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Hanta’s been having a shitty day. The kind that leaves your jaw sore and your teeth numb, your eyes insistently prickling with salt and every single one of your limbs jittery. The kind where your mind just won’t stop screaming.
That kind of day.
And the worst part about it is, normally he would be aching for the day to end so he can get home and scream it all out into a pillow, or rant about it to Katsuki, but instead, Hanta is dreading going home.
Him and Katsuki don’t usually get into fights. They’re shockingly good at communicating, and Hanta knows how to bring Katsuki back down when he starts getting heated. He knows when to step away to let himself cool down or keep things from spiralling. Katsuki’s gotten much better at regulating himself over the course of their relationship, too.
Not last night, though. Last night, neither of them could keep their emotions in check, and if Hanta were to try and describe the atmosphere of that fight, “heated” would be an understatement.
He remembers being hot with rage, raising his voice and waving his hands around wildly, coming dangerously close to throwing something across the room. He remembers Katsuki’s expression, contorted with hostility and anger, and he remembers his ears ringing from all of the yelling.
But somehow, Hanta can barely remember what any of it was about, now. Only that his feelings are hurt, that Katsuki’s probably are, too, and that he’s exhausted from not sleeping much and his stomach is cold and aching with hunger. ‘Cause he just had to forget his lunch at home on top of everything else.
As the clock ticks closer and closer to day’s end, the lump in Hanta’s throat just grows bigger. He wants out so bad, but he can’t deal with the thought of going home to last night’s mess any better than he’s dealt with everything else this terrible day has thrown at him.
He’s too tired to be sorry and much too tired to talk things through. He just wants to curl up in bed and- be held.
By the time his shift ends, Hanta’s arms are burning and his shoulder’s throbbing from a fall off a ladder (stupid customers and their stupid high-up hardware, stupid concrete floors, stupid wobbly ladders), his lip is raw from biting and his stomach is tight with nausea. The dread only looms higher, and he hates that he feels that way because he should never have to dread going home to Katsuki.
He knows Katsuki respects him and loves him and would let him have space for now if he said he needed it, but Hanta doesn’t trust himself to be able to explain what he needs properly without making Katsuki angry again, and besides, it isn’t space that he wants.
So, he makes his way home—a terrible, hour-long trip by bus with two different connections along the way—with his stomach in knots and his head spinning and his throat aching. By the time he makes it back to their apartment, Hanta’s almost relieved, despite the ever-present nerves shaking all throughout his body.
The apartment is quiet when he lets himself in, and it doesn’t smell like cooking how it usually does around this time. Hanta swallows past the dryness of his throat, guilt pinching at him for the sinking disappointment in his stomach. Or maybe that’s just the yawning emptiness begging him for food. Who can say.
It’s hard to walk on his sore feet at this point, and Hanta brings himself to the kitchen, where he plops down at the dining table. The lights are on, so he knows Katsuki’s home, at least.
He feels paralyzed.
His body is screaming at him. He needs food, he needs a shower, he needs water, he needs sleep. He needs so much and Hanta can’t even think about where to start. All of the uncomfortable sensations are overwhelming him, and Katsuki’s somewhere in the apartment probably still fuming mad, probably ready for round two, but Hanta just wants to forget their fight ever happened.
It feels like a century passes of just sitting, quiet and alone in the kitchen with nothing but the buzz of the refrigerator to keep him company. He feels so dizzy and clogged up and sore, and Hanta thinks to call out to Katsuki just to say “hello,” but he holds his tongue. The trepidation is too much, the idea of another outburst exhausting him more than he can handle.
Hanta nearly dozes off right there at the table, trying to convince himself to stand up to get something to eat, or to go change clothes or take a shower. He’s snapped back to alertness by footsteps padding down the hall and turning into the kitchen. Katsuki doesn’t look at him when he comes in, making a beeline instead for the cupboards.
“Hey,” he grunts.
For whatever reason (it’s the fatigue, the pain, the emotional weight of this awful day), that blasé greeting makes Hanta’s lip quiver. He bites down on it and swallows around the ache in his throat.
“Hi,” he says hoarsely.
Oh, yeah. He’s definitely dehydrated. That explains the pounding in his forehead. His voice is so weak, Hanta’s not sure Katsuki even hears him.
Katsuki says nothing further, and Hanta watches his back while he pulls a packet of ramen from the cupboard. It’s a single serving, so Hanta supposes he’s angry enough that they’re going to be eating separately tonight.
Which means he probably isn’t going to eat at all. He’s too tired to make anything, will get yelled at if he orders in before pay-day, and the thought of being excluded from Katsuki’s typical evening routine makes his stomach twist sickly, so now he’s a bit too nauseous as well. It feels so silly, to be so affected by something like his partner not wanting to include him in his meal, but it hurts anyway. Like everything else today. Like the burning scrapes on his arms and the bruised muscle in his shoulder and the apparent something-off in his wrist that he’s only just now noticing and his ever-worsening headache.
Holy fuck, can’t a guy catch a break?
Hanta’s gaze drifts from Katsuki’s back to the wall. He stares at it, listening to Katsuki moving around, the clang of metal and tap of cutlery and the thwack of the fridge as it opens and shuts. His vision begins to blur, more and more, but Hanta figures that maybe if he’s quiet about it, Katsuki won’t notice him crying. It’d just call attention to it if he got up to go cry somewhere else, and besides, his feet are still screaming at him and he can barely think straight. It doesn’t matter. He just needs to be quiet.
He wrings his hands in his lap, focusing intently on the wall as the building tears spill over and begin streaming down his face.
In his head, he tries formulating a way out of this awful feeling. Maybe he’ll work up the energy to make some eggs or throw some leftovers in the microwave. Maybe he can tie his hair up and sit under the spray of the shower, at least to get his body clean so Katsuki won’t complain that he stinks and he can feel a little bit better about himself. And after those two things, he can go collapse into bed and sleep, and talk things out with Kat in the morning, when he’s rested and his whole body doesn’t hurt anymore. Maybe he just needs to sit and cry for a little bit longer, and then he can get up and take care of himself and tomorrow will be better.
“Han?”
Hanta nearly panics when he realizes Katsuki is looking at him. He rubs harshly at his cheeks, knowing it isn’t going to make a bit of difference, before meeting his partner’s gaze.
“Um, sorry, what?”
Katsuki’s standing right next to the table, looking at Hanta with a frown and creased brow. He doesn’t seem all that angry, but Hanta’s stupid eyes won’t stop running, so he can’t really tell if he’s reading his expression right.
“What are you crying about?”
Hanta sniffles, wiping at his eyes again and shrugging. He turns his gaze back to the wall, too embarrassed to look at Katsuki.
“Nothin’- I don’t know, sorry,” he mumbles. His voice wavers and he wishes he could just go to bed.
For a few moments, Katsuki doesn’t say anything. Hanta doesn’t hear him moving either. He focuses on wiping his eyes, trying to will the tears away so he can just blame it on feeling a bit over tired, but they just don’t want to stop.
Then, Katsuki’s hand is on his shoulder, and Hanta almost feels like he can breathe again.
Katsuki rubs gently, over from his shoulder to the space between his shoulder blades, quietly moving his hand up and down while Hanta tries desperately to get ahold of his breathing. He lets himself sink into it when Katsuki’s other arm comes around the back of his head, cradling him.
“Bad day?” He asks, and Hanta presses his face into Katsuki’s sternum while he nods, yes.
“Yes.”
Katsuki hums, his hand still rubbing, his other working through Hanta’s hair. He drops the lightest kiss on top of Hanta’s head and Hanta can’t help the shuddering sob he lets out, overwhelmed and relieved that Katsuki’s here and holding him and kind.
“You left your bento at home,” Katsuki comments.
A pang in Hanta’s stomach reminds him of how hungry he is. He’s still too tired to do anything about it, though, and Katsuki is so warm, so he just snuggles closer.
“Y-yeah,” he stammers, “I- hm- know.”
Katsuki’s fingers, tangled in Hanta’s hair, slowly drift down to meet his other hand at Hanta’s back. He sighs.
“And you didn’t come to bed last night.”
Hanta sniffs, gross and wet.
“Sorry.”
He doesn’t get an answer, and Hanta’s stomach twists in a knot. He wonders if this moment of peace will last or not. There’s nothing left in him to give to fighting or making amends today. But Katsuki just squeezes him gently, then slowly pulls away.
“Food’s almost done,” he murmurs.
Hanta retreats into himself as his partner walks away, turning his gaze to the tabletop and chewing on his lip. His eyes feel heavy. The kitchen smells good, warmed by the heat of the stove radiating throughout the room. Dishes clatter and tap as Katsuki puts his meal together, and Hanta sinks down in his chair, stretching his legs and closing his eyes. If nothing else, he can sit here in Katsuki’s company while he eats, then follow him to bed and maybe get some cuddles to soothe over the burn of the day.
The sound of a dish being set down on the table stirs Hanta from his daze. He opens his eyes to a bowl full of noodles and beef, topped with an egg, sitting right in front of him. Katsuki sets a glass of water down beside it and Hanta frowns up at him.
“I-isn’t this your food?”
His voice is still wet and cracked, which is kind of embarrassing.
Katsuki kicks out the chair adjacent to Hanta’s and drops into it, tossing his arm over the back and shaking his head.
“I already ate. Ei wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone about meeting his new boyfriend so we went to a pub.”
Still staring at the food, Hanta whispers, “oh.”
He’s getting misty-eyed again.
Katsuki was cooking for him this whole time. While angry and bitter and coming off the heels of a fight so bad Hanta spent the night on the couch, Katsuki still cooked for him. And Hanta wants to burst into tears again, this time with gratitude, but he’s so hungry that he sucks them back and reaches for his chopsticks with trembly fingers.
It’s hard to keep it together while he eats. Katsuki sits quietly, sometimes watching him, sometimes gazing around the room or answering a text on his phone. Normally they would talk, but the atmosphere tonight is somewhere between awkward and tense and just plain dejected. Stuck in his own world as he is, Hanta can imagine Katsuki’s had a long day, too, and is having his own feelings about their argument, too.
Distracted by his meal and his thoughts, Hanta flinches the slightest bit when Katsuki’s thumb wipes a stray tear off of his cheek, then settles and looks at his boyfriend.
“You don’t cry very often,” Katsuki comments. There’s not really a tone to read. It’s just an observation.
Hanta shrugs, enjoying the brief moment of warmth before Katsuki pulls his hand away again.
“I mean… neither do you,” he rasps. He’s not sure what else to say.
“Bull,” Katsuki snorts, “I’m, uh- what was it Denki called me- ‘emotionally constipated as fuck,’ and I still cry more often than you.”
Slowly finishing a bite of his food, Hanta sniffs.
“Is… it a competition…?” He asks, genuinely uncertain what Katsuki’s point is.
“No, I just,” Katsuki sucks his teeth and leans back in his chair, shaking his leg, “I’m just saying it must have been a really fucked up day. For you to be this upset.”
Hanta swallows. He stares at his nearly-empty bowl and nods slowly.
“It- yeah.”
“…Well, what happened?”
“…I got yelled at by a lot of people. Like, every hour it felt like,” Hanta brushes some hair out of his face and breathes out slowly, “and I fell off a ladder which got me laughed at by some stupid kids. Was tired… and hungry.”
Katsuki remains quiet. Hanta feels his lip quivering again, his vision clouding up once more as he pulls the rest of the words out from behind the lock in his throat.
“Missed you. And I- h-hated how I was feeling about coming home.”
More tears slide down his cheeks. Hanta wipes at them with his free hand, stuffing another bite of food in his mouth with the other. He looks anywhere but at Katsuki. And his boyfriend still hasn’t said anything, so Hanta has to bite back an anxious sob.
“My head hurts,” he whimpers.
Maybe it’s because he sounds so damn pathetic, or maybe it took a minute for everything he said to really process, but it’s then that Katsuki finally moves. He gets out of his chair and makes his way to the cupboards, pulling some ibuprofen from their medicine cabinet and setting it next to Hanta’s glass of water.
“Take that,” he murmurs, “and drink all of your water.”
He moves around Hanta to stand at his back, hands settling on his shoulders and kneading the sore muscles there carefully. Hanta nearly breaks down into full on weeping. Or moans. He’s not sure.
“Do you have to work tomorrow?” Katsuki asks.
Swallowing the ibuprofen, Hanta shakes his head, “no.”
“Well,” Katsuki says, “when you’re finished, let’s get you cleaned up. Then we can have ice cream and… watch a movie in bed or something.”
“Okay,” Hanta croaks. That sounds like damn-near heaven given how he was expecting his night to go.
He finishes off the remainder of his food and water, leaning into Katsuki while his partner gently massages his shoulders and the base of his skull. Though his feet still hurt like hell, the gratitude he feels and the food and water have given Hanta enough energy that he feels like he can at least clean the dishes, but Katsuki stops him when he gets up.
“Don’t worry about it,” he grunts, “we can deal with the mess later. I want to clean those scrapes on your arms before they get infected.”
“Um, yeah, okay.”
Katsuki is not one to leave a mess for “later.” Is he actually worried?
Hanta bites his lip and lets his partner lead him to the bathroom, hand in hand, hobbling a bit because that’s just what nine hours on your feet and a hard fall does to a person.
Katsuki runs the bath while Hanta showers off. The room is quiet. Hanta climbs into the bath when he’s finished, stifling a groan at the comforting heat enveloping his sore limbs.
“Give me your arms,” Katsuki says, kneeling at the side of the tub with a bar of soap next to him.
Hanta does, watching as his boyfriend gently massages the soap into his scrapes with a pinch in his brow.
“Someone should’ve been spotting you,” Katsuki huffs.
“…Nobody else was available,” Hanta replies, voice shaking. He’s not sure if Katsuki’s reprimanding him or speaking generally.
“Yeah, well, your stupid bosses are lucky you didn’t get more seriously hurt,” Katsuki says, his voice tight with anger. He grumbles, as an afterthought, “could sue the fuck out of their asses if you were.”
At that, Hanta smiles softly, “pretty sure they have super expensive lawyers who’d make a good argument that it was my own fault.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” Katsuki snaps, and Hanta has to bite down on his lip to keep from wincing. “I’d kick their asses if they tried to say it was.”
Hanta’s smile grows wider. His eyes are still wet and sore, and his arms are burning as Katsuki cleans them off, but he feels lighter now. It’s not that it’s necessarily pleasant to see Katsuki angry, but this time it’s on his behalf, which is so much better than the alternative.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
Katsuki grunts.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” He asks.
“Hit my shoulder pretty hard,” Hanta tells him, “and I think I might’ve sprained my wrist.”
His partner clicks his tongue, gesturing with a soapy hand for Hanta to give him said wrist. Hanta does, watching as Katsuki examines it, turning it over in his hands.
“Looks a bit swollen,” he observes, “you should ice it. And go to the doctor if it still hurts in a few days.”
“Okay. I will.”
When Katsuki’s finished cleaning Hanta’s arms, he gets to his feet.
“I’m gonna set up a movie and get you some ice. Call me when you’re done,” he says, “I’ll bandage those.”
Hanta nods. When he’s alone again, he sinks down into the warmth of the water, letting his eyes slip closed to bask in the comfort of it. He still feels pretty crappy, physically, but the mental anguish that was following him around all day has receded. Even the humiliation of being yelled at, reprimanded and scolded so many times feels almost like a distant memory, the ache of it eased by Katsuki caring for him so gently.
He should have known he would be there for him. Even if he wasn’t doting on him this much, Katsuki would never have let him deal with this alone.
Hanta nearly dozes off in the tub, only roused by Katsuki checking on him—he’s so fucking in love he’s going to marry this man—and helping him out with steady hands.
They don’t say much while Hanta dries himself off and dresses. Katsuki bandages his arms, places a very subtle kiss on each, and wraps his wrist tightly in a tensor bandage. They make their way to their shared bedroom and crawl under the covers.
Katsuki’s already set up his laptop with one of Hanta’s favourite movies on the screen, an ice pack and two bowls of ice cream sitting on the nightstand.
Hanta nearly bursts into tears again. His boyfriend is so perfect.
He keeps it together, though, not wanting to derail an evening that’s finally starting to feel nice. They cuddle up side by side, the lines of their bodies pressed tight together while they eat their ice cream and Hanta rests his wrist on the ice pack. This movie is one that always makes him laugh. Katsuki probably knows that.
Eventually, their bowls find their way back to the nightstand, and Hanta’s head finds its way onto Katsuki’s chest. His partner is playing with his damp hair. Hanta’s only half-watching the movie now, blinking slower and slower as his love soothes him in the direction of sleep.
“Kats?” he whispers.
“Yeah,” Katsuki murmurs.
“Thank you for taking care of me… I love you so much.”
Hanta feels Katsuki kiss the top of his head. Watches as he adjusts Hanta’s ice pack so he can lace their fingers together.
“I love you, too.”
Hanta swallows, his body curling closer to Katsuki’s, his mind slowing even further.
“We should probably talk about… I’m sorry for…”
“Shh,” Katsuki hushes him. “Tomorrow, baby. Tomorrow.”
Slowly, just barely awake, Hanta nods.
“Mmkay.”
When he wakes in the morning, he’ll wake to an already clean kitchen and breakfast almost ready. Hanta will press a tired, happy kiss to Katsuki’s lips. They will sit and eat together.
When they’re ready to talk about it, this time, nobody will yell. This time, they’ll hold hands, and speak kindly, and face it together, as a team.