Archive of Our Own ^beta

***

Katsuki spends an entire eight minutes squinting at him. 

He’s got a few questions, rightfully, he thinks, and despite him being more of a think-before-you-act kinda guy, he’s also got a short temper. Those things don’t mix and when they go head to head — more often than not, the short temper wins. And right here, right now, it’s gonna win because it’s like, two in the fucking morning and Katsuki just came from his favorite twenty-four hour food place and he’s planning on having a nice, long ass walk back home. Plans to be at peace.

But with whatever the fuck’s going on here? Katsuki doesn’t think the cards are in his favor tonight. And he’s immediately angry at that fact.

So at nine minutes, he’s storming the fuck over cause, again, he’s got a few questions. And right here, there’s a short pause, a moment where the adrenaline stretches and gives him time to ponder his choices, what buttons he should click, mull over the options; he thinks he should probably calm down a bit. Think before he acts. And he just might. 

Except, their eyes meet. And the fact that they’re dark, the same color as the brown wooden table he’s sitting at, makes something rise in him all at once.

He sees red and his patience snaps in the two seconds they’re staring at each other and before either of them let out another breath, Katsuki throws his brown paper bag of food onto the table and then he’s got the collar of the guy’s shirt between his fingers, up off his feet, and close to his face. The guy drops the drink he was holding at being grabbed and the contents spill as the glass shatters at their feet. There are gasps Katsuki is vaguely aware of, a small stir from the few people in the area. He doesn’t give a shit.

“What the fuck,” Katsuki spits. “Fuckin’ … IcyHot?”

Katsuki’s squinting again because some part of him is still trying to work this shit out. 

This is the IcyHot bastard. Todoroki fucking Shouto. Halfie. Candy Cane. All the fucking names Katsuki’s ever had for the asshole, here, in the flesh, at some stupid, niche little cafe with a glass of wine like he’s even supposed to be above ground right now. His hair’s different, stupid eyes are brown — both of them, and his face is free of any kind of scar, but it’s him. Katsuki knows it is. 

That or he’s losing his fucking mind. But Katsuki knows that wide-eyed stare — he’s been on the receiving end of it for years.

He’s got more than a few questions now, because Todoroki looks like he knows the reason Katsuki’s got him by his shirt. He’s gaping like a fucking fish out of water and Katsuki doesn’t think he’s got the right to wear that expression. Katsuki waits for him to speak. Tightens his grip on his shirt, adds pressure to him, but it’s not like it’s his neck. He can say something, he can talk. He can explain to Katsuki what the fuck is going on here.

Todoroki swallows and his hands push a little against Katsuki’s chest. “Katsuki-”

“Fuckin’ Bakugou, yeah, that’s my name. Yours still Todoroki?”

“I-” Todoroki frowns, opens his mouth, closes it, and he pushes harder on Katsuki’s chest. Katsuki doesn’t budge and when Todoroki realizes he won’t anytime soon, he grimaces. “What do you mean?”

“Well it’s been a while, ain’t it?” Katsuki nods to Todoroki’s hair, the silky waves in it. The lack of red. “See you got yourself a nice little perm. Did you dye your hair or did the stress of dying get it all white for you? You look real pristine for someone who just dug themselves out of their fuckin’ grave.”

Todoroki’s eyes widen and he pushes Katsuki’s chest again, this time hard enough so Katsuki lets go of his shirt as he stumbles back. “They didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what.”

Todoroki looks like he’s struggling to find the words. “I’m,” he swallows. “I’m alive.”

Well. No fucking shit.

Katsuki throws his arms into the air and sneers, “Ain’t that a big fuckin’ relief.”

Todoroki stares at him with wide eyes. He looks dumbfounded. “Are — are you not relieved?”

Katsuki stares back, and then he punches him.

And maybe he shouldn’t be drawing attention to Todoroki when he’s apparently dead to the public, but fucking whatever. He’s still dead to Katsuki, if they wanna go there. Katsuki rolls his eyes at the gasps, scoffs when people start calling whoever the fuck they want to save them on their phones, and he turns to storm off. Leaves his brown paper bag with his hot dinner behind, shoves his fists into his jacket — he doesn’t have time for this shit.

He pretends like he doesn’t hear Todoroki calling for him, running after him all the way down the street. His stomach is collapsing, feels like literal burning garbage in his gut every time he hears that stupid fucking voice. Everything is all fucked up now.

Katsuki’s plan for the evening was to have a nice walk to his place, enjoy the still night with a sifting breeze, and eat in silence, alone — but everything’s been spoiled. He left behind his food - not like he’ll be able to eat for the next week after all of this anyway, and if he’s not eating his warm dinner, there’s no reason for the long walk in the cold night. And he needs to lose Todoroki anyway. 

He raises a hand, gets a cab just as Todoroki’s caught up to him — Katsuki thinks he nearly slams the door on his fingers once he hops in. A second later and he could’ve. He’ll get the timing right next time. For now, he glares at Todoroki as the car speeds by where he’s left on the sidewalk with wide eyes and a swollen face.

Good. Fuck him. 

Katsuki’s got a short-temper, that’s his character flaw, and he doesn’t see the development in that flaw changing any time soon. The people who can accept it stay in his life, the ones who can’t, can fuck off. 

Todoroki’s someone who was able to put up with it, more than most people. But he fucked off anyway. Katsuki’s been unfair about that fact since the entire thing happened — angry and pissed at Todoroki for leaving him to deal with life and shit on his own, by himself, after all that they built together. He had guilt and felt uncomfortable when there was nowhere to place it. He had to assign something to the guilt and the shame — so he assigned it to Todoroki. And that was safe - it was comfortable because Todoroki wasn’t there to unassign it, to convince him that feelings didn’t need to have a reason to be there. That sometimes, they just were. So he kept at it.

And Katsuki hated himself for being angry at Todoroki, but it was comfortable. Now it’s back to being uncomfortable. 

Now, Katsuki has every right to be angry and he’s embracing it by screaming into the mirror of his bathroom. 

He’s supposed to be practicing, actually, but every time he tries to work out an imaginary conversation with Todoroki, he ends up hurting his throat as his reflection turns red.

That’s Katsuki’s right — at least he thinks it is. Shouto faked his fucking death and Katsuki — his long-term boyfriend, wasn’t in the know about it. Does he even fucking know what that does to a person?

They had a small ceremony and fucking — everything! His casket was lowered into the ground and Katsuki fucking cried and he never got over that shit. It was traumatizing. And Katsuki doesn’t care if it was for the sake of a mission, which it no doubt was — he doesn’t care if the commission ordered him to, if he was able to save hundreds of thousands of people because of it — he doesn’t give a fuck. 

Katsuki didn’t know. He left Katsuki there to drown in a puddle of his fucking tears and misery for seven fucking months and then just comes back like nothing!

Not even that — he didn’t even come back. Katsuki found him. Was he even gonna tell Katsuki? And when? Fuck! He has so many god damn questions.

Katsuki brings his hands to his face, tries again after a few paces across the tiled floor. Deep breaths, deep fucking breaths. He whips around and glares at his reflection. Todoroki’s here. Facing Katsuki. What does he say. 

“You pathetic little fuck,” falls out of his mouth almost immediately. 

Bad start; Katsuki just has to curve it. Steer himself in a different direction. Fix it, calm himself, be calm.

He points at the mirror. “You - I … Did you really think — I had —” Katsuki pauses. And then he screams, “What the fuck made you think this was ever gonna fucking work?”

Fuck. He’s screaming again and when there’s knocking on his door, he thinks it’s one of his stupid neighbors getting ready to complain.

It’s not, though. Not a fucking complaining neighbor at all, no.

Todoroki’s soaked and he’s got Katsuki’s large brown paper bag of food cradled in his arm as he pants. He looks like a fucking wet dog, all sad and pouty and hurt and Katsuki can already feel himself having a hard time with this. He doesn’t want to fucking deal with this and when Todoroki opens his mouth, he decides he won’t.

“Kat—”

Katsuki slams the door right in his face and he’s storming away when it swings back open again. 

Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.

“Sh—Todoroki, if you don’t get the fuck out right now.”

“Shouto. Please just call me Shouto—”

“No, what the fuck? Fuck you! What the fuck!”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that, Katsuki,” Shouto says — fuck! It’s supposed to be Todoroki right now, but Shouto is just right, okay?

And then he’s shuffling out of his wet fucking clothing. Just. Stripping naked right there, in the middle of Katsuki’s living room, after coming back from the fucking dead. 

Like he has the right, like it’s normal for him to be here. And yeah, once upon a time it was. But that was before Katsuki saw his ass lowered into the fucking ground at his funeral seven months ago.

Katsuki has the right to lose his shit here, right? Flipping the fucking coffee table in Shouto’s direction after throwing two or three plants at his head is justified, right? Because he is. Katsuki’s losing his shit and he’s tossing everything at the bastard, cause, like — what the fuck, right?

Shouto’s blocking his face and his body with his arms and everything Katsuki’s attacking him with and this would be a little funny if Katsuki wasn’t trying to undo the five stages of grief he’s been dragging himself through. Shouto thinks it’s funny, though. He’s hitting away the few papers Katsuki’s throwing at him, scrunching his face in a humorous twist and — fuck, okay, maybe it’s a little funny when Katsuki starts chucking pencils at him, but he’s still pissed, okay?

The last thing Katsuki has to throw at a half-naked Shouto is his wet bag of food. The food is safe and protected in the containers, though and Katsuki remembers that he’s still fucking hungry. He never got to eat. So — he stops himself from chucking that at Shouto’s head and plops himself right in the center of the mess of the living room, instead. Opens up the food. He got a few things. Gyoza and stir fry and vegetables and … Soba.

He always makes it a point to get soba from this place, because … Katsuki looks up and across the room.

Shouto’s sitting against the wall near the door, still half naked, disheveled because of the whole fit Katsuki had, but he perks up when he notices Katsuki looking at him. Even more upon seeing the cold noodles. 

And then he starts doing that thing that he does when he’s asking for something even though he knows he’s in trouble. Makes himself all small and starts tugging at his lip but stares at Katsuki with those wide fucking eyes. 

He’s so fucking stupid. Katsuki pouts but he slides the container of soba over and Shouto takes it with a happy hum.

“Can I … the sauce—” Katsuki throws it at Shouto and it smacks his nose. Falls to the floor. “Thanks, Katsuki.”

“God, just shut up.” Katsuki rolls his eyes and starts on his own food. 

The dinner is — surprisingly peaceful. 

Katsuki … doesn’t really know how to process Shouto being alive. He doesn’t think he can, doesn’t — think he should. He doesn’t know what that’d actually do to his fucking mind and he doesn’t want to find out.

He remembers all of his feelings when Shouto “died.” And — it’s not like all of that shit’s gone away now that Shouto is here, magically alive. It doesn’t feel like waves of relief washing over him and the heaviness sitting on his back hasn’t been lifted and he still feels the seven months of fucking loneliness since he’s been gone … Even still …

They both keep sneaking glances at each other and a little tension fades from Katsuki’s shoulder with every minute that passes. 

Shouto is … here . And alive. With Katsuki.

And Katsuki doesn’t mean to laugh when Shouto chokes on a few of his noodles but his face is all pink and he’s waving his hand in front of his watering eyes and — he’s just too good at dealing with Katsuki when he’s angry. It’s so familiar. All of this is real fucking familiar and he doesn’t even know how he feels about that.

Katsuki’s forced to tighten his lips and turn around so he doesn’t fall into Shouto’s traps. So he doesn’t forgive Shouto for his shit only two hours into this thing.

Shouto finishes his soba and now he’s just sitting there like a fucking idiot. He’s pretty and everything but Katsuki just can’t get over the pure white of his hair — the brown of his eyes. He wants to see his actual eyes again. 

He wants to see Shouto again.

“What is it?”

Shouto’s looking at him. Does that thing where he doesn’t blink, head angled to the side like a fucking owl or something. It’s the bastard’s essence, Katsuki supposes.

“Can you fix yourself,” Katsuki spits and he averts his gaze to stare at his food. “Your hair is dumb and your eyes are ugly.”

“ … Oh. That.” He pulls a little at his white strands.

A disguise — Katsuki’s seen the Hero Commission do even wilder transitions. This isn’t shocking shit. A bit of colored hair spray and contacts. Concealer. Done.

“Yeah, that. And you’re — practically fuckin’ naked.”

His body, at least, looks the same. Same long, built, lanky self. Same ridges and faded scars and all the imperfections that make him fucking perfect. Katsuki can remember the texture of Shouto’s scars, how the pink of his ruined skin feels under the pads of his fingers, his palms, his lips.

“But you love me naked.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“I can’t help it, sorry. I go stupid around you.” 

Katsuki shoots Shouto a look that he doesn’t catch. He’s too busy pushing himself to his feet and he just — goes. Walks himself down the hall and turns into the bathroom, shuts the door behind him. Katsuki feels like he’s done it a hundred times, he’s sure he has. Walked down the hall and shut the door to their bathroom just like that. During a commercial break in their show binging, right before dinner, after a fight. He’s done it again and again and again.

Katsuki stands up, takes a look around the mess of his living room. Of their living room. Cause Shouto’s here, Shouto’s — home … God fucking damnit. He hates all of this. Hates it so much, but - fuck, he loves it, too.

It’s so them. This is so, annoyingly them.

Katsuki laughs.

Snorts and runs his fingers through his hair as he begins tossing the mess of dinner into the wet brown paper bag. It tears and Katsuki’s still laughing, bunches it up and throws it into the trash.

Then he’s fixing the coffee table, cleaning up the dirt that spilled out of the pots of the plants he threw at Shouto’s head, picks up the papers and the pencils and by the time he’s got the last pen on the surface of the table —

“Is this better?”

Katsuki sees bare toes first, familiar gray sweatpants, ones that Shouto always used to wear when they had date nights in the bedroom. Up and up and he’s got a loose shirt on, his hair is damp — his hair is split.

Half red. Half white. Goes with his different colored eyes. Bright and like fucking crystals. And then his scar.

Ah, fuck.

“Did you take a fucking shower.”

“ … Yeah?”

Like normal. Probably used Katsuki’s fucking towel, his shampoo … like everything’s fucking normal and there hasn’t been a seven month long hold on their lives with each other.

Katsuki scoffs, shakes his head. 

That’s him. That’s Shouto, that’s his home. Right here, in front of Katsuki. Alive. Here, here, here.

He’s fucking beautiful.

Katsuki’s throat is tight, dry, voice is stuck. He clears it and shakes his head. “Yeah. S’better.”

“Are you mad?”

Katsuki stops. “Uhhh,” he rolls his eyes. “Yeah? Yes, I’m fucking mad, Shouto, what the fuck. Why the fuck would —”

“Oh, Shouto. That’s progress.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes. He’s so annoying.

“Hey, hey, Katsuki,” Shouto says.

“No,” is Katsuki’s immediate response and if he rolls his eyes again, they’re gonna get stuck staring at the back of his skull. He fixes his gaze on the wooden floorboards of the living room as Shouto tugs on his wrists, trying to urge him to look at him. 

“Katsuki. Look at me.”

“No.”

“Please?”

Fucking hell.

“What,” Katsuki looks up, lips tugged down.

Shouto smiles. “I’m home.”

Katsuki blinks. 

“What the fuck,” he hisses, and then he smacks Shouto’s chest. “What the fuck.” Katsuki hits him over and over and over again and pushes him back, away from him. “Fuck you, god — fuck you! Seriously, what the fuck, Shouto?”

And then he’s crying — he’s actually fucking crying at this shit.

“ … Sorry,” Shouto mutters and he takes a step forward — fucking unsure and hesitant. “I’m sorry.”

Fuck. Fuck he missed him so much.

Katsuki throws his arms around Shouto and they fit themselves against each other. Everything just fucking falls back into place — like Shouto never left Katsuki. Except when Shouto gets his bare hands all over Katsuki’s skin, he’s setting off sparks in him, warming him, igniting him, making his skin buzz.

“You’re so fucking—” Katsuki kisses him, hands all over him. “Missed you. Missed you so much, you stupid fucking asshole. Fuck you, god fucking damnit.”

Katsuki loves Shouto and he hates him and he loves him and he loves him and he loves him so much. 

Shouto feels the same, tastes the same under the sauce of what he had with his soba, kisses the same even through Katsuki’s bites and tugs. Just as hard, just as passionate. Takes on the fight and challenge Katsuki poses with his lips and fights to win. Kisses him like Katsuki’s just returned home and yeah, he fucking has. 

Or maybe Shouto’s the one who’s just returned home. 

And Katsuki’s here, he’s here with open fucking arms and he’s ready to tell Shouto welcome, and he’s ready to tell him that there’s food in the oven and ready to sling his arms over Shouto’s neck and kiss him against the wall and the kitchen counter again and again. ‘Til their lips are swollen and red and puffy, ‘til Shouto’s cheeks are flushed and he gets all handsy because he’s needy and ready to be filled with Katsuki’s dick or fill Katsuki with his dick. Katsuki wants both, he wants it all, everything — everything Shouto has to offer, Katsuki wants it.

Katsuki can see the flush of Shouto’s cheeks, the red and scarlet of when Shouto’s starting to get all worked up. And he feels the hands, feels Shouto start touching and tugging and pulling and grabbing. And Shouto’s moving, so Katsuki moves with him. 

Fuck, Katsuki’s burning up — they stumble into the hall, Katsuki fumbles with the heat setting as they pass and the door to their (fuck, it’s theirs again — wasn’t it Katsuki’s just five damn minutes ago?) bedroom slams against the wall.

And Katsuki backs up, watches Shouto’s eyes trace over the bedroom and — god, that smile. That stupid fucking princess smile of his. He flashes his teeth, and he looks so pretty with the way he’s panting, all maroon in the face. He turns his head so he’s looking at Katsuki again, cups his neck, draws his fingers down the skin of it. It’s a stupid - show of affection. Katsuki’s tossed into a tub of steaming water with the gesture — he remembers so many nights in the tub after they’ve fucked with the tips of Shouto’s fingers tracing imaginary pictures along the skin of his neck.

Back pressed against Shouto’s chest as the water stirred, always smelled like something warm and sugary and heated in the bathroom — sometimes Shouto would push him forward and with one finger, spell a word over the vast of his back. Sometimes he’d get distracted and start tracing over the scars and marks in his skin and Katsuki would roll his eyes, elbow his chest, tell him to play the fucking game right. And Shouto would laugh, quiet, into his skin, moving his finger again.

(“What’d I just spell?” whispered against Katsuki’s neck, his other hand tracing and tracing and tracing. “Do you know?”)

“It’s ours,” Shouto says. 

He’s talking about the bedroom. 

About the deep, royal red of the drapes and the large rug with the soft bristles that tickle your toes. The large painting over the gray of the bed frame — they picked out that gray chair in the corner together. Argued over the other three paintings along the walls of the room. Fucked against this wall a couple times, on that dresser over there, too. And against that stand holding up the TV, once.

Katsuki’s not fucking tearing up. He isn’t fucking tearing up, okay — his nose just burns and it’s making his head hurt and Shouto’s holding Katsuki’s face in his hands as he kisses him and kisses him, on his nose and his cheek and his forehead and his lips, his lips, his lips. Katsuki fucking missed his dumb, sweet, soft ass lips. Having Shouto in his arms, kissing Shouto — is like biting into a fucking fruit, bitter and sweet and sour.

Cold and soaked and somehow fresh and it cleanses Katsuki’s palette, his tongue. A deep red crimson sweet, it’s zesty, too, a little. Like lemongrass the closer Katsuki gets him, the deeper he strokes his tongue, glides it against Shouto’s, into his mouth. Contradicting and conflicting and a little bit of everything because the taste is Shouto’s lips; Soft and rough. Katsuki keeps kissing him, because he has to kiss Shouto because he’s here.

“Yeah, it’s fucking ours, you asshole,” Katsuki pushes against his chest and when Shouto doesn’t budge, Katsuki tugs him closer and kisses him. If he can’t have one, then he’ll have the other. “What, you think I was just gonna - fucking change everything in the seven months you were dead? No, fuck that. Fuck you.”

“Mmn, yeahh, I missed that, too,” Shouto says and he’s pulling, pulling away from Katsuki’s lips so he’s forced to chase. Forced to kiss his chin and the corner of his mouth and all over his face and the chase makes Shouto laugh. “Missed the fucking.”

Katsuki scoffs, places a kiss on his lips. “Shut up.”

“Missed you shutting me up with your kisses,” Shouto smiles, keeps Katsuki against him as they shift their way to the bed. “Missed you touching me, fucking me. Missed touching you, fucking you.”

Oh, fuck. 

Shouto with his sweet lips and sharp as fuck tongue. It always fucking gets Katsuki and it’s not fucking fair, holy shit.

“Yeah?” Katsuki’s gut is already flipping, hands over Shouto’s as Shouto runs his palms over his skin beneath his shirt, starts playing with his shirt. It’s been so long — way too fucking long. “You gonna touch me, then? Gonna fuck me?”

“Mhm,” Shouto’s working quickly then, tugging on his shirt and pulling it over Katsuki’s head and pushes him back onto the bed before he goes to pull his own off. “Gonna have you, over and over again, fill you to the brim with my cum, get you so full.”

Fuck. Fuck.

And ahh, they should be talking. They’ve got so much shit to talk about and Katsuki’s gotta, like, punch him a hundred more times and he needs to make sure Shouto understands how he’s feeling about all of this, but they haven’t fucked in seven months.

Seven entire months. He needs to be inside Shouto and he needs Shouto to be inside of him before anything else.

“Need that,” Katsuki breathes and Shouto’s kissing him, lips are so fucking soft, mouth warm and wet - his tongue is all over the inside of Katsuki’s mouth, gliding over every inch of the inside and he wraps his lips around the tip of his tongue, sucks gently so Katsuki’s moaning against him. Katsuki pulls away with a gasp, kicking off his pants, skin is burning, head is fucked and messy and he already can’t think straight. “Need you, Shouto, god I need you so fucking bad.”

They’re a mess of limbs, tangled into each other as they strip and pull clothing off of one another. Katsuki’s panting like they’ve been going at it for the last hour and it’s pathetic as fuck but he’s so hot between his legs that he doesn’t even care, fuck — he just needs Shouto to touch him and fuck him and fill his ass with his cum, make him warm inside and out.

Shouto’s lips are all over him, kisses him in all the right places, all the places that have Katsuki’s toes curling and his neck arching and his stomach flipping and he already knows this is all muscle memory for Shouto. Fuck, he knows him so well, of fucking course he does. Seven months apart doesn’t mean shit — not for either of them. 

“God, I missed you,” Shouto whispers. He’s running his lips over Katsuki’s skin, down and down, over his abs and his waist and his hips and down to his thighs. “Missed all of this. All of you. You’re so beautiful, Katsuki, so perfect.”

“Shut up,” Katsuki huffs. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, arching his back with the tickle of the tips of Shouto’s fingers, allows his thighs to be parted, legs to be spread under Shouto’s palms. “Missed you too, you fucking asshole.”

“Missed these, right here,” Shouto murmurs — his face is pressed into the meat of the inside of Katsuki’s thigh. And then he bites.

“Hah!”

“Pretty, pretty,” Shouto whispers and he’s kissing closer to Katsuki’s cock, doesn’t exactly get there, though.

Instead, his palms grip the underside of his thighs and pushes his legs up, lifting Katsuki a little so Shouto can spread his cheeks. Shouto smiles and he looks up at Katsuki.

“It’s in the same place, isn’t it?”

“You already know the fucking answer to that …”

It’s all so familiar, watching Shouto lean over him, feeling slick fingers gently touch at his thighs, drawing down in a trace, and then — prodding. Katsuki’s breathing hard and doesn’t allow himself to think of shit for the moment. Cause right now, Shouto’s fingers are long and they feel so fucking good inside of him, pressing against his walls and stretching him out.

Katsuki’s gotta rock his hips against Shouto’s fingers, arches his back, chest rising as falling fast as he huffs and grips the sheets once Shouto has three fingers pumping into him.

“God — Shouto fuck, you need — I need you to fuck me, just fucking put it in.”

And they’re shifting again — Shouto leans over him again to get the lights and fuck. Fuck, everything’s just like always. The dark blue of the offending early morning casting a spell over the room — over Shouto and where Katsuki’s staring up at him from.

The sheets are getting bunched and Katsuki’s sinking further into the pillows as Shouto’s legs tangle with his, it’s warm in the room, getting warmer the more Shouto kisses him. 

“No, no, wait,” Katsuki pants and his fingers are grabbing at Shouto’s sides. “Mm-mn, not like this. Fuck, hold on.”

“Mmkay, is it cause you don’t want to look at me right now?”

“Shut the fuck up, no. Just-”

“Could you look at me, then?”

“No, shut up. No.”

Shouto’s nodding to contradict his murmuring, thin fingers on his face, squeezing his chin — tugging, pulling, insistently, annoyingly to get Katsuki to look at him, stare at him. 

“Yes,” Shouto tells him and he kisses him again. “Yes, come on. Look at me.”

Holy fucking shit Katsuki hates this guy’s guts. He loves hating his guts — he fucking misses it, misses everything about it. The involuntary curl in his lip, the urge to spite Shouto and knee his gut in a fit of petty rage. He does, fucking knees the hell out of Shouto and Shouto yelps, arms wobble as he loses his hold.

“Could’ve looked at you in that same position a hundred fucking times, a hundred fucking days ago, you know,” Katsuki tells him.

And he runs a hand down Shouto’s thigh, his leg and reaches over, tugging Shouto’s leg over to have it wrap around his waist. And they slot themselves together, Katsuki wants to bury himself in Shouto in more than just a physical sense.

“Yeah, you could’ve,” Shouto’s panting as they shift themselves. 

Shouto’s hair splays over the sheets in all of its half-and-half glory. His scar, like this, in the little bit of light of the morning is like a sort of enchantment on his face and Katsuki’s dragging his thumb down the side of it, over the line of his jaw, curve of his chin as Shouto speaks. Murmurs to him in a voice as quiet, as low as the sun is sitting in their room right now.

Theirs, theirs — Katsuki’s already fallen back into it. This and everything he has with Shouto; theirs.

“You could’ve, but that isn’t what happened,” Shouto says. And Katsuki’s lips turn down because no, that isn’t what fucking happened. “What happened is I left. And you stayed. Then you found me. And so I came running.”

Katsuki wants to laugh. He does, actually, the more he thinks about it, cause IcyHot’s always so fucking literal in spite of himself. He laughs and it’s fucking bitter and it’s full of love and it’s full of everything he feels and can’t assign a name to. Everything that Shouto’s ever made him feel, balled into one big fucking mess. An explosion of what feels like too much and not enough at the same time.

Katsuki found him, and so Shouto came running.

Shouto bottoms out inside of Katsuki and Katsuki bites his lip, not that it contains that stupid fucking whine in his throat. He places his palms on Shouto’s chest, runs them over what’s marked and bruised and so many fucking — things hit him at once when Shouto juts his hips up into him. 

Shouto’s hands run up Katsuki’s arms. They warm every inch of them, run themselves over Katsuki’s shoulders, his fingertips tickle his collarbone, and then he’s back to doing that stupid tracing up his neck. Up until he’s cupping Katsuki’s chin in his palm so he can redirect Katsuki’s gaze, force Katsuki to look at him. Shouto’s staring back, his lips are pulled, brows drawn. 

He’s so fucking pretty. Katsuki’s never gonna stop thinking it. Never gonna look into those fucking eyes and just not think that Shouto is perfect and pretty and looks magical in the rising sun. Dawn is closing in and when they start fucking, it will have slipped past Katsuki’s fingertips and he wants this moment to last. He wants it to fucking last forever. 

Even with the anger festering inside of him and heating, burning his insides — the love is forcing its way out his pores. The love he has for Shouto takes the front of all that is Katsuki and he falls back into step. And he keeps thinking it — keeps thinking that with Shouto here, like this, it’s almost like he never left, almost like Katsuki never lost him. 

And maybe because it’s fucking true. Maybe it’s because Katsuki never really lost Shouto. Even when Shouto — was gone — he never lost Katsuki. 

Katsuki kept Shouto’s clothing all in the same place. He kept Shouto’s hair and face products in their bins and drawers, and Katsuki kept their bedroom the same. Their home is the same. It never became just Katsuki’s. Nothing will ever be just Katsuki’s because Shouto will never not be a part of him. 

Impossible. Fucking impossible.

“You’re angry,” Shouto says. “And that’s okay. You can be angry, you’re allowed to be that. It doesn’t change the fact that you love me and your anger toward me doesn’t make me not love you.”

Of course. It’s like the bastard’s gone diving into the depths of his mind. Stupid fucking idiot bastard who knows him inside and out. Knows exactly what he’s thinking and when and how he’s thinking it and why he’s thinking it — fuck him, fuck him, fuck him —

“Fuck you,” Katsuki says. He steadies himself on Shouto’s cock and he’s so fucking warm here, like this. Starts rocking his hips, grinding against Shouto before he lifts himself, moves up and down on Shouto’s cock and Shouto’s hands are on his sides, his hips, squeezing cause he just needs his hands on Katsuki. Fuck, this is everything. “I love you so fucking much.” 

His eyes are actually fucking stinging at the intensity and large scale of what Shouto makes him feel. Katsuki’s never been angrier, he’s never been more upset, he’s never felt this happy — and he’s never felt so much shit at the same time. 

And Katsuki’s a fucking feeler. He feels a lot of shit.

Shouto wraps his arms around Katsuki and flips them over so Katsuki’s sinking into the mattress, so his bare back is sliding down the soft, jersey sheets and Shouto pushes back into him. 

The angle’s deeper like this and Katsuki throws his head back, moans as his legs curl around Shouto’s waist, a heel digging into his back to bring him closer, get him to hit deeper. Fuck, fuck, he missed this — he missed everything about this, missed everything about having Shouto so fucking close to him. Katsuki’s fingers slide up Shouto’s arms from how they’re positioned to cage Katsuki in and then his palms run over the skin, down the both of them until one of his hands reaches Shouto’s. 

Shouto groans into his neck and paws over the side of Katsuki’s thigh, drags him closer before he starts thrusting into him, finding his rhythm, steadying himself by the sides of Katsuki’s body. It’s familiar, his touch and the way he feels inside of Katsuki and the way his nails gently rake over his skin, the way he sounds against Katsuki’s neck, the way he breathes and pants and gasps and claws onto Katsuki to keep him close, to make sure he stays close.

He fucks the same. Katsuki just might let him win this one. This feels like the end to a seven month long battle and he doesn’t even care about losing anymore. He just wants Shouto. Fuck, he wants him so bad. He has him — Shouto’s literally fucking inside of him, balls deep in his ass and Katsuki still wants him.

“Shouto,” Katsuki gasps, “Shouto I — I want you, I want you so fucking bad.”

“Don’t get in your head,” Shouto tells him and Katsuki’s head feels light as his deep voice, body physically reacts at the way it fills every single fucking relevant sense. “You have me. Because I love you and you love me and — and I’m home.”

Shouto’s home. He’s home.

Katsuki’s rolling his hips up, his hard cock leaking between both of their stomachs, twitching at the friction of their heated skin. He’s gasping, toes drawing up the sheets and arches his back the deeper Shouto fucks into him. He squeezes Shouto’s hand before entwining their fingers and Shouto squeezes back, pulls out of Katsuki’s neck to bump their foreheads together and then he’s swallowing all of Katsuki’s sounds, uses the hand that isn’t squeezing the fuck out of Katsuki’s to cup the side of his face. His thumb smoothes over Katsuki’s cheek too wipe away the wetness of his tears, breathes him in and bites into his bottom lip as he slides his hand between them. 

It’s warm and heated and sweaty and his grip is tight, firm, stroking Katsuki the way he fucking likes it. Katsuki whimpers, bucks into Shouto’s palm and scratches at his shoulder cause fuck, fuck — Shouto hasn’t touched him in seven months. Katsuki’s hardly touched himself in seven months, he’s so fucking sensitive. And Shouto’s breathing all over him, touching him and kissing him and fucking him and fuck, he’s home. Shouto’s home and Katsuki’s home and they’re fucking in their home, in their bed, on their sheets and he’s gonna fucking break, fall apart under Shouto’s hands, in his arms, in their bed, in their home and he’s close, close, close —

“Hah, Shouto,” it comes out as a choke, a whine and Katsuki jerks as cum pumps from the tip of his cock. 

Shouto fucks him through his orgasm and hums in that pleased way he does every time Katsuki makes a fucking mess of himself. Katsuki’s fingers are in Shouto’s hair, combing through and tugging at the end of his strands, squishing his heated, sweaty face for a wet kiss. Shouto’s panting into it as he thrusts into Katsuki faster.

Katsuki’s teeth sink into his bottom lip, toes twitching in overstimulation, “Fuck — cum inside, cum inside me, Shouto, fill me up like you promised — miss it, miss you so much-”

“Hh—nngh, Katsuki,” Shouto gasps, buries his face into Katsuki’s neck to bite and pull and nip at the skin, finds a patch to bite into. Katsuki’s hips buck up and he whines and Shouto’s groaning as he slaps into him, panting heavy — he’s getting close and it’s been so fucking long since Katsuki’s been filled. “Gonna cum, paint your insides, fill you to the brim, make a mess of you, Katsuki—”

“Please, please, come on, Shouto, cum, fill me up, all the way inside, need it — need your fuckin’ babies-”

Shouto cums with a snap of his hips at those words. 

And there’s so fucking much — Katsuki remembers his stupid copious amounts of his sticky release, always ready to make a mess of Katsuki and it was good cause Katsuki liked it messy. Good now cause Katsuki still likes it messy. And Shouto’s quickly pulling away, spreading his legs, smiling at the cum dripping from his ass. 

Nasty fucker.

Katsuki brings him down by his hair to kiss him, sloppy and messy and wet and Katsuki winces into Shouto’s mouth when their teeth clash into each other.

“Fucking, ouch,” he hisses and tugs back and Shouto laughs quietly and moves to kiss his cheek and then all over his face. 

The sun. It’s peeking through the clouds, just a little, in the mess of the pink and the purple and the yellow and … it’s pretty fucking beautiful.

And Shouto — he’s beautiful, too. God, he’s so fucking beautiful. And they’re both a huge fucking mess in their bed, Katsuki’s got cum drying on his stomach, running down between his thighs from his ass …

Katsuki sighs and his palm fits against Shouto’s flushed face. Red and blotchy and shit. He’s so fucking pretty and he’s here. 

He’s home.

And Katsuki still has a million fucking questions, he’s still fucking pissed and burning with anger, but —

Shouto’s here and he’s fucking home. He’s returned after a long mission. And if Katsuki’s here to greet him, then he’s gotta fucking greet him, right?

Katsuki lifts himself up to meet his lips and against them, he whispers, “Welcome home, Shouto.”