#kachako

“tell me where it hurts”

“where the fuck do you think it hurts?”

She sighs, “where does it hurt most?”

Katsuki’s nose twitches “shoulder.” He refuses to meet her eyes. Instead, he opting to look at the empty spot beside her shampoo. His bottle with the broken cap had sat there months ago.

She touches his shoulder, gingerly, at first. “It’s dislocated.”

“No shit, sherlock,” he balks. Ochako always was to-the-point when she’s annoyed. Much like when he used to get home later than he meant to and he’d find her all alone in the kitchen heating up his dinner after a training day went longer than he expected and had to bail on their date. Of course, he would wrap his arms around her from behind and pepper her with little kisses, compliments, and promises to make it up to her. A smile nearly breaches his lips at the memories.

She shoots him a glare and presses on the injury. He grits his teeth and returns the look. “Give me your arm” Ochako makes a grabbing motion with her hand. He never did follow through on all those promises.

He huffs out a breath, “so you can torture me?” But lifts his arm to meet her grip anyway. She lifts his arm to a ninety-degree angle and slowly twists his arm backward until a loud pop echoes off the familiar tiled bathroom walls. A grunt of pain and relief follows the sound. Ochako releases his arm and Katsuki’s body visibly deflates a bit as he leans against the shelf behind the toilet – nearly cracking the cheap plyboard with his sheer mass. Ochako lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She looks at him out of habit, purely out of habit, she tells herself. If she needed any proof he hasn’t changed it’s his very presence in this bathroom right now, showing up at her door, once again, bloody, bruised, and broken begging for her to make it better. She busies herself gathering the supplies to patch him back together. For the last time. She tells herself.

Katsuki chances a look at her when she unceremoniously dumps rubbing alcohol and bandages on the counter beside him. She refuses to look him in the eye. She refuses to give him what he wants; refuses to let him into her bed again; refuses to let him make her feel so idle and unimportant when he’s gone before the dawn light can paint him heroic.

She works swiftly to prep a cotton ball with alcohol. He sees the way her eyebrows crease. The way they do when she’s deep in thought - holding back. His fingers twitch urging him to hold her tight enough to make the past disappear. To hold her that way he used to when she let him. Before he fucked everything up. Leaning his head back against the shelf, he resolves to close his eyes, instead, and let the quiet of the room sink in.

Ochako glances over at the picturesque pit fighter and chances the question, “why didn’t you go to the hospital?”

“Hate the smell of sterile” he mutters after a while. Conversation lulls again.

She brings the cotton ball to the cut on his cheek, and he hisses, his eyes shooting open to meet hers. She pauses for a moment. His eyes are just as deep ruby red as she remembered. She feels like she could get lost in them. She has gotten lost in them. The comfort of them after a long day, the way the sun makes them shine, the way they look up at her when he laid her down, the way they light up when he’s in the ring. She breaks eye contact and furrows her brows. She couldn’t ever compete with the ring. He notices her aversion. Katsuki always does.

He clears his throat. “So,” he starts, “heard you were at Perignon tonight.”

She swallows, trying to appear nonchalant, “Yeah. Didn’t know you were stalking me.” It came out harsher than she meant.

He clicks his tongue, “m’ not stalkin you. Dunce-face squawked my ear off about it before the match.”

Ochako swallows, “and what if I was?”

He looks toward the shower again – not at anything in particular, just away. The movement shakes a dry laugh from him, “so you are seeing that hippy twig.”

He looks almost satisfied with himself like a little boy figuring out a puzzle. Her jaw clenches, “how is my love life any of your business?”

He flinches. She pulls the cotton swab away for a moment. His eyes stay trained on the crooked tile next to the shower; hers stay on his face watching the twitch in his lip that usually precedes a screaming match. Much like the one they got into six months ago when they were both perched in this very bathroom after a particularly rough defeat in the ring.

He deflates. “s’pose ‘s not.” Ochako’s face pinches in concern, but another pregnant silence engulfs them.  

“the other guy look worse?” she breaks the silence.

Katsuki huffs a smirk, “’course he does.”

She smooths a bandage over the last cut on his face. He grabs her wrist flattening her palm against his cheek.

“I’m going to Tokyo tomorrow.”

“Oh,” her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “You got accepted by the pro league?” It wasn’t a question. She knew he had been working for this since he could throw a punch.

He nods. She unconsciously rubs her thumb along his cheek where it isn’t bruised. He melts into the familiar touch.

“Congrats. You’ve been working hard for this.” Her tone is devastatingly tender.

He nods, “they’re paying for my apartment near the ring. Foods on me but they pay twice as much as they do here. Enough to support more than just myself.”

“Mhm,” Ochako starts, “I bet you’ll miss your post-match wonton soup at Lucky’s.” She pauses letting out a little laugh, “Remember when you laughed so hard it came out your nose?”

He huffs a laugh and a smile at the memory. A real smile that only Ochako can get out of him. “I’ll have to get the recipe.” He stands, crowding the small, newly claustrophobic, bathroom.

Her own smile falters a bit. “From Lucky?” she forces a laugh, “I think you’ll have to beat it out of him.” Please stay. Katsuki looks at her, drinking in every curve and movement like he only has a few moments to memorize them before painting them in fine detail from memory.

“I should go.” He motions to the door, “early flight.” I love you.

Ochako becomes suddenly aware of the awkwardness filling the small space. “oh, uh. Yeah.” She steps aside and lets him out of the narrow doorway. He leads the way to the door like the dingy apartment was his own; she follows like a lamb without a herd. She opens the front door to let him out, hesitating once he steps through. “You, um,” she can’t find the words, “should get used to the doctor. In Tokyo, I mean.” I love you too

He pauses and turns to face her. “Yeah. Guess I’ll have to without you around.” I’ll miss you

“Won’t be able to kiss your nurse in the big city” I will never love someone like I love you.

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