Chapter Text
The first sign was easy to ignore.
Hizashi had spent most of his life collecting injuries. A little dizziness barely qualified as noteworthy.
The second sign was harder.
The third sent him to a doctor.
It happened on an ordinary afternoon. Shouta had fallen asleep on the couch with a book resting against his chest. Hizashi had been halfway through making lunch when the room suddenly tilted.
At first he thought he'd simply stood up too quickly. Then his vision darkened, and pain tightened sharply across his chest. The plate slipped from his hands and shattered against the kitchen floor. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. He barely remembered lowering himself to the ground, the cold tile pressing against his shaking hand. His heart pounded wildly beneath his ribs. Too fast. Too hard.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it eased. The room steadied, and the pain faded. The silence afterward felt wrong. Slowly, Hizashi pushed himself upright.
From the living room, he could hear the faint rustle of turning pages. Shouta was awake. Immediately, concern flickered through him. Not for himself, but for Shouta. The crash must have startled him.
A second later, Shouta appeared in the doorway. His hair was a mess, and the book was still tucked beneath one arm.
"Sunshine?"
Concern appeared instantly. Hizashi smiled before he could stop himself. The same smile he'd worn for years. The one that always said everything was fine.
"Sorry."
Shouta's eyes narrowed. "What happened?"
"I dropped a plate."
The answer wasn't technically a lie. Shouta stared at him for another moment, searching. Then his gaze drifted across the broken ceramic scattered around the floor. "You okay?"
The question lingered between them. For a second, Hizashi considered telling him.
About the dizziness.
About the pain.
About how strange it had felt.
Instead, he smiled again. "Yeah."
Shouta relaxed slightly.
That should have been the end of it. But it wasn't.
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Three days later, Hizashi found himself sitting across from a doctor. The office was quiet, but the doctor wasn't. Words filled the room, but the explanations blurred together after a while.
Hizashi only remembered one word. Progressive.
Because some words changed everything. And once you heard them, there was no unhearing them.
The drive home passed in a blur. At some point, Hizashi parked outside the apartment and simply sat there. The diagnosis folder rested on the passenger seat. He didn't touch it.
Above him, the apartment windows glowed softly in the late afternoon light. Home. Shouta was up there. Probably reading. Probably waiting. Most likely already wondering why he'd taken so long. The thought made his chest ache worse than the diagnosis had.
Eventually, he grabbed the folder and shoved it beneath a pile of old paperwork in the glove compartment.
Then he smiled. By the time he stepped through the front door, the smile he wore was perfect.
"You're late." Shouta's voice drifted from the living room.
Hizashi kicked off his shoes. "Traffic."
"You're retired."
"Then blame old people."
A snort came from somewhere inside the apartment. For one brief moment, everything felt normal. Then Shouta appeared around the corner. Immediately, his expression changed into concern. The same one Hizashi had spent years recognizing in an instant.
"Sunshine."
The nickname landed softly.
"Yeah?"
"You look tired."
For a moment, Hizashi froze. Then he laughed. "Thanks."
"I'm serious."
"I know."
Shouta continued staring as the silence stretched between them. Hizashi knew that look. Knew exactly what was happening behind those tired eyes. Assessment. Observation. The same thing that had made him such a good teacher. The same thing that had saved lives.
Eventually, Shouta sighed. "You're overdoing it again."
Relief hit so hard Hizashi nearly laughed. "Probably."
"Get some sleep."
"Yes, mom."
That finally earned an eye roll, and the conversation ended there. But the guilt didn't.
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The first lie became easier after that. Then came the second. And the third. Eventually, they stopped feeling like lies at all.
"You're rubbing your chest again."
Hizashi looked up from the kitchen table. Across from him, Shouta was watching with narrowed eyes. Immediately, Hizashi dropped his hand.
"Heartburn."
"You've had heartburn three times this week."
"Maybe your cooking is trying to kill me."
Shouta's expression remained completely unchanged. Hizashi grinned. Eventually, Shouta rolled his eyes and returned to his book.
The guilt lingered long after the conversation ended.
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A month later, the dizziness returned. The room tilted suddenly, and the countertop became the only thing keeping him upright. For a moment, black spots danced across his vision. Then—
"Zashi?"
His eyes snapped open. Shouta stood in the doorway, concern already written across his face. The symptoms vanished behind a smile before Shouta could take two steps forward. "Hey, moonlight."
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Hizashi."
"I stood up too fast." The answer came so easily now. Too easily.
Eventually, Shouta relaxed. Hizashi hated himself for being relieved.
The phone rang during dinner. It was from his doctor's office. His stomach dropped immediately.
Across the table, Shouta glanced up. "You gonna answer that?"
"Spam."
The call stopped. Three seconds later, it started again. Shouta raised an eyebrow.
"...Persistent spam." Somehow, that earned a snort. Hizashi escaped to the balcony before answering.
When he returned, Shouta was watching him again. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah."
The lie barely even hurt anymore. And that terrified him more than anything.
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As the months passed, Shouta got weaker. And somehow, that made everything easier. Not because Hizashi suffered less, but because Shouta paid less attention to him.
The appointments became more frequent. The medications multiplied. The bad days grew harder.
Every ounce of Shouta's energy went toward surviving. Which meant fewer questions. Fewer suspicious looks. Fewer opportunities to get caught.
Sometimes, Hizashi hated himself for being grateful.
One night he woke up unable to breathe. Pain clawed through his chest. Sharp, sudden, and oh so terrifying. For a few awful seconds, he genuinely thought he might die.
Beside him, Shouta slept peacefully. The sight anchored him. Slowly, painfully, the episode passed. His heartbeat steadied and his breathing returned.
And when morning came, he made breakfast as if nothing had happened. Like he hadn't spent the night staring at the ceiling wondering which of them would reach the finish line first.
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"You look exhausted."
The words came from Eri when she'd stopped by after work.
Hizashi laughed. "Because I have to take care of my dying husband."
The words slipped out before he could stop it. Silence followed. Immediately, guilt hit him. But Eri only looked down. The smile vanished from his face.
"…Sorry."
She shook her head. Neither of them mentioned it again. Later, Hizashi would remember that moment and wonder if she'd noticed something even then.
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The diagnosis progressed. His symptoms worsened. The medications changed. And still, he told no one.
Not Midoriya.
Not Shinso.
Not Eri.
And certainly not Shouta.
Because every time he considered it, he looked at the man beside him. He knew his husband was already fighting a battle he couldn't win.
So every time, the answer stayed the same. Not yet. Just a little longer. Just until Shouta doesn't have to carry this too.
──────────
The orange prescription bottle felt strangely heavy in Eri's hands. For a moment, she simply stared at it. The label blurred. The name printed across the side was unmistakable.
Yamada Hizashi
Her stomach dropped. Slowly, she looked toward the hallway. Toward the apartment. Toward the man currently making tea in the kitchen as though nothing in the world was wrong. As though she hadn't just discovered something capable of splitting her life in half. The bottle trembled slightly in her hand.
A moment later, she was moving. The kitchen came into view where Hizashi stood at the counter with his back to her. The kettle hissed softly as evening light spilled across the room. For one terrible second, the scene overlapped with a hundred memories.
Shouta making coffee.
Shouta reading by the window.
Shouta existing.
Then the memory shattered.
"Eri?"
Hizashi glanced over his shoulder. The smile appeared automatically. Then he saw the bottle, and everything stopped. The smile vanished and silence flooded the room. Neither of them dared to move or speak. That was worse, because if he'd looked confused—if he'd asked where she'd found it or if he'd at least tried to explain—then maybe she could have convinced herself she was wrong.
Instead, he just looked tired. The kind that settled into people's bones, one she'd already watched once before. The realization hit so hard it stole the air from her lungs.
"...How long?"
The question came out barely above a whisper. Hizashi looked away first, and that was answer enough. But eventually, he spoke.
"A while."
The world narrowed. "A while?"
His shoulders sagged. "...Since a few months after Shouta's diagnosis."
Eri stared at him. The words refused to make sense. After they found out. After the hospital visits started. After the medications. After all of it.
The bottle slipped from her fingers and landed against the counter with a soft plastic tap.
"You knew?" The question broke apart. "You found out while he was sick?"
Hizashi closed his eyes. "Eri—"
"You knew." The hurt in her voice made him flinch. The silence hung heavily around them. Then Eri laughed, a sharp, broken sound escaping her. "You spent months watching him die."
Hizashi's expression crumpled. "Eri—"
"And you never said anything?" The words escaped before she could stop them. Anger, fear, and grief. All of it tangled together. "You lied to him."
The silence said enough. Tears blurred her vision, because now, suddenly, everything made sense. The dizziness, exhaustion, and shaking hands. The way he'd always looked just a little too tired. The prescription bottle. The chest pain and the excuses.
Every single thing she'd noticed, and every single thing she'd chosen not to push. Because she'd trusted him, the same way he'd trusted Shouta. The thought nearly destroyed her.
"Why?"
The question came out small. Not angry anymore, just full of hurt, confusion, and fear. Hizashi stared at the countertop for a long moment. When he finally answered, his voice sounded older than she had ever heard it.
"What was I supposed to say?" The question hung between them. A tired smile appeared on his face. "'Sorry, Shou. While you're fighting a terminal illness, I found one too?'"
Eri's eyes burned, and Hizashi's smile disappeared. "He already had enough to carry."
"So you carried it alone?"
He smiled at her sadly. "Someone had to."
"No." The answer came immediately, fierce and certain.
For the first time since she'd entered the room, Hizashi looked at her. And Eri saw it. Guilt, exhaustion, grief, and fear. All the things he'd hidden behind smiles for months. The same way he'd taught her to survive. The same way Shouta had.
And suddenly she understood something terrible. He hadn't hidden it because he didn't trust them. He'd hidden it because he loved them.
The kettle clicked softly in the silence. Hizashi turned it off automatically, then stood there staring at two mugs as though he'd forgotten what they were for. Eventually he reached for them anyway, continuing to make tea. Because that was easier than explaining how to tell your daughter you were dying.
Eri watched him move around the kitchen. Watched the familiar motions and the practiced smile that wasn't there anymore. The slight stiffness in his movements she'd never paid enough attention to. The way he paused once, briefly pressing a hand against his chest when he thought she wasn't looking. Now that she knew the truth, she finally noticed everything he'd tried so hard to hide.
Eventually, Hizashi carried the mugs over and sat down across from her. Neither of them drank. The tea slowly cooled between them. The apartment suddenly felt too quiet. Too much like a hospital room. Too much like grief.
Finally, Eri spoke. "How bad is it?"
The question landed softly. Hizashi looked down at his tea. For a moment, he didn't answer. His silence frightened her more than anything he'd said so far, because Hizashi always had an answer. Even when he didn't know what to say. Even when things were falling apart, he always found something. A joke. A smile. A distraction. Anything. But now, there was nothing but deafening silence.
Eri felt her stomach drop. "...Pa." Her voice cracked.
Hizashi closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he somehow looked more tired. "The doctors don't really know."
The answer was too careful. "How bad?"
His fingers tightened slightly around the mug. "Eri."
"How bad?"
Because she couldn't do this again. Couldn't watch another person she loved slowly disappear while everyone pretended not to notice. Not again. Not him. Please not him too.
The silence stretched. Then—
"I probably don't have decades left."
The words landed gently, like he was trying not to startle her. As though there was a way to make that sentence hurt less. Eri just stared. The room felt distant now, muted and far away.
"What does that mean?"
Hizashi laughed softly. A sad sound. "It means I'm old."
"Pa."
The smile he managed was small. Fragile. "It means I've been lucky so far."
Lucky. The word nearly made her angry. As if any of this was luck. As if finding out you were dying while your husband was already dying counted as luck.
Her vision blurred. Hizashi noticed immediately. Of course he did. His chair scraped softly against the floor. A second later, he was beside her, the same way he'd always been. The same way he was when she was little. The same way he'd been after nightmares. After bad days. After everything.
"Eri."
"Stop." His hand froze. "Stop trying to make me feel better."
The words broke apart halfway through. For a second, genuine surprise crossed his face. Then guilt. Then something that looked suspiciously like heartbreak. And suddenly Eri understood yet another terrible thing. He'd been preparing for this conversation for months.
Every excuse.
Every smile.
Every deflection.
Every lie.
All leading here.
To this kitchen.
To this table.
To her finally knowing.
The realization hurt almost as much as the truth itself. Her tears finally spilled over. Hizashi looked away, unable to watch. And for the first time since she'd found the bottle, Eri saw it.
Not the patient or the diagnosis. Not the man hiding behind a smile. Just her papa. Terrified. Not of dying, but of leaving people behind.
Eventually, Eri wiped at her eyes. "Does anyone else know?"
The question was quiet. Hizashi didn't need to ask who she meant. He looked down. "No."
The answer landed like a physical blow. Eri stared. "No?"
Hizashi shook his head. "Nobody."
Something sharp twisted inside her chest. Because Shouta hadn't known. The realization hit all over again. Shouta had never known, and never will. The man who'd shared his life, his bed, his future, his fears. His everything.
"You have to tell them."
Hizashi's eyes closed. "Eri."
"You have to."
"They don't need—"
"Don't." The word came out sharper than she intended. Immediately, guilt flickered across her face, but not enough to take it back. "Don't do that."
His shoulders sagged. "Eri—"
"No." She stood so suddenly her chair scraped across the floor. Because she'd heard this before. Different words and different circumstances, but the same reasoning. The same sacrifice. The same attempt to carry everything alone.
And she was tired. So unbelievably tired of the people she loved deciding their pain belonged to them and them alone.
"They deserve to know." The words shook, "and so did dad..." The second the sentence left her mouth, she immediately regretted it. Pain flashed across Hizashi's face. The sight nearly broke her. But she couldn't stop, not now. "You don't get to decide this for them."
His gaze dropped to the table. The silence lasted so long she wondered if he'd stopped listening. Then he spoke very quietly. "I know."
That wasn't the answer she'd expected. Eri blinked.
Hizashi stared into his tea. The words sounded exhausted. "I know they deserve to know." He laughed softly. "I know Shouta deserved to know."
The admission stole the air from the room, because suddenly there was no argument left. Just guilt. Months of it, carried alone. Hizashi looked up, and Eri hated what she saw. Because she recognized it immediately. Hope. Not hope that she'd agree. Hope that she'd understand. The same expression he'd worn every time she'd come to him scared and hurting as a child. Trusting her.
"Eri." Her throat tightened. "Please." The word shattered her, because Hizashi almost never begged. Not really. Not when it mattered. Not when he wanted something for himself.
The room blurred again. "No." But it came out weaker.
Hizashi noticed. "I'm not asking forever."
Eri looked away. That was a mistake, because now she could hear him. Hear the exhaustion. The fear. The grief. All the things he usually hid.
"I just..." His voice cracked. The sound froze her in place. "I just want a little time." Silence. Then, "I don't want everyone looking at me like I'm already gone."
The words landed softly, and that was what did it. Eri understood. He'd spent months watching people look at Shouta that way. Watching conversations change. Watching worry replace normalcy. Watching people start saying goodbye before the person was even gone. And she knew he didn't want that. He wanted to be Hizashi. Not a countdown or a tragedy. Just him, for whatever time remained.
The fight drained out of her all at once. It didn't make him right. It didn't make her okay with it. But it made her understand. And understanding was always the most dangerous thing, because it made forgiveness possible and far too easy.
Slowly, Eri sat back down. The movement seemed to age Hizashi ten years. Relief flooded his face so quickly it hurt to look at. The sight nearly made her cry again.
"You suck."
A laugh escaped him, small and watery. "Yeah."
"You really, really suck."
"That's fair."
Eri stared at her tea, then closed her eyes. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Finally—
"...Okay."
The word barely existed. Hizashi inhaled sharply because they both understood what she'd just agreed to carry.
And neither of them knew how to thank the other for it.
──────────
The days afterward felt different. Not because anything had changed, because now Eri knew. That was the worst part, nothing looked different. The apartment was the same. The routines were the same. The people visiting were the same. Only now, every small thing carried a second meaning.
Every pause.
Every cough.
Every tired smile.
Every time Hizashi pressed a hand against his chest when he thought nobody was looking.
She saw all of it, and she couldn't unsee any of it.
──────────
Three days later, Midoriya showed up carrying groceries again. At this point, Eri was fairly certain he had somehow developed a sixth sense for empty refrigerators. The second the door opened, Midoriya appeared holding three bags and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Yamada-sensei!"
Hizashi blinked. "You're smiling. That means I'm about to suffer."
"I found a sale!"
"Midoriya."
"So naturally—"
"Midoriya."
"—I bought enough food for a month!"
Eri watched Hizashi laugh. A real laugh, warm and genuine. For a few precious seconds he looked exactly like himself again. Then the laugh lasted a little too long. His hand drifted briefly toward his chest just for a second. The motion was tiny.
Nobody noticed. Nobody except Eri.
The smile never left his face. The conversation continued. Midoriya remained completely unaware.
And Eri suddenly hated her promise.
──────────
A week later, Shinso appeared.
Hizashi walked into the living room and stopped. "Why are you under my sink?"
Shinso's voice echoed from somewhere inside the cabinet. "Your pipe was leaking."
"...How long have you been here?"
A pause. "Long enough."
"That's concerning."
"Your definition of concerning is broken."
A moment later Shinso emerged holding a wrench. The exchange should have been ridiculous. Instead, it felt familiar. Comfortable. Like something Shouta would have appreciated. For a while, the three of them sat together talking about absolutely nothing. The sort of conversations people only realized were important after they were gone.
Eventually, Hizashi stood up to refill everyone's drinks. Halfway to the kitchen he stopped, one hand braced briefly against the wall. Then he continued walking.
Nobody noticed except for Eri again. The secret sat like a stone in her chest.
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Another week passed. Then another. Life continued the way it always did.
People visited. People laughed. People remembered Shouta. And through all of it, Hizashi somehow remained the person holding everyone together. Eri hated that too. Because every time she caught him smiling, she wondered how much effort it cost. Every time she heard him laugh, she wondered if it hurt afterward.
Every time someone said, "You're doing better." Or "It's good to see you smiling again," she had to bite her tongue. Because they weren't wrong, but they weren't seeing everything. Only she was. And some nights, that felt unbearable.
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One evening she found him on the balcony. The city lights stretched endlessly beyond the railing. Eri quietly stepped beside him. Hizashi glanced over. "Can't sleep?"
She snorted. "You're one to talk."
That earned a small laugh. This time, he didn't hide the wince afterward. The sight made her chest ache. For a moment, they simply stood there together, watching the city and listening to distant traffic.
Eventually, Hizashi spoke softly. "You know..."
Eri leaned against the railing beside him. "What?"
For a moment, Hizashi didn't answer. He simply watched the horizon, a smile tugging briefly at his mouth. Then—
"Don't wait."
Eri frowned. "What?"
Hizashi laughed softly. "That wasn't mysterious enough?"
"No."
"Fair." The smile lingered, then faded into something quieter. "I mean it." The breeze tugged gently at his hair. "People spend their whole lives waiting." His gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "Waiting until they're less busy, until work calms down, until they're less scared, or until things feel right."
Eri listened quietly. "Sometimes they wait so long they forget what they were waiting for in the first place." Something tightened in her chest. The conversation suddenly felt important, but she couldn't explain why.
"Pa..."
Hizashi glanced over, a small smile appearing. "Go places."
Eri blinked. "What?"
"I'm serious."
That earned a laugh. "You sound eighty."
That got another laugh. Good. He seemed pleased by that. Then he continued. "See things. Do stupid stuff. Make mistakes." The city lights slowly brightened below them. "Call your friends, take vacations. Tell people when you love them." The smile softened. "And stop putting things off."
Eri stared. The fear she'd felt earlier returned, stronger now. Because none of this sounded random anymore, it sounded deliberate. Like he'd thought about it beforehand. Like he'd been carrying these words around for a while, waiting for the right moment.
The realization made her stomach twist. "…Hizashi."
His gaze shifted toward her. The smile was still there. Gentle and familiar. The same smile he'd given her a thousand times growing up. "What?"
The question caught in her throat.
Don't talk like this.
Don't sound like you're saying goodbye.
Don't make me listen to another person I love tell me things they'll never get to say again.
But she couldn't say any of that. So instead—
"...Nothing."
Something flickered across his expression. Understanding. Because of course he understood, he always did. Slowly, Hizashi reached over and squeezed her hand. The same way he'd done when she was little. The same way he'd done after nightmares. After bad days. After grief. After everything.
"Eri." His voice was quiet. She looked over. "Promise me something."
Her stomach dropped. Not just because of the words, but also because of the tone. Because she'd heard it before. In a hospital room. From another person she loved. The memory hurt.
"What?"
Hizashi looked back toward the horizon. Toward the city. And smiled. "Be happy."
The answer surprised her. "What?"
"I'm serious." His thumb brushed gently across the back of her hand. "When things get hard or messy. When people leave." His voice never wavered. "Keep living anyway."
"Don't spend your life standing still because you're afraid of losing people." Eri's eyes burned. Hizashi either didn't notice or pretended not to. Possibly both. "Love people. Miss them. Cry about them." The smile softened.
"Then keep going."
Silence settled between them. Eventually, Eri squeezed his hand back. "...Okay."
The answer came out small. Hizashi smiled, as though she'd just given him something he'd needed.
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The next few weeks passed gently, like the world had finally stopped trying to tear itself apart. For the first time in a long time, there were no emergencies. No hospitals or funerals or catastrophes waiting around the corner. Just ordinary days, the kind people rarely appreciate until they're gone.
One afternoon, Midoriya stopped by carrying lunch again.
"You're spoiling us."
Midoriya looked horrified. "Impossible."
"You brought enough food for six people."
"Sensei, what if six people get hungry?"
"There are three of us."
"What if three more appear?"
Eri watched the exchange from the kitchen. Neither of them noticed her smiling. Some things never changed. Thank God.
Eventually, the conversation drifted toward work. UA students. Hero society. The future. Midoriya always lit up when discussing his students. Even now. Especially now.
Hizashi listened more than he talked, quietly smiling. At some point Midoriya paused.
Hizashi blinked. "What?"
"You're doing the teacher thing."
"The teacher thing?"
"The proud look."
Immediately, Hizashi laughed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Liar." Midoriya shook his head, still smiling.
A few days later, Shinso appeared again. The apartment door opened, and Shinso was already inside.
"You have a key?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"You gave me one."
"I absolutely did not."
"You absolutely did."
A pause. "...Did I?"
"Years ago."
"Oh." Another pause. "...That sounds like something I'd do."
"It does."
For a while they sat together in comfortable silence. The television played quietly in the background, but neither paid much attention to it. Eventually Hizashi spoke. "You've been taking care of everyone."
Shinso looked over. The statement had arrived without warning or context. Without a joke attached. For a second, something softened in his expression. "Somebody has to."
The answer came automatically, the exact answer Hizashi would have given. The realization made both of them smile.
"Yeah."
Silence settled again, comfortable and easy. After a while Shinso stood to leave. At the door, he hesitated. Then—
"You doing okay?"
The question was casual, almost careless. But Hizashi knew him too well. He heard the concern underneath. The same concern that had existed for years, and would probably exist forever. A warm smile tugged at his mouth.
"Yeah." And for once, it wasn't entirely a lie.
Shinso studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good."
The door closed behind him, and Hizashi found himself smiling long afterward.
Movie nights returned eventually. So did takeout, and so did arguments over what to watch. Somehow, Eri always lost those arguments, even when there were only two voters.
One evening, she fell asleep halfway through a movie. When she woke later, a blanket covered her shoulders, and the television was off. The apartment was dark, and from the hallway she could hear Hizashi humming softly while washing dishes.
The sound made her smile, because it felt normal. Comforting. Safe. She didn't realize she would remember that moment for the rest of her life.
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A few days later, Hizashi stood alone in the apartment. The light from the sun slowly setting stretched through the windows, golden and warm. Familiar.
Quietly, he looked around. The couch. The bookshelves. The kitchen. The photographs. A lifetime contained within four walls.
His gaze lingered on one picture longer than the others. The four of them. Young enough to think they had forever. A laugh escaped him. It was softer this time. Fond. "You were all idiots."
The photograph offered no defense, probably because he was right. The smile remained anyway. For a long moment, he simply stood there. Looking. Remembering. Loving.
Then he glanced toward the rooftop access door, and something peaceful settled across his expression.
"Yeah."
The apartment remained silent, but somehow it felt like an answer. A few minutes later, he grabbed his jacket and headed upstairs.
The rooftop was quiet. The city stretched endlessly beyond the railing, the same view he'd looked at a thousand times before. The same view he'd shared with Shouta throughout the years they survived after everything. With Nemuri and Oboro, back when they were young enough to believe the future would wait for them. Hizashi smiled.
It never had.
The evening air brushed against his skin as he made his way toward the familiar spot near the edge of the roof. Slowly, he lowered himself onto the bench. The movement took more effort than it used to. That was fine, everything took more effort these days. The thought didn't upset him nearly as much as it should have.
Below him, the city continued moving. People heading home from work, meeting friends, eating dinner. Laughing. Living.
A soft laugh escaped him. Some things never changed.
For a long while, he simply sat there. Watching life continue. Thinking. Remembering. The sunset painted the horizon gold, then orange, then shades of pink and purple.
Beautiful.
Shouta would have pretended not to care. Hizashi smiled at the thought.
"Liar."
The breeze carried the word away. For a moment, he imagined the eye roll that would have followed. The familiar deadpan expression, the offended sigh. The quiet smile that always arrived afterward.
God. He missed him.
The realization hurt, but not the way it used to. Not sharp anymore or unbearable. Just... there, like an old scar. Proof that something precious had existed.
His gaze drifted upward. The first stars were beginning to appear one by one.
"Guess we did okay."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. No answer came. Somehow, that was okay now too. Because he already knew what Shouta would have said.
Something sarcastic.
Something annoyingly logical.
Something that somehow meant I love you without actually saying it.
A laugh escaped him. The city lights blurred slightly. He tried blinking it away, but the blur remained. Strange. The exhaustion had been worse lately. Maybe he should—
The thought never finished. Instead, Hizashi found himself leaning back slightly, looking up at the darkening sky. The breeze felt nice, warm and comforting. It felt like home.
His eyes drifted closed. Just for a second, just long enough to rest them. Long enough to listen. The city hummed below. The wind moved softly overhead.
Everything felt peaceful. Everything felt...right. Then—
"Took you long enough."
The voice was familiar. Painfully familiar. Hizashi froze. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Oboro stood a few feet away, exactly as he'd remembered him. Young, whole, and grinning widely. The same ridiculous grin that had gotten them all into trouble a hundred times. For a moment, Hizashi simply stared. Then—
"Oh, screw you."
Oboro laughed. The sound hit him like the warmth of sunlight. Like childhood. Like home.
"You made me wait forever."
"I was busy."
"Doing what?"
"Dying?" Hizashi answered with a laugh. A real laugh, the kind he hadn't managed in years. Oboro's grin softened then, and something warm settled in Hizashi's chest. Not pain anymore or grief. Something better. Something familiar.
His gaze shifted, and stopped. Shouta stood nearby. Waiting.
The same tired eyes.
The same messy hair.
The same face Hizashi had loved for most of his life.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. They never had. The smile that appeared on Shouta's face was small and quiet. Perfect.
And suddenly Hizashi couldn't remember why he'd ever been afraid.
A third figure stepped forward. Nemuri. Bright-eyed and smiling. One arm wrapped around a very familiar orange cat. Sushi looked deeply offended to be carried as usual.
"About time," Nemuri said. Sushi meowed in agreement. Or possibly disagreement, it was difficult to tell with him.
Tears blurred Hizashi's vision. For the first time, they didn't hurt. Because they weren't grief anymore. They were relief.
Because they were here.
Because all of them were here.
Because somehow—even after everything—they'd found each other again.
Oboro's grin softened. Nemuri smiled. Shouta took a step forward, and finally spoke. Just two words. The words Hizashi hadn't realized he'd been waiting to hear.
"Welcome home."