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Kacchan is wrapping two of Deku’s broken fingers to the padded metal splint when the sun rises on the new year.
Deku doesn't hiss or flinch from the pain, but merely accepts it like a flighty old friend who always bursts back into town without warning and flounces back out when they please. He and Kacchan are sitting at their dining room table, the only time they use it being a dropping point for gear and laptops and unopened mail catching dust. The first aid box rarely makes it back to its spot tucked beneath the kitchen sink either. It basically lives here.
“When was the last time we ate at this table,” Deku says as he admires the tang of tangerine and peach light against Kacchan’s tanned and dirtied profile. His face has always been foxy angles but his soft, sober mouth is still outright pretty when it isn’t showing off teeth or scowling.
Quiet eyes flick briefly to meet Deku’s, then back to the methodical wrapping process. Kacchan has patient hands and a freight train heart. There’s something comforting about it, the incongruity. It fits Deku’s mismatched dysfunction too.
“Probably when we bought the house,” Kacchan says, his voice as warm as the sunrise seeping through the window. “S’too formal for us anyway.”
Deku hums in amused agreement and savors the easy silence as Kacchan finishes up and packs away the remaining supplies.
“Take some painkillers,” Kacchan says, then hardens to a sharp staccato when he sees Deku’s eye roll. “I said take the fuckin’ painkillers or I’ll pin you to the floor and force feed them down your goddamn gullet.”
“Gee,” Deku demures as he gets to his feet and brushes a palm along Kacchan’s cheek, “you always know just what to say, handsome. I’ll go do that.”
Kacchan makes a valiant attempt to look pissed but blows the look when his lips twitch.
“Just shut up and meet me in the shower. And wrap that hand in a bag.”
“Can’t you help me?” Deku says with a pout. “It’s hard putting the tape around—“
“Nah,” Kacchan says as he strolls out of the room, already peeling from his uniform top and exposing Deku to a swoon-worthy view of his wide, beefy back and wickedly nipped waist. “You can manage.”
“Asshole,” Deku hollers even as he’s smiling.
Deku eventually joins Kacchan in the shower, and they both bust into laughter as Deku holds his arm out the crack in the glazed shower door, his grocery bag hand kept from the spray as Kacchan laughs like a hyena through the entire process of bathing his stupid boyfriend.
Kacchan dries off Deku with a very old, scratchy towel from two apartments ago and Deku makes a solemn mental note to finally get new ones. He’ll probably forget in forty seconds, but he tries. When Deku tells him so, Kacchan rolls his eyes and promptly twists the towel to smack Deku’s bare ass like a whip.
“Fluffy towels can’t do that,” Kacchan says with an obvious leer of pleasure as he shoos Deku into the bedroom with the threat of another whipping.
“Wow,” Deku says, dropping face down to the rumpled, unmade bed, “you’ve really made your case. Let’s never buy new towels again. Please continue your reign of cotton-blend terror.”
They both lay on the bed together for a while, silent and on top of the covers, air-drying and worn out like their own shitty towels.
“I can’t sleep,” Deku says, opening his eyes to stare at Kacchan, who already has his eyes open anyway. Behind him, the bedroom window is overflowing with the sunrise, a pale grey sky of impending snow and the butter yellow of tentative sun steeping the mellow grey walls in warmth. “Adrenaline.”
Kacchan doesn’t need to be told twice. They both know how it is. Sometimes the come-down doesn’t drop until hours later. Kacchan doesn’t look keyed-up, but he doesn’t look tired either. He’s got one long arm outstretched and a big hot hand on the small of Deku’s back, a comforting, familiar weight that still stirs low in Deku’s belly.
“Could do the shrine,” Kacchan says. “S’gonna be busy as hell and every ingrate is gonna want a picture, though.”
Deku smiles and reaches out to skim the sharp line of Kacchan’s jaw; just to touch, to appreciate.
“Yukata?” he asks.
Kacchan grins.
“You just wanna look fancy for peoples’ photos.”
“You don’t get it,” Deku says, returning a fond smile. “More pictures with and around fans means I get to scroll social media and see nice photos of us together. When was the last time you and I actually took a picture together? We always forget. We went to Thailand last year and spent so much time taking photos of other things that we forgot ourselves.”
Kacchan snorts a laugh, not arguing the point. Everyone was pissed as hell when they’d returned from holiday with nothing to show but pictures of local food stalls and a shit-ton of temples.
“I hate us,” Kacchan says.
“Then it’s settled!” Deku hops up with a smile of victory. “Let’s go!”
“At least eat something while we walk,” Kacchan grumbles as he rolls to his feet from the bed. “I’m not havin’ you faint on me again.”
“That was one time.”
“Twice.”
“The second time was a concussion, not an adrenaline drop,” Deku says pointedly.
They bicker and help each other dress as the minute hand carves through the first slice of the year. Nothing is different or new, but it’s happy. It’s them, giving each other a hard time, helping the other slip into the wide sleeves of the yukata, their heads bent close as Kacchan helps with the obi while cursing Deku’s bright and shiny new injury.
This home is their shrine, their hands folded around each other’s as they leave are their praying hands, their jokes and shared looks are blessings.
This is it, this is all. This is everything.
“Cold,” Deku says with a shiver, tucking his hands in the wide, heavy sleeves. Kacchan presses close to him as they stroll, both of their hoari matching in deep charcoal, their obi the same rich shade of Kacchan’s eyes.
They rarely match in anything, but the outfits had been chosen for Kirishima and Mina’s wedding, and so today they complement each other in ways that make Deku’s romantic heart race just a little. While his yukata is a shadowed green just shy of black, Kacchan’s is a similar shade of charcoal as their hoari . He looks handsome and at ease, hooking his arm in Deku’s and idly swinging an umbrella with his free hand. There’s a call for rain or snow and no one knows yet which.
The shrine isn’t so busy this early in the day, but people stare anyway. It’s normal, and even Kacchan doesn’t seem to rise to the attention, his gaze all for Deku and their path together. The air is sharp and crisp, the grey skies like a fogged mirror above their heads, the fragrant, herbaceous cloud of incense carrying on the nipping breeze. Everything smells clean and new and Deku takes a deep, cleansing breath as he claps his hands twice and prays for everyone but himself.
“You always look so serious about it,” Kacchan says with a lopsided smile, ruffling Deku’s hair. “What’re you always wishing for?”
“The same thing I always wish for,” Deku says, and leaves it at that.
Happily ever after for everyone, however long it takes. A space for hope in everyone’s hearts, no matter how cluttered they might be with the worries of the world.
“Why?” Deku says, grinning and bumping against Kacchan. “What do you pray for?”
Kacchan is looking at him closely, then. They don’t touch, not here, but Deku can smell the coffee on Kacchan’s breath and the spicy musk of his soap.
“There’s not much I need to wish for these days,” he says quietly, words just shy of audible for others’ ears.
Deku’s heart skips like they’re still dumb kids fumbling their feelings in dorm rooms and in disaster zones, his face burning bright.
“Oh,” Deku manages.
Kacchan grins, all sharp teeth and feral charm, and oh, there goes Deku’s heart all over again, left at the Altar of Dynamite with a very, very short ignition string set to combust with the next word.
“Hey,” Kacchan says, sweeping a hand across Deku’s shoulder. “Wake up, freckles. It’s snowing.”
Dazed, Deku casts his attention to the sky and beams. Fat, flaky fluffs float toward the earth like the glassy whirlwind inside a shaken snow globe. Soft, cool puffs land upon his lips and cheeks, melting instantly.
“Pretty!” Deku says, looking to Kacchan to share the joy.
“Yeah,” Kacchan rasps, his voice low, looking directly at him.
Deku’s smile warms, his heart melting despite the cold.
“Did you pray to become less of a sap this year?” Deku says as Kacchan opens the clear umbrella above their heads. “It’s becoming a problem. Your reputation of terror is barely hanging on these days.”
“Haaah?” Blushing furiously, Kacchan jostles Deku toward the dramatic staircase leading back down to the street. “I didn’t say shit! You’re the one walkin’ around soft enough to be mochi every damn day.”
“Mmm.” Keeping close to Kacchan among the growing crowd, Deku aims a smile up to his partner. “Well, what’s your favorite flavor?”
Kacchan’s gaze flicks to Deku’s hair, his mouth subtly curved even as his cheeks stay pink.
“Matcha, obviously.”
Deku blinks and dissolves into laughter.
“Yeah,” Deku manages, wiping at a tear. “I’ve gone soft.”
Kacchan’s expression goes murderous.
“That’s it, you little shit!”
Hours and hours later, after they’ve exhausted themselves from an overnight shift and a shrine and Deku’s shrieking as he races down the stairs to run from a Kacchan wielding an umbrella like a weapon—
After all that, when Deku wakes from a solid thirteen hours of sleep, he scrolls through social media and smiles at the photos they’ve been tagged in. He saves them all, even the far away blurry ones. He always does. He’s still a Kacchan fan, first and foremost.
But the one of them descending the stairs, just as Kacchan says, matcha, like an idiot—that’s the one Deku frames.
A very happy new year, indeed.