Chapter Text
Now that they live together, Katsuki’s made to realise certain things.
In particular, how quickly they ended.
“You don't eat it, do you?” he asks, half-assertive, half-suspicious. He turns to look at Eijiro pushing the cart, leaning his hands on it. Almost everything there is what they actually need—vegetables, fruits, herbs, several sealed packages of imported meat that Katsuki plans to throw in the freezer later to keep from spoiling, six cans of Coke (sugar-free), salt-and-vinegar chips, protein bars…
“What?”
They stop before the shelves with household goods.
“We're running out of paper really fast.”
Eijiro raises his hands in surrender with a sigh. “Look, man, I'll eat whatever you put in front of me, but I'm not that desperate yet.”
Katsuki hums thoughtfully in response. Then, without much enthusiasm, selects a huge package of thirty-two rolls from the shelf. Four layers of scented paper that promise transcendental journey into forest fields and lavender groves, inhabited either by fairies or invisible paper-eating fiends. No other explanation as for why they run out of one damn roll in less than a week.
Katsuki tosses it on top of everything else they've accumulated so far, and mentally crosses off toilet paper that’s been nagging him to this day from the grocery list. The logistics of how Eijiro would transport the goods to the cashier is no longer Katsuki’s problem.
In his head though, he determines a plan for tonight’s dinner so that they’ll have enough leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch as well. Mealprep has never been a problem for Katsuki—meal planning, on the other hand, has been a real headache ever since his frontal lobe developed. He goes to great lengths to avoid repeating the dishes and cook something new that wasn’t on this week’s menu. To add some flair to their life, so to speak. And most importantly, he wants Eijiro to like it too, even though the other claims to be not picky at all.
Picky or not, he will eat what Katsuki gives him.
“Man, why are those spawns of Satan in the cart again?” a question materialises indignantly from behind. It comes from none other than the man that Katsuki stays awake for until late at night, trying to come up with something delicious for lunch, dinner, and preferably breakfast.
Eijiro dives to the bottom of their cart and shakes the bag of chips.
“Salt and vinegar?” he asks incriminatingly, as if he wasn't the one who stood right next to Katsuki in the junk food aisle just now, and claimed he absolutely didn't care what Katsuki chose. Just throw it all in the cart, he said. I'll take care of it, he said. “Really?”
“Something’s wrong?”
“They taste like armpits.”
“And you’ve tried how many armpits in your life, exactly?” Katsuki raises an eyebrow.
“Honestly? Not a single one.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes.
“Then where does this bold knowledge come from?” he moves on, knowing Eijiro will obediently follow.
They still have a crowd of hungry former classmates to invite to a housewarming party on the agenda, and Katsuki dutifully scans the shelves searching for portable grill. He can already imagine troglodytes that were promised grilled meat, lamb skewers, and everything nice, even breathtaking view from the rooftop of their penthouse with a jacuzzi. Salt-and-vinegar chips are the last thing on his mind right now.
“Think about it logically.”
“About armpits?”
“About c-h-i-p-s, Bakugo!” Eijiro clarifies, drawing out each word as he deftly turns their cart around the corner to keep pace with Katsuki.
“I took them because I’m sure they won’t gobbled up on the very first day.”
“But only misers do that! What if there’s some cool action happening in the movie and I’d need to munch on something urgently? My tastebuds are gone.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
“Bakugo. This is very serious. I have no idea how you eat them.”
“We're not going back to the chip aisle, Kirishima.”
To Katsuki's great chagrin, food is one of those things that run out in the blink of an eye—the sheer speed at which they consume everything daily is comparable to that of the universe. Katsuki, who’d spent his entire life providing just for himself, now had two hungry mouths to feed at once. It is why he was so looking forward to today.
Eijiro cheerfully lugs heavy grocery bags to their car and tosses them into the open trunk while Katsuki checks his watch. They're perfectly timed by the delivery man's arrival, and, seconds after Katsuki turns the doorknob, his brand-new Zojirushi is carefully handed to him ready for immediate testing. Black and sleek design, touch-sensitive panel—they aren’t calling it the Porsche of kitchen appliances for nothing.
Katsuki admires the rice cooker from afar, pleased with how it fits into their apartment's decor. He has plenty of plans for it already—even saved recipes he found interesting. At a certain age, you start to appreciate even the simplest things based on their usefulness.
“It’s nice to see you so happy,” Eijiro grins without any mockery.
Katsuki snorts and starts reading the manual. If it says it's mandatory to read before use, then so be it.
“What's for dinner?” Eijiro asks, watching Katsuki pace back and forth.
“Hm. How about—” Katsuki looks into the fridge after tightening the apron around his waist, “—rice and salmon?”
“Salmon and rice,” Eijiro repeats, slumping over the kitchen island with his hand under his head, and looks at Katsuki dreamily. “Whatever you say, love.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes, tossing the fish onto the cutting board. Eijiro doesn't need to know that Katsuki's reluctantly starting to like whatever pet names he’s been given. Nor does he need to know about the blush dusting the tips of his ears.