#ryanismynamee

It’s one of many vexing issues inherited from the previous owner, and though Izuku had successfully propped the window ajar most of the summer without fracturing the wood, neither of them had been able to fully scrape the clay away without incidence. Air whistles through the newly formed cracks in the glaze now, singing Shouto to consciousness, concentrated breaths of winter blowing along the fringe of his bangs and tickling his nose.  

It is the scream of a siren, ultimately though, that creeps in with the cold and startles a part of him to wakening, and Shouto comes to the sensation of a weight already settled against his lower torso.

Soft, a voice in the back of his head needles to the forefront. Disturbingly, the timbre sounds still like his father’s. Sharp, accusatory. Frowning, he wonders if the old man’s voice is a permanent fixture, tattooed somewhere in his mind that cannot be erased or scarred over. You’re going soft.

The panic is distinctly his own.

The book, he remembers reading--had every intention to read when he settled up against the alcove wall by the window that afternoon--lays flattened against his chest. Shouto hears the paper crinkle with each breath he inhales, slightly shaky and quieted with force, and the other weight shifts until something round, yet decidedly pointed, pinches at Shouto’s ribcage.

“Sorry,” it says after he makes a few inaudible groans, flicking his wrist in a silent plea to move. Shouto let’s his hand fall limply, nerves plummeting in the wake of the familiar voice. The cheek under Shouto’s fingers feels cold still from the outside. He wills the temperature of his left side to rise, Izuku humming appreciatively as his own hand encircles Shouto’s. He doesn’t wait for Shouto’s eyes to fully stay open now that he’s shown signs of being awake, regaling him with anecdotes of his evening.

Izuku takes a deep breath, “And you can buy pellets or carrots and feed them.” Shouto nods along, eyes just barely supporting his upper lids, his fingers swirling around strands of green hair. Izuku leans in further, slumping over the bay window seat, nose just about aligned to the spine of the forgotten book, using Shouto’s stomach for his own cushion.

Izuku has yet to shed his jacket, though his shoes have been dispersed about the room, like bread crumbs to the door. A tall package levies against the frame of the living room entrance. It must have been a ruckus, carrying something that hefty through the house and Shouto feels worry pinch his nerves again. Have his defenses waned so quickly, so ineffectively since Yuuei--since Izuku-- that he no longer hears footsteps in his sleep?

Another bout of sirens sound off in the distance. Red lights bounce on the fog culminating outside. His ears ping for any static on the Hero Scanner, but all that echoes back is the sound of their own breathing. It must be a controlled civilian matter, he reasons, but his fingers twitch anxiously.

Izuku tugs on them, kissing the pads affectionately one by one. “Traffic accident,” he says without needing Shouto to voice his concerns. A siren light catches in his eyes and Shouto subdues his amusement; Izuku looks as if he’s captured a glint of Christmas for a brief moment. “Ochako’s clearing it now.” After a beat he adds, “No injuries.”

“Mm,” Shouto nods. The knowledge leaves him more sedated, drowsiness creeping back over his eyelids. “S’good to hear.”

“Don’t go back to sleep,” Izuku whines. Through half drawn eyes, Shouto watches him pluck the book off his chest, dog earring the page that had already been wrinkled by his chest, and drops it on the cushion by Shouto’s right arm. Izuku's jacket rustles and thunks to the floor. He looms over Shouto, tugging gently on his arms. It’s heartwarming. More than it should be, he thinks. But for someone who’s light workout days include bench pressing haul trucks, Izuku always takes conscious care when handling others, when handling Shouto.

He lets himself be pulled into a sitting position, but slumps forward into Izuku’s chest. His arms fall limply around the other’s waist and Shouto murmurs a sleepy, half joking, “Night,” as he noses under the collar of Izuku’s hoodie.

“Come on,” Izuku gives another half hearted whine, but Shouto can still feel the shiver he fails to suppress. “I got the tree. You promised, Shouto...”

Shouto thinks of the giant box in the entryway, of Izuku’s stray shopping mall tales. Yesterday’s half asleep promise comes back to him, about plastic trees and decorations, and he gives a faux dramatic huff.

Izuku nudges his chin with light, scarred fingers, pulls Shouto from the warmth of his collar, and leaves a few chaste kisses to his lips. Shouto can feel the cricks in his neck, souvenirs of his stray nap.

“Come on,” Izuku pleads again, lips turning upwards. Shouto’s raise to match as he leans in again, pressing their lips for a second longer. “It’s our first Christmas together,” Izuku breathes in to his mouth, pulls him closer with a world ending kind of kiss. Shouto almost forgets himself in it; the world, windows that don’t work, trees, Christmas.

“It’s our sixth,” Shouto corrects him. His hands have found their way to Izuku’s face, palms resting over the swell of his beloved’s cheeks when he grins back at Shouto, lovingly, adoringly. Shouto barely has to tug, barely curl his fingers a centimeter before Izuku succumbs to his silent request for another kiss.

“Married.” He emphasizes the word with a peppering of his lips, to the side of Shouto’s mouth, the curve of a dimple, the tip of his nose.  Izuku’s eyes gleam, living emeralds in the dark of their dwelling. “We’re married, Shouto.”

Almost a year, Shouto nearly volleys back, but Izuku looks as excited as if it were the same night they took their vows. The excitement catches like a match, sets a warmth in his chest that his own quirk cannot replicate, and Shouto feels his body tingle the same way it had that night with nerves, and a happiness he hadn’t quite expected.

“Oh,” he says instead, blinking lazily. “I’ll stay awake.” His voice still crackles with sleep, but he rubs the corner of his eyes with the heel of his palms.

Izuku glows. He leaves with a quick peck to Shouto’s cheek, “I’ll get the decorations.”  

Without Izuku, the alcove feels cold again. Beside him the window shutters, wind knocking against the single pane like a distressed visitor. Several cars blear down the street, casting shadows on the wall. Izuku finally returns with several boxes in hand, using the edge of one to swipe on the living room lights. Shouto hisses at the unexpected sting, shielding his eyes in the crook of his elbow.

“Sorry,” Izuku says, absently. He listens to the jingle of ornaments as his husband kicks the boxes around, setting into work with a flurry of mutterings and ripping cardboard. By the time Shouto’s eyes adjust to the light, Izuku has just placed the last piece of their new fake tree into its slot, hands working to shape the artificial pines into a fuller image. Shouto’s heart beams watching the man, reverent and focused.

December brings life to Izuku in more ways than just a healthy flush to his cheeks. He loves Christmas in the same vein as Western children do, has ever since an interview with All Might aired where the man admitted he celebrated the holiday. His mother had encouraged it, and Shouto had felt overwhelmed the first time they’d invited him to Christmas dinner when they’d started dating, showered him in thoughtful gifts and cheer.

Shouto pads across the room, slumping into the couch closer by. Izuku hands him a candle from one of his shopping bags and Shouto wills a single flame to the tip of one of his fingers. The wick sets off with a small crackle, and Shouto takes it from his husband’s hand to set it on the coffee table. “Forest fantasy,” Izuku tells him.  

“Smells nice,” Shouto says.  

Izuku hums, “Lady at the mall suggested it.” Shouto turns to catch the hook of a frown on Izuku’s lips. “It’s not really the same, but I thought… I thought it was close enough.”

Shouto’s no longer sure if he’s talking to him or at the tree, but he nods anyway. His eyes drift back to the candle, the tiny flicker working over a pool of slowly melting wax, splashing the scent of pine about the living room. He knows for Izuku that close enough is not exactly the same, and Shouto feels a small clench in his chest. A plastic tree had been their compromise this year, his own idea. Easier to care for, less likely to dry out and burn if they were careless, if they couldn’t come home. In their line of work, there were no promises of tomorrow.

With an exclamation of ‘aha!’ the lights flicker on in Shouto’s peripheral. Warm, crooked fingers lace through the white of his hair and Shouto stares back up at his husband’s soft face, though the other’s eyes are on his handiwork, admiringly.

“Still awake,” Shouto says, automatically. Izuku breathes a laugh, like the sort he puffs against Shouto’s lip between kisses and, oh, he loves the sound of it more than music.  

“I got some extra lights, too. They were half off,” Izuku adds. “We could string them around the tree. I think it’d look nice. Extra lights. Hide all the, uh, empty space and… uh, wiry branches.” Izuku’s fingers absently scrunch through his hair and Shouto leans into the touch. His thumb rubs short, soothing circles into his scalp and Shouto thinks he could just about purr, or fall into another nap. But he promised.

“Do you want me to start on the ornaments?”

“Would you?” Shouto almost regrets bringing it up when Izuku retracts his fingers to grab for his bag of extra lights across the room.

Shouto hoists himself up from the couch, limbs protesting all the way to the floor. He kneels before the boxes marked ‘XMas Decorations’ in Izuku’s messy scrawl and runs the index finger of his left hand over the packing tape, polypropylene giving way easily under the right pressure of heat. He catches Izuku watching him from the tree now where he’s draping lights over branches. His green eyes gleam with wonder, as if he’s thrilled to learn another trick from Shouto’s quirk. Likely, he is.

The boxes take barely any time to open like this and Shouto takes to laying the ornaments out on the floor, uncrumpling them from their tissue paper prisons. His eyes hover over each of them, quietly arranging their place on the tree in his mind’s eye. In six years he has memorized the story behind each one, watching Izuku excitedly recount them every year as he placed them on the tree. Family vacations, stories of All Might, of the friend’s who had gifted them; Shouto knows them all.

He reaches for the bulkiest ceramic likeness of his former teacher, a rather defined image of All Might in his prime. A classic. Izuku’s first ever, and favorite, ornament. A gift from his mother from their first celebrated Christmas together. It is always, always, always front and center--

Izuku’s hand comes down to brush over his own, thwarting him from grabbing at the figurine. Shouto is momentarily transfixed by the way candlelight refracts and shimmers about the ring of gold on his finger there.

“Hold on! I-I almost forgot,” Izuku murmurs. His right hand moves through his dark curls, a dusting of pink highlighting above his cheek bones. Adorable. Shouto is still as every bit charmed by this man now as he was six years ago in the simplest of ways. “I got something for you. For us, kind of…”

There’s a tingling sensation that lights up the nerves in his chest as Izuku pads back across the room to his supply of forgotten bags. He returns with a fairly large sized one that looks almost emptied save for the slight sag to the side where something weighs it down to a corner.

“I figured it could be like a… a tradition of ours, maybe? If you want to, that is! I think its normal for families--I mean, one’s who decorate at least. Like once a year we can go out and get one together. Well I got it this year, so maybe you can do it next time?” Izuku regards the bag, his voice slowly turning to gibberish as his free hand covers the underside of his chin. Shouto feels the breath of a laugh leave his lungs.

“Izuku,” he tries to no avail.

“Izuku,” he attempts again. His spouse seems to acknowledge the sound of his name, head tilting just barely a few centimeters towards the source, but it doesn’t quite cut off the stream of consciousness that has led to Izuku’s personal debate on if themes are important or unnecessary.

“Can I see it?” Shouto finally asks, lightly huffing.

Izuku laughs, finally pulled from his reveries and relinquishes the present into Shouto’s awaiting hands. It’s even lighter than he suspects. He reaches into the bag, ever aware of Izuku’s intense stare on his face, and pulls out a wad of tissue paper.

“I got it custom,” Izuku explains as Shouto peels the first layer of tape and paper away. His hands come up to rest on his face, but Shouto has already seen the plume of red surfacing there. “And-And I know you like cats so I…I thought you’d like it. I know it’s cheesy, but I couldn’t resist.”

Shouto divides his attention between his husband’s prattle and the gift in his hands, catching Izuku’s excitement once more somewhere in his own chest.

He exposes a tiny, clay cat ear first, followed by it’s head. Shouto wastes no time in undressing the ornament from there, using a delicate hold to the clay neck as leverage while tugging the paper away from it and reveals the second cat, it’s mirror image on the right. Shouto holds the figure up to his eyes, fingers poking through the thread looped about the center and letting the ornament sway to rest against the tilt of his palm with a nice weight. His breath hitches a moment.

It’s a fairly rustic looking ornament, a deep gray and very little frill to it but it leaves a vibrant impression on him. The cats are full figured, sitting back to back with their heads tilted towards one another, and he finds them just endearing enough to look at, but they do not cause the swell in his chest. Between them, their tails intertwine, up and around, until they shape a little heart filled with an ivory plating. In the center of the heart, engraved with ornate cursive, is both of their names and the message 'Our First Christmas'.

“You were right,” Shouto says with a short laugh. “It’s very cheesy.”

"I was-- I was thinking," Izuku says, looking bashfully at Shouto through his fingers, "we could put it at the center this year. If-If you want to, I mean!"

It is odd, Shouto finds, to be completely at peace with the idea that his heart could just burst, it feels so overwhelmingly full.

"Yeah," he finally manages, "I would like that."

Izuku visibly relaxes, lights dancing in the highlights of his dark hair. The urge to kiss him thrums in Shouto's veins as second nature to him now as fire. He is mindful of the land mine of ceramics and delicate baubles between them as he leans forward. Izuku meets him, as always, halfway across the divide.