Shoot Your Shot - MHA College AU

Scene 8: Swimming in Hot Water

{ Scene 8: Swimming in Hot Water }

The gentle hum of the kitchen sink felt smooth in your ears.  Hands were warm in the soapy water.  Skin was golden in the afternoon sun that seeped in through the kitchen window. It was quiet, and still, bits of dust drifting in the light, remains from the earlier cleaning.

You were keeping busy in the meantime.  The basement was spick and span; not that the tidy couches and shiny floors would last long.  In a few hours, drinks would be spilling, and walls would be shaking, and the house would return into its normal state of disaster.

There was still much to do, but you could kill a few minutes while you waited for the boys to finish tidying up their spaces.

Working through another stack of dishes, you plopped them in the sink, foamy bubbles erupting into the air. As to why your guy friends always seemed to slack on their dishes, you'd never understand.

A pair of heavy footsteps tread into the kitchen.

"Those aren't yours y'know."

"Yeah?"

Bakugo grumbled. "Quit washing our dishes."

"They're not going to wash themselves," you retorted. "Plus, you've all been really busy, I'm just making the most of my time."

He sighed, his feet trailing over to the sink, bumping next to you.

"Trade," he said, shoving a tea-towel into your chest and taking the sponge from your hands.

"Hold on, aren't you still busy with things upstairs?" Your fingers were dripping in dishwater, clutching the towel in your hands.

"'S fine, we're almost done anyways," he muttered, the dishes clinking in the sink. "Besides, this isn't even your mess. None of this is. But here you are, sticking your big nose into our business, as always."

Bakugo was right. And even though you knew it, the recognition still hurt.  You had felt badly earlier, for coming here with your own expectations and cleaning up a space that wasn't yours. Even if it was for a good reason, for a good party.

"God, and you're stubborn. Just like that damn nerd. Always finding an excuse to help others," he continued, placing a plate into the dish rack.

Towel in hand, you mindlessly dried the shiny, wet dishes in front of you. Bakugo probably didn't mean to make you feel badly, to rub it in. Even though you were used to the roughness of his words, every now and then, a callus will bleed a little.

"I knew you would insist on helpin'," he murmured. "Just... take some time for yourself, would'you?"

Like peeling back the bitter rind of an orange, the boy's words held something sweet under the layers.

You nodded, hiding a quiet smile. "I knew you wouldn't let me get away with cleaning up your spaghetti pot," you teased.

"Shut up," he grunted, flicking soap into your shoulder.

┈ ━ ◇ ━ ┈

Trays of tiny plastic cups were laid out across the table, lining the metal baking sheets, aligned in perfect rows. A chaos of jell-o boxes and liquor and mixing bowls filled the rest of the kitchen table.

"Aw man, I wish we bought more of the red," Kirishima whined, his chin resting on the hardened surface, poking a jell-o box mindlessly. "They're gonna be soooo good. Can't wait to share them with everyone."