Work Text:
Eijirou sets a cardboard box down with a huff, flicking sweat everywhere as his hand drags across his brow. “I think that’s everything.”
There’s a sound of affirmation from the other room, where Katsuki’s been holed up assembling their bedframe. Eijirou surveys the scene of precariously stacked boxes and unlabeled containers and sighs.
The living room looks like something exploded in it, which wasn’t far off from the truth because Katsuki almost blew Denki’s face off an hour ago for dropping a box of plates. Nothing broke, thanks to Hanta’s reflexes and the bubble wrap powers that be, but it was a near thing.
Their friends are gone for now, which makes all the work to be done hard to ignore. He’s exhausted, but there’ll be time to be tired later. The more that gets done now, the better.
Eijirou picks up another box, this one mercifully labeled POTS PANS.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” he calls out again, scanning the floor for other signs of organization. There’s another muffled affirmation in reply, which has him shaking his head and smiling as he moves to the next room.
Eijirou sets the box down on the kitchen counter, rubbing away the irritation on his fingers from the weight of the other bags he grabbed on the way—some utensils, smaller appliances. They all spill over immediately and he puffs out a laugh. Of course.
The kitchen has always been Katsuki’s territory, but Eijirou would be lying if he didn’t say this was his favorite room in the house. He loves how it already feels lived in; the wear of the walls tells so many stories, and now it’ll be part of their own.
The cabinets sit unevenly, wood water-warped and aged, with shelves that bow under the weight of Katsuki’s extensive spice rack. The appliances are a little outdated, and the backsplash is fucking ugly—Katsuki’s words, because Eijirou kinda likes the weird colors—and in the middle of the kitchen sits a thick slab of marbled stone breaking up the room, with half a handprint already singed into the side from when Katsuki stubbed his toe on the corner of it during the tour. They kinda had to sign the lease after that—damages and all—but it felt meant to be.
That was two months ago. Today, they get to tuck barstools under the lip of the island. Tonight, he knows who’ll be sitting in them, drinks in hand, as they make them all dinner. He can imagine quiet mornings with Katsuki and sleepless nights after work. He can imagine it being home, because it is.
They’d been long-distance for most of their early pro years, with Eijirou in Musutafu and Katsuki in Tokyo. He’s glad for it in a lot of ways. They both learned how to stand on their own two feet as freshman heroes breaking out onto the scene. That had always been the priority.
Then, he got a little older. Missing Katsuki became habit, a phantom limb sense that hung around his growing collection of train tickets and empty shoebox apartment. Priorities changed. The numbers mattered less.
It was the easiest decision in the world. He thinks about waking up to Katsuki’s face tomorrow morning, and he knows it was the right one.
Katsuki finds him like that, introspective as he stares at the half-filled room.
“You getting cold feet?”
“Nah,” Eijirou looks to him with a smile. “You think you can run me off now?”
“I’ve tried,” Katsuki says, dropping a kiss on his shoulder. “Didn’t take.”
Eijirou snorts. “Yeah, real bummer.”
They lean against each other in comfortable silence. Katsuki turns to line up his fingers with the imprint of his palm in the wood.
“This is good,” he says, and Eijirou knows he’s not talking about the island. “Solid.”
“Oh, you’re suddenly an expert in countertop materials?” he teases still. “Big granite guy over here?”
“What can I say?” Katsuki smirks. “I know how I like my rocks.”
It’s the kind of line no one would believe Katsuki would say, and though Eijirou rolls his eyes, the sentiment radiates warmth across his face. The reassurance settles exactly how he needed it.
“Good height too,” Katsuki adds, cheeky as he leans down onto his forearms. Eijirou tracks the line of his back as he sticks his hips out and can’t help but agree.
The scene plays out in his head. The before. The after. The next. This is the beginning of the rest of their lives. He suddenly cannot wait for it to start.
Eijirou grins and rips open the box in front of him.
“Yeah,” he says. “Great, even.”
—
Katsuki rises early. It’s a rare day off, but his circadian rhythm never accounts for that, still used to the rookie routine of one patrol shift bleeding into another.
Still, it’s nice to have more of the day to enjoy before the next one comes and buries it in paperwork and villains and noise. Eijirou had stumbled in late last night, held hostage by those very things, and now embodies the shapeless lump beside him under the covers. Katsuki smooths a hand over the tangle of red hair on the pillow and goes to brush his teeth.
The apartment is washed in the blue-yellow light of morning peeking through the windows. He pads into the kitchen, pulling a sweater over his head as gooseflesh prickles at his arms, and sends a silent thank you to the Eijirou of yesterday who started the dishwasher on his way in. He cracks it open, taking care to be quiet as he slides his fingers through the handles of two clean mugs and shuts it again; a task for later.
It’s second-nature by now, grinding the coffee beans to filling the machine with water and listening to it spit. He knows without measuring how to make enough for two, spooning sugar into one and a splash of milk for the other. He’s always been more partial to tea himself, but this is just another one of those things—one of the ways that Eijirou has become an inextricable part of who Katsuki is. The caffeine is not nearly as addictive as the promise of this, every morning, for the rest of their lives.
And the taste has grown on him. The quality is something he’s learned to discern, and prefer, and that Eijirou enjoys, asking about notes of chocolate and raspberry and bullshit other flavors with a wicked tilt in his eyebrow. But even he can tell that what they buy for home is far better than the gasoline they both mainline from break room machines on long nights.
There’s comfort in the way it lingers warm in the air. The rich wave of fresh brew fills the room and wafts toward where Eijirou is just now waking up—another victim to the hero’s sleep cycle. Katsuki can hear the sheets being pulled back, the creak of his feet hitting the ground. The bathroom door shuts, then opens again a few minutes later, and then Eijirou is in front of him, collapsing into a stool. The yawn that follows stretches his mouth wide, jaw popping as he brings himself back into the present.
Katsuki wordlessly slides his mug over the counter. Eijirou stares down into it like he can see through to the bottom before he tips the liquid back into his mouth with a sigh.
“Notes of grass and dirt. Very nice.”
Katsuki looks back at the bag of coffee beans advertising an earthy, full-bodied blend and huffs a laugh.
“Sleep well?”
Eijirou lifts a shoulder, takes another sip. Not great, then.
Instead of calling him on it, he lets the silence stretch—lifting his own drink, taking Eijirou in; eyelids heavy, lashes fluttering with every slow blink. As always, Katsuki seeks out the tiny scar above his brow. There are greater ones now, darker and more vicious in their path across his skin, but this one has always held fast, faded with age and carrying so much history for something so little. He reaches across the counter to thumb over it now, brushing Eijirou’s hair back as he leans into the touch. He’s met with a soft kiss to his palm, then another to his knuckles.
The morning passes gentle and easy. They have nowhere to be today, and nowhere they’d rather be than here. Another cup of coffee is poured, nursed, and trading lazy kisses in the kitchen becomes the couch becomes bed again. He’ll cook something later, and they’ll go for a run. Eijirou will probably want to hit the grocery store, and there are a few shows they’ve been meaning to catch up on. Maybe he’ll read. Maybe they’ll just be.
He feels older today in a way that steadies him—not just because of the shadow of his stubble or the set of his spine, but because he looks at Eijirou and all he sees is time.
—
Eijirou’s a million miles away as he throws together breakfast. He’s in no rush, but he’s a little on edge, the jitters of waiting for an important text crawling up and down his skin like ants.
Today’s the day he’s supposed to hear final confirmation on who he’ll be working with for this year’s merch calendars. His team has been working overtime sourcing charity organizations, and there’s one that Eijirou is really, really hoping he gets to sponsor this year, so if his agent could just text him back, everything would be perfect.
But she hasn’t yet, so Eijirou redirects all of his nervous energy into scrambling some eggs and chopping vegetables. It’s nice to chop vegetables. Monotonous. Distracting. So easy. Chop. Chop. Chop.
The notification he’s been waiting for lights up his phone and he whips his head to the side—
The knife clatters out of his hand, and he stumbles back into the countertop. “Motherfucker!”
The meat of his thumb is split in an angry wound, deep and red. Eijirou sucks a breath in between clenched teeth, shaking his hand like he can fling the pain off of him. He catches sight of blood all over the onions and curses again.
“Eijirou,” he hears Katsuki call out to him from the living room. “You good?”
“All good, babe,” he replies, with all the forced cheer he can muster. He sucks his thumb into his mouth and then beelines to the sink. “Don’t even worry about it!”
He hears a muffled snort through the wall and the creak of someone getting up from the couch. So much for no witnesses. Katsuki finds him hunched over the tap, water running pink from his fingers.
“I got the Himiko’s Home sponsorship!” he says. “I don’t mean this. This is nothing.”
Katsuki furrows his brow at the trail of blood from the counter to the sink. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”
Eijirou turns off the tap, and Katsuki hands him a paper towel. It soaks up more blood. Why is he bleeding so much? He feels a little idiotic.
“Sliced my finger open. My fault. I was looking at my phone while dicing,” he admits. “Wasn’t paying attention, so I didn’t even harden in time.”
Katsuki looks around him to the pan on the stove. “And what happened here?”
Eijirou winces. The eggs aren’t burnt, they’re just—really, really well-done. In his panic, he hadn’t turned off the stove.
“Young hoes cook everything on high,” he mutters morosely. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Katsuki says. He takes Eijirou’s hand to plant an apologetic kiss on his wrist. “The gas is on medium-low. It’s okay—I’ll toss this and we can start over. Go get a band-aid.”
Eijirou’s lips twitch as he makes his way to the bathroom to comply. The pain is already fading, his embarrassment a stronger feeling, but he finds a multipack of the right size and lets Katsuki press one over his hand like he’s a little kid. Blood starts to stain through the edges, so he pulls out another one to layer on top.
“There,” he says, smoothing out the wrinkles of the adhesive. He drops another kiss to his hand like he can’t help himself.
“I feel better already,” Eijirou assures him with a smile. Katsuki has seen him hurt much worse, so the fact that he’s treating a kitchen accident like it’s critical is cute. Eijirou likes it. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
The endearment has the tips of Katsuki’s ears going red, like he knows he’s been made but is stubbornly pretending that he hasn’t. He insists on finishing up breakfast alone, so Eijirou lets himself be coddled and takes a seat behind the counter.
The first band-aid on his hand is green and orange, patterned with tiny explosions. The second is red with little Rs. What a sap. Eijirou could say something about it, but he chooses not to.
Instead, he presses them to his lips with a smile and then focuses on the real thing in front of him.
—
Katsuki takes off his glasses and rubs a hand over his face, the glare of his laptop blinking blue behind his eyelids. One casework backlog had turned into two, turned into seven, and now the bedroom window shows that the sun had set long ago.
He reaches his arms above his head and stretches his shoulders with a satisfying crack. The enticing smell of garlic and onions reaches their room, and his stomach does something hard to ignore. Eijirou making dinner is as good a sign as any to take a break.
He’s a good cook, though he’s shy about it, and Katsuki feels a selfish delight at the fact that he gets to experience it more than anyone else. All of their friends know Katsuki is more than competent in the kitchen—it’s a set of skills he has pride in sharpening, proving over and over again. But with Eijirou, it’s more than a meal. It’s an act of love—the time, the heart, the effort—and it shows. Katsuki often finds himself craving the taste of his care over anything he could find at a restaurant.
He ventures out to the kitchen, unhurried.
Eijirou’s humming something old and sweet, music playing low from his phone as he sways in front of the stove. Katsuki pauses in the doorway to watch him, quiet in the way he’s learned to be to indulge in these moments. He hasn’t noticed yet that he’s not alone, lost in the bob of his head and the sound of the song.
The melody swells and Eijirou’s voice pitches in volume, spatula rising to his lips as he makes a grand sweep with his arm. He takes up so much space, unapologetic in a way that’s been earned, and he should. Katsuki loves that every room in the house is full of him, from the corners to the lights, to the air they both breathe. He feels it in the way his heartbeat calms when he comes home, his body telling him, “Rest now, Eijirou is here.”
No matter where he goes, Eijirou is here.
Katsuki wonders again how he got so lucky. It’s a thought he’s turned over so many times that it’s worn at the edges and soft, wrapping around him like a blanket. He’s learned to let it. There’s a comfort in the reminder to appreciate the man he loves, the man he made him.
His boyfriend continues to give Miki Matsubara an enthusiastic run for her money, before his eyes catch on Katsuki, and he startles.
“Oh my—fuck. How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough,” Katsuki replies, grinning at the way he’s clenching the spatula like a weapon. He makes his way into Eijirou’s space and gets his palms flat over his hips. “Didn’t think I was getting dinner and a show tonight.”
Eijirou gently whacks him with the utensil before tossing it onto the counter and turning off the gas. Hands free, he pulls Katsuki in closer.
“Stay with me,” he croons. “Mayonaka no doa o tataki~”
Katsuki fights a smile and fails as Eijirou sings the rest of the song into his ear, turning him this way and that. The music fades into something softer, sweeter, and Katsuki pulls him further into the embrace, tucking Eijirou's face into his neck and running a hand down his back. He can feel the press of his lips to skin as they turn in a slow circle between the countertop and the stove.
He could do this all night. Eijirou is strong and solid against him, and so warm, nose buried in the shoulder of his pilling sweater, and he feels like home because he is. He doesn’t know when they stop moving. It doesn’t matter. Their breaths catch and adjust to match. The notes of something louder start to blast from the speaker.
Eijirou’s hair tickles the side of his jaw as he lifts his head.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Katsuki says. When he opens his eyes, it feels like waking up from a good dream, but he blinks and nothing changes. Eijirou smiles at him. “I’ll set the table.”
—
Eijirou fights the tremble in his hands as he fits the key into the lock, stumbling through the door as soon as it swings open. He doesn’t catch it as it closes behind him, and it echoes, slicing through the quiet of the too-late hour like a gunshot. He’s sure he’ll hear about it in the morning, but right now he can’t find it in him to care.
His ears are ringing—a one-note whine that pitches high and miserable through his skull, through the room. He can feel it behind his eyes, across the room. If he were to try to speak now, he’s sure it would be the very same noise.
One foot in front of the other, he stops to toe off his boots, fingers unsteady through the tangle of the laces. His eyes catch on the dirt dusting his knuckles, and he digs his nails into his palms hard enough to hurt. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t hurt. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, static threatening the edge of his vision.
Socks, next.
He tries to breathe. It gets stuck somewhere on the way. There’s a cinder block on his sternum, and he’s not strong enough to move it. He wasn’t strong enough to move it.
Bile crawls up his throat, his nose, and he swallows hard. It stings.
Water. He needs water.
It’s dark in the kitchen, save for the cooktop light glowing soft against the wall. The microwave clock reads 2:49 AM.
Sick, sick, sick, he feels sick.
He presses his cheek against the cold, flat surface of the counter and tries to calm himself. He counts in twos and then does it backward. Breathes in. Holds it. Breathes out. Holds it.
In the periphery, he hears the bedroom door open. No, not yet. He screws his eyes shut. The ragged corner of a t-shirt. Hero merch—Deku’s. Small. So small.
Breathes in. Holds it. Breathes out. Holds it.
The sound of footsteps goes past him. The creak and squeal of the cabinet hinges, the clink of glassware. The tap turns on. Turns off. Something slides on the countertop near his head. The stool next to him scrapes against the floor.
And then, silence.
It’s awful. It’s an understanding.
After what feels like a long time, Eijirou turns his head to face him. He peels his eyes open, and Katsuki comes into focus, face inscrutable. The granite is warm against his other cheek.
“Hi.”
It comes out hoarse.
“Hey.”
Just like that, he can feel the lump in his throat expand, the burning behind his eyes becoming harder to ignore. Something wet slips down to his chin.
“I saw the news,” Katsuki says. He rests his hand on the small of Eijirou’s back, a tether. “You did everything you could.”
The tide rises again with a force, stealing his lungs of air. He opens his mouth to catch a breath, and it breaks on a sob.
The hand presses harder to his back. Desperately, Eijirou wishes Katsuki could just reach right through him—wrap his fingers around his spine and hold him upright from the inside. And he wishes he could be stronger so he wouldn’t have to. Because then—
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Eijirou shakes his head, pushing back to brace himself on the counter. He’s no stranger to civilian casualties. They never get any easier.
Eijirou knows he knows. Last year, he had a rescue go sideways. Apartment fire. A family of four that didn’t make it out, even though Katsuki did. They had to stop eating meat for almost three months because he would vomit every time he smelled it.
It was his turn, then, to remind him.
Eijirou loves being a hero, but it never gets any fairer. They can’t save everyone. And who’s there to save them?
The island groans under the clench of his white-knuckle grip, and Katsuki doesn’t take his eyes off his face.
He’s not sure he deserves to be so lucky.
“Eijirou. Breathe.”
He gasps, an open-mouthed inhale, and then he lets himself go—head turned into Katsuki’s shoulder as he rises to meet him. He cries, and he cries, and he cries, and Katsuki weathers the storm, sleeve soaking up the first of it and his heart holding space for the worst.
It’s going to hurt for a long time. He lets it wring him dry tonight, because someone will let him.
His heartbeat starts to settle. The ringing in his ears starts to fade, getting softer and softer until all he hears is Katsuki’s breath and his own.
He inhales. Exhales. It comes easier this time.
Eijirou lifts his head. The side of the countertop crumbles a little around the shape of his fingertips as he lets go. He watches the pieces fall to the floor. Above them, the imprint of Katsuki’s hand.
He feels a little like that now. Still standing, but slowly being chipped away. Katsuki, a permanent mark for all to see. This night, another point of no return.
The kitchen has seen it all for them.
“We match,” he whispers.
Katsuki sighs, bumping their foreheads together. Eijirou thinks he gets it because he always does.
“Yeah, baby, we do.”
—
The ticking of the second hand matches the impatient tap of his foot against the wood.
Eijirou is late.
And Katsuki is alone. Waiting, with two mugs and two plates on the countertop for someone who isn’t home yet. The news drones on from the living room, but nothing worth his attention has made the headlines.
He looks down at his phone, the call history showing four outgoing calls straight to voicemail. The one that connected was a short-lived confirmation from a jumpy receptionist that Eijirou had left work nearly two hours ago.
It’s a twenty-minute commute.
He has half a mind to go out and search for Eijirou himself, but even he can recognize the crazy in that right now. Eijirou’s phone probably died. He’s awful about charging it, and even worse about remembering to keep a charger with him. There haven’t been any villain attacks reported by the media or within the internal hero systems.
So Eijirou is just—late.
Two hours. If he texted the group chat, they’d laugh at him.
His foot moves faster and he digs his nails into his palms. He has to do something. No, he doesn’t.
The itch of cold sweat sits uncomfortably under his collar.
Where the hell is Eijirou?
And then the key turns in the lock.
“Hey,” Eijirou calls from the door. “I’m so sorry, babe, my phone died, and then the train was delayed, and you would not believe how many people stopped me on the way to—”
The rush of relief he feels makes him lightheaded, before he remembers how fucking pissed off he is.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Eijirou pokes his head around the corner and frowns. “I just told you. The train was delayed, and I got held up.”
“For two hours?”
He’s getting loud. He doesn’t know why.
“Katsuki?”
“Whatever,” he spits. “You’re a grown-ass man. I’m not your keeper.”
And Eijirou is more understanding than most, if not all, when it comes to him—but even he is not an endless well. He raises his hands in the air.
“I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m not going to talk to you if you’re going to be like this,” he says.
Katsuki scoffs. It’s a mean thing, and it feels unfamiliar in his mouth when it’s pointed at Eijirou. “Okay.”
Something in Eijirou’s gaze hardens, and he crosses his arms. “Okay.”
He starts to walk away, and Katsuki abruptly feels nauseous.
“Don’t walk away,” he tries. It sounds pathetic.
Eijirou purses his lips. “I’m taking a second.”
With that, he leaves. Katsuki can hear the faint rustling as he hangs up his jacket and toes off his boots. Right. He’d just walked in the door when Katsuki accosted him.
He takes a sip from the mug in front of him just to occupy his mouth. The tea has gone cold, bitter from being oversteeped. So has he, it seems.
Katsuki stares at it and considers smashing it on the ground.
Another version of him might have. Not the one who gets to live in this house.
Instead, he makes himself down the rest of it. It sits filmy on his tongue and does nothing to wash out the taste of his words. He empties the second mug. It is just as disgusting.
His head hurts. He shoves the plates farther away from him.
The TV shuts off in the other room. Eijirou knows that he hates watching the news. He’s probably put two and two together by now.
He hears footsteps approach the kitchen and braces himself.
“You were worried about me,” Eijirou states. “Yes or no?”
Katsuki stares at the grey swirls in the marble. “Yes.”
Eijirou sighs, and Katsuki looks up at him. He looks so tired, all of a sudden. Like the weight of Katsuki’s anger has collected over the years and stuck to the lines of his face.
“Katsuki.”
He feels shame wash over him. There’s a horrifying prickle behind his eyes. What is he doing?
“Katsuki, hey.”
He shakes his head. Tiny black spots dot his vision.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps. “Fuck. I’m being an asshole, I’m sorry.”
“A little,” Eijirou says gently. “What’s going on?”
Katsuki also would love to know. The shroud of paranoia had crept up on him without warning, and then he was back in it—that dark, ugly place.
It’s happened before, when he has too much time in the day—too much room to think, to remember—but it’s been a long time.
His therapist is going to have a field day with this one.
“I was,” he pauses. “I was worried about you.”
Eijirou nods.
“I was worried about you, and it scared me because I didn’t feel like I could do anything if something was wrong?”
His chest feels tight. He screws up his face and tries to let go of the feeling. Eijirou hovers a hand over his jaw, and Katsuki turns into it like a lifeline.
“Five things you can see?” Eijirou asks.
Katsuki fucking hates grounding exercises.
“Your eyes,” he says. “Your nose.”
Eijirou hums.
“The fridge. The oven. My stupidity.”
“Hey,” Eijirou says. “Okay. How about you touch me in four places and we can stop there.”
Katsuki doesn’t understand why he’s being so kind to him. He’s not sure he deserves it right now.
“I can be upset with you and forgive you too,” Eijirou reminds him, because he knows him. “I’m sorry for making you worry.”
“Don’t,” Katsuki says. The air in his lungs still feels thin. He thinks it might for the rest of the night. “Let me be sorry. I’m sorry. Eijirou.”
“I know,” Eijirou says. He wraps Katsuki in his arms and pulls tight. Katsuki closes his eyes. “I know.”
—
Steam rolls out from the bathroom as Eijirou props open the door, wiping condensation from the mirror. Katsuki steps out from behind him, not bothering to cover up as he walks to the kitchen to pour a glass of water.
Eijirou watches him go: shoulders still scored with tension that soap and water couldn’t wash away, back well-muscled and lightly bruised. His gaze lowers with idle interest. He mourns the wasted opportunity to get handsy in the shower, but it had been a dirty day on the job for them both, and not in a fun way.
He wants to break the line of that stress with his mouth. He wants to see Katsuki crack.
He feels a little on the verge of it himself when a baser, boyish instinct makes itself known. It’s the kind of impulse he hasn’t leaned into in a while, and well—something has to give somewhere.
Eijirou grins as the idea comes to mind. Before he can think too hard on it, he pulls off his towel and whips Katsuki’s ass hard.
The impact echoes sharp and Katsuki yelps, the sound so reminiscent of a certain small animal that Eijirou laughs so hard he chokes on it.
“You and your locker room bullshit,” Katsuki complains, shock high on his cheeks. “Are you done?”
He is not. There are tears in his eyes, and he can’t seem to get any words out because Katsuki is naked and dripping on their kitchen floor, hair drooping like an angry puppy, and the noise—
He has to stop and wheeze it out. Bent over, hands on knees business, and Eijirou is already a little delirious from work, but this sends him careening over the edge.
He’s too busy laughing to see the glint form in Katsuki’s eyes. It’s why he isn’t ready when Katsuki comes at him with his fingers outstretched.
Every hero has a weakness.
Eijirou is ticklish.
Everyone in their class has known for years that it was less of a joke and more of a safety hazard. The incident with Ojirou was an accident—his tail fur had just brushed across Eijirou’s side as they sparred, and then there were consequences, and apologies, and warnings.
Only one person had ever done it on purpose and then chosen to do it again. Unfortunately, it was the same person Eijirou had decided to spend the rest of his life with.
“I’m gonna fucking get you—
Yeah, Eijirou’s not proud of the noise that comes out of his mouth either.
“HA!” Katsuki cries, not letting up on his assault of Eijirou’s midsection, his armpits, anywhere he can reach. He’s grinning wide and wild, eyes blazing, and he’s beautiful, even though Eijirou is dying. “What the fuck was that?”
“Party foul!” he shrieks, squirming away. A strong forearm wraps around him, and he only struggles to break away from it a little bit. Naked boyfriend and all. “Party fucking foul—Katsuki, don’t you dare!”
“Say you’re sorry!”
“I’m sorry!” Eijirou yells. He darts to the other side of the island and gasps for air. “I’m sorry that you sound like a tiny fucking dog!”
What can he say, he’s an instigator—and he’s learned from the best. Katsuki looks like he’s about to launch himself over the countertop.
“Wrong answer.”
He comes at him like a bat out of hell, and Eijirou nearly slips and splits his head open on a puddle of water in an effort to dodge. Katsuki lets out a maniacal cackle and then nearly does the same.
They tire themselves out running in circles around the kitchen, and Eijirou gets caught, and then Katsuki lets him go, and the living room blinds are wide open, but Eijirou can’t really find it in him to care.
He lets himself be caught again, and Katsuki crowds him up against the fridge to leave wet, tingly kisses down his neck. It crosses all the right wires in his head. He’s so happy right now—red-faced and breathless, and a little hard.
“You’re a piece of work,” Katsuki bites into his shoulder. “Fucking hell.”
“I’m not sorry,” Eijirou pants, or giggles, he’s not sure. His hips kick forward, and he anchors a hand in Katsuki’s hair. “If it gets me here, I’m never sorry.”
Katsuki lifts his face, amused, and his gaze softens despite the heat of the moment. He digs his fingers into Eijirou’s ribs one last time before grabbing a handful of his ass and squeezing, and Eijirou smiles all the way down into the kiss.
—
“Your cutting board is in my spot,” Mina sings as she jumps up onto the countertop. Never mind that Katsuki is making her dinner for her birthday, but his scowl doesn’t even have a chance to settle before Eijirou kisses it away, moving behind him to stir the pot on the stove.
“Your spot changes every time you’re here,” he laughs. “You’re lucky Katsuki hasn’t kicked you out of the kitchen already. You know how he is when he’s cooking.”
“I still might,” he grumbles, dodging Mina’s swinging legs. “All you are is loud and in the way.”
“Loud and in the way?” Denki’s voice carries into the room. “You called?”
Katsuki resists the urge to groan. “No!”
His ire is ignored, as it usually is these days. Eijirou's eyes crinkle as he smiles at him, fond, and it sings up his spine the same way it did when they were sixteen—that’s why. Katsuki knows it’s all over his face as he lets himself feel it.
Always one to take advantage, Hanta slides in behind him and goes to swipe some sauce off the top of a cooling pan. He sucks the tip of his fingers clean with a disgusting wet noise.
“Oh, hell yeah,” he says, reaching back for a second taste.
“Absolutely not,” Katsuki catches him by the wrist. He may have lost his edge with these idiots, but he still has standards. “I don’t want your spit in my food.”
Hanta smirks, never one to back down. He leans in closer to waggle his eyebrows obnoxiously. “Just directly in your mouth then?”
Katsuki snorts, dropping his arm. “In your dreams.”
“Mine too, I think,” Denki adds around a mouthful of something he isn’t supposed to have yet. “Mine too, definitely, actually.”
“Hot,” Mina agrees. “Ooh, what’s that—”
Eijirou tilts his head, thoughtful. “Well—”
“Okay,” Katsuki interrupts. “Everyone, get out.”
No one moves. It’s all elbows and knees and no room to breathe, but the overwhelm never arrives. The crush of their bodies sharing the space of this home feels more like being held, and the air is thick with the scent of spices and endless chatter.
Before long, Hanta exchanges his hands for a spatula and makes himself useful at the stove while Mina gets off the counter to raid the bar cart. Denki finally takes the hint and begs off to set the table as Katsuki’s arms find a firmer hold around his boyfriend’s waist.
Eijirou leans back into him, solid and warm, and it makes the rest of the onion he’s chopping chunky and uneven, but Katsuki doesn’t care. He’d rather have food stuck in his teeth all night than let go right now.
“I love you,” Eijirou murmurs into his ear. Katsuki squeezes him hard, like he can make them one and the same. He wants him everywhere. Inside him. Around him. And he is—he is. But Katsuki has always been the kind to just want more.
With Eijirou, he always will.
He’s made of much more than what he used to be. Guilt. Forgiveness. Grit. Softness. All of his rough edges patched together by the thread of their trying—and now he’s bursting at the seams with something far stronger than the anger that used to define him.
“I love you,” he says. And then, because it bears repeating: “I love you.”
What a life they’ve started to build. What a beautiful reason to want for tomorrow.
The sound of laughter echoes around the kitchen, and it settles in his gut like a well-earned victory.