Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eating is hard sometimes. 

Hitoshi doesn’t know when it all started. During one of the seven foster homes, for sure, but he can't remember which— Can't remember a lot of what happened in more than a few of those placements. 

The agency-assigned therapist he’s been seeing always devotes a portion of their weekly sessions to poke and prod at the gaps in his memory, trying to find a cause. But the man has yet to identify any patterns as to what brings on a good or bad day for Hitoshi’s food tolerance.

All Hitoshi knows is that on good days, he’s able to clean his plate without hesitation, and on bad days, the thought of so much as opening his mouth—of having a single bite touch his tongue—causes his stomach to lurch violently. 

Food is Katsuki’s love language, it’s how he communicates with the world. And on the days Hitoshi can’t bear to even smell his cooking, guilt melds with the nausea in a sickening tidal wave.

It’s not like he isn’t hungry—he’s always hungry, even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days. He wants to eat, but he just can’t.

… trauma response due to years of repeated abuse and unpredictable cycles of neglect which likely established a food scarcity mindset during fundamental stages of adolescent development, his therapist always says.

And sure, he’s the one with the psych degree and the fancy words, but it’s been months and not a single suggestion has helped. Just months of extracting painful memories without results. Leaving Hitoshi to wonder if the man does so deliberately, all to avoid the…other…issue. 

People aren't perfectly constructed like well crafted masks, able to be summarized in a single page, so Hitoshi's underground covers can't be either. If they were, he’d get found out instantly. No, his covers are a skin that he grows, molds, inhabits. A skin that sometimes—should a mission go on too long or scrape too close to his past—would get stuck, refusing to shed. A snake trapped in its own dead skin. A state of dysecdysis— A term he’d come across entirely on his own, not his therapist who evaded any mention of the debilitating discomfort. Perhaps solving the food issues was a far easier challenge to tackle, in the therapist's eyes, or maybe the improper sheds were too inhuman for a human therapist to even bother with.

But Hitoshi is tired.

Tired of the man who spends hours listening, but never hearing.

Tired of the constant reminders that he’s barely human at all.

Humans are supposed to eat and sleep—simple instincts ingrained in the fabric of their DNA. So what does that make him? Hitoshi doesn’t know, only knows one thing:

Today is a bad food day.

It’s made worse by the anxiety running rampant in his stomach and the way his mind hasn’t stopped racing since Katsuki sat him down the night before—"Hey, can we talk?"—with an uncharacteristically nervous look on his face. 

Hitoshi picks at his food, sensing his dads’ concerned eyes on him, then each other, and does a mental coin toss. 

Pops.

“Something on your mind, baby?”

Anddd his winning streak prevails. The flash of a smirk fades as another cramp takes hold, nerves churning with fervor. Hunger he's used to, but this lingering anxiety is a different beast—it wants out. He stalls a moment more. 

“Hm?”

From across the table, Shouta shot him a knowing look, dark eyes flicking down to Granny. The Siamese always lingered whenever any of them was feeling off, and betrayed him the moment she plopped down in his lap. Traitor. He scratches under her chin, earning a loud purr that fills the room.

Hitoshi shifts in his seat, careful not to disturb her, and swallows around the lump forming in his throat. “Yeah, sort of.” 

They wait patiently. He's still getting used to that. It takes a moment more, teeth grinding together, before he manages to fumble through the rest.

“Kats is, I mean… he said, last night, I… that I…” Murderous levels of protective energy radiate from them both. Stop being so dramatic, you’re freaking them out. Clearing his throat, he averts his eyes. “He offered for me to move in— Like, with him. At his place.”

They both blink. Hizashi recovers first, Shouta a breath behind.

“Oh! Wow! That’s—"

“And how do you feel about that?”

Hitoshi glances back down at his plate. One of his favorites; Hizashi always makes it whenever he visits for lunch. But there it sat, cold and untouched. He tries not to think of it as the failure it is, or how his therapist will gleefully pick it apart at their next session, but in the context of this conversation it feels blaring. No amount of “square breathing” can erase that. 

“Well, logically,” he starts slowly, pausing to stab a piece of egg and force it down. It’s fine, swallow, you’re fine, don’t make them worry. He barely manages to contain a shudder as it slides down, though his tongue drags, slurring a bit as he continues, “I’m getting kicked out of my place, so I gotta move anyway. Rent’s decent, location’s great, we’d get to spend more time together, and Mouse would have more space.”

Shouta grunts into his coffee. “Kicked out?”

“‘Nother noise complaint,” he says bitterly and stabs another piece of food—don’t gag don’t gag don’t fucking— “Eviction notice on the front door ‘n everything. Landlord finally had enough.”

“Sorry to hear. Nemuri sent over some info, a new sleep study in Yokohama. Looks promising.” 

“Kinda need a break from experimental treatments for a bit,” Hitoshi says weakly. As embarrassing as it is to get evicted for regularly screaming himself awake, he needs a break from playing lab rat. None of it ever works anyway.

Humming, Shouta passes his mug across the table with a tight smile that Hitoshi catches through his bangs. He graciously takes it, unable to swallow anything, but inhales deeply, sighing at the warmth that seeps into his palms. The damage to his nose from years of muzzles makes it hard to smell much, but Shouta drinks the equivalent of jet fuel, and by bringing it so close, Hitoshi can make out faint hints of coffee. It helps. 

“Gods, Shouta, why’d you have to infect him with your ‘logic’ bug?” Hizashi groans on his way to the kitchen. 

Shouta smirks at Hitoshi and he can't help but mirror it. Being compared to The Eraserhead never got old. Hizashi returns, a small bowl of ginger rice in hand which he dramatically sets before Hitoshi with a flourish of nori flakes. Granny pops her head up with interest as his plate, still heavy-laden with food, is whisked away. 

“Baby, look at me,” Hizashi urges, sliding into the chair beside him. “How do you feel about all this? Heart, not head?”

“… I want to, I really want to. It’s… I’m just– what if he doesn’t…,” the lump grows bigger, another inhale of steam doing nothing to dislodge it. With a shrug, he whispers miserably, “Ya know.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Hizashi coos, gathering him up in a tight hug and rubbing his back in grounding circles.

Hitoshi melts into it, staring daggers at the rice to keep from tearing up. Knowing Hizashi had made it for him—likely had it ready and waiting in the kitchen—all because he can't manage the meal he’d labored over for hours wasn’t helping the imminent waterworks situation. 

A chair squeaks and then Shouta's crouching beside them. “What is it that’s bothering you?”

He opens his mouth, closes it and instead offers a sheepish, “Can we go back to logic?”

Hizashi lets out a theatrical groan, but Shouta nods. The pride in his dad’s eyes is blinding. His pop’s hand on his back doesn't falter. 

“It’s just that… Kats, he’s got such a strict routine, and he’s worked so hard for so long to get where he is—ya know with the rankings and starting an agency and, and I…” his voice wavers and he nuzzles further into Hizashi’s chest before choking out, “... what if I hold him back?”

The circles pause.

“Honey, why would you think that?” 

“I’m… a lot,” Hitoshi ground out, and he’s not gonna cry. He’s not.

“How so?”

A bark of laughter cracks through the tightness in his chest, hairline fissures scattering along bone. With a trembling hand, he gestures to the steaming bowl of rice and their empty plates, utterly incredulous. It's only one of about a million examples he can point out.  

“Kats doesn’t have room for all this in his life. It wouldn’t be fair to him.”

They’re both quiet for a long time, likely signing above him, and Hitoshi can practically feel Hizashi buzz with the need to refute all the self-deprecation. In the silence, Hitoshi battles his tears until Shouta rose, dragging a chair over. He sat down, opened his arms. 

Not a demand, an offer. Touch always is here, with them. Hitoshi's still getting used to that too.

It's easier than breathing, going from one embrace to the other. He practically flops from Hizashi to Shouta, and yet his dad catches him. Unflinchingly. Solid and neutral—not the blazing warmth of Katsuki nor the biting cold of his mother. It envelops him, that unwavering ease that allows him to just exist.

“The Bakugou I know is an over-thinker.” Hitoshi feels Shouta’s words rumble against his cheek, pressed against the soft fabric of the sleepshirt he’s yet to change out of. “Strategizes all sides of every decision, especially when it comes to his own goals. Yes?”

Hitoshi nods.

“And he’d never do anything he felt might jeopardize the future he wants. Yes?”  

He nods again.

“Then, is it not logical to conclude that Bakugou’s offer is proof that he wants you in that future?”

Hitoshi pulls away, sits up. Blinks. He hadn’t thought about it like that.

‘You really think he–’

Unable to keep quiet any longer, Hizashi bursts out a massive, slightly quirked, “YES!” before Hitoshi can finish signing. 

Shouta rolls his eyes fondly at his husband, then winks at his son, “Loud, passionate blonds are ‘a lot’ too. Trust me.”

Laughter surprised Hitoshi, bubbling up inside him as a tear slipped out. His dad reaches out, gently wiping it away before saying more seriously, “There will be times when you need more support, and there will be times when he does. You’ve both more than proven that when there’s something you want, when you dedicate yourselves to something, you give it your all.”

“Plus Ultra!” Hizashi cheers, grabbing them all up in a bear hug that has Granny yowling as she scurries away.

“You’re right,” he huffs. “Sorry.”

“We’re always here for you,” Hizashi says, pushing up Hitoshi's bangs to plant a kiss on his brow. “And don’t forget, this is your home too. You’ll always have a room here, for whenever and however long you need.”

Hitoshi looks between them both, cheeks flushing, and smiles. Nods resolutely. 

The nerves unwind themselves from his bones, retreating back to their depths, and the tidal waves become mere ripples. 

“We love you, Toshi.”

He leans back in, melting between them, and even if it’s just for a moment, he lets himself simply exist. Doesn’t worry himself over whether he’s a hero, or even a human.

He’s their son. Whatever he is beyond that doesn’t matter. 

Four days ago he moved in, and Katsuki's convinced Hitoshi hasn’t slept a single night since. 

He warned Katsuki that new environments always trigger his insomnia, and had asked to stay out in the living room for a few days, so as to not disturb Katsuki’s strict nighttime routine.

It was a logical request, one he easily agreed to, despite the excitement of finally having Hitoshi near. But it was true, Hitoshi hasn't spent many nights here on account of their work schedules that only recently synced up, and Katsuki trusted his boyfriend to know what was best for himself.

That was until the fifth night, when he was woken from the dead of sleep by a loud crash. 

He’s tearing from his sheets and careening down the hall before fully registering the sound, only to freeze, arms braced against the kitchen entryway.

Wedged against the corner of cabinets, eyes wide and fixated on the broken bowl at his feet, sat Hitoshi. Shards of porcelain, scattered like stars. Palms and feet bleeding sluggishly.

“Toshi? Shit, are you okay? What the hell—,” he starts, porcelain crunching beneath his socks, only to go still when Hitoshi’s hands fly up. Not in the defensive blocks Aizawa taught him, not in a way primed to fight back. No, this is different. Ineffective, yet wholly terrifying in its implications. Depthless purple eyes snap up, body trembling, each breath hitching as if trying to keep quiet.

“I-I’m sorry, I was just— I didn’t mean to break it I-I swear—,” he stammers in a way Katsuki's never heard from him. Hitoshi's quirk relies on his voice, the strength and conviction of it, not to mention his generally unbothered demeanor, not—

A low growl fills the space, a pale arm falling down to wrap around the snarling stomach, and Katsuki’s eyes go wide.

“You’re hungry?” he says dumbly, but it’s the only thought he can get out.

It's the wrong thing to say.

He should’ve stayed quiet, gaping like an idiot. Instead, his question makes Hitoshi’s eyes fill with tears, makes him shake his head adamantly and press further into the cabinets. A frantic retreat that leaves streaks of red on the white tile. 

“S-sorry I’m— Didn’t mean to wake you or,” his hands come up to cover his head once more, fingers burying themselves into tousled locks. Grabbing. Pulling. “Wasn’t s-stealing, was gonna, gonna put it b-back I swear—,” he drew his knees closer, frame shaking in random bouts, “please don’t—I’ll be good I’ll be good I’ll—”

Katsuki isn't the type to be at a loss for words, but his tongue's as frozen as the rest of his body. An awful moment of silence passes before he's able to crouch down, praying to gods he doesn't believe in that his voice will go soft for once.

“Hey, Toshi, look at me.” He does, instantly—the movement feverish with blind obedience. The realization makes Katsuki’s mouth go sour. “I’m not mad, this is your home now too. You can eat whenever you want. Break as many fucking dishes as you want, they’re all replaceable.”

He’d meant the words to come off reassuring, calming—anything to ease some of the tension holding them both captive. It has the opposite effect. Hitoshi starts hyperventilating, confusion and uncertainty tugging at the slash across his nose. The scar has never looked so stark. It practically glows, the raised tissue casting harsh shadows across the bridge, spanning beneath either eye.

“No no no, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Katsuki rambles, but nothing’s working and he’s drowning.

Loosing his balance, he accidentally staggers another half-step closer, and a sound he’s never heard Hitoshi make pierces Katsuki’s fucking soul. Those pale hands, more scar tissue than smooth skin, curl into fists, driving the small shards deeper.

“Shit, wait, Toshi— Stop, stop!”

Katsuki is drowning. Ice water. Dark. So dark. Closing around him, suffocating, ears popping, lungs screaming.

Any effort to get Hitoshi to stop only makes the blood flow more, and he doesn't know what to do, doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t know—

And then he’s bolting from the kitchen, racing for the bedroom, grabbing his phone. Nearly shatters the screen as he hurries back down the hall. Aizawa answers on the second ring.

“What is it, problem child?”

“Toshi’s freaking out!” he blurts into the phone, biting his tongue to keep from shouting, “I don’t— I don’t know what to do.”

“What happened?”

The familiar voice is a ledge of solid ground, Katsuki latches on with all he has.

“Don’t know, was sleeping ‘n heard a crash, came running,” he chews on his lip, pacing tightly. “There’s a broken bowl ‘n he’s on the floor, I tried getting closer but he…”

“Tried to get away?” Aizawa offers evenly.

“Yeah, yeah and I’m, fuck,” any hope of calm leaves him, a sob cleaving through his chest. “I’m making everything worse.”

“Breathe.”

It sounds so simple when he says it, but it’s as if his lungs had been waiting for permission because he gasps instantly. Shaky and pathetic, but a breath nonetheless. 

“Good. Is he actively hurting himself?”

By the time he’d returned to the kitchen, Hitoshi was frozen solid, hadn’t moved a muscle since Aizawa picked up. His hands are balled up in his lap, not relaxing but no longer clenching tighter.

“No, not anymore.”

“Are there any wounds beyond what you feel capable of treating?”

“I don’t think so,” he replies, then forces himself to look more closely, taking advantage of this momentary paralysis to get nearer. It's terrifying in a way he’d never be able to describe, seeing his boyfriend like this. It hurts in a way he’s never felt before. Focus. This isn’t about you. “I can bandage everything.”

“Good,” Aizawa repeats. “Are his pupils dilated?”

Katsuki leans in, straining to see, but it’s pointless when the pupils and irises are both white, suspended within purple scleras. There’s usually a thin gray ring separating the white regions, but in the dim light he can’t make it out. Can’t even do this right? What a great ass hero you fuckin’ are—

“Yeah, I think so? Maybe? I-I don’t know, I can’t tell,” can’t breathe either, because how the hell can he be so fucking good at everything and not know?

“It’s alright,” that calm voice drifts between the layers of roaring self-hatred. “They dilate whenever he’s having a flashback, that’s likely what’s happened. It’s not you he’s afraid of.”

… right. Right.

Katsuki nods to himself and says firmly, “What do I do?”

“Tell him you’re not angry, that the dish doesn’t matter. Don’t mention the food though, just offer something light once he comes out of it.” 

Rustling filters in through the line, another voice, and then he’s on speaker.

Yamada gives a quick hello before adding in, “When he’s like this he’s extremely compliant which can be a bit alarming, I know, but if the wounds are bad it’s alright to give a gentle order to allow first aid. You’re doing a good job, okay, sweetie?”

Katsuki swallows thickly, vision going watery. 

“Do you need us to head over?”

“No,” he bites out. He can do this.

“Alright,” Aizawa says. “Remember to breathe.”

“Wait! I mean…”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Yamada assures softly. 

“I’ll stay on the line,” Aizawa confirms, and the tension feathering Katsuki’s jaw eases a bit. 

Setting the phone on the floor, he reaches up to the counter for a rag—careful to project every movement.

Hitoshi tracks it all with hazy eyes, the only sound, his ragged drags of air. Katsuki uses the rag to clear the shards, slowly, so very slowly making his way closer, and though Hitoshi’s shoulders hike up, he doesn't attempt to retreat any further. 

“There, see? No big deal. That was a stupid fucking bowl anyway.” Katsuki lowers fully, crossing his legs. “How ‘bout tomorrow we go to that thrift store Pikachu’s always yappin’ about? Can pick out something way better, yeah?”

No response. Just tension, thick and suspended, hanging like a veil between them. Katsuki's never been much for physical touch, but it strikes him now, how badly he wants to grab Toshi and wrap him up tight, shield him from whatever hell had taken him captive.

“Can I bandage you up?” The bleeding had stopped, dry and flaking at this point. “Sorry for running out before, I can go grab everything real quick or we can go to the bathroom—whatever you want.”

Still nothing. Less than nothing, his face has fallen to something devoid of life. Katsuki fumbles for his phone. 

“Zawa?” It’s an effort to keep the panic from his voice. “He’s not answering.”

“Dissociating, probably.” He’s seen Todoroki like this, but never... “Gentle pressure and warmth are usually grounding.”

He wracks his brain for what Izuku used to do to help Todoroki. Then he’s hopping to his feet and grabbing Toshi’s weighted blanket from the couch, stopping by the bathroom first to gather up all the first aid supplies. Hitoshi doesn’t flinch when he awkwardly drapes it over his shoulders—Katsuki doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad sign. When he’s sure it won’t fall off, he scoots back. And then, he waits.

True to his word, Aizawa stays on the line, talking him through the wait, not commenting when Katsuki starts to cry, other than to say he's doing a good job in that monotone way of his that he’d be lost without. 

Finally, after two rolls of bandages and a half hour of rigid tension, the haze clouding Hitoshi’s eyes began to recede. 

“Toshi?” Katsuki lifts onto his knees, a hand hovering beside Hitoshi's face, watching those beautiful eyes clear. “Hey, you with me?”

Hitoshi blinks once. Twice. And then he’s pressing his cheek into Katsuki’s palm with a smile so fragile, it’s like holding an ember. Katsuki takes his first full breath, and Hitoshi does the same before crashing into him.

They collapse in a heap of tears, hysterics, and blankets on the kitchen floor, surrounded by porcelain and blood. 

“Good work, you two. Everything alright?”

No, no it wasn’t. Not even close. But it would be, because they've got each other.

“We’re good. Thanks, Sensei, really.”

“Anytime, problem child.”

“Dad,” Hitoshi chokes out, only to cough from the strain. Instead, he droops back into Katsuki’s arms and signs against his chest. 

“He says ‘love you’."

“Love you too, kid. Get some rest, both of you.”

Slumped against one another, they do just that. And for the first time since moving in, Hitoshi sleeps through the night. 

Chapter Text

In the morning, Katsuki re-bandages Hitoshi's palms. 

The cuts aren’t bad, he’s had worse, but the mending flesh stings, itches like— No, stop it. To keep himself from following that line of thought, he works his jaw. Tries to focus on the soft cushion beneath him and the low hum of the radio. 

It's been a quiet morning, ever since untangling from each other on the kitchen floor where they’d both passed out. Still in their pajamas, they were taking things slow, languid. One step at a time. Washing up in the bathroom, a simple breakfast in the living room, and now this. 

Even as Katsuki unwinds the bandages and dabs the shallow cuts with antiseptic, he doesn't bring up last night yet—a blessing that makes Hitoshi’s throat tight. He just… he loves Kats so much. 

Loves his gentle touches and the pause before each moment of contact—a silent question. Loves the steady set of his jaw, the focus in his eyes, the scratch of calloused hands that can destroy but only protect. Loves that he understands what it is to be born for annihilation.

This is your home now too, Katsuki had said last night.

It still doesn't feel like it, but Hitoshi's just so fucking grateful to get to be here. To be surrounded by calmness and warmth and love so intense it sinks through flesh and muscle, seeping into frigid bone. Granting him the confidence to clear his throat.

He doesn't know how to start, exactly. He’s never done this before—never explained any of this to anyone but his therapist who doesn't listen—but Katsuki deserves an explanation. Even if it disrupted this oasis of serenity. 

“So, um… about last night…”

Kats doesn't pause in his ministrations, just brushes a finger across the edge of the wrapping, expertly tucking in the raised edges. It's an effort not to shiver. 

“Reactions like that don’t happen often, not anymore. Just when my insomnia's really bad, and with the move…,” Hitoshi shakes his head, watching the rhythmic motions of Katsuki’s deft fingers. “It’s been so long since— I didn’t think it would… I thought I grew out of them.” 

He grit his teeth. It's true, he'd thought—hoped—that the few months in Shouta and Hizashi’s care had absolved this. The thought of having to bring up another issue with his therapist makes his gut churn. But he swallows it down and forces himself to meet those red eyes that had captured him, heart and soul.

“Regardless, I should’ve warned you. I’m sorry if I… if I scared you.”

Katsuki places Hitoshi's other hand atop his lap, bringing them both between his own. The morning light set his eyes aflame beneath furrowed brows. An intensity that cleansed the lingering fear and anxiety in Hitoshi’s core like a forest fire cleansing the wild of human touch. 

“I’ll never be scared of you.” Spoken with conviction stronger than Kirishima’s Unbreakable, halting Hitoshi’s mind. “For you, sure— That’s definitely on the table,” Kats smirks, and a laugh cracks through Hitoshi’s chest. 

The smile remains on Katsuki’s lip as he starts on the second hand, letting out a pleased hum at the lesser wounds marring this one.  

“What about the…," Katsuki trails off, clearing his throat. "Ya know, the food thing?” 

There's so much calmness in the room, wrapped in the safety of Katsuki’s presence, and Hitoshi feels light with it. Dread doesn’t rush in at the question. Instead, he nods, urging Katsuki to continue.

“You don’t gotta tell me everything, but I,” the gruff edge of his voice softens, “I want you to feel safe here.”

Hitoshi hasn’t revealed much about his time in foster care, and Katsuki's never pushed, not once. Not even about the scars. The way he looks up at him now through blond lashes, unflinchingly and truly unafraid…

“Back in the foster homes, I wasn’t allowed to… I, uh…,” Hitoshi draws in a shaky breath, rubbing his neck with the finished hand. “Food was always… restricted. Scarce in some, banned or locked away in others. And the… the muzzles… sometimes they forgot to unlock them.” 

He chuckles at that, remembering how one of the foster moms wore the key around her neck—how it always jingled against her diamond encrusted cross pendant. 

Katsuki goes very still. 

“At the last place, I was only allowed in the kitchen at night after everyone went to bed. But if I woke any of them up…,” a weak smile tugs at his lip. It feels like a grimace. “Let’s just say I stopped trying after the third hospital visit. Wasn’t worth it.”

Cataclysmic rage, enough to level entire cities, flickers behind crimson eyes. “'Zawa put those fuckers away for good?” 

“Yeah,” Hitoshi huffs fondly, recalling the weeks before graduation he'd spent in stuffy courtrooms watching Aizawa rip them to shreds from the stand. More than a few had been carried away in need of fresh pants. “Yeah, he did.” 

“Good,” Katsuki grunts, folding his arms resolutely. “They ever get out, I’ll kill ‘em.” 

Hitoshi leans closer, breathing in the heady scent of the persimmon shampoo Katsuki secretly imported on a regular basis. It's one of the few things he can actually smell these days and Hitoshi thinks, not for the first time, that he could spend hours just like this.

Face buried in wild blond hair, he mutters, practically a purr, “My hero.” 

“Fuckin whatever,” Katsuki grumbles, but pulling away slightly reveals flushed cheeks. “‘nuff a this sappy shit. You got a problem with my kitchen?” 

Something deep inside loosens at the teasing smirk on pink lips, at how Katsuki wasn't treating him any differently despite the incident. 

“Your kitchen is beautiful, ‘specially with the new tile,” Hitoshi lavishes, only to wince. “Sorry I got blood all over it. And sorry about the bowl.”

“Fuck the bowl.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Tch, bastard.”

“Asshole,” Hitoshi breaths against his ear that instantly turns red. 

Katsuki tackles him and then they’re on the floor. Laughing too much to focus, Hitoshi lets out a punched out breath when Katsuki lands on top of him, teeth flashing in triumph. Panting, eyes wild, Kats rakes a hand through his hair.

“What about with Sensei and Present Mic?” 

But Hitoshi’s too lost watching him like this to answer—the way his muscles cut with shadows from the sunlight at his back, hair glowing like a halo. An angel the heavens don’t deserve. 

“Oi, dumbass.”

“Hmm?”

“Tch,” Katsuki looks away from what must be nauseating amounts of fondness in Hitoshi’s eyes. Even after all this time, he still gets flustered so easily. “You said it doesn’t happen anymore, so what’d you do at their place?”

“Oh, uh, they’d give me like tasks to do. Putting dishes away, but not plates or forks, gathering ingredients for dinner from the fridge but not the pantry— The conditions gave me something to focus on.”

Katsuki holds his chin a moment, deep in thought, before rising with an outstretched hand. 

“Think that’d work here?”

It's Hitoshi’s turn to flush, cheeks warming, as he takes the offered hand. Trying to hide it, he shrugs, returning to his place on the couch and folding his legs beneath him. 

“Maybe. It’s… sorry. This is a lot, I know.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m supposed to be your boyfriend, not a damn pet.”

“Stop sayin’ stupid shit,” Katsuki growls menacingly. “You’re my fucking boyfriend cause I fucking said so, got it?”

“Oh.”

Rolling his eyes, Katsuki’s lip twitches, lifting from the scowl. He waves towards the kitchen, then the apartment in general. “Anything else that’d help?”

“Could I, maybe,” Hitoshi starts, only to pause when the question lodges in his throat. Bandaged hands lift from his lap to sign, ‘Can I do the grocery shopping?’ 

Still accustomed to months of living alone, Katsuki's been doing all the shopping on top of all the cooking. And, sure, Hitoshi's been pulling his weight by taking over laundry, vacuuming, and general tidying, but contributing to ‘food acquisition’ could maybe lessen some of his guilt.

“I don’t see why not— Long as I get to make the list,” Katsuki adds with a toothy grin.

Hitoshi thrusts out a bandaged hand. Katsuki clasps it with a pop of his own. 

“Deal.”

It takes a few more days before Hitoshi feels stable enough to sleep in the same bed as Katsuki. And of course, because it’s him, he has a night terror the very first time. 

Not wanting to bother Katsuki, he lays flat on his back and runs through every single one of the breathing exercises his therapist prescribed in place of medication. None of them work and he’s careening, closer to hyperventilating than before, because he can’t even breathe like a normal person. 

Monster

Villain

Freak 

Nausea churns deep in his gut. Biting his tongue, he chucks the sheets away and stumbles for the door, quiet as possible. 

Once out on the balcony—only after the door is firmly shut—he lets himself fall apart.

Clutching the railing with white knuckles, scarred to hell and back, the first sob that rips through him nearly brings him to his knees. Pathetic tears follow, shudder from his chest, disrupting the peaceful night air and the moon high above. There’s not enough space in his heart to feel ashamed about that too. And yet, he makes room.

He resigns himself to his fate—crying to the point of exhaustion before crawling back inside, maybe scavenging a few more hours of fitful sleep before the sun has the audacity to rise. 

A siren wails in the distance, barreling through the city traffic that, like him, never sleeps. He can’t even remember the night terror, just that it left his skin crawling and his bones colder than the tears streaming down burning cheeks. 

He wraps his arms around himself, wishing he had Mouse to hold onto. She always lingers nearby whenever his insomnia acts up or a nightmare sends him scattering. But no matter how much he misses her, he knows it’s for the best that she’s in Shouta’s care for a few more weeks. The kitchen incident would’ve traumatized her for months, always skittish around loud noises and stressed in new environments. As much as it pained him, it had been the right call to hold off until he was properly acclimated.

All he has to hold onto is the railing and his phone. His phone that’s now gripped in his hand—he doesn’t remember grabbing it. The screen shows Shouta’s contact, undialed. 

He doesn’t remember that either. 

Another sob shatters through him, ricocheting against permanently bruised ribs, and his breath hitches between desperate gasps for air. Fucking pathetic. A traitorous finger nearly strikes the call button. 

But he hesitates. 

In this state, he knows he won’t recover if Shouta tells him that moving in wasn’t a good idea, or that the new environment is too detrimental to his fragile sleep cycle and questionable health and— He doesn’t want Shouta to think things aren’t going well with Katsuki, or… if he even mentioned the kitchen incident, Hitoshi might just shatter like that fucking bowl did.

The line rings. He doesn’t even register pressing it and scrambles to end the call before it can connect.

“Hey, kid.”

Hitoshi freezes. 

He thought he’d gotten used to Shouta calling him that, but right now it cut straight through him with a searing ease that made it hard to breathe.

“Hitoshi? Are you there?” There’s rustling, like sheets and— His throat closes up. Fuck, what time is it? Was he asleep? Did I wake him up? “Everything okay, kid?” 

Feeling suddenly lightheaded, he leans against the railing and tries to focus on the dark horizon; counting the artificial stars dotting every building in the city, the clouds above too thick to make out any real ones. After sucking in a breath, he says hoarsely, “‘m here,” cringing instantly at how miserable it comes out. 

Shouta hums, “Rough night?”

It used to freak him out how well Shouta could read him—Hizashi liked to say it was cause they were secretly blood-related—but in times like these, he couldn’t be more grateful.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Hitoshi forces out a chuckle, leaning away to sniffle. Then, so he won’t worry, adds, “just a shitty nightmare.”

“Mmh. Wanna talk about it?”

“Nothing to tell,” he says lamely. “Can’t remember.”

“Okay.”

Then, silence. It was a tactic Shouta often used when it was clear Hitoshi had more to say. Offering space and silence, waiting patiently without pressure. It turned Hitoshi’s world upside down every single time.

“Can…,” Hitoshi starts, only for the thought of asking a question to clog his throat. 

This happened a lot when he was first adopted, and he usually just rephrased questions into awkwardly structured statements, but he promised his therapist, promised himself, that he’d make an effort. That he’d try to get better. He wanted that, to get better. Had to get better—before he lost this dream life he’d fought tooth and nail for. 

“Sorry, uh… c-can— Shit.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.”

It sounds so simple, and maybe it is. Maybe it could be. He swallows again, past the frustration and fear. Clears his throat. Signs the question against his leg. Takes a deep breath and—

“Can you… if you’re not, um, busy… can we just, I mean, can we maybe like… talk for a bit?”

He clenches his eyes shut in the beat of silence that follows, cursing his existence and the bone deep exhaustion slurring his every word. 

“Course, kid.”

The breath he’s been holding comes out in a rush, quelling a rising sob.

“Conversation or listening?”

Another blessing. “Listening, please.”

Shouta grunts fondly and begins a steady ramble about his day, Hizashi’s recent antics, how Mouse is faring—about everything and nothing. No questions or prodding, nothing that sets Hitoshi on edge. Slumped against the railing, Hitoshi makes noises here and there to show he’s listening, but mostly just lets the sound of his dad’s voice wash over him. It settles across his shoulders like a blanket, easing the tension they hold. 

“Still there kid?” 

“Mmh?” he mutters, meaning to add more only to be interrupted by his own yawn.

Shouta chuckles. “Feeling a bit better?” 

“Mhmm, so… better.” 

“Good, I’m proud of you for reaching out.” 

Pressed against the cold rail, Hitoshi feels his cheeks warm at the praise. “Th’nks… night Dad.” 

“Get some rest, kid. Zashi and I love you.” 

“Love you too” he yawns again and hangs up before stumbling back to bed. Back to Katsuki who hasn’t moved in the slightest.

Yet, even in his sleep, Katsuki grabs for him the moment Hitoshi climbs back in. Mind blissfully quiet, he pulls him in tight. Katsuki nuzzles into his chest, hands clutching onto the back of his shirt like he’s something worth holding. Worth protecting.

Tears sprang to his eyes. Not burning this time, not painful. It’s relief and immeasurable gratitude that overflows his heart, overwhelms his soul. Parents that love him, two safe homes, genuine friends, the best cat in the world, and a boyfriend capable of loving him even after seeing him fall apart. Never, not in his wildest dreams, did he ever think such a life was possible for him. 

As he drifts off, he prays to those artificial stars glittering eternal beyond the windows, more real than any god.

Please

Don’t wake me from this dream 

Please

Let me have this life

I’ll do anything to keep it

Anything

Katsuki shifts in his arms and Hitoshi catches a glimpse of a smile. Soft and unguarded, a picture of serenity that only he gets to see. A sight he’d willingly spend the rest of his life fighting to deserve.

Try to take this from me and I’ll rip you from the sky

Detach my jaw and devour you whole

Katsuki shuts the door behind him with a heavy thud. 

A full morning of training newbies and an afternoon of ironing out logistics for an upcoming inter-agency mission— He's beat.

Keys thrown into the paw print shaped bowl by the door, he flicks on the lights and bends down to untie his shoes. Only to notice a pair of haphazardly discarded boots already there. 

Hitoshi’s boots. 

Any ounce of exhaustion left him, blasted away in a burst of excitement that makes his heart skip a beat. Toshi wasn’t supposed to get back from his undercover mission until tomorrow, meaning he wouldn’t be home for at least another week.

Ever since graduating and starting their pro hero work, Hitoshi had insisted on making the commute from Whisper to his place alone since his returns usually happened during Katsuki’s working hours. It ate at Katsuki a little more each time. He never got to see Toshi for at least a week after returning from deep cover and he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to endure the agonizing wait now that they live together. 

There’s a ‘welcome back’ strawberry cake in the fridge to celebrate Hitoshi's first mission since moving in that still needs to be frosted, but that can wait. Everything can wait, because after four endless weeks, Toshi is home.

Nearly falling over in an effort to kick off his shoes, he calls out into the dead silence, “Tosh?”

The living room was getting dark, curtains pulled back just how he left them that morning. The last dregs of sunlight stream in, painting the empty couch in swaths of pink. More often than not, whenever Katsuki got back from his daily patrols, that’s exactly where he'd find Toshi—huddled up on the couch, buried beneath his lavender scented weighted blanket and under the fiercely watchful guard of Mouse. 

Seeming to hear his thoughts, a loud yowl sounds behind him. He turns in time to see the Maine Coon strut from the cracked bedroom door like she owns the place. Her tortoiseshell patterned tail flicks high above, orange eyes radiating supreme smugness, given that Katsuki made it a fucking point not to let her in there the entire time Hitoshi's been away. It had only taken one instance of waking up from a nap with a mouth full of furry ass before establishing that rule.

“Oi, fuckface, where’s your dad?” Another flick of her tail and she stretches, back turning dismissively. Katsuki growls, “You can’t keep him to yourself, ya little shit. He was mine first.”

Technically, that wasn’t true. 

Apparently, a few months before graduation, Hitoshi had run away from his foster home and lived in an alley with the stray until Aizawa and Yamada found out and adopted him. Katsuki hadn’t made things official until after finals. 

Mouse angles her head to glance over a marbled shoulder, locking eyes as she slowly drags a massive paw across his very new, very expensive rug. “Oi!”

She dashes up her cat tree—the one he'd  bought and built for her—before he can blow her back to whatever hell she came from.

“You’re lucky I haven’t skinned you yet, Rat,” he grumbles, turning for the bedroom. “Count your fucking days.”

A pitchy meow, for which she’d been named after, cut through the silence and he clenches his jaw against the urge to get the last word with a fucking cat.

He’ll deal with her later. Every second he’s not crushing Toshi in a welcome home hug is a second wasted. The four weeks he’s been gone have felt like an eternity. 

The bedroom is even dimmer, blinds and curtains shut tight, so he crosses the room to check the bathroom, only to stop when a slight movement catches his eye. A near-silent rustling leads him to the far side of the room, in the sliver of space between the window and his side of the bed. 

A large figure is pressed into the narrow space, shrouded by dark fabric and thick shadows. Then a flash of white pierces through, barely audible breathing that sounds too heavy, and—  

“Toshi? What are you…”

More rustling and the blanket falls from Hitoshi's head, revealing shaggy hair—undercut and still dyed black from his mission. The striking white comes from eyes spread too wide, cracked lips slightly parted. He looks up through dark lashes, a thick haze killing any hopes of awareness. Nothing but desperation in those unseeing eyes, cores piercing amidst twin seas of crushed belladonna, no contact lenses obstructing their natural color. 

Sometimes Katsuki went with Toshi to feed alley strays around the city. Feral beasts that stalked in the dark—only the glints of their eyes and the flash of their teeth to be seen. Some long-buried instinct spikes deep in his chest. 

“They’re just as scared of you as you are of them,” Hitoshi explained that first time. He’d smiled tightly. “It’s not their fault. They’ve been through a lot, ya know?”

Just like in the alley, Katsuki stands frozen. 

He should turn a light on, go to him, help him through whatever's happening and—

Just like in the kitchen, his feet won’t move. 

A pale hand emerges from the depths of the blanket, flashing fake tattoos—twisting vines and barbed wire—in a jerky move for his neck. Not to rub at the back like when stressed, but to rake across the side, leaving behind lines of red. And Katsuki realizes how irritated the skin already is. Not just on his neck, but along a collarbone, across his chest, down the length of his arm, broken only by black and gray ink. Rows and rows of raised flesh, several welling with crimson tears.

What the—

How long has he been— 

An empty voice emerges from the depths of the blanket. “Won’t come off.”

The hollow whisper sends a chill up Katsuki’s spine and he looks around, confused. All he sees on Hitoshi is the blanket and, beneath it, a pair of dark boxers. But he’s not bothering with the fabric, and the blanket could easily come off if he weren’t clutching it so hard with his other hand.

“What won’t?” Katsuki manages once he finds his voice. 

It’s the wrong thing to say. 

Because Hitoshi’s hollow gaze drops to the floor and he scratches harder. A tear rolls down his cheek. It’s enough to shatter through the ice encasing Katsuki.

“Oi, stop that, you’re gonna—,” he reaches for his hands, but Toshi flinches violently, shoulders hiking up to his ears as he covers himself more with the blanket. Katsuki falters. 

When Hitoshi looks up again, it’s with hesitation. But what’s worse is the choked out, “Please, please no–”

And Katsuki realizes it’s not hesitation at all. It’s fear.  

“It's not you he’s afraid of,” Aizawa had said all those weeks ago in the kitchen. But Toshi's eyes aren’t dilated now. That gray line is solid, coiled around a perfectly normal sized pupil. This isn’t a flashback.

He's seeing me. 

He’s scared of me. 

“I- shit— I’m sorry, hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you, I won’t touch you.” He shifts back. Distance helped before, and while this feels infinitely different, maybe it'll work again. 

For several moments, the only sounds are that of scratching and ragged breathing. Katsuki tries not to be reminded of Shigaraki. Stop it, stay here, Toshi needs you. But then Hitoshi goes over the same spot one too many times and a trail slips down his neck, disappearing into the blanket still tightly wrapped around his trembling frame.

It’s an effort to keep the alarm from his voice as he slowly scoots closer. “Hey, Toshi? I’m, ah,” he licks dry lips, “I’m a little lost here. Can you tell me what’s going on?” 

Hitoshi eyes him wearily, and Katsuki doesn’t think he’ll respond, until a low voice says hopelessly, “Won’t come off.”

“Right, okay... what won’t?” 

He grows more frantic, agitated. Not scratching anymore—clawing, rending. The beads swell, tumbling down his neck and arms.

“No no no, hey, just focus on me. If you tell me what it is, maybe I can help get it off?” Katsuki cringes at how useless he sounds, but for once, he’s chosen the right thing to say. The scratching slows, stops, until Toshi is just holding onto himself in a bloody hug—nails pressed against his arms, but no longer carving into himself. 

“Help?” Toshi flinches at his own question and hands shoot up to cover his mouth. Red streaks stain his cheeks.

“Yes!” Katsuki nods with fervor before he can spiral further. “Yeah, yeah just tell me what you need.” 

He’d never describe Hitoshi as meek, but that’s how he looks holding out a mauled arm. Meek, uncomfortable, and more than a little embarrassed. Beneath his scar flushes pink. Katsuki swallows roughly.

“Your arms?”

Hitoshi shakes his head, hesitant, but no longer saturated with fear. Chewing on a bruised lip, he whispers, “Dysec…dysis.”

“Dy– what?”

With an absolutely heartbreaking frown, Hitoshi draws his arm back into himself. Katsuki fumbles for his phone. After a heavy dose of autocorrect, he’s presented with a picture of a half-shed snake above a description that fills him with equal parts dread and relief.

Finally given something to work with, Katsuki snaps the pieces together. He turns the screen to Toshi who nods without meeting his eyes. Grit his teeth and muttered, “Won’t… come off.”

“Your cover from the mission?”

Hitoshi nods, frustration now obvious. 

Okay, well, that’s not good, but at least now Katsuki has something to go off of. He glances at the spread of irritated skin. The cuts need to be disinfected and wrapped and… his mind races. Breathe, focus. The wounds can wait, they’re concerning but not life-threatening, and he has a feeling they’ll only get reopened if he doesn’t ease the tension radiating from his boyfriend first.

“Okay, how ‘bout a shower?”

Hitoshi’s nose scrunches up, crinkling the scar, and the familiar reaction melts some of his own tension.

“I’ve got an exfoliator sponge I can scrub your arms with.” At least that way he could control the intensity and tend to the more severe damage. The pile of blanket still looks a bit hesitant until Katsuki wracks his mental list of all things Toshi and adds, “I’ll make sure the water’s super hot.”

And finally, Katsuki's found the right thing to say. He nearly sags with relief when Toshi’s face lights up, eyes sparking with interest, a bit clearer than before. Black waves shake as he nods, and the blanket slips down.

Before he can change his mind or start scratching again, Katsuki helps him up and hurries for the bathroom. They get into the shower and after both arms have been scrubbed raw, Toshi’s breathing has evened out, but the tension corded in his shoulders remains. Not even the waves of steam seem able to relieve it.

“Anywhere else?” Katsuki asks thickly, watching tinted water slide down the tile. Jaw feathering, Hitoshi stares at his hands and exposes his neck. A tear rolls down his cheek. Katsuki wipes it away with his thumb before scrubbing along parted scars and fresh bruises, following them down either shoulder.  

His heart threatens to give out more than a few times, seeing what he’d done to himself—what Katsuki hadn’t been here to prevent—mind swirling like the persimmon soap down the drain.

Has this happened before? Is this why he doesn’t let me see him after his undercover returns? Has he been suffering like this alone? Why didn’t he tell me?

... why was he scared of me?

By the time he’s done, Hitoshi's eyes are closing and he’s collapsing in the tub, utterly spent. Katsuki wraps him up in their softest towel. Knowing he won’t be able to lift him out by himself, Katsuki climbs in, wedging a towel between his own back and the porcelain before guiding Toshi between his legs. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay now. I got you,” Katsuki whispers into soaking hair, no longer dyed that unfamiliar black. He rocks them back and forth, swaying gently. 

He doesn’t let go the entire night. Not when his muscles start to cramp. Not when the near lethal doses of adrenaline abandon him so quickly his teeth chatter. Not when an icy chill seeps into his bones.

The tub is much colder than the kitchen floor. 

Chapter Text

For the first time in four weeks, Hitoshi wakes up not to gunfire or blood curdling screams, but to the sounds of home. 

Cracking open bruised lids, his vision is framed not by sharp black strands, but soft purple waves. 

He’s on the couch—his couch—draped in a blanket with Mouse stretched out beside him. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just lays there basking in the warmth of the sun filtering through the windows, the feel of plush fabric, the sound of pots and pans in the kitchen. It might feel like he was hit by a truck, but it doesn’t matter. 

Home, his soul purrs listlessly.

More times than he can count, Hitoshi has watched Katsuki cook; has memorized the way he moves, the dance of it all, the rhythm and ease—knows it better than his own heartbeat. Which is how he knows something is wrong. 

The dance is stilted, the chime of metal implements against beloved pans a bit too sharp, ringing a bit too loud, the footsteps not as fluid. So different from the waltz forever etched in Hitoshi’s mind.

Katsuki's upset. 

Shifting slightly enough not to disturb Mouse again, Hitoshi retrieves his phone from the coffee table to check the time. 

He expects to be met with black hair, gray irises and black pupils—normal eyes, human eyes—and tattoos. The reflection reveals an alternate reality. Purple hair, monstrous eyes, and skin bare of anything but scars. The disconnect short circuits his brain into spitting out: 

Yauma Koruya, low-born male, age 24, seeks to pledge allegiance in honor of…

An endless stream of details, about the life and existence of a man born from Hitoshi’s mind. Not a cover, but a flesh he’d worn for four weeks. Day in, day out.

He sucks in a breath, dragging a hand through familiar locks, tracking the shaky movement in the black screen of his dead phone wearily.

The mission’s over, it’s done, and he knows that, he does, but the blood, it’s still there. Clawing at his mind, scraping against his lungs, and Kats… it’s still here, he’ll see it, he’ll— Villain villain villain.

One hand still buried in his hair, fingers digging into his scalp, he throws the phone with the other. It goes flying, nearly landing on Mouse’s tail. The Maine Coon grumbles in her sleep, melting on a purr. 

With excruciating effort, he detaches the nails from his head. Instead, he brings an arm across his face and fuck—grazing against his neck draws out a breathless hiss. When the flare of pain subsides, he realizes his arms and neck are covered, shoulders and torso too. Wrapped up in neat bandages, splotched pink.

Confusion has him half rising, pulling at the collar of his tank top to confirm the subtle pressure. 

I was coherent enough to do all this?

Usually, all he could manage was a long sleeve turtleneck, if that. He throws an uncertain glance at Mouse.

Painfully slowly, he gathers the crumbs, sorting through information like he does on missions. It’s second nature by now.

What he doesn’t know: the day, the time, leaving the agency or the commute home, bandaging himself, and falling asleep on the couch. 

What he does know: Katsuki is upset.

Unease claws up his throat as he dredges through the mess of fog in his head, scraping together what happened after the mission ended.

The images are still blurry, but he’s able to draw out scraps— Wanting to pass out, feeling it creep into the edges of his vision, doubling at the exhaustion in his bones but fighting it because he couldn’t, he can’t—

Gotta get it off… Don’t pass out, don’t pass out, he’ll see—he’ll come home and see the— Get it off now

And then he remembers.

Grabbing the blanket and hiding in the darkest, most concealed part of the bedroom. Because if he couldn’t properly shed the cover still clinging to him, the least he could do was protect Katsuki from the hideous sight by wrapping up in a blanket and getting out of sight. 

He remembers Katsuki coming in and— Oh shit.

The rest of the night comes crashing around him as he rips the blanket off his legs, swinging them over the cushion to hunch over. Arms braced against his thighs, breaths erratic, he tries to process what this means, what Katsuki had seen. The kitchen goes dead quiet. 

Standing in the threshold, holding a tray with two steaming bowls, is Katsuki. The most beautiful thing Toshi's ever seen. The only thing capable of halting the maelstrom swirling in his head. Four weeks had felt like four years and he wants to launch himself at him, bring him into a suffocating bear hug and not let go for days. Instead, he holds onto the edge of the sofa, cracked knuckles going white. The urge to scratch at the bandages cracks open an eye, lurking in his hindbrain, prowling the edges of his mind restlessly.

And Katsuki… he just stares. Like a deer in headlights, shock written across every feature before falling into something wholly unreadable. The first step looks almost painful, and then he’s placing the tray on the table and sitting at the opposite end of the couch. 

Mouse hisses at him. He doesn’t give his usual hiss back. Doesn’t reach for the food. Doesn’t look at Hitoshi.

Mouse nudges Hitoshi's thigh, he takes it as encouragement. Clears his throat. Manages a weary, “Hi.”

When Katsuki continues to stare forward, watching the steam without blinking, Hitoshi shifts awkwardly. Don’t scratch don’t fucking—

“Are… you,” he swallows thickly, “... okay?” 

That finally gets a reaction. Katsuki turns his head slowly, face utterly incredulous. “Am I okay?”

Hitoshi nods weakly. His fingers twitch, aching to reach out, to hold onto Katsuki, but unsure if he would want that. Would want him. That’s when he notices the blood caked beneath his own fingernails. Disgusted with himself, he tucks his hands away, wrapping bandaged arms tightly around his torso. 

Still tense beside him, Katsuki watches in that uncharacteristic silence, jaw feathering. Another wave of unease churns in Hitoshi's gut. He’s usually good at reading Katsuki. Prides himself on knowing his boyfriend so well, but this is uncharted territory. 

The tray holds two bowls, maybe that’s a good sign? Hitoshi doesn’t know, doesn’t get his hopes up. 

He promised himself he’d never bring any of this shit into Katsuki’s home. And now he’s tainted it, this place Kats called his oasis—the only place he ever truly felt calm. 

Hitoshi had already desecrated his kitchen. Had that not been enough?

“Look," Hitoshi whispers, "I get it if you’re pissed. I…”

Katsuki closes his eyes with a sharp breath, and Hitoshi feels the fascia inside his chest stretch, peel, rip away—his heart with it.

“Sorry, I’m…,” his throat closes up. “I’ll go.” 

Head bowed, eyes downcast, he rouses Mouse and swoops her up, not looking in Katsuki’s direction. Her tail hooks around his shoulder, a grounding weight that gives him the strength to take a step, and then another. 

A low voice from the couch asks, “You’re leaving?”

“You didn’t sign up for this shit.” Hitoshi tries to keep his voice even, monotone. 

It’s not Katsuki’s fault, he can’t blame him.  Won't.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror and rips his eyes away quickly to staunch the flare of panic. The bandages press deeper, constricting like the skin he can never manage to shed. He doesn’t turn around. If he were to see fear, hatred, disgust in those red eyes, he wouldn't recover. 

“I’ll find somewhere else to stay and just visit like before.” He shifts, bringing Mouse closer to his hip, detaches enough to say, “Or if… if you don’t wanna keep dating—”

“Stop,” comes a strained voice. It’s louder. Closer. Hitoshi turns to see Katsuki there, barely a step away, hand reaching out but frozen between them. It’s shaking. 

“I keep fucking this up, don’t leave. It just— I… fuck,” Katsuki’s voice, always so brazen and confident, gives out. “Give me a minute.”

Mouse wriggles in his arms and Hitoshi hesitantly lets her down. He barely has time to register how empty and cold he feels without her when strong arms wrap around him, pulling him into a crushing embrace. It’s Hitoshi’s turn to freeze. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” Katsuki says into Hitoshi's shoulder, words muffled against his shirt. “I couldn’t make it stop, a-and you were— I didn’t know what to… everything I did made it worse. You just kept, you kept… I couldn’t get you to stop. There was so much blood.”

Kats squeezes him tighter, a vice around his waist, tighter than the bandages and Hitoshi can feel the thundering heartbeat against his own. Can feel hot tears dampen his chest.

“I thought after the kitchen thing that I knew what to do, but it… your eyes weren’t dilated.” His voice lowers, deepening. Haunted. “You were seeing me. Scared of me.”

Fear wasn’t something Katsuki openly admitted to. Ever. Hitoshi had grown to believe he was untouchable by such a thing. But he’d caused that. He’d put fear in those unyielding eyes. 

Shards of memory dislodge from the haze, of Katsuki yelling to him. Raw, unbridled panic alight in blazing eyes. 

“Kats, I’m so sor–”

“Don’t. Just… don’t. You’ve got nothing to apologize for, okay? Nothing, so please, stop… just stop.” 

“... okay,” Hitoshi manages. But that leaves him with nothing. He doesn’t know what to do, or where they stand, or what to say.

Hesitantly, to test the waters, Hitoshi whispers a weary, “I love you,” on a trembling breath. 

It felt strangely like setting his heart at Katsuki’s feet. An offering to an angel, to cherish or mutilate, whichever he desired. 

Katsuki only held him tighter, rocking them back and forth gently. As if he could hold Hitoshi together through sheer force of will. 

“I love you too,” Katsuki laughs, light and a bit hysterical, and Hitoshi joins in too. Just like that night in the kitchen. When they catch their breath, Katsuki takes him by the arm, careful of the bandages, and leads him to the couch. “Come on, before it gets cold.”

Hitoshi crosses his legs while Katsuki grabs the bowls, passing one over. It looks amazing, and he must’ve doubled the aromatics, because Hitoshi can actually make out the smell—which is also amazing. 

Peaceful silence flitted between them and they watched, laughing, as Mouse batted a toy across the room.

When Hitoshi's halfway through his meal, he lowers the bowl and settles in. Katsuki might think he doesn't have anything to apologize for, but he more than owes an explanation.

“So, this… dysecdysis thing,” he starts, and Katsuki rearranges himself, putting his back against the couch arm to face Hitoshi more fully.

“Yeah, what’s that all about? I mean, I read the definition ‘n all, but still kinda lost.”

Hitoshi nods. “That’s pretty much it. I couldn’t figure out a way of describing the feeling to my therapist. Was at the vet for Mouse’s check up and overheard a lady in the waiting room talking about her snake. First time I ever heard the word.” With a shrug, he rubs the back of his neck. “That’s how it feels after a deep cover mission. Having to be another person for so long, it’s like wearing  different skin, and I…” he trails off before adding much quieter, “I didn’t want you to see it.”

“This happen a lot?”

“After every mission,” Hitoshi forces himself to admit. Shame coils around his ribs, burning on his tongue like poison. “I’m usually better at hiding it.”

“The scratching?”

“Everything. Dissociation, lost time, and yeah the… scratching. I’m a mess when I get back. Never lived with someone for it. Usually hole up at my place and get healed after. Or if it’s really bad, I’m not allowed to leave Whisper and gotta ride it out in the medbay.” 

He cringes at the thought. It's only gotten that bad twice before. Both times, the nurses had to keep him sedated for an entire week. 

“Even Shouta ‘n Hizashi don't really know. They haven’t... I haven't let them see. They’d make me stop undercover work.”

“Oh.”

Katsuki falls silent, different than before—brows furrowed not in anger, but deep thought. And yet, it unnerves his unsteady mind that’s still hissing from shadowed edges.   

“I can’t tell what you’re thinking,” Hitoshi finally whispers, wishing it didn’t come out as pitifully anxious as he felt. Katsuki reaches over and places a calloused hand on his knee, absentmindedly rubbing circles with his thumb. Soothing as the look of thought deepens. 

“You got a psychologist?” 

Hitoshi blinks and looks over, met with that familiar face Denki had coined ‘strategy mode’. He clears his throat, eyes flicking away, back to Mouse’s escapade. “Uh, yeah, sort of. Whisper assigns everyone a therapist.” 

“No psychologists?”

He shakes his head, unsure of where this is going, but kept at ease by the steady circles. “Gotta submit a special request for one of those, I think.”

With his unoccupied hand, Katsuki takes his chin between his fingers in thought. “Your therapist, you like ‘em?”

“He’s alright.”

“He know about all this?” Katsuki asks, gesturing to the extensive bandages. Everything beneath burns beneath his gaze.

“No,” he admits lamely, swallowing thickly. The hand on his knee doesn’t falter in its soothing. It makes breathing easier, keeps frustrated tears at bay. “I mean, I tell him, but he doesn’t…”

“You don’t trust him,” Katsuki concludes. There’s no judgment in the statement, no malice.

Hitoshi knows he should be grateful to even have professional support, let alone agency-offered. It’s a resource he’d never had access to growing up. And yet… Hitoshi nods. 

An amused scoff sounds off beside him. “Hated my first five. Blew up the third one’s office. They got degrees, sure, but they’re just people. There’s nothing wrong with searching around ‘till you find a good fit.” He puffs out his chest, lips spreading into a feral grin. “My guy now could eat all those other fuckers for breakfast.”

Hitoshi’s eyes go wide. It makes sense when he puts it like that, but he’d never thought… the hand on his knee moves to wrap around his waist, pulling him in close. His thumb rubs against Hitoshi’s side and he temporarily loses all brain function. Sensing the sudden tension, Katsuki instantly loosens his grip.

“Sorry, this okay?” Words are a lost cause, so he gives a weak nod. Katsuki observes him a moment before continuing, “Alright, first thing tomorrow, we’re calling Whisper to get a new therapist and request a psychologist. They can help us make a plan.” 

“A plan?” Hitoshi echoes, utterly lost.

Determination set in his jaw, Katsuki’s eyes glow brighter than any star. “A re-entry plan for when you get back from missions. Should be easier to establish some sort of routine now that we’re living together.” 

At the strangled sound Hitoshi fails to force down, Katsuki’s brow furrows with genuine confusion, “What?” 

“You were serious? You still… want…” 

“The fuck? I got a cat tree ‘n everything,” he declares, pointing wildly to the massive furniture on which Mouse has perched on the highest spot. “You ‘n that damn rat are never leaving, ya fuckin’ hear me?!”  

Fuck I love you

Katsuki bursts out laughing and it takes a moment to realize he’d said it out loud. 

“Love you too, dumbass.” He vanishes into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a massive basket in hand. The grin on his face nearly blinds Hitoshi as he holds the basket aloft like some prize. “Now, go get dressed, we’re gonna have the best damn picnic ever.”

Mouse launches from the tree onto Hitoshi’s shoulder with a yowl, scrambling down his chest and onto the floor. Katsuki grumbles, “Yeah, yeah, let's show him, shitty rat.”

He heads for the door, crouching down by the table as she trots over and pulls something out of the basket beneath it. In complete awe, convinced he’s been transported into another universe, Hitoshi watches Katsuki hold out a pink harness and Mouse hop right in, standing perfectly still with a flicking tail until all the buckles are latched.

When he’s done, Katsuki rises, an undeniable look of pride twitching his lip. It falls into a scowl the moment he notices Hitoshi gaping, though a blush blossoms on his cheeks. “Tch, what?!”

“You harness trained her?”

“Not a fucking word,” the growl at war with the pout tugging at his face. 

Hitoshi hadn’t laughed so hard in weeks. So hard, he nearly fell over. He couldn’t stop smiling the rest of the day, his cheeks hurt the next day and his heart felt so full it was like Katsuki had detonated an explosion in his heart.

The three went for a hike, climbing up to Katsuki’s favorite spot, and he was right. With the amazing food, the perfect weather, and two of the most important beings in his life… It was the best damn picnic Hitoshi ever had.

It didn’t matter that it was the first and only one he’d ever had. He couldn’t wait to have a hundred more.