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Katsuki wakes in a room that isn’t his own surrounded by pale, empty walls, his body covered with soft sheets that smell like they’ve just been washed. It might be pleasant if it weren’t for the gash in his side.
He lifts the sheet and sees the wound stitched and bandaged neatly with barely any blood staining the gauze like it was taken care of by a professional. It wasn’t though.
No, the person who patched him back together was just heavily trained for field injuries because god forbid thinking a couple of badass quirks would be enough. Overachieving pretty boy bastard. No one fucking asked.
Katsuki rubs his eyes against the light in the room, too bright from the uncovered window, and through it he can see the amber and copper colored leaves from the nearest tree outside. It was bright green and filled with too many birds the last time he saw it.
God, has it been that long?
Well in his defense, it’s not like he usually hangs around here during the daytime.
Alright, that looks bad.
It’s because he works his ass off, not because he only comes here at night. The night part is a coincidence. Fuck off.
Katsuki sits up with a groan, and his head throbs with a sudden sharp pain like he’s been kicked repeatedly in the temple, but then he remembers himself kissing the concrete in one of the worst one-vee-ones he’s had in years.
Last night was a blur, but he does remember the red flashing lights, the murmur of reporters behind the tape, and telling the medic to fuck off while he held himself together out of spite. He also distinctly remembers the way Shouto’s welcome mat scratched his palms raw and the cool press of the door against his cheek when that spite finally gave out.
It’s a wonder he heard him.
It’s funny to think about in a disembodied way. Katsuki dragging himself up the stairs one by one and then dropping down at his door because the adrenaline decided to wear off at that exact moment, just to have to bang on the door with his forehead until it opened. Shouto stood above him and looked left and then looked right without seeing anyone in the hall, and Katsuki coughed painfully.
“Down here, dumbass.”
Shouto picked him up and helped him through the door just to drop him on the couch—blood, dirt, and all.
Katsuki remembers the feeling of warm water and a throw pillow against his cheek as Shouto numbed his side with ice until he couldn’t feel the needle weaving his flesh back together.
He remembers complaining about having to get into bed, and he remembers the warm hand on his forehead as he finally faded off.
Asshole.
No one asked him to do all of that.
He gets out of bed with a groan, an old man’s bellow as the burn in his muscles seizes him like he skipped going to the gym for three months and decided to jump back in all or nothing.
He weakly laughs at himself and winces at the pain.
Katsuki, you bastard, why didn’t you go to the hospital? You got your ass kicked.
Because I didn’t wanna go to the hospital.
Hospitals suck. They smell weird. The gowns don’t close. The food sucks. And everything beeps and whirs, and you can’t unplug it because it’s all got stupid backup batteries.
Nah, this was the right move. He’s not dead, and he didn’t need surgery, and Shouto can stitch a wound just as good as anybody.
Fuck, why did he come here?
Of all the stupid things to do, he just had to deposit himself on Shouto’s welcome mat like the DoorDash delivery from hell. He must be out of his mind.
But where else was he supposed to go?
Katsuki shuffles out of the bedroom into the rest of the apartment where he sees Shouto seated at his kitchen table in a sweater three times too big for him with shadows under his eyes like he didn’t sleep at all last night. He wonders why that could be.
“Good morning,” Shouto says from over his mug, the two painted cat eyes an almost perfect mirror of Shouto’s own. He’s pretty sure Kirishima painted it for him at one of those stupid little pottery shops because what else are you supposed to get someone who’s loaded for their birthday? Shouto drinks from it every morning like a ritual Katsuki has never mentioned out loud to break.
Katsuki grunts in response as he makes his way into the kitchen, his body too sore in new and undiscovered ways to care about niceties.
“Coffee or tea,” Shouto asks, receiving the message loud and clear.
“Coffee,” he says.
“If you eat something, I’ll let you have something for the pain.”
“Let me,” Katsuki laughs with a wheeze. His hand goes to his side instinctually, a movement that he sees Shouto track without a word, and he guiltily has a seat on the opposite end of the table. “Just give me a minute.”
Shouto gets up and starts assembling a breakfast no one asked him to make out of dishes he cooked before Katsuki woke. He sets down a bowl of rice, a couple of marinated eggs, a piece of steamed fish, pickled radishes, and some kind of salad that’s all really way too much damn effort, but when he tries to raise his eyebrow at it, he finds that it’s been taped down.
“I only have instant coffee,” Shouto says, a truth Katsuki is already aware of and has complained about repeatedly, but this time he doesn’t.
Shouto fills a cup with hot water and sets it on the table with an espresso packet, leaving Katsuki to mix it himself. Katsuki tears open the pack and watches as the granules stain the water like old blood before it turns into something reminiscent of coffee. He complains every time he has it here because if Shouto can manage to get the fanciest goddamn tea in the country, he can get a decent coffee maker, but it’s the same shit he chokes down before his worst patrols anyway.
One day he might even start to like it.
Not today, though.
Shouto comes back and sets a bottle of medicine on the table without making a big deal about it, and Katsuki grabs his wrist to pull him to his lips with what little strength he has. He probably didn’t get to do this last night, but he can’t remember either way.
“Sorry about the couch.”
“It’s not that bad,” Shouto says and sits back down to his tea.
“You eat?”
“Don’t talk, your lip is busted,” he says.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“It will hurt.”
“It all fucking hurts,” he says, and Shouto glances at the medicine, but doesn’t comment. Katsuki swears under his breath and shakes the bottle into his palm until two little tablets fall out, and he chases them down with his shit-water coffee. “Whatever.”
“Yes, I ate before you woke up,” he says. “To answer your question.”
“Why are you still here,” Katsuki says. “Go to work.”
“You shouldn’t talk so much.”
“Yeah, good luck getting me to stop.”
Shouto exhales and sips his tea. “I took the day off.”
“Why?”
“There was a dying man in my bed.”
“Oh fuck off, I’m not dying.”
Shouto takes another sip. “That remains to be seen.”
Katsuki blinks, his face strained slightly from the tape. He’s not sure if that was an observation or a threat, and Shouto doesn’t seem to be in the mood to elaborate.
“Look, I said I was sorry for the couch, alright?”
“I know that,” he says.
Katsuki blinks again, and Shouto’s face is unreadable.
“Then what is it?”
“You promised no more solo takedowns,” he says, and Katsuki sits back in his seat, unable to defend himself. He did promise that, and he fucked off and got his ass kicked.
“Alright, that’s fair,” he says. “But it’s done, ain’t it? Don’t fuckin’ worry about it.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” he says and takes another sip as Katsuki forces down a mouthful of his shitty coffee.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and Shouto relaxes.
“So now we both get the day off.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, and earns the most beautiful glare of his life.
No wonder he came here. It was pretty fucking smart, if you ask him.
So what if the coffee sucks?