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Shouto knows about choice overload.
He’d read this old study years ago about how researchers had set up stands on different days with six jars and twenty-four jars of jam, and the sales were a lot higher when there were less jars. Something about people being paralyzed when there are too many choices; too many wrong options, too many attractive alternatives.
It does make sense. When he and Midoriya went to that boba shop last week, he hovered at the back of the queue for five minutes trying to decide between the abundant options available, paralyzed in the face of an endless array of jelly, popping pearls, and tea flavors. He chose green apple tea with mango jelly, but when he tasted Midoriya’s—lychee with strawberry pearls—he thought maybe he should have gotten that instead.
It proves the point, probably. Post-purchase cognitive dissonance and all that.
It just wasn’t the kind of thing he thought would be relevant when it came to household supplies.
Sure, there were things that required thought. Important things, like the furniture he and Katsuki picked out for their new apartment. It has nice, tall windows that let in a lot of light, so a bright color scheme would go well with it. All pastel blue accents, because he likes blue, and orange, because he likes that orange reminds him of Katsuki, and when he’d said that as they strolled through the sofa aisle, Katsuki huffed and, with a sideways smile, said alright, then.
The sofa was important. Their bed, the mattress. The ornaments they dotted around the living room, just to add some personality, since Katsuki wouldn’t stop complaining about how it looked like a cookie-cutter showroom. Choosing the apartment itself had taken a long time, too, but in the end, they found the perfect place, and Shouto had thought that was the end of it.
This was supposed to be the easy part. Cleaning supplies, food to fill the fridge.
The food was easy enough. Katsuki is pushing along the shopping cart next to him, shoving past the resistance of the broken wheel that keeps twisting in different directions, and it’s full of fresh vegetables, fruit, and meat. Instant ramen for the days when both of them have to work late, and a few packaged snacks. All the classics.
Cleaning supplies, though, are another issue.
There are just so many. Aisles and aisles of them, all in so many variations of form, color, scent and packaging that Shouto has no idea where to start. Fuyumi always handled those things at home, and whenever he went grocery shopping, she wrote down the brands and products she wanted in precise detail so all he had to do was go to the appropriate aisle and find the correct product.
It’s kind of nice, being able to make the choice himself.
He just overestimated how much of a choice he would have.
Katsuki tips his head up towards the boxed detergents on one of the higher shelves. “Get that one, with the trees.”
It took years of coaxing, arguing, and broken jars to wear Katsuki down into being willing to ask Shouto to fetch objects on shelves out of his reach, and each time the request comes, it makes him feel warm. Useful in this small, silly way. Being someone Katsuki asks for help is a privilege.
“My sister always used liquid detergent,” he says, even as he reaches up to grab the blue box covered in an illustration of pine trees. The cart is nearly full, but there’s some space next to the jar of almond butter Katsuki adds to his smoothies, so he sets it down there. “Why powder?”
He shrugs, glancing over at him before looking back at the shelves. “That’s what the old hag uses.”
“Oh.”
Shouto ponders this. The freshly-washed laundry in his home always smelled great, but Katsuki’s clothes tend to smell nice, too. After the first time they had sex in Katsuki’s bed, Katsuki had insisted on washing the sheets immediately, so his mother was clearly observant when it came to cleanliness. If she uses powder detergent, she must have a reason for it.
He decides not to ask about whether they made the right choice regarding the brand and scent. There must be some kind of regulatory body overseeing the efficacy of laundry products, or a purchase manager at the supermarket who decided this powder is popular enough to keep in stock. There’s no reason to doubt it.
“There’s a liquid version of it, too,” Shouto adds, because he can’t resist it. “Alpine Breeze.”
Katsuki glances over at him. He had showered this morning before they left for the supermarket—the massive one they need to drive to, with five floors and more sections than he can count—so his hair’s flatter than usual, damp at the roots. “You’re seriously stuck on this?”
He steps closer and raises a hand, pressing his fingertips to the crown of Katsuki’s head and releasing a flood of warmth. “Not necessarily. I just want to make sure our clothes are washed properly.”
“They do the same thing,” Katsuki says firmly, tilting his head away. “They’ll be clean either way.”
“Stop moving,” he chides, moving closer so he can comb his fingers through Katsuki’s hair, making it puff up like dandelion seeds. “You’re not supposed to walk around with wet hair.”
“You’re worse than my mom, you know that?”
Shouto pouts, brushing a thumb over Katsuki’s temple, hand still splayed over his scalp. “I don’t want you to get sick.”
With a sigh, he holds still, leaning his head against Shouto’s palm while the heat seeps through the now-fluffy strands. Another little way in which Shouto can be useful, whether or not it’s welcome. Fuyumi always made sure Shouto’s hair was dry when he went outside after a bath, even though he could easily dry it himself, and he wants to be able to do that for Katsuki, too.
“Come on,” Katsuki says once his hair is dry, jerking his head towards the end of the aisle, a hint of amusement over his face. “The fabric softeners are over there.”
There are even more fabric softener scents than there were for detergents. Twilight Breeze, Mandarin Spritz, Secret Garden. Shouto has no idea what a secret garden smells like, but a woman uncapped a bottle and smelled it a few minutes ago, so he does the same.
Flowers. It smells like artificial flowers doused in cleaning products.
“Secret Garden sucks,” Katsuki declares, like he read his mind. “Don’t waste my time with that shit.”
“It’s pretty bad,” Shouto agrees. His gaze lands on the fabric softener Fuyumi always buys. A white bottle with a pink cap, pastel writing, and a wide-eyed baby on the front. “Oh, let’s get this one.”
Katsuki is already reaching for a different bottle. Also white, but emblazoned with pristine sheets drying on a line strung up outdoors. Sunwarmed Linen. It doesn’t sound bad, but it doesn’t have the pink cap nor the for sensitive skin label. “Nah, this one’s better.”
He glances back at the other fabric softener. His fabric softener. “I like this one.”
“It’s for babies.”
“Exactly,” Shouto agrees. “It’s good for sensitive skin.”
Katsuki crosses his arms. The casual grey top leaves his strong forearms revealed, which might have been distracting under other circumstances. “You don’t have sensitive skin.”
“I like how it smells,” he insists.
Now that it has become a Thing, Shouto is not backing down.
He likes that soft, clean smell. He likes the pastel-coloured writing and the pink cap. He likes how the baby kind of looks like the photo of a newborn Natsuo that his sister stuck onto his family home’s fridge with a ladybug-shaped magnet when they found it in a sparse photo album.
“I want this one,” Shouto says, petulant.
“Fine, you stubborn bastard.” Katsuki yanks the bottle off the shelf and throws it into the cart, knocking it into the tomatoes. “Let’s get this over with already. I’m hungry.”
He pushes down the unease that flickers in him. It isn’t as if their arguments are rare. Katsuki is an opinionated person, and Shouto has never been one to concede easily, even if it’s over something so innocuous. It’s not a big deal. “What do you want?”
“Don’t know. But nothing in the food court.”
He can work with that. “What about that place with the spicy shrimp? And the lettuce wraps?”
Katsuki perks up in that subtle way he does when he’s trying not to show it, a cat resisting a laser. “Yeah, alright.”
Shouto relaxes.
He shouldn’t have argued about the fabric softener in the first place. This was supposed to be a nice day—their first time shopping together for their new home. The morning had been perfect. When they’d woken up, Shouto had pulled Katsuki into his arms and kissed him long and slow for so long that he felt drunk on it, then they had breakfast together on the balcony. A good start to the rest of their lives; a future that contains Katsuki in it, with him, for good. Everything he had ever wanted.
Taking all of that into consideration, he can tolerate Sunwarmed Linen.
They arrive at the dish soap section next. They look nice, jewel-bright liquids glistening inside clear plastic bottles. The range of scents here is a lot more narrow, mostly limited to citrus fruits.
Shouto picks up the closest bottle, inspecting the label. 3x degreasing power. Lemon-scented. He cracks open the lid to take a sniff. The zesty scent of artificial lemon hits him. It’s not natural, but it’s pleasant anyway. Clean. “This is nice.”
“I always get the lime,” Katsuki says dismissively, reaching for a one-litre bottle of lime-scented dish soap.
Shouto picks up the closest lime-scented bottle and unscrews the lid. It’s more bitter, not as fresh as the lemon, without the subtle sweet edge. “I don’t like it.”
“Then you’re an idiot.”
Being called an idiot over dish soap is so unsurprising he brushes right past it. “It just smells weird.”
“It has depth.”
“It’s bitter,” Shouto points out. “The lemon’s fresher.”
“It’s too goddamn strong. It drives all the way up into my brain.”
“Then don’t shove your nose into the bubbles,” he suggests, making Katsuki scoff, and drops the lemon-scented dish soap into the cart. “I want the lemon.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you want!” Katsuki makes a grab for the lemon-scented soap, only for Shouto to freeze his wrists to the handle of the cart. His jaw drops. “Shouto, what the fuck?”
The guilt is instantaneous.
He presses his hands to the blocks of ice, melting them—as soon as his fingers brush Katsuki’s wrists, Katsuki yanks them away, fuming. “Asshole. You don’t even wash the goddamn dishes.”
“Maybe I would if you let me,” he shoots back.
“Maybe I would let you if you weren’t so useless! You left my favorite fucking pot with burnt rice in the bottom in the sink for ten hours—”
It takes effort not to snap at him. “I was at work.”
“We were both at work! When the hell have I ever left a dish in the sink for ten hours?”
An older couple walking past them pauses, alarmed, then scuttle away. Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose, and Shouto’s trying to remember the techniques he read up on a long time ago about how to control his temper, but all he can think about is why Katsuki is so damn stubborn.
It’s just dish soap. The scents are pretty similar, anyway, and he wants the lemon. The yellow is pretty. It smells nice. It shouldn’t be this complicated.
Shouto shouldn’t even be fighting him on this. He loves Katsuki. Loves him far, far more than dishwashing liquid, so he doesn’t get why he’d carve out his own kidney to give Katsuki right here in this supermarket if he needed it but when he opens his mouth to surrender, nothing comes out.
He wants the goddamn lemon soap.
“You know what?” Katsuki lets go of the shopping cart and kicks it away, so hard the broken wheel almost sends it careening into the shelves. “I don’t care. Get whatever the fuck you want.”
Then he storms away, leaving Shouto glaring behind him in the aisle.
Shouto doesn’t know what kind of face he’s making, but it must be pretty bad for the cashier to ask what’s wrong as she rings up everything in the cart. In the end, he isn’t even sure whether he put one of the dish soaps back on the shelf, too distracted by the mess he has made of everything.
This was supposed to be a nice day. Running errands together, buying food for their home. He thought they would have lunch together, hold hands on the walk back to the parking lot, and kiss in the car before driving home. He doesn’t know what possessed him to make such a big deal over the soap except that it felt like a big deal. Having that choice. Deciding what to use in their home.
He’s almost out of the parking lot when he makes a split-second decision and reverses back in.
Twenty minutes later, he’s unlocking the door to their apartment, having left almost everything in the car except for the one last-minute item that was more important than anything else. The apartment is quiet, but not the kind of quiet that makes an absence obvious. The quiet that says Katsuki is here but not in one of his moods—or, worse, in one of the rare moods where he’s so mad he shuts down. It has never happened to him before, but Shouto’s seen him direct it to their friends.
“Katsuki?”
The sound of Katsuki’s voice soothes his distress. “In the kitchen.”
He strides over to the kitchen. When he rounds the corner, Katsuki is there, holding a whisk dripping with a thick batter. He turns when Shouto enters, and the sight of that guilty pout makes Shouto yearn to hug him, argument be damned. It’s that cute face he always makes when he feels bad, and Shouto should take it as his win, but it only sparks this urge to comfort him because Katsuki should never look so stricken.
Shouto holds up four mesh bags filled with as many limes as he could carry. “I’m sorry.”
Katsuki stares. And stares.
He’s starting to wonder if this was a bad idea after all. Maybe it was stupid, buying all these limes to make up for being a dick. Maybe he should have returned straight home and apologized properly instead of trying to find something that might make Katsuki smile, because it’s precious and becoming less rare every day.
His thoughts are still stumbling over themselves when Katsuki’s lips curve up into a smile that lights up the entire room. “You idiot.”
The knot in his chest unwinds all at once. Katsuki drops the whisk, then he’s rushing over and throwing his arms around Shouto, rising up on his tiptoes to bury his face in his neck, holding him tightly.
Shouto drops the limes, hugging him back, turning his face into Katsuki’s dandelion-like hair. He smells like sunshine. Better than any of those scents. “I love you. I’m sorry I made such a big deal out of the soap.”
“No. I was a dick.” He doesn’t pull away from the hug, so Shouto keeps holding him, taking the opportunity to kiss his head. “I don’t care what we use. Get fuckin’ grapefruit for all I care. I just want you here.” He pauses, then adds, “You big dork,” like it could dampen the love that shines through his words.
His heart swells. He strokes Katsuki’s back, kisses his head again, and finally, Katsuki steps back, still giving him that endearing smile that makes every problem he’s ever faced in his life pale when compared to the bliss of having this. Getting to see Katsuki, hold him, cuddle him. He should give thanks at a shrine every day for this.
“I was making your favorite, you know,” he says, jerking his head back at the batter. “Shortcake.”
Shouto perks up. “Really?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, really.”
There’s no doubt that Katsuki loves him, but he treasures each reminder. Each time Katsuki makes grabby hands at him when he leaves the couch when they’re cuddling to get some water, or packs a bento for him, or makes his favorite dessert because he felt guilty that he upset him. The sheer happiness Katsuki has brought to his life is immeasurable, and Shouto wants nothing more than to try to make him feel the same way.
One of the mesh bags has torn, sending limes rolling around the kitchen, knocking into the base of the counters and the legs of the table there.
“Now, what am I supposed to do with all of these limes?” Katsuki teases, bending down to pick up an unbroken one. “Since you decided to buy up the whole fucking store.”
“Lime shortcake?” Shouto suggests.
“It won’t be the same.”
“Pie, then. Or tea.”
“Guess so. We could use them in our baths, too.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Shouto says in mock innocence. “I mean, if you smell like limes, I don’t think I’ll want to kiss you. Maybe if it were lemons instead—”
He just barely manages to dodge the lime Katsuki hurls at him.