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“You’re drunk,” he said with narrowed eyes and a sneer. “I can smell it all over you, besides the… obvious.”
With an angry wave of the hand, he lifted his open palm up and down before your silhouette that sagged in the doorway—your face lit up with a grin, tears staining your makeup into runny lines along your cheeks and the underside of your eyes.
“Pfft, you’re drunk.” You snickered at the stupid joke that didn’t even make sense.
“Move, dumbass,” the blonde commanded with a stern tone. He pushed you carefully back inside the apartment, escaping the darkness of the hallway with its muted yellow flickering lights.
He hadn’t come here anticipating you being in such a state—you’d seemed normal enough over the text message convo you both had earlier.
You listened to his command, moving out of the way and sliding from the doorway into the little apartment. The entryway was darker than the hall now that he shut the door behind him, sealing the amber glow away.
It was almost difficult to see his outline—but his familiar warm hands were on your shoulders, orienting you deeper into the abode in the direction of the living room where the television was emitting a cool glow along the walls.
“Th’fuck happened?” Katsuki scoffed, picking up your leftover dinner stranded on the kitchen island and two-seater wooden dining table.
You’d gotten a little too hammered before it arrived—eaten your share until the greasy food made your insides churn, then abandoned your post to crash on the couch thereafter.
“He did it again,” you spat out with a roll of the eyes. The words came out light, almost joking, disregarding how you were actually feeling.
Your insides were churning all over again.
Katsuki’s grasp on the plastic container tightened in his hands too hard—the lid popped and rice, vegetables, and leftover meat exploded out of the container to rain along the tabletop.
He didn’t even bother to look at the added mess on the surface, his livid face was too-trained on your own.
“What the fuck, [F/N]? I told you to call me if things started to get bad again.”
His anger made his words too loud—a volume that scratched up painful feelings in the back of your head, making your eyes water all over again.
“I’m sorry, Katsuki…”
The words were whispered out, and you weren’t able to see the cracking in his angry profile at the short apology. Your gaze had already landed on your bare feet.
You didn’t want him angry with you too.
“I’m—Jesus fuck,” the explosive hero cursed under-breath, raking hands through his spiky blonde locks before huffing out and reaching for your biceps. “I’m mad at him, not fucking you. Okay?”
Maybe he forgot how lost in your drunken stupor you were.
Maybe he saw the watering along the rims of your too-red eyes, ready to leak over and bring you back full-circle when you texted him if he wanted to come over and hang out.
Maybe he realized how hard it was for you to hold up that façade that proved you were okay, when inside you felt so hollow and empty.
The alcohol could only stave off so much of those negative feelings that stirred and brewed and bubbled up in the back of your throat, threatening to make you sob out.
“I’m sorry,” You croaked the words out again, gripping hands into the tops of your pants—fingertips digging into your hips and thighs. “Please don’t be—”
He grappled you in a hard hug then, crushing you against his chest, not bothering to voice the words. Words you already knew from the gesture.
You buried your head against the crook of his neck and squeezed your eyes shut as tight as you could. As if you could cut off all the bad feels with the same slice of darkness that rested behind the lids.
He smelled of smoke and laundry detergent and home. There was an under-layer of sweetness from the nitroglycerin of his quirk—burnt, ruined sugar—a smell that mingled with his spicy deodorant and heady body spray he tried to cover it up with.
You teetered your hands up and around his waist, snuggling closer as he pressed the sharp angle of his jaw into the side of your head. It hurt to feel the dig of bone, but you didn’t care—he was here. He was holding you.
And it felt warm and safe.
“Rely on me more, dumbass.”
You sniffled, not able to nod or respond properly from where and how closely you were molded against his front. You swallowed back the thickness in your throat and tightened your arms around him, hoping the message was relayed.
“M’gonna fuckin’ kill him. You realize that, right?” He snorted in your hair as one of his large hands moved to rub big circles over the dip in your back—up into your shoulder blades, caressing the small lumpy bones of your neck.
“Don’t bother,” you muttered, sniffling loudly. “Would mean it actually hurt me. And I’m doin’ fine.”
He sighed at that logic, running his hands up and down your spine again. What more was there to promise that wouldn’t smash your ego and pride even worse?
“Just… just be here for me?” you murmured quietly—almost too low for him to pick up the words.
“I’m already fuckin’ here,” he grunted, squeezing you tighter.
You tried to exhale. The hold was too suffocating against your ribs that tried to expand for your lungs. Feeling your shift, he loosened the grip with a growl in the back of his throat.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t get to murder him for pissing me off,” he snarled, anger fuming below the surface and threatening to spew out in loud bursts all over again in your defense. “M’tired of assholes like that getting off scot-free.”
“Katsuki,” you pleaded. “Please just drop it?”
He huffed but nodded, moving to step back and get a better look at your face. His crimson gaze burned with some determination.
He was definitely thinking of ways to make your ex’s life a living version of hell.
“I’m fine!” You forced a smile for him.
The blonde scoffed, but didn’t deny the words.
Warm, gentle hands raised to cup your cheeks. Thumbs smeared away the gross, saltwater-ruined eyeliner and mascara. He kept brushing the tears away—a torrential river that seemed endlessly draining, even when you hiccuped and sniffled back some. The wobbly grin you put out remained stiff on your lips.
“I know. You’re always ‘fine’,” he replied, wiping with his thumbs again. “…But you’re gonna be okay, [F/N],” he promised. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Love you, Kats.” You sniffled, smile widening into something more real, trying your best to hold it together as your words croaked. “You’re too good to me.”
“Your problem is you don’t hold the same standards for yourself,” he criticized, tugging you along to the couch where he plopped down, effectively pulling you with him. “If you did, you wouldn’t be with assholes. You’d—”
A look at your crestfallen face had him cursing under his breath, dragging you closer so you could snuggle against his side.
“What were you watching?” He cut himself off with a snort. “Fuckin’ Netflix? Some Disney shit, or-?”
You nuzzled against the crook of his neck, shrugging.
“I left it on the For You page,” you mumbled. “Not really been paying much attention. It was just noise so I didn’t have to hear everything in my head.”
He sighed and nodded, lifting an arm to link behind your back and contain you in his warmth.
“Wanna watch one of those dumb cooking championship shows you like so much?” he asked, plucking the remote off the armrest of the couch.
You let out a ghost of a laugh, closing your eyes and kissing the lower side of his neck.
“Sure,” you breathed.
You both knew it was him who loved those ridiculous reality tv shows. He was always cursing at people forgetting ingredients or using the wrong thing—their clumsiness or the overall attitude of the judges concerning dishes he also knew how to make.
You didn’t correct him, however. You didn’t want to fight.
His fingers rubbed slow circles in your side as he searched for a season neither of you went through yet.
The hum of the television with its myriad of voices and dramatic music for the competition slowly eased you into a dreamless sleep against his side.
Katsuki didn’t bother to wake you for a good hour or so, hoping to let you sleep some of the pain away. He’d grill you on details later when you were in a better state of mind—with less stress poisoning your blood and clear from alcohol clouding everything over.
He’d help you clean up the apartment and spend the next few days checking on you, hoping to get your mind off of things.
He’d remind you that you deserved better.
He’d remind you that you deserved the world.
He’d remind you to stop putting everything on your shoulders—trying to burden yourself with too much, and that it was okay to sometimes give yourself the same helping hand you gave to so many others.
That you always gave to him.
He was also probably going to find your ex at some point in the near future and have very lambaste words for them in his dressing down.
It wasn’t the end of the world, but it was made a little bit more comfortable because your best friend was there—he was someone you could rely on at the worst of times, besides being there for the very best.
You couldn’t possibly love another person more.