Chapter Text
Hitoshi is extremely sleep-deprived the next morning. He’d stayed up late reading through as much of the chat history between him and Ojiro as possible—he’d only managed to go back four months before he caved and fell asleep—and no matter how he looks at it, he and Ojiro were close. He called Ojiro by his given name, he made plans to meet up with Ojiro on a weekly basis, and there was just such a comfortable familiarity between them in every message they sent.
But it didn’t make sense, because all Hitoshi remembers about Ojiro is starting off on the wrong foot at the first year sports festival and then becoming polite but neutral classmates once he joined the class in second year.
Come to think of it, he doesn’t remember much of Ojiro after the first couple months of second year. He remembers snippets of him in training, glimpses of Denki petting his tail, and the bashful curve of his smile—but that’s it. That’s the full extent of what he remembers.
He spends the morning and his lunch time reading through more of the chat history, trying to figure out when this whole friendship started, and why it was abruptly cut off weeks before Hitoshi’s memories were locked away.
The weirdest part was that Hitoshi had apparently been on such close terms with Ojiro and none of his other close friends had mentioned it. Specifically, Denki and Shouto had never brought it up. Ojiro had never been mentioned as one of the friends he might’ve been close to—hell, going by the chat history, Hitoshi was much closer to Ojiro than he was with even Tsuyu and Fumikage. Then why hadn’t his friends brought it up? Why had they glossed over Ojiro like he was never important to Hitoshi?
On impulse, Hitoshi texts Tsuyu and Fumikage the same question: was I close friends with Ojiro?
Tsuyu answers almost immediately with a simple Yes. Fumikage takes a few minutes, but he also confirms that Hitoshi is on very good terms with Ojiro.
So Hitoshi being friends with Ojiro isn’t a secret.
Then why had his closest friends treated it like one? Did it have something to do with why Hitoshi and Ojiro stopped talking to each other so abruptly? Had they had some kind of violent falling out?
But why would they not even give him a heads up about that, either?
All the pondering in the world isn’t giving Hitoshi any new memories or answers, so he grits his teeth and grabs his jacket. Denki should be on patrol right now, and Hitoshi knows his patrol route. His best friend has some questions to answer.
-
“Denki.” Hitoshi is panting a little, because he had to jog to find Denki on his route, but he’s finally caught up.
“Hitoshi?” Denki looks startled to see him. “Is everything okay?”
It takes Hitoshi a few seconds to get his breath back. A few weeks off the job and his stamina is crashing hard. Aizawa would kick his ass if he knew. “I have a question.”
“Uh.” Denki raises his eyebrows. “And you couldn’t just ask it over the phone? I do carry it around, you know.”
“I know that.” But Hitoshi had wanted to ask this in person, because he had a feeling he needed to directly witness Denki’s full reaction to the question. “Denki, what are you hiding from me about my relationship with Ojiro?”
Denki freezes. Gotcha, Hitoshi thinks grimly.
“Um, well. I’m guessing you don’t remember much if you’re asking me that,” Denki says, because he’s never been a great liar. “How much do you remember?”
“Practically nothing,” Hitoshi growls, and Denki stares. “I checked my message logs and it seems like we were really good friends right up until the week of my birthday. Care to explain?”
Denki smacks a hand over his face. “I mean, you kinda had a fight with him? A bad one.”
“Over what?” Hitoshi asks, bewildered.
“Can this conversation wait?” Denki pleads. “I’d rather have this talk while Shouto’s here, and not while I’m on the clock.”
Hitoshi bites his lip. At the very least, it’s true that having this conversation in the open while Denki is literally supposed to be working is a bad idea. Hitoshi doesn’t want to get in the way of his friend having to stop any villains. “Fine.”
“Okay, um. I don’t know when Shouto gets off of work, so can you ask him? Tell him to come over to your place. I’m off the clock at seven, so I should be able to make it by seven-thirty.” Denki looks worried, like he thinks Hitoshi might be mad at him. “I promise we’ll explain.”
“I know.” As misleading as his best friends may have been, Hitoshi trusts that they wouldn’t hide information from him without a good reason. “Text me on your way to mine.”
Denki nods frantically. “Yeah, sure, catch you later.”
After he watches Denki walk away with his shoulders drooping a little, Hitoshi texts Shouto to ask him to come over to his apartment, at which Shouto replies that he’ll be there by eight o’clock at the latest.
With their evening gathering scheduled, Hitoshi checks the time. It’s still barely four in the afternoon.
He’s not sure if he has the patience to wait another three or so hours.
Hitoshi blames his poor decision-making on his sleep deprivation when he opens up Ojiro’s contact info and presses the call button.
-
It’s five in the afternoon when Ojiro comes through the cafe’s doors, his footsteps faltering as his eyes land on Hitoshi. He recovers quickly, though, then strolls up to the counter and orders iced tea off the menu. Hitoshi is already nursing a double-espresso shot latte and trying very hard to ignore the sirens blaring in his head, so he doesn’t fault Ojiro opting to wait for his drink rather than come straight over to his table.
Shit, maybe Hitoshi made a mistake. He’d been so tired of his brain going in circles that he’d impulsively called Ojiro and asked him what he was up to. Ojiro had apparently been surprised enough by the vehemence in Hitoshi’s tone that he’d let slip that it was his day off, and thus Hitoshi had told him to show up at a cafe two blocks away from Ojiro’s address.
So summoning Ojiro for a talk had been all good and well, but now that he’s looking at the guy, Hitoshi’s survival instincts are screaming at him to run. He has no clue why; all he knows is that if Ojiro gets any closer to him, Hitoshi’s going to get hurt.
And then Ojiro is dropping into the seat opposite of Hitoshi’s, cutting off any hopes that Hitoshi could make a last minute attempt to find a way out of this.
“Hey,” Ojiro says with a weak smile. “Long time no see.”
Hitoshi tries to greet him back like a sane human being, but he’s tired and confused and suddenly desperate to know why Ojiro scares the shit out of him, so instead he blurts, “Why did we stop talking?”
Ojiro goes very still. “Oh, I thought…so you don’t remember that part.”
“I don’t remember any part,” Hitoshi admits, because being sneaky and manipulative is his forte in the field but he doesn’t want to play mind games on Ojiro. Some fundamental part of Hitoshi feels ill at the very thought of trying to treat him like a target. “I barely remember being friends with you.”
He doesn’t miss the way Ojiro’s jaw tightens at the statement.
“But we were friends. Good ones. And then we stopped talking the week of my birthday.” Hitoshi watches Ojiro’s tail curl around him to rest on his lap, and something about the movement feels like a defense mechanism. It makes Hitoshi feel inexplicably upset, to be the one to bring that gesture out of him. “Did I do something wrong?”
“What?” Ojiro straightens up. “No, you didn’t. Things, uh. Happened. But it wasn’t your fault.”
Hitoshi has a gut feeling that it is his fault. “Are you sure about that?”
Ojiro gives him a piercing look. It’s familiar and it makes Hitoshi’s body ache all over. “Of all the things to blame yourself for, this would be the stupidest one, Hitoshi.”
There, Hitoshi thinks. There it is, the sting of pain that comes with Ojiro uttering his name. Bittersweet and sharp, like something that hurts to swallow down, like something Hitoshi could get drunk on anyway.
“Then what? I highly doubt it was your fault.” Hitoshi’s voice cracks a little, which makes both him and Ojiro wince. Hitoshi hurriedly takes a sip of his latte before continuing. “If you’re the one who messed up, you’d have been groveling ages ago.”
“Are you sure about that?” Ojiro asks dryly, and that’s the thing about him. He’s honorable and kind and honest, but there’s a hidden side to him that most people never get to see. Just a little mean, just a little wicked. It’s an unexpected part of Ojiro that Hitoshi finds hilarious and also a little charming, and he loves seeing it surface every time.
He loves—
-
He doesn’t even know how it starts; maybe it gradually happened over the months, maybe it was abrupt and all at once. All he knows is that he started looking and couldn’t look away.
-
They’re in the locker room, surrounded by inane chatter and pre-training excitement. Hitoshi glances across the room and sees a glimpse of a bare, muscled back, a strong tail swishing side to side as Ojiro Mashirao changes into his hero costume.
A hot flush goes through Hitoshi’s body and he looks away lightning-fast, wondering what the hell that was.
-
They spar and Hitoshi loses too often for his liking, but it’s hard to focus when dark eyes are so focused on him, when that tail curls right around him, when Hitoshi just wants to get closer, and then he’s thrown halfway across the gym.
Ojiro grins at him, all good cheer and healthy competitiveness that is ignorant of the way Hitoshi’s stupid, traitorous heart is begging for a redo.
-
In the dorm’s common room, half the class is gathered in preparation for midterms and Hitoshi glances sideways at a ducked, blond head immersed in physics equations, and Hitoshi’s gaze drops to the hand that’s holding a pen. Traces the shape of those knuckles with his gaze and feels the desire to press his mouth there.
-
At graduation, Hitoshi watches Ojiro’s smile widen and thinks that he won’t get to see this every day from now on. That he won’t get to see Ojiro Mashirao at breakfast which Hitoshi pretends to eat just to appease his friends, and he won’t get to say good night to this boy every night now.
Hitoshi won’t get to keep any of that, not anymore.
“We’re going to stay in touch, right?” Ojiro asks, hesitant and hopeful all at once.
“Obviously,” Hitoshi drawls, feigning lazy confidence in his commitment to this friendship. As if he could ever give Ojiro up. “We’ll both be in Tokyo, after all.”
They’d become friends first, long ago, once Hitoshi had worked his way into Ojiro’s good graces, had earned forgiveness that he’d never taken for granted. And now they’re friends and Hitoshi can’t bear to lose that. He wants Ojiro in any way he can have him, and if this is the safest way, he’ll take it gratefully.
-
He pushes the awful, ugly feelings down and makes an effort to carve out time for Ojiro, and Ojiro returns the efforts because he’s kind at heart. And also because he’s not as nice as everybody else thinks he is, and Hitoshi is one of the lucky few who knows it.
“Walk me home,” Hitoshi says, tipsy and teasing.
“I don’t know, maybe I should let you fall asleep on a bench and learn your lesson,” Ojiro says, the corner of his mouth twitching, a sign of a stifled smile that makes Hitoshi grin wider.
“You’re so heartless,” Hitoshi mock-whines, and Ojiro rolls his eyes.
Ojiro walks him home, bickering the entire way, and Hitoshi refrains from asking him to spend the night with him.
-
“Mashirao,” Hitoshi says experimentally, and his friend’s tail goes ramrod straight. Shit. “Sorry, I just—”
“It’s okay.” A strangled voice, a cough, and then a hesitant addition. “I mean, we have brunch every Saturday and sparring sessions on Mondays. You’re probably the closest friend I have after Tooru anyway. It makes sense.”
“Right, yeah.” They were literally messaging each other past midnight a few nights ago about their own self-doubts and fears. This is a natural step forward.
Mashirao clears his throat. “Yeah, so, Hitoshi, I need help picking out a new couch.”
“I can be flexible, you know that.” Hitoshi’s heart beats too fast at the sound of his name dripping from Mashirao’s tongue. “Tell me a day and I’ll be there.”
-
“This is Rin,” Mashirao says, and a sweet-faced, petite girl with her hair tied back into a loose bun smiles beside him. Hitoshi pretends the sight of her isn’t a knife through his heart.
“Nice to meet you,” Hitoshi says, extending a hand. Her skin is soft and her smile is kind. She’s nothing like Hitoshi at all. “Mashirao’s told me a lot about you.”
She laughs, and Hitoshi hates that he can’t hate her. “Yeah, he talks about you all the time, too!”
But not the way he talks about you, Hitoshi thinks. Not the way he cares about you.
-
So what if Ojiro sometimes goes to spend the night at her place or brings her over to his own home? Ojiro still makes time for Hitoshi. Maybe not as much as before, but weekly brunches are sacred and they still message each other every day. Hitoshi gets to keep Mashirao in the only way he knows how, and that’s good enough.
-
“Hi there,” Hitoshi purrs, and the man he’s sidled up to looks at him with fascination and desire. His eyes are too bright and he’s a little too tall, but he’s blond enough and smiles nicely enough, and he’ll do for a night. “Wanna come home with me?”
-
So they have a good thing going, and Hitoshi is fine with it, he really is. But then Hitoshi turns twenty-two and they have brunch and Mashirao says, “Rin brought up marriage, actually.”
Hitoshi freezes. “Marriage?”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” Mashirao admits with an awkward chuckle. Hitoshi barely manages to swallow his mouthful of food; his throat is too tight. “But Rin says she thinks she’d feel better if she had spousal rights and emergency contact stuff just in case, since I’m a pro hero and all. She worries a lot.”
“So you’re thinking of settling down?” Hitoshi asks, numb all the way down to his bones.
Mashirao flushes, and it’s usually a sight that delights Hitoshi, but for once it just makes him feel cold inside. Like his blood is turning to ice. “I mean, Bakugou and Kirishima got married, too. Tooru thinks it’s kinda early, but we’ve been dating for almost two years now…”
“Yeah, well, they’ve been dating since first year and they’re inseparable, so it was pretty much inevitable.” Hitoshi’s heart is in his throat, beating so loud that his teeth ache, his whole body thrumming with a restless energy that he doesn’t know what to do with. “You and Yamada, though. Do you wanna spend the rest of your life with her? Do you love her that much?”
“Isn’t that the point?” Mashirao asks with a wry smile. “Why else would I even be considering this if I didn’t love her?”
And it’s hardly the first time Mashirao has mentioned loving somebody else, but something about this feels so final, like the last nail in a coffin, and Hitoshi doesn’t know if he can survive being buried six feet deep.
“Right. Of course.” Hitoshi drops his gaze to his half-empty plate and tries to think of a single encouraging word. His words, his voice, his mind—they all fail him.
“What do you think?” Mashirao asks, sincere and curious and just a little nervous. “Should I go for it?”
“Don’t ask me that,” Hitoshi answers without thinking. He never does that, at least not since he went pro. Thoughtless words could be the death of him.
Mashirao’s fork comes down, clinking against his plate. “Why not?”
These words will be the death of him, Hitoshi is frightfully aware, but he can’t stop himself. “Because I’ll say no.”
There’s a beat of silence, and Hitoshi doesn’t dare look up.
“No…to me getting married?” Mashirao’s voice is gentle even in his confusion.
Hitoshi slides his hands off the table and tucks his hands into his lap. He doesn’t want to give away how badly they’re shaking. “Yeah.”
Unfortunately, Mashirao knows him too well and won’t let him hide. His tone sharpens. “Hitoshi, look at me.”
Hitoshi drags his gaze up, inch by agonizing inch, and meets Mashirao’s eyes.
“You don’t want me to get married to Rin?” Mashirao asks, leaning forward a little, trying to find the truth in Hitoshi’s expression. “Do you not like her? I thought you did.”
“I don’t,” Hitoshi chokes on his own words, “want you to get married to anybody.”
Mashirao blinks, his eyes going a little wide, as if he’s starting to get an idea but he’s not entirely sure if it’s the right one. “…Why?”
And because Hitoshi is an idiot who has spent the last four years slowly crumbling away under the weight of all the things he can’t say, he falls apart at that single word. “Because I’m in love with you.”
Mashirao stares at him.
“And look, if you want to get married, that’s fine, it’s your life, I can’t stop you.” Hitoshi rubs a hand over his face, feeling tired and defeated. Utterly helpless as all these things he’s held back over the years just force their way out of his mouth. “But don’t ask me for my blessing or anything, because I can’t give it to you. I can’t fucking be happy for you, not about this. I just can’t—fuck, I gotta go.”
“Hitoshi,” Mashirao says, sounding bewildered and dizzy, reaching a hand out to snag his sleeve as Hitoshi stands up, “wait.”
“If you apologize to me about this,” Hitoshi says, because he doesn’t think he can carry the weight of those words, because he knows they’ll break him harder than any other physical blow could, “I’ll never forgive you for it.”
Mashirao’s voice cracks. “Hitoshi.”
Then he goes still and blank-faced, because Hitoshi is a fucking coward and he doesn’t want to hear what Mashirao might say next. So he takes Mashirao’s free will away and says, “Sit here and don’t follow me.”
And then, without looking back, Hitoshi leaves.
-
“It was my fault,” Hitoshi realizes, his head throbbing from the onslaught of all these memories full of emotions that he’d been so ignorant of until now. “I brainwashed you.”
Mashirao’s tail twitches, but his facial expression doesn’t change. He’s become a lot better at maintaining a poker face since high school. “I’m not mad at you about that. I mean, it wasn’t a good move, but I get it. It’s not your fault for having feelings, Hitoshi.”
Part of Hitoshi feels relieved that Mashirao is willing to overlook this. A bigger, louder, wounded part of Hitoshi can’t help but bare its teeth at how easily Mashirao summarizes his heartsick years and bone-deep yearning so easily into a single word. As if mere feelings can encapsulate all the ways he wants Mashirao, from pressing him up against a wall for a kiss to hearing him utter Hitoshi’s name first thing in the morning. As if that word can express all the ways Mashirao breaks his goddamn heart.
“So what was the plan?” Hitoshi asks, even though he knows he’s a hypocrite. “Never talk to me again? Don’t invite me to the wedding and politely tolerate me at class reunions?”
“Hitoshi,” Mashirao hisses.
“Were you waiting for me to apologize? Is that why you didn’t contact me ever since then?” Hitoshi knows, rationally, that he can’t pin the blame entirely on Mashirao. It’s not like Hitoshi reached out to him, either.
But dammit, Mashirao wasn’t the one who had years’ worth of pining and ugly longings spill out of his gutted self that day.
“It’s not like that.” Mashirao sounds tired. “I just…I didn’t know what to do.”
“You came for me, when I got kidnapped and had my memories wiped.” Hitoshi’s voice doesn’t waver, but it’s a close call. “You came to save me. Then you came by the hospital, too. You didn’t say anything.”
Mashirao presses his lips together in a grim line, then exhales a long, weary sigh. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi, we’re great friends but we’re kinda not talking to each other after you just dropped the fact that you love me on my lap and ran off?’”
“Would’ve been a start, at least.” Hitoshi feels the need to lash out, the irrational, bloodied part of him demanding Mashirao acknowledge this entire mess between them, this widening chasm that Hitoshi has no idea how to close. This distance that could only be mended if Hitoshi could fucking get rid of these feelings. “What were you gonna do if I never remembered? Just fuck off from my life entirely?”
“Maybe it would’ve been the better thing to do,” Mashirao says, and Hitoshi feels his entire ribcage splinter, his heart scooped out and shattered against the ground.
His instincts were right. Mashirao does hurt him, deeply and irrevocably. He was right, and he should’ve stayed away.
“I just didn’t want to hurt you.” Mashirao looks lost and unsure, like he doesn’t know if he made the right choice.
“Congratulations,” Hitoshi sneers, because he always defaults to his ugliest and meanest when he feels like he’s losing, like he’s got nothing to lose. “You already did.”
And just like that, he gets up and leaves.
-
When Denki arrives first at Hitoshi’s place, Hitoshi is already halfway through a tub of ice cream and also a bottle of cheap vodka.
“Oh boy,” Denki says, and texts Shouto to bring alcohol and snacks. “I take it that you remember everything, now?”
Yes, Hitoshi does. Even the aftermath of that awful confession, where he’d gone home and cried on his best friends’ shoulders. Eventually Izuku had come over as well, with a six pack and a sympathetic hug.
“I talked to him,” Hitoshi admits, and fills Denki in on what happened just a couple hours earlier. “Like, I know I fucked up, but it’s not fair that he didn’t even try. Like he was gonna give up our entire friendship because I couldn’t keep my goddamn mouth shut.”
Shouto arrives midway through Hitoshi’s rant, his hands occupied with heavy plastic bags full of expensive bottles of liquor and a shit ton of chocolates and an assortment of Hitoshi’s favorite snacks.
“Maybe he was trying to be considerate?” Shouto hazards. “Give you some space.”
“For three whole fucking weeks? Without even a single text message?”
Denki clicks his tongue. “I mean, if it were anybody else, I’d call it the biggest dick move, but it’s Ojiro. He wouldn’t drop a friend that easily. Maybe he really needed to think things through.”
It’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed Hitoshi’s mind at all, but it still stings. He knows just how much Mashirao values the people in his life, and how straightforward he is. There’s no way he would’ve decided to practically ghost Hitoshi like this.
Maybe it would’ve been the better thing to do, Mashirao’s voice echoes in Hitoshi’s head, and it stabs Hitoshi straight through his ruined heart.
“It’s not fair,” Hitoshi whines, and buries his face in Shouto’s warm shoulder. Denki squeezes closer on his other side, a solid weight with a hint of static. Hitoshi knows they’ll never judge him for his shitty choices and his vulnerability, but it’s still so damn hard to say, “It’s not fair that I like him so damn much and it wasn’t even worth a fucking text message from him.”
“You deserved better,” Shouto says, calm and steady, like this is an immutable truth. Always on Hitoshi’s side even when he’s selfish and irrational.
Denki curls up, leaning his body weight against Hitoshi, and the pressure is a relief, a comfort that makes Hitoshi’s eyes water. “Look, if this friendship really matters as much to him as it does to you, he’s going to buckle the fuck up and get his shit together.”
“He gave up a spot in the sports festival finals for his stupid honor code,” Hitoshi mutters. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he gave me up, too.”
Shouto lets out a soft, thoughtful hum. “From what I’ve seen of him, you’re more important to him than his honor code.”
“He’s given up some things, sure,” Denki easily admits. “But he never gave up anything when it came to the people he cares about.”
What if Hitoshi lost the privilege of being somebody who Mashirao cares about, though?
“Stop making that sad face,” Denki orders, and shoves a glass of gin at him. “We’re gonna get wasted tonight. You can mope as much as you want, but only after you’re totally hammered.”
“Don’t you both have patrol tomorrow?” Hitoshi asks, taking the glass.
“No more thinking.” Shouto nudges the wasabi chips closer to Hitoshi. “Thinking can wait until tomorrow.”
Hitoshi sighs and downs the entire glass of gin. It goes down smooth and soothes the ache in his chest a little. “Yeah, let’s get fucking wasted.”
-
Hitoshi wakes up with a hell of a hangover, as does Denki. Shouto, who is inhuman and a godsend, is daisy fresh and all too ready to disperse painkillers and burgers bought from the nearby store. Denki recovers enough energy to go back home to change into his hero costume before heading out for patrol, while Shouto stays because he brought his own costume to Hitoshi’s place. His patrol is in the afternoon, so he gets ready with enough time to spare, and Hitoshi follows him to his agency just because his body demands fresh air.
And because the universe loves to torment Hitoshi, he sees Mashirao there at the front desk, talking to one of the sidekicks. Mashirao doesn’t seem to notice Hitoshi, which is fair, since Hitoshi has his hood up and he’s wearing sunglasses to keep the glare of light from aggravating his headache.
Using this private, one-sided moment, Hitoshi observes Mashirao from a safe distance. He seems very much the same as usual, but his tail is drooping ever so slightly, his smile is strained, and he overall looks downcast in a way that Hitoshi recognizes purely through all the years they’ve spent together. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mashirao ended up getting half the amount of sleep he usually gets.
Hitoshi wonders if he’s the reason for that forlorn mood, but he decides it’s none of his business. If Mashirao has a problem with Hitoshi, he can either keep on ignoring Hitoshi or actually initiate some kind of contact. Hitoshi left the ball and his entire heart in Mashirao’s court. He’s not going to be the one to make a move, this time.
-
Except, Hitoshi is kinda thinking that he might have to make a move after all.
He doesn’t see Mashirao much after that afternoon at the agency, but he does hear about him from the others in off-handed comments and hesitant reports. Apparently, Mashirao’s been in such a gloomy state that he’s been turning down everybody’s invitations for drinks or casual hangouts. In fact, he seems to be burying himself in work and actively avoiding everybody.
Most damningly of all; Hitoshi does run into Mashirao once, completely by coincidence while Mashirao is on patrol and Hitoshi is on his way to meet up with Jirou, and Mashirao literally turns and walks the other way, despite the fact that his patrol route is not that direction at all.
It’s interfering with Mashirao’s personal and professional life, at this point. Hitoshi might be mad at Mashirao for avoiding him so obviously, but he’s not enough of an asshole to let his friend self-sabotage himself this badly.
And thus, Hitoshi recruits the one person he can count on to make Mashirao come to his goddamn senses: Hagakure Tooru.
“Hagakure,” he greets at the minimally decorated table of a terrace cafe up in the northern edge of Tokyo. “It’s been a while.”
“It’s been forever, Shinsou!” Hagakure’s smile is an easy thing to hear. It makes Hitoshi helplessly smile back, even when he’s tired and miserable. “Gosh, maybe I should move closer to Tokyo after all. It’s so hard to see everybody.”
“I’m sure the others would be happy if you moved closer.” Hitoshi takes a seat and looks at Hagakure. She’s wearing a lacy off-shoulder top and a silver necklace that sparkles under the sunshine. Hagakure is always hard to read because of her invisible facial expressions, and Hitoshi can’t help but notice that her fashion choice of the day makes it notoriously harder for him to read how tense her posture might be as well.
Hagakure hums her agreement. “Yeah, especially Mashirao. I mean, it sucks when your best friend is a whole city away.”
“Yeah, I bet.” Hitoshi takes a sip of his lemonade. He’s already had two cups of coffee today to try get over his nerves, and he only allows himself a third cup when he’s working. “Actually, speaking of Mashirao, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Oh?” Going by the movement of Hagakure’s clothing, she’s placed her elbows on the table to lean closer. “What is it?”
“Did he…” Fuck. Hitoshi takes a shaky breath and forces the question out. “Did he tell you why he’s not talking to me anymore?”
There’s a long beat of silence, and then Hagakure leans back in her seat. “Well, he didn’t tell me at first, but after your whole amnesia deal, I figured out he wasn’t hanging out with you anymore. So I asked him, and he said you guys were working some issues out.”
Well, it’s not like he really expected Mashirao to go spill the beans about Hitoshi’s feelings to anybody else, best friend or not. He’s always been a firm believer in not telling other people’s secrets. “Yeah, we kinda hit a snag, I guess.”
“Is that why he’s been so weird lately?” Hagakure takes a sip of her mocha frappe. “Kyouka said he literally ran away from you guys the other day during his patrol. And Momo said he’s turned down tea time with her twice, and he only does that when he’s sick or stuff. I messaged Satou and asked if there was problems at work, and he says Mashirao’s setting a new agency record for finishing paperwork the past week.”
“I mean, maybe?” He hadn’t thought things would be this bad. “I’m not sure if that’s entirely my fault…”
Hagakure points her straw at him. “I mean, maybe it’s nothing to do with you. He broke up with Rin a while ago, so that might be the problem.”
Hitoshi chokes around his sip of lemonade. “He what.”
“Broke up with Yamada Rin!” Hagakure’s clothing movements suggests she’s waving an arm in the air. “Nine days ago, to be exact.”
Oh god, that’s literally the day Hitoshi got the rest of his memories back and walked out on Mashirao. What the hell does that mean? Did Hitoshi somehow guilt-trip Mashirao so badly he felt the need to break up with his girlfriend? “Uh, I didn’t know that.”
“Hmm.” Hagakure is silent for a moment. Then: “You wouldn’t have anything to do with that breakup, would you?”
Hitoshi tries to ignore the frisson of fear that skitters up his spine. He likes Hagakure, of course. She’s such a sweet and bubbly person, and she’s always treated Hitoshi warmly, even before he’d become proper friends with Mashirao.
But Hagakure also became problem child number six when she went after a mob boss who broke both of Mashirao’s arms, and she’d caused the man to drive off a bridge with a singleminded, reckless fury. Hitoshi knows that hurting Mashirao is the fastest way to get on Hagakure Tooru’s bad side, and he very much would like to stay on her good side.
“I told him I,” Hitoshi says, and stops. He tries again. “I’m in love with him.”
It takes a small eternity for Hagakure to break the silence. “Oh. I always wondered, I mean…you looked at him, sometimes. Like you were surprised that he was there.”
Like he couldn’t believe he’d been lucky enough to have Mashirao in his life. Hitoshi knows what she’s talking about. He’d always been careful to not show it in front of anybody else, but Hitoshi was a fool for thinking he could outdo an invisible person in hiding anything.
“Yeah, so.” Hitoshi stares at the ice melting away in his drink. “Maybe it was my fault.”
Hagakure’s response is immediate. “No it’s not. Telling somebody you love them isn’t ever your fault. Mashirao’s reaction is his own responsibility.”
Hitoshi sighs. “It’s just—I don’t want him to ruin his life because of me.”
“Still, that means something, right?” Hagakure’s voice is kind when she reaches over to pat a hand over his. “He cares about you enough to act this stupid. It means something, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Hitoshi admits in a small voice. “But I want it to.”
Her hand is smaller than his own, but it’s strong when it squeezes in encouragement. “Alright. Let’s make a plan, then.”
“A plan?”
“Yeah!” Hagakure squeezes his hand once more and lets go. “He needs to stop sabotaging himself. Even though I don’t think the breakup counts as sabotage. I never liked Rin that much anyway.”
Hitoshi blinks, stunned. “You didn’t?”
“Nope.” Hagakure giggles. “I mean, she was a great person, but she was too nice for him. He needs somebody with a bit of a mean streak, you know?”
Hitoshi doesn’t dare guess what kind of person Mashirao wants. What kind of person he needs. But he desperately wants to believe in Hagakure’s words, so he nods and hopes like hell she’s right.
-
The plan is simple: Hagakure drags a half-heartedly protesting Mashirao to karaoke after dinner, and Hitoshi joins them five minutes later.
“Tooru,” Mashirao hisses in a betrayed tone.
“It’s time for you to talk it out!” She says brightly, patting Hitoshi in encouragement as she leaves and closes the door behind her, leaving Hitoshi and Mashirao awkwardly standing in a small karaoke room, the machine playing a random, upbeat pop song that Hagakure left on.
“Look, I know I’m the one who walked away,” Hitoshi says, “but you’re clearly not doing great and I think that’s kinda on me. So tell me what to do and I’ll try to fix it.”
Mashirao shoots him an incredulous look. “There’s nothing wrong for you to fix.”
“Satou said you almost got decapitated by a villain yesterday because you were distracted. Now stop pretending everything is fine and just talk to me.” Hitoshi crosses his arms, planting himself between Mashirao and the door so that he can’t run away. Obviously, Mashirao could easily beat him in a fight and walk out, but Hitoshi is willing to play dirty. “Please.”
“This isn’t,” Mashirao starts, then stops. He looks down at the floor. “You don’t have to fix anything.”
“Really?” Hitoshi raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “You broke up with Yamada.”
Mashirao looks up with a wry smile. “Tooru told you, huh?”
“Yes, and I wanna know why.” Hitoshi’s heart keeps climbing up his throat and he has to swallow it down, over and over. He’s good at it; he’s spent years perfecting the art of keeping his hopes down. “Mashirao, just talk to me.”
“I don’t know, okay?” Mashirao blurts, and Hitoshi goes very still at the desperate, lost look on his friend’s face. “After you told me, I kept thinking about it, and I had no idea what to do. I didn’t want to stop being your friend, but I thought that maybe being your friend was hurting you. I was worried you’d be better off without me, and I just—I was scared.”
Hitoshi has only heard Mashirao admit that he’s scared aloud only once: when Mashirao had quietly admitted, once upon a quiet midnight, that he’d been terrified when Hitoshi was found bleeding out on Bakugou’s back. Mashirao doesn’t get scared easily, and to think that losing Hitoshi as a friend ranks somewhere up there with losing Hitoshi entirely in Mashirao’s mind is both ridiculous and breathtaking.
“So you were scared,” Hitosh murmurs, “that you were hurting me. But you still came to rescue me anyway.”
Mashirao laughs, and it cracks and crumbles. It makes Hitoshi’s heart squeeze in his chest. “Of course I did. And then you got your memories wiped and you didn’t recognize me at all, and that hurt a lot more than I bargained for. The thought that you could have a life without me, it just…I hated it, and I never thought I could be this selfish, you know?”
Hitoshi holds his breath at the sound of self-deprecating laughter and the sight of a wounded expression.
“I never thought I would want to keep somebody in my life even if it meant hurting them, and I hated myself for it, so I couldn’t face you. I was a coward and then when you called me out to that cafe, I hoped you hated me. Because I sure did.” Mashirao rubs both hands over his face, his voice breaking at the edges, and Hitoshi’s whole body aches with the desire to step closer and pull Mashirao into his arms. “And when you remembered, and I saw that you still felt the same about me, I couldn’t shake the thought that maybe you were happier when you didn’t remember me.”
Hitoshi’s throat hurts. He’d forgotten, somehow, just how easily Mashirao would prioritize someone else’s well-being over his own. How he would’ve seen Hitoshi’s pain and thought removing himself from the equation would be better. Because Mashirao somehow still believed that he wasn’t important. “Don’t be stupid.”
This smile on Mashirao’s face twists, wry and sad. “You just looked so miserable the moment you remembered it all.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” Hitoshi says.
Mashirao shakes his head. “But I still hurt you, and I hated that. And then you walked away, and I hated that even more. I couldn’t stand losing you, even if you hated me.”
Hitoshi’s voice wavers when he says, “You loved Yamada.”
“Yeah, but you know what’s funny? I love you more.” Mashirao exhales a ragged breath. Hitoshi, on the other hand, can’t breathe at all. “Look, I don’t know if this is…the same thing as you feel. So I’m still trying to figure it out. I don’t want to half-ass anything with you, because you deserve the best and I’m not sure if I can be the best at anything but—”
“Holy shit,” Hitoshi finally says, coughing a little on his words as he remembers to breathe. “Mashirao, you fucking idiot. I don’t need the best or whatever.”
“Hitoshi,” Mashirao starts with that stubborn glint he gets in his eyes when he’s putting a stop to Hitoshi’s poor self-esteem issues, and Hitoshi wants to kiss that stupid look off his face.
He interrupts whatever the hell Mashirao is about to say with, “You singlehandedly carried my closet up the stairs when I moved into my new apartment.”
Mashirao blinks. “Um.”
“You literally made me a little vase as a home-warming gift,” Hitoshi continues. “You came over with porridge when I came down with the flu and you stayed til I got better. You’ve been teaching me close quarters combat since high school and I never said it before but I think you’re stupidly hot when you throw me across the gym.”
A shocked laugh escapes Mashirao’s mouth, and he touches his fingers to his lips as if he’s surprised by the sound of it.
“You have western-style brunch with me every Saturday even though you prefer Asian breakfasts. You always send me cat videos when I message you about feeling like shit. You were never mad at me about the first year sports festival even when it gave you nightmares, but you still bring it up as a joke just to make me squirm sometimes, because you’re secretly mean as hell. I hate your taste in music but I love the way you listen to my Spotify playlists just so you can tease me about them. Everybody thinks you’re the normal, boring one, but you can pull wicked moves on a skateboard and old ladies find you charming and I can’t believe nobody’s caught on to the fact that you’re the one who pulled the live chicken prank on Bakugou during last year’s annual Class A prank war.”
“Technically, Tooru and I did that one together,” Mashirao says in a dazed tone. “Hitoshi, what the hell?”
“You’re the one who told me that I don’t have to fight everything good that comes my way, and you’re right, I’m tired of doing that.” Hitoshi takes a step forward and it’s a wonder that the earth doesn’t shatter underneath his feet. “Mashirao, I already know you never do anything half-assed, and I don’t care whether you’re the best or worst or whatever.”
When he takes another step, Mashirao doesn’t move forward, but he doesn’t back away either. Even when Hitoshi takes one more step so that there’s only a scant few inches between them, Mashirao doesn’t run away from him. Ojiro Mashirao might have nothing but a tail to his name, but he’s braver than anybody would expect of him, so he simply squares his shoulders and meets Hitoshi’s eyes with newfound determination.
“I just want you,” Hitoshi murmurs, brushing his fingertips against a flushed cheek, and he watches Mashirao’s pupils dilate a little.
Mashirao arches an eyebrow, that wicked, rare smile curling across his mouth even as he blushes a deep red. “Yeah? Then maybe show me how much you do.”
“And people think you’re the modest one,” Hitoshi grumbles against Mashirao’s mouth, and kisses him.
Mashirao inhales, sharp and brief, his hands coming up to brace against Hitoshi as he tilts his head up. Then his tail curls around Hitoshi’s waist, pulling him in closer with a bruising grip, and that should not be as much of a turn-on as it is, but Hitoshi is very much into it. He slides his hand up Mashirao’s back until he reaches his nape, and places the other hand on his lower back, right above the tail, using his superior height to force Mashirao into leaning back a little.
When they break apart, Mashirao tugs on Hitoshi’s shirt and says, “I’m not sure if my feelings are as strong as yours yet.”
“That’s okay,” Hitoshi murmurs, kissing the corner of Mashirao’s mouth.
“But I’m gonna get there,” Mashirao says, and Hitoshi believes him. Mashirao has never made a promise he couldn’t keep. “I just need some more time.”
Hitoshi presses his forehead against Mashirao’s and lets the words sink in. He inhales shakily. Can’t help but smile. He’s good at waiting. He can wait. “Take all the time you want. I’m not going anywhere.”
-
The Class A reunion is a loud, rowdy affair, which surprises absolutely nobody. What does surprise everybody, however, is the fact that Hitoshi is the source of the class’s wild chattering when he slings an around around Mashirao’s shoulders and presses a quick kiss to his temple. Then he casually says, “Yeah, we’re dating now.”
Mashirao turns a gorgeous shade of red that reaches down the collar of his shirt. Hitoshi knows firsthand how deep that blush goes, and he’s very smug about it. “Hitoshi, I thought we agreed that you’d warn me before initiating any PDA.”
“This entire class is a hazard warning,” Hitoshi deadpans, and Izuku snorts his drink up his nose from how hard he starts laughing.
“He’s not wrong,” Shouto says, and Tsuyu giggles with a nod.
Aizawa, who had came over to the reunion because Hitoshi had bribed Eri into begging Aizawa into bringing her, just looks at Mashirao for a long time, then says, “I trust that you know what you signed up for.”
“Rude,” Hitoshi says, but he’s grinning. It helps that Mashirao’s tail has curled its way around his waist, the fluffy end of it tickling Hitoshi’s fingertips.
Fumikage rolls his eyes but offers Hitoshi a new drink. “Congratulations to you both.”
Eri beams. “Are you happy?”
“Yeah,” Mashirao answers, his smile softening as he high fives her. “I am.”
Aizawa meets Hitoshi’s eyes, and the same question is there, so Hitoshi smirks and nods. “Yeah, I am.”
“Okay, everybody, now that we’ve welcomed back our favorite underground hero—sorry sensei, you’ve been dethroned, but you’ll always be our favorite teacher—and we’ve got a new contender for power couple of the year, let’s get this party started!” Denki whoops and the rest of the class breaks out into applause and laughter—and in Bakugou’s case, mild insults.
As everybody resumes conversations, Denki bounds over and squeezes in to stand by Hitoshi’s free side. He elbows Hitoshi with a sly grin.
“You good?” He asks.
Hitoshi looks around him, at his friends and his teacher and the person he loves tucked against his side, and he thinks that he can have this. He doesn’t need to fight it.
He looks at Denki and smiles. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Denki laughs in delight, then turns to talk to Sero about something. In the meantime, Uraraka demands Hitoshi’s attention, so he turns to listen to her. At some point, Mashirao turns to muffle his laughter into Hitoshi’s shoulder at something Jirou said, and Kirishima loudly calls for a toast.
It’s relentless and overwhelming and the happiest Hitoshi’s been in a long time, so he pays attention to every detail of the night. He memorizes all of them: the laughter, the stories, the way Mashirao slides his hand into Hitoshi’s even as they talk to different people.
Hitoshi doesn’t want to forget even a single moment of it.