Chapter Text
As far as dates go, Monoma supposes that this one is pretty decent. Shinsou looked acceptable enough in well-fitting trousers and a button-down shirt (with the sleeves rolled up!!!) that Monoma almost forgot how to speak a few minutes in, but after that things went smoothly.
The food was good, the wine was great, the conversation even more so. Monoma talked a lot about himself, as he usually tends to do. But to his surprise Shinsou seemed to enjoy listening to him, even asking thoughtful questions every now and then like which pastry do you like making the most and isn’t it strange that you have a cafe when you can’t stand drinking coffee black and also if Komori-san and Tsuburaba-san are your kids then does that mean Rin-san is the dad etc. He should not allow Shinsou to freely tease him like this, but strangely enough the deadpan banter is entertaining.
He likes the way the other man cups his chin in his hand and genuinely looks interested when he tells a story. He likes the sophisticated way he cuts the medium-rare sirloin steak he orders with a bottle of Merlot of his choosing that’s actually not shitty at all for someone who isn’t a connoisseur. He likes how his left wrist looks with that Swiss automatic watch. He likes the way he chuckles when Monoma fakes being offended by his jokes.
He likes listening to Shinsou talk: a strange mixture of blunt and eloquent that’s pleasing to the ears. He stumbles occasionally into strings of English words in an accent that tells him that he spent some years outside Japan too.
“Sorry… yeah, you’re right, I grew up in London. Moved here in middle school. Parents still used English at home, so I’m more used to it.” An interested tilt of the head; what Monoma has accidentally let slip with a sip of wine doesn’t go past him. “You grew up overseas too?”
Monoma pulls his lips in a straight line. “Yes,” he answers. In Brussels, for a few tumultuous years in between elementary school and culinary school in Musutafu. He would have gone back here earlier for high school, but...
He hopes he doesn’t appear too uneasy when he is asked to elaborate. He isn’t sure if Shinsou notices.
He likes the purple eyebrows, those long purple lashes that cast a shadow over his eyebags. He likes Shinsou’s face in general--handsome despite those distinct eyebags that has people looking over their shoulders in interest.
He likes that when the restaurant’s about to close and their conversation isn’t over yet, he holds the door open for him. And that he asks him if he’s cold when they walk to his car. And that he remembers to tell him to wear his seatbelt, how his arm looks when holds onto the back of the passenger seat when he puts the car in reverse, how his face looks in profile against the city lights that pass them by, his voice, his smile--
Dammit, he just likes Shinsou. More than he ever thought he could.
He wonders if he makes that clear by telling him that he likes him when the man brings him home. He wonders if Shinsou gets how torturous the influx of feelings in his chest and stomach and spine and fingertips are. He wonders if it’s too much just for a first date.
He wonders if Shinsou feels the same way.
He gets a clue when Shinsou refuses a coffee in his apartment because he has work early the next day.
Another clue, when Monoma’s deflated turn of the head is interrupted by Shinsou’s hand on his shoulder. And then a single look bashful look, a beat of silence he spends holding his breath and waiting for Monoma’s slight nod of the head.
The taller man pulls him close and presses his mouth gently to his.
The kiss ends quickly enough that Monoma feels mildly disoriented when it’s over, but slow enough that his senses are flooded by all of Shinsou--the softness of his lips, the hint of pepper in his cologne, the indigo that floods his vision when he leans in closer, the rush of air between them as they breathe in unison.
“I like you too, Monoma,” he tells him, voice so husky and deep it’s unfair . “We should do this again.”
Monoma laughs as haughtily as he can to recover, but it’s clear how utterly helpless he is then. “Of course, Dr. Shinsou. I would be personally offended if we didn’t.”
Shinsou smiles. “I’d hate to offend someone as cute as you, as maddening as that mouth of yours gets.”
And then he’s off: broad back and long limbs climbing into the car, driving off into the night. Monoma watches his movements in a daze, wondering why he’s seeing him off when he usually doesn’t bother doing that for anyone he’s dated before. To think he could be using that valuable time finally getting to the cigarette he’s been thinking about all night.
Strangely enough Monoma doesn’t claim the cancer stick that his nicotine-addicted body feels entitled to having. Instead he finds himself listening to his erratic heart and touching his lips as he struggles to calm down, trying to name the feeling wanting to erupt within him. Bubbly, is that the term? Jesus, how childish, he should hate himself for it. He knows that there will be no reprieve until he sees Shinsou again.
It takes a while before that happens; it’s challenging to pick a day where either of them could survive an evening without passing out, but they manage. The second date comes in the form of dinner and a movie; the third in the following week, at a nearby gallery where Monoma’s friend, the artist Kamakiri, showcased his newest installment series ( STOLEN-- about his personal experience of his quirk being stolen by villains and the quirkless, unresolved aftermath).
Both times they talk until it’s past midnight. Monoma is more careful about inviting Shinsou in, but less careful with his touches, his closeness. Even less when it comes to the kisses, which are always unexpected and welcome, scorching and surprising, too long and too short, magnificent and overwhelming. Each time Monoma wonders if he’ll ever get sick of it, and always he learns the hard way that he wouldn’t when Shinsou leaves.
The fourth date is a simple affair because that’s all they can manage. Monoma’s exhausted from making endless batches of macarons and cakes. Shinsou’s dying because he hasn’t slept for the past 36 hours. But a week has passed since they saw each other and it didn’t seem to matter if they simultaneously fall asleep over their salad, as long as they see that the other is still alive with their own eyes.
They have dinner at an Italian place near Shinsou’s apartment in Hosu. Shinsou says their ravioli’s decent, but it’s hard to be convinced of that when the man struggles to keep his eyes open enough to stick his fork in one.
“I think I should take you home, Dr. Shinsou,” Monoma tells him, half in amusement and half in concern.
Shinsou rubs his eyes. “... yeah. Sorry. I’m bad company, aren’t I?”
“No, not at all. I think it’s sweet that you still tried to see me even though you’re practically sleepwalking the entire way here.”
He blinks so slowly Monoma suspects he actually falls asleep in between. “You’re not doing so hot yourself, Chef. I mean, you used the salad fork to eat your pasta and all.”
Monoma looks down on his hand and realizes in complete mortification that he’s right. “Ugh, why didn’t you tell me? Did you enjoy watching me eat this linguini like a... a plebe ?”
Shinsou chuckles through another sleepy blink. “It’s cute how you get worked up over rich boy stuff like this, but go through a pack of Lucky Strikes like a common salaryman.”
The blonde grumbles. “I’m working on quitting the habit like you said, okay? I think I’ve got your anti-smoking PSA memorized. I can probably recite all the horrors of lung cancer and the like even though we’re both half-dead.”
“Do tell,” Shinsou says as they stand up to leave. Monoma sniffs and proves just that, reciting all those fancy medical terms for stinky breath and ugly gums and heart disease as they walk through the busy streets of Hosu, with Shinsou trying his best to pay attention to the pedestrians and traffic lights. Even though he manages not to get run over, Monoma keeps his hand at the crook of his arm, just in case he veers off course.
Five minutes later they’re in front of Shinsou’s apartment--third floor of an old apartment complex, only slightly rundown and probably smaller than Monoma’s place. Shinsou fumbles with the key briefly and gets the door open.
“Thanks for getting me here in one piece, Monoma,” he mumbles with a sleepy grin. “And I’m sorry we cut it short. I’m gonna make it up to you.”
The blonde smiles smugly. “I’m glad you realize that you owe me, Dr. Shinsou. If you were some other sleepy man, I’d have left you to pass out over your ravioli without a shred of remorse.”
“I’m glad I’m special then,” he chuckles.
Yes… you are, Monoma agrees, absolutely helpless.
They stare at each other’s eyes, each other’s mouths. Lean in closer, until they’re a breath apart and their mouths meet again. Monoma drowns in the sheer intoxication of his proximity, the sensation of rough hands on his cheeks, his tongue on his lips, his breath through his mouth. The feel of him is everything he’s missed in the week he hasn’t seen him, igniting everything within him.
A feeling that won’t last, he knows, when Shinsou would inevitably break the kiss, bid him goodnight, send him off, and…
“Oh,” Monoma gasps over his mouth as Shinsou pushes him through the door and pins him against the wall.
Shinsou kisses him for another long, sweet moment before looking him in the eye. “Is this okay?” he asks, cheeks flushed.
“Yes,” Monoma breathes, pulling him back in.
He feels his mouth on him curl upwards and hears the door being kicked shut behind them.
*
And just like that, Monoma gets himself a boyfriend.
A handsome, snarky, lazy cathead who’s the biggest pain in the neck when he wants to be, but a boyfriend nonetheless.
Monoma can’t stop himself from thinking of other similar words to describe him as he attempts to wriggle out from under the deadweight of Shinsou’s arm. “It’s six thirty. Put some clothes on and get moving,” he grumbles.
Purple bloodshot eyes open, stare at him briefly from under a mess of blankets and pillows, and close unrepentantly. “No.”
It takes a lot of effort to unearth him from his makeshift burial site made of the pillows, blankets, and the duvet, and by the time he’s done Monoma is already wide awake and huffing from the effort. “I’m not kidding! You don’t want to be late. Do you want Eraserhead to do that scary cobra thing he does with his eyes and hair when he’s mad?"
“Eh,” is the eloquent reply.
“ Hitoshi. ”
"Five minutes,” Shinsou mumbles, burying his face further into a pillow until Monoma can see nothing but wild purple hair.
The blonde rolls his eyes. “A twenty-seven year old grown-ass man, ladies and gentlemen,” he mutters. “At least one of us has to act like an adult, Dr. Shinsou.” Monoma has to go to work too; he doesn’t have time to dilly-dally and endure Komori’s judgmental glare again.
The most sensible thing to do would be to leave him there and brush his teeth with the light blue toothbrush he keeps in Shinsou’s bathroom and change out of Shinsou’s old Swat Kats shirt that’s way too big for him and into an extra set of clothes he keeps in Shinsou’s drawers. It’s hard to do any of that if this grown-ass man wouldn’t loosen his grip over his torso, though.
Shinsou, as expected, does not. Instead he pulls him back down onto the futon, not paying heed to Monoma’s offended yelp. A brief half-struggle occurs, one which Monoma obviously loses when the bigger man presses him down onto the cushions with his weight. The blonde huffs as Shinsou snuggles into the crook of his neck, exactly like Mackerel does when she’s feeling cuddly.
“Hito--”
“Sssh.” Shinsou mindlessly pulls him closer and mumbles a string of English words that Monoma barely catches. “ Don’t move. You’re so soft and warm, Nei… ” He sighs again, this time directly at the shell of his ear, making him tremble. “ And you smell… so… nice… ”
Monoma wills himself to feel exasperated. A challenge, because Shinsou’s using that husky tone that leaves him weak 100% of the time he uses it against him. “We can’t...”
“Three minutes,” he rumbles, so sluggishly that it’s hardly intelligible.
And then nothing else matters. In that sort of closeness, time slows with the man’s breathing, melting with the warmth of Shinsou’s bare chest and arms around him.
He’s helpless. He knows it. Shinsou definitely knows it. With a sigh, Monoma relents. “Fine. Three minutes.” They both know that it’s going to be ten minutes. But it’s been a hard week for Shinsou, so he lets him snooze a little more anyway.
Twenty minutes later they’re rushing out of the apartment, hardly any hope of making it to work on time. On the way out Shinsou hastily leaves food for Mackerel and kisses her on the head as affectionately as a loving parent would kiss a child--not that Monoma would know, but he digresses. “Hey, so if I don’t get home on time--”
“Right, right. I’ll take care of her.” Monoma prods the slightly offended tabby cat on the nose. “Too bad, Macky-chan, that’s what you get for having such a workaholic for a dad.”
With that, they speed-walk into the neighborhood. It’s almost seven when they reach Monoma’s and see Tsuburaba cleaning the tables outside with a cheerful, healthy hum.
“ Bonjour Chef! Hey Dr. Shinsou! Cutting it close this morning, eh?” As it usually happens when Tsuburaba has a morning shift, there’s already a cup of coffee and a sandwich waiting for the doctor at a nearby table.
“Yeah,” Shinsou replies bashfully, looking at the freebies with some apprehension. “Is this really okay, Tsuburaba-san? You don’t have to feed me whenever you see me, y’know…”
“I know, but you and Dr. Asui saved my life and that’s a pretty big deal! Plus you keep the chef calm and not smelling like a damn chimney so it’s the least I can do,” the wide-eyed guy replies with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Oh, speaking of Dr. Asui, uh... you know, I haven’t had a chance to thank her yet, at least, um. Not properly. I mean last time I tried but I don’t think she understood what I meant--”
Of course the frog doctor wouldn’t understand what Tsuburaba meant, seeing as all he does when she visits is shove an extra croissant in her hands and try not to pass out from the effort of having a real conversation with her. Monoma ought to feel sorry for him and his shyness, but that’s ten free croissants too many. “That was two months ago! If you have anything to say to Dr. Asui, tell her yourself!”
Tsuburaba puffs his cheeks and looks at Shinsou for emotional support. The purple-haired man laughs awkwardly. “Not promising anything but I’ll see what I can do, Tsuburaba-san.”
The shine in his saucer-like eyes practically lights up the entire street. “You would?! Wait--ah, I gotta be emotionally ready for this, I can’t afford to mess this up--”
Monoma is just about to interrupt Tsuburaba’s awkward rant when the door jingles open, revealing a mildly irate brown sprout of hair. “Dr. Shinsou! Bonjour! ”
“Hey, Komori-san,” Shinsou replies with a smile.
“Where’s my bonjour, Komori?” the affronted Monoma complains.
“You’re late, maman. I am not greeting you good morning and you are going in to make the quiches whether you like it or not,” Komori humphs with an upturn of the nose just as a large shadow looms over them. “Oh, bonjour, Satou-san!”
Sure enough, his dreaded rival and completely objectionable next-door-neighbor passes by them, carrying two crates of heavy ingredients all at once. As usual, Satou Rikido is oblivious to the vitriol in Monoma’s gaze and greets everyone in his usual cheery way. “ Bonjour everyone! Hey, Dr. Shinsou! Cutting it close today, I see!”
A floating uniform set carrying a smaller crate bounces along next to him and gives a happy little wave in their direction. “ Bonjour! Dr. Shinsou, you’re here again! Aren’t you late for work?”
“Hey Satou-san. Hagakure-san,” Shinsou greets back. The annoyed and thoroughly ignored Monoma is beginning to sense a pattern here. “I got, like… five minutes. I’ll make it if I half-jog.”
“Well don’t let us keep you. Monoma’s bringing you tomorrow, right?” Satou asks. “Hope you make it, since it’ll be our last event before our restaurant closes for the next five years!”
Before Shinsou can answer, Monoma clicks his tongue and waves his hands around. “All right, kindly stop hogging my boyfriend’s attention and get back to work! He’s already late as it is!”
The crowd disperses, not without grumbles or giggles at Monoma’s expense. Soon he’s left to deal with Shinsou’s smug smile all on his own. “You like that, huh? You like seeing how everyone likes you so much better than me? You like seeing me fighting for your attention?”
“You can’t stand not being the center of attention, huh?” It’s annoying how self-satisfied he looks. “Or do you just not like it when I pay attention to anyone else but you?”
Monoma puffs his cheeks. “That wasn’t my point! And don’t you make fun of me, you’re already late and--”
Shinsou interrupts him with a kiss. Monoma grumbles at the contact, melts under his touch for the brief moment it takes, and grumbles some more when they pull apart.
He laughs and finally turns to leave. “ Don’t worry . There’s no-one else but you .”
Before Monoma can retort, Shinsou’s already straight up sprinting as quickly as his long legs can take him, finally aware of all the time he’s wasted and the looming threat of Dr. Aizawa’s wrath. He only manages a lame little “ See you later, Hitoshi ” that he isn’t even sure Shinsou hears.
He doesn’t realize that he’s staring wistfully into the distance as all traces of that shade of indigo disappears from his line of vision, until Tsuburaba slaps him in the back. “A man hopelessly in love,” the wide-eyed boy says with a silly grin. “Gotta admit, I never thought I’d see the day.”
What a preposterous thought to think about someone he’s dated only for so long! Monoma has definitely been with other men for far longer than the forty-nine days he’s spent with Shinsou, and he’s never considered himself ‘hopelessly in-love’ as Tsuburaba claims. He’s never reached a point in those relationships to imagine himself staying for very long.
Maybe that’s why none of them has been bestowed the honor of seeing Monoma dressed in their clothes. Or brushing their teeth reluctantly next to him on lazy mornings better spent in bed. Or watching Monoma argue with their cat to hell and back and wondering if he can copy an animal’s quirk.
Shit. So what now? Is he beginning to expect? Has he been unconsciously planning to stay with Shinsou for a long time?
No, that can’t be right. He may like Shinsou so very, very much but it doesn’t mean Monoma’s head-over-heels in-love with the guy. He doesn’t even know what that entails.
“Don’t fret, boss. It’s a good look on you,” Tsuburaba says with a laugh. “I wasn’t kidding when I said that he calms you down.”
“Are you insinuating that I'm no better than a rabid animal before I started seeing him?!”
“Your words, not mine.”
“Well I never!” Monoma declares with a scowl. This is the thanks he gets for not allowing Tsuburaba to die from a ruptured gut?! Why, he should have just left him on the floor and let Kaibara collect his body from the dumpster at the back if he is to be disrespected this way!
“We both know you’re too nice to do that,” Tsuburaba sing-songs as they walk in the cafe to prepare for the day. “But most especially now? All I’m saying is I’m happy for you, boss.”
“Are you now?” It’s way too early for sentimental hullabaloo like this and it’s weird that the rarely serious Tsuburaba Kosei would be the one to initiate.
“ Oui, maman, ” the part-timer says with a grin. “Komori thinks so too! Right?”
Komori pouts from behind an armful of baguettes. “You’re always late nowadays, maman, ” she grumbles, “but you’re mush happier than before, when all you did was drink wine and watch those French shows by yourself. Plus, for once you aren’t dating an obvious shiitake-head who would break your heart eventually.”
Was that all he really did before? And even if it’s true that his exes weren’t all great guys, but they weren’t that bad!
“Boss… they were all jerks,” Tsuburaba says in exasperation. “Didn’t you find it strange that all of them were eventually chased outta here by us? Kaibara especially?”
Monoma frowns. “I thought it was Kaibara who was being the jerk.” The overprotective photographer with his distinct snarl isn’t exactly known for his good temper, after all.
“Well… you’re not wrong. It’s a takes-one-to-know-one kinda thing. It’s a good sign that he hasn’t threatened to drag Dr. Shinsou to a back alley or something like that so far.”
The chef scoffs. “If Kaibara tries, tell him that he isn’t allowed to touch Hitoshi, and I’ll use his quirk to drill his brains out if I have to!”
“Ew! Maman, that’s gross!” Komori cries.
“And kinda sweet?” Tsuburaba adds with an uneasy laugh. “You got it so bad, boss ! Admit it!”
“No. You are being ridiculous,” Monoma says with a scowl. “Get back to work already before I fire you.”
Tsuburaba whines, but does as he’s told. Komori bounces back to her spot in the kitchen and prepares for their next batch. And Monoma, well, he tries his best not to dwell on the abnormal fuzzy feelings still lingering in his chest on Shinsou’s words. Things are going too well, aren’t they? Is it about time he stepped on the breaks?
Things like this weren’t meant to last, anyway.
*
One way or another, Hitoshi makes it to the ER and changes into his scrubs just as Eraserhead barks at him to help in treating a sidekick afflicted by a berserker quirk. Shinsou almost gets punched in the face among other things but he gets the guy under a trance for long enough so that Kirishima can give him sedatives and quirk suppressants. Aizawa grumbles at him for cutting it close again, but not after he makes sure he’s okay and right before two more thoroughly thrashed pros come hobbling through the triage and asking for help.
Hitoshi jumps in the chaos and treats one trauma patient after another. These days they get a lot of that due to an upsurge of villain activity that the hero associations haven’t been able to manage as well as they should. Can’t be helped, since the hero numbers are dwindling.
Lately vigilantes do more to help than the pros, although no-one would admit it. He and Shiozaki listen as another victim describes how he was almost kidnapped by a villain but was rescued at the last minute by a team of three: a man in black with a flame quirk, a younger girl who took some of the victim’s blood and acted like a decoy to confuse the villain, and an older man in an All Might hoodie who glided him to safety.
“That’s definitely the Crawler and his friends, right?” Tetsutetsu shouts through a mouthful of a nutribar. “Some of our patients said they helped ‘em out too! Man, those guys are cool!”
It’s late in the afternoon, a rare moment where they’re able to collect themselves and eat their cold neglected lunches together in the pantry. Finally, the trauma victims have stopped coming and everyone waiting in the ER is at least stable.
Shiozaki speedily crosses herself, having finished saying grace for her humble meal of flat bread and dried fish. “Good Samaritans that they are, they are still criminals. They must be careful and abide by the law, or else they shall be in trouble.”
“What?! But they’re helpin’ so many people--”
The vine-haired woman shakes her head. “My good friend Emily has been working hard with her colleague Yui in apprehending this vigilante group. It’s frightening what potentially bad things they can do with their quirks.”
Hitoshi frowns. That sort of reasoning isn’t wrong, given that the forthright Shiozaki is talking about criminals. Sadly, it isn’t new to him either, and the sting of the words hit him all the same.
Kirishima probably notices the change in his demeanor, because he turns to Shiozaki next. “I mean, sure, the fire dude and the vampire girl look like scary villains but it’s obvious their intentions are good. They’re helping the Crawler clean up the streets, right? It isn’t fair to judge people by their looks or quirks.”
“A tiny push is all it takes for anyone without virtue to become villains,” Shiozaki maintains. It’s obvious that no amount of arguing will change her mind. Tetsutetsu gives Kirishima a raise of the eyebrows; a tired look from Hitoshi stops the redhead from talking back any further.
Thankfully, no awkward silence occurs as they are called back on the floor when another wave of patients come in. Hitoshi and Kirishima jump to their feet and into the fray.
It’s a while before they get another silent moment, but when they do Kirishima claps him on the shoulder. “Hey Shinsou. You okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” he replies dully, face carefully neutral.
This obviously does not get him off the hook. “Come on. I’ve known you since high school. I know how that kinda talk bothers you.”
“Not really. We aren’t in high school anymore,” he huffs, turning away from the redhead. “Besides, Shiozaki-san doesn’t know anything about any of that, so just leave it alone.”
Things are different now than when they were in UA. People aren’t insulting him to his face for having a quirk fit for villains. At least, not as much--just a few judgmental patients who won’t consent to being brainwashed in the ER simply because they think it’s creepy. And if anyone had anything to say about his quirk, it’s usually behind his back now, in the form of idle gossip in the breakroom.
It sucks but that’s just the way it is. Some people just suck. Hitoshi has learned that keeping himself low-key and keeping a handful of understanding people around him is enough to get by.
One of the handful of course is Kirishima. For some reason the guy has stuck to his side since UA General Studies and has taken it upon himself to watch out for him. Hitoshi appreciates it but the way he hovers around making sure he’s okay, like he’s a dad or something? Sometimes it’s a little too much. Anyways, Hitoshi has an ample amount of father figures in his life: Dr. Aizawa, his ‘close friend’ and journalist Present Mic; Uncle Masaru; heck, even Kirishima’s dad also checks in on him on occasion. And this is apart from Hitoshi’s biological dad who constantly bugs him to come and visit Mom at least once a month.
Kirishima sighs. “Dude, I don’t like you keeping this bad shit to yourself, you know? You know you tend to do that. You gotta have someone special who can pry all those dark thoughts out of you.”
Hitoshi hesitates for a moment before mumbling, “Hm. Yeah, that ain’t a problem, I think.”
At this, the redhead raises his eyebrows. “Huh? Wait… you mean--”
He doesn’t answer, but it’s obvious that Kirishima won’t let the issue go now. Unfortunately Shiozaki’s managing the next patient who comes in and there’s nothing to stop the redhead from prodding him for more details. “Dude, seriously? You and Monoma are still a thing? I thought you were just having fun?”
“Uh.”
Kirishima gives him a shark-toothed grin. “Oh shit. Dude--”
Can he help it if things are going well with Neito? He didn’t expect to get this far. On the surface, he’s perfect for him -- blonde hair, a loud mouth, and intelligent eyes, a combination of traits he finds irresistible. He’s also exactly the type who can discard a guy like Shinsou without a second thought. It has happened lots of times before, enough that Shinsou probably wouldn’t flinch if Neito decides to do just that.
But weeks of bracing himself for that has passed, and all that has happened is him learning more about Neito and vice versa. Their connection somehow went beyond the fact that they suffered through the same shit because of their quirk, which is astounding for Hitoshi. Even more astounding than the witty banter, the great sex, and Mackerel trusting the guy instantly.
“I am not talking about this here, man,” he tells the excited redhead. They’re at work after all. And maybe Hitoshi’s afraid of jinxing things. Everything’s new, fast, daunting. He’s probably close to the point where it becomes too good to be true. He doesn’t want to think about it too much.
“Sure man, sure. I’m just, wow.” A thousand megawatt smile is on his face. “I’ve never seen you make a face like that. You got it bad, man.”
He forces a scowl and pulls his mask up and turns away from Kirishima. The other guy begins a spiel about how he finally doesn’t have to be the only married man in their group of friends, and just as Hitoshi is seriously considering brainwashing him to get him to shut up, Aizawa calls for his help again. With a sense of relief, Hitoshi gets back to work and doesn’t stop.
As work piles up, time passes them by without him being aware of it. Kirishima finishes his shift with Hitoshi still having many patients to see. There are a few quiet moments he can dedicate to microsleep, a few moments to send a few delirious messages to Neito to assure him that he’s still alive. Neito tells him that Mackerel’s fine too, and that he better not skip a meal or else he’ll ask Kendo to bombard him with nutribars. He wasn’t able to tell him that Kendo has already shoved two of them in his mouth earlier so he doesn’t need to worry.
In between power naps and answering calls, two shifts pass him by. It’s Shiozaki’s turn to stay the night but there are a couple of mass casualty calls that day, and Hitoshi can’t leave the ER in good conscience. By the time they wrap up the cases, it’s already the evening of the following day, leaving him dead on his feet. Shiozaki looks very close to tying him up in vines if it meant she can make him stop working. Obviously, in that sort of state, he is in no condition to go to Satou’s, or anywhere else but home.
When he gets there and collapses onto the mess of his unrolled futon, he manages to give his boyfriend a call.
“Oh,” Neito says, his voice obviously deflated even over the phone. “Well, if Ibara thinks she needs to perform the Anointing of the Sick for you, I don’t think you should force yourself to come here, Hitoshi.”
There’s people making noise behind him--voices, clinking glasses, music. Someone tells Neito that it’s his turn to drink. It would have been nice to be there when Neito inevitably gets wasted--red-faced, clingy, speaking a lot of fluent nonsense in French.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, Nei,” he says honestly. It isn’t everyday he’s actually sorry for not being in a crowded social event, but there you have it. “I know you were looking forward to this, so…”
The other man hums, the sound of it hollow. “Don’t be silly, it’s just my overrated rival for the past five years saying goodbye to everyone. I’ll deal with you abandoning me by drinking myself to oblivion.”
His voice is teasing, but Hitoshi is sure that he’s more disappointed than he sounds. It isn’t the first time they made plans that he had to cancel because of work. To his credit, Neito has tried to be understanding, but Hitoshi wonders when he’ll cross the threshold, when it will all become too much for the other man.
“I’m going to make it up to you,” he says, hoping that Neito isn’t sick of hearing it from him yet. “In my next off, let’s go somewhere you like, okay? I promise I won’t complain like last time.”
“Really? You won’t complain if I bring us to another quote-unquote pretentious boring French film festival?”
Hitoshi stretches over the futon, eyes fluttering closed. His mouth is so tired, he wonders if Neito is able to understand his slurs. “... well... I won’t be complaining if I’m sound asleep, aren’t I?”
“You’re horrible! I hate you! I should leave your uncultured ass!” Neito says in between chuckles.
Lightheaded, Hitoshi mindlessly replies, “Nah, you love me.”
He may be too exhausted to know his left from his right, but the pause that follows his statement rings loud and clear. As the words slowly sink in the silence between them, Hitoshi flinches. He strongly considers following up with a just kidding, but his mind is too jumbled to do anything sensible.
Neito clears his throat from the other side. “You’re in bed now, right Hitoshi? Get to sleep already, won’t you?”
“... okay,” he manages through a half-sigh.
“Okay,” the other man says, voice sounding markedly different. “Goodnight.”
The call ends, and Hitoshi is met by unbearable silence.
*
Hitoshi wakes up the next day disoriented in all ways. There’s sunlight flooding the room and Mackerel is staring at the birds outside the window, so it’s probably morning? Or noon, or the late afternoon. None of the cues he sees around the quiet room make sense.
He’s alone again and tired out of his mind. It’s a feeling he thought he can get used to without the usual loneliness accompanying it. It’s just a matter of mastering the art of solitude, something he can gain through practice.
Having Neito there on occasion threw a monkey wrench on all of that. Mornings without him shouldn’t feel this awful, but there you have it. There’s also the added bonus of the brief exchange the night before which makes him feel more pathetic than usual. How many comfortable relationships have gone awry with the mention of love does it make now? Why is he always the first one to say it anyway?
It’s a dark cloud hanging on his head, one that makes the freeze-dried instant coffee that Neito curses with all his being more bitter than it actually is. Hitoshi wonders if it’s worth it. If Neito thinks this is worth it. It hasn’t been a long time together, and it won’t be the first of many disappointments.
Maybe they should quit while they’re ahead.
At the first sip of bland coffee, Hitoshi clears his mind enough to make sense of his phone’s screen. The things on there somehow make him change his mind.
There are a flood of messages from Neito, most likely sent when he was drunk. He sent a lot of selfies with his face flushed and his smile progressively getting more and more elated. Most of it are solo shots, but there are others with his friends--he isn’t sure if Tsuburaba, Kaibara, and Awase are responsible for getting him drunker and drunker, but at least it’s obvious that Rin is trying his best to keep him standing. There are also a few shots of him either hugging people or goading them into a fight, and in the only shot he has with Satou he seems to be doing an interesting mixture of both.
The captions that came with the photos makes his face crack into a stupid smile. “ Tsubu and Awase are terrible people i should stop being friends with them” “rin is a bad father,he is awful he can never be my husband” “beautiful sen but he isnt u” “look at this little mushroom gremlin” “my orange chiffon cake is beatuful sero is banned 4ever” “yaoMOMOooo<<kendo amirite” “who tf is this rabid blonde bicth who isn’t me” “satou sux but i’mma miss him i guess”
“Hitoshi, do u miss me? Wish u were here”
He stares at Neito’s last drunken selfie taken in the bathroom mirror. A gentle smile, not very manic by his standards, paired with stormy grey eyes. It’s enough to send all sorts of conflicting unnamed feelings welling up in his chest.
No, don’t be ridiculous Hitoshi, he berates himself, pushing that thought down. He forces his eyes away from the shot and opens one last message.
It’s a simple one this time, just a shot of Neito taken hours later. He’s home, obviously inebriated but safe in his bed. His drowsy gaze is directed right at the camera, paired with a calm upturn of the mouth.
Tu avais raison, Hitoshi. Je ne te déteste pas du tout.
He doesn’t need Google translate for this one. The unnamed feelings assault all his senses with a vengeance, making the entire small world around him come to a halt, rose-coloured and real all at once.
Shit. I guess he’s worth it, huh, he concludes to himself.
One hand desperately rubs his face free of the stupid grin that finds its way there. When he’s sure of what to say next, he takes his phone and sends Neito his reply.