Chapter Text
It’s fucking cold.
The worst part of winter has come late, Touya came to mess with your head, and you came at least five times. He’s silent in hopes that you can’t tell just how happy he is to have you cling to him, letting his usual arrogance roll off him in heatwaves. Even though you’re shivering, he’s done his part inside and out. You’re wrapped in his arm under the blankets while he lays on top of them to cool down. Whatever it is you’re mumbling about, he gives a noncommittal hum.
It’s too early to be awake for anything else and the perfect weather to fall asleep again. Now if only you’d shut the fuck up.
“Go back to sleep,” he interrupts. You probably weren’t saying anything important given the laziness in your fucked out voice. It’s soothing enough that he could fall asleep to it right now, but it seems you won’t be talking the two of you to sleep today like usual. He sighs heavily when you ask him why, the air almost steaming from his lips. “Because we should.”
Because he was up late the nights leading up to this for no good reason. Because he’s tired. Because he should get to sleep in on Valentine’s Day unless it’s for sex. Not like he has much to go off of — last year was his first year to experience Valentine’s Day like any other normal Joe. But he’s gonna die on this hill: he should get to sleep in on special dates and days that he’s exhausted.
Today is both.
The sound of cars passing outside over uneven Tokyo asphalt is all the two of you hear for a breath, and then you’re talking again.
“Instead of more sex?”
His head turns to you, the left corner of his mouth turning up as well. “You gonna use your mouth for that or for yapping?”
Your fist barely thumps against his side, arms trapped tight against you from the blanket being pinned by his body weight. “I don’t yap,” you retort with more alertness in your voice, “I’m not a dog.” He’s about to throw in an insulting pun you were expecting when you beat him to it. “Dogs bite. I can do that if you want.”
The corner of his mouth turns down now. “No thanks.”
Triumph seeps through the blankets as he sits up, sliding under them with you.
“You’re fucking cold,” you hiss, scooting away from him.
Touya’s having none of that, snatching you up in his arms and pinning your bodies together completely — thighs, chests, and lips. There’s passion in the forefront, it’s the first thing you taste as he kisses your breath away, but there’s a softness lingering underneath it. That same softness is in his words when his mouth barely parts from yours.
“Then warm me up.”
—
Touya is frowning while you walk around the apartment looking for clothes. He couldn’t care less about what you wear today, but there’s one thing he hoped to see you in (besides nothing).
The closet is open, the drawers are open, the laundry room is open, but the box isn’t.
You hadn’t been happy with him when he joked about getting you an engagement ring. Even if he was joking, it was “too serious” and would “make him regret all of this.”
If there’s one thing Touya is good at taking advantage of, it’s regrets. Yours, his, Endeavor’s, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like there’s an actual engagement ring in there. Who the fuck do you think he is?
He huffs in amusement and buttons his pants before picking up the box. Did you even open it, or were you too stubborn?
“Touya?”
He can tell you’re in the kitchen, but he freezes anyway. Being caught peeking isn’t a concern of his, but he’d prefer if you didn’t see him curious about this. “What?”
“How long are you staying?” You sound occupied by something.
“Am I not welcome in my own home now?” He can imagine you rolling your eyes.
“Well, jeez, Touya, I didn’t know you were paying the rent. Hand me your wallet on the way out.” You stop what you’re doing to give him your full, undivided, sarcastic attention. There’s a pause on his end that you don’t care to investigate. If anything, he probably laid back down like the slob he is. You roll your eyes again.
But he’s definitely not laying down. He hears you getting water and he hears something in the box when he shakes it. It takes a second for him to process, resulting in another shake before disbelief settles in.
You didn’t fucking open it.
He isn’t sure if he wants to throw it behind him on the bed or set it back down where he got it. He isn’t sure if he wants to go in there and yell at you or head straight home. He isn’t sure why he’s even mad about it. It was a joke, after all. Why the fuck is he feeling like this? Jaw tight, fingers trembling with an itch of rage in them, and heart pounding — he almost thinks it’s adrenaline.
It reminds him of the training room he grew up in, the streets he lived on, and the war he waged, except it’s all in his head.
Touya is not supposed to feel like this. Not right now, and not with you.
It’s decided: he should leave.
Instead of throwing the box or setting it down, he shoves it into his pocket and stands up. His old jacket is laying on an ottoman in the corner of your room, meaning you recently wore it, so he’ll let you keep that. For now.
Walking out of your bedroom fully dressed, he makes a beeline for the door. You don’t even look at him, head in the lower cupboard where the rice cooker is.
“Wallet?” you demand playfully, but it’s slightly muffled due to his distance and your position.
He doesn’t answer, just puts his boots on. This time, you don’t let the silence pass by.
“Hello?” Standing up straight and glancing around the kitchen, you don’t see him. You poke your head around the corner just as he’s reaching for the doorknob. “Where the hell are you going?”
Another noncommittal hum, a gruff “See ya,” and he’s out the door, all of his bad habits going with him. And as much as he hates it, he’s familiar enough with your apartment to know how long it takes for the door to close. It’s right on time too, except it doesn’t click and whirr like he was expecting. Instead, there’s a dull thud. He’s had doors slammed on him enough to know what it sounds like when a foot stops it. He’s ready to turn around and tell you off when there’s another familiar feeling: your hand in his.
“Where are you going?” you ask again, voice quieter this time.
“Home.”
“I thought you were home now,” you point out, joking again.
Touya, however, doesn’t think it’s funny. Guys like Touya say stupid shit like that. They laugh and throw in some other unnecessary comment, then grab at your hips to pull you against him for an untimely, inappropriate kiss.
People like you don’t.
You’re supposed to be on the receiving end, rolling your eyes, throwing a comment back about how much you can’t stand guys like him. You should be getting flustered when he grabs your ass every other time he walks by, telling him off with little malice because you secretly like it. You should secretly like guys like Touya. Secretly like him so he can feel on top of the world before kicking you off the precipice.
That’s what he should do.
He shouldn’t be buying you gifts, giving you little bits of him like clothes and kisses in passing. Maybe Touya is not like those guys. Maybe he’s just Touya — he was never special as a kid, why would he be special now?
He laughs, finally, but it’s not because your joke is funny. It’s a bitter, old thing that’s scratched up and worn as a shield. “Home? You took that seriously? Man, you really are—”
“Yours?”
His head snaps in your direction, eyes lit up like deadly flames. His hands aren’t shaking anymore, but he can feel them growing warm gradually. What a gross feeling — letting his emotions take control of his quirk. Apathy always suited him more. This moment would be better if he was convinced that the rage was for you, not him. “Yeah. Mine.”
You raise an inquisitive brow at him, but he merely turns around and rips his hand from yours. In a second, you’re caged against the wall. His shadow looms over you when he leans down, an elbow resting slightly above your head to make sure he’s even closer. It’s most definitely meant to rile you up, maybe get you turned on enough to leave you wanting him more than he wants you, but you don’t give him that satisfaction.
“Why am I yours?” Your hand reaches down to his pants, but he catches your wrist before you can touch him. “Because of this?” Ripping your hand away from him, you grab the box through his pocket.
Yeah, it’s definitely adrenaline in his bloodstream making his vision splotch up and jaw tense. The worst kind, actually. Fight or flight. Like an animal caged in with no other options. Why the fuck are you doing this?
“So what?” he seethes. “You’re the one who chickened out. Must not be cut out for something casual, huh? Can’t take a couple o' jokes and some sex without catching feelings? I’m probably the only one you know who can tolerate that bullshit, so it’s ok with me if you want to keep it up. I mean, it’s your fault if you get hurt.”
You breathe a sour laugh, letting his words — his projections — hang in the air. He’s glaring so hard into your eyes that you can feel it in the back of your skull, but it doesn’t scare you or make you want more. Your feelings, unlike his, don’t change at all. It’s more than obvious to you now that his are exponentially changing with every day and night he spends with you.
One breath in and out of your nose and you nod. “You’d let me get hurt?”
“I don’t care,” he snaps immediately, a rehearsed line.
“You think I’d get hurt so easily?”
“I don’t care,” he repeats.
“And you’re the only person for me.”
His jaw flexes. No answer.
“Okay. With all that decided, why are you so mad that you’re taking this from me?” Your fingers tap the box through his jeans.
He scoffs. “So now you care?”
Even he knows how ridiculous he sounds to be asking that, but you spare him the embarrassment and don’t bring it up.
“I don’t care,” you parrot. “It’s just a box. You’re just an ex-villain. Who fucking cares?”
I do.
“It’s what’s inside that matters, even if it’s some tacky shit no one else would like.”
He might puke — do you even know how grossly corny you sound? — but his irritation and frustration flare up again. Who the fuck do you think you are preaching about what’s inside? His teeth unclench to let out the words he’s been holding back, but they come out twisted in a storm of anger.
“Then what’s inside the box?”
You didn’t open it. He knows you didn’t. You’re fucking with him and his head. He got involved with the wrong person. He wishes he didn’t meet you a year ago. He wishes he spent Valentine’s Day with someone else last year and today. He hates—
In front of him is the contents of the little velvet box hanging off of a tiny gold chain. It’s still around your neck, but you must’ve pulled it out of your shirt because he didn’t notice it before. In fact, he recognizes the flimsy thing — it was a gift a friend got you or something. He didn’t think anything of it until now.
“Why…” He stares at the ring, almost as thin as the chain and just as plain as he remembers. “Why aren’t you wearing— What the fuck is in the box?”
He doesn’t wait for your answer, already standing up straight to take the box out and nearly yank the lid off completely. As expected, there’s a ring in there, but it’s not the one he bought you. It’s almost the same color, maybe the same if he squints, but more importantly, it’s too big for your fingers. “The fuck is this?”
While he’s glaring at you, you smirk much like he normally does. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Nah, nah, nah, you’re not getting away with this shit so easily.” Touya takes the ring out of the box and holds it up to yours, both of them gently pinched between his fingers. They match, he notes, and that makes little blasts ignite in his heart when it shouldn’t. Like, c’mon, Touya, they’re plain bands you could buy at a mall. Nothing to get excited over… “What’s this supposed to mean?”
“The same thing yours does,” you respond, but it’s not an answer. He never told you what your ring meant, if it had a meaning at all, so he should’ve expected you to be the same.
“Yeah? And what’s mine mean?” he challenges, cerulean boring into your eyes with hope flickering in them now.
But you don’t answer him. You take the ring you got him and place it in his palm, then make his fist close around it. Your own is soon tucked back inside your shirt and you look up at him with purpose. “If you keep it, you should get a necklace for it. I’d feel better knowing it’s close to your heart.”
His face screws up in a concoction of emotions, eyes narrowed to scrutinize you instead of the rings. Now, what do you mean by that? “Quit saying weird shit.”
You roll your eyes. Classic Touya.
But for now, he puts the ring on his thumb. It only fits halfway. It’s not meant to be worn there. His lips smooth into a flat line and he glances at you watching him cooly, almost uninterested. The tables have turned, and while he’s still your Touya, it never occurred to him that he hadn’t claimed you all the same until today.
For once, he doesn’t have an arrogant, flippant non-response.
“So?”
You cock your head. “So…?”
The cars outside still zoom by, the beat of their wheels hitting a small bump creating a tempo he can focus on to calm himself down. Touya runs his tongue along the back of his lower front teeth, picking his words carefully to give enough away, but not too much. “What, am I not allowed in my own home?”
You blink at him before you scoff, and after a second of shaking your head, you let a small fit of chuckles leave you. Wrapping a hand around the back of his neck, you pull him down for a kiss just as soft as his heart.
“Get your ass inside, valentine. It's cold.”