bnha oneshots (vol 1)

019 ⋆ artificial paradise 🌸🖤

ship: todokiri

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"You're home early."

Shouto peels his eyes from the TV screen when his usually cheery roommate fails to respond. He shifts, their well-worn sofa groaning in protest. Shouto watches Eijirou toe off his sneakers and slip into his house shoes, shucking free of his jacket with his head low and lips pinching in where he gnaws them. Something about his silence has Shouto unnerved, and he sets down the TV remote to follow up with a light, "How did it go?" as Eijirou crosses the room.

Still, Shouto is supplemented with silence, atypical for the redhead.

Again, he watches Eijirou dawdle about the room, his steps a hushed shuffle, slow and uncertain, inaudible in comparison to the pointless garble coming from the TV. Eijirou's path crosses before it, subjecting the room into dark transience whilst bathing his side in colors too cool and too drab for him. They lick away at the shadow looming his other side and further feed into the weighted anxieties etched across his face.

It's ugly.

Shouto feels his brows pinch into a slight frown and nearly misses the moment Eijirou sits just far enough from him, a soft "sorry" slipping past his thoroughly chewed lips. Shouto's frown deepens. "Are you okay?"

He faces Eijirou now, evening news timed out from his consciousness as he witnesses a pot of half-baked emotions slowly boil over. Eijirou blinks and shifts his gaze elsewhere—to the TV, the wall and window; to the coffee table, his lap, his hands. They tremble and fist the fabric of his jeans, gripping at the tight threads of intimacy he lacks. The remnants of his resolve dwindle and crack until the dam breaks—until the pot seethes in anxiety, self-doubt, and hurt that elicits a cry from his parted lips.

It's piercingly raw. A cry of lost love, unrequited. Of dreams and hopes crushed and left bloodied and abandoned. It calls for words of comfort, tales of "It's going to be okay" and "I'm here for you", things Shouto holds back from saying out of fear he'd sound stiff or awkward.

So he throws off the lid from the pot and leaves it to boil instead.

Shouto leaves not to ignore Eijirou in his time of need, but to ready the kettle and dig through his dresser to bring Eijirou looser, more comfortable clothing. And while Eijirou's presence is removed momentarily, Shouto cracks the windows and covers their couch in blankets and way too many pillows. The kettle calls for his attention just as Eijirou returns in new duds, and Shouto re-enters with a steaming cup of tea in either hand—chamomile for Eijirou and matcha for himself. Shouto sits just close enough to Eijirou and offers him his cup, then sets aside his on the coffee table. Eijirou sips calmly as Shouto drapes a blanket across their shoulders and forces them to share a space much smaller and intimate than the one they occupy currently. It's here that Eijirou finds comfort in their closeness, in exchanges of body heat and words unsaid.

Shouto watches Eijirou gradually regain control from the corner of his eye, how the tears cease from streaming down his face. Where his fingers originally trembled against his cup, they now melt against the ceramic. Even his breathing, once staggering, quells to steady sniffles.

The evening broadcast soon ends and settles into a late-night talk show, its colors mellow and jokes lighthearted, pulling sharp exhales from Eijirou where he'd normally snort and chuckle. It's better than nothing, Shouto thinks, noting how Eijirou's glass neared emptiness. Eijirou eventually settles for resting his head on Shouto's shoulder, legs curling under him, fingers lightly tracing the rim of his glass. His body jerks when he huffs a laugh, feeding a fire in Shouto's heart that he didn't know was there.

Or perhaps beneath months of subtle pining, it's always been present, burning slowly with smoke but no flame.

Except now, those embers latch on to what little acknowledgment they're given, nurturing themselves with thanks whispered and touches fleeting.

It's now that the roles are reversed and the TV watches them settle on the couch. Shouto frees Eijirou's cup from his hands and sets it down beside his own, cooled and long since forgotten. It's then that Eijirou nuzzles into his side and wills him to lie down. Shouto's fingers find their way into fallen crimson spikes, scuffling with tangles and loosening still stiff clumps of hair until it lays flat on his head. Eijirou purrs against his chest, mumbling idly until he quiets and Shouto can only assume he finally fell asleep. He pushes back red fluffy red bangs to confirm so, and under the cover of eyes closed and night peaceful, presses his cool lips to heated skin.

Shouto's gaze returns to the TV screen, idly watching figures and mouths move, but the only ambient noise he registers is the quiet snores of Eijirou. When morning greets them once more is when Shouto assumes Eijirou will be willing to speak about what led him to be so distraught. Or not. Either is fine. For now, he'd rather they revel in the warmth of their artificial paradise.