Archive of Our Own ^beta

When a flame reaches the end of its bright but brief life, when does it turn from smoldering embers to extinguished ash?

At what point, amidst the burning, amidst the last vestiges of fuel and oxygen and hope that keep the flame flickering, does it finally, officially, objectively die?

Is it at the final moment where the dimmest ember blinks out into black ash, and the heat dissipates? Is it once the final wisp of smoke has floated off into the uncaring air? Maybe it’s long before any true symbol of finality, when the flame begins its slow decline from what had been a roaring, steady peak. The moment when reality sets in, and the flame knows it’s burned at its brightest for the last time. There’s nothing left to rekindle it, and there’s no hope. It simply burns away into nothingness until there’s only memory and ruin.

Eijirou remembers their flame as it had once been, built not on passion and the melding of minds. When he’d first held Bakugou’s hand and brought their lips together in the shadow behind U.A High, it had set in motion a chain of emotional events that he’d known, even then, would change him forever - but that wasn’t what he’d been thinking about. He’d been too focused on the falling to see the ground beneath him, and every time he’d looked into Katsuki’s eyes, everything else seemed to fade away.

They’d found themselves in each other, it seemed, and even now it makes him smile, because he’d never seen Katsuki so full of honest, genuine joy. Every embrace lasted a lifetime, every kiss lasted an eternity, and every problem seemed so meaningless and miniscule because Eijirou had Katsuki to take his mind off his woes. There’d been no pain, no exhaustion. Even full shifts as a hero weren’t enough to wear his spirit down. They would last forever, it seemed, and endure any hardship as long as they had each other.

Eijirou remembers when they’d found their first apartment together, and the blending of separate lives had begun. The furniture didn’t match and the WiFi was unreliable, and their senses of style clashed in a way that never left either of them completely satisfied, but that had been alright. They’d climb into their brand new bed each night and “break it in”, even hundreds of nights after the first time, as though each chance to explore one another was an adventure unto itself.

Nothing else had mattered, nothing but them. Even when the first cracks had begun to show.

It makes him shiver to picture Katsuki’s cold eyes after a difficult patrol, but Eijirou still has demons of his own, even years later. Being a hero means seeing some of the most vile, disgusting parts of humanity. It takes a toll on anyone’s mind to see innocent people tormented at the whims of sadistic madmen. 

Even Katsuki, who everyone had always thought to be so impenetrable, so above-it-all, couldn’t hide how he was truly affected by what he had to see.

It had started as a slight slouch, a dulling of his eyes, a slurring of his voice. When Eijirou would ask about his day, Katsuki would avoid his eyes, and dinnertime conversation had slowed to a halt.

Their shared bed, once a place for nighttime escapades and the kindling of their passions, had become simply a place to sleep - and after a few months of silence, Katsuki moved to the couch without ceremony.

And now, a few weeks later, as Eijirou sits alone in the cold darkness of an apartment he’d once warmed with the light of his life, he can only wonder what had gone wrong.

He can feel the tears dripping off his jaw and staining the thighs of his sweatpants, but what does that matter? Katsuki’s all but gone, the one person who had kept Eijirou sane throughout all of the hardships he’d had to endure over the years. The one person he’d always been able to rely on had turned cold so quickly, so easily, and nothing feels the same.

Eijirou looks around through watery eyes, and it’s as though he’s really seeing the place for what it truly is. The wallpaper’s peeling and the windowsills are busted, the mantle’s dusty and their framed photos are poorly spaced. The draft that blows through the poorly sealed door to the balcony doesn’t feel like a mild inconvenience anymore.

He isn’t “home” anymore, and that’s scarier than any villain could ever be.

There’s a moment of quiet as Eijirou looks down toward his phone, blinking with messages that don’t matter. None of them are from Katsuki, and none of them are worthy of his attention.

The clock on the wall is never right, and he has to do a series of calculations in his head to figure out what the actual time is. Katsuki should have been home from patrol an hour ago, he’s certain of that, but Eijirou doesn’t feel the sharp pain of fear or the throbbing of dread, it’s just...numbness. That’s all there is, numbness, and the realization that he’s numb just makes it worse. The realization that Katsuki isn't home on time, and that Eijirou doesn't expect him to be.

He pulls his knees up to his face and uses them to shut out the rest of the world, staining his sweats with fresh wetness that he hadn’t been aware of, trying to keep calm and quiet as waves of anguish rush in to bury the numbness. It’s a feeling he’s become used to, the excruciating coldness that comes with sadness too painful to measure. The helpless feeling of drowning on dry land, without warmth, without light, and without hope. He clenches his hands around his own arms, but the dim pain of his fingernails digging into his skin isn’t enough to break him out of the dark.

It’s a suffering too terrible to name, and Eijirou has to remind himself to breathe, despite wishing he never had to breathe again.

When he reaches up to grasp his own chest in a moment of despair, certain his heart is about to burst out of his chest, he’s surprised to feel it still beating beneath his hand. Still rhythmic, no matter how fast. Still hammering away and pushing the lifeblood through his veins. It reminds him that he’s still alive.

When the front door opens and the illumination from the outside lamps pours across the threshold, Eijirou’s head snaps to the side as though he’s heard a gunshot. There’s a spiky-haired, slouch-shouldered young man standing there with a duffel bag distorting his silhouette, his head tilted to the side. Eijirou doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s exhausted. Katsuki enters, dragging his boots across the hardwood in an awkward half-shuffle that stings Eijirou’s ears, and drops his bag by the door.

The bag’s full to bursting with costumes, equipment, and whatever else Katsuki had decided to bring home with him, but it won’t be unpacked. It won’t even be examined. It’ll lay there among the shoes, next to the vacuum cleaner with the damaged cord, until Katsuki leaves the next day.

Eijirou tries to speak up when Katsuki walks in, but the utterly blank look in Katsuki’s eyes discourages him from saying a thing. It’s a look he’s grown painfully accustomed to seeing. 

There’s no hellos or good evenings or how was your days, and Katsuki continues that tired walk into the dim kitchen and opens the creaky cupboard doors. There’s a quarter-full bag of rice, a bottle of fish sauce, and an unlabelled silver tin of something left behind by the previous residents. A house fly buzzes quietly as it circles Katsuki’s head and flies off.

Months ago, it might have been a minor argument. It’s Eijirou’s job to grab groceries on his way home, since he gets off work while the sun’s still up. He’s forgotten plenty of times, and Katsuki’s chewed him out plenty of times, but there’s no argument now. The blank look in Katsuki’s eyes doesn’t waver, flicker, or shift. He doesn’t even look like he’s focused on the cabinet at all. There’s no fire in him, not anymore, and the only sign that he’s even slightly mentally present is a slight twitching of his fingers against the cupboard knobs.

“We don’t have any food.”

The flat timbre of his voice makes Eijirou shiver more than any savage shout ever could.

The cupboards close with a hollow sound, and Katsuki pulls off his coat to drape it over a chair. There’s bruises and scrapes on his arms accompanying the usual scars, but Eijirou bites his tongue when his lips move to ask about the fresh marks. It’s almost instinctual, but he knows he won’t get an answer from Katsuki. He might not get any response at all.

“I think we should go out then,” Eijirou says slowly, his voice cracking at the beginning of the sentence from disuse and nervousness. He’s timid around his boyfriend. That’s a red flag in and of itself, but he presses on despite his quickening pulse. “If there’s no food, that makes sense, right? We should go get something. It’ll be nice, just the two of us.”

His inflection makes it sound more like a question than a statement.

Katsuki looks up, his arms spread and palms pressed against the cheap countertop, leaning against it to relieve his exhausted body of its heavy burden. The dim overhead light is beaming down on him like a singular moonbeam, cascading past facial features that look like they’ve seen war - which, for all intents and purposes, they probably have. Katsuki looks tired, the particular brand of tired that comes from witnessing things no one should have to see, and witnessing them well beyond one man’s breaking point. Eijirou can see his soul through those blank, awful eyes that had once surged with passion and vigor.

He sees himself reflected in those eyes, he sees their relationship and what little remains of it, bleeding out into the night. Needles of anguish stab at him, and for a moment, there’s a strong consideration to walk out through the front door and never look back.

But he doesn’t. He stays, despite half of his mind begging him to go, to get away from this wretched house and this person who’s caused him so much irreparable grief. He stays and presses on, licking his lips and wishing his quirk extended to hardening his heart as well as his flesh. “We’re going out,” he repeats with a little more conviction. “We’re going out to that place on the corner downtown. The one Yaoyorozu recommended. It’ll be nice to get out again, we haven’t done anything together in a long time.”

As he expects, and as he’d feared, Katsuki doesn’t put up a fight. The blond inclines his head and dips his chin toward his collarbone, shrouding his face from its one source of light. There’s no tension in his shoulders, no strength in his body. There’s no fight in him. “Fine,” Katsuki replies under his breath, and he moves into the bathroom like a specter.

Eijirou hears the old pipes groaning as they ferry water through the walls, and he stands, trying to suppress his rampant insecurities as he tries to find something to wear. He’s got to pick something striking without being too over the top, something with subtlety but also something that’ll catch Katsuki’s eye. To his own bewilderment, Eijirou cracks a smile as he rapidly rummages through his side of their cramped closet, tossing aside cheesy ties and parts of an old cowboy Halloween costume. This is a chance to win Katsuki back. This is his chance to make everything right, to have the life he’d thought he would have after graduation. If he can remind Katsuki why they’d fallen in love to begin with, then there’s hope. 

The closet’s small and full of shit they haven’t worn in months, years even, and in less than a minute there’s a small pile of dissatisfaction laying on the floor around him. None of his clothes fit what he needs, even the fancy stuff. He decides he’ll need to improvise.

He’s never been very good at improvisation.

It’s a mess, the hideous amalgamation of clothes he’d put on, but he feels like himself. He catches a glimpse of Katsuki’s half bewildered, half exasperated glance as they climb into their car, but no amount of anxiety is enough to take the beaming grin off of Eijirou’s face. His jacket’s too light for his pants, he’s wearing white socks with black shoes, and his tie has little Christmas elves on it, but Eijirou doesn’t care; he’s got his chance to make things right for the first time in a long time.

The tires slosh through dark puddles from a recent drizzle, and Eijirou watches the streetlamps as they go by, painting the night with a hazy artificial yellow. He turns and glances out of the corner of his eye to watch Bakugou, driving with absolute focus, even though they’re one of the few cars out on the streets. The streetlamps wash over him one by one as they roll past, alternating with the shadows, hiding his vacant expression only to reveal it again.

While Eijirou looks a mess, Katsuki certainly doesn’t; even with everything that’s happened and whatever must be racing around inside that inscrutable mind, he’s impeccably dressed in a custom-fitted suit that makes Eijirou’s stomach flutter. It’s an outfit he only wears on special occasions, and this occasion is more than special, at least to Eijirou.

Katsuki sees him looking and looks back, but he doesn’t smile when Eijirou does. He just shifts his eyes back to the road and drives on, completely unconcerned with everything else, and Eijirou feels something prickle on the back of his neck.

The road’s bumpy and they hit almost every red light, but Katsuki doesn’t protest when Eijirou puts a hand to the stereo and turns on some music. He chooses a weird indie station that’s half static, but he can almost sing along with the words that are actually discernible.

The beat is good, and though Katsuki doesn’t do anything to indicate he cares about what’s going on, he doesn’t explicitly tell Eijirou to stop. It could be worse.

There’s a different reality inside that car, a reality that doesn’t correspond with the cold darkness that had filled their home. The car’s warm and comfortable, and Eijirou doesn’t care when the seatbelt seizes because he’s dancing too much. He doesn’t care that Katsuki gets out of the car without looking at him or saying a word, and he doesn’t care when they’re immediately accosted for autographs and fan questions. Katsuki gives them the finger and a scowl that sends a few of the more timid ones scurrying for their vehicles.

The nature of hero work is that it often segregates the heroes from those they protect, and it’s something Eijirou still isn’t quite used to - the grandiose, almost forced generosity of shop owners and restaurant managers annoys him almost as much as it annoys Katsuki. It feels performative, and Eijirou feels his good mood dull as they’re led to a private booth by a man who grins too widely and looks around too frequently.

Eijirou winces as he slides into the booth, no longer smiling, but trying his best all the same. “Are you hungry for anything in particular, Kat?”

“No,” Katsuki replies, looking out the window into the wet night, leaning his face against a clenched fist, looking utterly uninterested in everything going on around them. The only change in his expression is a hostile hiss when a woman comes by their booth and introduces herself as a journalist, but a combination of Katsuki’s animosity and Eijirou’s comparatively gentle refusal is enough to drive her away.

The restaurant is everything Eijirou had thought it would be, but there’s a disquieting sense of wrongness in the air that Eijirou can’t quite place. The temperature is a little too warm, and the bread isn’t as soft as he’d like, and the booth isn’t the most comfortable place he’s ever sat, but there’s something else that he can’t see. 

It’s a feeling that something terrible is going to happen, and Eijirou swallows thickly as he takes the menu in both hands, trying to distract himself with the themed names of the dishes.

He’s mulling over something that resembles grilled chicken with some kind of fancy sauce when Katsuki speaks again, fingers parting around his jaw just enough for his lips to move unimpeded. “I’m not hungry.”

It’s a lie, an obvious lie. Less than an hour ago, Katsuki had been going through the cupboards for something to eat after a long, presumably arduous shift. That had been the entire reason for this adventure. Katsuki was lying to his face, still looking sullenly at one flickering streetlight on the other side of the parking lot, trying to pretend like nothing was bothering him.

Eijirou has nothing to say back to him, and his eyes once again dive down to the menu as he tries to push down everything he wants to say.

He’s probably just tired, Eijirou says to himself, not really paying attention as he pretends to look over the wine selection. He’s probably just hungry. There’s nothing wrong, even though Eijirou’s fingers are beginning to tremble and his feet are beginning to bounce against the floor with a noticeable sound, and he can feel his forehead twitching beneath the spiky hairstyle he’d gelled into place just for this date.

There’s nothing wrong. There are tears in Eijirou’s eyes, and there’s a lump in his throat, but there’s nothing wrong. There’s never been anything wrong.

“You’re crying.”

Katsuki’s voice is as flat as it had been when he’d noted the lack of food in their home, like the two statements were perfectly identical in their significance. That’s what Eijirou’s emotions are to him now, a minor inconvenience, like having to go out for food.

And he still isn’t looking at Eijirou.

It hits Eijirou then, as tears start rolling down his cheeks, in full view of the few diners who can see them in their private booth. They’d lost themselves. Somewhere behind the quirks, the masks, the aliases, the fighting, the scars, the bruises, the “I love yous” and the “I knows”, they’d lost themselves, and they’d lost each other, and Eijirou suddenly realizes that he doesn’t recognize the person at the other end of the table. He’d fallen for someone passionate and full of life, but the boy moodily staring out the window is just a shell of what he’d once been. Eijirou feels his heart swell, not with love as it once had whenever he met Katsuki’s eyes, but with fear; maybe there’s no hope for them after all.

Maybe there never had been.

Eijirou sets the menu down at that moment, laying it flat on the table and pinning it there with his fingertips, willing himself to stop crying, not for Katsuki’s sake, but for himself. If this is the end, he’s going to face it with dignity, as a hero. He clears his eyes with his knuckles and fights through the thickness of his own voice to speak. “Sorry. I’ll stop.”

“Don’t be sorry.” 

Eijirou winces as though he’s been pinched or stung, and looks up through still-bleary eyes to Katsuki’s face.

Katsuki’s sitting there in his immaculate black suit and perfectly imperfect hair, leaning on his hand with a casualness that almost makes Eijirou feel bad for being upset. It’s a gift Katsuki has, the ability to make anyone feel like they’re wrong without ever saying a word. He speaks again in that flat, emotionless timbre, his eyes on Eijirou for the first time in a while. 

But when he speaks, it isn’t with the intent to hurt Eijirou. That much is obvious quite quickly.

“Don’t ever be sorry for how you feel,” Katsuki murmurs. His eyes flash with an emotion that Eijirou can’t understand. “Don’t let anybody tell you how to feel. Even me. Especially not me.”

Eijirou hesitates, his conviction wavering in the face of the person he knows he’s lost. “But what if what I’m feeling is about you?”

That makes Katsuki pause, and that same feeling flashes across his eyes. It lingers for a second, but Eijirou still doesn’t understand, but it’s already gone, like a flower in the wind. “What are you feeling about me then, Ei? Go ahead.”

It’s permission, and Eijirou hadn’t expected he’d need permission to say what had been on his mind for so long, but it helps in some strange way to hear that predetermined acceptance. 

It all comes up at once, a veritable geyser of emotions and distress, building in Eijirou’s chest so quickly he’s sure he’s going to burst. It’s too much, too much for anyone, much less Eijirou, who’s spent so long wondering if he’d ever have a moment to speak. There are so many questions to ask and declarations to make, but he clenches his hands into fists against the faux wood and pulls back his tears, forcing his voice to remain steady.

“I’m not leaving you,” he whispers. “I’m not letting this - what we have - die without saying something. You’re the best man I’ll ever know, Kat. And if I let us fall apart, and I don’t do anything to stop it, I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

Katsuki’s eyes flash a third time, and this time, Eijirou captures it before it can fade away again. He knows that look, it’s a look that mirrors the churning waters inside his heart, that terrible mix of anxiety and uncertainty and trepidation, mixed with a love that he’s no longer sure of.

In that moment, Eijirou realizes he isn’t alone. 

And he reaches across the table, putting a hand on Katsuki’s, who looks like he might recoil. 

But he doesn't.

Eijirou can’t recall the last time he’s held Katsuki’s hand like this without a knot of worry in his guts. Katsuki’s skin is warm, and when Eijirou curls his fingers around Bakugou’s, he can’t help but smile at the familiar softness of Katsuki’s palm. It’s a touch that feels right in so many ways.

Katsuki’s eyes are on their connected hands when he replies. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want any fancy shit tonight.”

So they leave, hands still connected, and Eijirou’s in far too much euphoria to even care when they’re accosted by reporters outside. The parasites start demanding all sorts of vulgar details  about their relationship, and Katsuki explodes in the way that only he can, vocalizing a tirade of profanities that would have ended the career of any less popular hero.

It’s a short walk to their car, and even though fresh rain begins to fall, Eijirou can’t feel it. He’s numb again, but now it’s a different kind of numbness that stems from being impossibly, indescribably happy - no, not happy. Hopeful.

Eijirou hooks up his phone to play music in the car, queueing up a list of songs that Katsuki hates, but Eijirou grooves along to the bass as it pulses through the speakers, and Katsuki cracks a half-smile as they drive through the deserted intersections. They don’t speak, aside from a few brutally honest comments from Katsuki regarding Eijirou’s dancing, but they don’t need words to communicate. There’s a shared energy in the car, a mutual excitement, the kind of spark that had been between them when they’d first started dating. 

And with every song, Eijirou feels his smile growing wider, until his cheeks start to hurt.

Rain lashes the car as they continue to drive, falling harder in a genuine shower, forcing Katsuki to turn on the windshield wipers. They share a laugh when the wipers sync up with the beat of the song. Outside, it’s cold and the rain’s falling in buckets, but inside the car, there’s warmth and safety. There’s a kindness and an openness that Eijirou hasn’t felt for as long as he can remember.

They drive through a shitty burger place on the way home, where they go mercifully unrecognized. Eijirou feeds Katsuki french fries one by one as they continue onward, eating his own food with his other hand, amusing himself by purposefully missing Katsuki’s mouth and poking the dimples in his cheeks. Katsuki amuses himself by biting Eijirou’s index finger when he gets a little too ambitious, and when Eijirou yelps, Katsuki shoots him a feral grin. It’s the first real smile Eijirou’s seen from him all night, and even as he’s nursing his sore finger, Eijirou smiles back.

“Hope I didn’t hurt you,” Katsuki snorts, drumming on the steering wheel with his thumb as he takes a left turn onto their street. He doesn’t look over at Eijirou, but he does reach over, patting Eijirou’s cheek with his free hand, pulling over in front of their building.

His hand lingers for a moment longer than it needs to. His palm is so soft against Eijirou’s face, a side effect of his quirk and his surprisingly thorough skincare routine. The pad of his thumb gently trails across the apple of Eijirou’s cheek, and they lock eyes, confined in the warmth of the car and the rhythmic pulsing of the stereo, separated only by their seatbelts and the center console.

A simultaneous release of their seatbelts removes one half of the obstruction.

Katsuki moves in first, grasping the collar of Eijirou’s suit jacket and pulling him into a kiss that’s savage in its force, slamming their lips together so hard that Eijirou scrapes his teeth against the inside of his own lips. He doesn’t even register the pain, too shocked and aroused to truly understand what’s going on, cupping Katsuki’s face in his hands and pushing the gearshift into park with his elbow.

Eijirou tastes fries and imitation beef and pickles on Katsuki’s tongue, but that’s nothing he cares about. That isn’t the taste he’s even focused on. He tastes Katsuki himself , the taste of the person he’d very nearly lost. He’ll never get enough of it, even if they spend the rest of their lives kissing - which Eijirou certainly wouldn’t mind.

Katsuki has to take a hand off of Eijirou to get the keys out of the ignition, but they don’t break the kiss, and Eijirou very nearly lunges over the console to keep their momentum when Katsuki kicks open the driver’s side door. 

Eijirou scrambles out to the other side, and they meet in front of the car, arms around each other as the cold night and the falling rain bite at their flushed skin. Katsuki’s teeth clench lightly around Eijirou’s bottom lip, and that fleeting moment of pain feels more real than anything around them, even with the rain drenching them down to their bones and plastering their hair down against their heads. There’s nothing but them and each other.

There’s water running down Eijirou’s face and he’s not sure if it’s water or tears, or maybe both, and he smiles as they pull away from each other just for a moment of rest. “I love you,” he whispers, knowing he’s barely audible above the rain beating them and everything that surrounds them, but Katsuki cups his face again and those brilliant red eyes fill with understanding, and his lips move to repeat the phrase. 

He doesn’t even get through the second word before Eijirou’s on him again.

They stumble over each other to get to the front door, a tangled mess of clashing lips and fingers digging into neckties and buttons and zippers, desperate to stay connected even as Eijirou feeds the key into the lock and smashes the door with his shoulder and hip. There’s a shoe left behind on the front step, and Katsuki’s jacket is somewhere on the grass near the car, but those are problems for future them, not present them, who are still shedding clothes in the hallway like the fabric is on fire.

They bump into walls and doors and Eijirou nearly trips backwards when he tries to steer them into the bedroom, but they make it there eventually. Katsuki grips Eijirou’s dress shirt with his fists in opposite directions, and he rips it open, buttons flying every which way like projectiles as Katsuki plants his hands on Eijirou’s damp torso like a carnivore finding his last meal. 

It almost tickles, the feeling of Katsuki’s too-soft hands and fingers tracing the sculpted musculature of his body, but Eijirou smiles instead of laughs, and falls back on the burgundy sheets. He tosses his ruined shirt away and spreads his legs, flexing his arms with his hands laced behind his head. His hair’s going to end up soaking the bed, but Katsuki’s between his legs, unbuttoning his dress pants before he can think too much about it.

“What are we going to do,” Eijirou breathes, eyes never leaving Katsuki’s hands, his bare arms and exposed chest, his determined features that are half-hidden by the darkness of the room. They can still hear the rain beating relentlessly against the windows, but compared to the impromptu dance party in the car and their embrace under the deluge, the bedroom feels bizarrely quiet.

Katsuki looks up with that same grin, his teeth sparkling in the solitary bit of light coming from the hallway. “What we used to do.”

A shiver trails up Eijirou’s spine as his briefs are pulled off and cast aside, and in the three seconds it takes him to remember what Katsuki had meant, the blond’s clothes are already gone.

Katsuki’s hand clasps around Eijirou’s length in a way that makes his toes curl, and a soft sound pours over his lips, a gentle assurance that everything is going perfectly well. Eijirou wants to say more, he wants to plead for more, but Katsuki dives down aggressively and takes all of it into his mouth, his lips slipping over smooth flesh on their destined journey to Eijirou’s base. Eijirou feels his tip hit the back of Katsuki’s throat, but Katsuki doesn’t even offer an indication that he felt it, and Eijirou loses his cool.

His own forearms clamp down on either side of his head as he bucks on instinct, punching Katsuki’s soft palate and earning a disgruntled cough and a glare that he barely notices, too focused on the tongue lashing against his shaft. He knows he’s weeping precum into the back of Katsuki’s mouth, he knows he’s going to make Katsuki choke, but part of him wants that. He wants to see Katsuki go red in the face, he wants to see Katsuki struggle and gag, he wants to see those pretty features marred by frustration and lust.

So he reaches down with one hand and plants a palm on Katsuki’s forehead, pushing him away and pulling his cock free of Katsuki’s mouth with a horrifically lewd slurping sound. A single strand of spit connects Katsuki’s pink lips with Eijirou’s throbbing dick, and there’s a bit of clear precum smeared on his chin. He looks perfect with his lips pouted like that, eyebrows furrowed, waiting for what Eijirou has to say.

Everything Eijirou’s felt for weeks, for months, has been building up to this moment, this feeling of determination mixed with a level of arousal he hadn’t thought himself capable of. Eijirou isn’t angry with Katsuki after everything he’s done, but he wants Katsuki to understand; to get that understanding across, he wants to spear Katsuki in every position imaginable. He needs Katsuki to understand what it means to be broken, even if it’s a different kind of broken.

Eijirou fully sits up and looks down at Katsuki, kneeling between Eijirou’s thick thighs, and gently touches a hand to the blond’s cheek. He uses his thumb to wipe away a rivulet of water rolling down from Katsuki’s hairline, and when he speaks, even he’s surprised by the confidence in his own voice. “Ride me, Kat.”

It’s a command, and Katsuki moves to obey it without question. Without even thinking about it.

Katsuki moves into place without a sound, the creaking of the bed drowned out by the steady drumming of the rain above, and he winces and grits his teeth as he manages to work Eijirou’s fat tip inside himself. His body wants to reject what it doesn’t think it can take, but Katsuki’s never been one to quit, and a gentle hiss escapes from his mouth as he grips Eijirou’s shaft so tightly that it’s nearly painful.

He plants his hands on Eijirou’s body once he’s guided the cock into place and slides down with a series of oh Gods and Jesus Christs , and Eijirou’s treated to the utterly delicious sight of Katsuki spearing himself without any further prompting. It’s indescribable, the sensation of sliding through his boyfriend’s velvety walls as Katsuki clamps down around him, his nails digging into Eijirou’s stomach and leaving crescent marks, but he feels himself hit something solid. Katsuki gasps and pitches forward, planting his hands on either side of Eijirou’s body to steady himself.

They lock eyes, faces flushed with longing and desire, Katsuki’s overeager cock slowly dribbling precum onto Eijirou’s stomach, their faces dangerously close together.

Eijirou brings up his legs to keep himself inside, and Katsuki dives forward to lock their lips together once again.

Katsuki rides him with vigor, spearing himself deeper as though he’ll die without it, slipping his tongue into Eijirou’s mouth as their bodies meet across too many places to count. It’s impossible to know where one ends and the other begins, especially once Eijirou starts adding his own impatient thrusts to Katsuki’s rocking movements. He slams his hips upward to fill the void every time Katsuki pulls away, forcing him to gasp over and over as Eijirou’s perfectly curved cock hits him in all the right ways. They’ve always fit together in more than one sense of the word.

Their hands are free to do as they please, and they don’t waste the chance to pull at each other’s wet hair and cup their faces, a frantic attempt to convey more through action than they ever could with words. It’s Eijirou asking for reassurances and Katsuki providing them, it’s Katsuki apologizing and Eijirou accepting, all while Eijirou’s cock splits Katsuki like a piece of lumber, and their tongues and teeth clash in a contest of spit and heavy breathing.

Katsuki starts to moan as his body’s rocked over and over again. Eijirou’s pounding is ferocious and animalistic, and there’s so much he puts behind every jab of his hips, grinning as he looks up at Katsuki’s composure falling apart. 

“Wait,” Katsuki pants, struggling to get the words out between his involuntary cries. “Wait! I’m...I’m close, I’m...Ei, I’m…”

“I know,” Eijirou replies, breathless in his own way, continuing to fuck Katsuki with slow motions, grinding himself against his boyfriend’s thick ass cheeks. “I know. Come here, kiss me again, just…”

When Katsuki moves back in to resume their kiss, Eijirou surprises him by wrapping his arms around the blond in a hug that proves to be nearly suffocating, doubling his speed once again and piston-fucking Katsuki while he can barely move. Katsuki squeals in response, shifting his body and spreading his legs so that Eijirou can hit him deeper in that spot he needs to be hit in, trying to shift his body with each thrust so his frustrated cock can get some semblance of friction against Eijirou’s stomach.

When they cum, it’s in perfect unison, each of them pouring forth countless frustrations they’ve never been able to express. Katsuki sprays his load across the front of Eijirou’s body like a shotgun, coating him rather thoroughly from his abs to his pecs. Eijirou fires his load deep into Katsuki’s guts, feeling a non-trivial amount of it leaking out of Katsuki’s ruined hole and down to his expended balls.

Katsuki relaxes in the still-tight hug, his head on Eijirou’s collarbone, and Eijirou hears his breathing gradually slow. They’re soaked in sweat and rain and there’s cum pooling all around, but Eijirou’s softening dick eventually slips out of Katsuki’s ass, and the rain continues to beat down overhead. It’s the one constant in a night of uncertainty and reconciliation. It’s a constant Eijirou finds himself thankful for.

“Eijirou,” comes a sleepy murmur from a head of spiky blond hair, and Eijirou feels fingertips resting against his left pectoral. “Ei.”

“Yeah,” Eijirou murmurs, his voice soft, his tone questioning. “What is it, Kat?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to say your name,” comes the response, and Eijirou smiles.

It isn’t perfect, none of it’s perfect. They’ll need to shower, they’ll need to change the sheets, and all Eijirou can smell is sweat, cum, and cheap fast food. They’ll need to explain to the media why Eijirou had been seen crying at a restaurant downtown. They’ll need to do laundry, and they’ll need to retrieve whatever they’d left lying on the front lawn.

But the rain is still coming down outside, and Eijirou hears Katsuki starting to lightly snore.

They’ll tackle all of their problems together, even the small ones, Eijirou decides in that moment, closing his eyes with a smile. They’ve got their spark back. 

Nothing else matters.