Work Text:
Vaguely, Katsuki is aware that he’s being ridiculous. It’s been two months. He broke up with Shouto. Mostly because he’s a bastard with weird, fucked up intimacy issues, but—
That’s not the point.
The point is that halfie’s on a date. The point is that it’s been two months and Katsuki still gets off thinking about the sound of his voice, that soft whine he makes (used to make, you idiot) sinking down on Katsuki’s cock like he was made for it. That he still picks up strawberry milk from the supermarket on the way home after a bad day for a dumb joke that no longer has a punchline. That the inside of his heart is still filled with Shouto, Shouto, Shouto. Like graffiti that stays there for years even as everything around it changes because nobody remembers to cover it up. (Katsuki doesn’t want to cover it up. Not yet. Not now. Not ever.)
The point is that, before he’d left home, fucking Deku had looked at him all stern and whispered Kacchan, maybe you should, you know, talk to someone about it. Because apparently it’s not normal to wake up with your chest hurting in the morning and send a bunch of petty villains to the hospital with broken bones over missing jewelry that they’d managed to recover anyway. Apparently, it’s not normal to cry into a pillow until the tears won’t come out anymore. It’s not normal to scream yourself hoarse, to bite your lip bloody trying not to let a simple truth slip out.
(That you loved him. That you loved him and you lost him and it’s all your fault. Isn’t that nice, hero? It’s been years, and you still can’t get anything right.)
Apparently—
You miss all the dumb shit. That’s the part nobody warned Katsuki about. And maybe it’s just because everyone thought they’d be forever, that Katsuki would pick out a ring and Shouto would ask Ponytail to do his makeup for the wedding and Deku would cry a fountain’s worth of tears and everyone would live Happily Ever After. Maybe it’s just that nobody thought they needed to worry about Katsuki messing it up. Doing that thing where you’re five years old at the beach putting hours of meticulous work and concentration into building a sandcastle and suddenly it’s late and you need to go and the thought of just—leaving it there for other people to step on while the water level rises does something strange and horrible to you so you kick it with all your might and run without looking back and now your best friend is crying and you’re five years old you’re five years old you’re five years old—
You think the rest of your life won’t be like that.
(You are, apparently, wrong.)
In his pocket, Katsuki’s phone vibrates. It’s probably Deku telling him not to be stupid, ardently reminding him that he’s better than this (he isn’t) and he’s got no reason to be upset after what he did (he does) and he should really move past this (he fucking can’t).
Halfie’s sitting with his back to Katsuki, and he’s probably smiling at his dumb date like his chest doesn’t hurt at all, not even a little bit. Ponytail set them up. Katsuki overheard Deku and Round Face talking. Someone she knows through her parents, apparently. Some rich boy who’s never worked a day in his life and probably thinks the prostate is a myth. He wouldn’t know how to make Shouto feel good. Wouldn’t know that you have to convince him, at first. To show him that pleasure is okay, to get on your knees and call him pretty before taking him into your mouth and dragging it out nice and slow, eventually slipping a few lube-slick fingers inside, letting him breathe, reminding him he’s doing well, promising to love him forever.
Nobody else should get to love him. Not like Katsuki did. Fuck. Not like Katsuki does. Because it’s not fucking over. It’s not—
Shouto’s his. Belongs to him because he chose it. Because he wants it. Because he chose Katsuki and he wanted Katsuki and Katsuki went and ruined it just to see if he could. Just to remind himself that he doesn’t deserve good things, hasn’t really earned them. That he doesn’t deserve the sight of Shouto’s smile first thing in the morning and hearing him hum while he tries to make fried eggs and just like. Watching him exist. Be and fucking brighten up Katsuki’s life like an—
An annoying half and half pretty boy. Katsuki’s. His, his, his. His, not someone else’s. Not—
It hurts. He digs blunt nails into the meat of his palms, watching wordlessly, mouth pursed, as the stranger—black hair, blue eyes, soft features, probably wears cologne that costs more than three months’ worth of Katsuki’s paycheck, shit, it’s like Ponytail was actively trying to avoid even the slightest accidental similarity—reaches across the table, cups Shouto’s cheek. Not to kiss him, thank fucking God. Katsuki might actually blow this shitty place up if he had to watch the love of his fucking life swap spit with an extra. Just to brush something off the corner of Shouto’s mouth.
Messy eater, Katsuki thinks, almost fond, and then remembers—
It used to be for Katsuki only. That Shouto used to have this weird thing about being prim and proper all the time when he thought he had to. Not with friends, usually. Not when he felt safe. And two months after graduation, six weeks after moving with Katsuki, three after Katsuki kissed him for the first time, pressed him up against the counter and said don’t go anywhere, okay? he got to witness the hurricane of Shouto’s unrestrained eating habits. Sauce smeared on his face, crumbs on his sweatshirt and on Katsuki’s favorite couch, and this guilty look in his eyes at being caught like he expected Katsuki to yell. Which, like, yeah. Katsuki yells a lot. Whatever. But in that moment he’d just wanted, disgusting as it was, to kiss Shouto stupid. Until he was gasping and panting and begging.
And now this—
This pathetic, useless pretty boy gets to see that. To see Shouto open and vulnerable. What the fuck. It’s not fair.
If this were one of those shitty romcoms Deku likes binging with Round Face while they shamelessly take up his couch like they’re scared he’s going to End It All if he finds one of halfie’s old tank tops tucked away somewhere or some shit, maybe this would be the part where Katsuki slides the waiter a crisp ten thousand yen bill to switch clothes with him and draws on a horribly inadequate mustache in sharpie and tries really hard to insinuate Shouto’s date has a tiny dick.
Knowing Shouto, he might find a way to see the good in that too. Might shrug and call it cute, might say it would take less effort to use his mouth, might bring up that sex toys are varied and plentiful. Like he doesn’t like choking on it with pretty tears running down his face. But maybe—
Maybe he just liked that because it was with Katsuki. Because Katsuki was the one he was doing all that with. He wasn’t Shouto’s first kiss, he knows. But he was his first everything else. And that—
It makes Katsuki wonder. He would have heard, if Shouto decided to fuck his way through the heartbreak. Unless that week straight that Kirishima decided to avoid him after getting trapped in that box-thing the villain’s quirk conjured with Shouto for a good six hours was because—
Well. That would sting, wouldn’t it? If Shouto was busy fucking his best friend while Katsuki worried. He wouldn’t. The Shouto Katsuki knows would never. But the Shouto Katsuki knows also called him a coward, looked ready to tear him apart before the resignation set in. Before he shrugged and whispered I think I’m going to move in with Momo.
And now Katsuki’s actually, genuinely stalking him like one of those creeps he pulls off reluctant women at bars sometimes. Fuck his life. Fuck everything. What good is any of it, without Shouto there? Without Shouto to come home to? To make food for and love and fuck and keep and kiss and take on cutesy park dates and at cat cafes and, like, whatever. Everything. For the rest of his life. Why did—why did Katsuki have to go and fuck it up?
(He knows why.)
It just—
It started with the old conviction that he would inevitably grow unworthy. That it might be better to break Shouto’s heart on purpose now, when he could make it hurt less, rather than later when it would drown them both. That it might be best to admit he was pathetic and ravenous and—and bad for Shouto. The kind of person to pull him into a filthy bar bathroom just to stretch him open or grab him by the hair and make him get on his knees to prove a point, to find a way to carve mine into his skin without having to nick at the skin, to make people stop looking.
A semi-decent therapist would probably say Katsuki has abandonment issues and a giant inferiority complex. A better one might just tell him to grow the fuck up. Honestly, it’s all—
Pointless. Life without Shouto in it is pointless. Katsuki doesn’t know what to do with the cat mug he got for Shouto because it was cute and reminded him of the idiot but forgot to give to him before—well. Before he went and fucked it all up. Waves crashing at the shore to wash away the wreck of human anger. Of fear and inadequacy and what if this isn’t okay? What if I’m forcing it all on him? What if he doesn’t want me like I want him? What if he’s just too scared to say it? What if—what if. What if I should just tear my own heart out of my chest and let him go?
Katsuki coughs. This is stupid. He should—he should go home.
He should go home, but now Shouto is laughing. Is placing his hand on that stupid extra’s arm all oh, you’re so funny tell me more with his long eyelashes and his pouty, lip gloss-slick mouth and his hair shyly tucked behind his ear. And something inside Katsuki uncoils and unravels and fuckin’—snaps.
No. Fuck no. No way in hell.
And then—
And then he’s marching over there just in time to hear Shouto shake his head when the extra suggests dessert and say, voice low, “Maybe we could have some at your place? Momo did mention that you enjoyed cooking.”
The extra looks fucking starstruck. Like he can’t believe he gets to take Todoroki Shouto home. That Shouto’s the one suggesting it, asking for it. Well, too bad for him. Shouto’s not going home with anyone. Certainly not someone who isn’t—
“I do, actually, I’ve been—,”
“He likes my cooking better,” Katsuki hisses, arms crossed over his chest. It’s reflex, at this point. Looking at Shouto and immediately thinking you belong in my life, in my home, in my bed. So why aren’t you there? Why aren’t you—
Shouto’s eyes go wide. He stills. “Katsuki,” he says, dainty fingers squeezing at his silly fancy cloth napkin.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“Shouto?” says the fucking idiot. And that’s another thing that makes Katsuki want to strangle someone. To strangle him. Because Shouto’s name is for Katsuki to hold in his mouth like a precious thing, not for dumb extras to pass around.
Katsuki breathes in. Ignores him. “Come on,” he says, gaze focused on Shouto. “Let’s get you home, baby.”
He doesn’t get to do this. Has no right to. Shouto should tell him to fuck off, punch him, call him an idiot and a fool and a coward all over again. Katsuki deserves it. Katsuki deserves worse, even. But of course, Shouto has always been too fucking good.
Instead, his eyes are cold, and his voice perfectly steady when he says, “You don’t get to call me that anymore, Katsuki.”
The childish, stubborn part of Katsuki wants to push. To insist that he’s the only one who should ever get to. That Shouto was made for him. That he doesn’t remember how to breathe anymore now that Shouto’s not there, not touching him all the time, a thigh pressed to Katsuki’s or an arm around his neck or just. The softness of his mouth and the firm weight of his whole body on top of Katsuki’s. Shouto riding cock is a fucking wet dream. The endless stretch of his pale throat and his delicate limbs and his face, all scrunched up with pleasure.
“I’m sorry,” Katsuki says. “Shit, Shouto, I fucked up. I know I fucked up. I know I don’t—I know I never deserved you, but I—don’t go home with this fucking—dollar store romantic lead, or whatever. Okay? Come home with me? I’ll—I’ll make you food. Cold soba. We can watch one of those documentaries you like. We can—we can do anything you want, baby. Just—don’t go.”
Shouto’s mouth purses. He looks like he might cry. And isn't that great? Katsuki’s about to make him cry again. Fucking pathetic. “You left first,” he says. “You left me first.”
The heart Katsuki tried so hard and for so long in vague, failed attempts at self-preservation to pretend he didn’t have around Shouto, to sternly convince himself it didn’t beat for him by sheer, unflinching stubbornness alone, breaks in half right down the middle.
Shouto’s date looks extremely uncomfortable. “Uh,” he says, staring at Shouto like he’s sad to miss out on getting a piece of him. Katsuki wants to rip his throat out.
“Maybe I should go.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki hisses. “Yeah, genius. Maybe you fuckin’ should.”
Shouto doesn’t say anything. Glances between Katsuki and his useless date like he’s trying to figure out how to fix this. Like Katsuki is an unexpected stroke of bad luck he needs to account and accommodate for. And, fuck, when did that turn into his role in Shouto’s life? Why is everything so messed up now?
…
“You’re a child,” Shouto says. “I hope you know that.”
“Oh, come on.” Katsuki scoffs. “That bastard couldn’t have gotten you to come with a fucking map in hand.”
At this, Shouto has the decency to flush. To tear his gaze away from Katsuki and say, “It wasn’t about that,” all soft, almost like he’s apologizing.
Katsuki fights the urge to step closer. To cup Shouto’s chin and ask him what it is about, what he wants and how he wants it and how can Katsuki make damn sure that he’s the only one Shouto comes to for the things he wants for the rest of their fucking lives? “Yeah?” he asks. “What was it about? Tell me, princess.”
Shouto shrugs. “He didn’t look like the kind of person I—well. I wouldn’t mind it, I think. If he left. If he woke up one day and suddenly decided I wasn’t enough.”
Katsuki grits his teeth together. “That’s not what happened,” he says, and he doesn’t fucking know how to explain this shit. The hard part. The I hate myself and I didn’t want you to hate me part. The I love you too much to break you part.
Shouto lets out a bitter laugh. “Right,” he says. “What happened is that you got bored.”
Katsuki wants to grab him. To shake him. To take him home and kiss him all over, everywhere. “Fuck you,” he spits instead. “I can’t fucking breathe without you, and you’re telling me I got bored?”
“Didn’t you?” Shouto asks. A challenge. Because of course it is. Katsuki deserves it. “Wasn’t that—wasn’t it me? You don’t like me anymore, it’s fine. I just don’t see why you feel the need to—to sabotage me when I’m trying to move past it.”
And—
Katsuki shouldn’t, he knows. Doesn’t have the right to even when he’s trying to self-flagellate. Still, he asks. Wants another bit of pain. “You fucked anyone else? Since—”
Shouto recoils like he’s been slapped. “What do you care?”
“I don’t,” Katsuki says, and it’s fine, except for the part where it’s an obvious lie, and not a particularly good one. So. “I don’t care about anyone but you.”
“Hitoshi,” Shouto says. “He’s a lot like you in bed. A little meaner, maybe. Momo, the night you dumped me, because I wouldn’t stop crying. There was this guy at the bar last—”
“Shouto.”
“Did—did you?”
Katsuki shakes his head. Shouto’s it for him. He can’t picture—God. Can’t picture bothering to touch another person for as long as he lives and breathes. “No,” he days, just for the extra bit of confirmation. “I didn’t.”
“Oh,” Shouto says, very softly. “I’m—sorry?”
Too good. Too fucking good. Too perfect for Katsuki to touch. To taint. To tarnish.
“No,” he says. “No, I’m sorry. I never should have—I wanted, god, I want everything with you. Everything, Shouto. All of it. And I thought—I figured you deserved a choice. The—the fucking option to know that it wasn’t, like, an obligation or some shit. Because you don’t say no if you can help it, and I didn’t want you choosing me to be because you couldn’t help it. I want you. Forever. Until the day I die. I just—I think you deserve better.”
“Bullshit,” Shouto says, “you’re just scared. And you hate it, don’t you? You hate not knowing how to fix this. The—the thought that you could hurt me, or whatever. Well, guess what? You already did, Katsuki. It hurt like hell. And I’m—I’m fucking fine. So—try harder.”
They’re close. Shouto is the most beautiful thing Katsuki has ever laid eyes on. He loves him. He’s going to love him forever.
Try harder. Okay. Okay, he can do that.
Katsuki cups the back of Shouto’s neck, and smashes their mouths together. Shouto lets him, whimpers into it like he missed it too. Like he wants it too. Like he’d let Katsuki do anything, take anything.
And that—
Katsuki shouldn’t hope. But he’s always been an idiot.
…
He’s so deep inside Shouto it feels like he might drown when the ache starts unraveling all over again from the beginning. “God,” he says, forehead pressed to Shouto’s, “I would have died. If you’d fucked that bastard, I would have died, Shouto. I would have, like, turned to fucking sea foam right there. In that shitty, overpriced restaurant.”
Shouto laughs. “You’re being dramatic,” he says. He’s breathing hard and his face is flushed and he’s right where he belongs and Katsuki loves him, loves him, loves him.
“No,” Katsuki says. “No, I’m not.”
At this, Shouto smiles, just a little bit. “Good,” he says. “Because—because this time you better keep your promise. Forever, right?”
Katsuki doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve any of it. But he’s going to reach for it anyway. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, baby, I promise. Forever.”