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It had been a long day — interns who couldn’t keep their notes straight, paperwork stacked higher than the cubical, and three back-to-back press conferences that drained every last ounce of heroic passion Eijiro had left. He was just glad it was Friday. Friday, and barely before seven. Actually, he and Katsuki had the weekend — or at least until her stakeout Sunday afternoon — but that was good enough. He’d take what he could get.
Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he perks at the pile of mail half-blocking the entrance. He kicks the door open with the side of his boot, the edge of it catching his shoulder on the way in, and stoops to scoop up the packages before they get trampled. Three packages — one of them had to be that new cutting board set he ordered weeks ago. About time.
He lets the door swing shut behind him, everything spilling from his arms onto the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet apartment. He sighs, long and heavy, shucking off his boots somewhere in the direction of the door. The floor is cool through his socked feet, and his shoulders slump the moment the backpack slides off and hits the floor with a thud.
He opens the first; tupperware and reusable Ziplocs. Not his cutting board, so he huffs and puts it next to the sink, pushing the ziplocs to the side. The second package, smaller and flatter, leaves no doubt in his mind that it’s gotta be the cutting board. He cuts open the tape with the house key to find a sweet little note to Katuki from Hatsume about the updated attachments to her gauntlets. They look intricate, and nothing like the cutting board. Shifting, tired on dead feet, he sighs and folds it back into the box, setting it aside for when Katsuki gets home.
The tape on the third and last box isn’t package tape; it's pink, and blue, and white, and in the pattern of… something he recognizes, can’t really put his finger on— promo? Did Katsuki sign up for something? A collab? He looks to the address again. It's for Katsuki— but…? He's careful when he slits it with the house key.
Thank you KB for supporting ManMade! Your purchase helps make resources for trans and gender-nonconforming people from South to East Asia more accessible. We’ve included guides and resources for you to use and share.
He turns the card, blank, and looks down to the mess of plastic and stickers, and under is a little booklet. ‘How to Bind" on the front, and right under that, ‘How to Tape'. This wasn’t for him.
But then,
Is it for Katsuki?
But she's never said anything about— not feeling like… or— but— did he just not notice?
He put the book and card aside. A small tank top– no– a binder– lay on top. Under that, two more. A baggie of impossibly more stickers, a few folded up boxers, and a smaller clear box with a dildo– no– he knows about this. It's…a..uh…He flips through the booklet. A packer. Okay.
Yeah.
What?
He flips the flap of the cardboard over. It's for Katsuki. His Katsuki. His wife Katsuki. His beautiful wife Katsuki who— who likes girl nights with Ochaco, and spa days; who wears dresses and heels so confidently; who likes wrestling, and her hair short, and hates the bras that actually cup her, and being called pretty and cute and…
Oh.
Is this what that's about? He's never thought about it much; he's never really considered femininity or masculinity when it comes to her. She’s always been just Katsuki. Manly Katsuki; beautiful Katsuki; and God does he know stubborn Katsuki. It doesn't matter what this is– it's Katsukis, and he opened it. So, he gently repackages it to how it was, folding it up and setting her other, smaller package on top— the one from Hatsume. Katsuki’ll be home soon enough, and, if she hasn’t had the will beaten out of her today, then maybe he’ll get the chance to ask about it.
It’s been a long week — the kind that leaves her feeling heavy and achey down to her core on the train ride home. Monday kicked off with four consecutive meetings before the press briefings even began, and when she dipped in next to Eijiro that night, her back ached until half past one. Tuesday bled straight into Wednesday after the raid went to fuck all; she didn’t crawl into bed until four in the morning, sweaty and bloody and hurting all over, and by nine AM she was back up — hair damp from a rushed shower, eyes half-open — catching a train down to Chiba for another round of agency nonsense with a different group of sideshow hero nonsense. Thursday wasn’t better at all — drills, reports, some idiot rookie citing the whole week's reports wrong, and she had to do them all over— and today, finished with nine hours of mission debriefs, then briefs for the upcoming stakeout. And, one too many people asking one too many stupid questions
She’s beat of all will; beat of any of the gratefulness she’s told she should have for the 1.5-day break from this hell; beat, quite literally, all over.
She stabs her key into the door, jiggling it until it swings easily– no click, not locked. Eijiros home. Leading herself in with a hung head, the dark entity— the one that had been lingering somewhere on her shoulders all week— fucks off up into the air. Everything seems to lighten a bit, and she lets herself breathe in the smell of sesame oil sizzling and the curry that pairs with it.
“Hi baby,” comes Eijiro, and she grumbles something she hopes is just as sweet back, tossing her keys onto the counter. This is home, where she kicks her boots off and nudges hers and Eijiro’s to line up. This is home, where she lets the strap slip from her shoulder so her bag can sag against his. This is home, where she shucks off her jacket and tosses it somewhere near their room.
Her coordination lacks as she stumbles to him. She can’t think straight—the world seeming to lull with every shift of her head. He knocks his shoulder with hers, making himself a landmark in the haze of her utter exhaustion.
“I’ve got it, Kats. How about you get us water,” she grumbles, again, hopefully something good, resting her head on his shoulder for a moment before trudging to the cabinet on aching legs.
“Your day go well?” the sink runs over his voice, then shuts off. “Did they keep you late or did you just miss the train? I think the last one already went, like — half an hour ago.” He looks for any sign they can talk— about the package, about her day, about anything— but she looks beat down; a swaying in place, eyes half closed, kind of tired, and his heart aches with empathy.
“Had a meeting start at 4:30 and it didn’t let out till 8:45. And then — there was a fucking problem with the payment for the train card, so I had to deal with that shit and missed the train I should’ve been on.”
He juts his lip out a bit, apologetically, and puts the spoon down to come join her at the sink and help fill the cups, brushing her sweaty hair back and taking them after she fills them.
“Why don’t you shower? When you’re done, the food’ll be ready? So then you can get to bed quicker?” She shakes her head, splashing water on her face after Eijiro takes the waters. “M’ wanna hang out. I haven’t seen you all week.” It’s sweet, and he wants nothing more than to cuddle up and watch something, but her words come slow and her hands shake in a way that doesn’t sit right with him.
“‘Kay… well, at least sit? You’re, like, swaying, dude.” She can’t argue with that, sinking slowly onto the couch, letting herself rest against its soft cushion. Just as she’s about to finally let off her poor legs, a flash of color—bright, unmistakable—catches her eye. The tape across the box she's been waiting months for, now screaming its presence, pulls her attention instantly, and everything stops.
Her voice is small, “D’ja get the mail?”
Mortification. That’s the first thing she feels welling up, like acid, washing up her spine as she picked the box up– the one from Hatsume– then took the one from under, eyes stinging as the flaps moved freely; he opened it.
“Yeah, you got a couple things, m’ still waiting on my cutting board.”
When she looks up, he’s still looking at the pan. Does he not know? Or is it that he doesn’t care? Did the neighbor open it– did someone know? Embarrassment was the next thing, pooling low in her gut and she suddenly couldn't breath right— the house seemed to shrink with them in it. Embarrassment, that is, and then mortification, beading in her eyes and she feels like she’s burning— body too hot and shoulders too cold and nausea too bubbly somewhere deep and untouched—
“Dont fucking touch my shit—!” Eijiro's head spins, to where Katsuki arms are full of the box in her hands and frantically sweeping her things and gathering herself up and–
She never cusses at Eijiro. Not like that.
“Hey–”, he puts the spoon down, letting the wood of it soak in the curry in his neglect, but she continues, voice cracking, “do-nt touch my fucking stuff–you— you— shit–!” The deep stuttering breaths she drags in– heaving, really— scratches her throat. Shame. That's all that she can think to call what’s swallowing her, what's digging its little claws in her throat as it climbs up with acid— chilling and sickening— and the tears sure as hell didn’t help her humility. It’s been a long week, and she’s trying— really trying— to stop; to go to their room calmly and breathe, but his hands burn where they lock around her wrist and her humiliation feels like it might kill her.
“Baby– I thought it was okay–? We always–”
“I don't fucking care–!”
She shakes him off, hateful and angry and everything she was; why can’t he see she’s just being a stupid bitch? That she's difficult and rude and this— this bullshit she's pulling should be the last straw. Why isn’t he yelling back? Fucking fight Eijiro,
Instead, he’s trying to reason; trying to assure her and soothe because it has been a long week, but he can’t get anything out before their door settles hard in his face. The silence that follows is way too loud. Way too lonely. Too alien. Too hurtful, and his head swims with how quickly everything fell apart.
The oil pops and hisses as he moves through the kitchen. The smell of garlic and soy clings to the air, warm and sharp — homey in a way that almost hurts, reminding him Katsuki abandoned it. Abandoned their time together. He plates the food carefully, more carefully than he needs to, then wipes his hands on a towel and makes his way down the hall.
He knocks softly on their door. “Dinner’s ready, Kats.”
The knob doesn’t turn. Locked.
He frowns, testing it again, lighter this time — as if that might change it. But it just jiggles in its lock. They never do that.
They don’t fight like that. Don’t slam doors. Don’t lock each other out. Partly because it’s their room. Mostly because they don’t want to.
He stands there a moment, his hand still on the knob, the weight of the silence pressing down, aching somewhere behind his ribs. He lets his nails scrape silkenly on the metal, itching to pick at it like a scab, until it opens and he can peel back this wall they’ve built and tend to his wound. Tend to Katsuki. Whatever reason she has, it has to be big — big enough that she needs this kind of distance. Big enough that she can’t even look at him.
So he leaves it.
He goes back to the kitchen, the hum of the stove fan filling the quiet. The air feels heavier now, still smelling sickeningly of chicken and charred oil. Every sound — the scrape of a chair, the click of a dish, the faint creak of the floor — seems too loud in the emptiness she left behind.
Forty minutes slips by. The clock on the microwave blinks 12:28 in dull green light.
He exhales, slow and shaking, and starts packing up her food — hands trembling as he spoons rice into a container, blinking through the sting in his eyes. The new Tupperware lids snap shut with small, decisive clicks, each one louder than it should be. He wipes down the counter, his jaw tight, eyes wet, movements mechanical.
Then he goes back down the hall. The door stands there, still and quiet in the dim light.
He lifts his hand, hesitates, then knocks once more.
“Katsuki?”
The door opens this time, to darkness and a bundle under the sheets of their bed. She’s asleep, maybe not soundly, but finally asleep. He scans around, as if it were a crime scene; as if he’s looking for the clues to what was going through her head. He sees the cardboard box, empty at the foot of the bed, and the remnants of it in their trashcan by his foot, scattered across the floor.
Oh, baby.
He silently takes the box, rubbing gently on the lump that’s her foot under the comforter as he passes, and takes the trashcan back to the living room. And though his eyes burn, and his throat is dry, and guilt it gnawing at his shoulders, right there with the weeks worth of exhaustion, he carefully folds up the binders; carefully lays them back the way he thinks he remembers it being, making sure everything was how it came, takes some painters tape, and retapes it up. She didn't mean it. She didn't spend however much this all cost— measured for the binders, picked out a packer that was damn near the color of her skin, buy from a brand small enough to personalize the message— to toss it out cause of whatever hurt drove the freakout. And she didn’t deserve to have him not care.
He leaves the package on the breakfast table— on top of the water ring from Katsuki's untouched iced water from dinner— so maybe tomorrow they can talk about it; or maybe not, or he can silently watch Katsuki open it and give him a show and tell.
Laying on the couch, not knowing if he's welcome in their bed, spots dance across his eyes when he looks up at the ceiling. They never sleep apart, and all these new, different things today— the package; and Katsuki cursing him out; and Katsuki shutting him out; and now Katsuki kicking him out— his lip twitch and his nose burns. What if something did change? What if Katsuki and him changed, and this is the beginning of the end? He couldn't help it– tired and emotional and worried; he lacks emotional permanence at this time of night, and nothing seems rational anymore. So he pulls up the blanket and kicks his legs out to sprawl, letting the hum of the dishwasher pull him to a desperately needed sleep.
“Eijiro.”
“Hn.”
“Baby, cmon”
“What…”
Cool air hits him as the blanket’s pulled away, hearing it distantly fall to the floor, and he groans at the feeling, eyes scrunching. “S, too early.”
“It's too late, cmon.”
He lets his body be coaxed up, feeling her stumble back with his weight, kissing his shoulder, and then his throat and she let out a shaky breath. “You take the bed.. Your back’ s gonna hurt.”
“M not….”
“....”
“No, you take the bed–”
He pulls back to blink at her; she's red rimmed and swaying twice as bad, yet steady and holding his weight. “Shh no,” she coos, and brushes his hair back soothingly.
Wait, this was pointless. Why don't they both take the bed? Was there a reason for not sleeping together? He lets himself be dragged to their room, falsely letting her have her way, and the moment he hits the bed, he gently pulls her too.
“C’mon, cuddle me.”
He wipes his eyes of sleep, and she stares at him with a wobbly lip. Oh.
“Hey,” He starts,
but she shakes her head no, crawling in and curling up under his armpit, and he adjusts to his side to hold her.
“Katsuki–”
Again, she shakes her head no, sniffling and blindly grabbing at his hand, which he takes diligently, feeling her thumb rub sweetly. He can feel the apology and ache in it. Okay… Okay.
“S ok,” He murmurs tiredly, kissing her hair and rubbing her hand, letting their exhaustion take over.
He’s the first one awake, reaching for his phone at 12:34. His head aches and his back hurts, but at some point in the night, he must’ve made it to bed. Next to him, Katsuki rolls over, clothes half kicked down to her ankles and hanging off the bed.
Then the memories of last night come back—the wasted food, the fight, the clothes in the trash, and falling asleep alone on the couch.
He reaches to rub her shoulder blades, sore and rashy from the gear she’s been testing for her agency. His hand trails to her elbow, bruised from some other fight. She’s probably going to be out for a while, judging by how she came in last night—like she’d been dragged through the trenches. He gently detangles the mats in her hair, pulling away when she groans.
Brunch ends up being the meal he barely ate last night—Katsuki’s portion, really. He cleans the bathroom and takes out the trash before she pads into the kitchen around 3 p.m.
He’s rehearsed in his head. This time he's gonna be careful in the way she’s cautious; this time he’ll make sure it’s not a complete disaster.
“Hey,” he says, putting the last of the dishes away. “Slept through your only day off, huh?” She stands there, swaying on her aching legs. When she finally seems to wake, the first sign is a shift in her expression—somewhere between a glare and worried. Caution. Her watchful eyes follow him as he washes his hands.
“Did you sleep ok?” he asks.
She lingers awkwardly in the bedroom doorway. The silence thickens the air between them, keeping both from stepping closer.
“I made food last night,” he adds. “It reheats well.”
She nods reluctantly, eyes unblinking, fixed on Eijiro’s every move—on his soft smile as he scurries to get the food out. She stays in the doorway, feeling out of place. Eijiro knows, she reminds herself. He didn’t want to sleep with her last night. He chose to sleep in the living room even after she unlocked the door. And she’s knows it’s her fault too, which makes it worse because she just seems to be on a roll of fucking up. He probably doesn’t want to think about why this is happening, doesn’t want to look at her or talk about the fit she threw. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that something’s wrong with her—or that something’s wrong at all.
She lets out a shaky breath, nose burning. He speaks gently.
“Sit on the couch. I’ll get the TV trays out, yeah? Just give me a second.”
She hesitates, flinching a step back into the doorway. He notices; she sees his eyes flick toward her as she backpedals into the safety of their room.
“You put it back in the box,” she mutters, eyes finally landing on the breakfast table, acknowledging it in her peripheral. She doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to face it—not after yesterday, and not in front of Eijiro.
“Well, I didn’t want good things going to waste—and you didn’t even get to give me a haul—”
“I don’t want it—”
“Let’s just talk then—”
“No!”
It comes out nearly as desperate as when she raised her voice at him yesterday, slicing through the room and leaving behind that same heavy silence—only broken by the microwave’s wail.
“We don’t have to,” he murmurs, a new resignation softening his voice. “Let’s watch that movie we bought last week. Spa day?”
He’s lying, and she knows it—lying right through his teeth, through his disappointment and anger. He doesn’t want to be near her. He doesn’t even want to look at her. He just wants her to admit it—to say out loud that she’s some queer freak.
“I don’t wanna talk.”
The line comes out hard, broken, pitched in the wrong places, cracking under the tightness in her throat. Her hands clench helplessly at her sides, opening for air and closing around no one’s comfort. Just as careful, Eijiro follows.
“Me neither.”
He’s lying.
“Set up the TV trays? I’ll go find the face masks.”
He doesn’t want anything more than a confession—for her to admit she’s some tranny.
“Or I set up the trays and you get the mask?”
Her hands clench and unclench. She doesn’t want to talk. Or watch a movie. He knows. He knows about this—this thing festering under her skin, tormenting her for months. She fucking hates it. And he isn’t going to berate her for an answer? Does he care? Why not? That scares her maybe just as much as the thought of him hating her for it. Does he really not care? Why not? That scares her maybe just as much as the thought of him hating her for it.
Her nose burns with the oncoming tears, and she sways on her feet, unmoving as Eijiro pulls the trays from the closet.
“And I’m pretty sure we’ve got some ice cream—could make milkshakes? Maybe...?”
He notices the tears. He notices her stillness. He notices that look.
“Hey, hey—Katsuki, what’s wrong?” His brows knit together, and she hates it. Does he not know? Does he not see how fucked up all of this is—how fucked up she is?
She should let it go. She should let all of this fall away—her body, her worries, the box. She wants to let Eijiro have his way and ignore it all. But she’s rolled it around in her mind too long; now it clings to her lungs, her throat, her tongue—and she can’t help the way it empties itself out for Eijiro.
“Why’d you repackage it?” she hiccups, as if the tears aren’t degrading enough. Her eyes flick back to the box, and Eijiro’s gaze follows, then returns to her. “Why—”
“’Cause you bought it, honey…”
She shakes her head—no to the gentleness in the way his brows come together, no to the pity in his eyes, no to the cold air and the goosebumps unrelated to it, no to the bile rising up, no to the tears spilling over and cooling her burning face. She didn’t buy it. She was just confused—and she didn’t really want it, didn’t—doesn’t—really know what she wants.
“Do you know what it is—”
She’s tense—Lord, is she—as she watches Eijiro glance toward the box, still hunched over, hands fidgeting with the trays. When he looks back at her, it’s with a nod that sits somewhere between pity and guilt. Up crawls the bile; up washes the shame. The silence is feverish.
“’re you leaving?”
She forces the words out, and Eijiro looks confused. “Leaving? Leaving where?”
The tears come hot and heavy, rolling down her cheeks as she desperately smears them away with the back of her hand. “Somewhere else—” she hiccups, chest tightening until she can’t breathe. “Away.” Everything hurts—her eyes, her throat, her legs—and something akin to unacceptance buried deep in her bones.
“Baby—what?” He finally stops fidgeting with the trays, coming to her as she crumples hard and fast. “Baby, honey, what? Leave where?” He’s quick to wrap his arms around her, her frame stiff as a board and trembling like a leaf as she tries— frozen with fear— to step back.
“Me. The apartment. I don’t—” She chokes as she gasps for breath. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Why would I do that, Katsuki?” He pulls back, barely able to see her face from where she hides behind her hands, but he rubs her tears away in tandem—his thumb brushing under hers, catching what she can’t. “I’m not mad, baby, if that’s what you think…?”
But it isn’t that. God, she wishes he were angry instead of indifferent. She’d prepared for that—for the moment she would come clean and he’d cuss her out, try to change her mind. She wishes she got to tell him herself. Not through the stupid tape on the box, not by his mistake, not under these terms. She feels wronged—so wronged. And wrong. In the wrong body, in the wrong place. The tears making a red, swollen mess of her face feel wrong, and the towering, all-encompassing presence of Eijiro feels wrong too.
She wishes he were yelling instead of sitting in the silence of all this wrongness.
“I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing her aching throat can push out, and she shakes her head—no to all of it. God, she should've let it go, before she’d frantically dug herself deeper into this confession, before Eijiro grew just as frantic trying to pacify her.
“What for?”
She should let it go—right here. Katsuki, you can stop. Shake your head no and drop it all here.
“It was supposed to be discreet.” The whimper slips out involuntarily, much like everything else. She sounds like such a child. Such a girl. “They—they said they’d be discreet—”
“Oh—Kats, I didn’t mean to open it—I swear I was just looking for the cutting board, and curiosity got the better of me—and it—I didn’t mean to invade.”
His hands leave her back and nape only to replace hers on her face, wiping her tears and squeezing the snot from her nose with his thumb before smearing it on his pants. “I dunno what you ordered it for—whether you wanna crossdress or bind, or if you’re questioning things or whatever—I dunno!” He uses the dry back of his hand to clear up the rest of the snotty, teary mess. “I don’t care—or, I do, but not in the way you think I do. I want you to give me a haul, and I want to see the new upgrades to your gauntlets. And I want to talk—but if you don’t, that’s okay. Okay?”
He waits for the nod that eventually comes, then brushes her hair back. “We’re okay, Kats. I wouldn’t have your snot all over my hand if we weren’t.”
That gets the smallest ease in her muscles, and Eijiro follows easily.
“Okay,” she agrees, tucking herself back into the safety of his neck and letting her arms reciprocate the embrace. Her hands settle easily at his hips, running over the curve of muscle and rubbing the small of his back, trying too soothe him in the same way.
“Okay?” he echoes, his legs aching as he shifts their weight back and forth. Back and forth with the calm of his breathing, until hers falls in tune. Back and forth with the hum of the AC.
“M’kay,” she mumbles against his neck, nose crumpled and lips smeared like a kid pressing their face against a window. She’s sure she must look ridiculous—if anyone could see right through Eijiro’s neck. “Okay,” he whispers into blonde hair, huffing a soft laugh— a ghost of one, closer to a sigh— at their repetition. He kisses her scalp, trailing his love to her temple and ear until her shoulders hitch up and she hugs him a little tighter, and they rock together in the doorway.
When she finally pulls away, he’s quick to wipe the dampness beneath her eyes with his dry wrist, not staring for too long. Not asking for anything; not answers, not a favor, not for her to be ready. She wipes his tears with her forearm, gentle in the same way he is.
“Wanna give me a haul?” he offers, giving her a casual, and hopefully inviting, way back into the topic. When she hesitates, he adds, “I saw some cool things in there when I put it all back.”
A second passes—another sway—and she sniffles, “‘Kay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Wanna eat some food first? I’ll re-reheat it.”
She shrugs, her movements reserved, cautious. She follows him to the kitchen, close on his heels, bumbling around the small space, from the microwave to the counter, finally settling with the TV trays—hovering near Eijiro in the hazy calm after her meltdown.
He fluffs a pillow and sets it up, and she stares at it—almost through it—as if it offends her. But she sits down easily enough, and Eijiro huddles close, not too close, digging under himself for the remote. The TV hums to life, bringing with it a small piece of normalcy. Time starts to make sense again, the silence drowned out by the Hero News Network.
When she goes to put her dish in the sink, she hesitates in front of the box. Does Eijiro really want to see? Does he want to mock her? Does he want a confession, despite all the ways he reassures her of no ill intent? She brings it back to the couch on her way back.
The box shakes in her hands and she swallows down all those thoughts. She should be unapologetic— all the whining and dramatics making her feel even worse about the situation. The bright tape seems to laugh at her as she takes her seat on the floor this time, Eijiro quickly sitting up and bracketing his knees around her from where he sits on the couch, peering over her shoulder.
“I tried to preserve the tape,” he fills the silence in the gaps, all too sweet and all too casual. “I didn’t know if you wanted it.”
She rips off the small bits of painter’s tape at the top and bottom of the box, sticks them to Eijiro’s knee, and pushes the coffee table out to make more space for the package.
Thank you KB for supporting ManMade! Your purchase helps make resources for trans and gender-nonconforming people from South to East Asia more accessible. We’ve included guides and resources for you to use and share.
She winces. This is real—very real—and under Eijiro’s gaze. She feels her neck burn hot. Gently, she sets the card on the table and pulls the booklet out. ‘How to bind’, ‘how to tape’—and on the inside cover—’how to pack’, with a man who shares her pale skin and blonde hair and wears the same white binder she just bought. She? She cringes, placing the booklet under the card and pulling the white binder.
“You’re sure it’s not too small?” Eijiro croons, and she startles, shame bubbling in her guts at the slightest hint of judgement.
“I think it’s meant to be that way.” She rubs her finger over the zipper, and Eijiro hums a placating acknowledgement, understanding; she’s gonna take anything that isn’t upright support as judgment. She folds it next to her leg and Eijiro picks it up to mess with it as she grabs the black one. It’s thicker, softer, but sturdier than the other. This one’s for the suit—to match the black fabric and have more structure. Again, Eijiro mutters something about the size, but he doesn’t let it get all the way out. The third is the one she’s most excited for.
“Are you kidding me?” Eijiro already sounds in awe as she holds up the galaxy one, T-rexes on skateboards littering the design. “Dude, that’s so cool—”
She cautiously hands it off to Eijiro, who’s obviously playing it up.
“Got it for you. Thought you’d think it's badass”
And that hurts Eijiro. So Katsuki was going to tell him, at some point. She has it planned and bought one to wear for him, and he screwed it all up. Oh, he would’ve loved for it to be a surprise. His lip pouts, and he coos despite the pit in his stomach, “Katsuki, this is so awesome—”
“I got matching boxers.”
“You’re lying.”
She digs in the box, pulling out briefs with the same bizarre design. Eijiro looks as if he’s going to combust.
“Dude, no way they make these, that’s so cool, what—”
“It’s not that cool.”
He frowns, turning it so Katsuki can see. “We’re looking at the same binder, right?” And Katsuki feels… well, not quite overjoyed and not quite cautious—not anymore—as he says it so easily. Katsuki can barely let the word binder fall from her lips, let alone anything revolving around queerness or transness or all the things her mind has been preoccupied with this last year or so. Every time she does, this awful coolness washes over her and settles in her gut, like angry waves whipping up to rest in salty pools on a rocky coastline.
“C’mon, you’ve gotta try it. If you don’t, I will—"
“Dude, you’ll rip it.”
“Dude, what’s that mean?”
She snickers despite herself and takes it back from his gentle hands.
“C’mon, you’ll look badass.”
And she supposes, if she’ll also share the same flat chest with the dude in the booklet, she will. “Don’t look—”
Eijiro’s head dips back, neck caught on the back of the couch and eyes fixated on the living room light.
“Now?”
“No.”
He’d make the argument he sees her naked all the time —in the shower, changing, tending to her wounds. Though, this isn’t about nakedness, or sexuality, or some superficial thing. It’s Katsuki’s hurt-laden, bare, and uninhibited self, carefully being kept and passed to the palms of Eijiro’s hands. If anything, this is more intimate than the sexuality of her bare back in itself; this is uncharted, not yet touched by either of them, and he lets it belong to her, knowing the weight of the gift she's giving him and asking nothing beyond it. This is his Katsuki, raw in the fray, and he warms at the bright sight of the light.
“‘Kay.” Followed by a zip, and his gaze falls directly to a dinosaur.
“Oh, it’s so cute—”
“It doesn’t work.”
His eyes go to hers, reading– what does she mean by that? What is she looking for? What—? His eyes move down to her chest, and he understands a little more of what this all means. “It looks flatter than mine.”
That gets her to look, and he understands a little more when he catches the look in her eyes.
"Yeah?”
And he understands as she runs her hands down her body, flexing her muscles and trying to adjust it to be flatter. So, with this newfound understanding,
“You look like a guy.”
She looks up—attentive, cautious, still. Sighs softly, a huff of air and averted eyes, like he’s teasing—like she’s expecting that reaction. But, she doesn’t say anything smart back, because her throat's tightening around a prayer that he’s not just messing with her.
“Seriously, c’mon, show your guns.”
“Ei—”
“Kats…”
She meets his eyes. He’s smiling. Stupid and smiling, but she knows he’s careful, strategizing every word. She sees it in his eyes, and she relents, pouting a frown and flexing.
He smiles still, squeezing the muscle of her bicep and forearm, eyes trailing up to the way she watches—still treading.
“What else d’you buy?”
She looks back at the box, hands steadier as she pulls it closer.
“Oh, um. Black boxers. Generic.”
“Oh! They go with the—uh….packer.
Her face burns—how can he be so casual about all of this? How does he know what it is? It looks kind of real. Kind of debaucherous. Kind of fake. Yet, Eijiro is the one to pick it up.
“It’s silicone?”
“I dunno.”
She takes it, looking over the box and then putting it aside. Humiliating. Dumping the rest of the box over the table, they pull together a pile of stickers, a smaller pile of condoms, and a lost business card. Typical. Again, humiliating
“They’re pink.”
Eijiro hums, already plucking one from the pile. He doesn’t say anything—just turns it over in his hands, eyes catching on the tiny embossed rainbows along the wrapper. “Oh, these are kinda sick—look, they’ve got little gradients on ‘em.” He laughs, genuine and low, picking another from between the crinkled paper shreds used to pack the box, to compare them like he’s picking between candy flavors. He’s trying to ease her absolute humiliation. Yet,
Katsuki stares. Her ears burn. Her chest aches under the binder that suddenly feels too tight— maybe he was right about the size being small. He’s just… playing with them.. She wants to say something, to tell him to stop—to react—but he doesn’t even look up. He isn’t weirded out. He isn’t awkward. He’s just there, sitting above her with rainbow condoms in his hand, completely at ease in a moment that feels unbearable to her.
It hits her all at once—that disconnect. That he’s fine. That he’s not thinking about what this means, or what she means. He’s just… there. Being Eijiro.
Her stomach twists. The embarrassment floods higher, hot and sick, until she’s keenly aware of her skin, of the way her bare shoulders feel too visible. She grabs for her shirt, pulling it on quickly, her movements shaky, praying he won’t say a word about how she keeps the binder on.
“Looking manly, Kats.”
He smiles from where he sits above her and helps put everything back in the box to go to their room later. Something hurts, deep in her bones.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“But I’m saying it ‘cause it’s true.”
She frowns. That certainly isn’t true. He only ever calls her pretty or strong—only manly in the way that’s fully him—not man manly. This is prompted.
“Katsuki, I’m serious. You look—good. Hot. Masculine.”
When she still frowns, and her lip starts to tremble because, God, she hates talking about this, he pushes.
“And beautiful and strong and flat.”
He slides down to the floor, bumping knees with her as he pulls his legs in to fit in the space between the couch and the coffee table.
This is hard. They don’t do hard. They’re Katsuki and Eijiro— nothing about that has ever been messy or difficult. They could usually just go around things. But this wasn’t something to just pass through; to just ask Katsuki if she’s trans or not— to just say whether he accepts her or not. She obviously is scared shitless of what he thinks, and he needs to make this okay again. Okay and non traumatic. and Not scary. and not hard.
“If…if you ...I want you to know you can tell me about these things. I mean— you do know— but it’s probably pretty scary. I want you to take this as an in. I won’t bring it up until you want to but I'm scared that means you won’t bring it up at all. and I don’t want you sitting in your misery about it. If you wanna go to a doctor, I’ll get you that— if you wanna go, I dunno, to pride? we can—I just…”
He trails, words failing. There's too much to say, too many wounds to heal and too much hurt to soothe. Right as he thinks he's losing her, that she won’t take the in,
“M’ f’ink ‘m tr’ns .”
He looks to her, where her face is pressed into her knees, and her elbows shake as she holds herself together. He snakes an arm around her back and pulls her in. She easily curls up into his shoulder, into his lap. Into a sturdy embrace.
“Yeah? How long you been thinking about it?”
“m’ybe a y’r.”
“a year?”
A year? Katsuki has been hurting for a year about this, silently and without support. Without him. He kisses where his lips are smushed against her shoulder.
“You think you’re trans?”
“I dunno. I just-“
She adjusts to get air and he cradles her head as she tries again.
“I can’t stop thinking about it— it’s always been a passing thought but I just— I'm fucking fixated on it and i just can’t- i can’t—“
“You're okay, Its okay. Im not gonna tell you what’s what– ‘M just… I wanna know.”
This was fucking scary. This was shit she didn’t even say to herself yet, didn’t admit to a soul. And it was all here vomited up for Eijiro. She ducks into the safety of his neck again.
“…you think…you–”
No. If this is who Katsuki really is he needs to see it. He needs to be firm– strong where she adds ‘think’ and ‘dunno’s and fillers to soften the blow.
“You're a guy?”
And words don’t seem to be any good, if this confession is anything to prove, so this time she shakily nods. Come to think of it, all of her is shaking, and a soft hand on her back, gently scratching with Eijiro's breathing, attempts to soothe it all away.
“Okay. That's okay. That's okay.” Lips and a nose press into her ear, then down to wherever he can reach in the embrace. “We’re okay. You’re shaking, Kats.”
“‘M sorry—“
“Baby, no—no, shh.”
She sobs. Hard. Harder than she’ll let herself recall and harder than she thinks she has in a long while. Right into Eijiro's pulse point, right where her head is cradled. It’s pitiful, honestly; but the way Ei holds her, the reverence in his wrap around her, she thinks she wants to be smothered like this—away from this disastrous life and plummet into nothing in his arms.
“‘M sorry—” Her nails tighten into his shirt, face scrunching up in a way she’s sure is ugly. “Eij’—m sorry—”
A thought passes through him: she… No. That’s not right. Katsuki—he’s… he’s a guy. Okay. His mind hesitates for a moment, unsure, weighing, testing the words, feeling for the natural fit. Okay.
“Katsuki, you can be a man– if that’s what you feel like! We’ll get you there– Baby, don’t apologize for this. Never this. You’re always gonna be my love. Nothing will change that.”
He punctuates most of it with sweet, tender kisses anywhere he can reach. Anywhere he thinks she—no, he—needs contact. He hangs on tighter.
“‘M not—‘m not a girl. I’m not who you married.”
“Katsuki—listen, look, hon,”
He pulls back, coaxing his head up just enough to meet his eyes from where he’s tucked into his shoulder. “I didn’t marry you for being a girl. I married you ‘cause you’re awesome. And smart. And loud, an ass, and fucking—strong.” He lets him hide again, kissing his ear and tucking back into his shoulder. “And you know a secret? A not-so-secret secret? You’ve never been feminine. Like, ever. I didn’t marry you especially for your femininity.”
He sniffs, hold unyielding, and Eijiro kisses his shoulder again.
“This changes—changes—” He can’t breathe, his voice breaking through his cries. “Everything—”
“Changes what? Changes our home life? Our work? Us? I’m not, baby—”
“I’m gonna change—‘m gonna—if I—”
He pulls back, hands over his eyes, trying to breathe.
“If I go on fuckin’—HRT-hor-hormones, I’ll change. My voice and body and—shit—”
“That’s okay. Baby, yeah, that’s okay. What’s the matter?”
“You don’t– don’t wan– won’t like it”
“I couldn’t ever not like you.”
“Seriously, Ei—”
“Katsuki. I’m serious. It’s you. You’re still you. Still strong and smart and all of you. Just—a little different. Nothing I won’t like.”
“Ei—”
Eijiro quiets for a moment and rubs her—no, his—shoulders as he keeps himself pulled away. They sit in that silence for a moment, both searching for the words. Eijiro cries softly with him—not gasping, painful wails, but the tear that streaks down his cheek is in the same vein—both of them caught in Katsuki's pain.
“Katsuki. I’m gonna be here,” one hand brushes his bangs back from his eyes, “I’m gonna be here if you want hormones. I’m gonna be here if you wanna come out publicly. I’m gonna be here if none of this happens. I’m gonna—I’m gonna be here if you grow a lizard tail and have—a—weird fungus all over you—”
“What?” He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a breathless sob.
“Baby, Katsuki. Hon,” he’s desperately wiping at his tears now. Eijiro moves his hands from his arms to pinch his nose, brushing the snot away on his pant leg again. “What’s wrong? Am I being pushy?”
“No.” Katukis quick to soothe him too. Still his Katsuki.
Eijiro watches him carefully, helping wipe and soothe away the tears. When he falls forward into his arms again, Eijiro meets him halfway and cradles him.
“I love you. You know it. ‘M love you, and I’m gonna be here no matter what. Did you think I wasn’t gonna support you?”
A nod. Eijiro thinks back to when he begged him not to go.
“Didja think I was gonna leave…?”
A nod.
“Katsuki, sweet pea,”
He shakes in his arms, staying silent.
“Honey. Really? You really think I’d be upset about something like this?”
“‘M dunno—”
Eijiro doesn’t blame him. It’s probably scary. By the way he shakes in his arms like he has maybe only once in this decade before, he can tell it’s probably horrifying—especially since he didn't voluntarily come out about it.
“Oh, baby. I love you. You know that, right?”
A nod.
“C’mon. C’mere.”
Eijiro pulls away only to find him again—on his cheek, his neck, the spot where he hikes his shoulder up when it tickles. Kisses down his jaw and to his lips. Kisses him until he smiles through his tears—until Eijiro licks a tear away and gets called gross. Until he seems okay enough without it.
Katsuki pulls back, muttering something about lunch, about being fucking hungry, and heads to the kitchen. Eijiro rises from the floor. Nothing feels different. Nothing needs to. They do this. They do easy. Eijiro won’t bring it up again; he doesn't need to. He doesn't wonder about why– about if this is right or wrong or if it's a phase. Katsuki is okay, grumbling about his ashy skin and the empty fridge, and okay. Eijiro loves Katuski. All of Katsuki. The incomplete; the nitpicky; the loud; the beautiful; the masculine; the pretty; the strong; the heroic; and the whole Katsuki. And when Eijiro’s helping with the dishes that night, and Katsuki bumps hips next to him, elbow deep in a soapy pot, “'m sorry for being an ass to you last night,”—sincere, soft, and honest— Eijiro’s reminded Katsuki feels exactly the same.