Theresstillsomethingimustdo - Rb!

Katsuki’s right arm still trembles sometimes. 

Rarely, usually so imperceptibly that no one would even notice, but today you do notice, as he reaches for a glass of water set on the coffee table before you, and knocks it over, simple millimeters off its trajectory. 

It’s a silly, inconsequential mistake, not anything you haven’t done once or twice even this very week, but as the water spills to the ground and you, too comfortable in the arms of your lover as you lay on the couch, move a little too slowly to catch the glass from rolling off the table and shattering on the ground, you can tell that this has become more of an issue than it should be. 

A pause hangs in the air with the crash, then a heavy silence over the next split second, enough that you can feel even your heartbeat slow to a stop with the aggrandized gravity of the situation.

Then, without a word, Katsuki moves you gently out of your cuddle and disappears into the kitchen. As his figure disappears, you can see him holding onto his right arm, bent at an angle, with his left hand. In some ways, he almost looks like he’s accosting a criminal, not a part of his own body. 

You know better not to move in closer to the glass, lest he find you and start to complain about not taking your safety seriously, yet you find yourself practically on your knees, quickly picking up small pieces of glass from the carpet. You are, of course, careful, and nothing cuts into your skin more than the pain you can tell he must be feeling does in your chest.

Katsuki returns with a dustpan, a small brush, and a rag draped over his forearm, and stops, standing a few feet away from you. The majority of the broken glass pieces are collected into a small pile next to you by that time, you working ever so quickly, and when you look up at him, he’s scowling, but no longer at himself.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Moving into the space quickly, he kneels and cleans up your collected mess. Setting the glass aside, safely collected, he murmurs,

“Show me your hands.”

Obediently, you offer them up, and he checks every one of your ten fingers, twice, then sighs.

“Stop cleaning up my messes. I’m not a child.”

You nod.  “But you’re the man I love.”

Katsuki looks at you for a moment then quickly forces his glance elsewhere. The sweetness in your eyes is too mollifying; he can practically feel his entire spine turn to jelly when it comes to you.

But still you place your hand on his treacherous right arm, rubbing your palm gently over scars, calloused bone and roughened skin.

“It’s fine. Just an accident.”

You don’t need to say anything more. He sucks in a deep breath, pauses, then kisses your lips.

“Yeah. Just an accident.”

everything. cost money

penelope didn't have to turn the tree bed into a riddle. she could have asked odysseus to prove his identity, to tell her something only he would know — which she actually did a few books earlier, when she asked the beggar to describe odysseus, and odysseus told her about a purple cloak with a particular golden brooch that she fastened herself twenty years ago. when penelope tells telemachus they have signs by which they'll know each other, you sort of expect more of the same. and instead, she decides to trap him. like a bug in a cup.

and it's delightful to me, idk, how odysseus has been trapped and cornered in various way throughout the odyssey, but arguably never so that he has to tell the truth to get out. (with the phaeacians, maybe? the omniscient narrator corroborates some of what he tells them, but do we really know everything?) and in fact he is not trying to get free of penelope. he wants something from her, wants to convince her, wants to be welcomed home, but until this point he's lied to her, revealed himself to other people before her, and been distant with her (though also patient! he doesn't try to strongarm or rush her into accepting him; it's his idea to sleep elsewhere).

except penelope isn't looking for him to be distant and patient. penelope lies in a way that requires odysseus to stop playing along — not only to prove that he knows what odysseus knows, but that he's willing to tell the truth about himself.

Enlighten me, king of Ithaca

brushing one's teeth... a farewell to treats. good night, sweet delicacies, my mouth knows only tooth paste now. perhaps when a new day breaks we will meet once more

yuji rkgk