Work Text:
It's three in the morning on a Thursday. It's three in the morning on a Thursday, and Yaoyorozu Momo is awake and hollow and drinking tap water from a mug.
They have glasses, and a water filter, and a bed that she should all really be using. But here she is, fingers wrapped around a cheesy “Best Girlfriend” mug that Kyouka bought for their anniversary, and her fingers aren't shaking, and she doesn't feel like the world is falling apart. Promise.
She doesn't know why this sticks with her, something so trivial and small. It's just water, it's just a mug, it's fine. Even though she can see streaks on the maroon exterior that she can never quite rub off. Even though every glass they own is dirty, somehow, and all they have left are ceramics and cereal bowls. Even though the dishwasher’s been running for a solid two hours and she’s pretty sure that beeping noise doesn't mean anything good. The hairline crack on the rim of the mug is barely evident. The dishes will be done by the next morning. Kyouka will be home soon. So, it's fine. She's fine. They’re managing.
But everything feels so out of control, sometimes— like everything around her is built out of ice, everything she's built for herself, and the harder she tries to hold on, the faster it melts. It's all immaterial and inconsequential, and it doesn't matter to anyone but her, and she can't explain why, but it just does, and now it's all gone. It slips through her fingers, cold water dripping down her wrist. Like rain. Like teardrops.
It takes a moment for her to register that she's crying, and that's only because the salt hits her tongue. She didn't even notice. Aching eyes and a heavy throat were commonplace for her, at this point. She was always exhausted, always running on empty (and probably running a consistent low-grade fever, if she's being honest), and she's learned to shove it all to the back of her mind. It's all TV static in the hazy dreamland she likes to call her subconscious. And fuck, when did existing get so hard? It's like someone snuck up on her, punching her in the gut with adult responsibilities and real problems. The thought makes her chest hurt, a reminder of the bills on a pile on the kitchen table, of the reports she needs to file and the documents she needs to proofread, the statements she's supposed to make, the list of talk show appearances and public speeches, costume changed and support item requests. A fresh sob claws its way out of her throat, and it burns. She feels separated from her body, somehow, like she's going through the motions but for someone else, and then there's acid on her tongue and saltwater on her lips and suddenly she's drowning again.
She uses the sleeve of her— no, Kyouka’s— sweater, and it comes away sticky, a bit of snot trickling down her nose. Gross. (She's gross). She should wash it. There's so much laundry that needs to be done, and she assured them that she'd start a load. But she's too tired to do anything at this point. She doesn't even have the energy to question why she's crying. She barely trusts herself to set down the mug without dropping it. But she does, slowly and carefully, as she does all things and she makes her way back to her bedroom. The wood is freezing against bare feet.
The room reminds her of Kyouka. (Everything reminds her of them, these days. She saw someone with purple hair the other day, and her heart skipped a beat. Someone on the train was wearing a band t-shirt and it looked just like something out of their closet. And the last civilian that she had to watch die, they had Kyouka’s smile, and she couldn't stop throwing up when she got home. She told them it was just the flu. They believed her. They always believed her.)
This room is her girlfriend, stripped to pieces and restitched in the barest format. Pure and clear, but a bit formal, too. Something isn't quite… Kyouka… about it all. There's something else. A little bit of Momo, in it all. Just enough to make it feel strange. To feel as if she's intruding in something she shouldn't be, as if she's marring them with her touch. Ruining them, like she ruines everything.
She misses them. Again. They’re on a late patrol, nothing serious. Jirou always picks up the night shifts, because they're half nocturnal as it is, and Momo can handle it. (Yes, she can.) They'll be home when she leaves for work, just missing each other, purple lipstick stains under her shirt collar the only proof that they even spoke. She'll leave breakfast on the stove for them, and they'll cook dinner for when she gets home. Sometimes, on blessed nights, Kyouka will be there to eat with her, and they can talk, and bitch about coworkers, and it's like they're kids again.
But not tonight. Tonight, she's alone. Alone in an apartment with floor to ceiling windows in the middle of the city, and she's so magnificently aware of it all. Only her bed sheets are there to greet her, the lavender cotton cool against her legs. (Fuck, she needs to shave.) She's cold, as always. Jirou normally keeps her warm when they manage to catch each other, her girlfriend always running hotter than a space heater. Strong arms tracing around her back like safety, like shelter, like finding herself in someone else. Kyouka was warm in everything they did, sweet and soft and good. (Too good for Momo.)
But they weren’t here tonight.
Tonight, she falls asleep in an empty bed, and she's dreaming of falling from the balcony, Kyouka just out of reach. Tonight, she cannot get warm, and gooseflesh crawls upon exposed skin. Tonight, she wakes before the sunrise, and watches the sun drag her paintbrush across the sky with blurry eyes. Tonight, she is utterly alone. The thought hurts more than it should.
—————————————————
Kyouka comes back in the morning, deep, dark pools under their eyes that never quite seem to fade. But they’ve slapped a smile onto their face, and it’s almost brighter than the smudges of mascara under their eyes, or the thin strip of dried blood that runs along their jaw, or the bruises that form a bracelet around their wrist. Almost. But they brush her off, laugh something about a scuffle with a cactus in their office, an argument with a spiky bush outside. Momo’s about to keep pushing, but then Kyouka yawns, and their hands are beginning to tremble, and if she looks closely, they’re swaying on their feet. Kyouka’s always been lighter than she is, so she scoops them up into her arms and ignores their protests, and gently carries them to bed. Their costume isn’t as awful as most (her’s, for one), so it’ll be okay to sleep in, even if they'll be a little stiff in the morning, but Kyouka’s already a little bruised, so it won’t be something they aren’t used to. Momo kisses them, eyes already closed as they, catlike, curl into a ball and let out a soft hum, and her lips brush the sweat on their forehead.
“Sleep well,” she murmurs, but Kyouka’s already gone.
Fighting back the selfish stab of wanting that pierces through her chest, she very specifically does not lie next to them. She does not weave her hands through their hair, and she does not place an arm, ever so gently, over them, pulling them closer to her chest. She does not take a moment to inhale against their shoulder, taking in the scent of dust and salt and rosemary that she’s grown so used to. (She only gets to be with them in the dark, it feels like.) She does not count the freckles on their back, and she does not drag a wishful finger across their spine. She gets up, and she walks away, because she’s a big girl and she has to get to work. She has things to do, so she does not waste time with the person asleep in a bed that has been cold for months.
(She is so tired of wanting.)
Momo walks into an empty kitchen, and the silence is deafening, so she sings to herself as she cooks. It’s nothing fancy, just tamagoyaki, filled with chopped scallions and salmon, because Kyouka can’t cook for shit, and they need to eat something that isn’t Red Bull or energy bars or takeout from two months ago that’s probably far past moldy. And she likes cooking, anyway. It’s relaxing, and it’s easy, and it’s a small break before she has to head in for her shift in… forty-two minutes. Fuck. The reminder sours in the back of her throat and she steals a piece of fish from the pan to wash it down.
She finishes cooking and turns off the heat, watching the gas stove flicker and splutter until the flames vanish. She leaves more than half for Kyouka to eat, and picks at her own breakfast while the sun comes up. It’s vaguely seven and the fog in her head has yet to fade. It’s unclear as to whether or not she’ll be up to her normal rate by her patrol. But she has to be, so it doesn’t matter. She will be. She will. She didn’t get this far to crumple from lack of sleep. She’s exhausted, but she’s always exhausted. It’ll be okay.
Thirty five minutes.
She places her dishes in the sink, hoping that Kyouka can get to them when they wake up, and heads to the bathroom. The mirror is dirty— she’ll need to clean it later— and the face that looks back at her isn’t quite right. Her skin is highlighted with watercolor violet and crimson that bleed together under her eyes. Her cheekbones look stretched, pulled too tight against her face, and bright bursts of red show off her latest spray of acne on her cheeks and forehead. She sighs, and runs the water as hot as it will go, and tries to scrub herself away in the orange light. She paints serums and lotions across her skin, drags concealer over her face, and runs product through damp roots. She still looks haggard, pale and tired, but she’s presentable, so. Good enough. She can get yelled at by someone for not properly doing her mascara or using the wrong shade of lipstick or whatever the fuck it is she’s doing wrong, after she gets off her shift and finishes doing her job of actually being a hero. Hero politics is exhausting, and she hates every bit of it.
Fourteen minutes.
She grabs a light blouse and a skirt, something “office appropriate”. It's funny, looking at the dress code for her hero agency in comparison to her own hero costume, which she wears a good 80% of the time. It’s redesigned, after she graduated from U.A. and insisted that if they didn’t change it, she’d refuse every job offer she got. It’s better now, with an opening across her stomach instead of down her chest, but she still hates it. It offers almost zero support, it’s cold, and she feels like she’s being picked to pieces every time she walks down the street. She’d spoken to Hatsume about something using her DNA, maybe, like Lemillion’s costume, but the girl was working for another support company, and as much as she’d like to help, Momo had to source all her items through her own agency. So, she’s stuck with this, as much as she despises it. But it’s fine. It’s still summer, and the Tokyo heat is back full-force. She’s more worried about sweating through the thick fabric than getting cold. And the shirt and blouse are fine, if more bland than she'd like. Kyouka had tried their best to incorporate color and style into her fashion sense, and this feels every bit a rejection of it. It's claustrophobic, almost. But it's just fine. It's alright.
She grabs her phone, her keys, scrawls a note for Kyouka on a scrap piece of paper, and heads out the door. It’s a short distance to her hero agency, so she doesn’t mind walking. The streets are somewhat busy, but everyone seems to be minding their own business, and no one stops her, thank God. Most heroes drive to work, to try and avoid the crowds, but Momo’s inconspicuous enough that she doesn't mind the walk. Most people recognize her costume before her face, anyway. (Somehow, the thought isn't comforting.)
She makes it to the office, where she's greeted by her assistant, an older woman who doesn't seem to like Momo all that much. The rotation for her shift is already set out for her, and she tries to suppress a groan. It's another softball job, working on repair efforts for a building recently damaged by an earthquake. The job is too simple, and could be done by a vaguely competent construction team. But it's a government building that was damaged, and her hero company is always trying to repair their image with the media (Bakugou used to work for them. Enough said.) so they punt these sort of jobs to their lower-popularity heroes. Heroes like her.
She's not lacking in talent or capability, that's for sure. She ranked academically higher than anyone at her agency during her final exams. She has a flexible quirk, she's incredibly muscular and athletic, and she's never had an incident filed on record. But her public image is… lacking. She's seen as a pitiable hire, someone who shot up solely because of her appearance (and her parents), and the rumors of her sexual exploits top every paper faster than she can blink. She'd been seen as too “flighty”, too “sexy”, too “emotional”. It didn't matter that she was stronger than Chargebolt (ranked #8), or a better strategist than Shoto (#3), or had a significantly better record with the press than Ground Zero (#5). She was shunted off to jobs that were clearly nothing but PR stunts, and slandered in every interview she ever took.
Momo was tired. So, so tired.
But she had a job to do. So, she forced a smile for her assistant, grabbed a costume from her closet, and squeezed into it, feeling like she'd just sliced herself open and put everything on display. She deposited her things in her office, screwed on another bright smile (the first slipping faster than she could hold it), and headed to the main foyer, to meet with the other heroes she'd be working with. They were all familiar faces, graduates of local hero academies, most much younger than her. Momo didn't know any of them particularly well, but she said her hellos as they waited for everyone to suit up. But of course, she couldn't have a quiet morning. It felt like she couldn't have anything these days.
“Hey, Creati!” A familiar voice called, and she turned, vaguely startled by the greeting. But she recognized the speaker, and tossed a quick wave his way. This was Granite, another pro at her agency on this assignment. He had a quirk that allowed him to manipulate non-organic materials, similar to Cementoss. He was a friendly face, and she worked with him often. They weren't close, per say, but she enjoyed seeing him when she did.
“Good morning,” she answered smoothly, trying to keep her tone in line with the appearance she was trying so hard to portray.
He grinned, showing off teeth just a little too sharp. “How are you this morning? Sick of these shitty jobs, huh?”
She bit back a retort. It wouldn't suit her. “Ah, I don't mind. I'll take any opportunity to improve my skills. It's what being a hero is about, isn't it?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Listen, I wanted to ask. I've got tickets for a baseball game this Friday, and I was wondering if you'd like to come with me. Everyone else is busy, so…”
The words were inconspicuous enough, but she knew subtle flirting when she saw it. God, it was too early for this.
“I'm sorry,” she said carefully, “but I'm not really a baseball fan. Thank you for the invitation, however.”
He didn't seem to take the hint. “Awh, that's too bad. How about coffee, or drinks after a patrol sometime? You owe me, after I saved your ass last week.”
That was a particular way to put “I let you get ambushed by villains because I was chatting up a reporter and showed up at the last minute with my absolutely lackluster skills to help you out”, Momo thought irritably.
“I'm sorry. Maybe another time? I'm not looking to date at the moment,” she tried, but she knew the defense would fall flat. It always did.
She and Kyouka had agreed not to speak of their relationship in public, due to the scrutiny they both already received on a daily basis, with them being one of the only out trans heroes, and Momo being… Momo. And she'd kept her sexuality a secret as well, trying to make herself as small of a target for the media as possible. But that meant this was a regular occurance. And it infuriated her every single fucking time. She had no defense against people like Granite, because the kind of men that went after her were not the kind of men to take no for an answer. Because “I'm a lesbian” would destroy her public appearance even more than the media did on their own. Because “I'm dating someone” would lead to a wildfire of gossip and they'd slut-shame her for speaking to any man within twenty years of her age. Because “I'm dating Earphone Jack, and I'm a lesbian” would probably ruin any chances of her ever getting hired for a job ever again.
She knew the secrecy was a necessity. But sometimes, it made her feel like pulling out her hair and losing her absolute goddamn mind.
“I'm sorry, but no.”
Granite’s face arcs into something twisted, something ugly, and she knows she's fucked up. Maybe she should've just said yes, to satiate him. She could've cancelled afterwards, said she was sick or her mom needed help or something better than pushing back when she knew it would be on her when she didn't like the results.
“Fine,” he says, and the words are sharp and they hit her right where it hurts, “forget I said anything. Not that I really liked you anyway.”
She knows that she's messed up, but she doesn't exactly know where, or why. She never quite knows why, just that she’s done something wrong, again, and nothing she can say will make it right again. Because she wants to apologize, she always wants to apologize, but something always tells her that she’ll just be making things worse, so she just keeps quiet and lets him walk away. (People are always walking away from her. It never quite stopped hurting.)
She lets the conversation linger with her for the rest of the day. It follows her between fallen cement posts and shattered glass, snakes around her legs and drags her ankles to the dusty ground, paints her skin with scratches and nicks that shine through her costume. She is tired and bloody and everything aches, and when she gets home, all she wants is to curl up with Kyouka and fall asleep with them, just for a little while.
But the apartment is empty, again. There's a note, left for her, saying that Kyouka had to pick up an extra shift, and that they wouldn't be home until late that evening. She’s not surprised, not in the least, but something sinks in her stomach anyway. She eats alone, heating up leftovers of something she cooked days before, and pours herself a glass of lukewarm wine. The beeping of the microwave does little to stifle the unrelenting quiet of the soundproofed city, and Momo feels, not for the first time, like she's suffocating in the heavy summer night.
She lies in an empty bed, again, and it is summer, and she is just as cold. Before she drifts off, she wonders, not for the first time, if Kyouka truly misses her. Like she misses them. Momo can't remember the last time they truly spoke. But does it matter? They are soft and kind and their kisses are satin against her brow, and she would let them run away from her a million times if it meant she could hold them just once more.
Codependency doesn't suit her, she decides, and she buries the wanting under everything else she won't let herself touch. Her dreams are just as blank as she feels.
—————————————————
Days pass, and Momo starts to forget (or tries to). She brews warm tea and reads books on the sofa and tells herself that everything is okay. They’re not drifting apart, they aren't becoming strangers, they aren't falling out of each other's lives even if they live together. It's okay. Everything’s okay. (She keeps doing this, repeating the mantra in her head until she's worn herself out and falls into a facsimile of sleep. It never quite works.)
Kyouka shatters her facade with a single look, and she feels the shards of glass in her skin. They burn.
They’d taken an early shift, to cover for Kaminari after he’d gotten injured (nothing serious, just a broken arm, but he’d taken a day off work to make sure everything healed correctly). And Momo wouldn't have said she was happy, per se, because she knew Kyouka didn't need to take on extra patrols when they were already pulling doubles on barely enough sleep. But it did mean they'd get to eat together, spend the evening doing something stupid and mundane, like they'd used to, before life had starting creeping in. She'd gone to the store to buy fresh groceries to make for dinner, pork belly searing in a pan and soft noodles simmering in fragrant herbed broth. Kyouka would be off their shift by seven tonight, so Momo kept everything on the stove to keep it warm, and she waited.
They didn't come home until midnight.
Kyouka stumbled in at 12:06, and Momo couldn't even say she was upset. She couldn't, because she knew this was going to happen. She knew, in the deepest part of her, that something wouldn't go to plan, and she'd be left alone, again. She couldn't be angry, because she loved them, and she couldn't be hurt, because she was used to this. She couldn't muster to feel anything, truly. She was just tired.
Momo remained in her spot on the couch, nose buried in a book so she didn't have to look at them. “Your patrol was okay?”
The apartment was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah, yeah, it was… it was fine.”
Their voice was the first thing to tell her that something was wrong. She set down her book and glanced over at them, and it was all she could do not to punch something.
Kyouka looked wrecked, in absolutely every sense of the world. Their hair was frizzy and mussed, coated in a fine layer of dust and dirt, dust that trailed down their neck and painted their skin in broad strokes. Their makeup was smudged, and Momo couldn't tell if it was blood or lipstick on their cheeks. She didn't ask. Scrapes decorated every area of exposed flesh, some light and thin, others furious red and raw. Their costume was torn, their earphone jacks were flecked with dried blood, and they seemed to be favoring their right leg.
“What happened?” She burst out, her voice rising in pitch faster than she could clamp down on her panic. “Oh my— are you okay? Can I hug you? Will that hurt?”
They cracked an exhausted smile. She didn't want to admit how quickly it always put her at ease. “A hug would be great, babe.”
Momo rushed to wrap her arms around them, soothed by the feeling of them against her; solid, real, breathing. She rested her head on top of theirs, savouring every point of contact like it was her very first, and let out a long sigh. “God, what happened?”
“It's easier to talk when my face isn't pressed into your boobs,” they pointed out, vaguely muffled.
“Kyouka.”
“Hey, I can't make a joke?”
Momo crossed her arms and shot them a soft glare.
“Jeez, fine, okay,” they grumbled, taking a careful seat on the couch (she made a note of every inhale and stifled wince) and looked back at Momo. “Uh, where to begin?”
“The start, maybe?”
“Oh, and I'm being the snarky one here,” Kyouka muttered. “But uh, I don't really know? We were on patrol, and then there was a massive explosion a couple blocks down, and there were villains, and we fought them, and they destroyed half the city, and then we finally got shit under control, and now I'm home. Happy?”
“Not that you look like you were just dragged through a meat grinder, no,” Momo pointed out sharply.
They rolled their eyes. “Yeah, yeah, it's fine. Look, I'm okay, I swear. Just a little worse for wear, is all.”
“You're sure?”
Kyouka smiled, sweet as wildflower honey. “Promise.”
Momo relented. “Okay, alright, fine. But you're eating something and then you're going to bed. And you're taking tomorrow off.”
Their tone shifted to one of frustration. “Momo, I can't—”
“Yes, you can. Your agency will be fine without you for a day. Someone can cover your shifts. You need a break, Kyouka.”
This was a familiar argument, and she felt herself slipping back into the same tired point she made every time. A well practiced dance between two strangers.
Kyouka huffed. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? Please, Momo, I really—”
Their phone began to ring, and they grabbed it out of their pocket, almost in a panic. Like they'd been waiting for the call. “Yeah?”
She could hear someone talking on the other end of the line, but couldn't make it out. And Kyouka was silent, just listening. Something bad was about to happen, wasn't it? They'd get called back for another shift tonight, or they wouldn't listen and take another one tomorrow, or—
“Thank you for the call,” they said quietly, “I appreciate you letting me know. I'll inform the family.”
And the other shoe drops.
“Who was that?” Momo asked, picking up on the tensely corded muscles around Kyouka’s shoulders, the sharp lines of their face. “Is everything alright?”
“No.”
She waits.
“No, it's not alright,” Kyouka says, and they spit the words out like they hurt. “I had one job, and that was to protect civilians, and I couldn't do that, and now an innocent person is dead, and it's all my goddamn fault, Momo.”
“I'm so sorry,” she rushes to say. “Was it someone you knew?”
They blink, pause, something foreign thrown into the gears and stopping their train of thought. “What? No? Why does that matter?”
Feeling as though she's done something horribly wrong, she tries to backtrack. “I just, you seem really worked up about this, so I thought maybe you were close to—”
“Oh,” they snap, “my God. I seem really worked up? Yeah, Momo, I'm fucking worked up. A kid died, and I didn't do anything about it. Why wouldn't I— Why would you even ask that?”
Tears are sparkling in her eyes, and she blinks them away, and they keep coming anyway. “I'm sorry— I was just trying to help, I thought—”
“Maybe if you stopped thinking and just behaved like a normal person, this wouldn't be happening. I'm— I'm gonna go. I can't have this fucking conversation right now. God.”
Kyouka grabs their coat and leaves, slamming the door behind them. It rattles through the apartment, and Momo hears heavy footsteps walking down the hall. She doesn't follow. She's already done enough.
And the worst part is, she doesn't even understand what she did wrong. She just asked a question. She didn't say anything, didn't push or prod or rock the boat. She didn't comment on Kyouka’s feelings, didn't judge or center herself while trying to relate. She was just trying to understand why they were so upset, because she didn’t. She never understood these things. Even her own emotions confused her, most of the time. But she tended to keep those sort of things private, when she could. And Kyouka wasn't around often enough to notice when she didn't.
Regardless of what just happened, the fact remained: she didn't know how to help Kyouka anymore. She’d never been the best at comfort, to be frank, but this was different. It was worse. She’d never truly known what to do, but now her very involvement had hurt them. She couldn't just make things better with a stupid romcom and a warm pot of tea, holding them in her arms and playing with their hair. She couldn't wipe away their tears and cook their favorite meal when things were painful. She just messed everything up. Momo damaged everything she touched, broken glass and ceramic shards shredding her feet as she stood in her own wreckage. And Kyouka had clearly gotten tired of their clumsy attempts at make-believe, and they'd left. She didn't know if they were coming back.
(If it was her choice, she wouldn't.)
The ramen sits untouched, long cold on the stove, and she begins to put it away. She hadn't eaten yet, some small hope that Kyouka would come home sitting soft in her stomach. The hours had passed, and she'd waited anyway. Waiting, and waiting, and waiting. But she'd lost her appetite wholly at this point. (And did she really need something, anyway? She'd found new stretch marks on her stomach, and she didn't need her rankings to drop.) So she spooned it into a plastic container, the broth still aromatic even after it had sat for hours, and she breathed it in. It was soothing, even in the empty, cold apartment.
Washing the dishes stained her hands red, dry skin stretching over thin bones, cracked knuckles scented with grapefruit suds. Her wrists stung and fuck, her cuticles were torn to pieces again. She'd tried to kick the bad habit of picking her nails, but it always popped up every time she was close. She could see the bloodstains against the nail bed, the blood that the dishwater had failed to wash away. The air hurt against the soft, scraped skin and she inhaled sharply. She only picked her nails when she was stressed, but she hadn't realized she was so worked up over this.
(Get it together, Yaoyorozu.)
She takes a scorching shower and gets dressed for bed, curled up under her sheets in one of Kyouka’s oversized t-shirts. It still smells like them, even though she'd just washed it. She pretends that it's their hands running down her back, and tries to fall asleep.
Momo wakes to the sound of the door opening. Through hazy eyes, she sees the clock read 2:04. She doesn't know where they've been. (Does she dare to ask?)
“Kyouka?” She chances a call, her voice thick and heavy with drowsiness.
She blinks, and they're in the room. (Did she fall asleep again?) It doesn't matter. They've showered and changed, and Momo recognizes one of Kaminari’s sweatshirts hanging loose off their shoulders. They look tired, of course, but they also look much better than when they left, and they smile when they see her.
“Hey,” they say, quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed, “I'm sorry I woke you.”
“It’s alright, really. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” and fuck, there's definitely something they aren’t telling her, “I didn't mean to storm out like that. It was just a long shift, and I was really stressed. I'm sorry. Really, I am.”
Momo yawns. “I know, and I'm sorry as well. But, come to bed. Please.”
They climb in next to her, and their touch on her skin is like a drug. She moves into it, back arching just the slightest when fingertips crawl along her waist and drift into her hair. She sighs, and she can almost forget the fight. She can almost ignore the late nights she'd push herself through to watch them walk through the door, and all the meals she'd eaten by herself. All the times that she'd had to go to work functions alone, and every tear she’s shed in an empty apartment. Every cut she'd bandaged, every nightmare she'd soothed herself through, every doubt and fear that collected like dust that she'd had to sweep away on her own.
Hands trail down her spine and her willpower shatters with every second of it. “I love you,” she whispers to a silent room.
She thinks she hears Kyouka say it back.
—————————————————
Time waxes and wanes, and spring spills over into fall. Her walk to work is punctuated by sharp breezes, vibrant leaves, and hot coffee clutched between numb palms. And the seasons change, but her routine never does. Wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, come home, cook dinner, go to bed, see your girlfriend for maybe twenty minutes whenever they finally get home. Rinse and repeat.
She's sick of it.
She's tried so hard to do everything right. To get the best grades in school, to be the perfect student and pass all her classes with flying colors. To do the best at her job, to save others and help her community with the powerful gifts she's been given. To be a pillar of strength, of support and love, to inspire people around her, and to be there for her loved ones. To be kind, and sweet, and gentle, and pretty, and polite. (She's so used to politeness spilling out of her mouth like bile— she doesn't know what other emotions taste like anymore.) She’d done, she did, she’s doing everything right. And she's just as alone as she always was.
So Momo Yaoyorozu does what she was never supposed to do. She steps out of line. She calls her agency and informs them that there's an ill family member (On her mother’s side, oh, you've never met them before, yes, of course, I'll offer your well-wishes to the family) and neatly marks the next three days of work off her calendar. She emails Kayama, who’s become a bit of a friend in the past few years, and who she knows has pull with every hero agency from Miyazaki to Miyagi, and drops some not-so-subtle hints that Kyouka needs a couple days’ break from work. (Thankfully, blessedly, Kayama agrees without a second’s hesitation.) She uncorks a bottle of wine, a fancy red she'd gotten for a birthday she doesn't remember, and pours herself a glass. It tastes like cranberries and frustration and being an adult, and the bitterness lingers on her tongue like a promise.
She's on her second glass when Kyouka gets home. The clock over the stove reads 9:58, and she begins to wonder why they're home so early. She doesn't have to wonder for long.
“What the fuck,” is their preferred greeting now, apparently, and she's not sure if they're more angry or confused, but they're definitely upset. With her, specifically. She's surprised to find she cares less than she thought she would.
“Good to see you too, darling,” she chimes in response.
Kyouka forgoes taking off their shoes or coat for going straight to yelling. Momo prefers this, honestly. At least she knows where they stand.
“You told your agency a family member was sick? You got Kayama to drop half my shifts? What the hell is going on, Momo?”
“We needed to talk,” she explains, her voice as close to calm as she can strangle it into, “We see each other for about two minutes a week, and I know that wouldn't change unless work wasn't a factor. So I removed a variable.”
They don't seem to understand her logic. “By going behind my back?”
“You wouldn't listen to me otherwise!” Momo yells, suddenly furious. She used to be better at tamping down her temper, but now it's a beast, separated from her, coiling around her chest and squeezing every atom of air from her lungs. “For fuck’s sake, do you know how many times I've suggested you give up a shift so we could actually see each other for an hour? How many times you pushed back? I've been trying to get your attention for months, Kyouka, but you just don't seem to hear me. This was my last resort, I promise. I needed you to pay attention, and this was the only thing that would work.”
Kyouka don't say anything for a while, their heaving breaths the only sound in the room. But finally, they rush forward and shove their face into Momo’s chest. Their arms are around her again, and they're tight, all tense and corded muscle, and she can smell their shampoo and count the freckles on their forehead, and she takes a deep inhale. She doesn't realize when they start sobbing, or when she starts crying, either. She's too caught up in how well they fit together, like Russian nesting dolls. Made to be a pair, two people who had room inside them for just one person else. Tears pool on her sweater and she probably leaves a trail of snot on Kyouka’s coat, and she realizes that she doesn't care at all.
It's, honestly, the best thing that’s happened to her in a while. She feels awful and raw and torn apart, every bit of her inside scraped and studded with broken glass. But Kyouka’s there, in her arms, or maybe she's in their arms, and they're together again, MomoandJirou, and she needs that more than she needs anything.
When her breathing starts to even out, she laughs quietly, the sound getting caught in her throat, and asks, “Let's find a more comfortable place to have a breakdown, you think?”
Kyouka snorts and rubs their eyes furiously. “Yeah, sounds good. Let me go dump my shit in the front, I'll be in the room in a second.”
She despises having to let them go, but she compromises by stealing one of their sweatshirts (they got it extra large, just so it would fit them both) and curling up on their bed, and she waits. And they come back, as promised, now in a loose shirt and a pair of jeans. Momo pats the bed, and they hop up, lying opposite to her. Their eyes are soft and wide and Momo, for the first time, doesn't know what to say.
She starts with a simple one. “I'm sorry.”
“I'm sorry for going behind your back. I know that wasn't fair. But I needed to have you here, just for a few days, and this was the only way I could think to do it.” Momo’s been planning these words for days, and they pour out honey-smooth into the hazy evening light.
Kyouka sighs. “I know I'm a bit of a workaholic, and I'm sorry. I'm frustrated, but I know you're right, and I probably wouldn't have listened otherwise, so I'm… pissed at myself, too. I'm sorry for being angry. But, I'm here now. What did you want to talk about?”
“Everything feels like it's going to hell,” she says, and it feels more like a concession than an answer. Spelling out every insecurity and fear that she’s had in the last few months seems agonizing, and sometimes a caveat is better than a cave-in.
They roll their eyes. “Tell me something I don't know.”
She laughs. “God, Kyouka, I don't know. I just miss you. We work conflicting hours and you're never home and I miss you. I know we agreed on it and that we said we'd be okay with it, but I'm not anymore. I want to see you for more than ten minutes a day. I want to do things with you, not just eat each other’s leftovers in silence.”
They raise an eyebrow in teasing. “What kinda things do you wanna do with me, huh?”
“Kyouka,” she chides, but her cheeks are traitorously pink. “You can flirt with me later, love.”
“Fine,” they grumble, “keep talking.”
“Thank you. Anyway, I'm just… I'm lonely. I want to spend time with you, and I feel like we're drifting apart.”
Kyouka fiddles with an ear jack and a guilty look drifts over their face. “Yeah, I noticed that too, a bit. I kind of just… hoped it might go away on its own? But stuff doesn't really work that way, so. You're right. I can talk to my agency about changing my shifts and cutting back on my hours. I promise I will.”
“I love you,” she says, and it's full of everything she's been feeling for the past month, and she means it wholeheartedly.
They grin. “I love you too. Was that the only thing on your mind?”
Momo wants to groan out loud, but she refrains and simply tucks that irritation under the airy coolness of her voice. “That was mostly it. Just, it's infuriating not being taken seriously by my agency, and guys keep hitting on me because they think I’m single, and straight, for that matter, and I know we agreed to keep it quiet. But it's frustrating. That's it.”
Kyouka takes her hand in theirs. They’re soft and warm, and their fingers drape themselves across her knuckles. “I don't mind going public. I'm already out as queer, not much more I can do to kill my rankings. But Momo— and I'm not blaming you, so don't you dare think that— we decided on this because you were worried about the effect on your career.”
“I know,” and it comes out as more of a whine than she meant it to, “I really do know, and I used to care. But honestly, I'm so tired of every guy on the street asking for my number while I'm trying to work. I wanna come out with it. I wanna go public. I've been doing everything right, and I'm still a b-list hero. To hell with my career.”
“Someone’s fired up tonight, huh?” They tease, and she smacks them lightly. “But really, hell yeah, I'm proud of you. And if you're ever looking to switch agencies, I hear Fukukado has a nice thing going. Hagakure won't stop gushing over her, so I think that's a pretty good endorsement.”
“I'll look into it,” she promises, “but that can wait. You're not back on patrol until Monday, so that means I have two whole days with you. I don’t wanna waste them.”
Kyouka groans. “Ugh, I have to spend my entire weekend with you? Gross. I'll pass.”
“Hey,” Momo complains, “that's mean. We just had a very emotional conversation, you can't be mean for another hour.”
“Okay, but that's no fun.”
“Kyouka.”
“Fine, fine, whatever,” they grumble. “If I’m stuck hanging out with my girlfriend,” and Kyouka teases the word out of their mouth, stretching vowels as it stumbles over their lips, “at the very least, I need food. Kinda forgot to eat in the middle of, you know, being all pissy.”
“That is absolutely not my fault,” Momo says primly.
Kyouka snorts. “Fuck you.”
“I'll be graciously ignoring that,” Momo continues, “but I'll put on one of your trashy murder shows if you get the ice cream.”
They've already slid off the bed and headed into the kitchen, but an irritable voice yells back to inform her that, “They're not trashy, Momo, you just have a stupid delicate constitution.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she waves them off, “whatever you say, babe.”
She grabs her laptop from the bedside table and logs into Netflix, clicking on Kyouka’s little icon, Catra, and scrolling through their account. (Her icon is Adora, because, obviously.) Criminal Minds is at the top of their list, and she queues it up from where they left off, and burrows deeper under the covers.
Kyouka returns a minute later, two pints of ice cream in their arms. Blackberry chocolate chip for them, salted caramel for her. They grab one of Momo’s sweaters, a massive red one that pools below their knees, and flop on the bed next to her.
“You ready?” they ask, mouth muffled by the massive spoon of ice cream they've stuffed into their mouth.
Momo sighs. “Don't you dare get ice cream on the sheets. I just washed them.”
“No promises, babe,” Kyouka grins.
“Ugh. Why do I live with you again?”
They pretend to think about it for a moment. “Mmm, ‘cause you love me.”
She rolls her eyes and presses play on the episode, then leans her head into their shoulder. “Yeah, you’re right. I do love you.”
“I love you too,” they say, soft. “That's never been a question.”
Momo’s pretty sure there’s chocolate on one of the pillowcases, and Kyouka’s excited commentary means following the dialogue is a bit difficult. But she's with her girlfriend, and they're happy, and they're going to make it work. No matter what.
Promise.