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katsukisbeatingheart · 5 years

Text

adolebitque manet

breakups suck. and sometimes you just need to burn your ex's shit.

word count: 2573

ao3!

Ridiculous piece of crap.

You yanked the chain.

Pathetic promises.

You tore the letter.

And a long dead rose.

The stem twirled between your fingertips, and you didn't even flinch when a thorn along the spine left a gash in your index finger.

Typical.

It was however, enough for you to breathe deeply, and exhale—more over the case of everything they used to be.

Cheat.

Cheat. Cheat. Cheat. Cheat.

Liar.

Your bloody finger found the wasted tears before you did. Poetic, how they mixed and dripped over the broken pieces in front of you. A blood oath to break another blood oath.

How many years had you supported such a beguiling—bewitching feeling? All for naught, only to ruin by such a simple measure.

It wasn't simple though. It was so complicated, it was simple; and it was so simple, it was complicated.

You sneered at the contradiction of such a fact, of such a relationship.

You'd look back on this—hopefully in months time—and laugh at yourself for the dramatic wreck you came to be. Over one person.

One person, who had meant so much to you for so many years.

It had taken you weeks to even think about believing everything you saw to be true. It took another few to agonizingly collect each and every bit of each other, and begin destroying them.

You had strong encouragement from those closest to you, and they were very patient and kind with your struggling heart. Despite your best attempts to recoil, and pay for something you realized only you were probably invested in—they wouldn't let you.

Now here you were, in the middle of your apartment, ready to gather these things up and eviscerate them; but you couldn't do it alone.

The cardboard was flimsy, but it did the job. Sturdy enough to carry the weight of such useless trinkets with heavy price, you dumped and swept in each tiny, bloody bit as roughly as you could—quickly apologizing to the box, a reminder that it wasn't to blame.

You ghosted to your door, moving in a hollow effort to dispose of their evidence.

Softly cracking the door open and angling to look out into the hallway, you peered at your neighbor's doors; ears open, eyes wide for any sign of life.

Mina, Shoji, Tokoyami, Shinso, Izuku—

Your eyes flicked up.

Kirishima, Sero, and Denki are upstairs...

You had a wonderful, wonderful support system. The friends that lived in the same building, and the ones across town—but the more you sifted through your options, the more you couldn't bring yourself to bother any of them with this. No matter how small a request.

With the umpteenth sigh of the evening, your head lolled backward. Your eyes slid closed and your fingers rubbed at the ache settled in your neck. You peeked out of the corner of your eye, glancing down the right side of the hall.

There was only one more door facing opposite yours—at a diag to the fire escape window at the end of the hall, and you.

It was impulsive, and despite everything—your best option.

The two meter walk in your cement shoes felt like pouring a jar of molasses on a winter's day. Gathering courage to actually knock felt like pouring two jars of molasses on a winter's day.

It was inevitable, you decided—especially if he opened the door to step out only to find you standing there petrified in your own grief and nerves—and two gentle taps and a third slightly harsher, more desperate rap later, crimson red eyes glowered at you in annoyance.

"Oi. Do you know what fuckin' time it i—"

His abrasiveness grated to a humbling halt in the face of a wholy distraught you. He wasn't one to gossip, or even to put any stock into useless chatter of the sort; but even he knew you were keeping life together by pins and needles. And he didn't even need to have Ashido as a neighbor to know that, because he was looking at the tangled disaster right now.

Your shoulders shook, and the barely kept together bite of your lip with vacant eyes told him he needed to close his mouth and keep it that way.

He was generally coarse, brusque, and blunt—not stupid or blind.

You steeled your regard, holding a determined glint in your eye and a placating plead beneath it.

"Bakugo I need you to do me a favor."

"What is it."

"Burn this for me."

You held the box out between the two of you, handling it with a nauseating combination of disdain and care. Bakugo quickly brushed through the contents with a quickly baleful sweep of his eyes, and you were too numb to bother wondering why the hostility. It was enough you were baring such personal trinkets—yet thoroughly clichéd banalities—to someone of his caliber. You parts trusted him to suggest a certain modicum of consideration, and tiny parts trusted yourself to be too beaten down to care otherwise.

The regret at such irresolution toward your longtime neighbor and friend, ebbed away as he looked back up to you with a certain fire in his eyes. It warmed you abruptly in ways you didn't understand at all.

Bakugo jerked his head to the side, his body following along with it as he stepped aside to invite you in. You said nothing, catching your breath in a purposeful stride, ducking past his shoulder. You strode in confidently, but faltered not far from the doormat when you noticed how long it had been since you'd been there.

The lights were off, and the far wall—ceiling to floor sliding glass doors up one step, leading to a balcony looking over the other part of the city night lights—bled with the light of the moon, illuminating a living space shaped like yours, but not at all how you remembered it being from however long ago.

There were new pieces of furniture rearranged in a way that suggested the man was open to having guests—mostly Eijiro, Denki, Sero, and Mina, you figured. Matte black couch cushions, with silver finishings along the frame; a dark wooden circular dining table in front of the bar attached to the kitchen, right by the glass doors—a rather romantic placement, especially for him, you marvelled; deep brown cabinets with lighter hardwood doors, occupying the back right hand corner where the kitchen was.

You turned to glance at the potted plant and admired how generally... homey the place felt. Either Bakugo had been invaded by a homes and gardens magazine, or he had grown quite the honeyed eye.

Your admiration melted into remorse, quicker than the fondness came. You couldn't even remember how long it had been since you'd visited.

In hindsight, you immediately knew it was because you'd spent all of your time with...

I must've been a real shitty friend.

"What was that?"

His questions were coming out more as gruff statements, any inquisitiveness overrode by the demand for an answer. It almost made you smile, before, again, you remembered why you'd missed that so much.

You didn't even know you'd spoken aloud, and were too tired to avoid it now.

"I must've been terrible to you," you whispered.

You felt the air grow stale with awkward tension. Bakugo raised a hand to run through his hair, stopping at the base of his neck. He didn't know what to say.

But you did.

"I'm so sorry, Katsuki," you breathed. "I'm so sorry—I feel like I completely neglected you, and I'm only realizing this now, after I've come to you when I need something and I can't believe it's taken me this long to—to see that. You must feel so— so—"

Used. Ignored.

Cheated.

You clenched your fists, squeezing your eyes shut in suffocating reproach.

You turned to face him head on. You were going to deal with this with dignity—completely ready for the growling consequences and the scorching anger.

The thundering shouting.

Biting rejection.

Unadulterated hatred.

None of that came. Instead, Bakugo's eyes reflected with an intense sheen of pain—as if everything you left unsaid came swinging back to him in full force. Like he'd been repressing those exact accusations the entire time.

You wanted to scream. You wanted him to scream. You wanted somebody to scream.

It wasn't a scream, but his voice was indomitable enough to be.

"Let's fucking burn this thing."

Glass shattered, the dam broke, and you moaned once—exhaling a jagged breath of relief, anguish, and extreme adoration. The tears poured and you shoved them away with the palms of your hand, laughing and crying with a silent nod. Bakugo roughly pulled the box from your hands, stalking briskly toward the glass doors. He slammed them open, and you heard them rattle. You weren't afraid, though. He wasn't mad at you.

He dropped the container on the concrete floor with a harsh bang, and you didn't miss the crack of a frame breaking with a picture of you and them. You doubt he did either.

Bakugo held out his right hand—fingers down, palm up—to the box. You watched him with something in your heart, as he ignited. It was piercing, and brought back memories of special moves you worked on in high school. You'd seen him nearly blow his arm off trying to get this kind of precision, and now you'd see him on T.V., using it for hero work as if he'd been doing it since the day he was born. You remembered gushing about how amazing he was, every single time he managed to do something new.

Yes, Bakugo had used this move to best and save many people.

In an instant, flames shot straight for the box, and suddenly you were engulfed in light. Just like fireworks, the contents popped and crackled, and just like fireworks, you were completely mesmerized. The light from your little conflagration poured warmth over everything you could feel. You were positively glowing.

You bit back tears that no longer needed to be spent on the likes of them. You were the one who wasted away in the company of someone who never really cared about you.

Since then, you'd forgotten about the ones that really and truly did.

You looked to Bakugo, watching the shadows dance menacingly across his face. The ferocity, and damn near animalistic malice singed more than the fire he made did. Your eyes widened in surprise.

As if he felt you staring, he turned.

Fully.

Fully facing you with much softer eyes and an expression you knew that came from being a hero.

It was as if to say you're safe now.

You choked and let more tears fall, feeling a combination of cold and searing in light of the fire.

"Katsuki," you whispered.

For the first time in your life, you watched him hesitate. He stepped forward, looking so vulnerable as he tried to grasp for words. The space between you came to about a hand's length, and the heavy rise and fall of his chest vibrated along your skin. Bakugo's eyes clouded, and your mouth went dry with that feeling again.

"Marshmallows."

You blinked.

"...What?" You weren't sure you heard him right.

"Here," he began, taking your hand in his as he turned around and led you back inside. Bakugo didn't let go, until he set you at one of the barstools, to move past and dig through one of his upper cabinets. After a moment of shuffling, he pulled away to reveal a family sized bag of puffy white marshmallows, and a big bar of chocolate. He tossed the bag of sweets towards you, his mouth quirking into a little smirk.

The warmth you'd been feeling more and more since you'd got here exploded in your chest, and you felt it rise to your cheeks.

"And don't think I forgot—" Bakugo bent down and pulled open a bottom drawer. He fished something out that crinkled and reflected small bits of light, and smacked it on the bar countertop, right in front of you.

The childish squeal burst out before you could think.

"Cookies!"

Bakugo rolled his eyes and desperately tried to bury his bliss beneath an annoyed click of his tongue. He really missed you.

"What a fucking dork," he mumbled not-so-quietly under his breath. He could hide it all he wanted but you caught the smile in his voice anyway.

Bakugo's eyes glazed as he watched you giggle, and he—almost tentatively—grasped your hand again, uncharacteristic gentleness as he pulled you back outside.

You stared dazedly at yours in his—but mostly his—and wondered why the sudden touchiness.

In all honestly, Bakugo couldn't figure himself; but when he did pin the feeling—he might've just been scared to see you go again.

He handed you the collection of sweets, going to bring out chairs to sit on. You touched his shoulder and shook your head, grabbing a blanket you noticed stretched out along the balcony fence. You flicked it outward, laying it as close as possible to the fire—setting the chocolate, marshmallows, and cookies in the middle.

Looking up to meet his eyes, you patted the spot next to you. For the first time—in a long time—you watched Katsuki's cheeks flush. No matter how badly you wanted to be the one to do that to him, you convinced yourself that it was nothing but the cold of the night or the heat of the flames.

The boy dropped down beside you, holding out a skewer without making eye contact.

As a pair, you silently worked marshmallows onto the sticks, and held them over the fragments of your burning relationship.

"Hope we don't get poisoned or something, doing this," you broke the silence wryly, eyeing the disfigured picture frame and the horribly burnt photo inside of it.

"Not a bad way to go, really." Katsuki too, was looking at the fire, and you did your best to not linger on the implications behind that statement.

"Death by marshmallows," you tapped your chin thoughtfully, "I'll take it."

"That's not what I meant."

You looked away from your toasting sweet, and studied him with dinner-plate eyes. The curiosity and... desire, you figured, smoldered, and you were sure he stared back with intensity rivalling yours. The silence—besides the crackling of fire and melting of sour memories—pressed down on you and you were positive you could fall into him, and get lost and it would be okay—

"You're gonna burn your s'mores, dumbass," Katsuki whispered. You were sitting shoulder to shoulder. He smelled sweet.

The smile climbing its way to your face settled in under a slightly disbelieving laugh.

"Right."

Knees hugged to your chest, you drifted not too far from him, and focused on the flames.

"Hey, Katsuki?"

"Yeah?"

Inhaling with more than enough steadiness to still the ocean, you sighed, feeling more weightless than you'd felt in the last two months.

"Thank you."

With every second that burned by, you felt a sort of resolve subside and thicken—less like the cast iron chains that held you back hours and months ago, and more like a promise.

To yourself.

To him.

Bakugo Katsuki shrugged, and as he did so he moved the tiniest bit closer. His voice was quiet when he spoke.

"I'm just glad you're back."

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