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For someone who's a stone's throw away from being a full-time pro hero, which just for the record has been Katsuki's dream since he was five, Katsuki doesn't feel all that jazzed on graduation night. In fact, Katsuki would place himself squarely in the vicinity of 'having a silent tantrum because nobody wants me.'
The alcohol's certainly not helping. Katsuki takes another pull off his beer anyway.
Class A decided to celebrate graduation off campus at some mediocre restaurant with all of three options for beer. Katsuki wants none of them, but he does want to chill the fuck out, and his battery of mindfulness techniques aren't doing shit. Plain and simple, it sucks to be sitting at a table full of people knowing damn well he's the only one who didn't get invited to be someone's roommate.
Sure, Katsuki had the group chat muted while ninety percent of the negotiations were underway, and sure, Katsuki had been known to say things like "if you fucking extras breathe my air after graduation, I'll blast your faces off," but that didn't mean he didn't want a roommate.
His mouth curves into a sullen pout as he slumps in his chair nursing his musty beer. Izuku won't stop giggling beside him. Katsuki has half a mind to bark at the nerd to shut the hell up for no reason.
'No reason' for Katsuki tends to mean something like 'four hundred and seven reasons.' He's trying to work on himself or whatever. He's thought long and hard about why he might be sitting at the class dinner table with a shorter fuse than usual. The two-pronged answer's pretty simple.
One: Izuku's happy and looking forward to the next stage of his life like everyone else. It's shitty, but sometimes Katsuki's shitty. He's jealous, he's a bad friend, and he needs to self-regulate. Yada yada yada.
Two: Katsuki's scared shitless Izuku won't talk to him anymore after this week. Forced proximity was pretty much the only reason he and Izuku worked through their shit in the first place, and Katsuki won't even be able to fall back on Izuku being one floor away anymore. He's going to have to reach out regularly and show that he misses the nerd if he wants to spend time with Izuku. How fucking debasing.
No, not debasing. Katsuki's slowly getting better at reframing things. It's not humiliating that he wants to spend time with Izuku or Eijirou or Mina or anyone else, it's just. . .challenging to be honest about his wants and needs when it comes to friendship and quality time. Challenging is the right word.
Satisfied, Katsuki sniffs to himself. That stream of consciousness better get him top marks in therapy next week.
While Katsuki's fantasizing about his coming pats on the back, his friends continue to draw up plans for their shared living spaces.
"Oooh, we're definitely gonna get an animal print couch," Mina says with a dreamy sigh, flinging her arms around Jirou's shoulders and pressing their cheeks together. "Imagine that with some leather for contrast. We'll be the party pad for sure!"
That gets Denki's hackles up, considering he's spent the better part of the evening generating ideas for his own party-pad-slash-gym-rat-haven with Eijirou and Hanta. "No way! It's gonna be us. Team, uh. . .Lightning-Rock-Tape."
No one is impressed with Denki's naming genius, but he doesn't seem to notice as he blathers on about his intentions to purchase a billiards table. Apparently, the trio plans on scouring the city for a four bedroom apartment just to accommodate their "Fun Zone." Eijirou advocates for a mini skeeball set with a rabid competitive grin on his face, but Hanta's more of a billiards man himself. They tentatively decide on both.
Cool, super cool. Katsuki's closest friends have room for a billiards table and fucking skeeball, but not him. His teeth gritted, Katsuki silently simmers and refuses to beg for a seat at the damn friendship table.
He's no closer to getting over himself by the time he and his classmates pour out of the restaurant, but that's just as well. No one's talking to him anyway.
Someone falls into step beside him as Class A walks as one mass to the train station. Katsuki gives Shinsou a sidelong glance but decides not to acknowledge him beyond that. It's his funeral if the idiot feels like instigating while Katsuki's foul mood practically rolls off him in waves.
Surprisingly, Shinsou doesn't start a petty argument. "I guess it's just us, huh?"
Katsuki jams his hands even deeper into his pockets and keeps his eyes forward. "The hell are you talking about, Eyebags?"
"The roommate shit. I think we're the only ones who didn't get an invite. Have you found a place yet?"
Despite himself, Katsuki's desperately relieved to know he's not the only one in the doghouse. The other occupant being Shinsou isn't exactly comforting, but it's better than being alone. He grunts noncommittally, scowls when Shinsou knocks their shoulders together, and retaliates with a heartfelt shove.
Shinsou hardly stumbles. Even if Katsuki expected as much, it's fucking annoying. Shinsou's been nothing but steady on his feet ever since he shot up to six feet tall last summer. Shoving him around feels like trying to topple a high-rise building lately.
Shinsou's training regimen is almost as religious as Katsuki's. It shows.
Katsuki's eye twitches the way it always does when he notices something about Shinsou. Shit like that's been happening for the better part of two years, but Katsuki has yet to lose his distaste for it.
"I have an idea," Shinsou says after they've exchanged shoves, eye rolls, and unsuccessful attempts to trip each other, "and I know it sounds kind of weird, but stick with me."
Sirens shriek in Katsuki's mind, but he shakes off the apprehension and keeps walking beside Shinsou because he's a fucking pro like that. And because he kind of likes the smell of Shinsou's cologne, fresh and spicy with a hint of cedar. It kind of makes Katsuki wanna bash his head against a wall, but that's pretty much par the course for everything Katsuki learns about Shinsou. Religious training regimen because he's dedicated and determined: head, meet wall. Smells like camping in the summer: head, meet the motherfucking wall.
Shinsou's grand idea boils down to this: they could room together.
The second the words are out of Shinsou's mouth, Katsuki wants to say no. The thought alone seems. . .wrong. Katsuki's not quite sure if the churning in his stomach speaks more to longing or loneliness, relief or distress, but he nonetheless lets Shinsou state his reasons.
Shinsou folds a finger down for each point as he talks Katsuki through his thought process. "First, I really don't wanna pay rent on my own. Shit's expensive, junior heroics doesn't pay for shit, and we'll both save money. Second, I have no idea how often I'll be home, so paying full price for an apartment sounds double stupid. And third, I'm tidy. Real tidy."
Katsuki squints at the street sign in the distance. He doesn't believe that for a fucking second.
"Okay, I'm not," Shinsou carries on with a wave of his hand like Katsuki voiced his suspicions aloud. "But I'm teachable. Yell at me enough and I'll get my act together. Probably. It worked for Aizawa, at least."
Apparently Katsuki's enough of a loser to feel ten times lighter because fucking Shinsou offered to split rent with him. Whether he likes it or not, the proposal soothes his ruffled feathers and reassures him he's not doomed to live life on the outskirts of his classmates for the rest of his natural life, hearing all about their parties and sleepovers and fun zones while he rots away alone in a sad studio apartment with a puny kitchenette.
If he splits rent, he has a fighting chance at getting a kitchen he can actually cook in. That's almost reason enough to agree with Shinsou.
Still, Katsuki has reservations. "Sounds like a bad idea. We're gonna kill each other."
"Maybe." Shinsou shrugs and knocks their shoulders together again. Katsuki doesn't shove him away this time. "Beats being alone, though, huh?"
Katsuki swallows hard and burns a hole in the back of Eijirou's stupid fucking head. The bitterness Katsuki feels isn't fair, but what is? Katsuki still feels spurned. His therapist is gonna bitch at him about communicating his feelings in a timely manner when he finally speaks up about this shit. Rooming with Shinsou might be like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet hole, but that must be better than letting the wound fester.
"Yeah," Katsuki mutters to Shinsou. "Guess so."
"So. . .yes?"
Irritated for no good reason when Shinsou just offered Katsuki exactly what he's been pouting over for the last three hours, Katsuki huffs. "Whatever, Eyebags. I'll send you some listings, alright? I already got a bunch of shit bookmarked."
So what if he's been considering two bedroom apartments this whole time? Every damn studio apartment looks like a depressing shoebox with a personal torture chamber for Katsuki, otherwise known as a kitchenette. He was dreading the idea of coming home to that after a long, hard day chock full beating villain ass, so yeah, he's got a few acceptable two bedroom apartments waiting in the wings.
Determined not to show his hand to Shinsou, Katsuki cuts the conversation short and stomps ahead to catch up with Eijirou and Mina. Maybe he can talk to his best friends without feeling like his chest's caving in now that he's not doomed to rot alone for the next year.
3½ MONTHS LATER
Loath as Katsuki is to admit it, rooming with Shinsou isn't half bad once they get used to sharing space and settle into their respective routines.
The first few weeks were the worst. They fought like cats and dogs, slammed their bedroom doors so hard the sound likely thundered into every adjacent apartment, and at long last resolved to split both the fridge and the bathroom counter down the middle because Katsuki couldn't stand Shinsou's nonexistent organizational system.
Slowly but surely, the days-long quarrels devolved into mere hours of the silent treatment. Instead of screaming his head off at every turn, Katsuki simply snatched up whatever Shinsou left laying around (most often bottles of nail polish, dirty clothes, and empty coffee mugs), barged into Shinsou's bedroom without knocking, and pitched it at the fucker's head. Shinsou would catch the projectile no matter his state of undress, call Katsuki a bitch, and go back to whatever he was doing. Katsuki would pretend not to have a crisis after glimpsing another detail about Shinsou's body that would haunt him at night. The world kept on turning.
Finally Shinsou quit leaving his crumpled socks in damn near every nook and cranny of the apartment. Before long, the harmony of Katsuki's home was restored. As much as harmony could be restored with someone as insufferable as Shinsou around, that is.
After three months of living with Shinsou, Katsuki can safely say it's better than being alone a solid seventy-five percent of the time. The rest of the time, Katsuki has to witness Shinsou performing absolutely diabolical acts in the kitchen they share.
Usually when Katsuki catches Shinsou doing something ungodly to perfectly good ingredients, he takes deep breaths, reminds himself that he consented to share space with another human being, and glares at Shinsou's back every chance he gets.
Katsuki's glaring at the fucker's bare back tonight. It's pissing him off. That café au lait spot on Shinsou's shoulder blade taunted Katsuki from the moment he entered the room. It's like the gods think Shinsou's broad, toned back isn't punishment enough on its own. Naturally, Katsuki wants nothing more than to bash his head against the nearest wall. Then again, the walls here are pretty thin. The granite counter top might be a safer bet in terms of optimal brain damage.
Strutting around shirtless is plain douchey if you ask Katsuki, but more than that, it's a cleanliness thing. Katsuki's kitchen is no place for shirtless men. There's a reason food safety laws require cooks to wear shirts, and it's because that shit's gross. Shinsou's probably getting a mouthful of his own chest hair with every bite of his food. Not that Katsuki's noticed his chest hair. Much.
Katsuki doesn't give a shit what Shinsou puts in his body, not really, but he's nosy enough to squint at the stove and try to work out what Shinsou's cooking. To Katsuki's eyes, it looks like plain chicken breast in a pan. If Shinsou added any seasonings, they aren't visible to the naked eye.
Katsuki doesn't even want to know. And yet his mouth moves. "What the hell are you cooking?"
"Chicken." Shinsou prods the unseasoned chicken breast with a set of chopsticks. Some sections are a sickly brown, desiccated, and Katsuki knows for a fact they would have the mouthfeel of hay. Probably about that much flavor, too. "You think it's done?"
Anyone who tried to take a bite of that chicken would need to chase it with two glasses of water, and even then, they'd probably still hack it back up. The chicken breast looks like it's been through hell and back.
Before the incompetent idiot sets their apartment on fire, Katsuki flicks off Shinsou's burner and shows the poor mutilated breast some mercy. Katsuki scans the kitchen, but no other ingredients are in sight.
He really can't stand this motherfucker sometimes.
"You were just going to eat plain chicken breast?" Katsuki demands incredulously. "You're a fucking hero; you need to be eating like one."
Shinsou blinks at him. "Chicken is protein, is it not?"
With a sigh, Katsuki takes a good, hard look at his ceiling. He'll admit it: he feels ashamed he ever noticed things like the smell of Shinsou's cologne or his broad set of shoulders. Katsuki unceremoniously scoops up the pan and dumps the chicken in the garbage can with an unappetizing thud.
"I was gonna eat that," claims Shinsou.
"No, you weren't, dumbass. That wasn't edible."
Shinsou makes a disagreeable noise. "It was going to be chicken parmesan. That's what I was thinking about at least."
"Just sit the fuck down, Eyebags," Katsuki snaps before he digs into the fridge to grab ingredients for dinner.
Shinsou hovers over Katsuki's shoulder. Each of his gentle breaths grate like a horde of mosquitoes buzzing in Katsuki's ear. "Are you cooking for me?"
Katsuki scoffs, says "fuck no," and cooks dinner for two.
It's a pleasant surprise when Katsuki stuffs the last bite of food in his mouth just for Shinsou to reach across the table and swipe his empty plate. He carts their dishes to the sink and says, "You cooked, I'll clean."
Yeah, right, Katsuki thinks. There ain't no way it's that easy.
In response to Katsuki's suspicious squint, Shinsou rolls his eyes. "I'll do a good job. You can even correct me afterwards if I fuck something up. I'm teachable, remember?"
Katsuki squints harder. He can't say for sure if that last part took on a flirtatious lilt, but Shinsou's zombie-like stare doesn't help clear things up in the slightest.
After three months of living with Shinsou, Katsuki's come to some other conclusions. Most notably, he wants Shinsou to want him. Why? No fucking clue. Does Katsuki actually want to do anything about it? Hell fucking no. Still, if Shinsou were flirting with him, that would feel like a win to Katsuki.
Unable to make heads or tails of Shinsou's bullshit as usual, Katsuki sighs and shoves his chair away from the table. "Fucking whatever."
Shinsou nods as if in approval. "Fucking whatever," he echoes solemnly with a hint of a smile on his face.
Katsuki ignores the weird feeling in his stomach and paces around his bedroom until he hears Shinsou's bedroom door shut. Only then is Katsuki capable of relaxing in his own home.
From that point onward and more often than not, Katsuki cooks, Shinsou cleans, and no more chicken breasts get mutilated under Katsuki's rule in the kitchen.
The soggy bits of food in the sink used to be the bane of Katsuki's existence, but no more. He sleeps more peacefully at night knowing his hands didn't graze mushy food earlier that day. It's pretty sweet.
Besides, cooking for one kind of sucked anyway. Turns out Katsuki's one hobby loses its shine when he can't force other people to eat his food and tell him he's great. Who would've thought someone like Katsuki would be so reliant on approval? Certainly not Katsuki himself.
With a bag of groceries in tow, Katsuki tries to let himself into the apartment like it's any other day, but instead of the door swinging wide open, it hits some strange barrier that says "ow."
It can only be Shinsou, so Katsuki huffs and uses the door to batter Shinsou another time for good measure. "Move, fucker."
Gruff as Katsuki sounds, he's looking forward to cooking tonight. He stopped by a mid-scale market on the way home and lets the butcher sell him some fresh-made spicy sausage, and Katsuki has some in-season bell peppers in the fridge that are calling his name. Tonight's got stir-fry written all over it. Stir-fry and and some TV.
Sometimes Katsuki tells Shinsou to get lost and let Katsuki monopolize the living room, but he's feeling charitable after a pretty alright day at work. Plus, he thinks Shinsou accidentally got invested in Katsuki's war drama miniseries. He's been lingering in the kitchen for an awful long time "doing the dishes" lately, but Katsuki's not fooled. He'll tell the fucker to sit his ass on the couch tonight for the season finale. They've been roommates for a few months, and they both went to movie nights back when they lived at the dorms. Katsuki thinks they can stomach watching a show together.
Once Katsuki gets inside, he sees Shinsou kneeling in front of the shoe cabinet. That explains why Katsuki unwittingly (and then very much wittingly) accosted him with the door. A cursory glance tells him Shinsou's not bleeding out. Katsuki decides not to give a shit about whatever the hell Shinsou's doing.
He sets his grocery bag on the counter and opens his mouth to tell Shinsou what's for dinner. Instead, his eyes catch on a duffel bag, a backpack, a hideous Chargebolt neck pillow with a built-in charging port, and the drawstring backpack in Shinsou's hands. He's currently stuffing it full of his favorite pairs of shoes.
Katsuki's blood pressure spikes. "What the hell are you doing?" It comes out more demanding than he intended.
Incredulous, Shinsou whips his head around and looks at Katsuki like he's insane. "Uh, leaving? Work stuff." He pulls the drawstrings until his bulging shoe bag is closed. Mostly. "Was I supposed to ask for permission?"
Katsuki unpacks his groceries with more attitude than strictly necessary. "A little heads up would have been nice."
"Well, that's one thing we agree on," Shinsou says tiredly as he pops the Chargebolt pillow around his neck and shoulders his motley crew of bags. "I got a call twenty minutes ago that said, 'You're flying out at seven.'"
Notably, Shinsou doesn't provide any additional details, which means he's scurrying off to do some underground work. Even if Katsuki cared — and he doesn't — Shinsou wouldn't be able to tell him.
"Good luck, or whatever," mumbles Katsuki.
Shinsou zips up his hoodie, grimaces, and gives Katsuki a nod. "Thanks."
Katsuki's heart spasms when Shinsou turns away. It draws his eyes to a stupid plushie cat keychain swinging where it's clipped onto Shinsou's backpack. For some reason, the sight makes Katsuki blurt, "Don't die."
When he clocks the barest hint of concern in his own voice, he forces a scowl onto his face.
"Dumbass," Katsuki adds as an afterthought.
Shinsou looks at him for so long, it starts to churn Katsuki's stomach. Eventually he offers a somewhat dorky wave and simply says, "Seeya."
Katsuki doesn't bother responding as Shinsou stumbles out of the apartment door, all of his various bags hitting the jamb on his way out, and then it's just... quiet. Quiet as fuck, actually.
He forgot to ask how long Shinsou would be gone for, but seeing so many packed bags makes Katsuki think it might be a while. The bathroom is tidy, Shinsou's bedroom door is shut tight, and the hoodie Shinsou usually leaves hanging by the front door for easy access is nowhere to be found.
Katsuki makes the sausage and vegetable stir-fry he had in mind for dinner, but his heart's not really in it.
Two months later, Shinsou comes back home. He was kind enough to text Katsuki when his agency cleared him to go home — a not-so-reassuring message that said heads up you have a roommate again bc i didn't die — so Katsuki lounges around the living room after work in anticipation of Shinsou's arrival.
The moment Shinsou kicks the door open and drops his bags like particularly detestable sacks of potatoes, Katsuki pauses his show and says, "There's a gift for you on your bed," in lieu of a nicer, more traditional welcome home.
Right away and justifiably, Shinsou's wary. He looks exhausted with stringy chunks of hair flying out of his messy bun and gigantic greyish bags under his eyes, but that's nothing new. One scan of his person tells Katsuki there are no major injuries to speak of, at least not ones that haven't already healed, so he feels pretty good about sitting back on the couch and watching Shinsou disappear into his room to behold his 'gift.'
Shinsou comes back a few seconds later with a tiny glass bowl in hand. In it sits no more than twenty fragments of Shinsou's beard hair, but Katsuki had a point to prove two months ago, and he's been determined to see it through ever since.
Shinsou looks hilariously unimpressed. "Seriously?"
"You left beard hairs in the bathroom." Katsuki folds his arms over his chest and stands his ground. "I figured you needed to save 'em for some reason. Otherwise I can't see why they'd still be on my floor."
"You kept my beard hairs for two months?" demands Shinsou.
The truth is that Katsuki collected them in a fit of pettiness on the day Shinsou left, set the little bowl on Shinsou's bed, and pretty much forgot about the whole incident until an hour ago when Shinsou texted him. The details aren't important though. "I clean up my beard hair. It ain't that hard."
Shinsou scoffs and drawls, "What fucking beard hair, Peach Fuzz?" before he shuts himself in his room and gives Katsuki the cold shoulder for hours on end.
Katsuki knows he didn't actually piss Shinsou off — mostly because if he had actually pissed Shinsou off, they would have gotten into a fist fight — but he makes chicken parmesan for dinner anyway just to right the ship. Shinsou was allegedly fantasizing about it months ago, Katsuki has a recipe he's itching to try, and crispy fried, breaded meat is one of Katsuki's guilty pleasures.
He kicks the base of Shinsou's door when the food's ready and doesn't respond to Shinsou's irritable call of "What?"
Once Shinsou gets his sorry ass out of his bedroom, he eats like he's starved, mutters a thank-you, and does the dishes. That's more like it.
If Katsuki could purr in satisfaction sitting there on the couch while Shinsou handles clean up duty in the kitchen, he would. Instead, he slouches on the couch and enjoys the perks of Shinsou being back home.
Going to the grocery store with Shinsou — Hitoshi, these days — is like going to the store with an unruly toddler in tow. An unruly, six-foot-tall toddler with zero self-restraint, zero shame, and zero fashion sense, that is.
"No," Katsuki says before Hitoshi can deposit a bag of powdered donuts in the hand cart.
Completely ignoring Katsuki, Hitoshi tosses them into the cart. They weigh pretty much nothing, but Katsuki has half a mind to fling the cart to the floor out of spite. Hitoshi and his goddamn sweet tooth.
They switched to a first name basis a few weeks ago, not that Katsuki bothers using the fucker's name ninety-nine percent of the time. Katsuki was tired of hearing "Bakugou" in the privacy of his own home, Hitoshi didn't really give a shit what they called each other, and they both signed off on the change with a pair of transactional nods.
Katsuki huffs and keeps reading the nutrition facts label on the back of the protein bars he's considering.
"I wouldn't have to buy processed sweets if you just made me more cookies," Hitoshi says mildly.
With a roll of his eyes, Katsuki chucks the peanut butter protein bars in the hand cart and gives the shitty powdered donuts a dirty look on principle. "I didn't make you cookies. I made them for Izuku, and then you scarfed them like a fucking goblin in the middle of the night."
"Same difference." Hitoshi bumps their shoulders together as they carry on down the aisle. The sundry, tasteless metal bracelets on Hitoshi's wrists jangle with each swaggering step. Katsuki grits his teeth and redirects his attention every time he catches himself staring. He's here to grocery shop, not to have a crisis on Aisle 3.
It's a Wednesday morning. Katsuki doesn't work until this afternoon, and Hitoshi invited himself along on a grocery shopping trip. Thus far, all he's done is put junk food in Katsuki's hand cart, drag his feet, and gripe about the lack of snacks in their apartment. Katsuki grew up in an ingredient household; he'd rather snack on carrots and jalapeno hummus over oily chips any day. Hitoshi not-so-humbly disagrees.
Last night, Katsuki went out for drinks with his friends. Katsuki himself didn't like drinking much, but his friends did, so he joined them with a glass of iced water. As the night wore on, their questions about Katsuki's cohabitation with Hitoshi got more and more invasive. Eijirou started them off with "Do you mostly keep to yourselves?" and the conversation wrapped up pretty quickly after Hanta prodded, "So. . .you guys shower together?"
"Not together," Katsuki insisted while discomfort squirmed in his stomach. He didn't like the ravenous look on Mina's face nor the smirk on Denki's lips, like he already knew a hell of a lot more than Katsuki would ever say. Part of Katsuki itched to know what Hitoshi told Denki, but part of Katsuki thought he'd want to bury himself alive if he had any concrete idea. "Just sometimes one of us is at the vanity and the other's in the shower. It ain't weird. It's like the dorms."
Mina cackled, Denki slyly said "uh-huh," Hanta said absolutely nothing, and Eijirou offered, "good for you, man." Needless to say, Katsuki tabled Hitoshi as a conversation topic for the rest of the night after that. He wasn't quite sure what to do about the mish-mash of pride and nerves and protectiveness in his chest, like whatever the fuck he did with Hitoshi was a secret worth keeping. It was a stupid night.
In the here and now, Hitoshi snatches a box of chocolate chip cookie mix off the shelf, makes eye contact with Katsuki, and drops it in the cart with a thud.
"Guess I'll do it myself," he says mildly, like he's not going out of his way to get under Katsuki's skin.
They stare each other down so intently and for so long, an older woman pushing a cart has to interrupt the staring contest with a shy "excuse me" to get access to the flour.
"Boxed cookie mix fucking sucks," Katsuki hisses once the old woman passes them. "Get that shit out of my cart."
"I want cookies." Towering over Katsuki with all the menace of a mob boss, Hitoshi leers at Katsuki with his creepy unblinking gaze. "Maybe I'll like the boxed mix better than your cookies. Who knows."
At once, the column of Katsuki's neck flushes with irritation. He knows damn well that Hitoshi's baiting him. That doesn't mean it doesn't fucking work.
Snatching the shitty cookie mix out of his hand cart, Katsuki chucks the box at Hitoshi's stupid wide chest. Of course, Hitoshi catches it without so much as a flinch. If the old lady weren't a few feet away already giving them some strong side-eye, Katsuki would sock Hitoshi in the gut just to make a point.
"I'll make some fucking cookies, alright?" Katsuki says lowly. "Just quit pissing me off."
With a smarmy smirk stretching across his face, Hitoshi sets a hand on Katsuki's shoulder and gives him a little squeeze. "You're so good to me, you know that?" he coos, all syrupy and hushed like they're swapping sweet nothings.
Katsuki's stupid heart beats harder even if he knows Hitoshi's fucking with him. He shrugs Hitoshi's huge paw off his shoulder and steadfastly ignores the lingering warmth.
Later that night, Katsuki bakes some stupid fucking cookies, meets every one of Hitoshi's self-satisfied grins with a frown, and tells himself never again.
"These are amazing," Hitoshi tells Katsuki without an ounce of sarcasm after he polishes off his first (and likely not last) cookie of the evening. "Best chocolate chip cookies ever, man."
Katsuki's stomach feels like gelatin when he perfunctorily tells Hitoshi to fuck off. He swallows the lump in his throat when Hitoshi plucks up another warm cookie, raises it as if to toast to Katsuki, and softly says "thanks." Instead of leering like a scoundrel, Hitoshi lets one corner of his mouth turn upward in a smaller, warmer show of appreciation. The half-smile makes Katsuki feel like a million bucks.
Katsuki scowls to mask his true reaction and tries his damnedest to radiate dissatisfaction. Hitoshi can't play him that easily. Katsuki's no fiddle.
Interestingly enough, homemade chocolate chip cookies become a staple in their apartment.
Some people engage in the time-honored tradition of spring cleaning, but Katsuki likes to spruce things up at the turn of each season. Certain cleaning tasks were due every few months in the Bakugou household, and Katsuki won't be caught slacking now that he's living independently. He'd bet anything his mom will text before noon to harass him with questions about his winter bedding, his stainless steel appliances, and his ceiling fans. Katsuki'll be damned if he doesn't have a good report to give by then.
Living with Hitoshi has its perks. Katsuki's not gonna list them all day or anything, but it's not so bad to have some hulking behemoth around to help dust the ceiling fans instead of dragging out the step ladder. Katsuki's ego always takes an undesirable hit when he wrestles it from the hall closet. It's by and large more satisfying to beat Hitoshi's door down at 7AM and demand he pull his fucking weight around the apartment.
"You're descaling the coffee maker, too," Katsuki informs Hitoshi while he's working on the living room ceiling fan.
"Yes, Katsuki," Hitoshi says in the tone someone uses when they're moments away from wringing someone's neck. Serves him right for sleeping in like a loser on Katsuki's scheduled cleaning day. He put it on their shared calendar in the kitchen. It wasn't a secret. "There. Done."
Katsuki puts a pin in wiping down the interior windows with every intention of judging Hitoshi's handiwork, but instead he whips around just to be accosted by Hitoshi's bare stomach. That stupidly small shirt rides up on Hitoshi's stupidly large frame while he uses Katsuki's beloved duster to capture a stray dust bunny.
Katsuki's not proud to say it, but even Hitoshi's shirt riding up the slightest bit is a sight for his sore eyes. Hitoshi stopped walking around shirtless around the time the temperatures dropped, so Katsuki hasn't been getting his daily eyeful for a few weeks now.
His gaze lingers for a beat too long on Hitoshi's happy trail. His stomach looks softer and squishier than the last time Katsuki saw it. It could be a trick of the light, but Katsuki thinks he spots a mostly-healed scar that wasn't there before either.
Katsuki averts his gaze in a hurry when Hitoshi glances down and sweeps his hand over the lowest part of his stomach, as if to brush away lint or a pesky bug, like Katsuki was staring for a perfectly sane reason rather than creeping on his fucking roommate. The too-small shirt gets tugged back into place after that.
Just to send Hitoshi on his way, Katsuki bitchily deems the ceiling fan acceptable, snatches the duster out of Hitoshi's unworthy hands, and moves on like nothing happened.
Hitoshi doesn't say anything, but Katsuki's neck flares with heat every time Hitoshi looks at him for the rest of the night.
One winter day while Katsuki's getting ready for work, Hitoshi bangs on the wall of the shower and hollers, "Katsuki!"
Katsuki rolls his eyes. He'll bet anything Hitoshi forgot a towel for the millionth time. Apparently Hitoshi's teachability has its limits, and those limits lie at grabbing a damn towel before he hops in the shower.
"Fuckin' what?" Katsuki shouts back once he pokes his head into the bathroom. The shouting isn't really necessary now that he's about five feet away from Hitoshi with nothing but a frosted glass door between them, but if Hitoshi yells, Katsuki yells back. It's the way of things.
The useless idiot in the shower confirms Katsuki's suspicions when he pops open the magnetic door and flaps his hand. "I forgot a towel. Can you grab me one?"
One look at the linen closet tells Katsuki that Hitoshi doesn't have a clean towel to his name, so Katsuki huffs, sacrifices one of his own towels, and shoves it into Hitoshi's waiting hand hard enough to tweak Hitoshi's wrist. Then he descends upon his allocated vanity drawers like he's looking for something in particular.
Technically, he is. Katsuki's on the hunt for a plausible reason to linger.
Like it wasn't his idea to stay for this stupid little show in the first place, Katsuki pulls a face when Hitoshi steps out of the shower with Katsuki's towel slung low around his waist.
His eyes don't stray from his own reflection in the mirror, but Katsuki gets the sinking feeling that Hitoshi senses something untoward anyway. That's been happening more and more lately.
Things have been weird since the ceiling fan incident. Well, 'weird' isn't really the right word; everything's normal. Super normal, even. Pointedly normal.
While Hitoshi ruffles his damp hair and goes about his morning routine, Katsuki applies sunscreen to every inch of his face and neck with light brushes of his fingertips. He ain't made of stone, though, so he takes a peek while he's washing residue off his hands, and confirms Hitoshi's happy trail is alive and well.
Wonderful. That'll certainly help Katsuki sleep tonight.
"Have a good day at work," Hitoshi says as Katsuki stomps away from their double sink vanity.
There's a thread of humor in his voice, rubbing his grubby fucking toes all over the line between derisive and flirtatious for no fucking reason. He's bolder these days, quicker to yank Katsuki's chain without an once of shame, and Katsuki doesn't like it one bit. Least of all because it's his fucking fault for getting caught staring in the first place.
Their eyes catch in the mirror, and Katsuki scowls more out of habit than anything else. Hitoshi's pinning his hair out of his face with stupid glittery clips, his shoulders rippling with each motion, and Katsuki wants to put his head through the wall because of it.
That urge used to be a low hum, just an idle, knee-jerk thought, but these days it coils in the pit of Katsuki's stomach and makes him feel jittery. Mostly because Katsuki ain't thinking about putting his head through the wall so much as he's thinking about burying his face in between Hitoshi's shoulder blades, scraping his teeth over that bothersome cafe au lait spot, and skimming his nails through Hitoshi's happy trail. Maybe Hitoshi would let his hand wander lower than that. Katsuki likes to think Hitoshi would let him.
Katsuki's thoughts never really go beyond that. He's not so sure he actually wants to have sex with Hitoshi. He's not so sure he wants to have sex with anyone. Honestly, he's not even sure he likes being around Hitoshi, which brings him back to square one. Saying something like "I want to touch your happy trail, and then I want you to never look at me again" probably wouldn't go over too well.
Hitoshi's eyebrows twitch in his reflection, but he holds Katsuki's gaze.
"I'm heading out," Katsuki says, more to convince himself to move than anything else.
To his own ears, those words sound like an admission. Hitoshi just looks away, apparently unbothered by whatever the fuck just happened, and says, "Bye."
Before he leaves for work, so bundled up he's lumbering around like a graceless astronaut, Katsuki stuffs the lunch he prepared last night into a bag and pulls a face at the matching container that sits on Hitoshi's side of the fridge.
Sometimes Katsuki makes too much food, so Hitoshi gets a handout. That's what Katsuki tells himself anyway.
Whatever Hitoshi gets up to on the weekends isn't any of Katsuki's damn business, but he thinks he's justified for stuttering on his feet when he dips into the bathroom late one Saturday night and catches Hitoshi dusting his eyelids with sparkly purple eyeshadow.
"Hey," Hitoshi greets distractedly, far too busy painting what looks like a galaxy above his right eye. Iridescent rhinestones dot his face in a wavy pattern, and every shiny spot accentuates Hitoshi's bone structure. He wears a slouchy mesh top that seems to have glitter embedded in every stitch paired with ripped-up jeans.
If Hitoshi's goal was to look like he rolled in a mound of glitter, Katsuki would grudgingly admit he's nailing it. Somehow, someway, the overall effect is worse than Hitoshi walking around shirtless.
Katsuki says what must be said. "You look fucking stupid."
Because he can't roll his eyes without fucking up his face full of makeup, Hitoshi scowls the slightest bit and flashes Katsuki his middle finger, showing off three stacked rings with varying amounts of gaudy crystals.
"Thanks, big guy," Hitoshi drawls before he goes back to perfecting his eyeshadow. "You wanna help me pick my earrings?"
Based on that tone, he's fucking with Katsuki. For whatever goddamn reason, Katsuki plays along. "What's the occasion?"
Hitoshi blinks at him in the mirror. Katsuki folds his arms over his chest and conjures up a dirty look. "Uh, it's glitter night at the club. Mina invited me." He shuts his eyeshadow palette with a click and turns to give Katsuki a considering look. "I can trust you, right? Aren't your parents fashion designers?"
Curling his lip, Katsuki gives Hitoshi's outfit a long, pointed once-over. It's a crime as far as Katsuki's concerned. He hopes his distaste shows on his face. "They are." He tries to pin his mouth shut after that scathing head-to-toe scan, but no dice. "Where are your shitty earrings at?"
If Hitoshi's surprised Katsuki's actually helping, he doesn't show it; he just leads Katsuki to his bedroom and gestures to the earring display stand on top of his dresser. Katsuki surveys the choices, most of which are god awful and look like they were snatched from a teenager in Harajuku. Amongst the sea of neon, gimmicky earrings, a small, dainty twist of silver catches Katsuki's eye. The subtle spiral would compliment the pattern of the rhinestones decorating Hitoshi's face. The silver would add a little more sparkle without outshining Hitoshi's eyesore of an outfit.
"These," Katsuki decides after another perusal of Hitoshi's earring collection. He gives the spiral-shaped earrings a little flick.
Hitoshi obediently swipes them off his earring display and uses his bedroom mirror as he threads them through his ears. He turns back to Katsuki, twin spirals dangling from either of his lobes, and raises his eyebrows a tick.
Not quite trusting his voice, Katsuki just nods. It's better to keep his cards close to his chest anyway.
Seeming pleased, Hitoshi turns back to his mirror and fingers the spirals Katsuki picked for him. Katsuki's not happy about it, but something curls in his stomach. Something that feels an awful lot like pride.
"Thanks, Katsuki," Hitoshi says.
Katsuki grunts and slams Hitoshi's bedroom door behind him. It takes him ten minutes to remember why he dipped into the bathroom in the first place. He was gonna plaster on a hydrating face mask. There's no way in hell he's doing that shit right now while Hitoshi's walking around looking like. . .that.
Like a spurned divorcée, Katsuki perches on the edge of his bed and broods until Hitoshi leaves for the club.
It's way past Katsuki's bedtime, but he can't sleep for whatever shitty reason, and none of his usual coping mechanisms are working despite Katsuki's full-hearted attempts to go to fucking sleep.
Whatever the hell his problem is, it has to do with Hitoshi. That's as far as he's gotten in terms of internal processing in the last few hours.
Counting his breaths in the four-seven-eight pattern just pisses Katsuki off. He counts until he's blue in the face, but he's no closer to conking out.
Relaxing each of his muscles one at a time: a fucking no-go. Not one of his muscles cooperates with Katsuki tonight.
Doing push-ups until his arms get tired: cool, now his arms are tired, but his brain's still whirring like a fridge overdue for maintenance.
Katsuki slings his arms around his knees where he sits on his bedroom floor. He can't believe he's losing sleep over fucking Hitoshi. No — just, uh, over Hitoshi. Not over fucking Hitoshi. Katsuki's not thinking about fucking Hitoshi. Much. On purpose, at least.
Since Katsuki's experienced sexual attraction towards a grand total of one person, he doesn't really know how to interpret the knot in his stomach. It feels like dread to Katsuki, but he's starting to get the sense that it's far, far worse.
The longer he sits there thinking about Hitoshi and his fucking sparkles, the more Katsuki's dick wants to get hard. Katsuki snuffs it out by force of will alone, but that's the truth revealed. Katsuki's horny.
How fucking humiliating.
Katsuki sighs in the privacy of his own room and knocks his forehead against his knee. Humiliating isn't the right word. Katsuki feels embarrassed, sure, but feeling horny isn't a moral failure in and of itself. It's just. . .inconvenient, Katsuki decides, and maybe a little awkward.
Luckily, someone saves Katsuki from his own mind and barrels into the apartment before he can descend into something as deranged as a two AM cleaning spree to avoid further self-reflection.
Katsuki's teeth clench as he strains his ears, trying to suss out how many pairs of feet there are in the entryway right now. He hears a muttered curse, two dull thuds, and the distinctive crash of a very big body landing on the living room couch.
"Fuck yeah," Hitoshi announces to no one in particular. The sound of his voice is muffled through Katsuki's wall.
Fuck no, Katsuki decides as he springs up off his bedroom floor and stomps into the living room on a mission to save his couch from Hitoshi. The bastard's probably raining glitter all over the pristine fabric after a night at the club, and unless he stripped naked in a matter of three seconds, he's sitting on their couch in his germ-infested, sweaty outside clothes. Katsuki's gonna throttle him.
To Hitoshi's credit, he scrambles up and off the couch before Katsuki flicks the living room light on and barks, "Get off the fucking couch, you son of a bitch."
Like a well behaved child, Hitoshi clasps his hands behind his back and keeps his face carefully blank. "I'm not on it."
Two pairs of eyes slide to the couch where Hitoshi's discarded puffer jacket lay in a lump. Hitoshi clears his throat and shuffles sideways to hide his shame.
"Take a damn shower, Eyebags," Katsuki practically growls.
"I would, you know," Hitoshi says, massaging the back of his neck, "but if I wanna shower, I gotta take off my jewelry, and my makeup, and my face gems, and my eyelashes, and that's just. . .a lot of shit to do."
What the fuck ever. Hitoshi made his bed, and he better fucking lie in it before Katsuki has a conniption fit. Katsuki jams a finger at the hallway. "Go."
The master of misdirection ignores Katsuki's command. "Why are you up anyway?"
"Because I knew you'd come home and wreck the fucking place with all your glitter," Katsuki lies.
Hitoshi arches his eyebrows and surveys Katsuki with his stupid lidded eyes.
Katsuki doesn't like that look one fucking bit. Unfortunately, his dick likes it an awful lot. Even worse, his force of will is a hell of a lot weaker with Hitoshi standing right in front of him, glittery and tall and tousled from a night spent dancing. Katsuki's dick isn't taking any orders from him.
Scurrying away would be admitting defeat and adjusting himself would be as good as a death sentence. Katsuki stands his ground and hopes that whatever's going on below his waist isn't evident to Hitoshi.
Just to make matters worse for Katsuki, Hitoshi tilts his head and asks, "You wanna help me out?"
His voice is outrageously low, annoyingly level, and. . .ostensibly serious. So serious, in fact, that Katsuki can't help but wonder what helping Hitoshi might look like.
His mind has no problem coming up with an answer. Katsuki could figure out how to twist those earrings out of Hitoshi's earlobes, slow and gentle to avoid any uncomfortable tugs, and he could trace the curve of Hitoshi's neck while he's at it. He could chip off those face gems one at a time, the perfect cover story for the way Katsuki wants to touch every inch of Hitoshi's face. Hitoshi needs a shower, so Katsuki could strip him out of that ugly fucking shirt and brush his knuckles against Hitoshi's happy trail just to satisfy his curiosity. Are the hairs soft? Are they coarse? He's sick to death of that shit taunting him.
He could do every bit of that, and he'd have plausible deniability to cover his ass, too. Hitoshi's tipsy and likely fucking with Katsuki for the millionth time; Katsuki's tired and envious of every motherfucker that got to see Hitoshi dance tonight. They would end up punching each other.
Maybe they wouldn't, though.
Narrowly resisting the urge to careen into the nearest wall for some good, old fashioned head trauma, Katsuki spits, "No, fuckface."
Seemingly unbothered, Hitoshi shoulders past Katsuki, all warm and tall and solid as a fucking rock. "Suit yourself."
Irritation simmers in Katsuki's gut. He has zero interest in suiting himself. He wants to watch Hitoshi scrape his fucking sparkles off, and as of three seconds ago, Hitoshi extended a gold-lined invitation to do just that before Katsuki opened his stupid fucking mouth and said no.
He slams his bedroom door hard enough to rattle the jamb.
In the morning, Katsuki hauls himself out of bed after a night of subpar sleep, does his morning stretches, and exits his bedroom to find Hitoshi sprawled on the couch looking like an extra large heap of roadkill.
His shirt is riding up. Katsuki doesn't appreciate that. Furthermore, Hitoshi's skin glistens in the muted sunlight sneaking through the blinds like he's one of those vampires from that shitty movie he forced Katsuki to watch a few weeks ago. Apparently one shower wasn't enough to wash all of Hitoshi's glitter away.
Katsuki ignores Hitoshi the best that he can while his happy trail's out and shining in the fucking sun like a beacon (which is to say, Katsuki steals glances every other second and feels like he deserves jail time for the thoughts that flit through his mind) and swings the fridge open to grab the eggs and a container of baby spinach.
Right away, Hitoshi bolts upright on the couch. His eyes are so droopy it's plain miserable, and his hair looks like Denki sanded his hands together until sparks flew and scrubbed them over Hitoshi's scalp.
"Breakfast?" Hitoshi asks hopefully.
If he's miserable enough to put some intonation in his voice, he must be worse off than he looks. Katsuki sighs like he's put-upon, like he wasn't planning on making enough for Hitoshi, like he wasn't thinking about brewing him some fresh coffee since whatever's in the pot looks old and burnt. Hitoshi must not have slept well after imbibing all night. "Scrambled eggs with spinach. Take it or leave it."
"Taking it," Hitoshi says in a heartbeat.
Katsuki grunts and gives Hitoshi an extra long look now that he's sitting up. The sun sneaks through their windows and reveals all the many flecks of glitter in Hitoshi's hair, on the apples of his cheeks, in the shell of his fucking ear. He's so fucking fine, it's nauseating. He's so fucking fine, Katsuki's gonna make the best damn scrambled eggs of his life and hope that gets him some brownie points. Brownie points towards what, who fucking knows, but Katsuki's determined to get them anyway.
He sets to work and decides not to complain when Hitoshi joins him in the kitchen. Hitoshi seems content to just watch Katsuki cook rather than poking around and being a nuisance, so Katsuki's not too against having company, especially when he cracks his eggs one-handed like a bad ass and gets to show off a little.
All too often, Katsuki can't make heads or tails of how he feels around Hitoshi. Of course he thinks Hitoshi's hot, ergo Katsuki wants to impress him. Katsuki likes being watched and Hitoshi has a staring problem a mile wide.
For a while, Katsuki thought that was an intimidation tactic. He's not so sure anymore. These days, Hitoshi's eyes seem to linger on Katsuki for no apparent reason. He watches intently while Katsuki folds laundry in the living room, when Katsuki tugs on his sneakers to head out for a jog, and sometimes when Katsuki isn't doing much more than existing and breathing air. Sometimes Katsuki tells him to cut the shit, but more often than not, he lets Hitoshi drink his fill. He likes that he's worth staring at in Hitoshi's book.
"So," Hitoshi drawls, drumming his fingertips on the kitchen counter, "we ever gonna talk about why you stare at me?"
For a beat, Katsuki's utterly fucking flabbergasted. He wonders where the hell Hitoshi got the nerve to say something so pointed, especially when he's the one staring right now. Katsuki's just trying to scramble some fucking eggs, and Hitoshi's — verbally assaulting him, or something.
All Katsuki can do is plaintively snap, "No."
He pastes on a scowl afterwards, a bit of a delayed reaction, but better late than never even if at that point it's just for the benefit of the spinach scattered across the cutting board. Maybe there's still time to set the record straight while he's chopping this shit. "I don't stare, fuckface. You're just always in my way."
The words come out sullen, but that's pretty much baseline Katsuki. There's nothing to be done about it. He can, however, do something about the sudden looming presence at his back as Hitoshi shuffles closer to breathe down Katsuki's fucking neck.
Katsuki throws an elbow back to make his discontent known.
Hardly ruffled, Hitoshi catches Katsuki's attempt to start a confrontation and cups Katsuki's other elbow for good measure. "Thanks for making us breakfast, Katsuki," he says softly.
The sound of Hitoshi's voice saying 'us' makes Katsuki's stomach swoop before he catches himself.
"Yeah, well. . ." Katsuki struggles to swallow the lump in his throat and struggles even harder to refocus on chopping the spinach. "If you're hungry, I'll cook. It ain't a big deal."
Hitoshi seems to decide Katsuki's elbows are too mobile to keep hold of for now. Instead, he hovers his hands over Katsuki's sides, like he's testing the waters before he dives in, and Katsuki holds his breath until Hitoshi stops fucking around and curls his hands around Katsuki's waist.
Being touched full-on is a hell of a lot better to Katsuki than the threat of being touched, but not by much. The stupid chef's knife shakes in his hand the slightest bit. His poor spinach suffers a few not-so-graceful rocks of his knife when Hitoshi ducks down to press his mouth to Katsuki's clothed shoulder.
It's not really a kiss, so Katsuki willfully ignores it. The affection's so foreign, Katsuki doesn't have a clue what to do with it anyway. There's a chance Hitoshi's just being a jackass. Katsuki takes that idea and runs with it.
Plausible deniability goes out the window a second later when Hitoshi smooches his ear and seals his chest to Katsuki's back. In a matter of seconds, Katsuki feels like he's enveloped by a heated blanket with an ear fetish. Chopping the spinach quickly devolves from 'inconvenient' to 'impossible' because of Hitoshi's warm, increasingly insistent lips.
Katsuki feels like he might throw up from some mix of fear and delight. "You want your eggs or not?"
"I do," Hitoshi says indignantly. "I just want a kiss or something, too."
Katsuki isn't a coward, so he twists around just enough to smash his lips against Hitoshi's rather artlessly, weathers a full-body tingle that's half-terror half-excitement, and shoves the fucker away. "Get out of here."
"I don't wanna. I wanna kiss some more."
"Fuck no," Katsuki means to say, but he's too busy trying get his heart rate down after. . .that. It didn't feel all that good for a first kiss. Honestly, Hitoshi smacking his lips against Katsuki's ear felt better, but Katsuki would sooner die again than admit as much. "Not while I'm cooking."
That's what Katsuki says, anyway, but he lets Hitoshi crowd him against the stove while he pours the whisked eggs into a skillet with nary a grumble because his heart's too busy getting lodged in his throat. Hitoshi dusts a few warm, lazy kisses against Katsuki's neck, and un-fucking-fortunately, Katsuki's head tilts to the side to give Hitoshi more room. It kind of tickles, but in a nice way.
"C'mon, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight can't multitask?" Hitoshi murmurs against his ear, and it takes Katsuki a second to realize that tickled in more than a nice way. That actually tickled in a distinctly 'my dick's getting hard' way.
The realization makes Katsuki feel jumpy, so he jerks his head away from Hitoshi's shitty mouth and sleep-hoarse voice and curls his lip. Like hell is he gonna admit that he can't focus on the damn food because Hitoshi's kissing him. Katsuki glowers at the eggs and the spinach he so inexpertly chopped, Hitoshi wrapped around him like the world's largest, most irritating backpack while Katsuki finishes up breakfast, but he doesn't hate it enough to tell Hitoshi to fuck off.
Hitoshi mouths at his jaw, brushes his lips over the scar on Katsuki's cheek, and arches his neck just enough to catch the corner of Katsuki's mouth. He's being a fucking pest, but Katsuki kind of likes it, so he turns and lets Hitoshi kiss him head-on. Hitoshi doesn't let him go for a long moment, his hand cradling Katsuki's jaw as he gives him a real kiss, at least the first one where Katsuki didn't taste metal. It's a pretty soft brush of lips. Every one of Katsuki's friends would probably cackle at him for getting jittery over something as innocent as this.
Katsuki's grip spasms around the handle of the skillet at the thought, caught between clutching Hitoshi right back and punching him just to get them back on familiar ground. In the end, Katsuki just shoves the big lug away for good and grumbles, "Grab some plates, will you?"
Katsuki wrinkles his nose at the rubbery eggs as he plates them a few minutes later. This rendition of breakfast isn't Katsuki's best work, but he can't find it in himself to be too bothered when he's trying not to freak out. At least Hitoshi's keeping busy on the other side of the kitchen, filling glasses with water and snagging them some silverware.
Everyone always makes noise about having butterflies in their stomach with shit like this. Katsuki couldn't relate less. All he feels in his stomach is a cluster of lead that seems to be reproducing asexually and exponentially. He has his doubts about whether or not he'll be able to choke down the food.
Hitoshi clears his throat after they clear their plates. If he looks at Katsuki, Katsuki's none the wiser. He's held eye contact with his water glass from the moment he sat down on the couch. His mind won't stop playing Hitoshi's affections on repeat, and it's kind of making Katsuki's skin crawl.
All the kissing and touching feels awfully romantic in hindsight. Katsuki never thought he was that kind of guy. He still thinks he's not that kind of guy. Katsuki feels like he slipped out of his own skin for ten minutes and came back to find the place going up in flames.
"So. . ." Hitoshi says, thankfully startling Katsuki out of his thoughts. "I've got an idea."
His tone reveals nothing as per usual, but Katsuki suspicious anyway. "Uh-huh."
"Hey, I've had good ideas before," Hitoshi points out. "I was the one who suggested we move in together."
Katsuki pulls a face. "You think that was a good idea?"
Hitoshi reaches for Katsuki's plate and makes grabby hands like a fucking child. Katsuki already regrets what happened in the kitchen, but he shoves the dish into Hitoshi's hand and takes special care to avoid any accidental brushes of skin. He's all touched out, and he has no idea how to say that without shouting. "I'm pretty sure I'm about to get you to watch New Moon, so yeah."
Katsuki didn't even notice the knot of tension that gathered between his shoulders until Hitoshi melted the tension away by saying something as stupid as that. A movie means relatively quiet time and minimal chatter. A movie means sitting around and waiting for his nervous system to realize he's not being chased by a rampaging grizzly. A movie sounds fucking great.
Katsuki should say something like, "That second shitty vampire movie? I'll pass," if only for appearance's sake, but instead what comes out is a rather soft agreement. "Yeah, okay."
Not that Katsuki would ever admit it, but there's a few thank-yous tucked inside of those two words. A barely-there smile tugs at Hitoshi's lips as he stands from the couch, dishes in hand.
Katsuki scowls and adjusts his attitude in a heartbeat before Hitoshi gets any big ideas. "I mean, fuckin' whatever, fine; we'll watch your shitty movie."
That was a close one, Katsuki thinks as Hitoshi strolls off to wash the dishes. For a second there, he almost showed his hand.