Work Text:
In this house, they run on routine.
Shinsou wakes up first, having had very little sleep as usual. Some nights are better than others, when he can hold on to Ojiro (or his tail). Some nights are worse. Insomnia, the ever faithful mistress does not leave his side.
Ojiro wakes up second, stretching every single muscle in his body. One, two, three, stretch. Shinsou watches him, amused. Ojiro had once tried to make him exercise early in the morning. It had ended in a bruised tail, a sprained ankle, and a broken fruit bowl. Shinsou reserves his stretches for work.
The sun’s rising slowly outside the window and Shinsou slowly makes his way to the bathroom, bathed in soft pinks and golds and peaches.
Ojiro scratches their cat under her chin. She mrows, satisfied. He waits for Shinsou to emerge. No doubt he’s taking an age, washing his face.
He always wonders why Shinsou scrubs his face too hard. It leaves a red evidence.
Shinsou says it’s because he drools. Ojiro believes it’s to leach the nightmares out of his skin.
Both their jobs start around the same time, Ojiro’s at 9 and Shinsou’s at 9:30. They make breakfast together, moving around each other wordlessly, perfectly (quite the contrast to when they first moved in together, Ojiro purposefully tripping Shinsou up with his tail just to make him lose his composure).
Shinsou’s warming the coffee (because Ojiro doesn’t drink any, and wrinkles his nose at Shinsou when he takes his first large gulp and sighs in pleasure). Ojiro makes the eggs—scrambled until golden, which only he can get perfect (Shinsou has a history of burning eggs to char)—whistling softly.
Shinsou warms the leftover bowls of rice and sets them on the table, the same time Ojiro’s done serving the eggs on two plates. They’ve got the timing down, pat.
Breakfast is an important meal for them, eating without one another for every other meal. They talk about work, mostly. Sometimes about their cat. Sometimes about their friends. Once about the division of chores—Shinsou accidentally washed his hero uniform with Ojiro’s and Ojiro had to wear a pink tinted uniform to work. Ashido had been delighted, Ojiro had not.
“Hagakure’s birthday is coming up. She wants us to be there for the party,” Ojiro says, peering over his bowl of rice.
“Hmm? What about the surprise Ashido and Kendou were thinking of? Kendou wouldn’t shut up about it at work.”
“She found out,” Ojiro admits ruefully.
“She’s too smart for us, ‘Rao. Just ask her what she wants.”
“Oh, you mean unlike the time we all got her the same purple gloves?”
It’s a funny story, really, Hagakure had laughed about it (she still does, much to their chagrin):
It had happened in their second year, just after Shinsou’s transfer to the hero course. Ashido and Hagakure had been the first to befriend him, Ojiro tagging along reluctantly. Hagakure had complimented his hair—“the colour is so cool! I saw a pair of gloves the exact same colour, and now I kind of want them!”—and both Shinsou and Ojiro had seen this as an opportunity (as had literally everyone else present). Ojiro has never been creative with gifts and Shinsou has never needed to be, before Yuuei.
Not having coordinated, but having bumped into each other at the store, they’d placed an order for them, the gloves seemingly having vanished from the store display.
(Later, they’d found out that Ashido, Kaminari, Uraraka, and Shiozaki had all beaten them to the punch).
They’d all apologised profusely after Hagakure had managed to stop laughing (still, here and there, giggles would punctuate her speech), and she’d forgiven them, after they’d promised to take her shopping. Shinsou had asked Ojirou if he could tag along with them and Ojiro, hunting for a silver lining, had struck a golden heart.
Shinsou wasn’t bad company, he was surprised—honestly—to find. He was quiet and funny in his own way, and Ojiro couldn’t really stay angry at him after he’d also suffered through Ashido’s absolute monster of a monologue on why Hagakure’s colour was pink.
They’d hung out more often after that, so in a way, Hagakure’s birthday had brought them a gift too. Hagakure still lords that over them, coaxing free coffee from them under this very pretext.
Shinsou remembers this, as Ojiro does. He hums at that.
“Let’s not get her gloves again.”
Ojiro laughs at that and Shinsou smiles and they wash up—Shinsou scrubs and Ojiro dries, like usual.
They leave for work.
Going to work was very much like a quantum effect (not one that Shinsou can name, he didn’t pay much attention in physics class) in that there was no way to predict what would happen.
They could be called in for a big rescue mission, or spend all day playing cards with a dead phone weighing down on them. They could be fighting villains, doing paperwork, or rescuing a cat stuck in the tree. The life of a hero disobeys predictability.
Coming home is the only part of the day that isn’t routine. Some days would see Shinsou limping home, the fading light bouncing off of his hair, knowing (or not. Hero work was scary like that) Ojiro would come home in the wee hours of next morning. Some days Ojiro would come home, tail bleeding and between his legs, curled up on the sofa, waiting for Shinsou to arrive before his demons did.
They kiss each other’s scars and kiss each other’s lips, a reminder, a promise.
I love you.