Work Text:
“This is soooo boring.”
“Kacchan, you’re just saying that because you’re bad at it.”
“Tch, stupid nerd. I’m the fucking best. I can be the best at this crochet bullshit too.”
“Oh, yeah? Can you even do a doily? ” Izuku retorts, sticking his tongue out. In his lap is a half-finished sweater, made out of multi-colored thread that (of course) ranges from green to orange. He’s not looking at Kacchan, content to let the instructions wash over him in peace.
“Why the fuck do I need to make a doily when that piece of shit in your hands is as good as a dishrag?”
Katsuki mutters it absentmindedly, so Izuku knows it’s meant to be a harmless joke. They’ve thrown more hurtful words in the course of their relationship than this, but it’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. He hasn’t told Kacchan yet, but the hero Deku had faced a spectacular failure earlier. He lost two civilians to a burning wreckage (that was his fault, his fault) after allowing a villain to slam him into the residential tower. Singed and bone-tired, he’d just barely showered and made it back home for their weekly, “try something new lest you go crazy” session.
Izuku takes a deep breath. He stills his trembling hands and heart.
Over the years with Kacchan, he’s learned to prevent the risings of a spat by simply… walking away. And he does just that. Stands and leaves their living room, where Kacchan’s still glaring at the flat screen blaring the instructions for how to do a double, treble, cluster. Opens the door of their flat and takes another breather.
He briefly hears Kacchan’s belated gasp of surprise when the door slams closed.
He inhales again, relishing the breath of fresh air and the wind carding through his hair, before he activates the power that’s become so familiar, it’s second skin at this point. He leaps from the hallway, thankful for the open quadrangle it overlooks, and lands on the rooftop of their building. It becomes an absent-minded thing then, to leap across rooftops with the sun beating down on his back. It’s the middle of a summer Saturday afternoon, nowhere near as scorching as noontime but still hot enough to sear.
At the back of his mind, he recognizes that maybe he’s overreacting, to run away from something as simple as crafting . But he can’t deny the relief, the exhilaration thrumming in his veins to use his power for something else. Something a little selfish for once, like the simple joy of floating through cotton candy clouds with the hot air burning his face.
The high-rises soon dwindle down in favor of trees and residential apartments. Unwittingly, or perhaps driven by some unconscious desire, he finds himself at the playground he and Kacchan would frequent as children. It’s quiet, free of the chatter he remembers it being so full of. He wonders where the kids are nowadays, if they’re duking it out online instead of in person.
He sits at one of the swings, rusty from years of disuse. He barely manages to fit given the bulk he’s amassed as a pro hero.
Now that the adrenaline has died down and the high winds are no longer whipping his curls across his eyes, the tears fall freely.
He sits for hours as the sun slowly but steadily shifts from bright yellow to a warmer orange. The uncomfortable position held over time helps calm down his breathing, get his thoughts back to earth, acknowledge that yes, it was an overreaction, not completely unwarranted, but an overreaction nonetheless, and unfair to Kacchan, who he’d left hanging without a single word.
A smile lifts the corner of his mouth. The air is nice and cool against his skin.
He’s about ready to head back home when familiar strong arms wrap around his chest.
The smell of Kacchan, of burnt sugar and ash, envelopes him in its warm embrace.
“‘m sorry,” Kacchan grumbles against his neck. He shifts closer, nuzzling against Izuku’s ear. The proximity sends a shiver down his spine. It tickles. They must be in an awkward position, Izuku thinks, with Kacchan hunched over him. They’re two grown ass adults in a place meant for children.
Izuku sighs comfortably and leans into the touch. “No, no. I overreacted. I was called in for an emergency at work, and I… I didn’t get to save them. Sorry that I lashed out on you. It’s not your fault, really.”
“Still,” Katsuki moves up to rest his chin on Izuku’s head, tightening his hold at the same time. At the back of his mind, Izuku wonders if Kacchan is aware of the action. They seem to make each other do things without meaning to, prodding and pushing in places they didn’t know existed. “Shouldn’t have been such a dick.”
Izuku barks a laugh, clear and bright. “Kacchan, I know you can be an asshole. And I still love you anyway. This is just a bad day for me. For us. One of the many bad days we’re sure to have.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Katsuki mutters, and that makes Izuku giggle.
With some effort to wiggle out of the seat, he stands up to face Katsuki, whose red eyes are red-rimmed as well. Gently, he takes one of Katsuki’s smooth hands in his own calloused ones and palms his cheek against it, gaze steady against Kacchan’s. Those deep red eyes are full of nothing but love and remorse, a sight Izuku won’t give up for the most peaceful relationship on the planet. “Don’t look so down. You won’t be getting rid of me that easily,” he sing-songs.
Katsuki rolls his eyes and cracks a smile. It’s one of those soft, rare ones, and it’s Izuku’s most prized privilege. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Slowly, the two walk side by side out of the playground with the setting sun behind them. Izuku swings their held hands, laughing at the lengthy shadows and their gigantic proportions, when he notices a strange lump in Katsuki’s side, like his jeans’ pocket is stuffed close to bursting.
“What’s that?” he asks, peeking curiously.
Katsuki huffs and turns away, using his free hand to pick it out. His ears are tinged red when he hands over the half-finished sweater from earlier that’s now… well. Finished in one sense of the word. It’s messy, the loops aren’t uniform sizes, and a patchwork of unintended holes litter the body. Izuku was going for neat diagonal patterns of green and orange. Instead, the sweater in front of him is a labyrinth of optical illusions, color combinations making Izuku’s eyes cross. Does that look brown?
“I love it,” he says with a huge grin.
“Don’t lie,” Katsuki grumbles. “I know it’s ugly.”
“Well,” Izuku hums, shouldering Katsuki lightly, “It is, but since it’s made by Kacchan, I still love it.”
Right then and there, Izuku lets go of their hands to shrug on the sweater. It’s a perfect fit, if perfect means snug against his chest and loose at the waist. How Kacchan managed to do that, he has no idea.
“Good, ‘cause I’m not wearing that bullshit.”
“Of course not, we’re different sizes,” Izuku retorts, sticking his tongue out. “I’ll make another one just like it. We’ll be matchies.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes and looks about to say something, but he bites it back. He takes Izuku’s hand instead and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Fine, I’ll wear a dishrag for you.”
“It’s going to be our dishrags,” Izuku beams, interlacing their fingers together.