Archive of Our Own

It really starts with a thermostat. At first. It’s a dorm full of teenage kids with quirks, and they may have their own rooms to do whatever the hell they wanted with it, but it’s still a dorm. And a dorm means public spaces.

Public spaces which are not structured for that variety of quirks that fucking U.A.’s always gloating about rearing. The overemphasis on that with every publicity speech they make is almost on a par with that shithead AFO and his grabby hands and ooh quirk my precious. 

It isn’t a surprise, then, that if it isn’t about the idiots touching his goddamn kitchen, it’s the thermostat the class fights about. Or well, what he fights the idiots about and they end up ganging up on him or (when that fails) sicks Aizawa on him.

Look, it’s not like he fucking asked to be kidnapped, be the reason All Might got pushed out of the limelight, and why going out to konbinis now needed a three-day notice with a signed permit from at least two teachers. 

In conclusion it’s also not his goddamn fault for being nitpicky about the thermostat being exactly at 21.5ºC and emphasizing (dramatizing, Jirō would mutter under her breath) that a degree lower or higher would revert him into a sad defenseless hero-in-training or a walking bomb.

Yet here he is again, standing in front of the goddamn thing, not an hour after he ripped Raccoon Eyes a new one when he came back from training and saw her fiddling with it.

It’s at 16ºC.

But, see, here’s the thing.

Katsuki growls as he tears off the poorly taped–one of Sero’s–imitation of an unblinking 21.5ºC, creasing it as he stomps over and turns the corner to the living room.

“Pinky, I fucking swear I’m gonna tear your shitty horns from that poor excuse of a thing you call hair. I don’t give a fucking shit if it’s too hot outside and what’s the use of thermostats if we don’t change it and You’re not the only one who lives here, Katsuki. If you want to get away from the summer heat, then I’ll happily shove ice cubes into your fucking eye–”

It’s not Mina who greets him languidly on the couch as if it’s her house. It’s not Kirishima either who’s attached to her by the hip since she said yes to them sucking faces. Not even Sero who the tape’s from or Uppity Princess who helped with making the imitation.

“Ah,” Todoroki turns his head that was lolling on the couch’s backrest. His cheek squishes against it, eyes hazy. “I didn’t know you’ll be coming down again. Apologies, Bakugō.”

Katsuki has, usually, a lot of words for any person he comes across. There’s like these rows of lockers in his head, directly linked to his sharp tongue and facial features (the default is: scowl). Everyone has a box with their shitty little names on it full of insults ranging from the creative ones (What the fuck did you think when you chose Red Riot, Ei? You really going to dedicate a part of your salary to bleaching and coloring for the rest of your fucking life?) to the low-effort ones. And that’s not because he can’t think of any, but because it’s not fucking worth it.

Todoroki Shōto’s is filled with the latter of variations of Walking Japan Flag, Cruella’s cousin, and Global Warming. It’s not Katsuki’s best work and the classic Half-and-Half and Icy Hot is what he sticks to (even if it doesn’t even work anymore, goddammit)

He forgets all that and just asks, “If you’re going to die, do it somewhere else, Shitoroki.”

Shito–fuck, no, that’s lame–Todoroki sighs. Katsuki knows there really is something wrong when that simple act produces both a cloud of frost and hot steam from the Todoroki’s mouth.

Against his better judgment (which is to crumple up the fake thermostat picture and shoot it into Todoroki’s half-open mouth), he goes to the couch. The blast of cold as he goes deeper into the living makes him itch because fuck, that is what happens when people mess with his (the school property’s, actually) thermostat.

Seeing Todoroki suffer under some weird ailment makes him feel better. Just a bit. Because if it’s a fucking virus and Katsuki’s just walked over to where the fucker’s still lolling his head to be sneezed on, he is setting off another fire alarm.

An installation’s that is really annoying and ineffective when he literally saw someone in Support being a walking fireball.

Coming closer, Todoroki does… look like shit. Which is always so what’s new, except he looks shittier than usual. Enough that it made him–apart from Deku, the loyal fuck–break his streak of not messing with Katsuki’s thermostat.

But then again, his words of I didn’t know you’ll be coming down again makes him think Todoroki does mess with it. Only when Katsuki’s away, won’t be bothered, and wraps up just as he comes back.

It’s a thought, a possibility that makes something in him itch again. It’s probably from the cold making his quirk act up like a cat treating him as a scratching post when it can’t get out like it’s supposed to.

Todoroki’s eyes are half-lid, pupils hazy and unseeing. He’s still breathing normally ish, if the alternating huffs of cold and hot air are normal. His school tie’s soaked wet, wrapped around his head like those drunk businessmen Katsuki’d see in his intern patrols. The top buttons of his uniform are undone–popped off, looks like it–with the frayed threads barely holding onto the things.

There’s even a gleam of sweat coating Todoroki’s long neck, where muscles bulge with every breath. They slip down along curves of collar bones and pooling into the upper curve of his chest.

Katsuki frowns (because the sweating makes little sense in the 16.1ºC living room and not because of anything else. Like, how vulnerable and too exposed the Half and Half idiot is).

He rolls up the paper in his hands and pokes Todoroki with it. “Oi.”

Todoroki groans, his eyes fluttering open. He blinks twice, and the haze clears a bit, as if he’s remembering Katsuki’s still there. Which is rude as fuck, because who the fuck can just forget his presence?

He conveys that in his (upside down) glare that just makes Todoroki sigh again. 

“No, Bakugō, I’m not dying. I’m just–” He licks his lips. “–overheating a bit. It’s nothing. This happens so I apologize if it’s also inconveniencing you.”

Todoroki pauses and shifts. He brings himself up so he can twist, and suddenly he’s all up in Katsuki’s face, hazed blue and gray eyes looking at him. His mouth parts in a sigh (who is he kidding, the idiot’s panting). The change in position–Todoroki bracing himself up on his arms, hands gripping the backrest, and body tilting forwards–shows a lot of things. The flush running across his cheeks, to the tips of his ears, and down to the uniform that’s only hanging on a couple of buttons.

“Really,” Todoroki says and a wave of dizzying cold and heat engulfs Katsuki. “It won’t happen again, Bakugō. Just… let me go this once?”

Katsuki blames the mind-numbing temperature of 16.1ºC that makes him shove Todoroki’s face away from his, slapping over the fake thermostat picture on his face.

Unlike the others’ complaints, Todoroki’s seems understandable, logical, and that’s what he tells himself repeatedly when he sleeps that night. 

He doesn’t end up wondering just how far that flush on pale skin goes and feeling thirsty even though he’s already finished the liter of water he keeps by his bed.

Katsuki only realizes something’s off when a decade passes and he’s an overworking rookie. Note that he isn’t ‘overworked’: this is his conscious choice to take on everything and anything that comes his way. That’s better than being ordered around like other shitbags just because they were born a few years before him.

He already hears Deku, that unpatriotic shit who bounced off to war-torn countries, laugh and say, What’s more Kacchan than wanting to have been born quicker than anyone else?

He’d say he misses the little shit if he didn’t hear that nasally, eternally peppy voice ringing out from Todoroki’s phone at ungodly hours. Katsuki’s already tried teaching the Half smart Half stupid fucker how to connect bluetooth earphones or even plug in the archaic ones.

It’s a battle, to this day, that will remain a defeat that stains his record.

Not that he has much of a record. Officially. As a hero. Because apparently taking down AFO, the League, and the anarchist Liberation idiots doesn’t count since it’s a team effort. Katsuki calls bullshit, but he works his ass off anyway, steadily climbing the ranks so he can flip them from the top.

Todoroki, a roommate he did not ask for yet here they were (the details on that are very hazy and he thinks of the Thermostat), the fucker lecturing him again as soon as he gets to their apartment.

Katsuki wants to focus on it being their apartment instead of just the place that Endeavor pays for like grievance checks and somewhere he sneaked into. So it’s their apartment, and that gives him the right (and the key and passcode and fingerprint and biological signature) to come home at whatever time he wants.

Even if it is at three in the morning, giving him less than three hours before he comes back to the agency to rinse and repeat.

“Bakugō,” Todoroki frowns. He speaks louder when Katsuki won’t meet his eyes. “Bakugō, this is not healthy and you know it.”

Great. Another lecture. 

Katsuki grumbles. “Keep out of it, Mr. I’m-Already-At-the-Top-20 Hero.” 

Todoroki has his arms crossed and accosted him as he was toeing off his shoes at the genkan. So as soon as he kicks those off, drops his keys in the bowl, he walks past his roommate.

Katsuki doesn’t get far (or at all).

The first time Todoroki touched him like this, hand lightly gripping his arm, it’d been about the same thing. It’s barely even a hold and he could easily–very easily–shrug it off and get some sleep. That few minutes he got on the train and the unfortunate I’ll just rest my eyes for a bit at the crosswalk sign pole was not enough.

Any more coffee–that cursed drink that should’ve been banned in Japan–and Katsuki will sweat the goddamn thing.

Easily, he can shrug off Todoroki’s hold-but-not-really-a-hold on him.

Katsuki pinches the bridge of his nose, not moving an inch. 

“What? Fucking what? Look, am I waking you up or something, Half and Half? Is me going through the door that beeps silently waking you, who once slept through a goddamn earthquake?”

That one serves as a very amusing story, but an experience he never wants to fucking repeat. 

Todoroki’s still frowning and he and his stupid height come closer, chin tilted slightly down to look at Katsuki. Katsuki, whose eyes are very preoccupied by whatever show is playing on the muted television in the living room. He’s particularly staring (glaring) at that bowl of cereal that’s being a beacon for ants.

Stupid Todoroki. How many times should he send that video about an ant uprising to the idiot before he stops leaving his food and crumbs all over the place?

“Bakugō.”

Really, is it so fucking hard to put it in the shitty sink that’s universally acknowledged as an anti-ant space? 

Todoroki sighs. Katsuki grumbles. Both of them for completely different reasons.

The usual chain of events after that sigh is this: Todoroki would shake his head, mutter something like fuck under his breath, and let Katsuki go–finally–so he can sleep.

That does not happen, and he senses something’s off.

There’s the hold on his arm, for one. It changes from very light pressure into a proper grip and he’s being tugged off to somewhere. 

Katsuki thinks that Todoroki’s finally grown some common sense and decided to escort his roommate back to, well, his room. Huh. Maybe he’ll cut down an hour from his usual three and make the fucker a bentō. It’s been a while, after all.

Then he’s pushed down on the couch, ass painfully landing right on the goddamn remote, and swears he’ll never make a bentō for Todoroki ever again. Let him stew and suffer in fancy restaurant food for all that Katsuki cares.

Which he doesn’t.

“Give me your hands, Bakugō.”

Bakugō Katsuki, who’s very much sleep-deprived, overworked (by choice!), and almost got run over by a motorcycle when he dozed off waiting for the walking sign (not by choice), keeps his arms crossed over his chest.

Like the brat Mina, Jirō, Sero, Denki, Satō–okay, fucking everyone who ever stuck around long enough with him told him he was, he’s hmphing. Nose upturned, chin up, and looking off to the side and everything.

He hears Todoroki sit on the nearby ottoman. Another sigh. The silence stretches for a while and Katsuki lets a (exhausted) smirk work on his lips in victory.

Then he freezes and his head snaps to Todoroki and wow, that made him very dizzy, but not too out of it to see… Well, see something that’s very much an illusion. Or a dream-fueled… thing.

Fuck, his eloquence and sharp tongue really go asleep when he’s running on nothing but sheer will (and spite, don’t forget the spite).

“Bakugō,” Todoroki the esper, illusion, ghost, wraith–whatever fake thing people invented, mumbles. 

Their positions have shifted now. Katsuki’s become the one staring point blank and Todoroki’s not meeting his gaze. He looks, instead, and focuses his heterochromatic eyes on… that.

Todoroki’s hands are, despite going through the same general training as Katsuki in U.A., slender. They’re an artist’s hands filled with the calluses of a fighter but move with the delicacy of a pianist. And Katsuki’s never paid attention to them, so these cheesy descriptions are coming out of a filter-free mind. That’s running on coffee.

And spite. Of course, the spite.

Katsuki can’t help but pay attention to Todoroki’s hands, considering there’s one on his goddamn knee. Not being able to look at those blue and gray eyes, he’s looking at Todoroki’s bowed head, focusing on the ruffled split of red and white hair.

He wonders if the fucker uses different brands of shampoo for each side or really thinks about anything, so he won’t see what the hell is happening over there.

Of course, he has to be so amazing that his peripheral sight just as good as his central. Plus, well, it’s moving so ha, good luck with that plan of I-Don’t-See-Therefore-It-Doesn’t-Exist.

It’s not creeping up or squeezing or anything. It’s not the sort of touch he got once on the train and never again when he made the asshole choke on the molester stamp.

It’s, well, it’s just… there. Todoroki’s hand is there, lightly gripping his knee, with a thumb pushing and kneading circles on, oh fuck that’s the spot.

“Bakugō,” Todoroki says again, a bit more clearly but still soft. “Do you know why I asked you to give me your hands?”

Amidst the soothing motions that almost lull him asleep while sitting upright, Katsuki likes that he’s still got it.

“‘Cuz you and Princess got pulled into another fortune telling scam and want to see if I’m doomed too?”

‘It’ being his propensity for sharp-tongued comebacks.

Todoroki’s not looking at him, but they’ve been roommates for years now. He knows when the fucker’s frowning from voice alone. Which… says something, but his half-asleep state of mind is not for realizations.

“You know that only happened once–”

“Thrice and we still have that foot-long jade dragon in storage.”

“–and what I’m trying to say is,” Todoroki huffs. “Do you even realize that you’re still wearing your grenade bracers? And I’m pretty sure that’s last week’s tank top you’re wearing.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes, uncrosses his arms and looks down just to prove a point that his shitty roommate’s wrong–

“Ah.” 

The gear that he’s supposed to check in at the end of his shift is not in his agency’s Support locker but right there, glinting under his glare. And, fuck, alright that top is from a week ago.

Well, that definitely explains why no one even dared to be within a foot of him on the train.

Still, he’s still Bakugō-fucking-Katsuki, so he does what he does best–

Be defensive.

“What’s it to you, Icy Hot? You gonna snitch on me or something? After I covered your ass for the Fireworks Incident?”

That issue’s been cleared up, but Katsuki’s isn’t who he is if he won’t milk every piece of blackmail and favor that comes his way.

“No,” says Todoroki, laughing softly. He looks up and meets Katsuki’s eyes. “You know I won’t do that, Bakugō. Not to you.”

Katsuki grunts. “Damn straight.”

Todoroki laughs again, and he doesn’t know what’s so fucking funny. Maybe if it isn’t for the hand that’s still–so naturally–on his knee and kneading the muscle there that always tenses when he comes down from flying, he would’ve noticed that the sun’s lighting up the room through the balcony door off to the side.

If he isn’t so busy grumbling about unlawful use of fireworks, then he’d notice how he looks like now to Todoroki; the tips of his ears burning, a flush high on his cheeks, running and creeping from his chest to his neck.

But, well, it’s three in the morning and Katsuki wants to sleep.

He opens his mouth to say exactly that–he’ll even add a fucking please since sleep deprivation makes him soft–but Todoroki’s hand squeezes his knee and nothing comes out.

“Bakugō,” Todoroki says. He’s far away enough, at least, uh, Katsuki thinks, so it’s weird that he can feel cool and warm breath fanning his face. His eyelids flutter and wow, he must be really sleepy.

“Bakugō, take the day off. It’s Friday anyway and you know you can’t hold your liquor at the nomikai without getting at least more than a day’s worth of sleep.”

Katsuki opens his mouth to say something to that, but Todoroki squeezes harder and his thumb kneads harder for his tongue to feel like jelly. Actually, for everything to feel like jelly. Or soggy soba noodles left in the broth for too long.

“I’ll take the day off too, okay?”

Katsuki nods. Todoroki’s voice has always carried a timbre to it that isn’t unpleasant and feels less like the grating noise from everyone else (especially shitty Deku) and more like a soothing blanket.

Oh fuck, what he’d do to get a blanket right now. Maybe he can snag one in the not-illegal-but-toeing-it black market deals in Ginza. He can live with one kidney, right?

Todoroki laughs and it’ll probably take a piece of his liver to replicate a blanket that feels like that.

Someone’s holding his hands. He hears the popping of latches and the clinking of metal, and his wrists feel light. 

Something cool goes through his hair and he leans into it, letting out a sigh. The warm pressure on his knee stays for a bit before it’s gone and Katsuki’s blaming, once again and to no one’s surprise, sleep deprivation for the whine he lets out.

Todoroki laughs, and he’s being pushed back. He feels something soft and kind of like a bed behind him, and that’s fucking good enough.

“I’ll call up your agency for you, okay? Go to sleep, Bakugō.”

Katsuki tells himself that he muttered a very eloquent, who the fuck told you I’m taking the day off, you walking demarcation zone? That’s definitely it and not a garble of a keyboard smash.

“-I am so betting my ass that he just did that, and keeps doing it, by the fucking way, so he won’t have someone one-up him in the rankings and… why the hell are you looking at me like that, Shitty Hair?”

“I don’t know, Katsuki. How am I looking at you?”

Katsuki narrows his eyes at Eijirō across the table. He aims a kick at his best friend’s–yes; the declaration came with the amount of tears he expected–shin and misses because his friends are assholes.

“Like, you’re wondering what you did to be here, and,” Katsuki narrows his eyes more. “Why you’re talking to a blockheaded idi– alright, fucker, just for that, I’m not paying for your drinks.”

Eijirō pouts. Yeah, pouts and does an impression of a big puppy that he thinks is going to work on Katsuki. Ha. (Yes, he ends up paying for the bill later. But that’s only because he ends up shit-faced and alcohol makes him forget grudges)

“Anyway,” Katsuki, because he has self-control and an unshakeable will, doesn’t touch the seaweed tempura Eijirō ordered for him. “What’s your fucking use as a sounding board and my best friend–yeah, yeah, stop squealing every time I say it–if you’re judging every word I say?”

“Uh, dude, I don’t know how to tell you, but that’s exactly what best friends are for,” Eijirō pauses, as if considering something. Katsuki narrows his eyes at him from behind the third–or was it fourth foaming glass of beer. 

He coughs. Katsuki’s suspicious.

“And, you know,” Eijirō shoots him a wry grin. “When said best friend has been acting like an idiot for too long.”

Katsuki doesn’t throw his beer at Eijirō. Not because he doesn’t want to–oh, he does very much–but because he’s the one paying for drinks tonight and money’s been tight since he incurred infrastructure damage. Again.

Like a grown man in his mid-20s, he pinches Eijirō’s hand that was creeping toward the seaweed tempura that was a peace offering. Really, that’s just sacrilege.

“If anyone’s being an idiot,” Katsuki drawls, ignoring Eijirō’s dramatics over not feeling his hand anymore. “It’s fucking Half and Half, right? I literally told you what he’s been doing for six months–six fucking months! Of him meddling and giving threatening phone calls to my agency about my work hours!”

“I liked the part where he made them while you were on phone duty. And where you had to write the report for it.”

“You liked the–” Katsuki sputters and aims a kick again (misses again, dammit). “This isn’t a fucking K-Drama where you like a part, asshole!”

Eijirō puts his hands up consolingly (the stolen otsumami in one hand does not help) and Katsuki lets it go. Almost, if it isn’t for what Eijiro mutters under his breath while chewing.

Katsuki’s insane hearing that only gets sharper with every use of his quirk catches it.

“Sure seems like one. And one with a very predictable plot.”

Their table gets no more otsumami service after that. And when Katsuki (hand shaking off some strands of red hair) or Eijirō (who’s still chugging down beer like it’ll help water down the seaweed tempura he choked on) waves down someone for another round, they’ll get their drinks. With a nasty side-stare sprinkled on top.

If anyone spat in their drinks, Katsuki’s too buzzed to notice.

They somehow end up drinking soju instead of the shochu brand Katsuki likes. He will not admit that he hates the foreign drink so much he puts down a reminder on his phone to buy a bottle (one of each flavor). 

He’s on his third shot (fuck, that shit’s strong) and there are already sparks playing along the back of his hands as he slams the glass back on the table. Katsuki catches a distorted view of himself in the green bottle and is utterly disgusted–who the hell is that drunk with a flushed face and a lopsided grin, ha?

“Woah, woah,” Eijirō snatches the offending thing away from him. He snaps his gaze to his best friend and has to blink for a couple seconds (minutes) because he cannot handle two red-haired idiots.

A pair of fingers snap in his face. “Yo, Katsuki. You still there? You planning to repeat the Mirror Incident again?”

Katsuki growls, narrowing his eyes at both the mention of The Incident and because there are still two, uh, three Eijirōs.

“If you are, I love you but I promised Mina I would record it this time.”

“Bring out your goddamn dinosaur phone and I’m whacking your shitty head with it… Shitty Hair.”

Katsuki sees three Eijirōs roll their eyes, and that is definitely the must frustrating thing he’s ever seen in his life. 

“Yeah, well,” Eijirō shrugs, pouring himself a shot. “Unlike someone who has a fully furnished penthouse apartment with state-of-the-art security and has someone give them, with no debts held, the newest phone, others aren’t that lucky, man.”

Compared to sleep-deprived Katsuki, drunk Katsuki is sharper. That’s probably from all his nerves tingling and his chest rumbling from keeping that urge to giggle locked tight. That only happened once and Todoroki, hearing it, doesn’t count.

The mix of beer with this foreign liquor makes him catch on to the intoned words (but not enough to actually understand what’s being hinted at. He’s not a god, sheesh)

Once Eijirō downs his shot, Katsuki snatches the green bottle and holds it hostage from his best friend’s grabby hands.

“I pay my part of the rent, dumbass,” Katsuki grlurs (it’s a mix of growl and slur, it’s a new word and he loves it). “And I’m paying shitty Icy Hot back for the phone, Shitty Hair.”

“Dude, look,” Eijirō sighs, running his hands through his hair. “How much do you pay as rent?”

Katsuki tells him. And doesn’t fucking understand why that makes Eijirō’s brow raise so much it’s gone forever in that mess of a hair.

“Wow, that’s,” He blows out a breath. “That’s really…”

“Expensive as fuck?”

Eijirō looks at him and Katsuki tries another kick because it’s an Are you an idiot gaze again. His foot misses, their table shakes, and fuck does being drunk make the jolts going up his leg feel like he kicked down a building.

“That’s… way less than what I pay for on my part in our apartment. That’s just like–” Eijirō makes indiscernible motions with his hands and Katsuki hates him for it because he follows and gets dizzy. “–pocket change, man.”

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Me-And-The-Rest-Of-The-Class-Are-Already-In-The-Top-30s-and-40s,” Katsuki snorts. He grlurs again. “Just get to the fucking point, Shit Hair.”

“It’s Shitty Hair, Katsu– actually, no, it’s Eijirō and we’ve known each other a decade now and– okay, okay,” He holds up his hands again for a placating gesture when he sees the sparks running along Katsuki’s arms pop menacingly. Eijirō takes in a breath, and blows it out.

Then he says something that actually makes sense for once and Katsuki swears he’ll stop by the nearest shrine first thing tomorrow (because apparently miracles happen).

“You could’ve taken Auntie and Uncle’s offer to pay for your apartment. One that’s, you know, actually walking distance from your agency and not a couple stations and one transfer away.”

Katsuki nods. Then frowns because he’s sure he already told everyone who nagged him about it the first year that he doesn’t want to be indebted. Especially not to the old hag who’ll lord it over him.

“Instead,” Eijirō’s hands are restless, fiddling with his empty shot glass and the empty saucer of otsumami. “You crash first thing in Shōto’s apartment and just… lived with him.”

Katsuki snorts. Eijirō shakes his head, laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, I know he’s the one who asked you first, and you did this weird mating dance of fuck nos and hmm maybes before sucking up and saying yes.”

Katsuki nods, smug. Then he freezes, frowns, and he’s sure there’s something wrong in what Eijirō said. But his best friend keeps on speaking and whatever that was probably wasn’t important. 

“Then you pay ‘rent’. That’s probably what Shōto uses to buy groceries, you know. You also use the phone he gave you that’ll take you a decade to pay back if you’re still in the lower 50s–”

Katsuki growls, because just fucking watch him shoot up to join Todoroki in the goddamn Top 20s by next quarter, or so help him–

“–And still, you think you have the reins here, Katsuki.”

Eijirō looks at him with an exasperated expression laced with… something else. Pity? Hopelessness? Well, whatever. It’s only natural Katsuki matches him with his own glare. He hopes he’s staring at the right red-haired idiot though (because yes, there are only two Eijirōs now, but still too much)

His best friend’s waiting for something and Katsuki blames the soju for making his mind take a second too late to realize that Eijirō’s waiting for a reaction from him. 

Okay. Alright, fine.

He takes ahold of the facts and rolls it over in his head.

Katsuki remembers Todoroki’s hand on his shoulder during graduation. It was just a soft tap to get his attention, but the warmth lingered and spread. He remembers how the cool spring wind ruffled that split-colored hair and the couple wayward sakura petals that stuck on white and red.

Then there’s… oh, right, the fucker smiled. Right before asking him if he’d like to move into the apartment his guilt-ridden dad would pay for.

Katsuki remembers how he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying yes before Todoroki could finish.

He frowns as he remembers more, the alcohol burning through him and making his mind work overtime.

Todoroki’s amused smile every time Katsuki hands over his part of the rent. There’s the brush of cool fingers against his when the fucker takes the envelope, and it’s what always stops his questions on why can’t he just send it straight to the landlord.

Todoroki’s frown when he saw Katsuki’s battered phone, his terse voice asking if that’s why he can’t contact Katsuki sometimes. Then the mysterious disappearance of said cell phone he’s had since U.A., that Katsuki only realized when Todoroki’s already teaching him how to use the new, sleek model.

He remembers asking where the hell it was, how much it is, and I can fucking learn on my own, Half and Half. But he thinks he never got around to asking how he’s going to pay it back with Todoroki’s warm and cool hands around his, slender fingers pointing this feature and that, making him… forget.

Then, of course, everything comes barreling after that. The thermostat. The ‘take a break’ incident six months ago. And, and–

Katsuki thinks he’s an idiot.

“Oh fuck,” He says. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

Eijirō lights up, a smile on his face. And, strangely, relief. “Oh my god, yes, you finally get it!”

Katsuki nods. He’s wide-eyed as he says, gravely.

“Icy Hot has a mind control quirk, doesn’t he?”

When Katsuki sees Eijirō bang his head on the table (repeatedly) and begins muttering gibberish, as a good friend, he declares it’s time they go home. Well, that’s fueled by his thinning patience at the insults that Eijirō hasn’t stopped spewing (from out the booth, to the pay counter, to outside the izakaya). 

If he isn’t convinced that Eijirō drank as much as soju as him (that heavenly, poisonous drink), he’d already be thinking those insults of blockhead, oblivious idiot, god oh god why is someone so stupid my friend was for him. Ha. Preposterous, Katsuki’s great.

He’s so great he remembers Eijirō’s passcode (his birthday, how lame) and gets to dump his best friend to another best friend who is his best friend’s girlfriend.

What Katsuki doesn’t account his greatness for is the man that comes out of the passenger’s seat of Mina’s car and goes for him.

They crouch down before him (it turns out that yes; the world stops spinning if he sits down on the curb, knees to his chest and back flush against the cool wall of the izakaya). There are a lot of lights playing with the surroundings around him and he wants to go back to closing his eyes.

But the fucker doesn’t let him and there’s an arm around his shoulders, a cool touch on his arm, and breath not his fanning the side of his face.

“Bakugō. Bakugō, let’s go home.”

From what Katsuki realized tonight–that somehow, his roommate mutated even further (is two quirks not enough or something, damn) and has been exerting this… influence over him–should make him hiss and pull away.

But the heat of the alcohol makes the cold of Todoroki’s right side feel soothing as fuck, so he doesn’t. Katsuki lets the manipulative fucker pull him up, steadying him and leading him home.

Well, of course he should because it’s Todoroki’s fault he drank this much, anyway. And it’s only right that Katsuki leans into the hold, face buried in the crook of Todoroki’s neck, their steps guided by both their steady heartbeats.

Contrary to what Katsuki thought about Todoroki’s mutation, his sober and headache-suffering mind eventually dismisses it. Katsuki wants to say that he realizes that’s just a far stretch of a hypothesis and he’s sharp enough to realize if someone he’s known for a decade has a new quirk.

It’s definitely not because he sent the blood he nicked (okay, fine, he asked and Todoroki offered his arm without question) to a quirk specialist who told him that no, there are no new mutations. Definitely not.

So he turns to his next plan of action. It’s something he’s very good at and may even be the renowned expert for it.

That is: Being hyper-aware of every little thing Todoroki does and says around him (no, that’s not paranoia), and losing sleep on figuring out what’s with the touching, smiles, rare snorts, and chuckles that doesn’t sound like it’s made by a creep but like it comes from a lover.

Hm.

It’s disappointing how it takes Katsuki a solid minute staring unblinkingly at the night stars Todoroki put up on the ceiling that one time he slipped and said he doesn’t enjoy sleeping in the dark. Yeah, fucking thanks for that, Shitoroki. 

They glow faintly under his gaze and it’s under their soft light that Todoroki probably picked out, knowing how much of a light sleeper Katsuki is, that his heart stutters, trips, and falls flat on its face.

Hmm.

“Oh fuck,” Katsuki says, his wide eyes shaking. He almost can’t hear himself over the loud as fuck beating of his heart, and can that fucking stop?

“Fuck.”

The stars twinkle and Katsuki realizes, seven years into living with Todoroki Shōto, that he–he–

He grabs a pillow and put it over his face before the panic-filled scream rips out of his throat. It doesn’t fucking help that the goddamn thing smells like the crackling fire of a hearth in winter from how Todoroki’s the one who makes his bed for him every day.

The scent wraps around him, and he takes a deep breath in.

… Okay, it helps a little.

Katsuki doesn’t get a wink of sleep that night. He almost dozes off with the pillow on his face, and the scent making him curl into the blankets of his bed. Almost. Just almost.

Then the thought that comes to him, without question as if it’s just naturally what he’s supposed to think, about exploding Todoroki’s face if his roommate dares wake him in the morning makes the drowsiness go away.

He almost throws the pillow away from him. Almost. He should’ve. (He doesn’t, and he didn’t make his bed either just because)

Which is a shitty plan now that he thinks about it since Todoroki’s the only one of them both leaving for work today, and Katsuki’s stuck in the apartment making sure it doesn’t just… combust.

Todoroki gives him a disbelieving look for that (shitty) reason and he would’ve flipped him off. Definitely. If the fucker’s mouth didn’t quirk into a half-smile, his heterochromatic eyes shine, and softly bid Katsuki goodbye.

Now Katsuki’s stuck on the couch, hugging Todoroki’s pillow (no, he doesn’t think about the warm, almost giddy feeling in his chest when he realizes the fucker’s never needed to lock any room in their apartment) against his chest, and glaring at the phone in his hands.

The screen’s showing a contact with a slew of numbers that Katsuki doesn’t know how it ended up added there, but it’s there. Mocking him as his fingers hover over the call button.

The block’s button right next to it and it’s so easy to do that.

His call connects after a few seconds and it only takes three rings (it should’ve only taken one, that asshole) for it to be picked up, a distorted sleepy voice on the other end.

Katsuki knows it’s probably in the middle of the goddamn night in Mexico, but he’s in a crisis and is entitled to being petty. (He stomps on the voice that eerily sounds like Pikachu telling him, dude you’re always petty, what’s the difference?)

“I thought you’re supposed to be working your ass off saving the world, nerd,” Katsuki says, his other hand flipping through TV channels. “You sound like you’ve just been sleeping your lazy ass off.”

There’s a shuffling of sheets, some clicking sound, and a sigh. It must be a known-each-other-since-in-diapers thing because he hears the exact moment Deku smiles (fondly, ugh).

“Hi to you too, Kacchan. It must be around–” There’s shuffling again. “–twelve in the afternoon there. Are you having your lunch break, Kacchan?”

“‘M not working today, shitty Deku.”

“Ah.” 

Katsuki scowls because he’s fluent in Dekuspeak and that one sound definitely means well, well, how hypocritical of you to tell me off for sleeping at reasonable hours instead of working when you’re probably shouting at game contestants on TV. Stew in your embarrassment for being called out and know that’s why you’re still in the lower 50s.

He’s well aware that it’s very unlikely that’s what Deku actually means and, more likely, it’s that self-deprecating voice acting up again. Well, it’s not his fault that if not for drowning in overtime shifts, then who else but Todoroki to distract him from tha–

“I’m going to tell you something, shitty nerd, and you better let me finish before doing something or saying anything or even breathing.”

“Um, I don’t think I can stop breathing, Kacchan.”

Katsuki raises a brow and waits. He taps his finger against the back of his phone, the remote on his crossed legs. The TV’s mute and he’s deliberately breathing as softly as he can.

It doesn’t even take five seconds for Deku to curb and say yes, okay, Kacchan, fine with a defeated voice. 

Ah, it’s been a while since he messed with the nerd who couldn’t breathe if there’s even a hint of awkward and dead silence on the horizon.

Now it’s his turn, finally.

The smug feeling of victory turns sour and curls into a hard ball of dread real quick because, oh shit, it’s my turn. Katsuki’s definitely not a coward or one to run away, but he hugs the pillow closer to his chest and says fuck this, I only found out last night. No fucking way.

So he opens his mouth to say some excuse to Deku and hang-up. Maybe something about a sudden villain attack blowing a hole through their penthouse apartment’s living room and this is a battle he can’t miss ‘cuz it will bump him up a lot of spots on the ranking. 

“I let no one touch the goddamn thermostat in the dorms, Deku. Never. Not anyone. Not even when Asui almost went into hibernation or there was a fucking heatwave that lasted for a month,” Katsuki says, the words flowing because he wasn’t informed there’s a dam that’s been building. “I let no one mess with it and didn’t even feel sorry when those visiting class B fucks ended up with blisters when they fell for the nitro traps I set.”

He’s not sure if Deku broke his promise and has been trying to interject. He’s no longer calculating how much each second connected on that international call is costing him, mind blank for nothing else but–

“Then Half and Half. Icy Hot. That goddamn Split Popsicle does it once, and I let him. Just like I kept letting him whenever he’s overheating or suffering from frostbite. Like I let him make us move together in a shitty apartment that’s perfect but makes me leave half an hour before my shift ‘cuz it’s so fucking far from the agency.”

Katsuki stops and takes a breath. It’s shaky, and he feels his nerves tingle along his fingers, ribs rattling against his lungs. When he let it out, there’s a bit of a struggle because when did he grow a lump in his throat?

“I keep letting that Half and Half fucker do shit and lead me to places, cover his drunken mistakes for him–yeah, the Fireworks Incident–and, and, just–”

Katsuki chokes on his words, and he buries his face in the pillow. His other hand’s no longer holding the remote and he’s tugging at his hair that still feels warm from where Todoroki ruffled through them before leaving earlier.

He knows the fucker did it to point out that he should brush his bedhead, but when the fuck did he allow shit like touching, caressing, and everything, already knowing what each unspoken gesture means?

The phone’s still at his ear. He hears the audio crackle.

“Oh, Kacchan,” Izuku says in that almost pitying tone that Katsuki hates. But hearing it makes him break and speak, voice cracking softly.

“I fucking like him, don’t I?” It sounds muffled even for him, so he throws Todoroki’s pillow to the side and jumps up, tugging at his hair more. “I like the stupid, humorless, expressionless, and uncaring fucker, don’t I?”

It’s a lie. How he describes Todoroki Shōto. Those are words he got from the hate comments he spots under Hero Shōto’s articles (and one he reports one second since it’s there). 

Who’s humorless? The man who, when Katsuki asked him why he didn’t take the stairs and stubbornly waited for maintenance to fix the elevator, told Katsuki with a straight face: I don’t trust stairs. They’re always up to something.

It made Katsuki snort water up his nose and it fucking hurt, but Todoroki laughed and the jokes that follow aren’t so bad.

Who’s expressionless? Todoroki Shōto, who didn’t give a shit about hospital protocols of only letting family members in and glowered at every passing nurse and doctor in front of Katsuki’s room? He saw that twisted expression of fury quickly morph into concern when Todoroki glimpsed at him through the closing door.

Katsuki remembers asking the shitty doctor if the villain got him in the chest too, and was confused as fuck when they said no. He still remembers the question that made the nurses sigh: Then why the hell is my heart feeling like it’s being pierced by Icy Hot’s icicles?

Who’s uncaring? Not the man–his roommate who does his bed for him every time he rushes out the door for work. Not the one who keeps getting into useless arguments with Katsuki about overworking, losing until he ends up winning and there’s Katsuki sleeping the day off. 

It’s annoying how Katsuki’s lying. Even more when Deku probably picked up a mind reading quirk from OFA and says all this. (But of course less detailed and stricken that he does)

“Shōto’s not humorless, expressionless, or uncaring, Kacchan,” He pauses. “Stupid? Yeah, maybe, but you both are and two stupids make a great, right?”

 Katsuki’s pacing through the living room as he flips Deku through the phone. It’s a vain effort, but he directs it to the open balcony where the sun’s high in the afternoon sky.

“It’s two stupids makes a smart, smartass. If you’re trying to insult us, at least do it right, nerd,” Katsuki growls and is very glad for his decision to not do a video call because that is not a blush on his face after referring to him and Todoroki as ‘us.’

He’s regretting calling Deku when the nerd points it out.

“Us, huh?” Deku teases. “Finally, after seven years of the rest of us suffering–”

“Who the fuck is suffering? Shit, does Shitty Hair kno–”

“–you finally admit that you and Shōto are practically an old married couple and yes, the entire class knows,” Deku pauses. “And class B. Our teachers. Even the janitor knew, Kacchan, when you looked like Shōto offered you the world when he asked you to move in with him.”

“I fucking said no!”

“Yes, but then Shōto’s face started doing that kicked puppy face and, like his world was shattering and you changed your mind real quick. I– Huh. I never thought I’d– we’d be so invested in your decade long mating dance.”

“Ma–” Katsuki sputters, voice rising in volume as he screeches into the phone. “You and Shitty Hair and Mina and everyone else should stop using that because me and Todoroki are not– we’re not–”

“Not what?”

In Katsuki’s defense, everything’s Deku and Todoroki’s fault. 

If the nerd didn’t rile him up, reminding him of just how oblivious he’s been all these years–about his feelings–then he wouldn’t be shouting. So loudly that Katsuki doesn’t hear the front door open, and Todoroki’s voice carrying through.

And it’s also his roommate’s and apparently ten year crush’s fault for butting into their goddamn conversation.

It’s definitely their fault and Katsuki sticks by it even as a bruise blooms across Todoroki’s face, blood seeping down from his remote-assaulted nose.

It is not Katsuki’s fault. (Yet that doesn’t stop him from swearing, throwing his phone to who knows where, and rushing to Todoroki’s side as if it’s the first time he’s seen blood)

It’s fascinating how Todoroki reacts to things. Where the usual response to being hit square in the face by a TV remote by their roommate and friend of a decade would be affronted, feel a bit betrayed, and next anger and desire for revenge, Todoroki’s… weird as fuck.

Katsuki’s the one who ends up swearing the whole time, apologies mixed in that garbled mess (not a fucking pun for what that remote did to the nose). He’s the one who’s tense and waiting for Todoroki’s outburst or shies away from Katsuki’s touch.

He wipes away the blood and expects his own to be spilled. Katsuki dabs ointment on the injury and bruise and expects a hiss of slurs. He tapes on gauze and thinks Todoroki wants to choke him with the roll.

At the end, where Katsuki guiltily brews a cup of tea (that’s now between Todoroki’s hands), and they’re sitting across from each other at the kitchen counter, he just thinks his crush is weird.

Ugh, crush. What a childish word. Then again, he can’t exactly use paramour, object of adoration, or infatuation. (He ignores another phrase he can use that starts with a word rhyming with dove and ends with a word rhyming with strife)

Todoroki takes a sip of the tea. He swallows it down and opens his mouth. Katsuki’s trying very hard not to make it obvious he’s leaning forward.

But the idiot’s only opening his mouth to let out a satisfied sigh at the tea, and Katsuki does not wilt. He wants to knock away that goddamn cup because it’s a fucking distraction to a very important thing.

A very overdue–apparently!–thing that Katsuki’s still processing from last night and from Deku’s shitty phone call, and he is not fucking ready oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

“–kugō? Bakugō? Are you okay?”

There’s a running mantra of fuck no am I okay do I look okay to you is this in any reality what okay looks like to you, but Katsuki thinks he covers that up awesomely by crossing his arms and avoiding Todoroki’s eyes.

He scoffs. “Of course I am, Shitoroki. I’m supposed to be asking that, idiot.”

Katsuki doesn’t say he’s sorry. That’s not really his thing (except it is, and the entire class was practically third wheeling under the rain with him and the shitty nerd). He does, however, glance back at Todoroki, wanting to see if the wound’s patched up okay.

What he gets is a small smile. 

“Ah, well, it doesn’t hurt that much, Bakugō. Don’t worry.”

“Who’s fucking worrying, ha?”

Todoroki’s still smiling. There’s always something about it that reminds Katsuki of that time with the fake thermostat in his hands and wanting to shove it in Todoroki’s face. To cover it. And just fucking stop how looking at it makes him paranoid about heart problems.

Or digestive problems if Todoroki’s smile is that small, secret one that Katsuki knows is his. Just like how he knows that the gestures of sticking stars on Katsuki’s ceiling, and making his bed every fucking day, are his. 

He thinks there’s something showing in his face, somehow. He sees it in how Todoroki’s brows furrow, and the way those blue and gray eyes take in every part of Katsuki, the fucker’s mind racing to see what’s wrong. 

Or not wrong. 

Trying to figure out, maybe, why Katsuki’s smiling and looking at Todoroki Shōto like he’s the love of his life, and why such a look seems right.

And because Deku, Shitty Hair, Mina, and everyone else turns out to be right that they are both idiots, Katsuki sees genuine confusion in Todoroki’s face. He would know what it looks like. It’s the same look he had in the mirror in that morning when he was still in a disbelieving haze of what the fuck are these feelings.

Katsuki wants to be sympathetic, really. He does. Truly. Honestly, he swears to All Might.

“Oh, thank fuck. You’re an idiot too, aren’t you, Icy Hot?”

Todo–okay, fuck that. Shōto blinks at him. He opens and closes his mouth twice before he smiles again. He tilts his head to the side, red and white strands brushing over his eyes.

“I guess I am, at times, Bakugō. Sorry, I should’ve called that I’m coming home early.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes and stands. He snorts at the picture of Shōto staring up at him–a deja vu of the thermostat–before leaning over and cupping the idiot’s face in his hands.

He realizes two things.

First, it’s not the first time he’s done this. Touched Shōto’s face. Well, he’s not sure if shoving the fucker’s face to the side to distract him in Mario Kart counts, but yeah, this isn’t the first time.

Second, it’s fascinating; the feel of nipping warmth in his right and almost scorching cold in his left. Anyone would’ve flinched. Katsuki’s fascinated and can’t stop feeling that thrum of power running under skin.

Third, oh right, there’s a third.

The sound Shōto makes when Katsuki whispers you’re an idiot all the time before kissing him is, in simple words:

Breathtaking… and full of regret that they could’ve been doing this (and more) for a decade. If they weren’t such idiots, anyway.

But, fuck, doesn’t it make the feel of Shōto smiling into the second kiss (that goes into third, fourth, fifth) all the more sweeter.