking sleep for a month.” 

There’s a scoff. “Calm down, brat, I don’t need all the dragon scale shit—just a classic, elegant table. Or is that too hard for ya’?”  

“Why the fuck do you want me to do it, then?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Huffs. “The dragon shit’s the whole fucking point!” 

“Can it—I already told you, I want the best and was under the impression that was you, ya’ brat. Now gimme your address, so I can send Masaru to get it when it’s done.” 

Katsuki bristles at this. “I’m not giving you shit—I’ll just have the damn thing delivered!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Katsuki. What, you can’t even give your own mother your goddamn address?! It’s been over a year! Get your damn panties untwisted and tell me your goddamn address, or so help me, I’ll find it my damn self!” 

Fuck. Fuck, shit, dammit—she would, the damn hag. He doesn’t doubt it for a second. Can’t. He’s endured her and all the irritating tenacity he inherited from her for too damn long to. She means exactly what she says, and knowing her, she’ll fucking succeed, too. He hisses through his teeth. Relents. 

And then promptly hangs up on her. 

His phone buzzes in his hand. 

Hag (2:00PM) 

Remember. Two weeks. 

Katsuki slams it down onto the tool cabinet and rakes a hand through his hair, cursing everything that’s placed him into this damn situation. And then he turns around. Rolls his head. Catalogues his stock. 

There’s some nice cuts of elm he’s been holding onto. Shit’s fucking expensive as hell, but, well. The hag wants his best, doesn’t she? 

He swipes at his brow and does the only thing he can: he gets the fuck to work. 

🦀

The problem with taking on such a hefty commission right after finishing one? Katsuki loses track of time. 

Wednesday barrels into existence with little fanfare, only making itself known when he wakes to the smells of coffee and something savory slinking beneath his bedroom door. Or. Well. Morning makes itself known, anyway. Katsuki blinks blearily at his ceiling, squinting at the warmth of dawn illuminating his room in pale golds, and scrubs one hand over his face, slapping at his nightstand with the other in search of his aids. He braces himself for the impact of sound, jaw twinging at the suddenness of it, and rolls his ass outta bed, staggering his way down the hall and into the living space. 

And. It’s. Brighter out than he expects. The sun’s higher in the sky than it should be, and Kirishima’s standing in his kitchen, red hair a wild, uncombed mess on his head. Katsuki blinks. Blinks again. “What time s’it?” he croaks. Kirishima whirls around, eyes wide. 

“Oh! Hey, morning. Uh…” He glances at the microwave. “Eight thirty.” 

Panic grasps his heart in a bruising grip. “Fuck, shit—we’re late.” Katsuki whirls around, marches for the genkan. “Holy fuck, why didn’t you wake me up?! Get your shit, let’s go!” 

“But it’s Wednesday! I don’t work today.” 

Katsuki stops. Oh. Right. He turns, slow, and tries to ignore the heat in his cheeks. “...right.” Of fucking course it’s Wednesday. Katsuki rakes a hand through his hair, hissing a sigh. Fuck. Stupid Hag insisting on ordering a stupid fucking table—he’s spent the past several days drowning in work, it’s no wonder he’s lost track of what day it is. 

He wanders back towards the living area, brows knitting as he surveys the kitchen. Kirishima’s got several things out—a pan with eggs frying, a bowl of steaming rice, a pot heating up some leftover soup. Kirishima has the audacity to look abashed when he fixes him with a look. 

“I, uh, I figured I’d make breakfast today, since you seem to be working so hard and all, lately.” 

His heart gives a weird little kick in his chest. Katsuki reaches up, rubs at his sternum with the heel of his hand. He tisks, makes for the table. “Better not be burnt, dumbass,” he grumbles. Kirishima chuckles, a low, warm sound. 

“I sure hope it’s not—I’ve been working pretty hard all morning, you know.” 

Cabinets creak, dishes clatter. Mere minutes pass, and Kirishima brings over a steaming plate of food. Food that’s very much not burnt. That weird ass kick happens again, this time with something soft and fluttery dancing across the inside of his gut. He ignores it in favor of reaching for his chopsticks. 

“You better not have any plans,” he says. Kirishima slides into the chair across from him, brows raising. 

“Uh…why?” 

“Because.” Katsuki takes a bite of tamagoyaki. And, fuck, it’s good—he can’t resist taking another bite with a pleased hum. “We’re going somewhere today.” 

“We are?” 

“Yup.” 

Kirishima’s sharp teeth poke out, digging into his bottom lip. He looks from Katsuki to his own food and back again, hesitance and uncertainty coloring his features. Which. Isn’t a look Katsuki cares for, so he huffs and nudges at Kirishima’s shin beneath the table. 

“Eat your damn breakfast and chill. We’re just gonna go get some shit.” 

Fortunately, Kirishima listens, and starts stuffing his face, shoulders relaxing. 

They eat in relative peace, and Katsuki shoos Kirishima to go get ready for the day and takes over clean-up. Something Kirishima apparently feels guilty about, because the infuriating bastard asks like four fucking times if Katsuki’s sure. 

“Yes, I’m fucking sure—I can clean up a few goddamn dishes. Now go take a shower, you reek.” 

Washing the dishes takes all of ten minutes. Katsuki scrubs his hands dry on one of the dish towels, hanging it back in its place on the oven handle before wandering out of the kitchen and poking his head down the hall. The bathroom door’s firmly closed—Kirishima’s probably showering or whatever. Which. Good. He turns and goes to the workshop, next, beelining for the bike where it sits tucked in a corner. 

It really is a shitty bike. Both tires are fucked, the back one needing new spokes to boot, and the damn thing is rusty as hell all over. That’s not even touching the broken kickstand and missing basket. Still, Kirishima wanted the piece of shit, and Katsuki’ll be damned before he lets the dumbass try to ride something that doesn’t fucking work. 

He circles the bike, arms crossed. It’s a classic mamachari bike—a pretty simple design and one that, theoretically, will be easy to get parts for. Katsuki squats, notes the way everything’s attached. He knows jack shit about bikes, but he’s sure as fuck gonna remember what the bolts and screws look like. 

Once he’s satisfied, he leaves, kicking the workshop door shut behind him. 

There’s enough time to get another mug of coffee and to go through his emails before Kirishima finally exits the shower. Which. As always, is mostly junk. So it’s a lot of delete, delete, move folders, answer, delete, delete, delete. ‘Course, he only realizes the bathroom’s open when Kirishima pokes out of the hallway and calls out, “I’m all done in the shower, if you wanted to wash up, too.” 

Katsuki snaps his laptop shut with a grunt. He leaves it on the table in favor of hitting the bathroom—he plans on dicking around in the workshop, later, so a shower’s gonna have to wait. So he opts for washing up over the sink, combing his hair and brushing his teeth to boot, and then slipping into the bedroom to figure out what the fuck he’s gonna wear. 

Something that, admittedly, shouldn’t be as much of a hassle to figure out as it is. Katsuki stares at his shitty excuse of a closet, eye twitching. His myriad of shirts stare back at him—most of them being old t-shirts and an occasional button up. He huffs, grabs the first one he sees, throwing it on. The pants take longer to decide, but he ends up going for an older, ripped pair of jeans that he knows his ass looks good in. 

And then he’s padding back out to the main living space in search of his wallet and keys, which end up being on the table. “Ready?” he asks over his shoulder. Kirishima pops up from the couch, lips tugging up into a wobbly little smile. He looks kind of ridiculous, wearing that faded, stained hoodie he often wears whenever he doesn’t work, as well as that pair of ill-fitting sweats of his. Kirishima’s also got his shitty, stained polka dot bag slung over his shoulder, because of course he does. It takes effort to keep from wrinkling his nose, but Katsuki manages. 

Maybe they can also get him some more clothes. 

“So…where are we going?” Kirishima asks as he tails behind Katsuki. 

“Coruscant. Got some errands to run there.” He locks the front door, giving it a tug just to make sure, and breezes to his bike. 

“What kind of errands?” 

Katsuki tosses him the helmet with a snort. “You’ll see.” 

And, look. He’s. He’s not trying to be a coy little shit, okay? He just. Prefers to do shit instead of playing lip service, or whatever, and it’s just easier to drag Kirishima along than explain his plans with meaningless drivel. Still, he’s not at all expecting the little giggle and starry-eyed look he gets before Kirishima tugs on the helmet. He stares for a beat, heart thump-thumping against his ribs hard enough to bruise, skin buzzing with a strange want to hear it again. 

Katsuki can’t remember the last time he’s wanted to hear something. 

Or. Fuck. That’s a lie. He can remember all too fucking well, and it’s not something he wants to think about ever again. 

He jerks himself into motion, slinging himself onto the bike and starting her up. Kirishima clamors on behind him, arms winding around Katsuki’s middle, and, fuck, his heart’s pounding a mile a minute. Why the hell is his heart acting all weird? He twists the ignition, focuses on breathing and not the heat of Kirishima pressed against him. 

It’s. Fine. He’s fine. 

Another breath, and they’re off, soaring down the road. 

Coruscant is probably the largest town around that’s not the city. It’s a thirty minute drive on bike if Katsuki goes the speed limit. 

He usually gets there in twenty. 

It’s also where he knows there to be a bike shop. Power Loader’s Odds and Ends— a well-established shop that sits on the outskirts of town that people from all over the damn place go to get their odds and ends for their bicycles and bikes alike. Katsuki gets his own bike serviced there for the shit he can’t do himself, like getting his tires changed and shit. Or. Well. He could change the damn things himself (and very much has, fuck you very much), but not having a car makes that pretty fucking hard. So.

The drive is one he knows a little too well, for better or worse. 

Trees line the road most of the way there. They’re going further inland, so the ocean’s at their backs. Occasionally, greenery breaks for houses, but for the most part it’s all trees and trees and more fucking trees until they begin to thin out in favor of buildings. Katsuki spies the familiar sign—a shitty, cartoon power loader, with neon kanji glowing with the shop’s name. Why exactly they decided to name a bike shop after construction equipment, Katsuki has no fucking clue, but they did. It sure is a choice, but he doesn’t give enough of a shit to question the logic or lack thereof. It’s real obvious they do bikes here, though, because there’s a whole ass bicycle hanging in the window and a very obvious garage off to the side. Katsuki pulls to a stop along the curb, killing the ignition. He twists up the volume on his aids and throws a look over his shoulder.

“We’re here.” 

Kirishima’s all wide eyes when he pulls off the helmet, once again trailing behind Katsuki like he’s a lost puppy or something. They push open a door covered in cracked, peeling white paint and step into a shop with bicycles covering damn near every wall, floor to ceiling. There’s a little counter with an old style register and a familiar gear-head leaning over it, long, obnoxiously bright colored braids pulled into a ponytail and a pair of safety goggles perched atop her head. She hums, a wrench dangling from grease-stained fingers, casually flipping through pages of a magazine. 

Katsuki marches right up to the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “Oi. We need some shit to fix up a bike.” 

Gearhead Chick’s head pops up, expression brightening. “Oho! Hello, there—you sure you don’t wanna’ check out some of my new babies in stock?” She shoves away from the counter, darting to the bicycles on the wall to the left, talking damn near a mile a minute. “This puppy over here is one of the newest models, fresh off the market! It’s got a high-grade, lightweight aluminum frame and re-configured shock absorber that makes it great for off-road biking and on-road biking! I’ve been itching to get my hands on ‘er for some…customized adjustments, which, I can show you the schematics to—” 

“I don’t want a new fucking bike,” Katsuki snaps. “I’m here for parts. Specifically for a mamachari bike, classic model. We need a new chain, tire, and wheel, bare minimum.” 

Gearhead Chick squints at him, head tilting and lips pursing. “Hmm. Fine. I can at least scrounge up a chain and tire—a whole wheel, though, might be a bit harder to come by. I’ll have to ship it to you, most likely.” 

“That’s fine. I can’t take the tire today, either, so I’ll need that shipped, too.” 

Her head’s immediately on a swivel, and she peers out the window. “Ooh! You’ve brought your baby, today, huh? Ya’ know, I’ve got several upgrades I can give her—” 

“No.”

Gearhead Chick damn near pouts at him. “Aw, come on! Don’tcha want ‘er to go faster?” 

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “I said no. Now how much for the shit we need?” 

“Well, the chain’ll run ya’ about three thousand yen, and I have some tires in stock that’re about six thousand yen…the whole wheel and spokes, though, that’ll probably be closer to ten thousand yen. Like I said, I’ll have to get it outta house.” 

Kirishima ends up paying. Or, well. Insists on it, actually. Which. Katsuki allows, since he was the one that wanted the damn thing and all. Granted, they only pay for the chain and tire today—Gearhead Chick waves off the wheel, insisting she can send them an invoice or whatever, and takes Katsuki’s email to send the tracking information for the tire, which she promises to send out later in the week. 

They leave that whirlwind of an interaction several yen poorer with a single plastic bag that Kirishima clutches tightly in his hands, expression a little dazed and a little awed. He peers at Katsuki through his curtain of bangs, lips warming into one of his bright smiles. “Thank you,” he says softly. “This was really nice of you to do.” 

And. Fuck. How the fuck is he so—so—so soft? Katsuki scoffs, face ablaze, and ducks his head, hands shoving deep into his pockets. “I didn’t even do shit, I just brought you,” he grumbles. “Besides. That hunk of junk needs all the work it can get.” 

A warm, soft laugh rings out into the late morning, a sound that gets Katsuki swivelling to look, to witness the way Kirishima glows when he laughs like that, and, fuck—if he thought his heart was acting weird before, it’s got no match for the way it ping-pongs between his ribs now. He swallows, hard, eyes wide as he takes in the brightness that’s Kirishima. 

It takes a herculean strength to look away. 

“C’mon. There’s some places we can stop further in town.” 

Further in town brings more urban sprawl. Markets and shopping centers and restaurants alike rise up from the hillsides, bustling with people. Coruscant isn’t big enough to be classed as a city, but it damn near feels like it in comparison to their sleepy little seaside town. There’s a lot more cars, here, and it takes a bit of effort to navigate the streets. He manages, because of fucking course he does, but still, he finds himself bobbing and weaving through meandering cars all the same. 

Katsuki pulls off to a little curb where he can park the bike and leads Kirishima to a shopping center he knows has some decent discount shit. Kiyashi shopping center, it’s called. Katsuki doesn’t come here often—he’s maybe been here, like. Once. Since he moved. So they do have to wander up to one of the many standing maps rising up from the center walkway around the joint in order to orient themselves because as great as his memory is, it’s not that fucking good.

‘Course, it’s easy to remember why he’s not been back to this damn place when he’s hit with the wall of noise that makes him wanna rip out his hearing aids and plunge his head underwater. His jaw twinges, temples already starting to ache at the overwhelming audio input carving into his head like a chisel carves into wood. He should’ve brought some fucking asprin or something. 

“Pick somewhere to go,” he says. “There’s probably anything you wanna look at here.” 

Kirishima rocks on his heels, teeth digging into his lip as he squints at the sign. “Well, uh, I could…I could use some more clothes, so maybe go down this way?” He points to an area with some clothing stores, off towards the right. So, Katsuki stuffs his hands in his pockets and inclines his head. 

“Fine by me.” 

They walk side by side, close enough that their arms bump more than once. Bursts of warmth spark across his skin every time it happens. Katsuki tries valiantly to ignore it. He makes no moves to create distance between them, though, which, probably doesn’t fucking help. 

“D’you come here a lot?” 

Katsuki swivels his head, blinking at Kirishima. “What?” 

Kirishima shies, a little, head ducking and shoulders creeping up, and something dark and twisty curls around Katsuki’s insides like a vice. 

“Sorry—I just asked if you come here a lot.” 

Ah. “No. I’ve been once. It’s too fucking loud, so I haven’t been back since. But you need shit, and there’s cheap places here.” He shrugs, tries to ignore the…the prickle of something sharp and shameful in his gut. Because it’s not fucking worth acknowledging—he’s not ashamed of his deafness. It’s just a part of him, at this point. Has been for most of his fucking life. But, well. Admitting that it makes shit hard? Katsuki’s jaw twitches. 

Yeah, no, he’d rather eat sawdust, thanks. 

Kirishima’s arm bumps against his, except deliberate, and Katsuki’s gaze flickers to him again, brow quirking. He’s gifted another one of those soft, warm smiles, and suddenly the ache of his temples doesn't matter, anymore. 

“I…I know I’ve already said it once, but…thanks for bringing me. You really didn’t have to.” 

Katsuki hunches his shoulders and looks away, face burning anew. “Fuck off, I already told you, s’nothing. Now c’mon, pick a store.” 

There’s another nudge, and something warm and jittery crackles just beneath his skin. 

They wander a little further down the walkway to a store practically bursting with clothes that apparently manages to catch Kirishima’s eye. Second Chance Threads, the sign over the door reads. Katsuki eyes it with a frown, temples throbbing a little harder at the chaotic window displays void of rhyme or reason. How in the hell Kirishima thinks he’s gonna find something inside this mess of a place, he has no idea, but he bites his tongue and follows along anyway because he’s not here for himself, he’s here for Kirishima. 

Inside is even worse than outside. 

Dim lights cast a meager glow over racks and racks and racks of clothes—seriously, the walls are covered, the floor is covered, and stepping inside is akin to walking into a goddamn jungle made of cotton and polyester. There’s a dusty sort of smell in here, too, like old clothes. Fitting, all things considered. Handmade paper and cardboard signs stick up from the floor racks, showing off some of the various price ranges of items. Katsuki squints. Apparently some t-shirts are on sale for roughly ¥1500. Which t-shirts, he has no fucking clue. But some are. So. There’s that. 

The singular, winning facet of this shithole is the fact that it’s blissfully, utterly quiet. At least, compared to outside, anyway. Some kind of music registers faintly in Katsuki’s shitty ears, too quiet for him to really make out. But the wall of noise from outside dies back the further they wander in, and Katsuki lets out a breath, tension easing from him. It makes it easy to trail behind Kirishima, watching as he runs his fingers almost reverently along the clothes on the racks, eyes all round and shit as he looks at everything. 

Something colorful and patterned seems to snag his attention, because he stops and tugs it free. Katsuki wrinkles his nose. Of fucking course Kirishima would like a Hawaiin shirt. Gods above, it’s so loud— all bright, clashing colors and flowers of different sizes and shapes. He says nothing, because he’s not that much of a dick, except Kirishima sneaks a glance at him and, fuck, he watches Kirishima visibly shrink before setting down the shirt. 

Katsuki curses himself. He must’ve been making a face. Goddammit. He huffs, crosses his arms over his chest. Nudges Kirishima’s shin with his boot. “Oi, you better only be setting that down because you don’t want it.” 

The shitty, guilty feeling tangles thicker in his chest when Kirishima jolts, ducking his head. “S—sorry, no, I—I don’t. I mean, I should probably stick to more basic stuff, right?” He reaches out, thumbing at the sleeve. “It’s. Kind of a lot.” 

And, look. Does Katsuki stick to more of a basic style as far as color pallets go? Yes. Yes he does. He likes black, sue him. But as fugly as that shirt is, something about it screams Kirishima. So Katsuki nudges at his shin again, rolling his eyes. 

“Who fucking cares. If you like it, buy it. It’s your fucking money.” 

A smile blooms across Kirishima’s lips bright enough Katsuki thinks he might go a little blind. He tugs the shirt free, staring at it with a wonder that has Katsuki’s heart aching strangely in his chest. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” Kirishima says softly. 

He takes the shirt. 

‘Course, Kirishima’s still pretty conservative about what he takes. He pours over each rack, brows knit and lips pursed, examining shirts and shorts and pants alike with an intense scrutiny, like this is some kind of contest and the clothes are the participants or some shit. It shouldn’t be this entertaining to watch. But it is, and Katsuki finds his lips quirking up into the slightest of smiles. 

At one point, Kirishima pauses and looks at him with raised brows, a small stack of clothes in his arms, and asks, “Aren’t you gonna look around, too?” 

Katsuki shrugs. “Don’t need anything.” 

That gets a frown. “It kinda feels weird if I’m the only one looking at stuff…” 

He scoffs, rolls his eyes. Opens his mouth to argue, because he doesn’t need jack shit, why the hell would he look at anything? Except, his phone buzzes violently in his pocket, tearing his focus in two. Katsuki fumbles to pull it out, eyes narrowing as he squints down at the screen. 

Deku’s name glows there, searing into his retinas hard enough his entire head throbs with it. Anger rips through him with all the force of a raging typhoon, and Katsuki jabs at the decline button, hard, shoving the phone back into his pocket. God fucking dammit, of course Deku’d ruin the fucking peace, the piece of shit. His hands flex at his sides, vision blurring out of focus, the anger inside him white-hot and volatile. He forces a breath in, a breath out. Again and again. 

“...are, um. Are you okay?” 

Kirishima’s tentative voice draws him from the fires of his rage just enough. Katsuki swallows, jerks his head in a nod. “M’fine.” It’s. Mostly true. 

There’s a beat. Kirishima watches him, head tilted, gaze soft and steady. He looks away, sharp teeth digging into his lip, and fiddles with a shirt on the rack in front of him. “I…I don’t wanna pry if you don’t wanna talk about it, but…it’s. It’s the same person calling and texting you, isn’t it?” He peers at Katsuki again from beneath his curtain of bangs, hesitation etched into every line of his face. A pool of worry gleams in his gaze, cool enough to abate the broiling anger simmering just beneath Katsuki’s skin. “Is…they’re not. They haven’t…hurt you, or something, have they?” 

The question throws Katsuki off guard. He rears back, blinking, the room crumbling and shifting around him in an effort to comprehend what exactly Kirishima is asking. His gaze dips to the hollow of Kirishima’s neck, the whispering memory of bruises that decorated the skin there flickering across his mind’s eye, and his face scrunches. He scoffs. “ Fuck no. Deku couldn’t hurt a goddamn fly if he wanted to, the pussy. He’s just an annoying shit that doesn’t know how to fuck off.” Katsuki shrugs, then, reaching out to yank apart the hangers and stare un-seeing at the clothes there. “S’not important.” 

It’s not. Nothing about Deku is. That shit’s all said and done, the bridge burned to ruins by his own volatile, angry hands. Katsuki’s got zero interest in looking back—all it does is piss him off even more, and he’s getting real fucking tired of being angry. So instead, he rips a shirt from the rack and shoves it at Kirishima without really looking at it. “Here. Take this.” 

Kirishima does. And, gods, if Katsuki thought the first shirt he’d grabbed was fugly, it pales wildly in comparison to whatever the hell this thing is. A rainbow confection of sea creatures dot the shirt—sea stars and different shaped sea shells alike. But Kirishima brightens when he holds it up, smiling so wide it knocks the wind right out of Katsuki. 

For the first time in a long, long time, he finds himself wondering how it is that a person can be so goddamn pretty.  

Katsuki’s shoulders jump up to his ears, and he shoves the thought away so fast it damn near makes him dizzy. “Stop making that face,” he snaps, “you look goofy.” He shoves past Kirishima, then, as if hiding amidst the musty, ugly ass clothes can hide him from his own stupid, traitorous head. 

🦀

A bead of sweat slides down the back of his neck. Katsuki tap-taps at his chisel with deft, certain hits, the wood curling as it shaves away from the piece sitting firmly in its clamp. Distantly, he’s aware of the ache stiffening his back, the trickle of music spilling out from his phone’s speakers. Evening’s long since faded the night—Katsuki’s not sure how long he’s been holed up in here working, but he doesn’t really give much of a shit. He’s hit a groove and not a damn thing’s gonna stop him. 

He straightens, hammer thunking down onto the workbench, and tilts his head. This is another smaller commission piece—his compromise for taking on the damn table his shitty mother ordered is to try and pound out these smaller orders during the evenings after dinner. Which. Katsuki feels a little guilty, seeing as it means Kirishima’s left to his own devices, but, well. Food doesn’t fucking pay for itself. 

Granted, he’s not making much off of this shit. It’s some fancy schmancy book end this client wants. Supposed to go on their bookshelf apparently. He doesn’t really know or care, so long as it’s something he can make with wood. 

Drums and guitar shred the veil of peace with a beat that gets his shoulders tensing. Katsuki shoots his phone a glare, lip curling. Dammit. He thought he’d deleted this shitty song from this damn playlist. 

Katsuki slams the chisel down and shoves away from his stool, beelining for his phone. Fucking christ, it figures the one time he’s kept his aids turned up that godforsaken song would assault him. He swipes his shitty phone from his speaker, jaw clenching hard enough to crack teeth. The band name— Bullets for my Valentine —taunts him. Katsuki jabs the skip button, slams his phone back down. 

It’s in the seconds before the new song starts where he hovers by the workshop door that he somehow manages to hear it. 

A piercing, blood-curdling scream. 

Katsuki grabs the first thing his hands can reach—a wrench—and is up the steps and flying into the house in seconds. He whips around, wild and searching. “Kirishima?!” Except, the living room is filled with nothing but shadows cut from the glow of moonlight spilling through the firmly shut sliding glass door. Katsuki’s breaths saw from him, his heart thundering a kilometer a minute. Fuck. Fuck. There’s a vice of worry squeezing at his ribs, and Katsuki’s consumed by the need to—to find Kirishima, to make sure he’s okay. He surges forward, down the hall to Kirishima’s room, and flings the door open, barging two steps inside, only to pull up short. 

His thundering heart kicks against his ribs and plummets down to splatter at his feet in a fucked up, pulpy mess. 

“Kirishima,” he murmurs, voice rough. Kirishima doesn’t seem to hear him. No, he sits, just at the edge of his futon, blanket askew and knees to his chest, arms curled tightly around his legs and whole body shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm. A broken whimper rises from him. The remains of Katsuki’s heart seep into the floorboards. 

He swallows, creeps closer, closer, closer still, dropping to his knees once he’s within a meter. Down goes the wrench. “Oi. Kirishima. Hey, it’s…it’s okay. You’re okay. S’just a dream.” Katsuki can’t tell if Kirishima’s aware of him. He shuffles a half-centimeter closer, chest squeezing something awful. “Hey.” Oh so slowly, he reaches out, grazes Kirishima’s socked foot with his fingers. That gets a full-bodied flinch, and Katsuki yanks his hand back, the surging guilt damn near choking him. “Sorry, sorry. I’m. Fuck. I’m right here, okay? M’not going anywhere.” 

Kirishima’s head lifts just enough for glassy eyes brimming with a fear so sharp it slices Katsuki to the bone to peek through matted, red bangs. “Ba’gou?” 

“Yeah?” 

A trembling hand reaches out—Kirishima’s shaking so goddamn hard, it kills him, a little. Katsuki grasps it tightly, squeezing. And, that seems to break the damn because he scrambles for Katsuki, clutching at him with a desperation that knocks the breath right from his chest. It’s instinct to curl his arm around Kirishima’s quaking frame. “You’re okay,” he says again, voice a rough rasp. Kirishima shudders, clings to him tighter. 

“Sorry,” he croaks. “Sorry. I—sorry.” 

If his heart hadn’t already dripped down into the foundation, it’d surely snap right in two. Katsuki clutches Kirishima as if he can hold the broken bits of him together by sheer force alone. “Don’t fucking apologize.” 

Something wet stains his t-shirt. Katsuki tries to keep the sparks of anger at bay. Who did this to you? The demand to know echoes in his head as an unsung song. Who the fuck dared to hurt you like this? He stares at his abandoned wrench, fantasies of smashing some unknown skull dancing behind his eyes. Gods, he wants to make some fucker pay. But he can’t. Not now. Now, Kirishima needs him here, to do this. To be gentle. And, Katsuki’s no good at gentle, but for Kirishima he’ll try his damndest. And he does. He trails his fingers up and down Kirishima’s back, squeezes his hand. Lets him cry. 

And, when Kirishima inevitably whispers a hoarse, pathetic, “Can…can you stay? Please?” Katsuki can’t find it in himself to say no.

Chapter Text

He’s warm. Blissfully so. Eijirou sighs, adrift within this blissful warmth and fighting off the encroaching awareness trying to tug him free of the land of dreams. But the awareness of waking up is relentless, and Eijirou cracks his eyes open, face scrunching at the morning light bleeding through the window curtains. His fingers curl into something soft, the pillow beneath him rising and falling in a gentle, rhythmic pattern… 

Eijirou blinks. Blinks again. Colors wobble and adjust, and Eijirou squints at the expanse of black fabric beneath his cheek. Black…? His…his pillow isn’t black. He lifts his head, and—panic douses him like a bucket of ice water, and Eijirou jerks back, a gasp tearing from his throat. 

Sprawled there on his futon, beneath his blankets, is none other Bakugou himself. 

The events from last night—the nightmare, Bakugou, him begging Bakugou to stay—splatter across his memory in bits and pieces amidst the utter, horrifying embarrassment cresting over him and tugging down, down, down. It’s worse when Bakugou shifts, groans, one hand lifting to scrub across his face. 

Eijirou scoots back further, sliding off the futon and onto the floor, and rakes a hand through his tangled, mussed up hair. “So—sorry, I—I didn’t mean to, like—I—I mean, gods, this is so embarrassing. I’m so sorry.” Is he even making any sense right now? Eijirou doesn’t know, but panic and embarrassment dig into his ribs like a knife, and he can’t keep the babble at bay. The worst part is that Bakugou doesn’t even spare him a glance, instead rolling over to paw at the floor next to him for—for— oh.  

Embarrassment digs deeper into his ribs. Eijirou curls his arms around his legs, hugging his knees to his chest, and buries his burning face. Gods above, how did he not notice Bakugou took out his hearing aids?! He dares a peek. 

Bakugou finagles the ear-pieces into his ears with a practiced sort of ease, face pinched. His gaze flickers to Eijirou, then, concern crackling there in the bed of its fire. “Hey,” he says, and, oh, gods. Heat blazes through Eijirou, sudden and swift, and it’s all he can do to suppress a shiver. 

“How…how’re you feeling?” 

Eijirou ducks, fixing his stare onto the rumpled sheets instead. “I’m. I’m okay. Sorry about—well. Sorry.” 

Bakugou scoffs. “The fuck did I say about apologizing? You don’t have shit to apologize for.” He stands, then, shirt rumpled and hair sticking up on one side, and it’s got Eijirou’s heart thundering wildly in his chest. It hits him all at once, just how utterly, hopelessly attractive Bakugou is, with his thick, muscular shoulders and trim waist, with his stiff but gentle kindness—Eijirou’s lost, trying valiantly to keep his head above water and not drown in the feeling roaring through him with all the raging tenacity of a wildfire, but gods above, he’s so utterly tired of fighting these currents. He watches as if dazed as Bakugou pads to the door, only to pause and spare Eijirou another burning glance. 

“I’ll be spending most of the day in the shop again. Got a lot of commissions to get done.” He hesitates, sighs. “Let me know when you’re ready to go and I’ll take you to work.” 

And then he’s gone, leaving Eijirou staring into empty space after him, mind and body ablaze with a miasm of feelings he’s not sure he’s ready to face. 

🪸

Eijirou breathes in the salty tang of the ocean air, sketchbook balanced on his knees. He peers at a gull preening its feathers just out of reach of the surf, teeth digging into his lip. Several sketches litter the page—bits and pieces of different animals including the gull make up today’s form studies. He’s trying to nail down all the different shapes to get the appearance of motion right—currently, his sketches feel a bit stiff. It’s hard, because of course sketches aren’t actually moving, but there’s an illusion of movement Eijirou’s trying to get right, so he’s been out here most of the day sketching away. 

‘Course, his rumbling stomach interrupts his focus. He sighs. Closes the sketchbook. 

Standing feels better than it should. Eijirou stretches, nose scrunching at the way his back pops. Damn, how long has he been sitting out here? He squints at the sky, noting the sun hanging low in the sky. Hmm. Probably about dinner time, now. Eijirou casts a last, lingering glance at the expansive ocean, lips curled in a loose smile, before turning to make his way back up to the house. 

He pauses at the patio, taking the time to towel the sand off his feet, before slipping inside. 

The house is quiet, save for the music trickling in from the workshop. Eijirou deposits his sketchbook on the couch and pads his way to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and peering inside. There’s leftover curry there on the shelf, which Eijirou pulls out. He hums to himself as he heats up enough for two bowls, leaning against the counter to watch the microwave to run. His mind drifts, thoughts flickering from his sketches to work—Toyomitsu mentioned a shipment coming in tomorrow, and Eijirou can’t help but wonder how much they’re getting this week. Amajiki did inventory for him on Monday, mostly because Eijirou was elbow deep in scrubbing some old pots and it took longer than expected. So he’s got no idea how much or little they’re expecting. Usually it’s not too much—just some produce or spices or noodles—but sometimes they get other things, too. 

The microwave beeps. Eijirou pulls out the curry, dishes it out evenly and deposits the empty container in the sink. Over to the table the bowls go, alongside a pair of spoons. And then he’s crossing the distance to the workshop and twisting the doorknob. 

A wall of sound greets him the second it opens. Eijirou grimaces, flinching a little. Bakugou’s music taste is held together by one singular consistency and that’s being loud. It doesn’t seem to matter what genre it is, so long as it’s got a lot of drums and bass, the guy’s got it on a playlist. Which. Eijirou supposes makes sense—the air’s practically vibrating, something Bakugou can probably feel. 

He sticks his head in, peering down at the phone where it rests on the speaker. The screen’s lit up, but the cover art’s obscured by a notification. Eijirou catches sight of the name Deku and bites his lip, averting his gaze. 

For whatever reason, Bakugou hates talking about this mysterious Deku person. And while there’s a part of Eijirou burning wildly with curiosity, he…he gets the whole, not wanting to talk about stuff, thing. Lord knows he’s got his own skeletons lurking in the back of his closet. So. He doesn’t read the text. No, he flips the lightswitch in rapid succession, gaze sliding across the shop to watch Bakugou’s head jerk up, a hand reaching up to the hearing aids on his ears. 

“Hey, I heated up some food,” Eijirou says. Bakugou grunts. 

“‘Kay. Be up in a minute, lemme just finish this shit.” He sets down what looks to be a hand saw, swiping at the end of a piece of wood with his hand. Eijirou hovers, watching as Bakugou blows away some sawdust, gaze razor sharp and focused. What he sees, Eijirou doesn’t know. But Bakugou does, and he picks up some tool—a chisel, maybe—and carves away small flakes of wood just so. It’s mesmerizing, watching him work. The lilt of his brow, purse of his lips, the way his biceps flex… 

Eijirou jerks, whirling around and letting the door thump against his back, face ablaze and heart rattling against the inside of his ribcage in an erratic beat. Oh. Oh, gods, he was staring, wasn’t he? He presses his hands to his burning face and tries to will back the rising tide of panic swelling inside him. It’s. It’s fine. He’s fine. Bakugou didn’t notice, and, besides, it’s not like—it’s not—he. He doesn’t… Eijirou’s breath hitches, eyes wide as he stares unseeing into the quiet of the living space, mind buzzing with thoughts of Bakugou—Bakugou in the kitchen, making him food, Bakugou snorting a little while Eijirou struggles to work a video game controller, Bakugou trailing behind him at the shops, lips quirked up into a soft grin when he thinks Eijirou isn’t looking, Bakugou standing way too close, pressing napkins to his bleeding head, oh so soft and tenderly—

The door smacks against his back, ripping Eijirou from his spiral and sending him stumbling forward with a strangled yelp. 

And, of course, Bakugou’s there, eyes wide and lips pursed. “...Kirishima?” 

Eijirou rakes a hand through his hair, another strangled noise wrenching from him. “He—hey, sorry! Um, food—food’s ready.” He doesn’t wait for a response, choosing instead to flee to the table, face ablaze and a desire to sink into the floor and disappear nearly buckling his knees. 

Across from him, the chair scrapes the floor, creaking when Bakugou slumps down into it. 

They eat in relative silence. Which. Is both a blessing and a curse all wrapped in one, because Eijirou feels a little bit like he’s a buoy bobbing wildly on choppy waves, unable to orient himself. He’s all too aware of every move Bakugou makes, body riddled in tense lines. It’s. It’s stupid, he knows, but there’s a phantom hovering over his shoulder he can’t quite shake, and it’s got panic gripping him in a vice grip that won’t let go. 

A sharp knock echoes through the house. Eijirou’s head jerks up, and he blinks. “Oh. Um. Someone’s knocking.” 

Bakugou huffs, spoon clattering onto the table. “Goddammit.” He shoves himself to his feet, a fierce scowl etched into his features. “Fucking assholes never use the damn doorbell,” he mutters, stomping towards the genkan. Eijirou can only blink, brows knitting. 

Doorbell? Why would that matter…? He leans in his chair, peering at Bakugou as he yanks open the door and barks out a sharp, “What?” 

A quiet voice speaks. Eijirou doesn’t quite catch what’s said. But then Bakugou says, “Just put it there,” and signs something, and the door slams shut. He returns to the table and slumps back down into his chair, huffing a sigh. “Your wheel and tire came for your bicycle.” 

And, Eijirou can’t help but perk up at that. “Really?” 

Bakugou grunts. Spoons more curry into his mouth. Swallows. “I can help you put it all together after we eat, if you want.” 

Sparks of excitement bounce erratically just beneath his skin, and he lurches forward, hands splaying on the table. “Yes! Please!” 

A soft, warm sort of smile curves onto Bakugou’s lips, and he snickers. “Sit down, dumbass. I already offered.” His voice is light, teasing, warm. Heat splashes at Eijirou’s cheeks, and he sinks back into his chair, something soft and fluttery dancing between his ribs. 

They finish their curry rather quickly, after that. 

Eijirou helps Bakugou clean up—mostly by wiping down the table because Bakugou decides to swipe his empty bowl and spoon before he can so much as think about getting up, a thing that’s both got Eijirou all warm and fluttery and sighing in exasperation. It’s after things are tidied up that Bakugou goes and grabs the packages—two large boxes with the bike shop’s logo—from the stoop and leads the way to the workshop, Eijirou hot on his heels. 

The bike sits in the back corner, propped against some cabinets. Bakugou beelines right for it, setting the boxes down and squatting to start ripping them open. Eijirou slows, gaze snagging on the project left on the workbench. 

It’s a table leg. That much is evident right away—the general shape and knowledge of Bakugou’s usual work makes it easy to figure out at a glance. The craftsmanship’s what gets Eijirou staring, though. Like. He knows Bakugou’s insanely talented. No other place Eijirou’s ever seen sells anything even remotely as intricate as the dragon scale detailing Bakugou usually does. But this one’s different—there’s no scales in sight. Instead, there’s the beginnings of what looks to be leaves, vines, maybe some flowers. Like a garden blossoming directly from the wood itself.

“Who’s this for?” he asks. Bakugou throws a glance over his shoulder. Huffs. 

“No fucking clue. The old hag—my mother—ordered it for a gift. Didn’t say who for.” 

“It’s beautiful.” 

Eijirou thinks he sees a hint of pink on Bakugou’s cheeks, but he turns away before he can be sure. 

“You gonna help, or what?” 

He jolts, flushing. “Yes! Sorry!” It takes all of two steps to cross the distance, and he stoops to peer over Bakugou’s shoulder. The whole wheel looks super shiny, the spokes gleaming in the shop’s fluorescent lighting. Bakugou’s got a little baggy full of nuts and bolts, as well as a regular loose tire and the new bike chain. 

“Turn your bike to sit on the seat and handlebars,” Bakugou says. “We’ll swap the shitty wheel first, then go for the tire.” 

Eijirou nods and goes to flip the bike. It’s lightweight, if cumbersome—it takes a second for him to get it flipped. Bakugou directs him to the toolbox across the room for some wrenches, then, which he rifles through to retrieve. ‘Course, it’s when they go to undo the old nuts and bolts that they run into their first problem. 

“Fuck. This shit’s rusted to hell.” Bakugou scowls, thumb swiping at the rusty bolt as if he can wipe it away with a simple touch. Which. Very much doesn’t work. He huffs, looks at Eijirou. “Top cabinet on the right—there’s some double-you dee forty. It’s a blue can. Grab that.” 

He does. Passes it off to Bakugou, who shakes it and pulls up this thin, red straw-like thing. “This shit’s a fuckin’ magic trick,” he says. “Lubes up all sorts of rusty shit, which, is real fuckin’ helpful for living next to the goddamn ocean.” He jams the red straw into the space where the nut meets the bolt and squirts. Eijirou watches, head tilted, lips pressed into a line. 

“What happens if this doesn’t work?” 

Bakugou huffs. “We don’t wanna find out.” 

And, well, that’s not super hopeful. 

They give it a few minutes before trying the wrench. ‘Course, Bakugou has to show Eijirou how that works, too. Something that gets Bakugou’s brows raising and embarrassment curdling in Eijirou’s gut. 

“S—sorry. I’ve…I’ve just never—” 

“Don’t fucking apologize, s’fine. Here, gimme it. Lemme show you. Like this, see?” He takes the wrench, loosens it with the strange, swirly sort of bit in the middle, passing it off to Eijirou to try. It’s a little clumsy, but Eijirou manages, lips warming into a grin as he does it. Bakugou grins, too, and those fluttery, soft things flutter even harder through Eijirou’s insides at the sight. 

“Fuck yeah. Now you’re gonna set it there and tighten it until it’s got a grip on the nut.” 

Eijirou shuffles closer to the bike on his knees, sets the wrench into place. Tightens it. Gives a tug. 

The nut loosens. “Hey! I think it’s coming off!” 

Bakugou snorts. “Good. Now pull the wrench off and re-adjust it—yeah, like that.” 

It’s slow going—the nuts and bolts are all super rusted over—but little by little, Eijirou gets them off, until he’s got a small pile at his knee. And then off comes the wheel, broken spokes and all. Eijirou holds it in his hands, eyes wide, nose scrunching at the way the tire crumbles beneath his fingers. 

Yikes. That’s…really gross. He sets it off to the side, taking the fresh new wheel from Bakugou. There’s a singular, dizzying moment where their fingers brush. Eijirou’s breath sticks in his throat, face blazing, and he fumbles, a little.

“Careful,” Bakugou says, voice gruff. Eijirou swallows back a sorry. Smiles a wobbly thing instead.

Then it’s a matter of slotting the new wheel into place and screwing in the new bolts and nuts, a much, much easier process. It looks out of place, this new wheel—all shiny and fresh compared to the old, rusty bike. But Eijirou can’t stop from grinning because it’s his, and soon, he can actually ride it. 

They change the other tire next. Which, is both similar and very different. Bakugou has him take the whole wheel off again, which means more WD40 and working rusted nuts and bolts off with a wrench. But he gets it, something that’s got Eijirou preening a little with pride. He’s doing it! He’s fixing his bike! All with his own hands! It’s thrilling, doing this menial labor, and Eijirou relishes every step, committing it all to memory as best as he’s able. He wants to be able to do this on his own, eventually, so the more he remembers, the better. 

Bakugou has him set the whole thing down on the floor, then, and proceeds to hand him some small, flat metal thing. “Here. See how the rubber’s, like, tucked up inside this metal shit?” Bakugou runs his finger along the edge where the rubber meets the metal rim. “You need to basically pry it free. Like this.” He works the metal thing between the tire and the rim, prying a bit of it up. “Now put yours in.” 

And, it’s easier said than done. His brows furrow, and he leans forward, one hand gripping the rim, the other finagling the thingy to wiggle it just so—but he gets it, crying out, “Aha!” when it goes. Bakugou snickers beside him, nudging him with an elbow and sending sparks ricocheting across the inside of Eijirou’s rib cage. 

“Now slide this all the way around—we gotta pry this fucker free so we can get it off.” 

That part’s pretty easy. It’s a little like unzipping a jacket, in a way—Eijirou slides the doohickey along the rim, slowly prying the rubber free until it’s all the way loose and they can wiggle the rubber outer tire off, revealing the smooshed, flattened, sad excuse of an inner tube, which comes loose all too readily. Putting it all back together with the new tire and inner tube is a breeze in comparison. Bakugou shows him how to blow up the inner tube with his little tire-filler-thing that plugs into the wall—they don’t fully fill the tube at first, just enough for it to hold its shape so Eijirou can get it back on the rim and wedge the rubber back into place.  

And then they reattach everything, and Eijirou’s got two working bike tires. 

“Pedal the pedals for a sec,” Bakugou says. Which. Is easier said than done—the chain’s pretty rusty, and it protests quite a lot to being used. Eijirou powers through, though, throwing his weight into it, teeth digging into his lip. Slowly, the chain moves, bit by bit. Bakugou leans forward, hands on his knees, and squints, watching intently as bits of rust rain down onto the shop floor. 

“Stop, right there.” 

Eijirou stops. Bakugou taps on a piece of chain that looks a little different than all the other links. “This shit’s the master link. Not all chains have ‘em. S’probably a fucking miracle this one does, considering it’s old as fuck. Dunno if we’re gonna be able to use it since this shit’s rusted to hell and back and not very easy to pull, but it’s better than using a pair of fucking pliers.” Bakugou then proceeds to grip the chain with his hands and tug, trying to finagle the rusty old thing to undo the chain. It. Takes a second riddled with muttered curses, but he gets it, and Eijirou grins. 

“You got it!” 

Bakugou snorts, chain clanking as he unwinds it. “‘Course I fucking did.” Pride bleeds from his voice, and Eijirou bites his lip to hide a smile, heart thump-thumping in his chest. 

Refitting the new chain is a combination of comparing the length with the old chain to make sure it’s the right size and winding it back around the gears. The new chain also has one of the master link things, though, which makes it easier to re-attach. Eijirou repeats Bakugou’s method, brows knitting and nose scrunching as he tugs on the chain, fitting the lock in place. He gets it in two tries.  

And then it’s done. 

They stand the bike up. Eijirou’s grinning so wide his face hurts. “I’ve got a bike,” he says, awed. Bakugou huffs a laugh, expression warm and soft around the edges. 

“Yeah, you do.” 

His gaze snaps to the door leading out back. Night’s long since descended, the tiny window a smudge of inky dark. Still, a longing tugs at Eijirou’s bones, and he swivels to shoot Bakugou a look. 

“I…I wanna take it for a spin. If. If that’s okay.” 

Bakugou scoffs at that, arms crossing over his chest. “Why the hell are you asking me?” 

Eijirou blinks. Looks at the door. 

Grins. 

Crashing waves create a gentle backdrop as Eijirou wheels the bike out the door. Night colors everything in hues of indigo, the moon and stars softening all the shadows with their gentle glow. There’s a bite to the nighttime air that draws a shiver from him, but Eijirou pays it little mind—his stomach flip-flops with an excited glee as he rounds the house, picking his way through the dew-damp grass and beelining straight for the pavement. 

How long has it been, since he’s last ridden a bike? Middle school, maybe? Eijirou bites his lip. Thumbs at the worn handlebars. Gods, it feels like a whole lifetime ago. He remembers, once upon a time, when his father first taught him how to ride a bike—one hand splayed on his back, firm and warm and reassuring, the other anchored to the back of the bike seat. Eijirou was young. Five, maybe? Six? An old ache throbs through him at the memory, and he sweeps it aside in favor of focusing on the rough pavement underfoot and the stretch of empty road. Eijirou sucks in a breath. Swings his leg up and over the bike. 

He’s wobbly, at first. The muscle memory is rusty, and it takes a second for Eijirou to get his feet on the pedals, to kick off and pedal. But. But then he does. He does and he’s pedaling, flying down the road, hair whipping in the wind, and it’s. 

It’s everything.  

Freedom ignites a blazing fire inside his veins, and Eijirou pumps his legs harder, soaring faster and faster into the dark of the night. He tips his head back, laughter spilling out from him. 

An orchestra of crickets sing right back, echoing his euphoria with their own unique harmony. 

⛈️

The thing about biding one’s time? The margin for error grows thinner and thinner. 

His chair creaks as he leans back, one finger tap-tapping at the armrest of his chair. The brightness of his computer screen cuts into the shadows, tracing a glow across every point its light touches. It’s bright enough his eyes hurt, just a little, but he’s been staring at it long enough that the ache hardly registers anymore. 

Though. The alcohol buzzing in his veins probably helps. Keeps everything nice and dull.

Somewhere behind him, a printer chugs out more paper. He doesn’t bother to give it a glance—it’ll spit out into the pile of missing posters already spread across the floor. No, instead, he stares at the blown up image splashed across his computer’s monitor, jaw working. 

It’s Eijirou. Of course it is. 

The picture is older. By a year or so, if he’s to guess. He isn’t sure. Keeping track of the passage of time isn’t something he cares much for, these days. He remembers this picture, though. They’d gone to the park. Together. A rare date, as life was busy that time of year—lots of large scale projects for work and deadlines keeping him trapped in the office. But he’d made time for Eijirou, took him to the park he knew his boyfriend loves. 

They’d done a picnic. He’d made sandwiches. 

What exactly prompted the laugh, he’s not sure—something he’d said, a passing joke, perhaps. Either way, Eijirou’d thrown his head back and laughed, bright and pure, his inky hair falling like a curtain onto his shoulders. 

Of course the most logical recourse was to snap a photo. 

A ping echoes from his phone. He huffs, reaches for it. 

Kineko (8:22PM) 

Your PTO request is approved! Hope you get some much needed rest. 

A smile curves onto his lips, satisfaction curling around him like a purring cat. Perfect. Typing a response is easy, quick. And then the phone gets tossed back onto the desk, chair squeaking as he leans forward, minimizing his handiwork in favor of pulling up Google. 

Search: Places to stay in or around Hinansho|

He hits enter, grin sharpening as the results pull up. Soon, they’ll be reunited. Soon, the holes in his reality will be patched. Soon, Eijirou will be back, and everything will be right again. 

And he’ll never, ever let Eijirou go. Not again. 

Not ever. 

Chapter Text

Laughter rings out into the night in a distant melody. Katsuki strains to listen, breath catching in his throat. Kirishima’s hard to make out beneath the cloak of shadow—they probably should get him a stupid headlight for the damn bike. Katsuki shivers, arms crossed, and adds that to the list of shit they need, gaze slipping up to the glimmering stars overhead. 

There’s a…a strange tightness in his chest. Katsuki’s face twists, and he rubs at his sternum as if that’ll ease it. ‘Course, it doesn’t, and he’s left standing beneath the patchy, incomplete constellations with this feeling he doesn’t understand lingering unwanted between every breath. 

Katsuki’s fingers curl into his shirt. He peers into the night again, brows knitting. Kirishima’s still not managed to materialize back into view, but no car headlights have appeared, either, so he’s probably fine. 

Probably. 

His lips press into a line. He needs to go the fuck inside, work more on that table. But his feet stay rooted in place, and Katsuki can’t quite find the will to tear them free. No, he stays, waiting, watching, thinking. 

Kirishima’s almost certainly gonna wanna ride that thing to work. Which. Is. Fine. That’s why he got the stupid piece of shit. Except, he has no headlight. Or helmet. 

Or, fuck, a cellphone. 

Katsuki whirls around, stomps his way back into the house. Off go the shoes, on goes the hall light. He barrels into his bedroom, beelining for the night stand. Yanks open a drawer. Inside is a mess of shit he’s somehow managed to accumulate during his year-long stay here—old chargers, cough medicine, a packet of tissues, a notepad, and, the thing he’s after, an old cellphone. Katsuki fishes it out of the drawer and squints at it. 

The damn thing’s several generations old—he’s had it long before he moved to this godforsaken town. Broke it long before he moved, too. Katsuki traces a thumb along the fractured screen, lips pressing into a frown. He. He’s got a vague memory of throwing it at a wall with a shout, though the why escapes him, currently. Whatever. Doesn’t matter, really, so long as the damn thing turns on. Which. He tests now, holding down the power button until the busted screen lights up, the apple icon glowing bright white against the black screen. 

At least it turns on. 

Katsuki wanders back towards the living room, old, shitty phone balanced in hand. It takes a minute, but the thing fires up like normal, and the screen responds to poking and prodding. At the very least, Kirishima should be able to use the damn keypad and make a phone call if needed. He glances at the charging port. It takes an older style charger, which, Katsuki’s pretty sure he’s got at least one of lying around somewhere. 

The front door flies open. Kirishima tumbles inside, all bright eyes and red cheeks, smile so utterly bright it damn near blinds Katsuki. 

“Hey,” he says, voice a little winded. “The bike’s awesome! Feels like I’m flying—!” Kirishima pushes the door shut with his foot. Katsuki thinks he might laugh, but the sound’s swallowed by the loud thump rattling the door frame. “I mean, it’s, uh, it’s not faster than yours, ‘cuz it’s a bicycle and not a motorcycle, but, well, y’know.” 

Katsuki grunts. Holds out the phone. “Here.” 

Kirishima’s brows knit, head tilting a little as he shuffles closer. And, gods, the way sparks crackle beneath Katsuki’s skin at the simple brush of their fingers gets his heart rattling around inside his ribcage like loose pringles inside the can, and he valiantly ignores the heat stinging at his face in favor of watching Kirishima turn the cellphone over in his hands, thumb running along the old, worn case. “What’s this?” Kirishima asks. Katsuki huffs. 

“A fucking phone, obviously.” And. There’s too much bite in his words—Kirishima flinches, a little, sending guilt slicing right into the meat of his own ribs. Katsuki grimaces. Sighs. “S’an old one of mine—it’s a piece of shit, but it seems to work okay. You should be able to take it into the shop in town to get a new number and a cheap plan or something.” 

Kirishima stares with wide eyes. “You. You’re giving me this…?” 

The question has Katsuki staring back because, is. Is that not obvious? 

“I sure as shit don’t need it,” he grouses, arms crossing over his chest and gaze dipping to the floor because looking right at those wide, sunset eyes is suddenly too damn much. “If you don’t fucking want it, you don’t have to take it, but I—shit, I thought if you’re gonna, like, be biking yourself you should have a way to call or something if you get stuck with a flat.” 

Gods, this is stupid. Why does he even give a shit what Kirishima does? He’s a whole ass adult, he can handle himself, can’t he? Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek, something sharp and shameful prickling at his insides. He hisses a breath through his teeth, risks a glance up. Stills. 

Oh. Oh, fuck. Immediately, his hands splay between them, hovering, stalled by a thick and viscous uncertainty. “Shit, sorry, I—I didn’t mean—” 

Kirishima shakes his head, reaching up to scrub the heel of his free hand against his wet cheeks. “N—No, I’m—I’m okay, I’m okay. Just. Shit, you’re so—you’re so nice to me.” He sniffs, cradles the cracked, shitty phone to his chest like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever gotten, a wobbly smile warming his features. “I dunno how I’m ever gonna repay you for all the things you’ve done for me,” he says softly. Which. Katsuki scoffs, looks away. 

“You don’t gotta repay shit. S’just luck the damn thing was still in the drawer and not in the dump.” 

It’s the truth. Or. Well. Most of it, anyway. Katsuki’s had this phone rotting away in a drawer for years, and he sure as shit doesn’t use it. Giving it to Kirishima’s no skin off his back. 

The why’s maybe a little more complicated. But Katsuki’d rather eat sawdust than try to put words to it, so he doesn’t. Instead, he turns and pads back to his bedroom to rifle through the drawer again and pull out the appropriate charger for the damn thing, returning to find Kirishima standing in the same spot, cheeks damp and gaze glimmering with something a little like awe. He hands over the charger, muttering, “Here, you’ll need this, too,” before fleeing again with excuses of being tired as shit, and hiding in the solace of his own room. 

‘Course, there’s no escape from the vivid imprint of Kirishima’s smile across his mind’s eye, even long after he crawls beneath the covers and squeezes his eyes shut. 

🦀

A bead of sweat slides down the bridge of his nose. Katsuki pays it little mind, focused solely on the glide of his paring chisel as it carves out the shape of a blooming flower. Slow, careful, one flick of the wrist at a time, the petals unfurl across his unorthodox canvas. He’s on the last leg of this shitty ass table—a feat and a half, all things considered. 

Fucking hell, he’s taking a break from tables for awhile after this shit’s done. 

Still, there’s a crackling satisfaction as the flowers bloom from the wood beneath his hands. It’s not his usual style, but it’s pretty, and whoever the fuck ends up with this stupid thing better think so too or Katsuki’s gonna throw something. Like. He’s freeballing this shit. And, look, Katsuki knows he’s fucking talented but that doesn’t make doing this any less hard. So. Yeah. This person better fucking like it. 

He pauses. Blows away some of the shavings. A smile cracks onto his lips. 

There. Perfect. 

Katsuki sets down the chisel, hands moving to undo the clamps fixing the table leg in place. The leg will live with the other three across the shop while he works on the actual table, and he’ll stain everything all together before attaching it all—his usual process. The easiest and most familiar part of it all. 

And, okay, sure, Katsuki probably didn’t need to go and carve a blossoming garden into this shit, but, well. The hag demanded his best, and his best is being creative and out of the box. He’s. Not really sure why he chose flowers, of all things—maybe because it’s the largest departure from his usual style of dragon scales? Or, maybe to prove some kind of point? He sure as shit’s proving he can get this done on a tight as fuck timeline, at least. 

The air shudders, stalls, and Katsuki’s expression twists. God fucking dammit. He splays his hands on the workbench, head hanging, and glares down at the floor as if it can tell him why the fuck people’ve gotta bother him while he’s working. It can’t, because it’s the fucking floor. He hisses a breath through his teeth. Pushes away from the workbench. 

His shitty, shrill ringtone filters in as he cranks up his hearing aids. Katsuki swipes his phone off the speaker, scowling at the screen. 

Of fucking course, Deku’s contact emblazons across there in bright white kanji. He denies the call. Slams his phone back onto the tool cabinet. His temples throb violently with the motion of it all, and Katsuki grits his teeth, jaw aching. Motherfucking dammit. Anger crackles alongside a potent despair, the conflicting emotions sending the room into a wild tailspin. Katsuki grips the edge of the tool cabinet, eyes squeezing shut. Fuck. Fucking fuck, why can’t Deku just—just give up, already, huh? He scrubs a hand over his face, skin prickling. Echoes of their last fight ring in his memory, all the bitter and angry words he’d said making his throat tight and his temples throb harder. The shop air feels stifling, suddenly, and Katsuki pushes away, stumbling towards the back door and throwing it open to the cool ocean breeze outside. 

He squints, the ache in his temples sharpening to a pike. 

Bright blue skies and puffy, white clouds create a picturesque backdrop over the cerulean expanse of ocean down below. Katsuki marches for the pathway down to the beach, putting as much distance as he can between himself and his stupid, shitty phone. ‘Course, he’s keeping his glare fixed on the grass, because it’s less bright than the damn sky and hurts less to look at. He walks until his feet hit sand, and then he kicks off the slides he often wears while working and abandons them at the foot of the incline, hot sand scorching the bottoms of his bare feet. 

It hurts, but not more than staring at the bright white of the beach. Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut, marching onwards towards the roar of water washing out any other sound until the sand dampens enough to be bearable for his feet. He cracks his eyes open. Water laps at his toes—the tide is high, now, the ocean’s reach coming to the highest point. A breath eases from him, and Katsuki drops down onto the sand, eyes closing anew and head tipping back. 

Maybe Kirishima’s onto something with loving the beach. It’s easy to drown in the rush of water—the cacophony of anger and despair raging a war in his head blots out in an instant. His breaths slow to the beat of the lapping waves, and even the ache of his temples seems to calm, some. 

A fucking blessing in and of itself, honestly. 

Time bleeds by indeterminately. Katsuki digs his fingers into the sand, lingers until anger’s just an echo of ashes doused by the ocean. Only then does he blink, squinting at the sun hanging lower in the sky. A sigh eases from him. He lolls his head, grimacing at the way his headache flares. 

Fuck. He still has too much shit to do to be wasting the day away out here. 

It’s that thought alone that gets Katsuki shoving himself to his feet, teetering at an onslaught of dizzy, before dusting himself off and making his way back to the house. He pauses at the foot of the incline to fetch his slides, letting them dangle from his fingers in favor of keeping sand out of them. 

That’s one of the major downsides of the beach—the goddamn sand encroaching every damn crevice. 

Katsuki pauses at the door to dust the sand off his feet. Slips the slides back on and twists the knob, shuffling his way inside. Sawdust fills his lungs when he sucks in a breath. He sighs, back thumping against the door behind him. Spots dance in his vision, a remnant from the too-bright afternoon. There’s still an ache thumping just behind his eyes. He ignores it. Figures it’ll go away eventually. 

Besides. He’s got a table to finish. 

So he pushes away from the door and goes back to the workbench, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness from his joints, and throws himself right back into the fray. 

🦀

Sometimes, Katsuki’s body likes to be bitchy. Or. Well. His head does, because it’s got some kind of vendetta against him. 

He groans into his pillow, burying his face in an effort to hide from dawn’s assault against his eyelids. A wave of dizziness throws the bed into a tailspin. Katsuki’s fingers curl into the sheets as if that’ll get it to stop. It doesn’t, because of course it fucking doesn’t—it never does. Still. He breathes, slow, steady, aware of how utterly heavy his body feels right now. It’s got nothing on the drill driving right into the entirety of his skull, though, and Katsuki grasps valiantly at the ribbons of sleep skittering just out of his grasp. They’re too quick, and he’s left awake amidst the agony trying to crack his skull in two. 

Fuck. Just. Fuck.  

Of course he’d get a migraine when he’s on a deadline. God fucking dammit. 

He spends minutes just. Breathing through it and trying not to move, in hopes that the pain will subside enough for him to bear getting up to tug his curtains closed and maybe throw a towel over them, when the flicker of his bedroom light assaults his sensitive eyes and drags a cracked whimper from the depths of his ribs. He curls a little tighter, dragging a pillow up and over his head. Gods above, he hates this. So fucking much. 

There’s a beat. Two. 

A touch, hesitant and gentle, skims his shoulder. Katsuki risks pulling the pillow away enough to peek, some sort of noise surely tearing from his throat at the too-bright of the room driving the drill further into his skull. A smear of what seems to be Kirishima hovers over him. He squeezes his eyes shut again. 

“Migraine,” he mumbles. “Too bright.” 

The room darkens, then. Not much, but enough. Katsuki dares to peek again, squinting into the shadows to see Kirishima squatting at the side of his bed, worry carved into the lines of his face. His lips move. Whatever words come out are lost on Katsuki’s shitty ears. Which. Has Katsuki considering rolling over and grabbing his hearing aids, but the thought of moving makes him wanna die a little already. Trying to endure sound? No fucking thank you, he’s having a shitty enough time as it is. 

So he blinks, eyelids heavy, and huffs a breath. “Can’t fuckin’ hear.” 

Kirishima frowns. Bites his lip. He stands, then, the motion a blur of yellow, and moves out of view. Katsuki doesn’t bother keeping his eyes open—trying to focus on anything only adds to the drill pick trying to pry his skull open, and the only thing worth focusing on’s no longer in his line of sight, so. 

Eyes closed it is. 

Migraines are a weakness Katsuki’s been at war with since he lost his hearing. There’s no pattern to them, really. Or. If there is one, it’s a pattern that’s managed to escape him for damn near a decade. All he knows is the familiar pain that slams into him like a freight train, leaving him a pathetic puddle of agony until it fades and he can cobble himself together, again. 

How long that takes depends on how bad the migraine is. Occasionally, it’ll take a few hours. Most of the time, though, he’s out of commission for a day, minimum. 

Not exactly ideal, given his rigid schedule for this stupid fucking table. 

Another brush of fingers on his shoulder jerks Katsuki from his meandering thoughts, and he cracks an eye open, squinting. Kirishima’s back, this time with a glass of water and a bottle of pills. 

Oh. His migraine meds. Shit, how the hell’d he manage to find those? Katsuki grunts, wills himself the strength to sit up. A monumental fucking task thanks to the knives digging into his head. He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes slamming shut anew at the wave of dizziness assaulting him. Nausea burns at the back of his throat. Katsuki swallows, harsh, and presses the heel of a shaking hand into his eye, the pressure helping, a little. 

Fucking hell. Moving is a mistake. But he’s already committed, and he reaches for the glass with trembling fingers. ‘Course, he nearly drops it, the fumble driving water to slosh onto his blankets in thick rivulets. Embarrassment and shame burn at his cheeks. His skin crawls. Gods, he hates this. Wishes the bed would just, tear open beneath him and swallow him whole. But there’s nowhere to hide, and it’s all he can do to accept the pills being pressed into his open hand, to keep from spilling more water when he brings the glass to his lips and sips down a gulp. 

Kirishima takes the glass. Katsuki slumps down against the bed, head sinking into his pillows, and sighs, low and heavy. “Thanks,” he croaks, the word crawling free from the back of his throat. Kirishima smiles, lips moving. Except, Katsuki can’t focus enough to try and parse words, and Kirishima seems to catch himself, eyes widening a little before his head ducks. He rounds the bed, depositing the glass onto the nightstand, before peering at Katsuki again, a question etched into the notch in his brow, the tangle of his fingers. Kirishima looks at the dresser and back again, and points. 

It. Takes a second longer than it should. Katsuki delicately shifts enough to squint at his hearing aids, nose scrunching. It’s only the incessant pounding in his skull that keeps him from shaking his head. “No—sound makes it worse.” 

Something gleams in those sunset eyes—pity? Sorrow? Katsuki can’t tell, and it’s gone before he can try to parse it out with his pain-shredded mind. His skin prickles anew, and Katsuki contemplates burying himself under the blankets. Would that make him more pathetic than he already is? He curls his fingers into the comforter, eyes drooping. “Go to work,” he says, careful to shape the words right. “M’fine. Jus’ gonna sleep more.” 

Kirishima’s lips press into a line, and he shakes his head vehemently enough his hair blurs into a smear of red. He then gestures, miming something…eating? 

The very thought of food has Katsuki’s stomach churning, and he scrunches his nose, frowning. “No…not hungry.” 

That gets him another worried frown. Which. A strange feeling sparks to life beneath his skin, one Katsuki can’t quite place. The pike in his head sure as shit isn’t helping—reality’s starting to fray at the edges, and keeping his eyes open’s too much all of a sudden. He blinks, mumbles, “Do what you want, m’sleepin’,” and curls back into a ball, head shoving beneath a pillow. 

He’s. Honestly not sure what he’s expecting to happen. Nothing, probably, beyond finding his way to a fitful sleep—the usual recourse when this shit happens. The bed dipping sure as shit isn’t even in the realm of plausibility, and his breath catches when it happens. 

A touch, feather light, trails up and down his back in soft, soothing motions. In another lifetime, maybe he’d snap, pull away, snarl and demand to be left alone. In another lifetime, maybe he wouldn’t be plagued by these shitty bouts of weakness. Maybe he wouldn’t be here at all. 

Here, though, he finds himself melting into the mattress, a soft sigh easing from him. Sparks of warmth zing through him, offsetting the pain just a little. Kirishima’s petting is grounding, in a way, and somehow, some way, Katsuki finds himself drifting. 

Time bends and shifts. His thoughts muddle into abstract shapes and notions, occasionally dripping fantastical glitter all over his mindscape. How long he spends in this realm of dreamy haze, he has no fucking clue, but at at some point, thoughts grow solid and grounded, again. 

And, still, Kirishima’s fingers trail up and down his back. 

Heat sparks inside his chest, melting down to his fingers and toes. The ache in his head’s dulled, some—it’s no longer like a pike splitting open his skull, anyway. Now it’s more of a constant throb, starting from the back of his head and ricocheting through his temples. Easier to deal with, if only just so. 

He lets out a breath, shifts. Kirishima’s ministrations stall, which, fuck no—Katsuki surfaces from beneath the pillow to turn over, practically flopping onto one stiff, wide-eyed Kirishima. “Don’t stop,” he grouses. Slow, hesitant, the touch returns, and Katsuki melts. He blinks, slow, unfocused, the blur of his night stand catching his attention. His fingers curl into Kirishima’s rumpled t-shirt, and he tugs. “Can you grab my aids?” 

Kirishima taps his shoulder and shifts, leaning to do just that. 

Sound returns with a fresh spike to his temples. Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut again, burying his face into Kirishima’s side—something he probably should feel weird about, but right now he doesn’t give a shit. Kirishima’s warm, and Katsuki likes the way it feels, cuddling up like this. Fucking sue him. He’s got a migraine and Kirishima’s too damn nice. 

“...how’s your head?” The question comes softly, gently, punctuated by the gentle petting. 

Katsuki grunts. “Hurts like a bitch.” His voice sounds rough, garbled, like he’s just slept for twelve hours or something. 

“M’sorry.” 

He scoffs. Peers up at Kirishima with what spark of a glower he can muster. “Don’t be. S’not your damn fault. My head’s just shitty.” 

There’s a beat. A hum rattles through Kirishima. “Does…does this happen a lot?” 

Katsuki lifts a hand, waggles it in a so-so motion. “S’been awhile since the last one.” Which is true. Last migraine was…like. Right after he moved, almost. Katsuki remembers fractures of finishing a dozen of commissions in the span of days, waking up after feeling like his head was trying to split open. 

It was hell. Always is. 

He sighs. Stares at the shadows cross-crossing the bedroom. Part of him wonders what time it is. The other part doesn’t give a shit. “Just another shitty side effect of bashing my fucking head open as a kid.” 

“What happened?” 

Katsuki eyes Kirishima. There’s an earnesty etched into his features, riddled with the kind of care that’s got Katsuki damn near breathless, and it’s. Fuck. It’s terrifying, how one simple look has him feeling all—all floaty and warm like this. Reminds him of another lifetime, another person. A lump sticks in his throat. He swallows, gaze dipping to the faded logo on Kirishima’s rumpled t-shirt. It’s one of the ones Kirishima bought when he took him shopping—some yellow thing, with an unfamiliar English word written in goofy bubble letters. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. 

“I was like, fuck. Six, I think. Maybe seven. There was this stupid creek in the neighborhood we kids liked to dick around in. Pretending to go on adventures and shit.” Katsuki sees the damn thing clear as if it was yesterday—sluggish, brown water trickling past rocks and boulders bigger than he was tall. The creek cut deep into the surrounding hillsides, creating this sort of gully they all clamored down into everyday after primary school, carrying nets and critter keepers like true adventurers. Katsuki huffs a laugh that tastes bitter. “One day, we found this old tree that’d fallen across it, like some kind of bridge. Some kid had the bright idea we should cross it. Deku, the piece of shit, got all scared, said some shit about it being a far drop to the rocks below, and that it was dangerous. And I decided that was stupid and led the march. Like a fucking idiot.” 

He reaches up, grazing a hand along the back of his head, fingers finding the raised scar tissue hidden beneath his hair. A scoff rips from him, and his hand falls away. 

“I slipped. Fell and bashed my head open one of the rocks. I don’t remember shit after that—just remember my ears ringing like a bitch and feeling like someone took a hammer to my skull.” 

Kirishima’s fingers trace up between his shoulder blades to his neck, carding up into his hair like a question. Katsuki answers it by sinking into the gentle touch, sighing. 

“That sounds scary.” 

Another shrug. “Guess so. Like I said, I don’t remember much. Just the pain, and waking up not being able to fucking hear right.” He meets Kirishima’s wide-eyed gaze, then, the smile on his lips sharp and dripping with rue. “Won me the shitty overachievement of being one of the few unlucky bastards that suffered serious trauma from a goddamn concussion.”

Usually, pity’s the first response when he tells people. The reason he doesn’t, anymore—he doesn’t fucking need anyone’s pity, thanks. Like. Yeah, losing his hearing in a freak accident sucked dick. But it happened a whole lifetime ago, and he’s doing just fine without it. Besides. Technically, he’s got some of it—enough that he can use hearing aids, or whatever. So he’s got no use for the shitty, halfhearted pity people always offer him, and he braces himself to get it from Kirishima. 

Except. Except, Kirishima purses his lips, brow notching, fingers combing oh so gently through his hair—he hums again, chest vibrating beneath Katsuki’s hand. “I…I didn’t know that could happen.” 

Katsuki blinks. “Yeah. S’not super common. Most people heal up just fine, for the most part.” He doesn’t say that having a concussion makes a person more susceptible to getting another, regardless of how well you heal. Somehow, it feels like it’d be brushing off just how shitty his own circumstances ended up. Why that matters, Katsuki doesn’t really know, but, well. There’s something like understanding glimmering in Kirishima’s sunset gaze, so he lets it lie. 

Some noise pings in the quiet. Kirishima shifts, a bright light cutting into the shadow and sending a spike ramming into Katsuki’s temples. He grunts, hides his face back in Kirishima’s side. 

“Sorry,” Kirishima murmurs. “It’s Toyomitsu checking in—I, um, I got my phone set up, yesterday.” 

Oh. Right. “You should’ve gone to work,” Katsuki mumbles into the fabric of his t-shirt, “I’d’ve been fine. M’used to this shit.” 

Gentle fingers trace along the old scar on the back of his head, sending goosebumps blazing up and down Katsuki’s arms. 

“You took care of me when I was sick. Seems only right I get to do the same, y’know?” 

And, logically, Katsuki knows this to be true, but he hardly knows what the hell possessed him to even do that to start with. Figuring out what the fuck it means for Kirishima to want to return the favor? Yeah, no, that’s wildly beyond him right now. 

So he doesn’t bother trying. Just sinks into the warm feeling kindling inside his chest and decides figuring it all out is a problem for later.

Chapter Text

Rice simmers in a pot on the stove. Steam curls up into the kitchen, carrying with it the savory smell of broth. Eijirou’s mouth waters, a little, stomach grumbling in anticipation of good food. He whisks an egg in a small bowl, humming under his breath. 

The moring’s layered in a peaceful quiet, with only the simmering pot and the sounds of the whisk in his own hands to fill it. Eijirou taps the whisk against the side of the bowl. Turns to deposit it into the sink. It clatters, forgotten in favor of reaching over the pot and lifting the lid—steam billows up into his face, and Eijirou carefully tips the egg into the simmering rice. 

There’s a soft ping. He throws a glance over his shoulder. His phone—he has a phone!—sits on the counter, screen lit up with a notification. Eijirou sets the lid back in place—not fully covering the rice—and drifts to his phone, swiping it up and peering at the screen. 

Me (8:01AM)

hey!!! sorry for the last minute text, but I need to call off again.

Bakugou’s still not feeling great and I don’t wanna leave him alone :( 

Bossman! (8:22AM) 

of course my boy! I hope your friend feels better soon! 

Me (8:23AM)

Thanks :)

Eijirou deposits the bowl into the sink with the whisk and turns back to the stove to stir the okayu, a smile curved onto his lips. He’s. He’s glad Toyomitsu’s as understanding as he is. His gaze cuts over his shoulder to the workshop door, his smile slipping into a frown, worry bubbling in his chest. 

Bakugou slipped out of bed with the rise of dawn, unsteady and pale, insisting he was fine enough to work more on the commission that’s due in mere days. “Go to work,” he’d said, “I’ll be fine.” Except he’d moved on unsteady legs, rifling through his night stand to pull out a pair of sunglasses, and Eijirou just. Couldn’t. 

So he’s here. Cooking something easy for breakfast in hopes Bakugou will eat and poking around his shiny new phone. 

Or. Well. New to him. 

Eijirou runs a thumb along the fracture decorating the screen, warmth flickering in his chest. It is kind of a shitty phone—there’s missing glass at the top left corner, probably lost when the screen initially broke—and the battery drains real easy. But it’s another thing he gets to call his own, and Eijirou can’t help but marvel at it. 

He’s already got four numbers. Bakugou’s (he’d insisted on giving it to him before Eijirou even had the thing set up for himself, shoving a sticky note with his number into Eijirou’s chest before he’d left for the first time with his bike), Toyomitsu and Amajiki, and Kaminari. Who was probably the most ecstatic to trade numbers, saying, “Man, I feel like I’ve been asking for weeks, dude! It’s about time!” 

To which Eijirou could only duck his head and chuckle, bashful. 

The creak of a door snags his attention, and Eijirou swivels in time to see Bakugou slip back into the house, sagging against the door frame with a sigh.

There’s a beat. Another. His hand raises to fiddle with his hearing aids. “Thought you went to work.” 

Heat splashes across Eijirou’s face. He shrugs. “Wanted to stay.” 

Bakugou’s lips curl into a frown, but he doesn’t say anything more, instead pushing himself off the wall and shuffling, unsteady and shaky, towards the couch. Eijirou watches, tense and rigid, until Bakugou slumps down onto it, sprawling with a huff. 

He looks back at the simmering okayu. Stirs some more. “How’re you feeling?” he asks, hesitation flickering along the edge of his voice. Bakugou grunts. 

“Shitty. S’not as bad as yesterday, though. I’ve had worse.” 

Eijirou’s not sure how much worse it could be—yesterday, Bakugou’d spent half the day in the fetal position, hearing aids off because apparently even a little sound hurt. He’s. He’s a little afraid to find out, if only because the thought of Bakugou in pain has something gripping tightly at his chest. Eijirou leans over the stove, twisting the dial off, and moves the pan off the heat. He pulls down two bowls, one for himself and one for Bakugou, and ladles a hearty portion into both—whatever isn’t eaten can be packed into the fridge for later. 

He brings the bowls to the living room. Bakugou’s sprawled across the entirety of the couch, one leg hanging off the side, and an arm draped over his face. Eijirou nudges at his foot. Bakugou grunts. 

“I made food. You should eat.” 

Bakugou shifts, arm falling away. The glasses are dark, and it’s hard to make out his eyes hidden behind them—probably the intention, given that he’s using them to shield his eyes from the light. He sits up slowly, lips curling into a grimace. “What is it?” he asks with a croak. Eijirou holds out a steaming bowl. 

“Okayu with egg. I, um. I figured you’d probably want something lighter.” 

He takes it, muttering a soft, “Thanks,” and fiddles with the spoon. Eijirou smiles, sitting down beside him. 

“‘Course, dude.” 

They eat in silence. Or. Eijirou eats. Bakugou sort of picks at his, slurping down small little mouthfuls until he stops entirely, leaning over to set the cooling bowl of okayu onto the coffee table. A heavy sigh, laden with an exhaustion Eijirou feels, whooshes from him, then, and he leans into Eijirou, pressing their shoulders together. 

Sparks crackle through him, and Eijirou’s breath sticks in his throat. It’s worse when Bakugou lolls his head, tipping it to rest on Eijirou’s shoulder—his heart feels as if it’s going to burst right from his ribcage and spill across the hardwood floor. He goes rigid with uncertainty. 

Does. Does he move? Would that scare Bakugou off? Would. Would Bakugou want him to—to trace lines up and down his back, like yesterday? Or is that overstepping? Does it even matter?  

“Fuck,” Bakugou mumbles, his voice cutting off the impending spiral in Eijirou’s head. “I gotta finish unpacking the house.” 

And, that…doesn’t make any sense. Eijirou’s brows knit, gaze slipping to the lingering boxes in the hall. There’s not many—Bakugou’d cut down on them not long after he’d moved into the spare room. But there’s still a couple of short stacks hovering in the shadows, just out of view from where they sit. What’s in them, Eijirou doesn’t know. He hasn’t looked. 

Though, he supposes it’s not just the boxes. A quick survey of the space shows the stacks of frames and books left untouched from the initial unboxing spree, all propped against various walls and collecting dust. 

“How come?” he asks. Bakugou sighs another weary sigh, pushes himself upright, one hand reaching up to press against his temples. 

“My parents are coming to pick up that stupid table—mom says she’s only sending dad, but that hag would come anyway, and she’s a nit-picky bitch.” 

Eijirou hums. Bites his lip. “Well…I could help, if you want.” 

Bakugou looks at him, brows raising above the sunglasses affixed to his face. “What do you mean?” 

He shrugs. “I could unpack, for you. Hang things. All that stuff!” He fiddles with the now empty bowl in his hands, thumb running along the edge of the spoon’s handle. “I know you’re still not feeling great, and you have the table to finish…” Heat stings at Eijirou’s cheeks, and he ducks his head. “Sorry if that’s overstepping, I just. Thought I’d offer.” 

There’s a beat. And another. And then Bakugou huffs, sinking into the couch cushions. “What the hell, knock yourself out. Just don’t put things somewhere stupid.” 

A smile warms his lips, and Eijirou huffs a laugh. “I won't, I promise.” He stands, then, stooping to grab Bakugou’s abandoned bowl and takes them both to the kitchen. The leftovers go into a container in the fridge—hopefully he can coax Bakugou to eat some more later—and the dishes get a quick wash. 

His phone buzzes. It’s a meme from Kaminari. Eijirou snickers, fires off a laughing emote. And then he wanders his way back into the living room, drying his damp hands on his sweats. 

Bakugou’s returned to sprawling across the couch, a throw blanket draped over his head. A pang ricochets through Eijirou’s chest, and he bites his lip. “S’it hurting worse?” he asks softly. Bakugou makes a noise. 

“Glasses were getting annoying.” 

Sure enough, the sunglasses sit folded on his chest. Eijirou hums. “Well…let me know if I can get you anything…” 

He gets another noncommittal noise, which he takes as permission to go ahead and start putting things away. Which. Is a bit of a task, since there’s not much of a place to put anything, currently. “You really need, like, a bookshelf or something,” he muses. Bakugou snorts from the couch. 

“I don’t need one when I can fuckin’ make one.” 

“I mean, I guess. But where am I supposed to put it all in the meantime?” 

There’s a pause. A rustle. Bakugou peeks out from beneath the blanket, one eye a slit, and grumbles, “Gimme an hour, n’ I can cut some wood.” 

Eijirou balks at him. “Wh—dude, no, it’s fine, I’m just teasing, seriously.” 

The blanket drops back with a huff. “Too fuckin’ bad. You’re right, I gotta have somewhere to put shit.” 

And, well. He surveys the room again, lips pressing into a line. Yeah, a few shelves might actually be needed, what, with how many books are just. On the floor. Eijirou stares at the stack of frames—artwork, by the looks of it—and hums. “S’it okay if I hang the frames, then?” 

“Do what you want. You know where the tools are.” 

He does. In the workshop, across from the workbench—Eijirou grabs a hammer, a fistful of nails, a level, and a pencil, and sets to work. He warns Bakugou before he starts, so Bakugou can turn off his hearing aids. No use aggravating his headache unnecessarily, after all. 

It’s a little fun, hanging the art and posters. Bakugou’s got a lot of really interesting ones—a lot of action movie posters or comic book hero art, and the pieces liven the living room quite a bit as they go up on the walls. He leaves some space for bookshelves in an artsy sort of pattern, before pausing to nudge at Bakugou’s arm and rouse him. 

“How’s it look?” he asks. Bakugou blinks, bleary, and fumbles with his hearing aids. Squints. 

“Huh.” 

Nerves lance through Eijirou like a pike. He fiddles with his fingers, shoulders hunching. “Is it…is it okay? I—I can change it, if you want—” 

A hand swats at him, lazy and slow. “S’fine, dumbass,” Bakugou mumbles. Pink blotches across his cheeks, then, before the blanket drops back down and hides his face away again. “Thanks.” 

There’s something soft and genuine to the quiet word, and it hits Eijirou like sparks from a match, lighting something inside him ablaze. He resists the urge to hide his burning face in his hands, ducking instead behind his bangs and shuffling his feet. “O—of course.” 

He whirls around and beelines for the hall, throwing himself into unpacking the rest of the boxes. It’s easy, doing this sort of menial task. He grabs a box. Brings it to the living room. Rips it open. Stares at the contents inside. Most of them are filled with an odd mish-mash of knick-knacks—office supplies (Bakugou tells him to shove them into the workshop, somewhere, which, seems counter-intuitive. Eijirou just takes the box to his own room, instead), board games (which end up next to the books, awaiting a shelf), more blankets (Eijirou steals those too), a box filled with what looks to be important documents (those go under Bakugou’s bed, where he spies another box with a familiar sharpie label), among other things. 

Sweat beads at his forehead, his neck. Sticks his shirt to his back. There’s an ache in his arms, back, thighs, from lifting all these boxes. Eijirou doesn’t mind it—it feels good, to be doing something useful. 

Like, he. He knows he doesn’t gotta do anything to pay Bakugou back. But he still wants to do something to—to show his appreciation, at least. Or, to pull his weight, too. If that means spending the afternoon unpacking the last of Bakugou’s dust-covered boxes and putting this home a little more together, then he’ll happily do it. 

That’s the thought driving him when he picks up the last box. Which. Is heavier than the others. Eijirou grunts, a little, hefting it up off the floor. Jeeze, what’s in this thing? Bricks? 

He staggers a little to the living room, careful when he sets it down in case there’s something breakable in here. Whatever it is rattles, some. His gaze skitters to the couch. Bakugou doesn’t even stir—the blanket’s still over his face, so it’s impossible to see if he’s asleep or not. Eijirou kneels, scissors in hand, and scores the tape down the middle. He flips open the flaps, peers inside. 

Picture frames. The box is filled to the brim with picture frames. 

Eijirou pulls one out, thinking perhaps it’s more art or posters, only to stop and stare. 

It’s. It’s a picture. Of Bakugou, no less—wearing a full suit and tie, a booklet with what appears to be a—a degree on full display. There’s two people standing on either side of him that can only be his parents because they share all of Bakugou’s features, both of which are smiling brightly, a contrast to the sharp scowl Bakugou wears. Behind them is a building of brick and mortar. The university, maybe? Eijirou bites the inside of his cheek. Something sharp and bitter digs at his insides. He sets the picture aside. Grabs the next one. 

It’s another graduation picture—again, Bakugou wears the black suit and tie. Except, this time, he’s with someone else. Someone unfamiliar, a boy with dark, wild curls and a bright smile and a face painted with freckles. He’s got an arm slung over Bakugou’s shoulders, his own tie messy and poorly tied, a stark comparison to the perfect knot of Bakugou’s. Eijirou tilts his head, lips pursing. Who…who could this be? Is this the mysterious Deku Bakugou’s mentioned, before? 

The frame rips from his grasp, and Eijirou jolts, heart skyrocketing to his throat and body seizing. Bakugou towers over him, lips curled in a sneer, and jams the photo frame back into the box with a careless clatter. “Not this,” he snaps. “Not this one.” 

Except, reality stutters, shakes. There’s another place lurching forth from the shadows inside Eijirou’s head, a place where someone towers over him, snarling venom before grabbing him by the hair and—and— 

“Kirishima?” 

Eijirou sucks in a breath. Drags himself to the present with shaking hands. Bakugou’s squatting, brow pinched, face pale, his hand hovering between them. Eijirou swallows. 

“Sorry. I—sorry.” 

He doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for. Bakugou doesn’t tell him. He just. Purses his lips, looks away. 

“S’fine.” His voice is rough, like gravel dragging across Eijirou’s skin. He turns, taking the box, and stands, teetering, still unsteady. And, Eijirou can’t stop the full body flinch, he can’t—it’s instinct. A reaction to the shadows that haunt him. Something cracks in Bakugou’s expression, and he stumbles back as if struck. His shoulders hunch, and he looks away. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap.” 

Eijirou bites his lip hard enough it stings. His trembling fingers curl into fists, and he swallows a lump in his throat. He nods, a jerk of the head. 

Bakugou flees, then, cradling the heavy box like it’s something precious. He disappears down the hall, leaving Eijirou staring after him, the afternoon shadows blotting out the warmth of the morning with the weight of all their ghosts pressing in around them both. 

🪸

Steam cloaks the room, thick and heady. Eijirou scrubs a towel across his damp skin, rivulets of water dripping down from his wet hair. A sigh eases from him. Being clean feels nice, especially after a long day at the ramen shop and a longer bike ride home. He works the towel through his hair, drying it, and pads the short distance to the sink. A fresh change of clothes sits on the toilet seat. He drops the towel, grabs his boxers. Tugs them on. Tugs the sweats and t-shirt on, too. 

Inevitably, Eijirou finds his gaze sticking to the mirror. 

His reflection’s blurry thanks to the steam. But he sees the blotchy outline of his skin, his hair. A hand drifts to the hollow of his neck, where deep, dark bruises once decorated his skin…

Panic squeezes him in a vice of barbed wire, and he bolts, stumbling his way free into the hall. 

Pans clatter from the kitchen, accompanied by a savory smell that gets Eijirou’s mouth watering. He follows the scent, drifting through a hallway void of boxes into the living space. Bakugou’s hunched over the stove, tension bleeding off him as he maneuvers the space in jerky, angry movements. 

Eijirou bites his lip. Hovers. 

A cloud of uncertainty sits heavy on him—there’s a longing to go sidle up to Bakugou, to nudge him, draw him out of the tense funk he’s fallen into. But. But, it’s as if Eijirou’s gotten caught by a current and dragged out to a sandbar, and Bakugou’s stuck on shore. Close enough to see, but with kilometers of ocean between them, and he can’t quite figure out how to swim back. 

Something clatters. Bakugou spits a curse. 

“When’re your parents getting here?” 

The question tumbles free all on its own. Eijirou goes stiff when Bakugou wheels around to pin him with a look, a scowl etched deep into his features. He hisses out a huff, whirls back to slam a pan onto a different burner. “Dunno. My asshole hag of a mother hasn’t fuckin’ said a damn word and won’t answer her fucking texts.”

And, well, that’s. Not ideal. Eijirou fiddles with his own fingers, gaze sliding to the workshop door. Bakugou finished the table yesterday after the…after the box debacle. He’d disappeared into the workshop after hiding the box of photographs in the bedroom and didn’t reappear until late in the evening for dinner. 

Eijirou finds himself swallowing apologies he knows aren’t wanted. Even now, he shifts in place, mind bursting with all the things he wants to say and lips that have forgotten how to say them. His mouth opens and closes over and over, like a fish stuck out of water. 

The doorbell rings, and a light over the genkan Eijirou didn’t notice before flashes brightly. They both startle, and Bakugou growls, slamming down his spatula. Somehow, it’s this that spurs Eijirou into motion, and he jerks towards the genkan, waving Bakugou off. 

“Let me get it! You finish making dinner!” 

“Kirishima—” 

“Seriously, dude, let me.” He hops down, reaches for the door. Tugs it open. Stops. Stares. 

It’s not Bakugou’s parents. 

No, standing on the doorstep is a smartly dressed man in dark colored slacks and a tie with a rather mangled looking knot. Messy curls bounce when he glances up from the phone clutched in his hand, and he blinks, brightening. “Um. Hi! I, um, I think I’m supposed to be picking up a table from you…? Dynamight Woodworking, right?” He chuckles, awkward, and rubs the back of his neck. “S—sorry I’m here so late, I um, I wasn’t expecting to come pick this up today! This. This is the right place, right? Google says this is the address, but, well, you don’t have a sign out—”

Eijirou can only blink. Table…? But, the only table for pick up is getting picked up by Bakugou’s parents, right? Except, there’s something strangely familiar about this guy, like Eijirou’s seen him somewhere, before—

He doesn’t get time to place where. Footsteps thunder towards the genkan, and Bakugou barrels to the doorway with all the rage of a typhoon, face twisted with an anger of the likes Eijirou’s not seen in a long time. There’s no time to react, or move, or speak—Bakugou shoves Eijirou out of the way, hard. 

All of a sudden, Eijirou’s not on the genkan. No, he’s back in the godforsaken apartment, back slamming against the wall at the hands of someone who loves him. A gasp rips from him. His knees give out, and he crashes to the floor, whole body shaking, one hand flying to his throat. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, hah?!” 

“Ka—Kacchan?! What are—I—” 

“Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit! How many times do I have to decline your stupid calls to get it through your thick ass skull that I don’t wanna fucking talk to you, hah? How many?!” 

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t know—!” 

“Bullshit!” 

He shakes, vision splintered into a smear of colors. His fingernails dig into the wooden floor beneath him. What did he do wrong this time? He. He swears whatever it is he didn’t mean to. “Stop,” he croaks, “please. Please, please, I’m sorry.” The phantom bite of something sharp digs into his side. He flinches, cowers. 

“I swear, Kacchan, I had no idea—I—I never would’ve come if I did—”

“Well here you fucking are, and I’m telling you to fuck off!” 

“Kacchan—” 

Eijirou curls tighter, one hand sliding up to fist at his own hair. “Stop!” he yells, voice cracking right in half. “Please, please just. Stop it.” Something wet and hot blazes a trail down his cheeks. He tries to—to breathe, but breathing’s hard and he doesn’t know where he is or why there’s so much yelling and he just. He. He just, he just wants it all to stop.  

Someone curses. “Kirishima, shit, hey. Hey, look at me.” A touch grazes at his knee. Eijirou jerks back, head slamming against the wall behind him, panic spearing him through the chest, ripping a whimper loose. There’s another bitten off curse. 

“Leave,” the voice spits. 

There’s a soft sigh. “I’m…I’m sorry, again.” Shoes scuff at pavement, and footsteps recede. Something rustles, and a smear of—of someone leans close, but not too close. 

“Kirishima,” the voice— Bakugou —says again. “S’okay, you’re okay. You’re safe, you just gotta, fuck, you just gotta breathe.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut. Sucks in a shaky breath. He’s. He’s okay. He’s safe. He’s…he’s at Bakugou’s. Not…not there. No, he’s in the genkan, surrounded by shoes, with Bakugou kneeling in front of him, worry painted in lines across his face. Eijirou presses his palms against the floor and tries to will his heart to slow, the shaking to stop. Outside, a red pickup truck pulls out of the drive, the rumble of its engine fading as it drives off into the evening. 

“You with me?” Bakugou asks, voice a quiet rasp. Eijirou bites the inside of his cheek, jerking his head in a terse nod. Yeah, he’s here—there’s a throb in his head where he smacked the wall, and sneakers digging into his ass, but he’s. He’s here. 

“Think you can move to the couch?” 

Eijirou nods again. Yeah. Yeah, couch would be nice. But he’s still shaky and out of sorts—Bakugou moving to stand is enough to make him flinch. A fact that’s got guilt curling around his insides and squeezing hard enough he sees stars. Bakugou doesn’t say anything about it. No, he just. Offers a hand, which Eijirou takes. 

If he clings a little tightly, well. He’s unsteady on his own feet, and Bakugou’s a solid presence beside him, so he thinks he can get away with clinging, some. 

They traverse to the living room, hand in hand, where Eijirou sinks down onto the couch with a shaky sigh. And then Bakugou tugs his hand free, and a spike of adrenaline has Eijirou’s heart lurching up to his throat. “Where’re you going?” The question tumbles loose with an edge of panic. Bakugou blinks, lips pursing. 

“I was just gonna cover the food.”

“Oh. Sorry.” 

His shoulders hunch, and he looks away, jaw working, hands balling up at his sides. “S’not your fault,” he says, voice gruff. “S’mine. I—fuck. I know you hate when I yell, and I went and fucking did it anyway.” The huff Bakugou lets out is angry. He turns, shoulders tense, and, and Eijirou sees a flickering memory of another time and place he so desperately wants to forget. 

“Please—please come back, after,” he pleads. “Sorry, I. I know that’s weird, I just.” He cuts himself off, fingers digging into the cushions. It’s. It’s so stupid—Bakugou’s not mad at him, he’s not, Eijirou knows that, but. But there’s an ice pick wedged in his chest that hurts when he breathes, and it only lodges deeper when Bakugou turns to peer at him, expression a stone wall. 

“Yeah, okay,” he murmurs, and the ice pick loosens just a little. 

It takes what probably amounts to thirty seconds for Bakugou to cover the food and stuff some of it back into the fridge, and then he’s back, sinking into the couch next to Eijirou, body riddled in tense lines. 

There’s a beat. A sigh. “M’sorry.”  

Eijirou stares at the art hanging on the wall—it’s a rendition of a scene from one of the All Might movies Bakugou loves so much, where the superhero poses, one hand raised in a fist, announcing his victory amidst the wreckage and rubble around him. It’s a gorgeous art piece, one that gave Eijirou an itch to draw when he first laid eyes on it. 

He bites his lip. “Was…was that guy Deku?” 

Bakugou’s lips press in a frown. He directs it to the floor, brow knitting. “Don’t call him that,” he says, voice gruff. “I gave him that shitty nickname because I’m a dick. But, yeah, that’s him—Midoriya, or whatever.” 

And, that’s…Eijirou’s brows scrunch. Midoriya, huh? A million more questions bubble to life in his head, crowding at his tongue and begging to be set loose. Questions like, why’d he call Midoriya ‘Deku’ to begin with? They were friends once, weren’t they? There’s photos in a box in Bakugou’s bedroom that imply as much. Was it some kind of inside joke? Something borne of whatever happened to push them apart? 

Eijirou shuffles, drawing his legs up so his knees are to his chest. He shivers. “Can…can I ask what happened?” He peeks at Bakugou from behind his curtain of bangs, shoulders tensing at the sharp look he gets. “I—I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, I just. You…you seemed so angry…” 

Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say, because Bakugou seems to curl in on himself, a war of emotions flickering in the twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers grip at his sweats. But then he sighs again, long and weary, and his shoulders droop as if the effort of being so angry is too much to carry. “I used to work as a Public Prosecutor—worked under one of the top prosecutors in the country over in the chief branch in Tokyo.” 

And. Oh. 

The photo of Bakugou clutching a degree in his hands surfaces in Eijirou’s mind—he pictures it, a moment, Bakugou being a prosecutor. Dressed smart in a suit and tie, bustling down the streets of Tokyo with that spitfire determination—it fits like a stray puzzle piece, and Eijirou hugs his knees, eyes wide and head spinning. 

“Fuck, I worked my ass off for that shit. Long hours, day and night. We processed major cases, and I—I fucking loved it. Wanted to be the best, to work my way up to the Supreme Public Prosecutors’ Office.” He slumps into the couch, brow notched as he stares at his calloused hands in his lap. “Deku worked in the same office as me. We…were friends, I guess. We grew up together, at least. Fucker knew me better than anyone, at one point.” 

Strangely, Eijirou thinks about Ashido. Something in him aches, a little. 

Bakugou snorts, then, face twisting. “‘Course, being deaf makes everything twice as fucking hard. There’s specific ways shit’s done in the courts—sure, I have my hearing aids and can function fine with ‘em, but sometimes if I’m not paying as much attention or whatever, I don’t fucking process sound right. And of fucking course no one wants to be accommodating. So I had to work twice as hard to make sure I didn’t drop the ball on shit. Had to make sure everything was perfect all the time. God forbid I get a goddamn migraine on a day we have a court date, or can’t understand what some bitchass clerk is mumbling. Not to mention my shitty fucking attitude.” His hands curl into fists again, jaw working, anger rolling off him in waves. “How hard I worked didn’t fucking matter—everytime I cracked a case wide open I barely got more than a passing glance. But if I so much as breathed wrong, well.” He laughs, a bitter, aching thing, head lolling to pin Eijirou with a look. “My shitty boss sure loved laying it on me. But not Deku. No, the fuckass shat rainbows as far as the old fart could tell.” 

Twilight’s slowly overtaking the living room with her indigo hues, but even still, Bakugou’s gaze glows, crackling with the kind of feeling that hits Eijirou right in the chest. He hugs his legs tightly, resisting the sharp and sudden urge to reach out, to grab one of those calloused hands in his own and squeeze. 

“The worst part,” Bakugou says, “is that he’s actually really damn good at it all. It’s not like Deku’s just. Dicking around and getting credit for shit he didn’t do—no, he throws himself into every fucking case he gets, works his ass off just as much. I shouldn’t be mad at him. But, fuck, that promotion was supposed to be mine. ” 

There’s a raw, aching pain dripping from Bakugou’s words. It’s painted on him like watercolor in the deepening shadows of his face. Eijirou presses his cheek into his knee, lips pursing as he listens. Bakugou’s hand slips off his lap, dropping onto the couch cushion, fingers twitching. 

“It’s just. It’s not fucking fair —no matter how fucking hard I worked, I just. Couldn’t keep up. Part of me hated him, for it.” He sucks in a breath. Lets it out, eyes closing. “Think I still might.” He lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, eyes cracking open to stare out into space. “I fucking lost it, after losing out on the promotion. Blew up like a goddamn stick of dynamite. S’when I dropped everything to move out here. Figured I could throw all my energy into being the best at something I could control every part of, and started my business from there. Might’ve just been running away from my problems, though.” 

Eijirou’s heart pangs, sharp and fierce, and his lips curve in a ghost of a smile. “I get that,” he says softly. “I mean, I—I ran away, too.” His gaze drifts back to the poster of All Might, and the smile whisks away. “Sometimes…sometimes I wonder if I’d have been braver, or stronger, if…if I could’ve…” His voice splinters, a lump lodging itself in his throat. The couch dips, and Bakugou shuffles close enough to press their shoulders together. And it’s. It’s grounding, the touch, and sparks light up inside him, ricocheting through his insides and bringing with them a warmth that’s got Eijirou damn near melting. 

“You’re strong as fuck,” Bakugou mutters. “Don’t even try to deny that.” 

And, he. He doesn’t know what to say. His eyes burn, vision blurring into a messy kaleidoscope, and ducks his head, leaning harder into Bakugou in lue of words. They sit like that for awhile, side by side, warmth bleeding between them. 

Eventually, when the shadows of twilight have fully eclipsed them, Eijirou finds his voice, again. 

“What’re you gonna do about the table?” 

Bakugou scoffs. “Call my bitchass mother and tell her she better come herself or she’s never fucking getting it, and then blocking her and Deku both.” 

He hums. Picks at the seam of his sweats. “You really never gonna talk to him again?” 

The silence between them is thick. Heavy. Eijirou can feel Bakugou suck in a breath, let it out. 

“Dunno what there is to even say. I mean. Fuck. He should hate me, now.” 

Again, Eijirou thinks of Ashido. He presses further into Bakugou, a soft hum escaping him. “I…I have a friend who I thought hated me,” he says. “We…we’d drifted apart, y’know? My fault. I didn’t…I didn’t try very hard to keep in touch.” He wasn’t supposed to, is what he doesn’t say. Friends were a distraction, and none of them really cared about Eijirou, anyway. Not like he did. Eijirou’s lips press into a line, the scars he carries aching, a little. “I thought she probably hated me. I mean, she’d have been right to, y’know? But, then…I ran into her, and we talked, and…she didn’t.” 

No, Ashido had been so, so happy to talk to Eijirou. So much so, it had left him dizzy and reeling. Maybe that was the wake-up call he’d needed. 

“I owe her a lot.” He whispers it like a secret. “Like, a lot, a lot. I’m real glad I talked to her, that day, y’know? If I didn’t…” Words become too hard, then, and Eijirou lets the sentence hang, shrugging lamely. He feels the smoldering heat of Bakugou’s gaze blistering at his skin, but he stares into the indigo shadows instead, suddenly shy of whatever he’d find there. 

Bakugou nudges at him, gentle, affirming, and murmurs a, “You wanna eat some food?” 

Sure enough, his stomach rumbles, and Eijirou can only nod. Bakugou tells him to stay put, standing to shuffle his way into the kitchen and heat up the food he’d made earlier. They end up eating on the couch, side-by-side, pressed together without so much as a centimeter between them, and Eijirou feels…warm. Seen. 

He hopes Bakugou feels seen, too.

Chapter Text

Steam curls from the coffee mug clutched in his hands. Katsuki stares across the living room, watching dawn’s light warm to a brilliant gold. 

He’s alone. Kirishima hurried out the door minutes ago, chirping a, “Seeya, dude!” leaving the house feeling quiet and empty in his wake. And, fuck, there’s that weird feeling in his chest—a radiating sort of ache he feels down to his fingers and toes. Katsuki lifts the mug to his lips, the coffee scorching as it goes down. A grimace twists onto his face. He sets the coffee down with a thunk, reaching up to rub at his sternum. 

His gaze finds the art and posters hanging in his living room. Sunlight gleams off them—he can’t fucking make out anything from here. But he sees the frames all the same, and that goddamn ache pangs harder, more insistent. His mind, the traitorous piece of shit, dregs up all the fuckery that went down last night, and guilt rears her ugly, bastardized head to gnaw at his ribs. 

He grips the mug harder. Scowls into the steaming, dark liquid as if it’s to blame. 

It isn’t. Of course it fucking isn’t. Katsuki’s only got himself to blame for once again being a piece of shit. 

There’s a part of him, some dark, twisty, ugly part that wonders how the hell Kirishima sees past his bullshit. Like. For fuck’s sake, he gave into the burning rage inside himself despite knowing damn well how much it freaks Kirishima out, and yet. And yet, Kirishima begged him to stay close, let him press their shoulders together and listened to Katsuki rant and rave about the shit he carries like it’s easy. 

Maybe that’s why he lingered too long, too late into the night, all too aware of the way Kirishima grew tenser and tenser, like he was a fucking wind-up doll ready to spring through the damn roof. Why he did the insane thing and muttered a quiet, “Come on,” and led Kirishima to his own bedroom, insisting he just sleep there.

Katsuki runs a thumb along the edge of his coffee mug. Whispers of this morning float to mind, fleeting impressions of a warmth pressing against him, of fingers curling into his shirt, soft hair brushing against his collarbone. Heat stings his cheeks. Katsuki shoves the thoughts from his head, ignoring the rattle of his heart against his ribs in favor of swiping his coffee and standing, crossing the kitchen to dump the rest of the shit down the drain. 

He’s had too much, anyway. 

His feet carry him to the workshop door, where he twists the knob and swings it open, only to pause, blinking. 

Oh. Right. The shitty fucking table. 

It sits in the middle of the shop like an elephant in a room, blissfully unaware of anything at all. Pretty and polished and ready for a pick up that’s not fucking coming. Katsuki’s face twists, sparks of anger crackling to life inside him, and he grips the doorframe, teeth grinding. Fucking stupid damn hag, stupid Deku. The worst part of it all—this table? It’s a work of art. The polish is on point, the wood grain visible in all the right ways. Flowers climb the table legs, leaves and vines crown the table’s edges. It’s one of the best damn tables he’s made to date. 

Of fucking course it’d be all for a goddamn joke. 

Kirishima’s voice floats across his mind, then. “I…I have a friend who I thought hated me, but then I ran into her, and we talked, and…she didn’t. I owe her a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. I’m real glad I talked to her, that day, y’know? If I didn’t…” 

His throat goes tight. Katsuki wheels around, slams the door shut behind him. He slips a hand in his sweats’ pocket and pulls out his phone, thumb swiping across the screen to pull up his texts unbidden. Deku’s contact glows like a beacon. Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek. His heart thunders in his ribcage hard enough it hurts, whole body shaking with a wild squall of feelings brewing like an offshore storm. Fuck. Fucking, fuck, he’s so—so angry and tired and, and fucking scared. What if Deku does hate him? What then? Does it matter? That’s what he’s wanted, right? 

He taps the screen. Their message history opens to dozens of unanswered texts, all from the last six months. Katsuki clutches at his phone with a white-knuckled grip and scrolls, up and up and up until he finds their very last actual exchange. 

Deku (8:22AM) 

wanna grab a bite tonight?? I’ve got some thoughts on this case I wanted to talk about

Me (8:24AM)

fine

better not be that shitty ramen shop on the corner though

Deku (8:25AM)

it’s not that bad!!! But ok 😌

Me (8:27AM)

🖕

Katsuki can only stare. The date’s the very same one as the day he imploded his entire fucking life—the day he cussed Deku out and swore he’d never talk to the asshole again. 

Funny, how fate loves to thwart expectations. 

He wavers there in place, staring for what must be eons. The solid floor beneath his feet crumbles, a little, and Katsuki feels like he does when he’s standing at the edge of the overlook, staring down, down, down to the sandy beach below. His throat’s tight when he swallows. The text blurs out of focus. Put it away, he tells himself. Just put the damn phone away. But Kirishima’s words have carved themselves into the inside of his head. 

I’m real glad I talked to her, that day, y’know? If I didn’t…

His thumb hits the message bar. Katsuki feels almost outside of his own body when he fires off a location. 

Me (9:34AM)

meet me here at noon.

Distantly, Katsuki thinks maybe he’s not being all too fair—it’s a workday, and Tokyo’s a far fucking drive. But his phone buzzes in his hands anyway, apprehension damn near choking him when he dares to read the text. 

Deku (9:35AM)

okay. see you then. 

Katsuki isn’t sure if the feeling squeezing his ribcage is relief, or disgust, or fear, or all the above. He decides it doesn’t matter. Whatever he feels, he’s committed, now, and Katsuki’s gonna see it through, if only to settle the score once and for all. 

He shoves his phone back into his pocket and steels himself with all the determination he can muster. 

🦀

Yurushi is this tiny ass, local place situated in the next town over. Katsuki’s eaten there all of once, but they serve katsudon, and, well. It’s Deku’s fucking favorite, knowledge Katsuki’s cursed to keep. That, and there’s no possibility of running into anyone he knows here, meaning whatever the fuck happens, happens, and Katsuki doesn’t have to deal with the fallout outside of licking his own wounds. 

So he’s here, bike idling on the curb and teeth grinding hard enough his jaw aches with it. Fucking christ, why is he here, again? He grips his bike handles, stares at the pavement just in front of him. Toys with turning around and driving the fuck away from here. If he leaves now, he can go home and hide away in his bed and forget this whole damn ordeal. And, shit, maybe Deku will finally leave him alone for good. 

Somehow, the thought isn’t as comforting as it should be. 

He scowls, pries his hands free and kicks down the bike’s kickstand. Off goes the helmet and on go the hearing aids, which, apparently is good fucking timing because that’s when an all too familiar voice calls out to him. 

“Kacchan! Hey.” 

Deku’s there on the sidewalk, awkward as he hovers in place, one hand raised in a halfhearted wave and the other shoved deep into his slacks. Something twists sharp and painful in his chest at the realization that Deku probably came straight from the office. Katsuki’s jaw twitches. He shoves the hurt down in favor of sliding off the bike and stuffing the keys into his pockets. 

Shitty pleasantries aren’t something Katsuki cares to give—not that he could give them if he wanted to, what, with how tight his throat feels right now. So he gives a grunt of acknowledgement and marches his way through the wooden door with shoddy, peeling red paint. Immediately, savory smells wrap around him like a security blanket. Katsuki beelines for a seat at the counter away from other patrons, Deku hot on his heels. 

The wooden stool lurches beneath him. There’s no menu beyond the shitty, handwritten chalkboard hanging over the counter, but Katsuki doesn’t really give a shit. He asks for a plate of katsudon when asked, thinks he hears Deku do the same. It’s loud in here—sounds overlap in a way that means Katsuki has to focus to pick shit out. Something he has little desire to do. He resists the urge to reach up and turn down his aids, suffering through the cacophony of noise because he hates himself, apparently. 

For better or worse, Deku seems to register that now's not the time to talk, so he doesn’t. 

It doesn’t take long for food to be set on the counter in front of them. They eat. It’s decent enough, the food. Not, ‘eat here every damn day’ good, but passable enough Katsuki can enjoy it. A quick glance shows Deku chowing down, too, so he thinks it’s safe to say the shithead likes it, too. 

Katsuki’s gaze snags on the phone sitting there on the counter. Deku’s phone—there’s a stupid little charm attached to his case that Round Face got for him back when they first started dating that the sappy fucker’s kept with him since, making his phone all too recognizable—notifications keep lighting up the screen. Katsuki recognizes Icy Hot’s name on multiple of the banners. He hunches his shoulders, fixes his gaze securely to his plate. Ignores the sharp and sudden ache lancing through him like a pike. 

‘Course, he can only hide from conversation by way of food for so long. Eventually, the food runs out, and he’s left staring at an empty plate. 

“Um, so, can I ask why I’m here?” Deku’s leaned close enough to speak and be heard, his brow all pinched like it does when he’s thinking too damn much. Katsuki’s lip curls, suddenly all too aware of the other patrons several stools down and the cooks laboring over their rinky little stoves in the kitchen just beyond the counter. He tugs out his wallet, pulls out some bills to toss down next to his empty plate. 

A sigh tears from him, and he slides off the stool, hands shoving into his jacket’s pockets. “Let’s go somewhere quieter,” he mutters, stalking off without so much as waiting for Deku to follow. 

He will. Of fucking course he will. That’s all he’s done for half their lives—follow Katsuki like some kind of lost puppy. So he goes and Deku follows, out into the cool afternoon, down the street corner and around a block, past all the many little businesses and store fronts and restaurants. There’s this little spot they go to, where Katsuki and Kirishima stopped the last time they visited this shitty ‘ole town picking up shit for Kirishima’s bike. It’s a spot amidst the urban sprawl with some greenery—potted plants shielding some iron benches, all situated around this old, lichen covered fountain. No one else is here, and besides the damn gurgling water of the fountain, it’s quiet. Enough that Katsuki doesn’t feel like ripping his hearing aids out, anyway. 

His back thuds against the iron of the bench. Deku follows like a damn shadow, hesitant as he lowers himself down next to Katsuki. 

There’s a beat brimming with words unspoken. Katsuki glares at the fountain. Water dribbles over the edges of concrete bowls into the pool at its base. The damn thing looks like it’s never been cleaned a day in its life—the water in the pool is flat and green, clumps of algae floating around in it like scum. He stares at it like it’s got the answers to all his shitty problems, like it’ll cobble together all his crumpled, angry thoughts for him. 

‘Course, shit’s not that fucking easy, and he sits in silence for what must be minutes too long because Deku decides to open his stupid fucking mouth. 

“...so, um. Did. Did you want to talk …?” 

God fucking damn it. 

Katsuki shifts his glare to Deku, lip curling at the way he goes all stiff around the edges. “Why did you come to my house?” 

Deku blinks at him stupidly. “I—I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t know that was your house.” He ducks his head, curls bouncing with the motion of it, and fiddles with his fingers. “Your—your mom called me. Said she had this table she needed picking up, but that she a—and Masaru couldn’t come out here to get it. She wouldn’t let me say no. I. I probably should’ve figured, I—I mean, it was super weird and—and that was the first and only time she’s called me since, well, since everything, a—and—” 

“Stop fucking stammering and breathe, dumbass,” Katsuki snaps. Deku’s face goes pink, shoulders creeping up to his ears. 

“Sorry.” 

Of fucking course this was the brain child of his shitty mother. He figured she was involved, at least, but her being the damn composer makes too much fucking sense, and Katsuki’s nails bite into his palms from how hard he clenches his hands. Sparks of anger pop and scatter through his insides. It takes effort to keep it at bay—he sucks in a breath, holds it, lets it out. Counts to ten in his head. The whole nine fucking yards. 

“I’m still fucking pissed at you.” 

The words spring free all too easy. Deku fidgets, lips pursing, emotions flickering in his gaze like leaves rustling in the wind, quick and fleeting. He says nothing, though, and Katsuki forges on because if he doesn’t he never will. 

“I spent my whole fucking life working my ass off to be a lawyer. Did everything to be the best, to climb all the right fucking ladders. But none of it mattered, because no matter how hard I worked, all anyone cared about was my shitty attitude and the fact that I wear hearing aids—it didn’t matter that I only snapped in court a few fucking times. It didn’t matter that my casework was flawless. It didn’t matter that I had a sound argument, that I resolved the most fucking cases in the department. No, what mattered was me not fitting into bossman’s perfect fucking image.” 

He laughs, bitter and angry and oh so fucking tired. Katsuki tips his head back, squints at the blue sky overhead. “I wanted that goddamn promotion so fucking bad. And then you got it, and I—” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking, glare dropping back to the stupid fountain. “I dunno what was worse. The way you fucking tripped over yourself apologizing, or the fact that of all the people eligible for the damn promotion aside from me, you actually deserved it.” 

Deku has the audacity to look at Katsuki with a grief so sharp he feels it slice right into his skin. 

“I meant it, then, you know. Still do. I…I am sorry, I know you weren’t given as fair of a shot as you deserved.” 

And it’s. It doesn’t fix everything. Or, anything, really. But the acknowledgement soothes at the scars crisscrossing the meat of his heart, and Katsuki feels lighter, almost. Like the anger’s no longer a chain binding him down but something he can just. Let go of. Katsuki slumps against the bench, shoes scuffing against the concrete underfoot, his lips twitching into the slightest of smiles. “Thanks, I guess,” he mutters. Deku returns his smile with a wobbly one. 

“‘Course, Kacchan. I…I’ve missed you, you know.” 

It’s Katsuki’s turn to let his shoulders creep to his ears. Leave it to Deku to try and spew stupid, mushy shit. He huffs, glares down at the cracks running criss-cross beneath their feet, ears hot. “Shut up.” 

Deku laughs. 

A breeze tugs at his hair. He shivers. It’s cooler out, today. A sign of fall’s approach. Which. Ugh. Katsuki hunches against the breeze, lip curling. He hates the cold. Out here by the coast, everything gets all wet and miserable. Last winter, he spent most of it holed up in the shop running all the space heaters he has, only going outside to get food or groceries. 

“So…” Deku fidgets, fiddling with the end of his shitty tie. The idiot clearly tied it himself, this morning, because the knot looks like shit. “Woodworking, huh?” 

Katsuki snorts, rolls his eyes. “What of it?” 

Deku shrugs. “Just. Curious, I guess. What made you wanna do that?” 

“S’just something I’ve always liked doing. Learned how to carve from my gramps.” Katsuki shrugs, this time, watching a gull drift by overhead. “It’s relaxing or whatever, and I’m fucking great at it.” 

He doesn’t divulge more than that. Deku doesn’t need to know how it makes his head go quiet, or the simmer of satisfaction curling inside him when he completes a project. Or the way he’s built his brand with his own two hands, brick by wooden brick and he’s damn proud of how far he’s come. 

“I guess that makes sense. You’ve always liked the more hands-on hobbies.” 

Katsuki bristles, glare snapping to Deku’s stupid face. “The fuck does that mean?!” 

“Just—just that you seem drawn to stuff like that! Like—like hiking, and cooking, and stuff. You. You’ve only ever played video games when we’ve coaxed you to, and—and you don’t read as much as Ochako does.” Deku’s hands splay out between them, placating, and Katsuki can only huff and roll his eyes. He supposes the dumbass has a point. If given the choice between sitting and reading a book or going on a hike, he’s picking a hike every fucking time. S’not that he doesn’t like reading—Katsuki prides himself in being well rounded, fuck you very much. He’s read plenty, though he tends to favor sci-fi or mystery. 

Granted. He hasn’t read much this past year. He hasn’t done much of…anything beyond work, really, not until recently. 

Something warm simmers inside him, and his traitorous mind strays to Kirishima. Bright-eyed, cheery Kirishima, who marvels at getting to do simple shit like play video games or put together a bike. He must be too obvious with his thoughts, somehow, because Deku leans forward, a stupid looking grin stamping onto his stupid fucking face. 

“Your… friend seems nice.” 

Katsuki bristles anew, damn near growling when he spits, “Fuck you.” 

Deku, the bastard, just laughs. 

They linger on that stupid bench for too damn long, conversation winding away from them. Deku tells him about Round Face, about the approaching wedding, his mother. It’s. Fuck. It’s nice, catching up like this. Something he’ll never admit aloud as long as he lives. But. Well. It’s the truth, as damning as it is. 

‘Course, time marches on or whatever, and it’s in a lull where Deku glances at the watch attached to his wrist and blanches. “Crap. Sorry, I—I’ve gotta get going if I’m gonna make my meeting this afternoon.” He stands, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “Um, this—this was nice.” 

Katsuki grunts. Shoves himself to his feet, too. 

“If, uh, if you want to get lunch again, sometime, I’ve been consulting in the Chiba office for a case…” Deku chuckles, awkward, smoothing at his tie. “I know it’s still a drive, but not as much of one.” 

No fucking kidding. The city’s still a, what. Two, three hour drive? There’s a splash of guilt when Katsuki looks at the afternoon sun hanging in the sky. Maybe that’s what possesses him to mutter a, “Yeah, sure, whatever.” 

Deku smiles, bright and happy, and Katsuki feels a little bit like he’s found a piece of something he’s been missing. 

They walk, side-by-side, the earlier tension long since evaporated away. There’s no talking, but there doesn’t really need to be. All the words that’ve been needed have been said, and Katsuki lets himself drift in the peace he finds in the aftermath—his mind wanders, and he thinks about stopping at the bike shop again to maybe pick Kirishima up a helmet finally, or something. Maybe he can pick up something different to make for dinner, too. 

Something snags his focus, then. Something there, on a telephone pole to the left. Something that makes him stop dead in his tracks, heart plunging down out of his ass and smashing onto the concrete into a million fucking pieces. 

“Kacchan?” 

Deku’s voice bounces around his head in a meaningless garble. Katsuki pushes past him, beelining for the damn pole, skin fucking vibrating. 

He. He’s seeing shit. He’s gotta be. But even when he tears the damn thing free, the image doesn’t change. 

It’s a missing person’s poster. 

A missing poster with Kirishima’s face on it. 

Paper crinkles in his grasp. His mind races a thousand kilometers a minute—it doesn’t make a damn lick of sense. How the fuck can Kirishima be missing? He’s, shit, he’s one town over making ramen, for fuck’s sake. Who the hell could be looking for him, and why? The picture’s gotta be an older one—his hair’s different. Darker. Longer. Still, Katsuki’d know that face anywhere. And yet… 

Something dark and twisty curls around Katsuki’s insides. All of a sudden, he’s all too aware that for everything he knows about Kirishima, there’s still…so damn much he doesn’t. 

“Is…is that your friend?” Deku asks, peering over Katsuki’s shoulder. He flinches, crumples the flyer in his fist. 

“I’ve gotta go,” he mutters. 

And then he’s speed walking to his bike, heart thundering and hands shaking, a thousand and ten questions looping around and around in his head. 

🦀

The damn poster lays in front of him on the table, taunting him. Katsuki sits, rigid, staring at it as if it’s gonna turn into a snake and bite him or something. It doesn’t, but he can’t for the life of him shake the horrible churning in his gut. 

He drove straight here after… after, spent two hours restlessly pacing the length of the house before doing something useful, like cleaning. Which left him scrubbing the whole house top to fucking bottom. 

Now he sits. Waits. 

Evening bends shadows and highlights everything in golds and oranges. Katsuki breathes, taps restlessly at his phone’s screen to watch the minutes march on. He has no fucking clue what he’s gonna say, or do. He just. 

He needs answers. 

The front door opens, light splashing into the genkan alongside Kirishima. Shadows snap back the second it slams shut. Katsuki watches, wound tighter than a fucking spring, as Kirishima kicks off his shoes and pads his way into the living space, a smile carved onto his lips. 

Katsuki feels a dissonance splitting his fucking soul in two. He knows that smile. Doesn’t he? 

“Oh! Uh, hey! I kinda thought you’d be in the shop or something, today…” 

There’s the lilt of a question there in his voice, and Katsuki hears it as if he’s got his aids turned too far down. He doesn’t, he knows he doesn’t. Still, his hands twitch on instinct, as if to reach up and fiddle with the little dial. Instead, he goes for the flyer, paper crinkling a little in his grasp. 

“Went to Coruscant today. Found this.” He holds it up. “Kirishima…what is this?” 

And, Kirishima…Kirishima goes fucking white. 

“N—no…no, no, nonono—” He stumbles back, head shaking, one hand fisting at his t-shirt over his chest. “He—he can’t’ve found me, I—” 

Katsuki drops the flyer, hands splaying on the table. He tries to breathe, to stay calm. “Who?” he asks, soft, quiet, like he’s talking to a spooked deer. “Who the hell thinks you’re missing? ” 

Kirishima flinches. He reaches up, one hand circling his neck, eyes glazing over as if he’s no longer here. Something lurches, sharp and painful in Katsuki’s chest—he thinks of the necklace of bruises, of the marring on that pretty face, and he shoves himself to his feet, crossing the room in a few short steps. “Oi, hey, talk to me. What’s going on? Is—is this the fuckface that hurt you?” 

Except, his voice doesn’t seem to reach Kirishima wherever the hell he is, because he stumbles back, further and further, whole body shaking. “I—I—I’m sorry, I just—I’m sorry. ” 

And then the worst possible thing happens: Kirishima whips around and flees, throwing open the sliding glass doors and bolting right out of the house. 

Seconds slide past where Katsuki can only stare in utter disbelief at the spot now void of Kirishima, before it clicks, and he’s lunging forward, too. 

“Kirishima—goddammit, wait! ” 

He runs to the door. Stumbles out onto the patio, to the edge of the overlook. “Kirishima!” he bellows. “Just wait a fucking minute!” 

But it doesn’t matter, because Kirishima’s already fucking gone.

Chapter Text

A breeze, salty and humid, rakes across his skin. He stands on the edge of the platform, staring out at the hills beyond, one hand gripping the handle of his shiny, rolling suitcase. Behind him, the Metro clacks along the tracks, hissing and screeching as it picks up speed, abandoning him here in this rickety train station to nowhere. He sighs. It really is a shame he’s found himself here under these circumstances—though, he can’t exactly say he enjoys the tangy salty air and the abyss of trees spreading out before him. It’s too…relaxed. Too wild. Too…free. 

Oh well. It’s not as if he chose his destination—Eijirou did. What exactly the appeal of this place in the middle of nowhere is, exactly, he doesn’t know. But that’s okay. He’s here now, and he’s going to find his wayward songbird and bring him home. The notion gets a smile curving onto his lips, and he takes a moment to close his eyes and enjoy the warmth of the afternoon. 

But moments can’t last forever, and there’s plenty of work to be done. So he turns, makes his way to the station’s ticket counter. 

Behind the little plexiglass divider sits an older gentleman, with loose, sagging cheeks and wrinkles lining damn near every part of his face. There’s a pair of spectacles sliding down a wide nose that the man pushes up with a tubby finger before pulling open the little plexi window. “Can I help you?” he asks. 

A grin stretches across his lips, apologetic, polite. “Yes, actually. I was wondering if you’ve perhaps seen my boyfriend, around…? He’s gone missing, and I’ve been coming to the neighboring towns to see if anyone’s managed to see him…” Nimble fingers pull a flyer from the satchel hanging off his shoulder, and he holds it up, watching as the ticketteer leans forward to squint. 

“I’m mighty sorry, but I can’t say I have. If’n ya’ leave that here, I can give you a call should I see him. Didja’ talk to the police, already?” 

Ah. Either this man wasn’t at the station the day Eijirou passed through—because he most certainly did, given this is the only station near this area, or he wasn’t paying all that much attention to the comings and goings of the many passengers frequenting the area.  

His smile goes brittle around the edges. “Yes, they’ve been working hard, but I wanted to see if perhaps he’d left the jurisdiction. It’s been rather stressful…we’ve all been so worried. ” He hands over the flyer, maintaining the polite smile through the stilted condolences. Then, “Would it be okay if I hang a few…?”

The old man waves a liver spotted hand. “Of course, go right ahead.” 

“Thank you very much.” He bows, shallow, and turns, prowling across the platform. 

It’s all too easy to plaster the place with posters. Is it overkill? Maybe, but, the goal is for them to be seen—and for Eijirou to know he’s here. 

There’s a strategy, involved. Cut off all escape routes—the train station, the surrounding towns, make sure every possible exit has Eijirou’s face all over it so should he pass through, someone sees, someone lets him know.

And then. And then, he’ll pounce. 

And he’ll never let Eijirou go. 

Chapter Text

Wind whips at his face, tears at his shirt. There’s so much audio feedback from everything, Katsuki can’t make shit out, but still, he screams Kirishima’s name out into the fading dusk hoping maybe, just maybe, he’ll fucking reappear from behind a boulder. 

He doesn’t.   

Katsuki rakes a hand through his hair. Fumbles for his phone. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking, fuck. His hands shake so damn bad—it takes a few tries to unlock the damn thing, to push the right buttons and hit Kirishima’s shiny new contact. The dial tone plays through his aids. “C’mon, c’mon,” he mutters, feet slipping in the sand. But the tone keeps ringing, and ringing, and ringing. 

No answer. 

He calls again. And again. Yells for Kirishima. Calls more. Fires off some texts. But there’s no answer, and Kirishima’s all but fucking disappeared. 

Katsuki kicks the sand, curses spitting from his lips, mind reeling. What the hell is happening? Why would Kirishima just—just take off like that?! Where the hell does he think he’s even going— ? Why won’t he just answer his damn phone?! A frustrated noise tears from his throat. All of a sudden, it’s all just, too much. The water, the wind, the frantic pounding of his own damn heart. He needs to chase Kirishima down. He needs to get some fucking answers. He needs to cool off, to—to—to think. 

It’s that need that latches itself into Katsuki’s chest. He wheels around, stomps his way back across the beach towards the incline to the house, all the while clutching his phone in a white-knuckled grip. 

The damn thing doesn’t buzz once. 

Katsuki doesn’t bother with the sand coating his bare feet. No, he marches through the open sliding glass door, throwing it shut behind him, and beelines for the genkan. Throws on the first pair of shoes his hands grab onto (a pair of well-worn loafers), swipes his keys. Twilight greets him when he flings open the front door. 

He stills. Grips the door handle. His bike gleams like a beacon in the low light, beckoning him, but Katsuki can’t shake the tether tugging at his heart strings. A curse falls from his lips, and he whirls around, tearing apart the kitchen for a scrap of paper and a goddamn pen to jot down a quick, haphazard note reading: Went for a drive. Be back soon. Text me, please, so I know you’re okay. 

And then Katsuki storms out into twilight’s waiting embrace. 

There’s not a car in sight when he flies out onto the street. Which. Good fucking riddance. Katsuki’s off like a bullet, trying his damndest to soar faster than the speed of light, because maybe then he can outrun the thousands of thoughts crowding his head. 

But outrunning himself is nigh impossible, and Katsuki’s left in a knotted web he can’t even begin to untangle. Who’s looking for Kirishima? Why is he missing? Is he hiding from whatever fuckface hurt him? If so, why…why hasn’t he told Katsuki? Does. Does he not trust him? Is…is he afraid of Katsuki? Fuck, he’s sure as shit not done a damn thing to help with that, what, by yelling at him when Kirishima’s only ever tried to help. Fuck. Fuck. Katsuki grits his teeth, hits the gas harder. 

He doesn’t pay much attention to where he drives—he just goes. Around curves and through intersections, driving and driving until trees give way to towns to cityscapes. Suddenly, buildings rear up around him, and Katsuki has to slow lest he get pulled the fuck over. 

Shit. He didn’t mean to drive all the way out here. 

It’s all too easy to find himself amidst the downtown nighttime traffic. Katsuki cruises down city streets, the night life thriving as people meander sidewalks, laughing, talking, or doing whatever the fuck else people do on a Friday night. Something about it pisses him off. How is it that these assholes can just—just joke and laugh and talk to each other so damn easy? While he’s left here, drifting through the damn city like a grifter, mind in fucking shambles because the one person he wants to fucking talk to more than anything ran off and won’t answer his goddamn phone? 

Katsuki pulls up to a curb. There’s a neon sign flickering over one of the bars that snares his attention—Acid Man Bar and Grill, written in bright pink kanji he can see even when he closes his damn eyes. One of the doors bursts open, a group of drunk, laughing patrons spilling out onto the sidewalk. Katsuki wrinkles his nose. Grips the handlebars. 

He should turn the fuck around and go home. Find Kirishima. 

His skin buzzes, stomach twisting into knots. He reaches up, rips off the helmet, tugs out his phone. 

Taps on the only contact he knows will fucking answer him this late at night. 

“Kacchan? Is everything okay?” 

A bitter noise crawls from his throat. “You busy?” 

“...no. Why? What’s—what’s going on?”  

“How fast can you get to the Acid Man Bar and Grill?” 

“Um. I—let—let me look.” There’s a pause. “Fifteen minutes?”  

“Hurry the fuck up, then.” Katsuki hangs up without waiting for an answer. There’s no reason to. Either Deku shows, or he doesn’t. No, instead, he slides off his bike and shoves his hands in his pockets, making his way for the damn bar. 

Shockingly, it’s not super fucking busy in here. 

Music blankets the room, covering most of the sound—there’s a band playing on some rinky ass stage to the left. Which. Damn near makes him wheel around and stomp out the door because dealing with trying to parse out conversations over music sounds like a fucking nightmare. But he’s already committed, so he grits his teeth and weaves through the handful of patrons smattered across the place to the relatively empty bar. It’s all too easy to slide onto a stool, to lean his elbows on the smooth bartop. 

One of the two bartenders grins brightly at him, her glossy pink lips shining in the low lights. Thick eyeliner smudges around her eyes, blending poorly with the glittery eyeshadow she’s got on. “What can I getcha?” she asks, her obnoxious, bubblegum pink curls bouncing against her shoulders. 

Katsuki wrinkles his nose. “You guys got Tokyo Black?” he asks. The bartender bobs her head, grin going even brighter, if possible. 

“Sure do! Bottle okay?” 

“Sure.” 

She whirls around, flouncing to the other side of the bar where a large refrigerator stands filled with lines and lines of bottles. He watches her go with a pinched brow, mind already a thousand kilometers away. His hand drifts to his pocket to pull out his phone. A quick glance at the screen shows no new notifications. 

Katsuki’s insides twist sharply. He grits his teeth, eyes burning. 

There’s a part of him that wants to just. Chuck his phone across the bar and scream. To pull the anger simmering inside him because it’s easy, familiar, like shrugging on a well-worn jacket. But he—fuck—he doesn’t want to be angry at Kirishima.  

The music shifts from obnoxious drums to a gentler guitar, and Katsuki throws a glance over his shoulder, lips pursing. He has no fucking clue what the song is. Doesn’t care, either. Their speakers are shit, here, and they don’t make the sound travel in a way he can really feel unless he’s like. Right up front. A place he has no desire to be. 

When he turns back, his beer’s on the bartop in front of him. 

“Here ya’ go!” the bartender chirps. Katsuki reaches for it, fingers curling around the cool, dewy glass. 

“Thanks,” he mutters. She says something, he thinks, but Katsuki doesn’t catch it because he’s not paying any fucking attention. Small talk is stupid, and he wants no part in it. Especially not with some random ass stranger on a night his mind’s ripped raw from the goddamn emotional pendulum he’s been forced to ride the past forty-eight hours. 

Deku chooses then to make his fantastical appearance. He slides onto the stool beside Katsuki, his curls windswept and his earlier office wear replaced with cargo shorts and a sweatshirt. “Hey,” he says. “What, um. What’s going on? Are you okay?” 

In lieu of answering, Katsuki guzzles several gulps of beer, slamming the bottle back down onto the counter. “He left.” 

“Wh…what?” 

The music stops. Other sounds surge through the hearing aids in Katsuki’s fucked up ears—voices, clanking of glass, the scrape of stools on the floor. He scowls at his bottle, thumb sliding up the dew-soaked label. “Kirishima—I showed him the stupid fucking flyer and he up and fucking left. ” 

Glass shatters. Deku damn near falls off his stool, the idiot, and Katsuki jerks, gaze snapping up to see the bartender staring at him as if he’s a ghost. 

“Ki—Kirishima?” she says, voice wobbling. “You—you know Kirishima?” 

The entire fucking world narrows. He leans over the counter, knuckles going white where he grips his beer. “Wait, are you one of his friends?” 

“Kiri—Kirishima Eijirou?” She damn near gasps, eyes watering.“Yeah—yeah, he’s, he’s one of my good friends, I—oh, gods, I think I need to sit down.” 

The other bartender takes notice immediately, darting over to hover, expression marred with worry. “Oh my gosh, yes, please go sit down. I can cover no problem, I promise.” 

Katsuki shoves himself to his feet the second she takes a step towards the door behind the bar. “Oi, wait! You can’t just fucking leave—what the hell is going on, huh?! What do you know about this missing person bullshit?” 

And. And maybe he’s fucking crazy. Maybe he’s reading into shit. But he watches, real time, as her eyes go impossibly wider, a terror of the likes he’s only ever seen Kirishima wear shadow her expression. Katsuki feels Deku’s hand grip his bicep, noises like garbled pleas for him to just sit the fuck down spilling from his lips—something he has no fucking interest in doing—and the bartender’s gaze flickers about wildly, as if she’s a deer on the lookout for a lurking wolf.

She turns to her coworker, then, hands wringing. The bitch’s lip wobbles, and she sniffs, like she’s about to fucking cry. “Would—would it be okay if…if they came back with me? I—I just—I need to know—” 

“Oh—! Yeah, of course, here, come around this way.” 

They’re directed to the right side of the bar, where part of it raises up to allow passage to and fro. Deku, of course, follows, because he’s here and may as fucking well. They follow pink-haired-bitch through the shitty, half hidden door to a little, dimly lit hall. There’s an open doorway on the right with a rickety ass table and some sad excuses of chairs Katsuki presumes is the break room—he doesn’t get a chance to really find out, though, because pink-haired-bitch whirls around the second the back door closes behind them, determination crackling like a fire in the golden hearth of her gaze. 

“You can’t tell anyone you know where Kirishima is,” she says. “Not here. It’s—it’s not safe.” 

Katsuki’s teeth grind. Anger and bafflement splash at him in tandem, and he has to physically restrain himself from screaming. “Can you just tell me what the hell is going on?” he snaps. “Because all I know is that someone’s reported him as missing and plastered flyers everywhere, and when I try to ask him about it, he runs!” 

Pink bitch’s face shutters, then, and she crosses her arms over her chest, looking away. “It’s…it’s not my place,” she mutters. “Just. Please, go, and don’t tell anyone else you’ve seen him.” 

“I…I think it would help if Kacchan could understand, better,” Midoriya says from behind him. “We, um. We don’t need the details, just the basics.” 

Her lips purse. Her gaze flicks to him, brief, piercing, before darting away again. When she speaks, her voice is so damn low Katsuki almost can’t fucking hear her. “It’s his ex. He—he’s been with Kirishima for a long time…” Pink bitch hunches in on herself, her entire frame weighted by sorrow. “I don’t know all the details, either, but, I think he’s been hurting Kirishima for a long time, too. I helped him get away after—after the last time, and. And I thought maybe he’d give up or back off, but—but—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “If Yoshida finds Kirishima, I—I—” 

Dread slams into the depths of Katsuki’s gut with the weight of an anchor. Memories of Kirishima’s bruises encircling his neck tear across the forefront of his mind—fuck, of fucking course it’s because of a shitty ex boyfriend. All of a sudden, all the puzzle pieces click right into place, and Katsuki feels like a massive fucking idiot. Goddammit. No wonder Kirishima’s so damn terrified—and now Katsuki’s gone and left him all alone. 

Fucking dammit.  

He whirls around, shoves Deku out of the way. “I have to go.” 

A hand catches on his arm. “Kacchan—” 

Except, whatever Deku’s gonna say dies a swift death at the look Katsuki throws at him. Katsuki’s fucking vibrating, he knows he is—shit, he’s all the way here in the fucking city for fuck’s sake, he needs to leave —and he pries Deku off of him. “Sorry,” he says, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “I gotta go find him. Make sure he’s okay.” 

Deku nods, slow, careful. “Just. Text me when you’re home…” 

He nods, jerky, and bolts. 

There’s more people in the bar when he flees the back area. He fumbles for his aids, cutting off the wall of overlapping sounds of voices and music, and weaves his way through the throng of patrons to the door. The night’s cool when he stumbles into its embrace. But Katsuki hardly registers the chill, heart thundering in his chest as he beelines for his bike. 

Katsuki flies out of the city faster than he’s ever driven in his life. 

Nighttime scenery blurs past. He pushes his bike as fast as the damn thing can go, zipping around curves and catching air over hills. Please be okay. The thought echoes in his head like a broken record. Please, just, be okay.

He drives for what feels like eons. On and on and on, chest tight and heart fit to bursting, until finally, the house comes into view. 

‘Course, the dread slams into him all over again, because Kirishima’s bicycle isn’t in the drive anymore. 

Katsuki throws himself off his bike, nearly drops his keys trying to unlock the front door. Inside’s dark—too dark. There’s a breeze tickling at his skin, and Katsuki's heart sticks in his throat. He stumbles into the living space, shoes still on his feet, and goes stock still, staring at the open sliding glass door. 

He. He swears he closed it. Didn’t he? 

Trembling hands fumble for his phone. There’s still no fucking notifications. He presses Kirishima’s contact anyway. “C’mon, Kirishima,” he mumbles. Except, something lights up in the kitchen, and Katsuki whips his head, zeroing in on the phone laying face up, there on the table. 

His own slips through his fingers. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—Katsuki crosses the room in a few short strides, swiping the phone from the table, and, sure enough, there’s his missed call blinking on the fucked up screen. Katsuki sucks in a breath through his teeth, vision blurring and heart lurching painfully in his chest. 

Kirishima… left.  

Something snaps deep inside him, and the phone screen blurs out of focus. His knees buckle beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap. A shuddering gasp escapes him, and Katsuki fists the front of his shirt, tries to fucking breathe. Why—why would he leave without so much as a damn goodbye? 

“If Yoshida finds Kirishima…” 

The visceral terror carved into Kirishima’s expression at the sight of that goddamn flyer flashes through Katsuki’s mind in vivid technicolor. A lump sticks in his throat. He shoves himself to his feet, marches back towards the front door, pausing only to retrieve his phone where it’d fallen and close the sliding glass door. 

Outside, the wind tears at his clothes, his hair. He goes back for his bike, twists the keys in the ignition, expression grim. 

He’s got no fucking clue what time it is. Or how much of a headstart Kirishima’s got. Shit, he doesn’t even know what direction he’s gone—he’s playing a damn hail mary, right about now. 

He guides the bike back out onto the road and prays to any god that’ll listen. 

And then he drives. 

There’s a road—opposite of the direction to the city—that leads out of town. If Kirishima’s using any sense, he’d take that. It doesn’t go to the train station or to Coruscant. No, it goes further out into the countryside, away from civilization. 

Perfect for hiding from shitty, abusive exes. 

The bright white of his headlight carves into the inky abyss of the night, splashing the road and ditch in light. Katsuki keeps his head on a swivel, focus razor sharp, looking for anything out of place, anything at all. His heart thunders inside his ribs, fingers prickling with how tight he grips the handlebars. Time suspends into something meaningless. Is it passing? Probably, but Katsuki can’t tell nor does he care to—all he cares about is finding Kirishima. 

Distantly, Katsuki wonders when the hell he started caring so much about this—this person. A person he hardly knows and knows like the back of his own calloused hand all the same. Like. Fuck. He knows how Kirishima loves his ramen (miso ramen with chashu and egg), his coffee in the mornings (caramel flavored creamer and sugar), how he loves to sit and draw on the beach. He knows the way Kirishima lights up brighter than the fucking sun when he’s happy, the way he tries to shrink and make himself small when he’s nervous or scared. 

And he knows, surer than he knows his own fucking name, that he’ll kill this motherfucker if he ever so much as dares to lay a finger on Kirishima again. 

Something glints in the distance. Katsuki’s heart leaps to his throat. He hits the gas and flies towards it. 

It’s a bike. A familiar, old, red bicycle. 

Katsuki slams on the brakes, tires skidding, and drifts until he’s in front, spinning into a stop. “Kirishima!” He damn near falls on his own face in the effort to scramble off his own bike, deftly yanking off his helmet and dropping it carelessly onto the pavement. Trembling fingers fumble with his aids, turning them up enough to hear his own voice. “Fuck, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” 

And, gods, it’s him alright—illuminated by the harsh light of Katsuki’s motorcycle, face pensive and shoulders all tense lines, one foot on a pedal and the other on pavement. His hair’s a wreck, half in his face, and Katsuki thinks he sees the gleam of something wet reflecting off his cheeks. 

“You—you shouldn’t be—” Kirishima’s voice wobbles. “He…he’s gonna find me if I stay, I—I have to go, I have to leave— ” And then it cracks, Katsuki’s fractured heart cracking right with it. He lurches, one hand reaching for Kirishima on instinct, except Kirishima flinches, and Katsuki aches down to his bones. He hovers, frowns. 

“Okay. Then we go.” 

Kirishima shakes his head so fervently, Katsuki’s shocked he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “No—no, I—I can’t—I can’t ask you to just up and leave with me—” 

“You’re not.” Katsuki lifts his hand, slower, like a question. And, this close he can see the way Kirishima shakes. But he holds firm, eyes fluttering when Katsuki’s fingers graze his wet cheeks. He cups Kirishima’s face oh so damn gently, thumb sliding along his cheekbone, marveling at the coolness of his skin—a sign he’s been outside too damn long. But, fuck, he’s here, real and solid, and Katsuki breathes, the knot in his chest loosening. “M’sorry for leaving and not finding you sooner. But, fuck, if you think for one goddamn second that I won’t cross the damn ocean for you, you’re an idiot.” 

Kirishima trembles. Fresh tears spill down his face, dribbling onto Katsuki’s knuckles. He reaches up, clasping Katsuki’s hand with shaking fingers, and says, “You…you can’t mean that. I—I mean, what about your shop? And—and all of your stuff—?” 

Katsuki cups Kirishima’s face fully with both hands, leaning close enough to press their foreheads together. “I do mean it,” he says, “fuck, I mean it so fucking much. Fuck the shop—I can open one anywhere you wanna be. Just tell me what you want.” 

Those fingers squeeze his hand tighter, and Kirishima clutches at the front of Katsuki’s shirt. “I…I wanna go home, ” he croaks. “I don’t wanna leave. I—I like it here—I like my job, and—and being by the ocean, and my friends—” 

“Then stay,” Katsuki murmurs. He thumbs away the tears that keep flowing, murmurs it again. “Stay here with me.” 

“I’m scared.” 

It comes out as a shaky whisper, and Katsuki feels as though his rib cage has been ripped wide open, his heart turned to pulp. He pulls Kirishima into an embrace, then, hugging him fiercely, as if his embrace alone can shield Kirishima from all the shit life’s hellbent on throwing at him. “I know,” he says, voice gruff. “But m’not going anywhere, not anymore.” 

No, now he’s in this shit. He’s got Kirishima, come hell or high water, as long as Kirishima wants him. 

They stand like that for awhile, arms wrapped tightly around each other, tears dampening Katsuki’s neck, his shirt. And then Kirishima pulls back, sniffing, and mumbles, “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

A jerky nod. 

Katsuki reaches up, brushes a loose strand out of Kirishima’s face. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Let’s go home.” 

They have to leave the bicycle. Katsuki stashes it behind a tree off the road, cursing his lack of a damn car all the while. He’s tempted to call someone to come get it, but a glance at his phone shows the time to be 3:00AM, and he’s not that much of an asshole. 

He’ll just. Have to fucking call someone tomorrow. He does pin the location in his maps on his phone so he can find it—the last thing they need is to forget where they stashed the damn thing—as well as swipes through the plethora of notifications blowing up his phone. Which are mostly texts from Deku shitting himself because he’s not texted the idiot nerd yet. Katsuki fires off a middle finger to show he’s still alive, something Deku’s just gonna have to deal with. And then he guides Kirishima to his bike, helps him tug on the helmet with slow, gentle movements. 

It’s not until they’re flying back down the road, Kirishima clinging to him tightly, that Katsuki feels…settled, again. Whole. And, fuck, maybe that’s a crazy ass thing to think, because he and Kirishima are just—they’re—he just, cares, alright? Fucking sue him. He cares so much it hurts, and he’s not so much of an idiot he can’t see what this means—what Kirishima means. But now sure as shit isn’t the time to even begin unpacking the budding thing starting to grow into the scarred bits of his heart, because there’s other, more prominent shit to deal with. 

So he studiously ignores the warmth melting across his insides at the way Kirishima clings to him, helmet a steady pressure at Katsuki’s shoulder. 

All that matters right now is that Kirishima’s safe. Everything else can wait. 

Kirishima clings to Katsuki even once they’re home, sagging into his side, fingers twisted into his t-shirt. It’s nearing 4:00AM when they stumble their way inside. Katsuki takes care to lock the door, helps Kirishima out of his shoes. Kicks off his own. 

He entangles their fingers and leads the way to the relative safety of the bedroom, shuffling their way beneath the blankets without bothering to change clothes. At most, Katsuki shucks off his jeans, because sleeping in them is uncomfortable as hell, regardless of how damn exhausted he is, and takes out his hearing aids. 

And then he’s sinking into the pillows, Kirishima curled against his side, mumbling something into his collarbone. What, he has no damn clue. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s here, and he’s safe. 

His eyes hood, heavy, and Katsuki runs a hand through Kirishima’s messy, tangled hair, murmuring a soft, “Goodnight” into his hairline before sleep manages to whisk him away at last. 

Chapter Text

Eijirou finds Bakugou standing in the kitchen in his boxers, head bent as he texts on his phone. There’s something sizzling in the pan on the stove, and the smell of coffee permeates the space. A breath eases from him, tension bleeding off his frame, and Eijirou shuffles closer, propelled forward as if by some invisible string. 

A gaze like burning wildfire ensnares him when he’s within reaching distance, and Eijirou watches, breath catching in his throat, as it softens into something gentler, warmer, like a campfire on a cool night. Bakugou reaches up to fiddle with his hearing aids. “Mornin’.” Hesitates. “How’re you feeling?” 

And, isn’t that the question, huh? Eijirou’s arms curl around himself, and he lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Tired.” He blinks, head swivelling to throw a glance out the glass door. Outside is bright—too bright for the sun to have just risen. There’s a tug of panic at his gut, and he whips back around, eyes wide. “What time it is?” he asks, voice croaky and rough. Bakugou glances at the phone in his hands. 

“Nine-thirty. I, uh. I already texted your boss, for you. I…I didn’t tell him anything ‘cept you were feeling shitty, and that you might go in later. He said you can take the day, if you want.” 

Guilt scrapes at his insides, a little. He’s called out a lot, recently—Toyomitsu’s surely being too nice. Too gracious. And here Eijirou is, bumming around Bakugou’s house doing nothing. What, because he was up late, last night? His fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, throat going tight. That’s no reason to skip work. That’s just being lazy. But. But, is it lazy when the exhaustion is bone deep? When the simple act of standing here has Eijirou almost bowing under the weight of it? 

Is it lazy when Bakugou looks at him as if Eijirou’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen? 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “Sorry.” 

Bakugou tisks. Nudges at his shin with his bare foot. “The fuck did I say about sorries, huh?  You don’t have shit to apologize for.” 

Except, Eijirou does, and he ducks his head, the shame sudden and swift as it rises up, engulfing him. “But…but I do. I mean, I shouldn’t have just…run away like that.” It’s easier to say in hindsight, Eijirou knows. He shouldn’t have run away. He should have stayed, faced his fears like a man. But it’s hard to stand firm when it feels as though fear herself’s grabbed him by the heart and squeezes, talons digging deep. 

Gentle fingers graze against his forehead, pushing his bangs out of the way. Eijirou jolts, gaze darting up to find Bakugou’s warm one, his breath lodging in his throat. The touch is so intimate, it’s got his face burning and his heart doing somersaults in his chest, and all he can think is, when was the last time someone touched him so softly, so sweetly? 

Eijirou can’t remember, and maybe that’s the tragedy of it all. Why it’s so easy to melt into a little puddle of goo. 

“S’okay,” Bakugou says, voice a low rumble. “I…I get it. Being scared.” His thumb traces a line across Eijirou’s cheekbone, and he hums. (Eijirou thinks he sees Bakugou’s gaze dip to his lips. But, surely, it doesn’t. Surely, he imagines it, too caught up in the warmth of Bakugou’s touch, the closeness, the subtle smell of Bakugou’s shampoo.) And then Bakugou’s hand falls away, and he shrugs, turns to the stove. “Fuck knows I’ve run away from shit, before. But you’re not alone anymore. So.”  

You’re not alone anymore.

Somehow, those words hit hard, and the kitchen smears into a messy watercolor. He sniffs, blinks until everything’s a little less blurry. “Thanks, Bakugou.” 

Bakugou fiddles with the pan, shoulders going tense. “Call me Katsuki,” he mutters, and, oh. Oh. Heat blooms on his face anew, and Eijirou bites his lips, insides filled to the brim with swarming butterflies. 

“O—okay. Thanks…Katsuki.” 

He watches in wide-eyed fascination as Baku—as Katsuki’s ears go bright red, shoulders creeping up. A smile blooms its way onto his face, and Eijirou thinks he may just drift away, he feels so light. 

“Go sit down,” Katsuki says, “breakfast is ‘bout ready.” 

Breakfast is a simple affair—pan fried fish, some rice, and leftover miso soup. And coffee. It’s. It’s peaceful. Normal. Almost painfully so, and Eijirou feels a little unmoored when Katsuki just. Scrolls his phone. He does slide Eijirou’s phone towards him, but otherwise, they eat in relative quiet. 

After, when Katsuki’s washing the dishes—something he insists on doing, shooing Eijirou to the couch—he pauses, gaze skirting to where Eijirou’s perched. A frown twists onto his lips. “Your dumb friend should be dropping off your bicycle in a little bit. I texted him this morning, too.” His frown cuts deeper, a crease appearing on his forehead. “You should change the password. Make it something less easy to guess.” 

Heat scalds at his face, and Eijirou scratches at his neck. He…probably should, yeah. But, well. 123456 is easy to remember, and Eijirou hadn’t felt a need for anything stronger. 

Now, though…Eijirou bites his lip and taps his way through his settings. Except. What…does he even change it to? His birthday? Eijirou presses his lips into a line. No…Yoshida knows that. Something else. Something…different. 

But. What? 

He frowns. Stares. 

The couch dips beside him, making Eijirou jolt. 

Katsuki settles into the couch cushions, brows raised. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, sorry.” Eijirou smiles, but it’s fragile. His thumb slides up and down his phone’s case, the smile slipping. Flickers of last night—of shoving open the glass door, of setting his phone down on the table with shaking hands, sobs heaving from his chest—flash in succession across his mind. Something scrapes at his insides. Something that feels an awful lot like guilt. His throat goes tight, and he clutches his phone tighter. “It’s my boyfriend. Or, well. Ex, I guess.” 

Katsuki’s brow pinches. “What?” 

“The person who hurt me. The reason I…” Eijirou swallows. Shuffles to hug his knees to his chest. “The reason I tried to run.” 

Clothes rustle, and a warm shoulder presses against his own. “I know,” Katsuki murmurs. Eijirou’s gaze snaps to him, eyes going wide. 

“You…do?” 

Katsuki’s lips purse, and he fiddles with a loose thread on the couch cushion. “Mmhm. I uh. Drove to the city. Not on purpose—sometimes when I need to think, I like to go on a drive. S’a lot like wood carving, it helps quiet my head. Stopped at a bar there and ran into some chick who knew you. She…didn’t tell me much, just that you’re running from your piece of shit ex who hurt you.” His gaze finds Eijirou, then, sticking to the hollow of his throat. “It was pretty easy to put two and two together ‘bout those bruises you had when we first met.” 

Friend? What friend? He doesn’t have very many of those, and most of them live around here. Only one lives in the city…and that’s… “You talked to Ashido?” 

Katsuki shrugs. “Didn’t catch her name.” His gaze drops back to the thread, shoulder bumping Eijirou’s in a way that sends loose sparks dancing through his insides. “Wasn’t important. Finding you was. And you…you don’t have to tell me shit if you don’t want to.” 

“I do.” 

His words ring with an earnesty that wells up from deep inside him, and heat splashes at Eijirou’s face at the suddenness of it. But it’s true. He wants to tell Katsuki—needs to, even. He…he’s so utterly tired of running, of hiding. And. And he’s still scared of being found, of being taken back. But…sitting here, with Katsuki pressing their shoulders together, he feels safe. Cared for. Maybe that’s naive, but he can’t find it in himself to keep hiding from someone who’s dared to bare themself for Eijirou. 

So he takes a breath. And another. Stares out the window to the ocean beyond. 

“I started dating Yoshida the summer before high school.” Eijirou’s throat goes tight. He swallows. Squeezes his eyes shut. “I…I’ve known I’m gay since primary school—he was my first crush.” The laugh that wrings from him is bitter. Gods, how long ago it all seems now—like another lifetime so utterly removed from the one he’s living. How could it be, that his ex is the same boy who laughed so bright and warm during lunch hour with all their friends? The same person who gifted him a Crimson Riot plushie for his ninth birthday because that’s his favorite superhero? “I…I knew it was different. Don’t think I couldn’t, what, with the things kids would say. But I. I wanted to live a life with no regrets, y’know?” He smiles a wobbly, pathetic smile, chest aching. “Guess I watched too many superhero movies growing up. I still confessed to Yoshida, though, and he. He said he liked me back. I was ecstatic—I mean, the guy I was halfway in love with liked me back. I felt like I was unbreakable.” 

Eijirou remembers the day like it was yesterday. He’d decided to do it when the cherry blossoms bloomed because it was romantic, and try as he might, Eijirou was a sucker for romance. The whole day was spent in agony wondering if his life would be over, if his friends would hate him, if Yoshida would hate him, but he’d decided he had to do it if he was ever gonna be the man he wanted so desperately to be—confident and sure of himself. So he’d asked Yoshida to come to a private place not far from the school, where the cherry blossoms clustered, and stammered out a warbly, stiff confession. 

Yoshida’d stared at him for what felt like eons. And then his face split into a smile, and he told Eijirou he liked him too. 

Sometimes, Eijirou wonders how different life would be if he hadn’t. If he’d just. Hidden. Waited until the next crush or infatuation came along. Would he be happier? Would he be less…damaged? 

“My parents were…less accepting.” His teeth dig into his lip, the old scars aching at the gentle prodding wrought by walking down memory lane. “They. They wanted me out of the house. And…Yoshida said I could stay with him. His parents didn’t care. Or, at least, if they did, they never said as much. And it was. Nice. Living with him. He was nice. So nice.” 

He looks out at the sea again. Specs of what are surely birds drift through the blue of the sky. Eijirou leans against Katsuki’s touch, a sigh slipping from him. “I don’t even know when it started. Isn’t that the worst part? Every time I think back and—and try to piece together where it all went wrong, I—I can’t. There’s. There’s little things, I remember, here and there. Like. How he always insisted we eat alone after we started dating, or how he insisted I shouldn’t talk to other guys without him because that’s—that’s cheating, somehow, and I. I listened. Drew away from all my other friends until he was all I had and—and then he, he started to—to—” 

A firm, warm hand grasps at his own and squeezes, and Eijirou has enough time to look up and meet the crackling hearth of care before he’s being gently tugged into an embrace. 

The second Katsuki’s warm arms encircle him, Eijirou fractures into a thousand little pieces. His face finds a home in the crook of Katsuki’s neck, his fingers curl into the fabric of Katsuki’s shirt, and he clings to Katsuki like an anchor. Ugly, heaving sobs wrack his frame. Tears spill down his cheeks. And Katsuki holds him through it, a hand trailing a path up and down his spine and soothing words murmured into his hair. 

Part of him hates this. This weakness inside him. This brokenness. He hates the way he aches for a man that will never love him in the way he knows logically he deserves. Hates the way he crumbles to bits at all the little things a normal person wouldn’t even bat an eye at. There’s whispers in his head of a voice that’s not his own telling him how pathetic he’s being. How stupid. No one wants to see this display, no one wants to hear his whining. 

But…if that’s true, why is Katsuki here, holding him so tightly? So…so lovingly? 

Eventually, he comes down enough to croak out a, “Sorry.” 

Katsuki huffs, the puff of air tickling Eijirou’s brow. His arms curl even tighter around Eijirou. “Don’t even try to apologize for this, dumbass. You hear me? You don’t have shit to apologize for.” 

More tears drip down his face, and Eijirou burrows further into Katsuki’s neck, breath hitching something awful. “You’re too nice,” he mumbles. Fingers card through his hair. And, what else can Eijirou do but melt? 

“I did not hear a single damn word you just said,” Katsuki says. “But if you called me nice, I’ll pinch you. This shit’s basic fucking decency.” 

Giggles bubble up from deep in his chest. Eijirou pulls back, swiping at his cheek with the heel of his hand, lips pulled into a wobbly, shaky smile that only grows at the utter indignance he’s graced with. Katsuki scowls at him, arms loosening enough to let him move as he pleases. 

“What? I’m right. Comforting someone when they’re sad is, like, basic shit. Bare fucking minimum.” 

And, Eijirou isn’t quite sure that’s right. Hell, he’s not sure Katsuki would comfort just anyone—maybe that’s what has him feeling so…special, almost. Like he’s important, somehow, even if only to this one person. 

It’s more than enough to Eijirou, though, because somehow, this one person’s come to mean more to him than anyone he’s ever met. A terrifying truth, but a truth all the same. 

Katsuki’s scowl slips into something more solemn, his thumb tracing slight, gentle circles into Eijirou’s spine. “I know yesterday and today’ve been a lot, so we don’t have to talk about shit more if you don’t want to, but. We should figure out logistics sooner rather than later.” His brow notches, lips pursing, gears visibly spinning. “Like. I know you’ve got your bike, but I don’t think you should go to work alone. Not with this fuckface out on the loose, anyway.” 

The mere mention of his ex has Eijirou’s entire body freezing. His heart jackhammers against his ribs, his hands tremble where they curl into Katsuki’s shirt. He frowns at the faded skull print plastered down the front of it, the image blurring in and out of focus. “Can. Can we talk about it later, please?” he asks, voice cracking down the middle. Katsuki’s lips purse, but he nods. 

“Yeah, ‘course.” 

And then a warm, calloused hand slides up the back of his neck, slow, careful, like a question. Sparks ricochet through him in a spectacular display, and Eijirou’s eyes flutter shut. An answer. 

A kiss presses against his forehead, then, burning with a care he’s not felt in so utterly long—melting into it is all too easy to do. 

🪸

He spends the day doing nothing at all. 

Or, well. Nothing important, anyway. 

Eijirou stays curled on the couch, a throw blanket draped over him, the tv flickering with a variety of movies. Katsuki stays with him for most of it, only getting up to answer the door when the doorbell light flashes, something that has Eijirou seizing up a little—it’s only Kaminari dropping off his bicycle. He can hear his friend’s cheerful voice bounce through the genkan, and the terror loosens, some. 

He doesn’t get up, though. 

He’s not sure why, but getting up has become a monumental effort. It’s easier to lay here, eyes hooded, and watch the myriad of colorful characters dance across the tv. Time skips by in fits and bursts—occasionally, Eijirou will blink, and the sun’s moved, shadows shifting across the living room. 

At some point, he’s roused by Katsuki, a steaming bowl of okayu pressed into his hands. “Here,” Katsuki mutters, “eat.” 

So he does. 

And, gods, it’s good. Eijirou aches down to his bones when he swallows down the first mouthful—this simple, warm meal tastes of…of warmth and care and—and maybe something called love, and that simple notion shakes Eijirou right down to his core. He clutches the bowl tightly, vision blurring out of focus. 

A weight sinks into the cushions beside him. “You okay?” Katsuki asks, soft and sweet, and Eijirou can only blink and smile his too-wobbly smile. 

“Yeah, sorry. Just. Overwhelmed, I guess.” 

Katsuki purses his lips, brow notching. “Sorry.” He draws back, which, has Eijirou’s insides lurching something awful, and he shakes his head so hard he makes himself dizzy. 

“No—! Don’t be. Please.” Eijirou fiddles with his spoon, face warm and smile timid. “I’m just. Not super used to all this, y’know?” He’s scraped raw, heart tender, and he’s not used to having someone here to bandage all his scrapes and bruises for him like this. 

No, Eijirou’s used to syrupy words and empty gestures used like a hook and lure to keep him ensnared. And. And there’s a part of him that’s terrified he’s going to find this all to be just another bait and switch. That he’ll wake up again and be trapped in another horrible, vicious cycle of kisses-turned-bruises and caresses-turned-open wounds. Maybe he’s not made to be loved gently or kindly. Maybe he deserves to be hurt. 

But, when Katsuki looks at him like that, he can’t help the flutter of hope there in his heart. 

Katsuki hums, gaze flickering to his own steaming bowl, lips pursed and expression shaded with contemplation. “If. If it’s ever too much…say something.” 

Eijirou’s heart kicks fierce in his chest. He smiles, soft and burning with affection. “Yeah, okay. Promise.” 

🪸

Stepping outside shouldn’t be as scary as it is. 

Eijirou trembles, a little, as he trails behind Katsuki, gaze sweeping the front lawn. His skin prickles, crawls, and he steels himself against the desire to turn around and high tail it right back inside. There’s not a soul outside to remotely pay attention to them as they clamber onto Katsuki’s motor bike. No one lurking, no one watching. 

So why does he feel as though someone’s there? 

Something sharp twists inside his chest—he loops his arms around Katsuki’s middle, head turning to stare at his bicycle where it leans against the house and that sharp thing twists harder. 

It’s. It’s not fair. Eijirou clutches at the soft cotton of Katsuki’s sweatshirt, throat going tight. What little freedom he’s managed to cobble together for himself has slipped right through his fingers like loose sand. And there’s. There’s nothing he can really do to get it back, and it’s—it’s just. Not fair. 

The sentiment echoes in his head for the entirety of the drive. A mishmash of emotions ping pong through him, erratic and fleeting, leaving Eijirou feeling drained. Tired. 

They talked, last night. Curled in the relative safety of bed, Katsuki managed to coax the conversation out of him. About what to do. 

Katsuki thinks he can free Eijirou of Yoshida. Eijirou can’t dare to hope. 

But, he believes in Katsuki. So here he exists on this tentative tightrope, teetering over a chasm of nightmares. 

The first step? Telling Toyomitsu. 

Terror holds Eijirou’s heart in a tight grip. Telling anyone about—well. Any of it—has Eijirou’s whole body trembling. He…he’s scared. So, so scared—what if Toyomitsu or Amajiki get hurt because he involves them? What if the ramen shop gets hurt? Eijirou could never live with himself if something happened to them because of him, he just couldn’t. 

But. But, if Yoshida shows up…

Eijirou’s throat goes tight. Katsuki insists his boss should be aware for Eijirou’s safety. That Yoshida should be barred from the shop because he’s stalking Eijirou, that the missing flyers aren’t permissible—Hinansho is outside of Chiba’s jurisdiction, at the very least. At the most, Katsuki thinks it’s possible to get a civil protection order granted, but that will likely take some time. 

Eijirou just wants it to be over. 

Dawn ignites the skies in pinks and oranges above them. Eijirou leans against the firm shoulder in front of him and stares, watching the puffy, pink clouds drift by. If he stares long enough, he can almost forget about the woes and worries haunting his waking hours. 

Almost. 

But the drive is all too short, and soon, Katsuki slows to a stop in front of the ramen shop. The ignition dies, and Eijirou’s heartbeat thunders in his ears in its place. He slips off the bike, fingers fumbling a little with the helmet. His heart jackhammers against his ribs, and he nearly drops the helmet when passing it off to Katsuki. 

“You want me to go in with you?” he asks softly. Eijirou bites his lip. Fiddles with his fingers. Is it pathetic if he says yes? He glances to the door, heart pounding harder. This…this whole thing is his to deal with—Katsuki’s already done a lot for him, but he. He should do this himself. 

Slowly, Eijirou shakes his head. “No…no, I—can you just, walk me to the door?” 

Katsuki’s expression softens, and he clambers off the bike, holding out a hand. “‘Course.” 

Their hands entangle, and a breath eases from Eijirou. Being brave is easier when he can lean against a strong, warm arm, when he can squeeze this calloused hand in his own. Still. Easier or not, he’s gotta stand on his own two feet eventually. So, when they get to the door, he straightens, smiles a shaky, wobbly thing. “Thanks.” 

Katsuki huffs, thumb sliding along the ridge of Eijirou’s knuckles. “S’whatever.” He looks away, hesitating, ears going red. “I’ll pick you up at the regular time…?” 

“Yeah, regular time.” 

“‘Kay. See you later…Eijirou.” 

The name comes tentative, soft, another one of Katsuki’s unspoken questions. Only, this one sends a whole shower of sparks raining across Eijirou’s insides, and he can’t help the way his face splits into a grin, heat coloring his cheeks. They give each other one final, lingering squeeze of the hand before letting go, and Eijirou turns to face the music. 

(And, maybe Katsuki’s a magician, because Eijirou isn’t quite so scared, anymore.) 

Pots and pans clang back by the stove, accompanied by jovial humming. Eijirou lets the door close softly behind him, shoes scuffing against the floor as he creeps his way behind the counter. He rakes a hand through his hair, pushing it back—it’s gotten a touch long, enough that he can tie it back some, which he does. He finds Toyomitsu right where he expects to, over the stove working on the day’s supply of stock. 

“Kirishima, my boy! How are you, today? Better, I hope!” 

Eijirou reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, a creaky chuckle escaping him. “Uh, yeah…um.” He peeks at his boss, nerves buzzing just beneath his skin. Toyomitsu hums some more, head bobbing as he twirls a ladle, plunging it into the pot and stirring carefully. He sucks in a breath, reaches for his bravery with both hands, and squares his shoulders. “Can I…can I talk to you about something?” 

Immediately, he’s granted Toyomitsu’s full attention, concern notched into the lines of his boss’s face. “Is everything alright?” he asks. 

Embarrassment prickles at Eijirou’s skin. “Yeah—” It’s the automatic answer, and Eijirou’s shoulders hunch, head ducking when he corrects himself. “—er. No, actually. Sorry. Um. This is, kinda hard to talk about.” His throat goes tight, and he has to cough. His arms curl around his middle, but Eijirou clutches at bravery with a white-knuckled grip, staring hard at the tiled floor to avoid the weighty worry falling from his boss’s gaze. “I, um. I think my. My ex is in town…he. He’s not very nice, and I. Um. I wanted to let you know in case he comes in—I don’t feel safe around him, and, I really don’t wanna talk to him, and Katsuki said I should tell you so you know—” 

A warm hand drapes onto his shoulder and squeezes. “Kirishima, my boy, if this person makes you feel unsafe, then that’s all I need to know. I care about you and Amajiki more than anything else. Alright?” 

And. And, Eijirou knew, in theory—Toyomitsu’s been nothing but kind. Still. Hearing the words is another thing entirely, and he finds himself blinking, vision smearing into a blurry watercolor, breath hitching hard enough to hurt. He reaches up, scrubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he croaks. Another squeeze. 

“Of course, my boy, of course. C’mon, let’s getcha’ a bowl, eh?” 

Eijirou laughs, a warmth burning through him. “Yeah, okay,” he says, knowing full well he’ll eat every bite. Nevermind that he’s already had breakfast, this morning. But when Toyomitsu offers, Eijirou can never find it in himself to say no. 

Besides. He can’t go wrong with a warm bowl of ramen. 

⛈️

Waves lap at the shoreline—a taunt. He kicks at the sand, scowl fierce. 

He’s been all over this accursed town and somehow, has yet to run into Eijirou once. 

The worst part, is not a single soul can tell him if they’ve even seen his wayward songbird. Which. Yoshida knows they’re lying fucks. Landlines don’t lie, he knows for a fact Eijirou called that stupid bitch from the damn ramen shop. Clearly, the shop owner is lying for Eijirou. He must be. 

Yoshida will just have to circle back later. Watch and wait. 

He’s got time. 

Voices drift across the breeze, alongside a rather…acrid smell. Two men splash along the surf, pants rolled to their knees, the glow of a blunt passing between them bright in the fading sunlight. Yoshida wrinkles his nose, tilts his head. 

Hmm. Interesting. 

He reaches for the flyer tucked in his back pocket, smoothes out the wrinkles in the paper. Puts on his pleasant smile. 

“Hey there!” 

The men turn to look at him. “Wassup, man?” one says, face splitting into a lazy grin. He raises the blunt to his lips and takes a hit, smoke curling from his lips. Yoshida’s eye twitches. Keeping his facade takes some effort in the wake of their…vulgarness. 

“Sorry to disturb you on your evening, but I’ve been looking for someone, and I was hoping maybe you could help me out…?” 

They look at each other. The one with the blunt shrugs, dark shaggy hair flopping into his face when he shoots Yoshida another glance. “Dunno how much help we’ll be, but sure.” 

Yoshida offers the flyer. The closer one—blondie—takes it, brow knitting. There’s the fraction of a second where his eyes go wide, paper crinkling in his hand, before his expression smoothes out. 

“Sorry, bro, can’t say I know who this is.” 

His friend peers over his shoulder, blinking. “I mean. He kinda looks like Kirishima, man. Don’tcha’ think?” 

Blondie scoffs, thrusts the flyer back at Yoshida. “Kirishima’s got bright red hair, dummy. Can’t be him.” 

“Okay, but like, what if it is? You said you’re looking for him, right?” 

Yoshida smiles, dips his head. “Yes. He’s been missing for weeks—I’m terrified something horrible’s happened to him, and the authorities haven’t made any progress on the case. So I have been asking around. Apologies for the imposition.” 

“Well, you can stop by Bakugou’s house—he lives, what, at the—ow, hey!” 

Blondie shoves at his friend, smile tense around the edges. “Sorry, bro, my bad. But you’ve got the wrong guy, for sure. Sorry. Hope you find whoever you’re looking for.” He continues to herd his friend away, hissed whispers undercutting his friend’s indignant complaints. Yoshida watches them stumble off, carefully folding the flyer and returning it to his pockets. 

“Don’t you worry,” he murmurs, “I most certainly will.”

Chapter Text

There’s a restlessness itching just beneath his skin. It lingers the whole damn drive home, leaving him antsy and pissed off. Katsuki has half a mind to pop a wheelie and fly to who the fuck knows where, just to get rid of this shitty feeling. He doesn’t—he can’t, not when that fucking asshole piece of shit’s lurking around the town somewhere. And, the thought has the restlessness kicking up several notches, and Katsuki’s lip curls into a snarl, grip going white-knuckled on his handlebars. 

It doesn’t go away when he gets back to the house. No, Katsuki kicks the front door shut, tossing his shoes onto the shoe pile, and prowls into the house, body tense and skin fucking buzzing. He beelines for the workshop, flinging the door open only to stop and stare. 

Oh. Right. That stupid fucking table. Goddammit. 

His lip curls, and he whirls around, stuffing a hand into his pocket to fish out his phone. 

Me (9:35AM) 

oi are you gonna come get this stupid table or what

Hag (9:36AM) 

Good morning to you too brat.

I sent someone to pick it up two days ago. Don’t tell me you chased him away again

Me (9:37AM)

fuck you

I thought you just sent him because you’re too damn nosey

Hag (9:40AM)

Language, brat 🙄

Well, the table’s for him, so you better get his ass back over there if you want it gone.

Katsuki stares at his phone’s screen, face twisting into a scowl. Of fucking course the table would be for Deku. Goddammit. It’s probably a goddamn wedding gift—a realization that’s got Katsuki wanting to bang his head against the corner of a fucking wall. Fucking hell, she’s lucky he’s damn good at what he does, or else he’d drive to her house to kill her for doing this shit to him. 

He paces the length of the house, skin still itchy, and pulls up Deku’s messages for the third fucking time in the span of days. 

Me (9:45AM) 

apparently the table is for you

when can you come get this damn thing outta my house

Deku (9:46AM)

!!! oh! I had no idea!

uhhh

I can swing by tomorrow, if that’s okay???

Me (9:47AM)

fine

need to talk to you about a potential case anyway

Deku (9:48AM)

👀👀👀

noted

Katsuki stuffs his phone back into his pocket with a huff, throwing a glare outside. Dawn’s brightened to late morning, with skies a bright, crisp blue and the ocean below a matching cerulean. It’d be a pretty view, he guesses, if he gave a shit about pretty views. But there’s no time for being mopey and poetic and staring out at the damn ocean. So he turns and marches to the bedroom, flinging open the door and beelining for the bed. 

His knees smart when he hits the floor. Katsuki grabs the duvet half hanging off the bed and tosses it up and out of the way. The boxes are right where he left them hidden in the shadows, already collecting dust. He shimmies on his stomach, grabbing each one and dragging them both out into the open. 

Box one is filled with a shittonne of frames. He shoves it to the side, for now. Box two…box two he tears open and stares at, long and hard. His law degree sits at the top, staring right back at him. His throat goes tight. With shaking hands, he reaches in, pulls it free. 

There’s a fine layer of dust on the glass, in the eaves of the frame. Katsuki brushes some of it away, swallowing hard. It’s. Fuck. It’s weird, holding his degree now. Here on the other side of everything, with a life so vastly different than the one he’d initially imagined for himself. The one he’d worked his ass off for, no less. 

Katsuki sets it on the floor, gentle, hesitant. Maybe…maybe he can find someplace to put the damn thing. Maybe. But, for now, he’s after something else. 

Namely, the several books tucked inside the box on various aspects of Japanese Law. 

He sits, cross-legged in the bedroom, and flips through books he hasn’t touched in well over a year, if more, brow knit and mind racing. 

Katsuki may not have practiced law since the day he stormed out of the office spitting fire, but he still knows his shit. It’s all there, lurking in the eaves of his mind—like, the fact that there’s not a direct penalty for domestic abuse itself. The penalties are for shit like assault, injury, and the like. Aka the actual, physical after effects of abuse. So there’s the matter of being able to prove Eijirou suffered assault and injury, something that’ll be hard as shit given the lapse of time between the injury and filing a report, provided he can convince Eijirou to even do that. 

And, even then, convincing a jury that there’s been assault and injury of the domestic variety between two men will only make everything all the harder. 

So. While Katsuki knows his shit, he’s not a cocky son of a bitch, either—using the resources he’s got to make sure they can nail this son of a bitch once and for fucking all is something he’s absolutely gonna do, if only to make sure the fuckass piece of shit never get to so much as look at Eijirou ever again. 

And if he sits here for hours, dog-earing page after page, then, well. So fucking be it. 

🦀

There’s an ache lingering in the space behind his eyes by the time he steps out of the house to go pick up Eijirou. Katsuki rubs at his brow, lips pulled in a scowl, and fumbles with his keys. He gets the house key, jams it in the lock. 

The back of his neck prickles. Katsuki locks his door, turning to stride towards his bike, gaze sweeping across the front lawn and street. He’s met with nothing but a view of houses and trees and a whole lot of empty asphalt. Katsuki stalks towards his bicycle with narrowed eyes. 

Maybe he should invest in some kind of weapon or some shit. 

Just. In case. 

He tries to tell himself he’s being paranoid. But that damn prickly feeling doesn’t go away until he’s on his bike and flying down the next hill over. 

Downtown is void of people when he cruises through it. Which. Isn’t exactly unusual, but with the prickly feeling pervading his peace, Katsuki can’t help but find it a touch eerie. He rolls to a stop in front of Shiodamari, killing the ignition and popping off his helmet to hang on his handlebars. Normally, he’d just wait for Eijirou to come out on his own. But, normally, there’s not a fucking psycho piece of shit hunting him down. 

Or. Well. This wasn’t knowledge he’d been privy to until now, anyway, and the bastard wasn’t presumably in fucking town at the time. So. Katsuki goes right up to the fucking door and walks his ass inside, turning his aids up as he goes. 

Eijirou looks up from behind the counter the second the door shuts behind him, a smile carving its way onto his lips and expression brightening. He waves at Katsuki, dripping rag in hand. “Hey! Sorry, I should be done here in a sec.” 

He grunts. Commandeers a table. “S’fine.” 

‘Course, there’s not a soul inside this place aside from himself, Eijirou, and the boss, who Katsuki can see tinkering around in the back. Which. Is for the best, honestly. Katsuki leans against the back of his chair, an elbow propped on the table, and finds himself watching Eijirou, because of course he does. 

His hair’s half pulled back, a few loose strands falling into his face. It looks dorky as shit, and somehow, his shitty excuse of a heart doesn’t quite get the memo because it stutters a little at the sight. Heat stings at his face, and Katsuki has to resist the urge to claw his own face off and scream or something. Eijirou shouldn’t look as fucking attractive as he does wringing out a dishrag of disgusting water, wearing a stained, too-bright t-shirt and bobbing his head off-beat to whatever dumb shit plays from the radio. And yet, Katsuki finds that he does, and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do about it. 

These sorts of feelings aren’t something he grapples with often. Hell, Katsuki can count on his hands the number of times he’s found himself feeling this way about another person—and it’s a solid two. Once when he worked in Tokyo, and…now. 

Katsuki’s face twitches. He crosses his arms, shifts his glare to the middle distance. 

He fucking hates the giddy, budding feeling nestled in his chest. Hates the way it rattles around at odd moments, stealing his breath and making him go cross-eyed. It’s confusing as shit, the way they incapacitate him, and Katsuki loathes feeling confused or out of step. Especially with his own stupid, wayward emotions. 

“Bakugou! How are you doing, this fine evening?” 

Katsuki jerks, blinking. The bossman grins at him from behind the counter, wiping his hands on his messy apron. He grunts an acknowledgement, gaze sliding to Eijirou, who tugs his own apron over his head. 

“Fine. Just here to pick up Ei.” He hesitates. Eyes Eijirou, whose face has gone strangely red. “I take it he’s…told you…?” 

A somber air weighs over the ramen shop. Bossguy sighs, a weighty thing, and smoothes at his rumpled apron. “Yes, Kirishima let me know. I may’ve seen the man this mornin’—” 

At this, Eijirou’s head whips up, face suddenly very pale. Katsuki lurches to his feet, jaw clenching and hands twitching at his sides. “What the fuck do you mean, you might’ve seen him?” he snaps. Bossman holds up his hands. 

“A man came by before Kirishima was here, showed me a flyer with someone who looked an awful lot like ‘im on it. ‘Cept, his hair was the wrong color.” He looks at Eijirou, expression apologetic, and says softly, “I didn’t think much of it until ya’ spoke to me this mornin’, and I didn’t wanna alarm ya’ over nothing.” 

“Fuck,” Katsuki spits, because it sure as shit isn’t nothing. He darts forward, propelled by the ashen shade blotting at Eijirou’s face. Bossman doesn’t object when Katsuki darts behind the counter, which, is for the fucking best be cause he’d probably bite the man’s hand off if he tried to stop him. Katsuki reaches for Eijirou, slow, gentle, grasping at his wrist, his hand, and squeezing. “C’mon, let’s sit for a minute.” 

“I’ll getcha a glass of water,” Bossman says quietly. He shuffles back to the kitchen behind the divider, leaving Katsuki to lead Eijirou out into the dining space and to one of the many empty chairs. 

Eijirou’s grip on Katsuki’s hand is bruising. He shakes like a leaf, eyes wide and wet. “I’m never gonna be free of him, am I?” he whispers. And, fuck—Katsuki feels his heart damn near crack in two. He reaches up, cupping Eijirou’s cheek, thumb swiping away the wet he finds there. 

“You will be,” he swears. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

He will. Somehow, someway, he’ll make sure Eijirou never has to be afraid ever again. That’s a promise he’ll do anything to keep. 

🦀

Katsuki’s cooking when the doorbell light flickers over the genkan. 

He bites off a sigh, flipping the burner settings so they won’t fuck up his hard work, and sets the spatula he’s using down onto its ceramic cradle. His gaze darts to the couch, where Eijirou peers at him with wide eyes glimmering with an all-too-familiar wariness that’s settled there. Katsuki swallows back a grimace. “S’probably just Deku,” he says, “sorry. Forgot to mention he’d be swinging by again today.” 

The wariness melts, some, and Eijirou offers a smile before sinking back down, attention returning to the movie scrolling across the tv screen. 

It’s another Crimson Riot movie, he thinks. Katsuki’s not sure—he wasn’t paying attention when Eijirou turned the damn thing on. But based on what’s been playing on the tv every night since the entire world flipped upside down, Katsuki thinks it’s a safe guess. 

Something in him aches, a little, knowing what’s prompted the marathon, and Katsuki’s jaw twinges. 

He stalks to the door, flips the lock and throws it open. 

There’s a strange sort of deja vu to seeing Deku standing there. Like. Shit. Katsuki damn near feels as if he’s been thrown back to two days ago, except instead of a swirling inferno of anger raging through him, there’s something more akin to relief at seeing Deku’s stupid ass. It’s. Weird. He curls his lip and steps back, inclining his head. “C’mon.” 

Deku smiles, sheepish, and shuffles inside, toeing out of his shiny dress shoes. “Hey—sorry, I would’ve been here earlier, but I got distracted looking over the details of another case, and—” He cuts himself off, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry.” 

Katsuki tisks, stepping around him. “S’whatever. Dinner’s ‘bout ready, anyway.” He pauses near the living room, gaze sweeping to Eijirou, who’s perked up again, eyes bright with curiosity. Katsuki hesitates. Huffs. “This is Deku—Midoriya. He’s here for the table and, uh. He’s a Public Prosecutor. So.” Heat stings at his face, his hears, and he ducks his head, scratching at his cheek. Fucking christ, it shouldn’t be so hard to spit it out. But, fuck, it is, because it means admitting he needs help, something he loathes to do on a good day. There’s no avoiding it this time, though, and he grinds his teeth and spits out the words he doesn’t really want to say. “I wanted to see what advice he has about your case. If that’s okay.” 

Eijirou’s sharp teeth gleam as he bites his lip, a sight Katsuki’s strangely fascinated by. He nods a tiny nod, and the tension eases from Katsuki. 

“Hi there, it’s nice to meet you!” Deku chirps, waving cheerfully. Eijirou smiles, too, waving back, and Katsuki turns to finish making dinner. An easy enough feat considering all he’s gotta do now is mix rice and salmon in a bowl and make the onigiri triangles. Katsuki pops open a cabinet, reaching for a bowl. His gaze finds its way to the couch—Deku’s sitting down now, chatting away about something or another. Eijirou snickers at whatever’s said. 

Katsuki huffs and shifts his attention back to the food. 

Making the onigiri triangles doesn’t take very long. Most people struggle to make this shit stick together and not fall apart, but Katsuki isn’t most people, and soon enough, he’s got a plate full of steaming onigiri to bring to the table. “Food’s ready, fuckers,” he calls. He whirls around and stalks back to the kitchen, fetching another plate for the veggie tempura he’s fried up. It’s a simple dinner, but a damn good one. 

Things are. Weird. When they all sit down. Mostly because it’s been just him and Eijirou for so damn long—neither of them have had people over ever, and while Deku hardly counts as a guest, it’s still different, and there’s a wariness to Eijirou. He sits next to Katsuki, brow notched and gaze pinned on Deku’s every movement. Katsuki scooches his chair closer, nudges their knees together. It seems to help—Eijirou shoots him a soft smile that has Katsuki’s insides melting into sticky goo before dropping his focus to the plate in front of him. 

“Jeeze, this is good, Kacchan—” Deku hums, licks his fingers. “—I always forget how good you are at cooking.” 

Katsuki huffs, heat stinging his ears. “It’s just onigiri, it’s not that fucking hard to make.” 

A knee knocks into his. “I mean, I think it’s pretty good—I’ve never been very good at making the shapes stick together.” 

And, fucking—Katsuki scowls as if scowling can hide the heat of his face, poking at his food with his chopsticks. “Yours are fucking fine,” he grumbles. Eijirou ducks his head, red coloring his face. Which. Katsuki’s heart rattles in his chest, a warm sort of satisfaction curling through his insides like a pleased cat. 

Conversation lulls while they stuff their faces. Or. Mostly lulls. Deku chatters in fits and bursts, asking Katsuki about his clients and his work, asking about the town, and talks about some of the happenings in the office he’s frequenting at the moment. Like how apparently there’s been a bento left behind in the refrigerator for a few weeks and no one knows who it belongs to. How the fuck that’s even possible, Katsuki has no clue—seriously, did someone just fucking vaporize into mist or something? How does a person forget their own damn bento box? But Deku insists no one recognizes it. 

Katsuki calls bullshit, but whatever. This is one of the few things he doesn’t fucking miss about working in the office—dealing with people’s dumbassary. 

“So…” Deku fiddles with the chopsticks in his hand, plate empty in front of him. “What, um. What is this case you wanted to ask about…?” 

His gaze skips to Eijirou, whose shoulders hunch, red bangs hanging in his face like a curtain. Katsuki’s lips twist into a frown, and he sighs, leg pressing into Eijirou’s beneath the table. 

“You wanna tell him, or should I?” he asks quietly. Eijirou peeks from beneath his bangs. Bites his lip. 

“...I can.” 

Katsuki nods, waits. He stretches an arm, offering a hand palm up. Eijirou takes it, entangling their fingers together, and squeezes. 

“My…my ex is not…very nice,” Eijirou starts. He stares at some point on the table, not looking at Deku once, and begins to haltingly tell tale of his piece of shit ex being…well. An abusive piece of shit. ‘Course, Eijirou doesn’t give too many details—he does tell Deku about leaving and coming here and being followed, though. 

Deku nods along with furrowed brows, not daring to interrupt. A thing Katsuki’s privately grateful for, because he knows how hard this shit is for Eijirou. 

“Do you have any documentation of any injuries accrued from this ex?” he asks. Eijirou’s grip on Katsuki’s hand goes tight, and he shakes his head. Deku’s lips purse. “Okay. I would advise going to get checked up, document any lingering ailments as soon as you can. It’ll be harder to pin those to abuse, but, well. Kacchan, you know—any documentation is better than none.” 

Katsuki grunts. Yeah. He knows. Of fucking course he knows. 

“You’ll…you’ll also probably want to contact the authorities from Chiba and let them know of your whereabouts.” 

At this, Eijirou jerks upright, eyes wide and terrified, his grip on Katsuki’s hand damn near bruising. Deku holds up his hands, placating. “It’s—it’s just to get you off the missing person’s list, I promise—you’re a legal adult, there’s nothing stopping you from moving prefectures. As long as you can state that you’re okay and in full control of your mental faculties, they won’t do more than list you as ‘found’.” 

Eijirou looks at Katsuki. “Really?” he murmurs. Katsuki nods, thumb rubbing along the knobs of Eijirou’s knuckles. It’s the truth—and a necessary step in order to get this jackass to fuck off. 

“I want to get a protection order for Ei,” Katsuki says. “But I dunno how likely we are to get one granted as shit stands.” 

Deku’s expression goes grim. “I…dunno. We’ll have to be able to prove abuse has occured, but without any documentation of physical injury…” 

“You think eyewitness accounts won’t be enough?” 

His eyes narrow, hand going to grip his chin. “How many witnesses do you have? You’ll have to have more than one, and I—I wouldn’t advise using your testimony, Kacchan—a group of judges wouldn’t go for it if they learned you live together.” 

“At least two. He had a lot of bruises when he first moved here, and his boss and coworker saw that shit for sure.” 

Eijirou blinks, a hand ghosting across the hollow of his neck where his necklace of bruises once decorated his skin. His brow notches. “Um. Kaminari’s also seen my—my bruises. If. If that helps.” 

Deku smiles this gentle, soft thing he always uses for clients that’re…delicate. Part of Katsuki wants to bristle, to snap because Eijirou’s not fucking delicate, he’s strong as shit, but—but Katsuki also knows the idiot probably isn’t even fully aware he’s making that stupid face, so he bites his tongue for once. 

“Of course—if all these people would be willing to testify, it can almost certainly help. Documenting any events you remember also will help, too.” 

It’s nothing Katsuki doesn’t already know. Which. Is lowkey infuriating. But this is why he wanted to talk to Deku to begin with, to make sure he had all his shit straight and know what the hell they’re up against. 

By the looks of it, they’re up against a fucking mountain. 

“Can I ask what your ex’s name is?” Deku asks. “I can poke around, see if there’s anything else on him—any information is helpful, at this point.” 

Eijirou’s grip on Katsuki’s hand goes tight, again. “Um. It’s…it’s Yoshida Masao. He um. He works for one of the largest tech companies in the country…” 

Well, fuck. Katsuki’s lips press in a line. He’s got an inkling of how the bastard’s managed to track Eijirou down, and he fucking hates it. His gaze flicks to Deku, who wears a matching frown. 

“I’ll, um, I’ll see what I can find.” He hesitates, before leaning forward, another one of those soft, placating smiles stretching onto his lips. “We’ll figure something out, okay?” 

Katsuki scoffs. “We’ll do better than ‘figure something out’—we’ll get rid of that bastard for fucking good.” 

The look he gets from Eijirou is warm, and Katsuki can’t help but bask in it. He knows, realistically, there’s a damn mountain ahead of them. He’s not an idiot. But Katsuki’s a stubborn son of a bitch, and he’ll do his damndest to make it so. For Eijirou. 

Deku chuckles, awkward, and scratches at his neck. “Well, I, uh, I should probably get going…m’supposed to call Ochako, tonight.” He directs his gaze to Katsuki and grins, sheepish. “You said that table’s for me…?” 

Fuck. Right. He huffs, giving Eijirou’s hand one last squeeze before letting go and pushing himself to his feet. “Yeah, s’out in the workshop. C’mon.” 

It’s. Strange, leading Deku to his workshop. His workshop is in many ways his inner sanctum—a place more personal to him than…well. Anything. Nerves prickle at his insides, and he rubs his palms against his sweats before reaching for the doorknob. He swings the door open, leaning over to flip the light switch. 

The table’s right where he fucking left it, sitting in the middle of the shop floor. He stomps down the three stairs, hands shoving deep into his pockets, and inclines his head. 

“Here it is. Mom didn’t give me any actual direction for the damn thing, so sorry if it’s not your style or whatever.” 

Deku hovers in the doorway, eyes wide and jaw slack. “Wow, Kacchan…you made that?!” 

His shoulders hunch, and he scoffs, lip curling. “What kind of stupid question is that, huh? Of course I fucking made it, dumbass.” Like, seriously, what the hell does Deku think all this shit in here’s for? Decoration? Shits and giggles? He has an entire rack of scrap wood hanging on the wall, for fuck’s sake. But Deku doesn’t seem to notice—the idiot’s beelining for the table, awe stamped across his face as he walks in a circle around it, one hand skimming along the polished table top. 

“This is beautiful.” 

Heat stings at Katsuki’s face. He averts his gaze and scowls at his tools instead. “S’okay, I guess. I don’t usually do floral shit.” 

Deku shakes his head. “It’s incredible. Ochako’s gonna love it.” 

And, satisfaction crackles through him, bright and hot. Katsuki’s lips curve into a ghost of a smile, and he mutters, “She better fucking like it, it took me two weeks of nonstop work to get the damn thing done.” 

“Two weeks?! Holy crap, seriously?” 

“You heard me, dumbass. Now c’mon, let’s get the stupid thing loaded up. You bring straps n’shit?” 

Deku blinks blankly at him, and Katsuki scrubs a hand down his face. Of fucking course Deku wouldn’t know a damn thing about strapping down a table. He stalks across the shop to the tool cart, stooping to rifle through one of the bottom drawers. He’s got a plethora of ratchet straps—it’s irritatingly common for clients to forget this kind of shit. Usually, Katsuki’ll upcharge so he can replace the damn things, because the idiots who forget to bring some never bring the ones he lends out back. 

Luckily for him, this time, he knows the client and can just chase Deku down. 

“Alright, c’mon.” 

Getting the table out of the shop and into the truck is an easy enough task—Deku might be wearing a nice suit, but he’s built, and he hefts his side of the table with ease. Katsuki has to yank open the sliding door to the shop so they can get the damn thing out, because there’s no way in hell they’re getting it out the back door. Katsuki shows Deku how the ratchet straps work and helps him strap the thing down, and then he’s hopping off the tailgate of the truck, one hand swiping at the sweat of his brow. 

“Sorry—thanks again for letting me borrow the strap-thingies,” Deku says. Katsuki grunts. 

“S’whatever.” He crosses his arms, gaze sweeping across the lawn to the side of the house, where Eijirou’s bright red bike sits—a beacon in the fading twilight. “Thanks for humoring me,” Katsuki says quietly. He sighs, looks back at Deku. “I know this is a long shot. But, fuck—I can’t stand around twiddling my thumbs while that fuckface sniffs around scaring the shit outta’ Eijirou.” 

Something ripples in the forest of Deku’s gaze, and he hums, head tilting. “You really care about him, huh?” he says. Heat scalds at Katsuki’s face anew, and he huffs, shrugs. 

“Yeah, and?” 

“Nothing—just. I’m glad.” Deku smiles, soft and too damn gentle. “You deserve to be happy, Kacchan.” 

Fucking christ. Katsuki scowls, shoulders practically jumping to his ears, and curses the fact that this shithead knows him as well as he does. “Get the fuck outta my driveway,” he snaps, whirling around to stalk back into the workshop. Laughter rings out behind him, to which he throws a middle finger over his shoulder. 

Still, Deku’s words echo in his head long after he shuts the door and stomps his way back into his house. Does he deserve to be happy? Katsuki…isn’t wholly sure. But, when he finds his way back to Eijirou’s side on the couch, Eijirou’s head falling to rest on his shoulder, he thinks it doesn’t really matter. Deserving or not, he can’t give this up if he tries. 

Eijirou’s carved himself into Katsuki’s life and there’s no turning back now.

Chapter Text

Declaring himself as not missing is…terrifying. 

Eijirou doesn’t really want to do it. Call it superstition, call it an irrational fear, but he can’t help but worry that Yoshida will find out, somehow. The gig will be up for sure, and Yoshida will find him and take him back to that—that awful, horrible apartment and he’ll never be able to be free ever again, and—and—gods, he’d never see Katsuki again, either, and—

He cuts off the thoughts before they can overtake him.  

Katsuki tells him it’s fine. Safe, even. And Eijirou trusts Katsuki more than he trusts anyone, so if he says it’s fine and safe, he. He believes it. He does. Still. The very thought of doing so terrifies him more than anything—rationality crumbles in the wake of fear, especially one that runs bone deep. 

Before he can declare himself as not missing, though, he has to declare residency here in Hinansho. A slightly less terrifying thing to do—but only slightly. 

‘Course, there’s several things he apparently needs in order to do so. 

Like. His family registry and his individual number card. Neither of which he currently…has. 

Still. Katsuki insists it’s fine, that the local kouban can help them out. “S’long as you remember what municipality you were registered at, we can have them call that office and fax shit—assuming the fuckheads have a fucking fax machine.” He makes a face, scratches at his neck. “We can also look into filing a police report…” 

Eijirou’s throat goes tight. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “...you’d come with me?” 

A gaze brimming with wildfires sweeps across him, and Katsuki hums. “‘Course. Unless you don’t want me to.” 

“I—I do. Yes.” Going alone sounds horrible. Eijirou’s not even sure he knows how to do everything, either. He. He didn’t exactly plan his running away beyond just. Getting out. 

A night filled with rain and terror splashes across his mind’s eye, and Eijirou curls his arms around himself, cheek smooshing against his knee, gaze finding the bright sunlight spilling through the sliding glass doors. Outside, the skies are bright blue and the ocean glittering and clear—a stark contrast to the stormy memories. 

Somehow, the cheery blue skies don’t bring the relief Eijirou yearns for. Not even when he follows Katsuki out the front door, shoes scuffing against the pavement of the drive. His skin prickles as he fumbles to buckle the helmet he’s handed, and he hovers too close to Katsuki, head on a swivel, gaze sweeping across neighboring lawns and houses. 

All he’s greeted with is empty drives and white, fluffy clouds drifting by overhead. Even the road’s empty when they fly down it towards the main thoroughfare of town, nary a car or bus or bike in sight. 

The local kouban sits nestled amidst some of the shops at the start of downtown—it’s a tiny little building, hardly large enough to fit more than one room. A sign outside has postings of how to drop off lost and found items, of how to report a burglary, and—and a missing person’s flyer with his own face on it, which Katsuki rips down with a snarl, the paper crinkling in his grasp. 

Eijirou tries to swallow down the terror welling up inside him, tries to smooth out the wrinkles of his t-shirt and stand tall. Katsuki’s shoulder nudging against his makes it easier. Reminds him he’s not alone. Still. The fear lingers like an unwanted shadow, following Eijirou’s every step, no matter how hard he tries to leave it behind. 

He can’t even keep from shaking like a leaf as they step through the glass door. 

Inside’s just as tiny as the building promises to be, with only a single desk dominated by a massive computer monitor, haphazard stacks of books and papers covering the rest of its available space. There’s room enough for two old, rickety chairs in front of the desk, though neither of them make a move to sit. 

Behind the desk sits an older man, his long, dark hair peppered with silver and tied back in a messy ponytail. His face is scruffy and unshaven, and he peers at them both with bloodshot eyes, lips pressed into a deep frown. A gnarly sort of scar curves just beneath his right eye—Eijirou wonders absently how he got it. 

“If you’ve found a lost item, the form to fill out is there on the wire basket.” He pauses his typing long enough to point, not even bothering to spare them a passing glance. Katsuki scoffs, flyering crinkling more as he crosses his arms. 

“We don’t have a lost item—we’re here ‘cuz he needs to re-register his new address.” 

This seems to catch the cop’s attention, because his gaze flicks to them, typing pausing again. 

“Do you have your individual number card and your notice for relocation?” 

Eijirou fidgets. Looks at the wall behind the cop instead. The wall’s empty save for a crack in the plaster that runs up to an old, battered looking clock. He swallows. “Um…no.” 

The silence that follows is stark. 

A chair creaks. “You are aware that citizens are required to report relocations to the local municipal governments within fourteen days of relocating, correct?” 

Eijirou’s shoulders hunch. His teeth dig into his lip. He. Honestly…didn’t actually know that. Or, well. He knows in theory he’s supposed to go through an address change, but, well. It. Wasn’t exactly a priority. 

“There’s…extenuating circumstances,” Katsuki says, voice low. There’s the rustle of paper, and when Eijirou dares to look, his eyes go wide as he watches Katsuki drop the flyer onto the desk in front of the cop. 

“I take it someone asked if they could post this shit outside?” 

The cop’s eyes narrow, gaze flickering from the flyer to Eijirou and back again. “Yes. A young man stopped in a few days ago. I told him we haven’t received any directives from the Chiba city police, but did allow him to hang the flyer under the pretense it’s not an official police posting.” 

Katsuki’s lip curls, arms crossing over his chest. He looks at Eijirou and inclines his head. 

Eijirou bites his lip, hands wringing. “That…that was my…my ex. I. Fuck.” His vision smears, throat going tight. A gentle touch grazes along his back, sending a bolt of warmth through him. He sucks in a breath. Coughs. “He…hurt me. Real bad. So I…I ran away—I didn’t take anything with me, I couldn’t. Um. Sorry. I know that’s probably bad, but I—I just—” 

Katsuki squeezes his hip. “Look, we’re working with the public prosecutor’s office to start up a case against the fuckface and try to get a protection order n’ shit. But Eijirou needs his permanent residence changed so he can call the Chiba police and get himself off the missing person’s list. Are you able to actually help, or do I need to file for some petitions to get this shit pushed through?” 

For one, long, horrible moment, Eijirou thinks maybe the cop will turn them away or—or—or worse, contact Yoshida, or the Chiba police, even. His hand curls into the back of Katsuki’s shirt, clinging, legs suddenly weak beneath him. And then the cop sighs, long and tired, and reaches up to rub at his scarred eye. 

“When did you move to Hinansho?” he asks. Eijirou blinks. 

“Oh. Um. A—a little over a month ago, I think.” 

There’s the scrape of a drawer yanking open, and the cop rifles around, pulling out a pen and a bright yellow notepad. He scribbles down a date, peers back at Eijirou. “Do you remember your individual number?”

Miraculously, he does. It’s one of the few numbers he committed to memory as a child—a thing his mother insisted on. So Eijirou rattles it off with ease.

“What was your previous address?” 

Eijirou gives it. The cop writes it down. 

“I take it your previous municipality was the downtown offices?” 

He nods. The cop begins to tap-tap more at the keyboard in front of him, squinting as he peers at the screen. He leans across the desk, plucking a phone from its cradle, and jabs several number keys, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear. 

“Hello. This is Aizawa Shouta from the Hinansho police force—is Kan in the office today?” A pause. “Yes, thank you.” 

Katsuki squeezes at Eijirou’s hip again, and Eijirou can’t help but sag against him, some. He directs his stare back to the cracks in the plaster, heart hammering against the inside of his ribs hard enough to bruise. 

“Hey, Kan, I have a weird request—I have a Kirishima Eijirou standing in my office right now, asking to have his permanent residence changed, except he doesn't have any of his official documents on him, and he’s currently listed in your system as a missing person.” 

Gods. Why on earth did he think this was a good idea? Why didn’t he just—just run when he had the chance? And it’s a stupid thought, he knows, because Eijirou doesn’t want to run, but he also wants oh so very much to not be trapped here in this shitty game of limbo, either. His knees wobble, and Eijirou tugs at Katsuki’s shirt. “M’gonna sit,” he mumbles. Katsuki’s brows knit, but he loosens his hold, and Eijirou all but collapses into the chair behind him, wincing at the loud creak that shudders from it. 

The cop—Aizawa, as he calls himself—spares him a second of a glance, lips pursing, before looking away again. “He definitely matches the flyer I have in front of me, yeah. But he’s in here saying he’s trying to escape a domestic situation…” He looks at them again, one brow quirking. “You have a name for your rep at the public prosecutor’s office?” 

Katsuki grunts, slumping down into the chair next to Eijirou. “Midoriya Izuku.” 

A few clicks of a computer mouse echo through the room. Aizawa hums. “Can you go ahead and fax me his documents? And, while you’re at it, can you send an officer for a wellness check so we can remove him from that list? Discreetly, if possible. Again, this is a domestic—if you have an officer that can visually verify his identity without any documentation, that’d be preferred.” Aizawa tugs open a drawer, rifles around some before producing a piece of paper, which he leans over the desk to hand over. Eijirou blinks at it. 

It’s a change of address form. Blindly, he takes an offered pen and, with shaky hands, begins to fill out the information. Katsuki helps, murmuring the address of the house and passing the document back so Eijirou doesn’t have to lean so far. Aizawa takes it, brow arching as he relays the information. 

And then he’s hanging up, another tired sigh echoing through the room. “My colleague will fax over the relevant documents I need to be able to process your change of address, and he will be dispatching officers to your new address to verify you are alive and well—I would advise going directly home and staying there until they perform their visit.” He scribbles something onto the document. “I will be…backdating your change of address.” His gaze cuts to Eijirou, razor sharp, and he says, “If anyone asks, this was done within the correct timeline.” 

Eijirou bobbles his head, the relief welling up inside him so potent he damn near chokes on it. “Th—thank you,” he croaks. Aizawa doesn’t bother sparing them another glance, resuming tapping away at his computer. 

“There’s no reason to thank me, since none of this occurred today.” 

Katsuki nudges him. “C’mon, let’s go home.” 

They’re halfway out the door when Aizawa’s voice rings out behind them. 

“I can’t exactly do anything currently about your ex, but. If he causes you any problems, don’t hesitate to stop by.” 

Eijirou’s gaze whips over his shoulder. Aizawa’s still typing away at his computer, the glow of the screen shining on his pale skin. Still, Eijirou can’t stop the wobbly smile from overtaking his face. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. There’s no response, but Eijirou doesn’t really expect one. He drifts back out into the warm late morning sun, hand entangling with Katsuki’s, something an awful lot like hope buoying him up above choppy water. 

⛈️

Crickets sing into the evening air. Yoshida’s shoulder digs into the rough siding, a sheen of sweat coating his skin, and he curls his lip as he reaches up to brush his sweaty bangs from his forehead. Ugh. He loathes the humidity, the way the grass tickles at his exposed ankles—just. Outside in general, if he’s honest. 

It’s…irritating, being forced to linger in the shadows of houses where the flies find him to be a delectable treat. Eijirou owes him something sweet for going out of his way like this, surely. Yoshida’s fingers twitch, the thought churning in his mind. Yes, he deserves all the accolades for how doting he is, coming all the way out into the damn hicks to retrieve his wayward songbird. And for his patience, too—for it’s this very patience he’s clung to that’s afforded him the discovery of the cage his songbird’s flown into. 

The house is…quaint, he supposes. Smallish, with a paved drive where a motorbike sits, helmet dangling off the handlebars, and what looks to be an attached garage. There’s a red bicycle, too, propped against the side of the house in what should be a flower bed but instead appears to be filled with weeds. The numbers on the mailbox match the numbers registered to one Bakugou Katsuki, who is the apparent house owner—a surly waste of space of a person, if anyone were to ask Yoshida. Why Eijirou flits around him, he doesn’t know, and just thinking about it gets his blood boiling. 

Headlights snatch his attention. A police cruiser, easy to recognize by the black and white body paint, slows to a stop, turning into the drive. Yoshida straightens, watches as a door pops open and an officer steps out, whistling as he walks leisurely to the front door and presses on the doorbell. 

A beat passes. Another. The door swings open, revealing Bakugou Katsuki’s irritating, smashable face. The police officer disappears inside. 

Time passes. Light fades. 

At some point, fireflies flicker to life, drifting lazily around Yoshida. He swats at them, lip curling in distaste. 

The door opens, and the police officer steps out. Yoshida can’t quite make out what’s said—there’s the jovial bark of something, and the police officer strolls away from the door and clamors into his cruiser. He watches the front door swing shut and the cruiser rumble to life, tail lights glowing a bright red. The cop lingers for some time in the drive before backing out into the street. 

Yoshida’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it free, a frown tugging at his lips as he glances at the screen. 

His heart drops down to his stomach. A notification from a file he’s pinned from Eijirou’s police report glows across the screen in bold kanji. 

Kirishima Eijirou Case: CLOSED 

8/22/2025 7:22PM

And then all he sees is red. 

🪸

It’s evening when the officer finally swings by. 

He’s nice enough, asks Eijirou to verify his individual number and his date of birth. And then he’s on his way, and Eijirou can sink into the couch, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. 

“You okay?” Katsuki asks, voice soft, low. And, what a question. Is he okay? He’s honestly not sure. Everything’s just so…so much, and he’s. Tired. He lolls his head to the side, shrugs his shoulders. 

“I…I think so. It’s just all a lot, y’know?” 

Katsuki hums. “D’you…wanna watch another movie?” 

And, a movie sounds nice…like a way to turn his head off, for awhile. He smiles, shy, and picks at a loose thread on the cushion beneath him. “Yeah, if that’s okay.” 

Katsuki rolls his eyes and leans to grab the remote from the side table, shuffling to lounge against the arm rest. “C’more,” he says, reaching for Eijirou with an open palm. The gesture, so simple, so bold, has Eijirou’s heart stuttering in his chest and heat scorching at his face. He bites his lip and falls into Katsuki’s grasp, letting himself be tugged down onto Katsuki’s warm, muscled chest. 

Deft fingers card through his hair, and Eijirou’s helpless against the casual affection—he melts into a puddle, eyes hooding and fingers curling into the soft fabric of Katsuki’s shirt. Heck, he’s hardly aware of what movie gets put on—it’s only the familiar notes of the backtrack that tells him it’s one of his favorite Crimson Riot movies, a fact that leaves Eijirou aching in ways he didn’t know he could ache. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, a shaky breath slipping past his lips. Beneath his cheek, Katsuki’s heart thumps a steady beat. 

“You’re too nice to me,” he mumbles. Katsuki rumbles with the chuckle beneath him. 

“You always say that shit.” 

“S’because it’s true.” 

Fingers scratch at his scalp, sending sparks dancing down his spine. Katsuki hums, chest vibrating with it. “Most people don’t bother putting me and nice in the same sentence.” 

Eijirou blinks, eyelids heavy. The tv flashes in bursts of colors. “Well, they’re wrong. You’re super nice all the time.” 

“Only to you,” Katsuki murmurs. And, oh, gods—Eijirou buries his burning face into Katsuki’s chest, a wounded sort of noise escaping him. It’s too much, the softness overwhelming him here. He’s overtaken with it, unable to resurface even when he feels the way Katsuki shakes with laughter beneath him. The gentle carding through his hair and the warm hand splayed across his back drag him down, down, down until all he feels is warm. 

He drifts through that warmth until the movie fades into some distant melody. Reality bends and shifts, solidifying only when he’s jostled by gentle hands. Eijirou blinks, vision bleary, body heavy. 

“C’mon, lessgo to bed.” 

Eijirou can only make a pitiful noise and let himself be manhandled upright. His arms curl around Katsuki, who chuckles. “Am I carrying your dumb ass?” 

He buries his face into the crook of Katsuki’s neck in answer. There’s another soft chuckle, and then strong arms heft him up. The music and light of the tv fades away, and Eijirou feels himself be lowered onto the soft mattress of the bed. ‘Course, Katsuki makes an attempt to pull away, which, draws a displeased noise from the center of Eijirou’s chest. He clings tighter, as if that’ll keep Katsuki close. A huff of breath tickles his cheek. 

“M’not leaving, I promise. C’mon, lemme in the bed.” 

Eijirou loosens his grip enough for Katsuki to clamor in after him. There’s rustling, and Katsuki leans away for half a second before shimmying beneath the blankets and curling his arms around Eijirou anew. 

This time, when he drifts, there’s nothing to keep him tethered to wakefulness, and Eijirou slips away, safe and oh so very warm. 

🪸

Eijirou jerks awake. 

Inky dark fills the bedroom. He’s turned around in his sleep, facing the room proper. Katsuki’s back presses against his, warm and solid, his rhythmic breathing a comfort. Blankets spill from his waist to the floor—Eijirou must’ve thrown them off in his sleep. His eyelids droop, and he shuffles, turning over to nuzzle against Katsuki. 

A thump echoes through the house. 

Eijirou freezes. Twists to peer into the bedroom. All he’s met with are shadows colored in hues of ink and indigo, with a sliver of blue cutting through them from the crack of the partially closed bedroom door. He wills his thundering heart to settle. It’s nothing, just the house settling. Eijirou breathes, tucks his face back between Katsuki’s shoulder blades. 

Something creaks. Eijirou goes tense all over. Tries to tell himself he’s being silly, to just. Go back to sleep. The house is old, sometimes it creaks and groans. Except, another loud creak echoes through the room like a gunshot, and light spills across the bed. Eijirou has a moment to peek, squinting against the sudden shift in light, when a hand clamps firmly around his mouth. 

“Don’t you dare fucking move, or this knife goes right into his back.” 

The gleam of a blade flashes in the dark, and Eijirou’s heart damn near stops. He freezes, gaze darting up. Yoshida towers over him, face cut by dark shadows and eyes glowing with a visceral anger that has Eijirou’s soul splintering to bits. He shakes, breath stuttering, as Yoshida leers down at him. “Hey, love. Didn’tcha miss me? It’s time to go. C’mon. Slow, now. Don’t you dare try and wake that fucker up or I will stab him, you understand?” 

Nodding is hard, but he does it. And then he shuffles, slow, careful, eyes burning and heart hammering a kilometer a minute. Crap. Crap, crap, crap—his mind races. Yoshida tugs him flush against him the second Eijirou’s on his feet, the sharp blade of the knife biting at the skin of his neck. 

They stumble through the house. Down the hall and into the living room. A breeze whistles through the space, and when Eijirou looks, he sees moonlight glittering off the jagged edges of shattered glass littering the floor. 

Yoshida tries to push him towards the sliding door. Eijirou’s gaze finds the glimmer of the ocean beneath the blanket of stars—inky and black and glittering with pinpricks of light from the moon and stars overhead. He thinks of the beach. Of watching sunrises and sunsets. Of water lapping at his feet, of the sand between his toes. Of firelight and laughter and the croon of a guitar.

He thinks of steaming, hot bowls of ramen and soft, warm smiles, and a gentle hand carding through his air. 

They stumble. The knife eases off his throat. 

Eijirou drives his elbow into Yoshida’s ribs, hard. A grunt echoes in his ear. The grip on him drops. Eijirou lurches forward, lunging for the couch, hands scrabbling for something, anything—

“You little shit—!” 

He fists a pillow and whips around right as a knife plunges through the dark, blade flashing. Yoshida roars. Fingers claw at him. Something sharp catches his arm, and a blaze of fire tears through his skin. Eijirou shoves, punches, hits, a noise caught between a gasp and a scream tearing at his throat. He grabs Yoshida's arm, twists. There’s the clatter of metal on the floor. Fingers grip at his neck and squeeze. They roll. The world spins, twists—Eijirou catches a flash of burning hate in dark eyes before they slam onto the floor, and—

Yoshida leers over him. Hands grip his throat like a vice. Eijirou chokes, claws at the floor, vision blotting out around the edges. “How dare you,” Yoshida seethes, “I told you to not talk to me like that! You ungrateful piece of shit!” 

Distant rain splatters against the apartment windows. Eijirou’s fingers connect with something smooth, cool, and he grasps it and jerks his arm, smashing it against the side of Yoshida’s head. The grip on his throat vanishes, and Eijirou shoves him off, scrambling up onto his feet and makes for the front door, slick fingers fumbling with the door latch, heart pounding a kilometer a minute, freedom within his grasp—

The air’s ripped from his lungs. Stars dance in his vision. Eijirou chokes on a gasp, blinks hard. His heart thunders in his ears and he scrabbles upright, gaze latching onto a groaning Yoshida. And. And, he doesn’t think. He lunges, throws himself onto Yoshida and rears back, slams his knuckles into flesh and bone. Once. Twice. Three times. Tears smear his vision, blurring the inky shadows into a mess of pale blues and indigo. 

“You can’t take me back there!” he cries. “I won’t—I won’t let you!” 

“Eijirou? Eijirou!” 

Hands grasp at his shoulders, arms, tugging him up and away and—and Eijirou fights, yelling, “No—no get off me, get off—!” except when he’s whirled around, familiar, warm, calloused hands grasp at his face, and Katsuki’s there with his burning, wildfire eyes. 

“It’s okay,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s just me. It’s just me.” 

Eijirou trembles, grasping at Katsuki’s arms, not quite believing he’s real. “He—he tried to—” His throat goes tight and the words splinter apart. 

A thumb traces along the ridge of his cheekbone. “S’okay, you’re okay.” Katsuki tugs him into a tight embrace, and Eijirou collapses into them with a sob. Hands card through his hair, soft murmurs echo in his ears. Eijirou clutches at him, clings to the person who’s become his safety with both hands, and lets himself crumple to pieces.

Chapter Text

It’s the cold that wakes him. 

Katsuki blinks, bleary, and rolls over, one hand stretching across cooling sheets, brow knitting. Eijirou’s not in the bed. He rolls back over, fumbling for his phone. The too-bright screen shows the time to be 2:47AM. A frown cuts deep onto his lips, and he swipes his aids, sitting up as he fights to turn them on and put them in his ears. 

The first sound he registers is the sound of yelling. 

He recognizes Eijirou’s voice, and his insides go ice cold. 

Katsuki scrambles off the bed, bolts for the living room. And, fuck, fucking shit. He fumbles, hands shaking as he smashes buttons on his phone to pull up his keypad and dial the emergency number. 

“Hello, Hinansho police.” 

“I need an officer at Chapin street, house number two-twenty-four. There’s a break in—the fucker’s attacking my—my partner. Fucking hurry.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. No, he jerks forward, phone clattering onto the floor, and grasps at Eijirou’s arms, tries to pull him off the fucking piece of shit he’s wailing on. “Eijirou? Eijirou!” 

Eijirou writhes, wild and terrified. “No—no get off me,” he yells, “get off—!” 

Katsuki whirls him around, cups his face, oh so fucking gentle. “It’s okay,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s just me. It’s just me.” 

Eijirou trembles, grasping at Katsuki’s arms with wide, terrified eyes. “He—he tried to—” His voice splinters, and Katsuki feels his heart splinter, too. He traces a thumb along Eijirou’s cheekbone in a gentle caress. 

“S’okay, you’re okay.” Katsuki tugs him in, then, clutching at him with everything he’s got. Holds him tight. And, Eijirou shatters, breaking down into heaving sobs and clinging to Katsuki as if he’s afraid Katsuki will up and disappear. And it’s. Fuck. It makes Katsuki wanna take a turn and start beating the shit outta the fuck groaning like a bitch on the floor. He cards through Eijirou’s hair, murmurs softly at him, all while keeping a glare fixed right on Eijioru’s shitty fucking ex. 

The fucker starts to wreathe and shift, and Katsuki clutches Eijirou tighter and snaps, “Don’t you dare fucking move, you shithead, or I’m gonna let Eijirou punch the shit outta you again.” 

He gets a pathetic, bitchy groan as an answer. ‘Course, Katsuki doesn’t trust the fucker to listen, so he pauses his petting to coax Eijirou from the crook of his neck. A mistake, because the shine of tears on his cheeks has a shower of sparks born of anger ricocheting through his insides. Katsuki swallows, hard, and cups Eijirou’s face, wiping some away. “Wanna sit down?” he asks, voice as rough as sandpaper. Eijirou nods a tiny nod. They disentangle long enough for Eijirou to collapse onto the couch cushions, whole body trembling. He hugs himself, something dark and wet gleaming on his arm. 

Blood. It’s fucking blood. 

Fury consumes him with all the wrath of an inferno. He hurt Eijirou. Katsuki whips around. The bastard in question’s on his hands and knees—of fucking course he is. Katsuki stomps over, plants his foot between the fucker’s shoulderblades and shoves him back down onto the floor. “I fucking told you to stay put, you piece of shit,” he snaps. “Don’t make me hurt you.” 

“P—please don’t.” 

Katsuki’s gaze snaps to Eijirou, who watches, eyes wide and glassy. He looks so—so small and lost, and Katsuki hates it. His lip curls, and he spears the fuckface beneath his foot with a glare. “Stay. Put.” 

Fuckface goes limp beneath him. Katsuki lifts his foot, resisting the urge to kick him between the ribs, and pivots back to the couch, dropping down in front of Eijirou. “You’re hurt,” he murmurs. “Let me see.” He reaches out, offering a hand. Eijirou blinks down at him blankly. It. It takes a minute, but he complies, shifting to offer his bloodied arm, and, fuck. Even in the low light the gash looks deep, with blood dripping down onto Eijirou’s sweats. Katsuki bites back a curse. “I need to go get the first aid kit.” 

Eijirou goes utterly rigid, gaze trained over Katsuki’s shoulder, face pallor. He twists, jerking up to his feet. “I fucking told you to stay put, you piece of shit!” he snaps. The piece of shit in question wavers on his feet, lips split into a wild, manic grin. Light flashes off the knifeblade in his grasp. 

“Yeah, well, apologies. But I have little interest in listening to you.” 

Katsuki growls. His mind races. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is bad. Really fucking bad. He should’ve fucking tied the bastard up, but that would’ve required leaving the fucking room and frankly Katsuki’d rather pull out his own damn teeth than leave eyesight of Eijirou. That decision’s biting him hard in the ass now, and Katsuki’s gaze flickers across the pools of shadows, trying to figure out what the fuck he can even do. 

Fuckass dickhead lifts the knife. “Move away from him, and I’ll be nice and not stab you in the guts.” 

Katsuki laughs, harsh, and moves to block Eijirou as much as he can. “Fuck no.” 

A hand grasps at the back of his shirt, tugs insistently. “Katsuki—” 

He doesn’t bother looking back. “No.” Moving isn’t an option. He’s in this, come hell or high water. ‘Course, his response only seems to amuse the prick in front of him, because Eijirou’s shitty ex snickers, one hand wiping at the blood dripping down his chin. 

“You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, aren’t you? I’ll give you that.” That crazy ass manic grin splits wider, and he takes a step forward, and another, shadows and moonlight dancing across his skin. “Unfortunately for you, I’m real stubborn too.” 

Katsuki sneers, gaze flicking to the busted sliding door. He reaches back, fingers brushing along Eijirou’s shoulder. “Run,” he says lowly. “I’ll hold him off.” 

“N—no, I’m not gonna just leave you—!” 

“Eijirou.” 

“Eijirou,” prick-mcfucking-gee mimics. “How cute of you to think you can save him. But no, Eijirou’s gonna stay right where he is, because if he doesn’t, well.” The knife gleams as fuckface twirls it like a freaky piece of shit. “He’ll sure as shit regret it.” 

There’s a sharp tug on the back of his shirt. Katsuki ignores it. He’s not fucking leaving, not even if he has to take a knife to the face. Which. Seems more and more likely, with the casual way this fucker swaggers closer and closer. 

“Last chance,” he croons. Katsuki bares his teeth. 

“Fuck you.” 

A loud bang bang bang—loud enough for even Katsuki to register—echoes through the space. 

“Police! Open up!” 

Panic glitters on fuckface’s face for a fraction of a second before he lunges with a snarl. Katsuki meets him head on, manages to grab the arm with the knife in an iron grip and twist, hard. The knife clatters to the floor anew and he kicks it, grappling with this fuck and trying to wrestle him back away from Eijirou. 

And then everything happens all at once. 

The front door splinters, flies open. Cops spill into the room, their shouts overlapping into a cacophony of indiscernible noise. Katsuki jams a knee into the inside of this asshole’s knee, sending him crumpling to the floor with a shout. He lets go, then, hands going up, and stumbles back, back, back towards Eijirou. A couple of cops pounce on the bastard—Katsuki gets seconds of bliss watching them shout and wrestle on the ground, cluffs glinting, and then rough hands grab at his arms, yanking them behind his back. 

“Woah, hey—! I’m the one that fucking called you assholes, lemme go!” 

“Sir, please, stop yelling. You’re just being detained until we can figure out what’s going on.”

“Like hell I am! This is my fucking house!” He whips his head around, gaze finding Eijirou shuffling away from a cop kneeling in front of him, eyes wild with fear and bloodied arm clutched tight to his chest, and his heart leaps to his throat. “Fuck, just—let me go make sure Eijirou’s okay. Please.” 

Except the bastard cop doesn’t fucking listen. Katsuki feels the bite of cool metal against his skin—fucking handcuffs, for fuck’s sake—when a familiar voice calls out, “Don’t bother cuffing him—he’s the one that called.” 

He’s released immediately, and Katsuki doesn’t even bother sparing a glance at the asshole that just tried detaining him, instead beelining back to the couch and shouldering the cop out of the way. “Hey, hey, m’right here,” he murmurs, hands splayed. Eijirou blinks, tension dropping off him the second he registers Katsuki’s presence. 

“Is…is it over?” he murmurs, wavering in place. Katsuki’s throat goes painfully tight, and he reaches up to cup at Eijirou’s clammy, pale face. 

“For now.” 

It’s a shitty answer, but it’s the truth. It’s over for now—but there’s still one hell of a mountain in front of them, and they haven’t even started climbing the damn thing yet. But. But for now, the piece of shit’s in police custody and no longer a direct threat. 

A hollow sort of victory when he takes half a second to survey the wreckage the fucker’s wreaked in the process. 

Katsuki throws the cop kneeling next to him like an awkward creep a sharp glance. “Go grab the roll of napkins from the kitchen. He’s hurt—we need a lift to the nearest emergency clinic, too. Fuck, I need my phone—” 

“I’ve already called in for emergency medical dispatch, they should be enroute.” Aizawa stands behind him, hands shoved deep into his pockets and exhaustion carved into the bags beneath his eyes and lines cutting across his forehead. He sighs, inclines his head. “I take it you don’t want to step aside and give me your statement?” 

Katsuki’s lip curls. “I can tell you whatever the fuck you want right here.” 

Aizawa sighs again. And, look, Katsuki knows somewhere logic still exists that he’s being fucking obtuse, that in order for the cops to provide them with the best, most iron-tight prosecution, they should separate to give their statements. But the very notion of leaving Eijirou right now feels like—like splintering himself into tiny fucking pieces. Aizawa quirks a brow at him, lips pursing. 

“It can wait until we’re at the clinic and your…friend…is taken care of.” 

A wad of paper towels thrusts into his line of side, and Katsuki huffs, rolling his eyes. He snatches the paper towels and busies himself with pressing them onto the gash on Eijirou’s arm. 

The damn things soak up with blood way too fucking fast. 

His gaze flicks to Eijirou, heart twisting sharply in his chest. Eijirou sits slumped back against the couch, eyes hooded and unfocused. Katsuki cups at his cheek again, thumbs at his cheek. “Oi, Ei, look at me.” 

It takes a minute. He blinks, tips his head just enough. 

“How’re you feeling? You with me?” 

Eijirou’s lips pull into a soft frown, gaze slipping away again. He sighs, a thing Katsuki feels rather than hears, and murmurs, “M’tired.” It’s a struggle to even hear him over the damn cacophony around them—all the voices, the crunch of broken glass beneath boots, the angry shouts of the bastard responsible for all this bullshit—and something twists sharply inside Katsuki’s chest at how…meek Eijirou sounds right now. He has a wild desire to just. Bundle Eijirou up into his arms and carry him out into the dark. Hide them both away somewhere far from prying eyes, somewhere that fuck will never find them again. 

It’s a stupid thought. He knows it is. Still, it’s here in the aftermath of it all that Katsuki understands with perfect clarity why Eijirou was so ready to flee, before, and leave everything behind. 

“Excuse me. Which one of you is injured?” 

Katsuki twists, brows knitting. Two women stand behind him, one of which has what appears to be a medic’s bag slung over her shoulder. Katsuki purses his lips and turns back to Eijirou. “Hey, the medics are here to look at ya’, okay? I’m gonna sit next to you so they can look at your arm. Okay?” 

Eijirou nods. Katsuki moves to the couch. He wraps an arm around Eijirou, who leans into him and lets the medics assess and begin to clean and bandage his arm. 

One of them looks up at a point with pursed lips. “We’re going to get this packed up as best we can to try and stop the bleeding, but you do need stitches.” 

He can feel the way Eijirou tenses against him. Katsuki squeezes at his hip in a quiet reassurance. It’s all he can do. And, fuck, does it piss him off, not being able to do more. Katsuki feels the anger roiling deep in his chest, hot and volatile with nowhere to go. He breathes through it, or tries to. 

Eijirou needs him. He can’t be angry, not if he’s gonna be here for Ei. 

So he stares off into the shadows of his ransacked living room and curls his arms around Eijirou, holds on for dear life, and hopes it’s enough, being here. 

🦀

The sharp smell of antiseptic stings Katsuki’s nose. He wrinkles it, glower fixed on a poster peeling off the wall across from him. The damn thing’s got a cheesy, cartoon doctor on it holding the most obnoxiously large needle, with kanji reading, Get Vaxxed! Ask your doctor about the flu vaccine today! Katsuki’s eye twitches. Frankly, he’d rather be here for a fucking flu shot than what he’s actually here for a thousand times over. 

Eijirou squeezes at his hand in a vice grip. Katsuki runs his thumb along the ridge of his fingers and tries to keep from wincing. They’re sitting side-by-side in this tiny ass examination room at fuck knows when in the morning, with a fluorescent light flickering erratically overhead and a doctor in ugliest pair of scrubs Katsuki’s ever had the displeasure of looking at (seriously, rash pink? Is this woman serious?) bent over the tiny examination table stitching up Eijirou’s fucked up arm. 

Supposedly the doctor thinks it’ll take around thirty or so stitches. It’s a long gash—damn near the length of his arm. Thankfully it’s not too deep. 

Eijirou presses his face firmer into the crook of Katsuki’s neck, fingers spasming as he squeezes Katsuki’s hand harder. His entire body trembles against Katsuki—fuck, has he stopped shaking once since all this shit went down? Katsuki turns, presses a lingering kiss to Eijirou’s head. Gods above, he wishes with every single fiber of his being that he could—could just, go back and undo everything that happened tonight. The anger gnaws at him, leaves him jittery and restless. He wants to march his ass right to the jail and throw himself into the same cell as Eijirou’s piece of shit ex and just. Fucking beat his ass to a pulp. 

But he can’t. Because he needs to be here. 

So instead he focuses on murmuring soft words into Eijirou’s hair and hoping he hears them. 

It feels like an eternity passes when the doctor finally straightens and sets her tools down. “Alrightie, dear, there we go. Let me get some things to wrap this up, and we’ll be all done.” She pulls a lever and her stool drops down enough for her to slide off and shuffle her way across the room. Katsuki watches her pull out this little folding stool to hop up on before tugging open drawers to rifle through them. 

Eijirou pulls away, then, blinking against the shitty, flickering fluorescent light. Katsuki gives his hand a squeeze, lips pursing. “You okay?” he asks softly. Eijirou bites his lip, head dipping in a tiny nod. His stare lands somewhere on the floor, shoulders hunching as he seems to curl in on himself. 

“I…I’m—”

Katsuki jostles at his hand, a scowl cutting into his expression. “Don’t you dare fucking apologize.” He runs his thumb along the ridge of Eijirou’s knuckle, squeezing his hand again, throat going tight. Between the two of them, the only one that should be apologizing is…him. Fuck, if he’d been wearing his goddamn hearing aids, he—he’d probably have fucking heard the commotion sooner— Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a breath. Lets it out. 

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, softer, gentler. 

“Okay. Let’s get your arm all wrapped up, dearie.” The doctor beams at them, her wrinkled face crinkling behind large, round glasses. She clamours back onto her stool, cranking the lever until it raises her back up to the examination table, and leans over to deposit packages of gauze and colorful bandaging wrap. “Would you like to pick a color?” she asks. Eijirou bites his lip. Points at the red wrapping. 

Katsuki’s lips twitch, sparks of bemusement crackling to life inside him. Of fucking course he picks red. 

Conversation lapses in the wake of the doctor bandaging the jagged line of stitches running down Eijirou’s forearm with knobby, wrinkled, steady hands. It feels like Katsuki blinks and then she’s done, lowering her stool again and yammering about the importance of not getting the damn stitches wet, especially for the first couple of days, and to come back in two weeks to get them out. “Feel free to give us a call or stop in if you have any issues,” she says, “we’re happy to answer any questions you may have. Otherwise, take care of yourself, alright, dearie?” She smiles, all wrinkles, and pats Eijirou on the back, before striding towards the exam room door. “Come, now, there’s a police officer waiting for you two out front.” 

Oh. Great. 

Eijirou clutches Katsuki’s hand tightly when they stand, his injured arm tucked up against his body. He follows Katsuki like a shadow, head ducked and hair hanging in his face as if it’s a shield he can hide behind. And, gods, it strikes Katsuki right in the goddamn chest, how fucking scared and closed off he is. He clutches Eijirou’s hand right back, clinging to it as they duck through doorways and shuffle down little hallways back to the closet of a front waiting room. 

Sure enough, Aizawa’s sitting in one of the rickety ass plastic chairs, his uniform wrinkled and hair in disarray spilling down his shoulders. He stares at his phone with pursed lips, though the minute wrinkle in his brow smooths when his gaze flicks to them as they approach. He stands, pockets the phone. “How’s your arm?” 

Eijirou hesitates. Looks at Katsuki. He tries to give his hand a squeeze, offer a comforting smile, all that shit. Tries being the key word, because Katsuki’s half sure all he manages is a grimace. Still, Eijirou smiles a fragile, wan thing, and dips his head. “It’s. It’s okay. Thank you.” 

Aizawa’s lips press into a line. He inclines his head. “Come on, let’s go down to the kouban so I can take your statements.” He doesn’t wait for an answer—no, the dickhead just turns and starts strolling out the door, leaving the two of them no choice but to follow. 

Outside is brighter than it should be. Katsuki’s nose wrinkles, head tipping back to squint at the rose gold skies above them, chest going tight. Fuck. He has no goddamn clue what time it even is—it takes several seconds longer than it should to pull his phone free from his pockets, and the bold 6:39AM flashing on the screen does jack shit to ease the shitty feeling trying to splinter his sternum in two. 

Gods, what a fucking mess. 

There’s a shiny white and black police cruiser waiting for them at the curb. Katsuki pops open the back door to clamor in beside Eijirou, the objectively correct choice, because Eijirou leans into him the second the doors slam shut, eyes drooping. Katsuki nudges him, murmuring, “Buckle up, Ei,” which stirs him enough to blink and fumble for the seat belt, but only just. 

They ride in silence. 

Aizawa’s gaze finds them in the rearview mirror more than once, but whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t say. He just drives, one hand on the wheel and the other curled into a fist against his cheek. 

Katsuki directs his own stare out the window, where scenery whizzes past in a blur. His mind races just as fast, a blur of thoughts and memories all jumbled together in an unrecognizable mess. There’s. Fuck. There’s so much they have to do. Like. Text Deku. Figure out what this shit means for their case. And, fuck, Eijirou probably needs to call out of work today. And—and his house—

His head aches, and Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut with a hiss. 

If he gets a damn migraine from all this shit, he’s absolutely gonna break into whatever shitty jail cell they’re keeping Eijirou’s shitty ex in and punch his skull in. Katsuki thinks it’s a reasonable request, given…everything. 

The kouban is a bit of a drive from the clinic—there’s not a clinic in Hinansho. The town’s too damn small for that, apparently. No, they had to come all the way out to Coruscant to get Eijirou patched up. He cracks open an eye, gaze finding Eijirou’s bandaged arm, and his throat goes tight all over again. Don’t. Don’t get him wrong, he’s fucking glad this was something they could get taken care of at the clinic, but…but, there’s a stinging guilt gnawing at his insides he’s staunchly ignoring if only because there’s been little time to think about it. 

‘Course, now they’re stuck here in a fucking car without even an annoying conversation of pleasantries to distract him. So. Katsuki grits his teeth and feels the bite of guilt digging into his insides with every puff of breath against his neck, every squeeze of his fingers. He sucks in a breath and presses his nose into Eijirou’s messy red hair, eyes burning. 

Fuck. He. He was supposed to protect Eijirou. Keep him safe. 

Fat job he’s done.

The cruiser pulls to a stop. Aizawa twists in his seat. “We’re here.” 

Great. Katsuki unclicks the seatbelt and goes to grab the door handle. 

“I need your statements separately.” 

Katsuki stills. 

There’s a sigh weighted with an exhaustion Katsuki feels. “I know this isn’t ideal. But you can take turns waiting outside—there’s windows where you can see each other.” 

He turns to Eijirou, brows raising. And, Eijirou, who clings to Katsuki’s hand with a death grip, bites his lip, shoulders tensing as if he’s bracing himself, and looks at Katsuki with a burning determination, jerking his head in a nod. Something kicks inside Katsuki’s chest hard enough he’s dizzy with it when he fumbles his way out of the car. 

Aizawa’s pulled into a little hidden drive behind the tiny fucking building, and the short walk around front has tension winding Katsuki tighter than a goddamn spring. They turn the corner, the windows gleaming in the morning light, and Katsuki shoots Eijirou a look. “Do. Do you want me to go first…?” 

Eijirou shakes his head. “I’ll go first.” He hesitates, watches Aizawa unlock the front door, before sucking in a big breath and squaring his shoulders. And, Katsuki’s hit all over again with this—this feeling that damn near knocks him right on his ass. He. Fuck. He wants to tug Eijirou into him, to squeeze him tight, feel the thunder of his heartbeat against his own chest and never let go. It takes everything in him to let Eijirou pull his hand free and follow Aizawa inside the damn building. 

The door shuts. Katsuki watches through the window as Eijirou lowers into a chair in front of the desk, back ramrod straight. Aizawa pulls out a notepad and a pen, mouth moving as he begins to ask his questions. Katsuki doesn’t bother trying to parse what he’s asking—he could, if he wanted to. Reading lips isn’t easy, but he’s done enough of it in his life. No, instead, he stuffs his hand in his pocket and pulls out his phone, tapping his way to Deku’s contact. 

He sucks in a breath. Lets it out. Glances back through the window. 

Might as well knock out two birds with one stone, or whatever. 

Deku picks up almost immediately. “Kacchan? What’s wrong?” 

Katsuki scowls. “What isn’t fucking wrong?” he mutters. His gaze flicks to Eijirou, and he sighs. “The prick chasing Eijirou broke into the house last night.” 

There’s a beat. And another. And then Deku’s voice bursts through his hearing aids loud enough to make him wince. “Holy shit, Kacchan, are you both okay?!” 

“I’m okay, but the fucker hurt Eijirou. Cut his arm real bad—he had to get a shittonne of stitches.” He thinks of the bloodied napkins he spent an eternity of a car ride pressing to Eijirou’s arm, and the anger swells anew inside him. His hand twitches at his side, his grip on his phone going tight. “The bastard’s in custody now, but I wanna slam him for everything we can.” 

“Yeah, okay. I—I’ll see what I can do to get on the case. Shouldn’t be too hard, since we’re still in the prefecture. But, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, this does mean we need to get everything in order sooner rather than later.” 

Katsuki stares at Eijirou, gaze lingering on the wrinkled t-shirt he wore to bed last night. Fuck, why does it feel like a lifetime ago that he carried Eijirou to bed? His whole body aches with a longing to go back to the place in time where they curled around each other in the relative safety of their shared bed, warm and content. He swallows down the lump sticking in his throat and grunts. “Yeah, I know. I’ll. I’ll keep you updated, or whatever.” 

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything, okay?” 

“Whatever.” 

He hangs up. Right on time, too, because Eijirou’s standing up and making his way to the door. Katsuki straightens. Eijirou pushes his way out into the sun, eyes rimmed red and smile still oh so fucking frail, but he seems…steady. 

“Your turn,” he says, voice rough around the edges. Katsuki hesitates. 

“If you need me…” 

Eijirou reaches for him, entangles their hands long enough to give his a squeeze. “I know.” 

He can’t keep himself from brushing loose strands of hair from Eijirou’s face, thumb grazing along the ridge of his cheekbone. Katsuki sucks in a breath, lets it out. And then it’s into the metaphorical lion’s den. 

Aizawa looks up from his notepad, expression a blank fucking slate. “I’ll make this quick.” 

Katsuki’s face twitches, and he slumps down into a chair, arms crossed. His skin prickles, and he resists the urge to turn and look for Eijirou. 

The faster he answers all the stupid questions, the faster he can leave. 

“Walk me through what happened.” 

Of fucking course that’s the first question. Katsuki glares at the edge of the desk. “I woke up to an empty bed. Checked the time—it was about two-forty seven. First thing I heard when I put my hearing aids in was yelling. I ran out into the living room and found Eijirou punching the shit outta the asshole who broke into my fucking house. That’s when I called the emergency line.” 

“You say the man broke into your house?” 

Katsuki bristles. “Well I sure as shit didn’t let him in! Pretty sure the fuckhead broke the glass on the back door—there was glass everywhere in the living room. You saw it.” 

Aizawa scribbles on his notepad. “What happened after you called emergency services?” 

“I got Eijirou off the asshole and tried to calm him down—he was damn near hysterical. That’s when I realized he was hurt.” Katsuki’s hands curl into fists, nails biting at his palms. A bark of a laugh escapes him. “He’s got, like, thirty fucking stitches. He told you that, right?” 

Aizawa purses his lips but doesn’t answer. Katsuki sighs. 

“I should’ve tied up the bastard or something, but I didn’t. And he managed to get ahold of his senses and pick up the damn knife he dropped, tried to threaten me to get me to move away from Ei.” 

“Threaten you how?” 

“How the fuck do you think?” he snaps. “Said shit about stabbing me, killing me, the whole nine fucking yards. Hell, that’s exactly what he was trying to do when you assholes showed up.” 

More scribbling. Aizawa sighs. “I’ve been in contact with a contractor to fix your front door—they should swing by later today if they haven’t already. Otherwise, I will let you know if we need anything else on our end.” He snaps shut his little notebook and arches a brow, lips pulling into a deeper frown. “I presume you two need another ride?” 

Katsuki glances to the window. Eijirou hovers close, arms wrapped around his middle and expression pensive. Katsuki huffs a sigh. 

“Yeah, we do.” 

Aizawa grunts. Stands. 

It’s nearly 8:00 in the morning when they finally get back home. 

There’s another cop cruiser out front still when they get back. A lone cop stands next to the busted front door—he tips his hat at the two of them as they push the splintered thing open and pick their way inside. 

Katsuki stills inside the genkan and stares. 

Shattered glass decorates most of the living room in a blanket of glittering pieces. There’s a breeze weaving through the house, tugging at Katsuki’s clothes, his hair. He bites the inside of his cheek, hard, clutching at the warm hand in his own as he tries to steady himself.

A breath in. A breath out. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Katsuki almost doesn’t fucking hear it. He whips his head to peer at Eijirou, who stares out at the chaos of their house with remorse brimming in those pretty, sunset eyes. A scowl screws onto Katsuki’s face, and he nudges at Eijirou, gentle but insistent. “The fuck did I say about sorries?” 

Eijirou bites his lip and ducks his head. 

Another sigh escapes him. Katsuki toes out of his sneakers and into a pair of unused house slippers. “Here. Put those on—there’s glass everywhere.” He points to a second pair of even lesser used slippers. And then he beelines to the shop, where he’s got a fresh broom and dustpan. 

He marches to the living room and tosses down the dustpan, begins to sweep. 

“Can…can I help?” Eijirou asks. He hovers close, cradling his injured arm and eyes round as he watches Katsuki work. Katsuki presses his lips into a line and jerks his head in a nod. 

“Hold that pan steady, wouldja’? Watch the glass, though.” 

And, one swipe of the broom at a time, they begin to pick up all the broken pieces together.

Chapter Text

The ocean breeze sends goosebumps trailing up and down Eijirou’s arms. He shivers, clutches the steaming mug tighter in his hands. Waves lap along the shore right at the edges of where his toes dig into the sand. Dawn hovers just out of reach, staining the edges of the inky sky a deep orange with her fingertips. 

He can’t sleep. 

Or, well. He sleeps, he supposes, but it happens in fits and bursts, peppered by random bolts of terror wrought onto him by memories of a biting, metal blade pressing against his skin. Memories that propel him from the bed and send him tumbling out into the living room to just—make sure there’s really no one there. That the broken door’s still boarded up, that the front door’s still locked. 

Eijirou’s pretty sure Katsuki’s not sleeping well, either. 

The first couple of nights since…well. Since, he’s noticed Katsuki not removing his hearing aids when bedding down. Eijirou’s tried asking about it, but Katsuki keeps brushing him off. Insists it’s fine. 

Which. Eijirou isn’t so sure. 

“There you are.” 

He startles, coffee sloshing over his fingers and drawing a hiss from his lips. Katsuki flops down onto the sand beside him, pale and sleep rumpled. His shoulder presses into Eijirou, warm and steady, and Eijirou sinks into the touch with a soft sigh. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Sorry. Couldn’t sleep.” 

Katsuki hums. Tips his head to rest against Eijirou’s. “Wake me up next time. Scared the shit outta me when you weren’t in bed.” 

Guilt slams Eijirou over the head with the weight of a brick, and he sucks in a sharp breath. “Sorry, I—I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

There’s another hum against his shoulder. Katsuki plucks the mug from Eijirou’s hands and takes a gulp, face screwing up. “Yeesh, you and your damn sugar.” He passes the mug back. “S’fine, I. I get it. Just. Wake me up, or whatever, so I know you’re okay.” 

Eijirou stares down at his mug. Bites his lip. “Okay,” he murmurs. 

They sit for awhile, watching dawn bleed her way across the sky. Slowly, the tide begins to recede and the world brightens. Katsuki sighs, pushes himself upright, his absence leaving a trail of goosebumps on Eijirou’s skin. He reaches up, pressing fingers to his temple, and grimaces. “M’gonna head back up and make some breakfast. Want anything in particular?” 

Eijirou bites his lip. Thumbs at his mug. “Whatever’s fine.” He chews on his lip until he tastes copper, gaze flicking back out to the inky abyss of water lapping along the shoreline in front of them, before it inevitably finds its way right back to Katsuki. And. And, it lingers on the dark smudges beneath wildfire eyes, on the pallor of his skin in the low, early morning light, and Eijirou feels his heart twist with worry inside his chest. “Does your head hurt?” he asks quietly. Katsuki grunts. 

“S’fine. I’ll take an aspirin.” 

Somehow, Eijirou doesn’t think it’s fine. But, is anything fine? He looks to the sea again as if it can offer any answers. All he finds is the calming, gentle lapping of water and the white caps of waves. He shifts, digs his feet further into the sand. One hand unlatches itself from the death grip he’s got on the mug and reaches to brush along the wrappings on his arm. 

“We should probably change your bandages,” Katsuki says quietly. When Eijirou looks up, he’s met with a hearth brimming with a warmth that’s almost scalding—the kind of warmth he’s been doused with more and more often around Katsuki. He. He doesn’t quite know what to do with it, this warmth. It’s enough to steal his breath and leave him gasping, floundering to stay afloat. It’s. It’s the kind of warmth Eijirou can’t quite believe he’s lived so long without, before. Like. Nothing is fine, and yet, with Katsuki it is if only because they’ve got each other. 

So when Katsuki offers a hand, Eijirou takes it with ease, letting himself be tugged gently to his feet. 

It’s bright enough when they reach the house that the haphazardly hung plywood is all too easy to make out where it’s affixed to the frame of the sliding door. Eijirou stares at it as Katsuki shoves the door open, insides twisting strangely. Stepping inside isn’t much better—when the door closes, the room’s eaten up by shadow. Katsuki has to stop and throw on a lamp for them to see. It leaves the house feeling…cut off, somehow, and Eijirou’s skin prickles with an unease he can’t quite shake. 

He finds his way to the couch, sinking down into the cushions with a sigh. Katsuki disappears down the hall. There’s the creak of a door, the echo of rustling and rummaging. When he returns, he’s got a couple packages of gauze and some medical wrap clutched in hand. He sits on the couch next to Eijirou, packages dropping onto the cushion beside him, and holds out a hand. Eijirou offers his arm. Slowly, carefully, Katsuki unwraps the bandages covering the jagged row of stitches going down his forearm. 

They probably don’t need covered, the stitches. The doctor told Eijirou originally to keep them covered the first two days—it’s day three, now, but Eijirou has no desire to say as much. He keeps his stare fixed anywhere but his arm, throat tight as Katsuki peels back the layer of gauze hiding away the broken skin and sinew borne of that awful night.

He. He hasn’t looked at it since the clinic. Can’t quite bring himself to. Katsuki doesn’t ask about it—he just offers to change the bandages every time, and every time, Eijirou lets him. 

“Deku wants us to swing by his office this week to talk shop with the case.” 

Eijirou blinks. Looks at Katsuki. There’s a wrinkle in his brow, a frown painted onto pretty lips. Their gazes meet in a blaze of sparks, his thumb smoothing down the medical wrap with a touch so tender Eijirou aches from it. Katsuki huffs, ducks his head. “He’s got a bunch of questions, if you're up for answering them. The bastard’ll definitely get charged for breaking and entering, maybe even for aggravated assault, but…we still have to work to get a safety order for you and prove he hurt you and shit.” 

Oh. Eijirou’s throat goes tight. It. It makes sense, he guesses. But…the thought of talking about it all—his heart feels as if it’s gonna rattle right out of his chest, body winding tighter than a spring. Talking about it with Katsuki was hard enough the first time. But. Well. He. He trusts Katsuki, and if Katsuki thinks this will help…

He jerks his head in a nod. “Okay.” 

Katsuki hums. Stands. “M’gonna start breakfast.” He stoops to scoop up the packaging for the gauze and the leftovers of the medical wrap and pads away again, leaving Eijirou to run his fingers along his fresh bandages, heart pounding and head a mess of thoughts. 

He looks for the sea, only to be met with plywood, and his soul aches. 

🪸

Eijirou chews on his lip, twiddling his pencil in his fingers as he stares down at the mess of sketches across his sketchbook’s pages. He’s trying to doodle some gulls, but the forms are off—the wings aren’t quite right, he thinks. Getting them right is hard, though, when all the pictures he has on his phone are blurry. 

Maybe later he can go out to the beach again and try to find some real life references. Or. Find some that’ll stay still long enough he can get the shapes down right.

The bell jingles, tearing his focus in two. Kaminari strolls into the shop, his large dasher bag hanging off his shoulder and lips stretched into a grin. “Hey, dude! What’s up?” 

An easy smile slips onto his lips, and he lets his sketchbook snap shut. “Nothing much—it’s been a quiet day, today.” Maybe he’s testing fate by saying as much aloud, but it’s the truth. There’s only been a handful of patrons frequenting the shop today, something Eijirou can’t really complain about. He…kind of needs the easy day, if he’s honest. Like. He’s happy to be out of the house—the normalcy of coming to work soaks into him like a salve on sunburnt skin, and falling into the routine of the day is all too easy to do. 

It’s just. Sometimes. Sometimes, he finds himself staring too long into space, head filled with static. Or, startling at a rogue shadow he’s walked past without issue several minutes prior, or jumping at the bang of a pot behind the partition. An hour ago, he yelped loud enough that Amajiki poked his head out to ask if everything was okay. To which Eijirou stammered through several excuses, because explaining why he’s jumpy and spacey isn’t something he’s capable of, right now. 

So yeah. No complaining about the slow day from him. 

“Yeah, tell me ‘bout it,” Kaminari says. He splays both hands on the counter and huffs, bag sliding off his shoulder. “I literally just spent the past half hour driving in circles just waiting for someone to place an order literally anywhere. Like. Come on, people, have we stopped believing in food?” 

Eijirou snickers. “Maybe! We’ve only had a couple of customers so far today.” He scratches at his bandage on his arm, nose wrinkling. “One lady ordered three boxes to go, but that’s the biggest order we’ve had, I think.” 

“Holy woah, bro, your arm!”

And, oh. Heat scorches at his face, and he jerks, tucking his arm against his chest, a hand splaying over the bandages as if it can hide them from view. He laughs, pitched and nervous, gaze darting to the corners of the shop. “Oh, yeah—heh, I uh, I just bumped into something. No biggie. Here, lemme go see if your pickups are ready.” Eijirou spins around, darts behind the partition. 

There’s a stack of takeaway bags on the usual section of counter space, which he fumbles to grab with shaky hands. He can feel Amajiki’s worried gaze piercing him, and Eijirou hunches his shoulders against it, turning to shuffle back out front. 

“Here, man.” Down onto the counter the takeaway packages go. Eijirou snatches away his hurt arm, plastering a smile onto his face like everything’s perfectly fine, because—because he’s a sea star out in the open, and vulnerability’s a seagull circling tighter and tighter overhead, hungry and looking for a snack. So he’s gotta smile through it. Be okay. At least for now, at least here. Because experience tells him it’s not safe to be anything else. “I’ll catch ya’ later, yeah?” 

Kaminari’s brow pinches. “Yeah…” He stuffs the takeaway bags into his big dasher bags, gaze flicking to Eijirou and lips pursing. There’s a tension crackling between them that’s got the hairs rising on the back of Eijirou’s neck, but he can’t find his voice to break it. So he’s left stuck in place, watching Kaminari heft his dasher bag and turn to make his way to the door, the silence stretching between them. 

He pauses. Turns. “You know…I might not have, like, pushed you to talk about things—I never would, obviously, I respect your privacy and all that. But. I dunno, man, I’m not blind. I notice things, y’know?” Kaminari rubs at the back of his neck, face scrunching. “I guess I’m just saying that you can, like, talk to me? If you want.” Kaminari waves a hand, an awkward laugh spilling from him. “Obviously, if you want me to fuck off or whatever, I can do that too, but, well. You’re my bro and I care about you and shit. So. Just wanted to make sure you knew that. And if someone’s like, trying to hurt you or something, I kinda wanna know.” 

Eijirou blinks, eyes stinging and throat tight. His smile goes wobbly around the edges, and he traces along the edges of his bandage wrap with his thumb. “Th—thanks,” he croaks. “I. I know. Sorry, I uh, m’not used to…uh. Having friends, I guess.” 

Kaminari snorts. “Yeah, well, ya’ better get used to it, my guy, ‘cuz you’re my buddy.” 

Warmth blooms inside Eijirou, and he sniffs, ducks his head. “I don’t really wanna talk about it, but, there’s nobody trying to hurt me—not—not anymore, anyway. Thanks, though.” 

“Okay, thank god—I was a little worried there, for a sec.” Kaminari laughs, rakes a hand through his hair. “Like, I will fight a bitch for you, but also, I am only a little scrappy.” He walks backwards towards the door, chirping, “Anyways, I’ll text you later—we’re probably gonna have another bonfire soon, so clear your calendar! Seeya!” The door rattles when it shuts, and Eijirou’s left staring after him, a smile playing at his lips. 

Another bonfire sounds fun. Eijirou shifts, stool creaking beneath him, and reaches for his sketchbook, flipping it back open. His fingers skim the page, the soft warmth he feels giving way to something more lively, something crackling with a burgeoning heat just beneath his ribs, and he bites his lip. 

Would…would Katsuki come with him, if he asked? 

Butterflies accompany the storm of sparks in his chest at the snippets of thoughts flickering across his mind, and Eijirou presses his hands to his burning cheeks, eyes squeezing shut. They’re stupid thoughts—Katsuki’s not one for socializing like that, and the likelihood he’d go is slim to none. Still, Eijirou can’t help but imagine sitting side by side in front of a crackling bonfire, feet digging into the sand and Katsuki’s head resting on his shoulder, or, or maybe his head resting on Katsuki’s, hands entangled together. 

“Kirishima?” 

Eijirou startles, whipping around. Amajiki peers at him from behind the partition, a dripping ladle in hand. “Could, um. Could you come watch this pot for a minute for me?” 

“O—oh, yeah, of course.” He slips off the stool. Amajiki hands him the ladle and disappears around the corner to the little closet-sized door for the bathroom, leaving Eijirou standing over the simmering pot of noodles. Steam billows up into his face when he lifts the lid to stir. He huffs a sigh, gaze slipping away to the old, weathered, tiled backsplash, mind wandering away all over again, away to a place void of all the woes and worries trailing him like an unwanted shadow. He thinks of a place where he’s…where he’s happy, where he’s loved by the man who’s given up so much for him, and he clings to this fictional place with everything he’s got. 

Because maybe if he clings hard enough, it’ll come true. 

🪸

“Do. Do I have to?” 

Katsuki makes a face. The kind of face that’s got Eijirou’s heart rate picking up and his throat going horribly tight. He sighs, reaches for Eijirou’s hand to squeeze his fingers with his warm, calloused ones. “In order to try and get you a protection order, we do.” 

Eijirou bites his lip. His stare finds the posters on the wall, their colors blurring, a little. “But he’s in jail.” 

“For now. But he hasn’t had a trial yet—he’s only being charged for trespassing and battery, right now. Which is only a three year sentence, at best, a hundred-thousand yen fine at worst.” Katsuki runs his thumb along the ridge of Eijirou’s knuckles, a soothing gesture he does often—one that has Eijirou’s insides going all gooey and warm in spite of the adrenaline buzzing through his veins at the suggestion Katsuki’s made. It’s not the first time he’s made it, and…Eijirou knows he’s already heard the explanation, knows he’s already assented to doing this, but... His throat goes tight, gaze sticking to the posters. Katsuki sighs again, softer this time. “I know this is all shitty. But I don’t want this fuck to be able to be in spitting distance of you. There’s a chance none of this shit will work and a judge will laugh us off, but I’m not gonna give up without a fight unless you tell me to.” 

A miasm of feelings batter at Eijirou from all directions. He clutches the hand in his tightly, eyes squeezing shut, and tries to keep his head above water long enough to sort through them all. It’s. It’s hard. He’s…horrified at the notion of…of talking about the things he’s endured. Let alone having someone document it all. Like. Dread latches into his bones, terror rattles his body and steals his breath, kind of horrified. 

He’s also angry. So utterly, bitterly angry—it chokes him, makes his vision blur, and his nails bite into his palms. He’s angry that he’s in this situation, angry that someone could treat him the way Yoshida did, angry that the system forces him to—to have to prove himself. 

There’s the gnawing of guilt for feeling horrified and scared, the creeping exhaustion as he stares down the tunnel of everything Katsuki’s suggesting, the aching want to just, hide under the covers and cover his ears until the storm passes over. 

But then he looks at Katsuki, who’s got that wildfire stare crackling hot with determination and he can’t help but feel it too, kindling there in the heart of his chest. 

So he assents. Again. Which is how he finds himself on the back of Katsuki’s bike, flying into the city he never thought he’d return to. 

Eijirou clutches Katsuki in a vice grip, tension coiling in his joints like a loaded spring. He resists the urge to bury his face into Katsuki’s back, if only because of the helmet. 

They head for the heart of downtown, where the District Public Prosecutor’s Office is. The office building sits across the street from the district court building, and is bustling with people—people streaming in and out the large glass doors, people milling around the large bike rack situated in front of the building, people crossing the street or meandering up and down sidewalks. Katsuki slows his bike, turns right into the garage. Parking costs a couple hundred yen, which Katsuki forks over without much fuss. He parks the bike in a small, innocuous spot near an elevator, killing the ignition. 

It takes a second for Eijirou to pry his hands free of Katsuki’s sweatshirt. 

His legs are wobbly when he slides off the bike, and Eijirou teeters a little in place as he fumbles to unbuckle the helmet. Katsuki takes it, slinging it onto its place on the bike handlebars, and snags Eijirou’s hand, giving it a squeeze. 

“Ready?” he asks softly. 

There’s a lump sticking in his throat. Eijirou tries to swallow, but it won’t go away. He drops his stare to the pavement, sucks in a shaky breath. He’s not ready, but. Will he ever be? So he nods. Jerky and stiff. Katsuki squeezes his hand again, tugging gently to lead him to the elevator. 

Down they go to the first floor. The elevator’s a rickety old thing—when it hits the bottom, it lurches, sending Eijirou’s heart right up to his throat. His free hand flies up, latches onto Katsuki’s arm, and he blinks as the doors slide open. 

It’s a short walk out of the garage, and Katsuki leads him to the sidewalk alongside the building that circles around to the front. The building’s several stories tall—enough so that Eijirou has to crane his neck to see the top against the bright sky overhead—and boxy in shape, like a giant rectangle. Dozens of windows dot the side of the building all the way up. There’s got to be dozens of offices inside of here, and, Eijirou’s no stranger to large office buildings. Heck, he spent years living here in the city, saw all sorts of office buildings every single day. Still, it’s a little mind boggling, thinking about just how many people must work inside. Is there…is there really that much crime in the world, to need all these workers? 

The thought bleeds into the cracks of his psyche, lingering even as they push their way through the large, heavy glass doors. 

Polished tiled floors echo the numerous footsteps crossing them. People criss-cross this large, lobbyish space, most dressed smart in business wear. No voices accompany the footsteps—this is a place of work, and the attitude is reflected in the atmosphere itself. Eijirou can’t help but shrink, a little, all too aware of the oh so casual t-shirt and cargo shorts he’s wearing. 

Katsuki leads him across the lobby with an air of confidence, wholly unbothered by the men in suits carrying their briefcases—he leads them to the large, semi-circular receptionist desk dominating the room where two women sit, one speaking softly into a phone and the other typing quietly at a computer. She pauses her typing when they approach, her glasses sliding down her nose as she appraises them. 

“Can I help you?” she asks, soft, quiet. 

“We have a meeting with Midoriya Izuku, a prosecutor here.” 

More typing. She leans forward, squints at her computer screen. Hums. 

There’s a mechanical click, and the badge scanner glows green. “Straight through that door, to the elevator on the left. You’ll want the ninth floor.” 

Behind the door is a massive room filled with open desks and cubicles. Katsuki pivots, tugging Eijirou to the left as instructed into a shallow hallway where two elevators sit. Eijirou stares at the gleam of their reflections in the metallic doors. Katsuki leans forward, smashes the button. His reflection moves in a blur of colors bleeding together to suggest shapes. Like a watercolor, in a way. Eijirou traces his gaze along the reflection, stare lingering at the space where their hands intertwine. His teeth dig into his lip. Heart thuds in his chest. 

The elevator pings, and the reflection blurs into nothing with the doors sliding open. Inside’s a small box with a railing along the back wall. Katsuki smashes the button for floor nine, and the elevator shoots up, up, up. 

They step out into a beam of afternoon light filtering in from one of the many windows. There’s  a plant beneath one of those windows soaking up the sun with its bright green leaves. Of course, turning to the left reveals another open office space filled with desks and cubicles, the whisper of turning pages and quiet conversation creating a uniquely bland lyrical backdrop. 

Katsuki tugs his phone free, taps furiously at it with pursed lips. There’s a beat, and a ping. He stuffs it back into his pocket and tugs Eijirou along. “C’mon, he’s got an office in the back.” 

Several people stop what they’re doing to throw curious glances their way. Eijirou ducks his head, sticks as close to Katsuki as he can without tripping. Nerves bite at his skin with sharp fangs, the sting multiplied by the dread cutting deeper and deeper with every step, and, gods above, he. He wishes he could melt right into the floor and disappear. Or, fuck, turn and run back to the elevator and hide away forever and never face the skeletons that haunt him again. Maybe if he goes home and hides under the covers everything will just. Go away. 

But the thought of prying free of Katsuki’s hand is worse. The steady warmth is the buoy keeping him from slipping into the abyss of self loathing and fear trying to drown him alive, the only thing keeping him upright on his wobbly, frail legs. So he keeps walking, clutching Katsuki’s hand in a death grip. 

‘Course, he’s not exactly paying attention beyond putting one foot in front of the other, so when Katsuki stops, Eijirou stumbles right into him, a surprised noise tearing from his throat. He blinks. The grip on his hand goes tight, and Katsuki’s shoulders stiffen, hackles rising. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” Katsuki snaps. Eijirou peers over the shoulder in front of him. There’s a guy blocking the narrow aisle between desks, expression blank as he stares back at them. His most striking feature is the stretch of pink, mottled scar tissue covering the left side of his face. The scar does little to detract from the man’s beauty—his sculpted jawline and piercing, mismatched eyes give him an air of aloofness that Eijirou’s sure snatches people’s breath away on the regular. He’s dressed in the same business wear as everyone else, and there’s a case box cradled in his arms. His lips purse. 

“Bakugou. I could ask you the same thing.” 

Katsuki tisks, hand twitching in Eijirou’s grasp. “We’re meeting the damn nerd about a case he’s helping with.” 

This gets the guy’s focus shifting to Eijirou, which, terrible. Eijirou drops his gaze, face ablaze, and shrinks even more behind Katsuki. There’s a soft hum. 

“Ah, right. He mentioned helping you with something.” 

“Of course he fucking did.” 

“I’m just here picking up some case files for the high office.” 

“Good for you. C’mon, Ei.” Katsuki tugs at Eijirou’s hand again, dragging him past the mystery guy. Eijirou stumbles, a little, nearly bumping into one of the many too-close desks. 

“We should go out to eat sometime,” mystery guy calls after them. “It’s been too long since we've hung out.” 

Katsuki growls something under his breath Eijirou doesn’t make out. He bites his lip, risking a furtive glance over his shoulder. Mystery guy stands in the middle of the room, watching them, expression blank again. Eijirou whips back around. “Who was that?” he asks quietly. Katsuki huffs. 

“Some asshole I used to work with.” 

Oh. Right. That…makes sense, he supposes. 

They walk past all the desks towards the very back of the floor where a series of office doors line the walls. Most of them have nameplates with kanji engraved in gold. Katsuki leads Eijirou to one off to the side that has a piece of paper stuck over the nameplate, Midoriya’s name inked in messy, smudged kanji. He grabs the handle and twists, throwing the door open without even bothering to knock. 

Midoriya startles, jerking upright from behind his cramped, overrun desk. “Ka—Kacchan! Kirishima-kun! Hi!” He shoves himself to his feet, his chair flying into the wall behind him with a thud, hands darting about as he gestures to the two small plastic chairs crowding in front of his desk. “Come on in! Sorry for the mess, I’ve been trying to clean up, like, four different cases at once—” 

Katsuki kicks the door shut behind them. “You didn’t fucking tell me half-and-half is here.” 

Midoriya blinks. “...oh? Oh! Um. Sorry?” He scratches at his head, fumbling for his chair and flopping back into it. “Yeah, he just dropped by today to pick up some case files for the Tokyo office.” 

Eijirou follows Katsuki to the chairs. Sits stiffly, wincing at the way the chair creaks beneath him. Midoriya shuffles through the many stacks of papers on his desk, brow creasing. 

“A—anyway, I have some good news. I was able to secure a warrant to search Yoshida Masao’s current place of residence. So I’ll be heading over there with a couple of officers later this afternoon.” 

“Shit, really?” Katsuki says. “Who the fuck did you bribe to get that pushed through? Mister Yagi?” 

Midoriya chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “We—well, Mister Yagi might’ve been…more sympathetic, but, um, actually it was the fact that Kirishima-kun managed to, ah. Backdate his move. It gave credence to the stalking charge I’m trying to pursue, so good job getting that done.” 

Katsuki grunts. “Good.”

Midoriya peers at Eijirou with kind eyes, then, pen tapping against a notepad. “I can’t make any promises…but is there anything from there you’d want me to try and get back for you?” 

And. He. He can only stare. Is there anything he’d want back…? It’s strange, but Eijirou’s mind goes utterly blank. He fiddles with the bandage wrap on his arm, trying to conjure up anything at all he could have left in that awful place. 

“I…I don’t think so,” he murmurs. Midoriya nods. 

“Okay, well, if you change your mind, just tell Kacchan to let me know. Okay?” 

“Okay. Thank you.” 

“Of course.” He smiles, but it’s colored with a regretful melancholy, and clicks his pen. “Um, I’m sorry, but this is the hard part…” Midoriya’s gaze flickers between him and Katsuki, brow creasing. “If—if you’d like to do this alone—”

“No!” The panic hits Eijirou like a lightning bolt. He clutches at Katsuki’s arm with both hands, breath getting caught in his throat and refusing to go down to fuel his lungs. His whole body shakes, his vision blurs, eyes sting, and he chokes out another, “No—please.” 

“Oi, s’okay.” Katsuki grasps at one of the hands gripping his arm, clutches him right back. “M’not going anywhere, okay?” 

Eijirou blinks. Once. Twice. Jerks his head in a nod. 

He doesn’t let go of Katsuki, and Katsuki doesn’t make a move to pry himself free. 

“That’s okay, Kacchan can stay—! As long as you want him to.” Midoriya scribbles something down and clears his throat. “I’m really sorry to have to ask, but, I, um. I need you to describe in detail the abuse you endured. Whatever you can remember about the different ways he hurt you…” He makes a face. “I’m not sure how much of this we’ll actually be able to use—I take it you haven’t gotten an exam yet?” 

Eijirou shakes his head. Midoriya nods. He leans across his desk, reaching for a pad of sticky notes, pen scratching as he scribbles something down. “Here’s one of the doctor’s I work with for um, for sensitive cases, like this. I can give her a call whenever and let her know you’re on your way over—I know it’s been long enough that most of your, um, your injuries have healed over, but if we can get any kind of evidence of healed fractures, that will help.” Midoriya passes the sticky note. Or. Tries to. Eijirou stares dumbly at it until Katsuki leans over to take it. 

“A—anyway. Whenever you’d like to start…” 

His throat goes painfully tight. Vision blurs, throwing the office out of focus. It’s only the gentle squeeze of Katsuki’s hand on his that keeps him tethered to the present at all. 

“Um. He…he would hit me, a lot.” Eijirou squeezes his eyes shut, breath coming out shaky. “Most of the time it was just—just a slap, y’know? He, um. He usually bitched at me for mouthing off if I said something that made him angry, and then he’d hit me. Sometimes…sometimes he’d hit hard enough to leave a bruise or—or bust open my lip.” 

Katsuki’s grip on his hand goes vicelike. Calloused fingers trace loose patterns up and down his uninjured arm and Eijirou takes a moment to sink into the feeling. It’s grounding, the touch. Reminds him he’s here and not…there. 

“He pushed me a lot, too. Would shove me down or—or into a wall or table. Um. I. I don’t remember what had set him off, but…but the worst time was the night I ran away.” 

Ghosts of memories dance across his skin in the phantom aches of bruises that have faded but never truly healed. Flashes of that horrible night flicker across his mind’s eye. They don’t leave when he opens his eyes. Eijirou focuses his stare on a smudge on the edge of Midoriya’s desk. 

“He’d pushed me into the table hard enough I had a bruise for weeks, after,” he says, voice quiet, distant. “I—I think he might’ve been drunk. He…he got drunk a lot. It made him meaner. But. Um. When he pulled me away from the table, he—he—” Eijirou swallows, sucks in a breath through his teeth. “—he pulled me by my hair. I. I think I tried to get free. I…” He reaches up, fingers grazing the scar on his brow. His hand falls away. “I remember ending up on the floor. He. He choked me, screamed a lot about me being ungrateful. I think I hit him with something to get him to let go…which. Is bad, I know, but I—I couldn’t breathe, so…” 

Silence follows. Eijirou can feel the heat of Katsuki’s stare, the shock flowing from Midoriya’s. He ducks his head, curling in on himself. 

Katsuki pulls his arm free and there’s one horrific moment of panic and—and then he’s wrapping that arm around Eijirou, tugging him as close as he can. And Eijirou goes. Lets himself drop his head onto Katsuki’s shoulder. 

“I’m really sorry,” Midoriya says softly. “I know this can’t be easy to talk about.” 

It isn’t. Eijirou can’t find his voice to say as much. 

“I…do have a question I have to ask. Just. To be sure our bases are covered.” 

He blinks. Nods his assent—his voice is still missing. Midoriya’s lips press into a line, brow creasing again. 

“Did Yoshida ever…um. Assault you sexually?” 

Eijirou’s head fills with static. “You. You’re asking if he raped me?” 

“I’m sorry—I have to ask. Like I said, I want to make sure all the bases are covered. I know this isn’t easy to answer.” 

He shakes his head halfway through Midoriya’s explanation. “No—I—no, he never raped me or anything like that.” No, Yoshida never forced him. Just. Sometimes he’d be too rough, or nag Eijirou until he relented, or—or sometimes would be demanding about it, but he never—not—not like that—

“Okay. Thank you, Kirishima-kun.” Midoriya smiles a smile that’s achingly gentle. “When do you think you would want to try and have that exam? The sooner the better—but I can understand if you’d wanna take a day.” 

Eijirou’s eyelids droop. Exhaustion drops on him with a suddenness that’s got him nearly dizzy, and the thought of stepping inside of a hospital has his stomach lurching something awful. But…gods, if he just. Does it now, it’d be like ripping off a band-aid. Right? 

He can be brave. He can get it over with. 

So he gives his assent. Midoriya’s quick to grab the phone and start punching in the number, makes the appointment right there in front of them. 

“Are you sure?” Katsuki murmurs in his ear, fingers blazing trails up and down his back. Eijirou hums, because he’s brave, because he can do it and be done. 

Except, maybe he can’t, because simply walking through the doors at the hospital has Eijirou feeling as though he’s gonna vibrate out of his skin. It’s worse when he’s told he has to go back alone. Katsuki presses a kiss to his forehead, bold and shameless and sending a bolt of warmth right through him, and promises to wait right there in the waiting area for him. 

Eijirou thinks he blacks out, after. 

There’s vague memories of a chipper voice, of a stethoscope being pressed to his sternum, his back. More of that chipper voice, the rough fabric of a gown pushed into his hands. 

He comes to crying on a cold, flat table, unable to breathe, and scrambles off it, clawing at the gown and choking out a, “Lemme out, please.” 

Someone lets him out of the room and hands him his clothes, which Eijirou fumbles to pull on. He’s not sure how he finds his way back to the waiting room, but he does, beelining past Katsuki for the external doors and flinging himself out onto the sidewalk, gasping at the fresh, city air, staggering to a standstill with his hands on his knees.

Fuck. Fuck. 

“Eijirou!” Footsteps grow close, sneakers scraping at the pavement as Katsuki pivots into Eijirou’s line of sight. His hands hover between them, twitching, his gaze burning with a worry that sears him right down to the bone. “Hey, s’okay, you’re okay.” 

A razor sharp laugh bursts from him. “No, I’m not! Fuck, I’m so messed up, Katsuki.” His body shudders, and Eijirou reaches up to scrub at the wet of his face. “I mean, I—I can’t even break a dish without having a panic attack, let alone let a doctor look at me. Which! Is crazy! Right? I—I mean, I didn’t—I’ve never—” His voice splinters to bits, and Eijirou hiccups, fresh tears spilling down his face. Fingertips graze at his arms. He flinches. Shakes. “I feel so…so weak a—and pathetic, and I’m—fuck, I’m so tired.” 

Those calloused hands of Katsuki’s trail up his arms, cup at his face. A burning wildfire fills Eijirou’s line of sight, and his breath hitches. 

“You’re not weak,” Katsuki says, vehement. “Shit, Ei, you’re out here doing the scary shit. So what if you stumble? You’re still here, right?” 

Eijirou sucks in a shuddery breath. Clutches at Katsuki’s wrists for dear life. Nods. 

Calloused thumbs smooth away the tears staining his face. “I see you,” he says. “All this shit you’ve been through, and here you fucking are, refusing to go down. That’s what makes you stupidly strong.” 

A match strikes in Eijirou’s heart sets it ablaze, and he surges forward those scant centimeters and kisses Katsuki. And, for an eternity composed of milliseconds, a euphoric bliss burns his soul inside out, only for it to snuff out at gentle hands pushing him away. Regret sends him plummeting into the ground and crashing in a million tiny little pieces. “S—sorry, I—fuck, I’m sorry that was stupid, wasn’t it? I—I’m sorry, I should just, go—” Eijirou tries to stumble back, but Katsuki reels him back in, and, oh, gods, Eijirou wants to crumple into the ground and never get up again. 

“Hey, no, don’t make that face. S’not like that, I promise, okay?” Katsuki brushes a loose strand of hair behind his ear in a move so tender, Eijirou thinks he might cry again. It takes seconds too long for him to notice the pink blooming across Katsuki’s face. “You’re in a shitty place, right now. I just wanna be sure you actually fucking…want this.” 

“I do,” Eijirou blurts. Heat blisters at his face, his heart. The laugh he lets out this time is breathy and filled with disbelief. “Gods, Katsuki, of course I want this. I…I’ve wanted it for a long time. I know I’m all messed up, and m’sorry, you’re right, I shouldn’t’ve—” 

He’s cut off by warm lips pressing against his. 

Bliss returns, and Eijirou melts in the wake of it. Katsuki kisses him with a tenderness unlike any Eijirou’s experienced before. Gentle, warm, so loving he’s dizzy with it—it’s as if Katsuki’s the pillow cushioning all of Eijirou’s broken pieces. It doesn’t heal him. It’s a kiss. Kisses can’t heal. But it’s a soft place to land after the raging storm he’s endured, and Eijirou wishes he could soak in this moment forever.

Chapter Text

Life is too fucking loud. 

Every tap of the hammer feels like a spike driving through his shitty ears. Katsuki’s jaw twitches. He glares at the stupid piece of wood affixed within the clamp on the table, skin fucking crawling and eye twitching at the brightness of the shop lights. 

It’s a stupid little sculpture. Cheap as shit to make, because these usually take no fucking time at all, and normally, Katsuki can pound out several of these knick knack-y commissions—which is ideal for making a quick buck. 

Something he very much needs right about now given the whole broken door situation. 

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, places the chisel right where it needs to be, and taps some more. The damn vibrations run down his arm like pins jabbing into a fucking pin cushion, and he stops again, hammer and chisel dropping onto the workbench in favor of scrubbing his hands down his face. 

God fucking dammit. Katsuki peers through his fingers, irritation only lending to the ever-present pounding of his temples. 

He needs to get this shit done. But getting shit done is fucking hard when his entire body feels like he’s been scrubbed raw. His hands twitch, the urge to rip out his hearing aids and chuck them across the room throbs through him with a vengence—fuck, does he want to make the world go quiet. His entire body aches for it, but…fucking shit, he can’t bring himself to. 

Shame and anger and fear cut at him like a knife, and Katsuki’s left here leaning against his workbench, cursing himself. 

This is fucking stupid. He should be able to just. Suck it up and do this. Why can’t he just suck it up and do this? 

A frustrated huff escapes him, and he shoves away from the bench, stomping his way back into the house. Maybe if he drinks some water or something, it’ll fix him. Make his skin stop crawling at the brush of his shirt’s tag and his head stop aching at the incessant fucking buzz of this stupid fucking house. 

The door slams shut behind him. Katsuki’s entire body twitches. 

He beelines for the kitchen, yanks open the cabinet with the glasses and grabs one. Goes to the sink and twists the faucet handle. Stares at the stream of water as it fills the glass. 

“Everything okay?” 

Katsuki’s gaze cuts to the living room. Eijirou’s perched on the couch, sketchbook balanced on his knees. Something warm and fuzzy bursts across his insides in a fit of gooey, sappy confetti, and he tries to ignore his heart kicking against his ribs at the way the lamplight glows against Eijirou’s tan skin. It makes him look softer, somehow, the light. Katsuki averts his gaze. Swallows. 

“Yeah, just. Needed a drink.” 

Eijirou tilts his head. There’s a shade of knowing in those sunset eyes of his, and Katsuki’s shoulders hunch against it, fingers twitching as he sips at his water. 

“...does your head hurt?” 

Goddammit. Katsuki coughs and slams his glass down onto the counter, face twisting. He doesn’t answer, but apparently that’s answer enough, because Eijirou leans over to set his sketchbook on the end table. “C’mere?” 

Motherfucker. Katsuki sighs, feet dragging even as they comply because he apparently can’t deny Eijirou a goddamn thing. He flops down onto the couch, which, feels better than it should. Eijirou shifts, hesitant fingers brushing through his hair and, oh, fuck—goosebumps bloom across Katsuki’s skin, and he can’t quite suppress the shiver that rolls through him. 

“Is…is this okay?” Eijirou asks, voice as soft and hesitant as his touch. It has Katsuki’s chest aching, and he swallows around the lump sticking in his throat. His eyes hood, some of the tension bleeding from him. 

“Yeah.” 

Eijirou combs through his hair. Katsuki sinks further into the cushions. 

“Katsuki?” 

“Hmm?” 

There’s a pause. Fingernails scrape at his scalp, a sensation that sends a bolt of warmth down Katsuki’s spine. “Why won’t you take out your hearing aids?” 

Tension slams back into him like a fucking tidal wave. Katsuki jerks upright, dislodging Eijirou’s hand from his hair, and hisses a breath through his teeth. All of a sudden, he’s a raw nerve, too exposed—it’s too fucking easy to yank out the anger to be his shield. “The fuck does it matter to you for?” he snaps, words too sharp. Eijirou flinches, hard and just as damn reflexive, and the regret is instant, slamming into Katsuki hard enough he’s dizzy with it. He grips the cushions, hunches his shoulders. “Sorry.” 

“No, I—I’m sorry for asking.” Eijirou fidgets in place, hair falling in his face. “I just. It. It seems like they’re bothering you…” 

Katsuki scrubs a hand over his face. Sighs. Either he’s getting too easy to read, or Eijirou’s too damn perceptive for his own good. 

Or, shit. Maybe it’s both. 

He peeks at the guy in question. A mistake, because his stupid heart melts into a puddle of goo inside his chest at the soft look trained on him. Fuck, he’s so gone for him. Katsuki forces himself to settle back against the couch and take a breath. Fucking christ, he’s not. He’s not good at this shit. But…but Eijirou deserves better than him being a pissy piece of shit, so Katsuki pries away all his pride and reservations by force and says the hard fucking part. 

“I’m scared, alright?” 

“Scared?” 

The laugh that comes from him is bitter. “It’s fucking stupid, I know. But, shit, Ei—every time I think about turning them off or—or—or taking them out, all I can think about is waking up and you not being there and—and—” He cuts himself off, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. A featherlight touch brushes at his shoulder, and Katsuki can’t help but lean into it. 

“I’m scared too,” Eijirou murmurs. Katsuki snorts. Drops his hands. 

“No fucking shit—you’re the one who’s been tormented by that fuck for, what, years? It makes sense for you to be scared, any normal person would be fucking scared. But me, I—shit, what business do I have, being scared?” That shitty shame digs into him with its serrated teeth. Katsuki grinds his teeth, vision smearing. He hisses, screws his eyes shut. “Fuck, I just. I can’t help but think that if I could hear, I—” 

A hand presses against his mouth, cutting him off. Katsuki’s eyes snap open, blinking at Eijirou, who’s suddenly way too fucking close, face pinched and lips pressed into a frown. “Don’t say that,” he says, voice cracking in two. “It wasn’t your fault. Okay? So don’t say that. Please.” 

Fuck. Katsuki’s heart kicks wildly in his chest, the room spins, his soul fucking catches aflame, the whole nine fucking yards. He grasps at Eijirou’s hand, tugs it free, and crashes their lips together. Eijirou makes a noise into the kiss, fingers twitching in Katsuki’s grasp. And, fuck, it’s too easy to swallow the noise, to entangle his hand in loose, soft hair. They kiss, over and over—it’s messy and fierce and dizzying, far more so than their shared kiss yesterday. 

Shit, more than any kiss Katsuki’s had, ever. Which admittedly, isn’t hard to fucking do—he can count the number of kisses he’s had on one hand, and if he gave a shit, it’d be a sad fucking number. He doesn’t. It’s hard to when he’s here, warm lips pressing against his own, hesitant hands cupping his jaw in a way that makes him ache right down to his goddamn bones. 

When they inevitably part, he’s met with a brilliant sunset aglow with something a lot like wonder. Eijirou bites his kiss-bitten lip, and it shouldn’t send a bolt of heat through Katsuki, but it does, and his breath sticks in his throat. 

“If…if it would help, you can lay here while I doodle?” 

Katsuki blinks. “What?” 

“Taking out your hearing aids. Or. Or turning them off.” Eijirou’s fingers brush along the ridge of his cheekbone before his hand falls away. “You—you don’t have to if you don’t wanna, but, I mean, if—if it’s because of what happened, I thought…” 

And, fuck, the way Katsuki’s heart squeezes in his chest. “Okay,” he croaks. Eijirou’s eyes go wide, and he blinks rapidly, shock carving itself into his features. 

“Oh! Okay.” A smile ignites across those damn lips of his, and he draws back, reaching for his sketchbook and settling back against the couch. Katsuki eyes the space beside him, trepidation tightening his chest into a vice. His gaze flicks across the room. A warm light spills across the space from the singular lamp Katsuki owns—the damn wood he’s used to board up the busted door blocks out literally all the natural light that normally lights the space. Which. Is annoying, because now the house is perpetually dark. 

But, there’s nothing hiding in the shadows—just the regular floors and walls and corners he sees every damn day. So, slowly, jerkily, he raises a hand to his hearing aids. The vice on his chest tightens, makes him hesitate. He sucks in a breath, and another. Grits his teeth. Decides to say fuck it and just pull them both out at once. 

It’s stark, the silence. 

Katsuki’s hands shake as he clutches his hearing aids, the living room blurring in and out of focus. Fuck, he almost forgot how good it feels, the quiet. It drapes over him like a well-loved, wooly blanket, and Katsuki sinks into it with a sigh. 

A hand waves in his line of sight, and Katsuki jerks, gaze whipping to Eijirou. He’s given one of those saccharine-sweet smiles that definitely does not make his heart skip in his chest, fuck you, and then Eijirou points to his hands. Katsuki’s brow knits. He looks down at the hearing aids cupped in his palms. Looks at Eijirou again, who points again, first to his hands and then to the side table, and—oh. Katsuki hands them over, watches as Eijirou leans to set them safe and sound on the side table. He looks at Katsuki, pats the cushion next to him, and, fuck, what can Katsuki do but shuffle to lay beside him? 

Somehow, he ends up laying with his head cushioned on Eijirou’s thigh, a hand running through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. Bliss melts him into the cushions. His eyes drift closed, and he finds it all too easy to float away for the first time in days. 

Fuck, is it nice. 

How long Katsuki drifts, he doesn’t know. It could be minutes. Could be hours. At some point, he’s shaken to awareness by gentle but insistent hands, and he shoves himself upright, blinking until colors focus into actual fucking shapes. “What?” he croaks. Eijirou grasps for his hand, presses his hearing aids into his palm. It takes a second for Katsuki to finagle the damn things back into his ears, and his nose wrinkles at the wall of noise that greets him. 

“Your phone’s ringing,” Eijirou says quietly. 

Fuck. He fumbles for his pockets, only to come up empty—his stupid phone’s somehow on the floor. Katsuki leans over to snatch it, squinting at the screen. It’s Deku calling him, and that fact alone has him sitting up straighter, thumbs smashing the buttons to both answer the damn thing and also turn on the settings he needs to actually hear the damn nerd. 

“What happened?” he asks. Deku sighs, the sound an echo in his ears. 

“I’ve filed an indictment for Yoshida. The official charges will be for trespassing, stalking, and multiple counts of assault and injury. It’s been accepted and processed by the judge and presented to the accused—except, he’s already paid bail.” 

A spike of ice lodges inside Katsuki’s chest. He stares at his phone screen as if Deku’s words will somehow change. Or, fuck, maybe he’ll laugh and claim it’s a shitty joke. Neither happens, though, and Katsuki’s left to spit, “You’re fucking kidding me.” 

He feels Eijirou tense beside him. Katsuki reaches over, gropes for his hand. Squeezes it. 

“I’m not. I’m sorry, Kacchan. I’ve tried pushing for a protection order—ideally, without Kirishima-kun having to be present given the nature of the case.” He pauses, sighing again. “Unfortunately, the judge refuses to grant it without Kirishima-kun’s testimony. He’s agreed, at least, to an interview rather than a hearing, so Kirishima-kun doesn’t have to be in the same room as Yoshida. But, if we want this protection order, which you know I will advise in favor of, he’ll need to come in and speak to the judge.” 

“God fucking dammit.” Katsuki tips his head back and scowls at the ceiling. Stupid fucking judges and their stupid fucking insistence on procedure. 

“What’s going on?” Eijirou asks. Katsuki looks at him, heart twisting at the glimmer of fear he finds in those sunset eyes. 

“Here, lemme put you on speaker—Ei’s right here.” 

He pushes another button, and lets Deku explain everything again. Which means he’s forced to watch Eijirou shrink, eyes going glassy and grip on Katsuki’s hand going tight. Katsuki glares into the middle distance and silently seethes, wishing for what must be the hundredth time he could just incinerate the fuckface into nothing more than a smear of ash. 

Every fucking time things settle, the piece of shit seems to find a way to ruin it, and Katsuki hates it. He hates it so fucking much. 

“When…when do I have to be there?” Eijirou asks. 

“Ideally, tomorrow—I—I know this is very late notice, though, so I can schedule this another day if needed. But, well. The sooner we can push this through, the better.” 

Eijirou’s teeth gleam as they dig into his bottom lip. He’s still clutching Katsuki tight as shit, but he nods, slow but firm. “Okay. Um. I’ll need to call off…it. Should be fine.” 

“Of course! Just have Kacchan let me know. And if there’s any changes in the case, I’ll be sure to let you guys know right away.” 

“Thanks, Deku,” Katsuki says, hanging up. He tosses his phone down onto the couch next to him and sighs, heavy and tired, and tugs his hand free in favor of winding his arm around Eijirou and pulling him close. “M’sorry.” 

Eijirou slumps against him, head finding a home against Katsuki’s collarbone. He feels more than hears Eijirou sigh. 

“I just…I just want it all to be over.” 

Katsuki curls tighter around him, as if he can shield Eijirou from all the bullshit with his arms alone, and hums. “Yeah. Me too.” 

🦀

It’s gloomy as fuck in the city when they find themselves there again. 

Rainwater drips off Katsuki’s coat and onto the floor, and he rakes a hand through his rain-soaked hair, lip curling at how damp he is. Eijirou fares a little better beside him, if only because he wore the helmet. Fucking hell, they really should’ve caught the bus, probably—looking like a pair of drowned rats sure as shit is not gonna help their case. 

Katsuki stalks off to the side and shrugs off his coat, tossing it up onto one of the several coat racks brimming with other people’s dripping, wet coats. His umbrella goes into the umbrella holder with about fifty other damn umbrellas, a feat and a half because Katsuki has to jam the damn thing in there, before turning to snatch Eijirou’s soaking wet coat from him to chuck onto the rack alongside his own. 

Eijirou smiles the wafer-thin smile he uses when he’s nervous, fidgeting in place. “Thanks,” he mumbles. Katsuki grunts. Reaches out to smooth at his crooked tie. The desire to latch onto that stupid, borrowed tie and real him in for a kiss on the forehead grips Katsuki with a fervor he’s not used to. Like, fucking christ, even his bones vibrate with this want. 

But there’s too many fucking people. So he resists, fingers lingering long enough to brush down the front of his button up before grabbing his hand. “C’mon,” he murmurs, “Deku’s waiting by the courtroom.” 

Getting to the courtroom with the judge requires going through a mini security check—easy for the two of them because they don’t have any bags or anything. One of the security guards asks the routine questions: do they have any weapons? Any illicit items? Cellphones? Do they know which direction they need to go? Katsuki does most of the actual talking, and leads Eijirou off down the hallway to the right the second they’re free. 

The place is busy as fuck today, with people filling the hallways. No one speaks, though—there’s a…a heaviness in the air, somber and serious. Everyone moves as if they have someplace to be, expressions carved to match the atmosphere. Katsuki can feel the occasional glance ping their way, but he never catches the gaze of whoever dares to look. 

Beside him, Eijirou looks around in a wide-eyed wonder riddled with nerves if the way he sticks to Katsuki like glue is any guess. He gives the hand he holds a squeeze. Eijirou squeezes back. 

Deku waits for them about halfway down the hall, dressed in his typical suit and tie, briefcase in hand. He smiles, dips in a shallow bow. “Kirishima-kun, Kacchan, hey. So, this is just going to be you and the judge, Kirishima-kun. He’ll ask some questions—feel free to answer them as honestly as you can. If you’re unsure, look at me and I can give you counsel, okay?” 

Eijirou nods, jerky and stiff. Deku shifts his focus to Katsuki, then, lips pursing. “You can be present, Kacchan, but you won’t speak. Not to advise, not to answer questions, nothing.” 

His jaw ticks. “You don’t have to tell me this shit,” he mutters. Deku only raises his brows at him, which, if they were anywhere else, Katsuki’d flip him off for. But they’re here at the damn District Courts building where anyone lurking could be a judge or a member of the defense, so he merely huffs a breath and swallows down the sparks of irritation crackling inside him. 

The courtroom is the same as any other Katsuki’s ever been inside—immediately on entering are the rows of chairs for the lay people watching whatever case occurs. Usually families of the affected, or whatever. There’s a wooden trellis separating the lay people from the courtroom proper. Katsuki’s gaze traces over the design—they’re pretty fucking basic, and, if he had to guess, done with a machine. His nose wrinkles. There is a little ‘invisible’ gate Deku leads them through, the only major difference in this court and the ones Katsuki’s spent his earlier years living inside of. 

At the higher courts in Tokyo, they’d enter the courtroom through back doors, with the trellis separating the court from the layfolk being an immovable fixture. 

To the right sits the empty bench for the defense. To the left is their bench, where Deku sets down his briefcase and gestures for the two of them to sit. Eijirou doesn’t let go of Katsuki’s hand, tugging it into his lap once they’re settled. 

There’s only two other people inside the courtroom—the clerk, who sits with an open laptop, gaze trained on them as she waits for the proceedings to start, and the judge. He’s a man Katsuki doesn’t recognize. Which. He supposes shouldn’t be all that surprising, since he’s never been to the Chiba district courts, like, ever. Still. There’s something almost calculated in the way he sits, glasses gleaming in the light, elbows on the desk and fingers threaded together. 

Deku pops open his briefcase, retrieves a simple, manilla envelope, and crosses the courtroom to present it to the judge with a deep, straight-backed bow. “Good morning, sir—Midoriya Izuku here to represent the plaintiff, Kirishima Eijirou.” 

Katsuki nudges Eijirou. He’s graced with a wide-eyed look brimming with panic, and he mouths, ‘bow’. Eijirou unlatches from Katsuki’s hand long enough to lurch to his feet and bow, stiff and awkward, before dropping back into the chair. Their hands weave back together all on their own, palms pressing together in a dual reassurance. 

The judge takes the offered folder and silently flips through the pages. His gaze cuts across the room, sharp and piercing. “Thank you, Midoriya. If the plaintiff can rise, please.” 

Eijirou goes stiff. He acquiesces, but Katsuki can see the way he trembles in place, hands curled into fists at his sides. Deku rejoins them quietly, offering Eijirou a tight-lipped smile he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“It is my understanding you are requesting a civil protection order from Yoshida Masao under the pretense of him causing you bodily harm. Is this correct?” 

Eijirou looks at Midoriya, who tips his chin in a nod. 

“Y—yes, sir.” 

The judge narrows his eyes. “Your counsel has made the claim that the defendant has stalked you with intention to bring you harm, including successfully committing bodily harm. Is this true?” 

“Yes sir.” 

There’s another pause as the judge tips his sharp chin to peer down at the documents in front of him. “Can you describe your relationship to the defendant?” 

“Um.” Eijirou shifts in place, voice wavering. “He, um. He’s my ex boyfriend.” 

“And has the defendant made you fear for your safety prior to initiating the bodily harm?” 

Eijirou’s head bobs in another nod. “Yessir—he, um. He’s hurt me before, too. That’s. That’s why I tried to leave him, sir.” 

The clerk’s eyes go round, her head jerking up to gawk at Eijirou—a crack in the facade. Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek. The judge doesn’t so much as bat an eye, which, he begrudgingly respects. Professionalism at its finest, or whatever. No, he just presses his thin lips into a line, head tilting ever so slightly, watching, assessing. 

Bare minimum, the man’s not a bigot—not openly, anyway, or else he’d have thrown out the case before they ever set foot in the room. But bare minimum doesn’t get them a damn civil protection order, and impatience buzzes at Katsuki’s skin the longer this faux hearing drags. 

He looks up at Eijirou. Beautiful, kind, brave as shit Eijirou, who, despite being fucking terrified, stands strong like Katsuki’s always known him to, head held high and determination glimmering in his sunset eyes. His heart does something funny in his chest. Gods, he wants to kiss him, again. How the fuck people function on a normal day-to-day basis while grappling with this kind of burning want, Katsuki’ll never know, but he wants so damn much he aches with it. He grips the chair beneath him in a vice grip, tries to refocus on the damn hearing. 

The judge flips through the documents in front of him again. “Is there any evidence of the defendant causing injury more than once?” he asks. Midoriya stands, then, bowing shallowly. 

“Yes, your honor—there is a medical report from Chiba General Hospital detailing what appears to be a couple of healed fractures shown in radiographs. My client was unable to document the injuries sustained at the time they were received due to the abuse and manipulation he suffered, but these radiographs are consistent with my client’s claims.” 

“And you are reasonably afraid for your safety, should the defendant be capable of sharing space with you?” 

Eijirou nods. “Yes sir.” 

The judge reaches up to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Katsuki can’t get a read on the expression on his face—he’s stoic as fuck, an impenetrable wall. Fortunately, the pause doesn’t linger, and he speaks with a steady, sure voice. “I have arranged to speak with the defendant later today in order to garner his side of the story—I will be reaching out to your counsel after, once I have reached a verdict. Should I sign this order, the defendant will not be permitted on your property of residence, your workplace, or within 300 meters of you in any public setting. Violations of this protection order would result in immediate arrest. Questions?” 

It’s pretty fucking straight forward. Granted, Eijirou probably wouldn’t know that—he still manages to shake his head. 

“Alright. This concludes our meeting, then. Thank you.” 

Katsuki rises, and they all bow. Deku takes a second to fumble with his briefcase—a second Katsuki takes to snag Eijirou’s hand in his again—before leading them back out into the hall. 

Outside, Eijirou damn near sags into him. “So…so did we win?” 

Midoriya chuckles lowly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Um, well, not yet. Like the judge said, he’s gonna meet with the defense and they’ll have a chance to argue their case…but I am optimistic. Judge Sasaki is very stern, but fair—he won’t ignore evidence when it’s right in front of him.” 

Katsuki squeezes Eijirou’s hand, humming. “He fucking better not,” he mutters. If at the end of this, their case gets dismissed, Katsuki might just storm the building to find the asshole and throttle him until he signs the protection order anyway, because fuck that noise. That’s not a thought worth having right now, though, so he forces out a sigh and fixes Deku with a look. “The second you know anything, I better get a fucking call.” 

Deku has the gall to roll his eyes, the asshole. “Of course, Kacchan—you know I will.” He looks at his watch and grimaces. “A—anyway, I have a meeting to get to. I’ll catch up with you guys later!” He turns and speedwalks off, leaving the two of them alone amidst all these goddamn people. 

“C’mon,” Katsuki says, tugging lightly at the hand clasped in his. “Let’s get the hell outta here.” 

The rain’s stopped by the time they make it out of the building. Katsuki wrinkles his nose, shaking off their still too-damp umbrella, mind entangled in too many goddamn what-ifs as he autopilots towards the garage across the street where he parked the bike. What if the judge dismisses their case? What then? He bites the inside of his cheek, wonders if he should invest in a security system. Or some fucking weapons. A gun isn’t something easy to get, but maybe he can get a baseball bat—

He’s tugged from his thoughts by Eijirou, who draws to a stop, brow etched and lips pursed. Worry tugs sharply at Katsuki’s heart. “What’s wrong?” he asks, soft and low. Eijirou visibly bites his lip, hesitating. 

“Can...can we go somewhere?” 

“Anywhere you want.” 

A hint of a smile warms those lips, and it’s like the sun peeking out from behind the clouds. Saying yes is too damn easy when it gets him a peek of Eijirou’s soft smile, and he realizes, belatedly, that he’ll say yes to just about anything for this man. His throat goes tight, heart thudding wildly in his chest, and he shoves the realization aside because trying to untangle the implications of what it means is too much right now. 

So he doesn’t.