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It’s silent as soon as the words slip past his lips.
Katsuki’s eyes widen and Shouto freezes, takes a step back and when he blinks, tears are already shining in his eyes. Katsuki wants to take it back as soon as he sees the way Shouto stills.
There’s a hum of peach that fills Katsuki’s weakest sense and the sharp taste of the cobbler is a keen contrast—Shouto baked it and he’s never been very good at anything having to do with the kitchen. But, he told Katsuki Fuyumi used to make it for him all the time, after a bad day with his father and the short story behind the sweet and sour taste of the dish is as bittersweet as the current evening.
The intense tinge of what’s been building up night after night for the past two weeks was covered in sweet desserts and goodnight kisses and conversations they had, purposefully dancing around the state of rigidity that was there for a reason unknown to either. The build-up they’ve covered in gloss and shine so as to not disrupt the “perfection” that's lasted in for so long had only cracked at first and Katsuki is the one to shatter it entirely in only four mistaken words. And now his knuckles feel bruised just at the thought of how hard he wants to knock his fists against something, his face burns and the taste on his tongue turns even sourer.
Shouto’s cheeks are rosy and his eyes are glassy. The tears are unshed for now, but his lips give away the fact they’re going to pour over soon.
Katsuki can’t help but try and relax, remove himself from this on-coming horrible thing that he knows is his own doing—and he focuses on the thin and paleness of Shouto’s lashes. There’s a lot of them and for once, Shouto isn’t peering through them. He’s looking right into Katsuki’s eyes as if he’s searching for any truth or true feeling Katsuki might hold in his words. Checking to see if he actually means it.
And no, he doesn’t mean it. Of fucking course he doesn't. But he knows Shouto thinks he does.
Katsuki’s jaw is slack and it feels locked in place by the time he tries to move it so he can confute what he knows is running through Shouto’s mind. His palms sting and his wrists feel tight. He opens his mouth and his throat burns, it’s gravelly and somehow raw and still sharp with the taste of unsweetened peach.
“I—”
“I’m sorry, Katsuki. I’m so sorry.” Under Shouto’s eyes are already flushed. His tears are steady and consistent and so, so slow. They last until they drop off his chin and tap against the floor softly. So soft, even with the muteness they’re trapped in, they don’t make a sound. They fall so easily and Katsuki’s never seen Shouto cry like he is at the moment.
Shouto shouldn’t be apologizing. He hasn’t done anything wrong, not really.
Katsuki’s just pent up. He’s angry and frustrated and has a bad habit of blowing up at the tiniest things when he’s in a bad mood and Shouto—Shouto always has to deal with his dumbass. Shouto never gets a break and Katsuki’s such a shit person that he never corrects Shouto’s thinking. Even after arguments are had, even when days have passed, when the events of a bad night are worked through—Katsuki doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t know why.
He should apologize right now. He should stop Shouto from yet again thinking this is on him, and do something right for the man he loves for once in his fucking life.
But he can’t—he can’t do anything.
“I’m sorry,” Shouto hiccups and he’s really fucking upset and Katsuki’s just stuck. Shouto chokes and his face screws as he quickly wipes at his messy cheeks, “I love you so much, Katsuki, I don’t—I—I’m sorry, I promised I’d never—” He’s rushing around the living room, sniffing, hands shaking, frantic.
Katsuki shakes his head, “Shouto.” He frowns. “What are—”
“I’m going to leave for a bit,” Shouto says quietly. Katsuki watches him grab his keys, grab his thin jacket, and head to the front door to start slipping on his shoes. “I need to leave. And give you—give you space—you must want some time alone.”
“No, Sh…” Katsuki huffs through his clenched teeth. “Shouto, I didn’t. I didn’t mean to fucking say that, I—”
“It’s okay.” Shouto pulls on another jacket from the rack, tugging on the sleeves. “It’s okay. It must have been in your mind for a while. Something like that if it slipped out so easily. You must have… Thought about it. At least for a little on a few occasions. It’s my fault.”
“No.” Katsuki shakes his head, stepping close, pushing away Shouto’s jacket, “No—it’s- I haven’t been thinking it for a while. It… it came out of nowhere, I fucking—”
“So it’s always been something you knew you’d use, hasn’t it?” Katsuki looks up, but Shouto is looking down. His lips are pressed into a thin line, eyes wide, tears still falling steadily and Katsuki’s head hurts. His stomach twists and churns and he feels nauseous. “It’s something you’ve been waiting to use, isn’t it? You’ve already known, haven’t you?”
“I—?”
“Are we similar, Katsuki?” Shouto chokes again, his lips quiver, breath stutters and he looks up with shaking shoulders. His face is red and eyes look raw, red-rimmed, and crazed, “Katsuki. Are we similar? Do you—do you think I—I’m the same as him? Do you think I’m the same as my father?”
“No! What the fuck, Shouto? I—no—”
“You’re lying. Why else would you say that?” Shouto tosses his things to the side, his cries are loud and his fingers curl into his palms, clenching at his side. “I don’t want to be like him, Katsuki. I… I raised my voice, didn’t I? My fists? Did—did my left—my fire, Katsuki—?”
“You didn’t—”
“Did I use my left?” Shouto steps closer, “Yes? I raised my fists and I—”
“Fuck!” The corners of Katsuki’s eyes are stinging, “No, you didn’t do anything!”
“Stop it! Stop!” Shouto yells through his tears, arms raising in frustration and he suddenly drops to his knees in front of his boyfriend.
His fists are squeezed in his lap, his red and white strands are stuck to his tear and snot-stained, flushed face. He’s heaving like he can’t take in enough air.
“Stop lying! I can’t—I can’t be like him, I can’t—!” He bends forward, almost desperate. “Tell me what I did and I’ll never do it again, Katsuki. I won't, I promise.”
Katsuki drops to his knees with Shouto and reaches for his wrist—Shouto pulls away—Katsuki reaches for them again, grabs them, squeezes until he can feel the pinch of Shouto’s skin between his fingers. Shouto winces, tugs—Katsuki pulls.
“I’m a fucking asshole. I’m such a stupid fucking asshole,” Katsuki tells him, his voice shakes and his breathing is harsh—loud, mixes with Shouto’s panicked breaths because of him, him—“I’m fucked up for saying that, Shouto it’s—it doesn’t mean shit—”
“Yes, it does,” Shouto pulls at his lip and shakes his head, “To me it does. It’s more than just—a tool or leverage for you to use whenever you want to make me angry and upset, Katsuki. It’s more than that and you know that, you know that, Katsuki—”
“I know, I know,” Katsuki swallows, runs his fingers through Shouto’s strands as he gets closer, pulls him closer, squeezes his wrists tighter, “I know, Shouto. I know.”
“I—I don’t want to be like him. I don’t—you can’t-you can’t use that against me.” Shouto’s voice is tight and stiff, but shakes with an anger he’s trying to hold under him, hide. His fingers press into the floor from where they’re curled into his palm, even with Katsuki’s tight grip around them and his jaw is tight, eyes wide, tears fast. “You can’t use that against—Katsuki—that’s not fair. That isn’t fair, you don’t get to do that—”
“I know, I know, I know,” Katsuki presses even closer, voice frantic, softer with every word he speaks and every apology that rolls off his tongue. Goes until he’s breathless, until tears are gathering in his lashes and his hands are shaking as they hold Shouto’s face. He places a hand on the back of Shouto’s head, guides him to his chest, squeezes an arm around his waist, squeezes his legs around his waist, presses his lips to the top of Shouto’s head again and again and again.
And Shouto cries. It’s on and off. The tears run and run and they slide down his cheeks and tap against Katsuki’s knuckles and the tears themselves are cool, but the taps are scorching. They burn and they make Katsuki grit his teeth, but he doesn’t move his hand away. Because he did this. Shouto is crying because of him—because he fucking sucks. So he stays. And he sits and listens to the hitches in Shouto’s breath and lets his hands get wet with tears. Shouto’s tears. And he doesn’t say anything.
And Katsuki cries. Just a little. He blinks and tears track his cheeks and—he wipes them away because he doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to cry about this—why the fuck is he crying. He bites on his tongue to stifle it, squeezes his fists, and holds his breath until his stomach is tight and everything hurts to shut himself up, shut up.
When he exhales, his shoulders shudder and Shouto shudders with it.
The crying stops. Katsuki inhales, Shouto exhales. And they shudder.
Shouto clings to him, even without Katsuki forcing him to. He squeezes Katsuki on his own, gets closer, presses his face against his chest, and then up, moves his forehead to his shoulder, and breathes.
“You don’t get to use that,” Shouto tells him, quietly. “You can’t use that against me.”
Katsuki knows. He knows, he knows, he knows, and he’s sorry. His chest is tight when he breathes in and he fixes his words. Because he knew—he “knew”—and he still fucking did it, anyway. Because he fuckings sucks. Because he's the god damn worst. But Shouto loves him anyway. Because Shouto is everything that Enji isn't. Because Shouto is fucking perfect.
“You’re right,” Katsuki whispers, his thumb smoothes over the skin of Shouto’s wrist, “I don’t get to do that. I don’t. That’s not fucking fair. You aren’t like that stupid, abusive asshat. You’re Shouto and you’re fucking perfect. You’re everything that he isn’t. And I love you.”
“You love me,” Shouto says. “You can love me. I’m not like him—you can love me. I'm not him, Katsuki. I'm not.”
Katsuki knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.
"You're right. You aren't like him. I can love you, and I do," Katsuki presses his eyes shut, “I love you.”