They circle lazily over a patch of forest until Katsuki spots a clearing—large enough to disguise a full size dragon, and a good distance from any village.
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He waits until they’ve landed, unloaded the gear, raised the tent, started the fire, sent Kirishima off to hunt his own dinner, and trekked over to the nearest pond to wash their gear before he addresses the silently stewing Izuku.
He’s currently scrubbing the muck from his leather pauldron but pauses to glare fiercely at him.
Katsuki scowls. “They’ll heal just fine. Always do.” In the hour or so since the skirmish ended, the reddened flesh of his palms has already stopped throbbing. “It’s pain. So what.”
“It’s…! You can’t just say it’s pain and tell me to forget about it!” Izuku hisses.
“Why? *You* always do!” Katsuki snaps back at him. He regrets it instantly. Not because he’s hurting Izuku’s feelings—the human isn’t as soft as he looks—or because he’s spewing falsehoods.
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“I used it because I had to,” he grunts,
“But your hands!” Izuku shouts angrily, loud enough to startle some birds resting in a nearby tree.
Katsuki scowls. “They’ll heal just fine. Always do.” In the hour or so since the skirmish ended, the reddened flesh of his palms has already stopped throbbing. “It’s pain. So what.”
“Why? *You* always do!” Katsuki snaps back at him. He regrets it instantly. Not because he’s hurting Izuku’s feelings—the human isn’t as soft as he looks—or because he’s spewing falsehoods.
What he regrets is that he’s only escalating the argument. It’s the last thing he needs to do right now. They’re both tired and covered in filth.
“Oi. Okay, listen.” Katsuki crosses his arms over his chest. “I won’t do that again.”
“Good—!”