Katsuki Bakugo was drunk.

Not the "buzzed but still in control" kind of drunk—no, this was the "stumbling through the front door and nearly blowing up his own shoes" kind of drunk.

His head spun as he kicked off his boots, grumbling under his breath. He hadn't meant to drink that much. But then stupid Kirishima had challenged him, and then stupid Kaminari had made a bet, and then suddenly there were shots lined up in front of him, and hell if he was gonna back down. His competitive streak wouldn’t let him.

Now here he was, swaying in the doorway of the apartment he shared with his boyfriend. Their cozy little place smelled like home—faintly of coffee, laundry detergent, and something warm from the kitchen. He latched onto the doorframe for balance, trying (and failing) to stay upright as he kicked off his other boot.

That’s when he heard it. A sigh.

"Seriously?"

Bakugo squinted in the direction of the voice. His boyfriend stood in the hallway, arms crossed, wearing his usual sleepwear—an old t-shirt and sweatpants, looking both unimpressed and impossibly soft under the dim hallway light.

"Tch," Bakugo scoffed, or at least attempted to. It came out as more of a grunt as he slumped forward, narrowly avoiding hitting the floor when a strong pair of hands caught him by the arms. "’M fine…" he muttered.

"Yeah, sure you are," his boyfriend deadpanned, guiding him inside.

Bakugo let himself be led, grumbling under his breath. He should be able to walk just fine on his own, damn it. But his head was heavy, and his legs didn’t want to cooperate. He leaned a little more into his boyfriend, resting his forehead against his shoulder. The warmth of him, the steadiness—it felt good.