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Consideration is not something Shouto experienced much before he had friends. Now in adulthood, he knows that to be considered is one of the greatest acts of kindness.
Consideration is a way to give someone a voice and an ear, another way to let someone know I am here. Bakugou Katsuki is carved from the very essence of this beautiful, curious thing. Consideration seeps into all he does. For civilians in a villain attack, for colleagues on the field, for the stacks of paperwork piling in the agency, for friends; the list goes on.
Katsuki is the kind of person who takes care of everyone and everything. And despite whatever a person on the outside might believe from badly-clipped interviews taken out of context or the gossip magazines, he isn’t prideful or boastful about it either. If anything, Katsuki is remarkably quiet about the way he takes care of others.
Beneath the hackles and prickly exterior, Shouto has glimpsed many times the tender bruised heart. A heart that feels too much, endures it all and barely fits right anymore as it bursts between the ribcage.
There is no desire to be acknowledged for that. It’s simply something Katsuki dedicates himself to everyday. Unsung, but no less of a constant than his galvanising anthem.
Shouto watches Katsuki scuff the back of Mina’s head with his hand for even attempting to buy her own drink on her birthday. Warmth settles into his bones at the sight. His eyes follow Katsuki to the bar, remaining fixed on him all the way back to the table as the drink is set in front Mina, with enough force to almost have the vibrant liquid sloshing over the edges.
Delighted, Mina takes a sip and squeals in joy.
“Mm! I thought they took this off the menu months ago?!” she exclaims in fascination and giddy excitement.
“Yeah, well.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, Katsuki averts his softening eyes. His lips twitch around a smile that never blossoms, but it lacks bite. Mina’s sparkling eyes and mischievous smirk throw it all out the window.
On the defence Katsuki goes.
“Look. Don’t be weird about it,” he spits. “Getting them to make it wasn’t hard or anything.”
Background conversations taper off and the table grows quiet, somewhat awed in the face of this. Hungry, even. In a way that seeps bone deep.
Consideration; an unspoken and often unmet need amongst many. Now it stands on full display.
“What,” Katsuki goads. “You losers underestimate me or something?”
That snaps the group into action. Grinning, Sero hollers across the table.
“That’s our guy!”
“Our guy,” Kaminari parrots solemnly, thumping his chest in agreement.
Like clockwork, others chime in.
“Our special guy.”
“Our very own little guy.”
Sero, seemingly deciding he’s safe from where he’s seated, continues to stoke the fire. “Our gremlin guy.”
Collapsing into his seat, visibly exasperated by the heckling, Katsuki musters one of his classic glowers. Even with his brow pinched and lips puckered sourly, he is far too attractive.
Shouto is relieved that at least all eyes are on their one and only explosive Dynamight. Otherwise, he might struggle to find an excuse for being incapable of looking elsewhere.
“Thank you to our very own special, little, gremlin guy!” Mina says as she raises her glass to resounding applause.
Katsuki’s voice trembles from a wave of laughter he refuses to indulge, banging a fist on the table.
“Oi. All of you, shut the fuck up!”
At that, the table erupts into jubilant cries and spontaneous celebrations for Mina’s birthday. Arms folded across his chest, Katsuki gruffly lifts his near-empty glass. Shouto startles at that. It’s such a small thing, an observation amidst the chaos that could easily go missed.
But it reveals too much. It says more than it needs to. Regardless of the media and outsiders with their wholly ridiculous claims, Bakugou Katsuki considers others. The glass is undeniable proof. He’s attentive to the needs of others, so much so that he may even forget himself in the odd moment here or there.
Shouto thinks then, that maybe it’s time somebody did something out of consideration for Katsuki too. A quiet yet no less dedicated act. A simple statement of gratitude and recognition for the wonderful person he pretends that he isn’t. Barricaded, behind raised hackles and bared teeth.
It’s unclear to Shouto just how much time passes around the table at the bar. Katsuki is neither a clock nor a good measurement of time; he is always stomping a few beats ahead of the world’s rhythm, determined to make something of his own.
When Izuku nudges his shoulder, it successfully diverts Shouto’s attention away. The room swells back into existence, as does time. He notes that the orange glow of sunset that had been outside when they arrived has firmly retreated to enduring darkness. Dusk has turned to night.
Based on the wry, knowing expression his dear friend is wearing, Shouto has made a very grave mistake in forgoing situational awareness.
Ah. He’ll have to handle this delicately, diabolically if necessary.
Steeling himself, Shouto levels Izuku with his best Look, a touch judgemental and a little frosty. He even throws in a few specs of actual ice for further emphasis. But the man is impossibly immune to such things.
Given all Izuku has been through, that is hardly surprising. Not to mention Shouto is incapable of being anything but profoundly fond of him no matter what and Izuku knows that full well.
Uses it to his advantage, even. Like now.
Rapidly, Shouto feels his carefully composed demeanour melting into obscene warmth. A silly puddle of endearing goo where his neutral, reserved expression should be. Izuku beams, sunlight incarnate.
“You know, it’s very noisy in here,” Shouto starts weakly, twirling the straw in his glass. “So to be clear, I don’t think I’ll be able to hear what you have to say…”
For some reason, that spurs Izuku on.
“Wow! That was a pretty good excuse. You’re getting better at those lines, Shouto-kun.”
Voice lowering, he huddles close to ensure others don’t get wind of his words.
“Now.”
Adjusting the phantom tie he is not wearing - he does that sometimes, delirium from former days in a school office, Shouto highly suspects - Izuku presses on.
“Let’s talk about how you’ve been staring at Kacchan all night.”
How about they don’t do that.
Shouto blinks slow. Demure. A little dazed, like the bemusing stray cat he feeds on the street most weekdays.
“...I have?”
Of course, Izuku doesn’t take the bait or accept the feigned innocence. Hands planted firmly on the table with a dreadful, conspicuous thump, he leans forwards with such ferocious enthusiasm it’s a wonder the table remains intact. Izuku himself hangs off a precarious ledge, just a few inches short of falling out of his own seat and straight into Shouto’s lap.
Utterly scandalous.
“Yes???!! And this isn’t even the first time. My current encounters of Shouto’s Interesting Behaviour Around Kacchan - that’s SIBAK for short, sounds good doesn’t it - is up to twelve in the past week alone.”
Great.
So Izuku not only has an official name for all of this and a fancy acronym, he likely has a secret notebook stashed away somewhere about this recent phenomenon. That means he’s serious enough to not be swayed by any usual evasive manoeuvres.
Shouto is most definitely not sulking thank you very much as he slumps in his seat. It creates a slither of space between the pair of them, an opportunity to catch an anchoring breath. With a weary and admittedly wan smile, he folds.
There are no smooth exits out of this one; might as well get it over with.
“Alright. You aren’t wrong about, you know.”
Shouto gestures. Takes pause. He frowns, trying to remember the order of the official acronym. It would be safer to speak in code with potential eavesdroppers afoot.
“SIKEBABS-”
“SIBAK.”
Ah. Okay.
“What I said. SIKEBABS,” Shouto affirms with an absent nod.
He has the quiet satisfaction of watching Izuku’s eye twitch furiously, repressing his urgency to set the record straight and fix the botched acronym.
Maybe it’s unkind to poke the beast. But let nobody forget that the beast poked first.
“Um. Excuse me. Are you deliberately ruining the acronym?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Shouto puts a hand on his heart to pledge his honour, schooling his expression coolly. “As you know, I’m a very kind person. You’ve said so yourself on several occasions.”
Izuku retreats to his side of the seat they are virtually sharing. “Hmmmmmm.”
Then he waits, sitting doe-eyed with his hands folded neatly in his lap. Expectant and swathed in the kind of timeless patience that could never falter. Stubborn and uncompromising to a fault.
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” Shouto finally admits, pinching the top of the straw. The residue of juice is sticky on his fingers. Still nowhere near as sticky as this situation, however. “He’s easy to watch.”
It’s not quite the whole truth, but it also isn’t a lie and therefore a perfect equilibrium that gives little away. Besides, if anyone can hold the focus of a room by their mere presence alone, it’s Bakugou Katsuki.
Nobody can dispute that.
“Kacchan is a very dynamic person,” Izuku agrees, which is a strangely diplomatic and measured thing to say for someone so wildly animated and affectionate about their chosen people. “But there’s another reason behind this.”
Ah. Further proof Izuku isn’t in supportive friend mode tonight, he’s on the prowl for more information to fit whatever theory he’s concocted. Hark, the angel falls from grace in pursuit of answers.
“If you’re so omnipotent, why don’t you tell me whatever it is you think I’m hiding in that clever acronym of yours?”
For a second, the facade splinters. Izuku’s lips cradle a hopelessly fond smile. Shouto melts against his seat and their shoulders brush softly as they cascade into quiet peals of laughter.
“Ahaha, sorry!!!” Hands clambering up, Izuku waves them around placatingly. “I’m not trying to be pushy, really!”
An incredulous, weighted pause.
“But it’s actually taking up a lot of my thinking space right now? So it’d be good of you to give me something to work with. Heroic, even!”
Eyes twinkling with mirth, Shouto hums. “I’m currently off duty. But the work of a hero never truly stops, I suppose...”
“Mhm! That’s the spirit!”
Izuku’s recent declaration of not being pushy is quickly discarded. A convenient ruse, it seems.
Tracing patterns along the table thoughtfully, Shouto peeks another glance towards Katsuki. He’s wedged between Mina and Kirishima, striving to act supremely bothered about being swept up into their vibrant conversation.
The slope of his shoulders is loose, relaxed. His eyes hang low as they lazily flit between his friends, lips tracing the ghost of a smirk and sharp shapes yet never fully committing to their force.
A throat clears beside Shouto. “That makes thirteen.”
Head ducked, Shouto huffs a breathless laugh.
“I warn you, it’s not as remotely elaborate as whatever you’ve already theorised,” he starts, pulse fluttering a fraction. “I’ve merely been paying more attention to how much he does for all of us. I want to return the sentiment. I want him to feel…considered. Cared for.”
A beat passes.
Shouto would be concerned were it anyone else. But it’s not unusual for Izuku to stew in the quiet and mull things over. There’s an awful lot whizzing around his incredible mind, far more than anyone else Shouto knows at least.
Still, there isn’t much to pick apart here. Shouto spoke clearly and concisely. So perhaps there is some cause for concern.
“Are you sure about this?” Izuku asks solemnly, as if Shouto is embarking on an epic quest with little promise of return.
“I am. I have a plan too. The Plan, it’s called.”
Shouto does not have a plan, but the idea of making one should count. Encouraged by that, Izuku musters a smile.
“I’m happy to hear you’re so confident about this. You’ll have very little chance of success in this, so it’s really good to start strong!!!” he chimes brightly, as if those words are precisely what one needs to move forwards with resolve.
Of all Izuku’s motivational speeches, this is perhaps the most lacklustre. And apparently, he’s not quite finished.
“Though if anyone could do it, Shouto-kun, it’s you. You’re the kindest person I know.”
“Indeed. Even kind enough to honour your acronyms,” Shouto adds.
Izuku catches the undertow of amusement, pulls a silly face in response. Private words thoroughly exchanged, they seamlessly slip back into the fray of multiple conversations barreling across the table. Izuku bats responses to and fro with ease, as if he’d never left the group to indulge his insatiable curiosity in the first place.
The soggy straw is a sorry sight and no longer fit for purpose. Shouto plucks it out from his juice, drinks from the rim of the glass. Across the table, Katsuki’s drink remains unchanged.
“What do you think, Shouto-kun?” Izuku probes, luring him against his will back into the chatterings he has not paid any attention to from the second he sat down in this bar. He gives a vague elusive answer that’s met with a barrage of confusion, amusement and mild concern.
Really though, what Shouto thinks is that a glowing endorsement from a dear friend is not a terrible way to start an adventure. Especially when there’s an acronym involved.
“What were you two freaks conspiring about in the corner?” Katsuki probes on the walk home later.
“A table has no corners,” Shouto counters smoothly, hoping it’s enough to throw off the conversation entirely.
Tragic really, that his two best friends are both far too observant. Their methods differ, one an outright menace in harbouring knowledge whilst the other is a chronic nosy eavesdropper, but it’s still a challenge to contend with. Luckily, this time, it looks like Katsuki couldn’t quite catch the words between the bustle of the bar. Hence his question.
“Some tables do,” Katsuki says just to be contrary. Because he never backs down.
Lips twitching, Shouto tucks his hands into his pockets. The sting of the winter night doesn’t affect him really, but his hands are burning all the same. Mostly to reach out for the man by his side. Best keep them occupied elsewhere.
“Well,” he starts with every intention of pushing buttons on purpose. “That one didn’t.”
“Fuck off.”
“Shall I do that by going round the corner?”
Katsuki scoffs, swallowing down the laugh Shouto is forever desperate to claw out of that caged chest. The collar of his coat is turned up to shield his face from the biting cold, occasionally muffling his voice each time he ducks his head enough to burrow like some sort of feral creature into the fabric.
“God. You’re insufferable.”
Shouto revels in that. “You chose to live with me.”
“Pfft. Don’t remind me.”
Katsuki drags the sole of his shoe along the pavement, lets it slide then kicks forwards in that rare offbeat way he walks when unbound. Coaxed out of his unique perpetuum mobile for a brief reprieve. Shouto regards him with fierce affection and the sky joins him; a pale crescent moon smile, twinkling starry eyes.
The soft street light spills across their path, stretching and fanning their shadows out. With each step, their silhouette selves merge together then glide apart. Caught in a lovely, whimsical dance.
“It’s been three years,” Shouto points out, pointedly.
Three years, seven months, two weeks, four days, he doesn’t say because Katsuki has already called him a freak once tonight.
“You’ve had ample time to reconsider your options.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Guess that means I’m out of my fucking mind, huh?”
Grinning, Katsuki sidesteps the upcoming street lamp, pivoting around it to land right in the middle of Shouto’s path. On purpose. He cranes impossibly close - a taunt and temptation all at once. There is no option but to swiftly alter course and readjust the footwork.
Shouto veers left. And for a moment, it is like the pair of them are moving with their shadows along an urban backlit ballroom.
“Here I thought after all these years, we’d finally reached an impasse. Turned a corner, you could say...”
Katsuki reaches into his pocket hastily like a man possessed by ire alone. He pulls out the key to their apartment and presents it as a dire warning.
The message is clear given it’s the only key they have between them tonight. Shouto has developed a terrible habit of leaving his key at home when they’re out together. Now that may just backfire rather spectacularly.
My, how the proverbial table without corners has turned.
“Say corner one more time. Go on, you sick bastard.”
Katsuki brandishes the key like a samurai sword, slicing at the air around Shouto. He looks both immensely foolish and fierce, and it’s wholly wondrous. Shouto is grateful he gets to be part of this stupidity, glimpse these moments tucked behind the curtains of their very public life.
“Just see what happens.”
Shouto bats the hand away from his face, a breathless laugh escaping him.
“After such a staggering display, I’d rather not.”
Satisfied, Katsuki pockets the key and marches proudly ahead down the street.
“Good answer.”
The problem with enacting The Plan, or any plan for that matter, is that Katsuki is a hideously resourceful and self-reliant person. The oversight at the bar had been a rare occurrence. So if Shouto intends to return the favour, he needs to take every opportunity available.
Many days pass until a moment presents itself: an empty kitchen on the cusp of dawn.
Despite working the night shift and perpetually exhausted to the very bone, Shouto creeps into the kitchen instead of his bed as the pale sun peeks through the blinds.
Tea is a good place to start. Katsuki is an early riser which means he’s bound to be down within the next hour. Propelled into motion, Shouto reaches for a cup in the cupboard.
There is truly no time to waste.
If Shouto wants to make tea, he needs to do it before Katsuki considers making him one, which turns out to be quite the dilemma given how often a steaming mug of fragrant soothing tea is shoved into his hands the second he crosses the threshold to the kitchen.
Shouto considers their elaborate array of tea carefully. He knows what Katsuki would typically make for himself in the morning. But he’s always aware the man has a ridiculously impeccable routine that is unshakeable, to the point where convenience may overcome whimsy or indulgence.
Oh bother.
Leaning against the counter, Shouto frowns. He hasn’t even opened the tin, yet it feels like he’s let a predicament out from beneath the hinges. Perhaps Katsuki might actually prefer a different type of tea for once.
If he felt he could linger, deviate, shrug off the weight of responsibility he carries for a second and—
“The hell you doing?”
As if summoned by someone other than himself using the kitchen, there Katsuki is. Stood in the doorway, like an omen and an oracle all at once. Brow furrowed, eyes narrowed suspiciously, lip curled in the corner.
Cradling the cup on the counter, Shouto blinks away his silly stupor. He best provide an answer before the irritation on that lovely face moves beyond a simmer.
“I was making tea.”
For you, he doesn’t say. Can’t. Katsuki has always valued actions over words. Shouto must get this right.
The onslaught of a gruelling patrol and lack of sleep hits all at once. Try as he might to stifle the yawn, Katsuki catches the whispers of the sound. Marching forwards, he bumps Shouto out the way with his hip. As for the cup, it takes some wrestling to pry from Shouto’s firm grip.
“Give it here, loser.”
“No,” Shouto says stubbornly, syllables stretched as the lull of sleep washes over him. “I told you I’m making tea. You can’t stop me.”
“You can barely keep your damn eyes open!” Katsuki hisses, giving another insistent tug at the cup to no avail. Shaking his head, he pulls back and grins. A fierce and beautiful thing that prods at the centre of Shouto’s chest.
“Bachelor of the year my ass,” he snorts. “If only your admirers knew what a big grumpy baby you are.”
At that, Shouto pouts. By all accounts, The Plan is not going very well at all. His first attempt is being thwarted and destroyed by the very person who is meant to benefit.
Somewhere, Izuku is scribbling solutions into his notebook.
Shouto catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window as Katsuki lifts the blinds. His hair is fluffy and a little dishevelled from patrol, eyelids heavy as they struggle to keep blinking. His uniform is unzipped down to his chest, peeling off one shoulder to lay it bare - the consequence of wanting to change into pyjamas but deciding to make tea in the haze of exhaustion.
Oh dear.
Katsuki gently coaxes the cup from Shouto’s hands, streams of sun pool over him like a spotlight. All of him bathed in the glow of a fresh morning, both softened and sharpened by it. Ever the paradox. Ever the duality. Shouto is rendered speechless, watching the shadows chase cheekbones and climb the slope of a lovely neck.
“Go to sleep, moron. I’ll bring one up to you.” Back turned, Katsuki sets the cup down with a firm thud. “Was planning to anyway.”
There it is. Confirmation of all Shouto suspected and had wanted to avoid just this one time.
“That’s not–” sigh. Thoroughly defeated, Shouto slinks towards the stairs. “Alright. Thank you.”
Katsuki merely grunts in response, reaching for the warm blend of matcha tea in their All Might-themed tin. And as Shouto makes his perilous climb up to bed, limbs sore and protesting each step, he notes that Katsuki doesn’t stop to retrieve a second cup for himself.
[text: izuku] how’s it going with The Plan? (✿◠‿◠)
[text: shouto] so far, I’ve had no luck.
[text: izuku] (◕︵◕)
[text: shouto] likely my own fault. very sleepy from night patrol.
[text: izuku] WHY ARE YOU STILL AWAKE GO TO SLEEP AWIAHQIJ!!!!
[text: shouto] I’m trying…
[text: izuku] SORRY. (╥_╥)
[text: izuku] I’ll stop messaging so you can sleep.
[text: izuku] but don’t give up! I believe in you!!!! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
[text: shouto] :D
True to his word, Katsuki had brought a cup of tea up to Shouto’s room that fateful morning The Plan lost momentum. Shouto has no tangible recollection of the tea being delivered whatsoever. The moment his head hit the soft goose-feather pillow and he nestled into his enormous duvet, the world of dreams had dragged him sweetly into its arms.
He remembered hearing the door hinges creak on the cusp of sleep. But whether the light touch to his cheek had really been calloused fingers or the wishful figment of it replicated by his extra blankets, Shouto couldn’t be sure.
He’d woken up later that afternoon to the sounds of Katsuki in the kitchen, undoubtedly preparing something delicious for dinner. By that point, the tea had grown cold on the bedside table; it was no less soothing. A touch of honey had been added to the brew, sweetened just as he liked.
After three more feeble attempts, Shouto decides to move on from showing his consideration through making tea. Katsuki appears to have a sixth sense in such things, after all. It’s uncanny and a little eerie. Before Shouto can so much as look at a cafe on the street or the shelf housing cups in their kitchen, Katsuki somehow summons tea for Shouto and whoever else they happen to be with.
Inspiration hits in the middle of apprehending a rogue villain on patrol.
Shouto cordons off the area with an ice wall, ensuring not to damage any property or trap civilians in the process. His eyes catch sight of the street food vendor just shy of the scene as he surveys his work.
There’s a healthy queue to place orders, which is always a promising sign of a reputable business.
“Oi! You seriously thinking of food right now?” Katsuki sneers, gliding through the air after the bedazzled villain. “Pay attention!”
With their combined forces, it takes no less than sixteen minutes for them to catch and apprehend Gem Guzzler. Apparently, the man could take on the properties of any crystal once digesting them. The local jewellers had called in the robbery.
Once in handcuffs, Gem Guzzler appears to be less of a villain and more of a misled opportunist. His crystallised skin glistens as he speaks and his voice has a strange resonance to it as if pressurised.
Somehow, the syllables are sparkling.
“Her favourites are diamonds, I didn’t want to propose with just the ring! I had to make it memorable.” Holding out his diamond hands beseechingly, Gem Guzzler continues. “Chip off a few pieces, it’ll cover the cost of what I took. I have another twenty minutes before I turn back.”
Shouto wonders how the quirk works on a cellular level, whether that would be feasible. He’ll be sure to ask Izuku back at the agency. There’s probably a casefile dedicated to quirks of this nature stashed away somewhere in the filing cabinet.
Curious, he probes. “Would that affect you in any way?”
“I tried to walk after eating selenite once.” Gem Guzzler gives a sheepish smile, staring down at his boot. “It’s a very soft crystal and pretty easy to break. I probably shouldn't have attempted it.”
Katsuki huffs, arms folded and shoulders hunched up to such a degree they almost touch his ears. It’s a pressing reminder that their lunch break was delayed. Some people would argue that Katsuki is perpetually irritable, but in Shouto’s experience the real monster emerges when he’s hungry.
“Why the fuck did you eat selenite?”
See, exhibit A.
“Shiori wanted to cleanse our new house.”
“Hm.” Shouto mulls the dilemma over. He scribbles selenite down on their agency report sheet, just to be thorough about things. “Sorry, I don’t think we can do anything.”
Crestfallen, Gem Guzzler sags on the pavement and lowers his glistening hands.
“You can’t?”
“Well, you see, it wouldn’t be very ethical of us to take diamonds from your person directly. Though I’m sure it would fetch quite the price in some circles.”
Hope blooms in lidless diamond eyes.
“Yes, my thoughts exactly!”
Katsuki levels Shouto with a look that is borderline murderous.
Clearing his throat, Shouto hastily amends his statement and recites the words drilled into his head from their agency policy. He has come to discover it’s a very versatile phrase.
“Under no circumstances would it be legally possible to fulfil your request.”
Katsuki rubs viciously at his forehead, mouthing along with the words in thinly-veiled frustration as he paces like an ensnared feral creature desperate for freedom.
“Legally, I must decline as it is not legal.”
Snatching the clipboard from Shouto, Katsuki cocks his head over towards the sturdy perimeter wall made from ice.
“Alright, enough of that. Get lost and do something useful maybe. I’ll finish up here.”
Shouto makes it twelve paces before realising that once again he fumbled The Plan. Because Katsuki always does the paperwork, he always logs the information at a scene before the necessary services arrive. That had been a wasted chance.
Maybe Izuku is right. This really does have little chance of success.
Resigned, Shouto melts the ice wall down with careful precision, ensuring the moisture evaporates rather than flooding the street. And there, no more than fifty yards away, is the food vendor he spotted earlier.
Hope flickers back to life.
Shouto tries deftly to ignore the absurd way the crowd parts for him. No matter how the mother of two excitable toddlers insists he go ahead to order, he keeps his place in the line.
Heroes don’t queue-jump.
“Where the hell did that icyhot bastard go?!”
Oh dear.
Katsuki only calls Shouto that old nickname when he is incandescent with rage. He must be famished. This is now a matter of utmost urgency.
“Excuse me,” Shouto says with as much grace as possible to the kind woman, shimmying to the front of the food vendor.
Heroes do queue-jump, only when it is morally sound to do so.
Shouto gives his order to the starstruck vendor, their oversized glasses continually sliding down their nose as they gawk. Surveying the menu, he opts for two takeaway meals rather than one because at least it would be easier to disguise his intentions that way.
Katsuki barrels into him with excess force, pressed close and burning like an iron brand, just as the vendor is packing up the takeaway meals into cardboard boxes.
“I can’t believe you just fucked off from the crime scene to get food! You’re unbelievable.”
“You told me to make myself useful,” Shouto remarks. “Plus, we’d already caught the perpetrator, I don’t see the problem.”
The vendor slides the boxes over, providing the chance Shouto has waited for this whole time.
“I got something for you too, by the way.”
At that, Katsuki visibly startles. The frustration ebbs out of focus, replaced by a bizarre expression Shouto hasn’t witnessed before. Crimson eyes widen as the tips of his ears turn a wonderful shade of pink. His mouth seems unsure what to do, curled into an angular shape. Not a scowl or a snarl, something new.
How intriguing.
Shouto preens at the vivid and visceral reaction, hopes he does a convincing job at being completely normal about all of this. He takes the box harbouring spicy curry, presses it into Katsuki’s chest.
Their hands brush as the box is passed between them. It could be sparks or static or both that occur at the contact point.
Hard to say.
Shouto relishes it either way. His skin tingles after using his quirk sometimes, the fleeting touch felt a bit like that. But also, it seemed completely different. The absence of a sensation he can’t readily recreate stings as they retreat from the food vendor.
Katsuki hikes up the collar of his uniform, grunts into it. “…You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to. My treat.”
Shouto offers a sincere smile as Katsuki begrudgingly accepts the box. It’s a smile Izuku once told him could melt people into the floor. That is not what happens, but Katsuki seems a little more disarmed at least.
Staring down at the box, his lips twist together and pinch at the corners. “Still–”
A voice from behind them calls out.
“Hero Shouto, sir, you–you haven’t paid?”
The moment shatters abruptly.
Shouto paws at his suit for his wallet as a mortifying truth dawns on him. He didn’t bring it. He distinctly remembers leaving it at home because they had planned to be home for lunch. Worse, he left it home out of habit; Katsuki always bought copious snacks to share whilst on patrol.
“Ah.”
Shouto has been terribly complacent. Now he must bear the tragic consequences. If they move swiftly from the scene, they could avoid any potential confrontation. As unsavoury as it would be, using their recent victory against Gem Guzzler might work in their favour too.
Technically speaking, they did save the establishment from nearby peril. The threat had been modest and unremarkable, but the public don’t have those details yet.
Or perhaps Shouto simply could arrange a pay-back scheme of some description; he could promise to come back tomorrow with his wallet to complete the transaction.
Before Shouto has the opportunity to make a decision, Katsuki is striding back to the food vendor. He whips out a wad of bills to cover their meals, along with a generous tip as compensation for putting up with this bastard.
Rendered speechless, Shouto watches Katsuki smooth the situation over. He’s rather good at conflict resolution, blunt and bruisingly honest; accommodating yet assertive.
Whilst his public image is a little skewed towards the more explosive aspects of his character, everyone in the field knows and values these other qualities. It’s why their former teacher had asked Katsuki to be part of the hostage negotiation team for the Tokyo Hero Museum incident instead of placing him on the front lines as initially assumed.
Katsuki stomps back to Shouto, mustering his best eye roll. “Stop it.”
Confused, Shouto dashes after him. “I’m not doing anything.”
Really, he isn’t.
“You’re looking at me all dreamy and shit, like I’m a hero or something.”
Shouto strives to reign in his expression and tone down whatever his face is doing. If Katsuki is resorting to making comments, then he must be broadcasting his admiration quite blatantly.
To be honest, it’s hard not to these days. Shouto quickens his steps, falling into easy tandem with Katsuki’s brisk pace. He notices the mild flush along cheekbones, the skittish nature of gloved fingers tapping against the takeout box.
It’s a good sign.
Katsuki is not frustrated, he’s flustered. Shouto would be a fool to act graciously here. Shoulders brushing as they walk, he hums. If Katsuki were to look over instead of pretending to enjoy the meagre scenery, he’d see amusement brimming in mismatched eyes.
“You are a hero, though...”
The response is glorious.
“You–! Don’t be a fucking smartass. Ugh.”
Katsuki sighs. There might as well be steam pouring from his mouth and ears like an active volcano ready to erupt. Always so captivating, so compelling. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Just–cut it out.”
They find a bench in the local park to sit, tucked away from the bustling streets and a little off the main greenery trail. It’s a good find, unobtrusive due to a cluster of tall trees with overgrown branches hanging low above their heads.
Katsuki is quiet as he consumes his meal.
“How is it?” Shouto asks tentatively.
“Alright,” is the rather disappointing response. “I’ve cooked better at home.”
“I see.”
With a huff, Shouto stabs at his own milder curry. Granted he ordered the food but Katsuki paid. The Plan can’t be haphazard like that or rely on mere technicalities. There is no way this counts. Katsuki deserves far more than a half-baked attempt; Shouto won’t settle for such a lacklustre victory.
“Not worth queue-jumping either, you public menace.”
Wonderful. So Katsuki had seen that too.
“In my defence-”
Katsuki prods the chopsticks in Shouto’s direction. Even in the dappled sunlight of their secluded spot, he is illuminated boldly and beautifully.
“Don’t. There’s no defence for that,” he says, like describing a truly heinous act.
“Spoken like a model citizen,” Shouto coolly remarks.
“Shaddup and eat your food.”
Undeterred by the failings of last time, Shouto takes a day to regather himself before pressing on with The Plan. As they prepared themselves for an early morning patrol midweek, an idea formed.
Shouto had been speedrunning the day in his mind, skipping to the part where they returned to the comfort of their home; Katsuki would fish out his key and open the front door as he usually did.
Well. Today would be the day that changed.
Shouto was going to be considerate and open the door first. He was going to do this at any cost.
He’d moved fast and frantic in the kitchen as dawn approached, swiping the key out of Katsuki’s jacket and shoving it into the forbidden spice rack with mere seconds to spare. It had landed somewhere between the cardamon and the nutmeg, so at least it wouldn’t be too much trouble to retrieve later.
Hours later, Katsuki pats down his pockets as they arrive on the quiet, narrow street where they live. The orange afternoon sun swathes over him warmly.
“Wha–where the fuck is my key?”
And this is it. The moment Shouto has been waiting for all day. Sweeping forward, he reaches their front door and leans against the frame with an air of calculated confidence. It will be fine so long as it goes exactly like how he rehearsed it in his head for the eternity of their patrol.
“Allow me,” he says smoothly, reaching into his bag for the key. His hands scrape the bottom of the material and curl around the shape of…absolutely nothing.
He is both keyless and clueless.
Shouto peers through their living room window as discreetly as possible, which from his current position is quite a difficult task and requires a subtle readjustment to angle his neck. The sunlight hits a spec of silver winking on the mantelpiece inside - his key.
Ah. This could prove problematic.
“Hm.” Shouto studies the latches on their window thoughtfully. “Does it count as breaking and entering if we’re the ones doing it?”
Katsuki thumps his forehead against the front door.
“For fuck’s sake.”
[text: shouto] I need you to come over immediately and distract Katsuki so I can go through the spice rack in secret
[text: izuku] ???!!
[text: shouto] I put his key in there so I could open the front door for him. but I also left my own key inside. needless to say, it’s been quite an ordeal getting back into our house. we managed though.
[text: izuku] WHAT. (✖‿✖’) SHOUTO. I HAVE NO WORDS.
[text: shouto] okay. but please can you hurry up and help?
[text: izuku] Hero Deku is on the way! ٩◔‿◔۶
Fortunately, Shouto retrieved the key from the spice rack without issue. By the time he set it back in its rightful place, the bombastic jacket on the coat rack, Katsuki had lost patience with whatever beautiful nonsense Izuku was trying to entertain him with in the living room. He stormed into the hallway, stopping short at Shouto’s presence. As if something about it had been greatly offensive.
“What are you doing?”
Shouto had gestured enigmatically to the peeling wallpaper they had yet to replace whilst Izuku flashed him a questioning glance from behind Katsuki’s back.
“Admiring what we’ve done with the place.”
“I was thinking the same, it’s very homely!!” Izuku had chimed merrily, seeming to somehow emit his hasty enquiries with each blink of his eyes.
“Exactly.” Shouto stared blankly back at Izuku, knowing the other would take it as confirmation the mission had been completed. “And there’s nowhere more homely than a home, is there?”
Their coded exchange had resulted in both Shouto and Izuku being kicked out onto the street, forbidden to return on pain of never getting to eat Katsuki’s delicious food again; fuck off and don’t come back until you’ve found a way to destory that creepy physic link you freakish freaks have, he had hissed.
Three hours later, Shouto was safely permitted to enter his own home once more. He slept soundly. The Plan was proving to be an exhausting feat requiring both stealth and skill. So best to regather his strength as much as possible.
Now, refreshed and his motivation rekindled, Shouto gets to work in the kitchen. He has the day off, so the least he could do is find some way to make Katsuki’s preparations for patrol easier. In retrospect, taking the key to execute The Plan yesterday had been a rather silly idea. Perhaps an act of giving was the solution.
Keep it simple, don’t complicate things.
The sound of Katsuki thundering down the stairs is the cue. Shouto turns off the tap, stares proudly down at his work. Yes, not bad at all.
“Here.” Shouto hands over the flask, filled to the brim.
As expected, Katsuki eyes the flask warily. Like he couldn’t possibly fathom somebody else doing a menial task for him. Like he expects there to be some sort of hidden consequence or catch. It’s a little ridiculous, a lot endearing and a pinch agonising to be honest.
Shouto presses on, hoping a brief explanation will put Katsuki at ease. Soften the non-existent blow he seems to have found in the gesture somehow.
“It’s important you stay hydrated, given how much you sweat.”
Well. Okay. That certainly could have been better worded. But hopefully, it will do the trick at appeasement. Katsuki glances between Shouto and the flask, an eyebrow arched in the epitome of a person immeasurably unimpressed.
“Did you use the filtered water?” he asks.
Ah. So Katsuki has chosen to be snobbish and bullheaded about this, then. Anything to create a foundation to build his fortress upon.
“Tap.”
“Did you even run it? It’s not cold.”
Shouto bows his head, facetious and a little irked that once again The Plan is failing miserably.
“My apologies, Esteemed Lord Dynamight–”
“–Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight–”
“–allow me to rectify the error of my ways immediately.”
Taking the flask in hand, Shouto activates his quirk. The flask frosts over, ensuring the water inside will be crisp and cold.
Katsuki snatches the water back, clicking his tongue in annoyance.
“Stop being weird you fucking weirdo,” he says through his teeth, followed swiftly by a meagre protest. “I could’ve done that myself. Don’t need you to be my personal water cooler.”
“It’s no trouble,” Shouto admits, because really it isn’t.
Most of their friends are quick to take up the offer of reheating forgotten to-go tea on a job or keeping ice cream from melting too fast in the summer.
“See you later.”
Katsuki stares at the flask in a way that can only be described as perpetual bewilderment. As if he still can’t quite believe it, as if he doesn’t understand what it is that he’s holding.
“Mm. I’m surprised too,” Shouto concedes sagely, observing the plain navy flask. Set against Katsuki and all he is, it’s dull and wholly unremarkable. Not really a logical choice. “I thought you’d go for something more obnoxious.”
Katsuki refuses to dignify that with a response. He strides out of the kitchen furiously. A prominent slam to the front door marks his exit.
“I don’t think it counts,” Izuku reveals once Shouto explains how The Plan went earlier that morning. “Kacchan took the flask, but he didn’t really accept it.”
Shouto nods in agreement. “He seemed quite offended. Especially when I said he would need it because of how much he sweats. And that it wasn’t obnoxious enough to suit him.”
At that, Izuku bowls over as manic laughter consumes him. Around the cafe, eyes linger curiously on their table. Shouto waves politely and primly, which seems to both settle and somehow stir up the public. He’s unsure if people are strictly allowed to move their tables around, but the group of teenagers in the corner somehow manage to migrate from one side of the room to the other. They linger a respectful distance away, glancing over in awe.
Shouto supposes they must be budding heroes.
Wiping at his eyes, Izuku takes a shuddery breath to compose himself. He’s oblivious to how they now have a congregated audience, too caught up in discussing The Plan.
“S-sorry, I’m not laughing at you I promise,” he manages, but his voice is wobbly and the squiggly smile is too unstable on his freckled face.
Shouto knows that Izuku is not remotely sorry, this is his way of trying to be nice and lessen the sting of a brutal observation he’s made.
“The Plan is hopeless, isn’t it?” he asks, glumly.
Quick to rustle up encouragement, Izuku shakes his head fast enough for his neck to click.
“No!! Not completely! I mean - your attempts have been earnest so far, that’s something you can be proud of. But, well.”
Voice dipping to a hushed murmur, he seems to finally notice they have prying eyes on them.
“This is Kacchan you’re dealing with! You need to remember how–”
Shouto tunes the words out as much as possible, eyes drifting to the ceiling tiles. Granted it’s very rude of him, and he’ll swiftly apologise if Izuku calls him out on it - but this is something Shouto must do on his own.
Having any input for The Plan from their resident Bakugou Katsuki expert besides avid cheerleading would feel like cheating. Dishonest, even.
Consideration comes from the heart, from knowing a person and tending gently to their needs.
“–and that’s hardly a compliment?!! If you’re trying to woo Kacchan, then that’s probably not the best way to go about it.”
Those words lure Shouto’s attention back. He raises a hand as he would back in class, hoping that somehow he will be able to interrupt the passionate ramblings of his dear friend. A few beats of hurried, intangible words pass before Izuku comes back to the world of the living and stops talking to suck in a breath.
Once certain that the conversation is mutual again, Shouto speaks and lowers his hand.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
Izuku tilts his head, smile strained. “Hm?”
“I simply want to do something for him.” It’s the truth. None of this is for his own benefit, besides having the satisfaction of taking care of Katsuki. “I don’t want to seem like I have any ulterior motives.”
“Love isn’t an ulterior motive in this situation, Shouto!”
Pause.
Blink.
Shouto mulls it over.
Love. Yes. That probably best describes the depth of the enduring feeling he holds for Katsuki. That would explain not only the searing intensity but the sheer devotion imbuing his heart. How he can hardly drag his eyes away in a crowded room; how his pulse skips and bones rattle in a jumbled messy dance. The yearning to be close and stay there, wedge himself firmly into every slither of space between them.
Of course. What else could it possibly be?
To consider and to be considered, that is love.
Izuku clasps his hands despairingly on the table, eyes wide and disbelieving.
“Please, please, please tell me you already knew that you were in love with him.”
“Well.”
Leaning back from the table, Shouto purses his lips. All in all, he thinks he is doing a good job at keeping calm and collected when faced with such a sweeping revelation.
The mark of his smouldering palm on the table could easily be hidden by a placemat they don’t currently have. He pats a napkin down on the spot instead. As for the ice climbing up the table from his foot, it’s probably thin enough to be purely decorative. There’s no need for the people nearby to put on their coats and start shivering.
“I certainly do now.”
Izuku bangs his head on the table. His cry of torment bleeds into the splintering wood as Shouto placates the well-intentioned staff member who rushes over to check if everything is alright.
“Yes, we’re fine. Just not fans of the milkshake, I’m afraid.”
In the end, The Plan unfolds naturally without Shouto thinking much about it at all.
Perhaps that is testament to the very core of his intentions. To consider, to care, to pour his love into the very bones of the wonder that is Bakugou Katsuki. Because the second the man in question steps through the doorway of their apartment on a cosy Monday afternoon, uniform slashed open at the shoulder and towel pressed to the wound, Shouto can do nothing but consider, care; pour love into every crevice of skin available and carved cruelly open.
The unsteady footsteps in the hallway are what initially sets Shouto’s radar off to something being amiss. No matter what happened outside, they had an unspoken rule to never bring it home. Step firmly inside, enter strong. Keep this space their sacred sanctuary.
So this anomaly, followed swiftly by the front door clicking shut with a meagre halfhearted thud, is beyond alarming. The palpable wince as Katsuki slumps for a surface to lean on, knocking against the framed photo of Class 3A at graduation - is enough for Shouto to abandon his mission of chive-chopping.
An immovable force rendered to a weighted stasis.
Shouto had rushed briskly from the kitchen, pulse racing messy and wild through his veins. The sight that greeted him had propelled him to action. Arm slung tightly around Katsuki’s waist, smacking the stubborn hand away from the towel as he took over to apply pressure to the wound.
“Get off me, bastard.”
Infuriated by the endless protests, Shouto had snapped a little sharper than intended.
“Stop talking and move.”
For a brief moment, that had worked.
“Ha,” Katsuki had snorted a beat later, voice rasped and breathless in a way that was shattering to hear. It tore at Shouto’s disheveled composure. It was wrong. Worse, that Katsuki appeared to find this distressing event funny.
“What.”
Gesturing to the hallway with his chin, Katsuki had mustered a shaky grin. “We just turned a fucking corner.”
Their eyes had met, right on the threshold of the doorway. It was stupid. But Shouto had cracked a small smile nonetheless, a brief wash of calm descending upon him whilst manoeuvring them into the kitchen. He realised then, that even in this situation, Katsuki had been considering him. Tending to the unspoken need for an anchor, something to bring comfort and normality.
Now here they are, a petulant Katsuki sitting as instructed at the table whilst Shouto is practically sprawled over him. Gently, he wipes at the wound and prepares to bandage it over.
Fortunately upon closer inspection, it isn’t remotely as bad as it looked in the unforgiving light of their hallway. This is more cosmetic in nature. They can definitely manage it at home with the first aid kit.
That’s a relief. That’s a blessing. That is something to be thankful for.
Shouto swallows a shaky exhale down, shoves it back into his lungs. His hands are still shaking with each movement, haven’t stopped since they pressed insistently against the towel and reluctantly pulled it back to assess the damage. But Katsuki appears too thrown off his groove to notice, eyes glazed over with a thin misty sheen.
Undoubtedly the combination of adrenaline from the fight and the injury itself has done its part. Perhaps a little shock also. No matter how accustomed they are to these sorts of things, there is no stopping the natural responses of the human body to prolonged stress.
“Hold,” Shouto barks out, pointing to the bandage he has begun securing.
His voice is rough and ragged around the edges, sounds like it doesn’t quite belong to him anymore. Ripped from the fabric of his throat and folded over tight. The raw nature of it gives too much away, but he can’t quite climb back into his human shell and stay there. Katsuki dutifully holds the bandage in place whilst Shouto fetches the black tea brewing on the counter.
Black tea is good for things like this. It will help. Katsuki said so once; Katsuki has done this several times for others in the back of an ambulance or in the aftermath of a gruelling fight. Shouto sets the cup down on the table, prying the calloused hands away to continue his work.
As a hero, knowing when you’re being watched is a useful skill to refine and hone. But in this moment, Shouto would rather not be acutely aware of just how intently Katsuki regards him. The heavyweight of those eyes on him is extremely distracting.
“I could have handled this, you know.”
There it is. Katsuki’s airtight, steely defence.
You didn’t have to, he’d said previously. I could’ve done that myself, he’d insisted.
Always quick to scamper from this tangent of vulnerability. Always shying from the beauty blossoming, focused more on the thorns. This time, he won’t get away with using such lines; this tender moment won’t ebb into obscurity like the others.
Not on Shouto’s watch.
“I’ve no doubts. You’re more than capable,” he agrees absently as he wraps the bandage. It’s the right thing to say, disarming in the dismissal.
“Then…” Katsuki trails off, utterly mystified. “Why- what the hell are you doing?”
Confusion morphs quickly into a flash of molten fury. Katsuki wields anger so well. Much like him, it had matured over the years. More like a steadfast old friend than a vicious enemy. He alchemises the potent emotion into answers and action. He never lets it fester or go unwitnessed within him, always addresses it with remarkable immediacy.
Shouto admires that. In his overall experience of life, anger had never been particularly constructive or a tool to resolve conflict and reach a conclusion. More the polar opposite, actually.
To see it displayed this way, it’s almost cathartic.
Bandage fastened, Shouto finally looks up from the wound. He meets the raging sun head on, feels the searing heat of it as their eyes collide.
“I ain’t weak,” Katsuki says evenly, fists clenched around the edge of the chair and teeth bared. All of him blazing and burning. “I don’t need help.”
Lips pursed, Shouto pats at the whitening knuckles. He won’t entertain the threads of this frayed pattern coming loose at the seams of Katsuki’s sleeves, not even for a fleeting second.
They’ve already moved those mountains; they fought too hard and too long to find a slither of peace within themselves.
So no.
Shouto will not allow such things to resurface nor will he give it a place to be heard.
“I know,” he says, pointedly nonchalant. “And given your insistence to excel in everything you do, you’d probably have done a far better job of this too.”
Once again, Katsuki is plunged into uncertainty. As fast as the fierceness flourished, it fades and leaves behind a rare sight to behold. His expression hollows out, eyes slowly roving between the cup of black tea and the bandage before settling on Shouto.
Chewing the bottom lip with his teeth, Katsuki stares him down. As if by grit determination alone he could shift the tide turning and churning up a frenzy within, drag Shouto deep into the current and let the waves break apart the words until they start to finally make sense.
It could work.
Katsuki is clearly committed enough to see it through, unrelenting and unwavering. But really, it’s about time he stopped carrying it all so needlessly. Just because one can endure, doesn’t mean one should.
There is strength in knowing when to surrender, a haunting truth Shouto knows all too well. Sometimes in the thick of darkness, in the second bowl of soba left forever untouched, he still cannot reconcile it.
Shouto brings his chair forwards, a grating screech against the cool kitchen tiles as it drags. Katsuki snarls, so scandalised that for a second he finds his way back to a familiar shoreline.
“Watch it! You’ll scratch up the floor.”
Shouto shrugs and continues. “It’ll survive.”
Their knees knock together as he settles comfortably in orbit. Craned close and leaving nowhere for either of them to retreat. Chair to chair, knee to knee, in the low ambient light of their cosy kitchen.
Eyes surveying the tiles for evidence of the alleged atrocity, Katsuki clicks his tongue.
“Do that again and you sure won’t, bastard.”
Charmed when he probably shouldn’t be, Shouto smiles openly at the empty threat. Fondness overcomes him, spills out of the crinkles around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. A strange, undignified sound climbs out of his throat, the echoes of breathless laughter knocked too fast from his chest.
And suddenly, Shouto is able to find the words and speak them with bruising sincerity. Because no matter what trials face them, Katsuki makes life feel so unfathomably easy. His consistency is anchoring. He is staggeringly considerate in each and every way. Shouto utterly adores him, in all the ways worth articulating and all the ways that evade words.
“You can take care of yourself, I’m not disputing that in any shape or form. But still…”
Reaching for Katsuki’s trembling hand, Shouto gives a firm squeeze. He rubs his thumb against skin with all the tenderness he dares, stroking over the bones of a lovely wrist then down to the pulse point. He moves with agonising slowness, eyes roving across an unreadable expression.
Spooking Katsuki or herding him into a corner is not the intention here; though he’d detest either of those suggestions, he’s far from helpless.
The hand in Shouto’s grasp twitches. All the taut tension starts to unfold, fingers uncurl and open like a bud bursting in spring. Emboldened, Shouto cradles it like a lifeline between both of his palms and brings it to his lips. He presses a chaste kiss on the nearest knuckle, speaks against the skin.
“If you'd let me, I’d like to take care of you.”
Katsuki draws his hand back to his heaving chest, but it doesn’t seem like rejection. He remains in orbit, hooks a foot behind the leg of Shouto’s chair to bring it that final few inches across the floor.
Now would be a prime time to remind Katsuki about how hypocritical he’s just been; now he is the one scratching their kitchen tiles. But the words get stuck and lodged painfully on the way up.
“What’s in it for me, exactly?” Katsuki starts weakly, voice choked and eyes a little blotchy from moisture he can’t blink out quick enough. “I mean, you’re shit at laundry, you never put the dishes back where they belong, you forget which trash goes out on what day, you -”
He gestures to the counter in palpable exasperation, where Shouto abandoned his previous task.
“You still can’t cut the fucking chives right!”
Shouto digests the words whilst Katsuki catches his breath, ragged and clipped like he’s just finished a session of intensive training. Even if Katsuki is joking to deflect from his own visible discomfort, it’s ill-timed and in poor taste. Shouto decides to allow it. But this is meant to be romantic and heartfelt, not a relentless attack on his person thank you very much.
“It’s not about any of that, really.”
Hands itch to cross the threshold and touch, hold, savour; thoroughly consider every inch of skin. He settles for skating one along the tablecloth, landing just shy of where Katsuki is tapping a relentless rhythm against the ruffled surface.
“I just want to make sure you feel considered and cared for.” Breath hitched, Shouto links their fingers together in a twisted tangle. A little desperate, a lot devoted. “The way you deserve to be.”
The tapping stops. Katsuki goes still.
Crimson eyes flash fierce as they lock onto Shouto. An unforgiving furnace where composure stands little chance under such blistering heat, reduced to cinders. In a miserable pile it sits beneath bones, rattling away.
Shouto is accustomed to running both hot and cold. He has spent a lifetime cultivating the balance between those extremes; Katsuki makes even the most formidable flame seem lukewarm at best right now.
It’s as thrilling as it is unnerving.
Shouto can’t explain why, but he gets the distinct impression he might actually be in trouble.
Mayday in the Monday, maybe.
“Considered?” Katsuki repeats.
He chews the word over, as if unsure whether he enjoys the seasoning of its syllables. More kick is probably what this whole thing needs. But Shouto can hardly move yet alone breathe, pinned by magmatic eyes - it would be wholly unwise to rummage through the spice rack, even under strict supervision.
All he can do is nod, surrender to the sweeping sensation that surges up his spine in the process.
Katsuki wrinkles his nose, expression contorted the way it does when he’s in the throes of berating someone. At last, a path along that face Shouto can follow, familiar sharp lines and cutting angles.
This is not quite the path he hoped for, mind you. But all wandering roads eventually lead to the same destination, Shouto has heard this said in a far more eloquent way somewhere or rather.
The details aren’t overly important, he can ask Izuku for the correct phrase later.
Katsuki smacks his hand on the table. Shouto’s finger is collateral damage, crushed beneath the meat of the boiling palm. He wiggles it out right before Katsuki throws his head back and laughs with reckless abandon. Rough, rasped thunderclaps that boom through their kitchen and possibly the entire house.
It’s unrefined, it’s kind of disturbing - it’s everything Shouto has yearned to hear and witness. Were it not for the bandage coming undone from the jostling, he would be mesmerised.
Wordlessly, Shouto leans across the measly smidgen of space between them. He’s out of the chair before realising there’s nowhere to go, nothing else he can do but hover rather precariously over Katsuki’s lap whilst grappling for the safety of his own chair. He’s unsure how he looks, but it must be ridiculous because Katsuki is cackling like some kind of manic, eldritch creature.
Lips pursed, Shouto fastens the bandage.
“At least one of us finds this funny…”
With an undignified wheeze, Katsuki swats the prying hands away. Never one for fuss, even when he’s wincing at his own movements and would do well to sit still and keep quiet.
“Quit fretting. I’m fine.” He pokes Shouto’s cheek, lips curved and caught around the shape of faded laughter. “And don’t fucking sulk.”
“Don’t laugh at me, then,” Shouto says, arms folded across his chest; the very model of a petulant person who may or may not be sulking. He falls back into his chair with a thud.
“I’m not–!” Katsuki rethinks his words and stops short to correct course.
Direct to a fault, a complement to Shouto’s bluntness.
“Alright. So I was. But can you blame me? I finally figured out what all this damn nonsense has been about.”
The line is thrown. Shouto takes the bait, reels himself right in.
“Nonsense…”
“Yeah. Queue-jumping to buy food with no money, trying to make me tea–”
Katsuki leans forwards, a tease and a torment all at once. And it’s like experiencing a storm in reverse: the roar of thunder retreats, a violent fork of light careens down to take its place. Crack. Eyes meet across the closing chasm. Shouto can feel the huff of air fanning against his cheek as another, softer bark of laughter eclipses words.
“–The fucking flask!”
Truth be told, Shouto thinks it’s probably the wrong time to mention the other botched attempts at The Plan; especially the one involving the beloved spice rack. So he does the only thing you can do when your back is pressed firmly against a kitchen chair with an impossible, incredible man towering over.
Shouto tilts his head, allowing tousled hair to slope over his forehead. He bats his eyelashes precisely as Camie showed him several months ago whilst reminiscing the remedial days after a mission; cuz TBH you’re like The blueprint for ultimate rizz, babe, no cap, she’d declared. He catches the ghost of Katsuki’s lips as he speaks, suspended in the spectre of a burgeoning moment.
“So, what’s your answer?”
Katsuki creeps closer and commits, fully abandons his own chair in favour of taking his throne on Shouto’s lap. He moves so swiftly, with such momentous surety, that their faces almost collide in a clumsy way that is most definitely not desirable. It’s a good thing that Shouto has the sense to lean back at the last second despite every fibre of his being wanting to stay put.
Consideration is compromise, perhaps.
“Careful,” Shouto murmurs, startled by the sheer adoration cleaving his voice open.
He slides his palms up Katsuki’s thighs to steady him. And the following climb of hands to brace him around the waist is far less tentative than originally intended. In fact, Shouto is sure there is no room left for ambiguity regarding his affections anymore. It’s abundantly clear.
“Don’t use that gross, gooey tone on me,” is the rapidfire response, spat out between bared teeth.
Oh dear.
Katsuki is back on the defensive, a quick once-over reveals as much. Ears flared red, eyes wide and wild, one hand gripping the back of the chair hard enough the wood strains and groans under the pressure. Still, this is a mess entirely of his own design.
If he really wants to back off, he will.
Katsuki isn’t the type of person to act without meticulous strategising. However much these actions lack refinement or finesse, he chose them. He chose to be here.
“Apologies,” Shouto quips back on instinct. “I’ll pay more attention to how I modulate my voice next time.”
“Fuck. Do you ever shut-up.”
Shouto hums at that, focus elsewhere. He strokes over the place where the gauze fabric meets skin, with a gentleness that has Katsuki shivering. The bandage is already frayed and admittedly hardly his best piece of work. Both of them could do much better in different circumstances. For now, it is doing the job.
Shouto chases those molten eyes, hand sliding down to trace over a protruding collarbone, down to the sternum. Caged beneath sits a durable, determined heart. Racing and beating strong.
Long may it do so, for many more decades to come.
As if hearing that plea, Katsuki snaps and crackles to life in an instant. He clutches at Shouto’s hand and presses it tighter to his own chest with a blazing ferocity, as if trying to meld it there. Honestly, Shouto has no complaints about that. This is a nice way to spend a Monday afternoon, wounds and brimming tension taken into account.
“You wanna make me feel considered, huh,” Katsuki breathes, rasped and raw and revealed. “Gonna take real good care of me, Sho?”
More than anything. Let me hold you, let me love you, let me in. Please, let me into your heart.
Goodness, there’s too much to say.
Shouto is overcome. In the face of articulating it, his mouth moves wordless. His tongue can hardly keep up, the sentences spill and slip into obscurity. Katsuki has no qualms in translating this as a victory. He smirks in that glorious way that sets his eyes alight, whittling away at the slither of space between them. The very bones of him seem to thrum and hiss; Shouto soaks it in through the tips of his fingers.
“Well, I got somewhere you can start.”
Shouto drags his lips across Katsuki’s cheek, journeying leisurely towards their main destination.
They have time. They can simmer like a warm winter stew, brew like cups of peppery tea. In their kitchen, with the blinds rolled down, sun poking through like pillars of gold, they will always have time.
“You have?”
“Yeah.” Katsuki pulls back a fraction, nips along Shouto’s jawline and flicks a hot wondrous tongue rather cruelly against the shell of his ear. “How about my spice rack, you fucking lunatic.”
Ah. So he knows. Of course he knows.
“I wonder what gave me away,” Shouto muses aloud, curious. He’d been so sure to put everything back precisely how he found it. “Was the basil two degrees too far to the right or–”
Katsuki rams his head into Shouto’s shoulder.
“Ugh. Stop.”
Shouto decides to take his chances, he cards his impatient fingers through golden hair. It’s much softer than he imagined, and the problem he now has is having to eventually let go when the time calls.
That is not something he ever wants to do. But alas, life can be unfair at times.
“Would that help you feel more considered?”
“Fuck off!”
They exchange silly little expressions as Katsuki lifts his head. The kind that exists only behind closed doors and quiet corners. Eyes gleam and mouths map wild lines of joy. And this, this is the path Shouto dared dream they might walk. Together they sit huddled on the entangled chairs, giddy and thrumming with anticipation of all to come in the quiet of their tiny kitchen with scratched floor tiles and too many tins of tea.
Braver than he’s felt in almost a decade, Shouto knocks their foreheads together and closes his eyes.
“Hey,” he whispers, conspiratorially. “I have an idea. On where to start.”
Katsuki pushes back, angles his head just enough for their faces to slot together. It’s agonising how well they fit. “Yeah?”
“Yes, but we’d have to stop talking.” Pause. Lips twitch around a knowing smile. “If that’s alright with you.”
“Heh.” Katsuki snorts, an ugly and graceless sound but one Shouto treasures. “Sure you can manage that?”
This would be a perfectly reasonable question to ask most hours of the day and virtually every day of the week. Here, however, it is obsolete. Because for Bakugou Katsuki, Shouto most definitely can and will manage. He would do anything, in fact.
To prove as much, Shouto sacrifices the silly response bubbling in his throat up to the altar of all he holds dear. It is with reverence that he presses his lips against a lovely, inviting mouth. Shouto is greeted swiftly and welcomed into a kiss that kaleidoscopes. Where the room spins out of frame and vivid colours fizzle and burst behind eyelids, where hearts twist and turn as the shape of their very veins change; where they are made and unmade in slow, ardent cycles.
And much like everything they do together, it is achingly easy to fall into step, to find the rhythm and move as one. Katsuki surrenders in his own unique way, persistent and brazen with each searing chase of his tongue. He opens so beautifully and Shouto melts against him with a dreamy, content sigh that is swallowed up and devoured whole.
Even like this, their playful rapport never quite stops; it evolves. The twitch of lips that lose focus in the midst of rejoicing, the responding bite to steer them back on track. Any awkward fumbles in exploration are exchanged for the firm anchor of each other. Even like this, as much as he gives and as much as he takes, Katsuki considers. Something about that breaks the final clinging string to Shouto’s bow.
“Katsuki. You have–you have to know,” he implores, voice hollow and heavy all at once.
He is filled to the brim with love. Compelled by the magnitude of it. His voice cracks, trips and tumbles itself into splinters. This isn’t how he really wanted to say these things at all, but this is about Katsuki and wholly considering him and Katsuki has to know.
“How much.” A shaky breath. This is a mess, a horrible mess. “How much I–”
“–I do. Same for me,” Katsuki quickly says into his cheek. The graze of teeth is oddly mooring, in a way nothing else could contend with ever again. “Save it for later, when you’re not about to shit your pants over it maybe.”
Laughter is punched promptly and a little violently out of Shouto’s lungs. Graceless, he sags against Katsuki as it rushes over him like a riptide. Their hands find each other, echoes of that kaleidoscope are in each touch. Just like that, the whizz and whip of urgency is halted. Beneath his bones there is a reclamation of space.
Enduring calm.
With a serene smile, he observes the man huddled close.
“Now we’ve really turned a corner.”
Katsuki scoffs at that. For some unfathomable reason, he entertains the remark instead of any outright vicious rebuttal; kissing clearly comes with some interesting and unexpected perks. Shouto is very interested in exploiting that in future.
“At least this stupid table has corners,” is what Katsuki offers.
Shouto looks down, as if to verify that.
Given how much time they spend here, he really ought to know that simple detail. They’ve had this table since they first moved here three years ago, taken second-hand from their former neighbour who insisted on the matter. But in Shouto’s defence, he doesn’t come into their kitchen to look at the table; he’s often looking elsewhere, at someone in particular.
It serves as a reminder, a consideration - here I am, here you are. In the kitchen of our little house. Changing, but fundamentally unchanged.
“Oh. So it does.”