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.