Work Text:
“Huh,” Hitoshi says.
“Mmm? Is something wrong?” Fumikage asks.
They’re in the shade of a maple tree, Fumikage sitting between Hitoshi’s legs. He’s leaning gently against Hitochi’s chest in a move that feels oddly intimate.
Hitoshi’s definitely not used to this, but it’s not exactly unpleasant either.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be this… soft?” he mumbles.
His fingers sink into the long thin feathers on his boyfriend’s head, gently combing through them to the sound of Tokoyami’s contented sigh.
“It’s almost like fur,” Hitoshi continues, the tips of his fingers grazing Fumikage’s scalp. “Do you like this?”
“Mmmhmmm,” Fumikage hums, moving his head to the side a little to give Hitoshi easier access.
It reminds him of a cat wanting to be pet.
“Are you going to start purring soon?” Hitoshi asks with an amused smile.
“If you move your fingers down and to the back a little, I just might,” Fumikage whispers.
Hitoshi snorts, but he does scratch the back of Fumikage’s neck and he’s delighted at the helpless little whimper he lets out. It’s not a purr, but it’s good enough.
“Man, you’re really enjoying this,” he chuckles. “How lame.”
“Feathers are itchy sometimes,” Fumikage mutters and Hitoshi leans forward, pushing his nose into the fluff on his boyfriend’s head.
It smells nice, like it’s trying to convey the essence of Fumikage through scent. A little musky, with hints of lavender scented shampoo and a whiff of coconut from the oil he uses to keep his face groomed. There’s a little incense in there, too, just faint enough for it to be a secret to any who aren’t close to him.
Fumikage’s entire room smells of the little sticks and very few people know this, because he'd never admit to burning them.
But Hitoshi knows.
He places a soft kiss on the top of his boyfriend’s head and wraps his arms around his shoulders.
They sit like this, watching Bakugou and Kirishima and a bunch of their classmates make a valiant attempt at playing lawn croquet.
Judging by the shouting and the explosions, it’s not going too well.
Class A really is ridiculous, Hitoshi thinks. But he has to admit that, on second glance, some of them are ok.
In his arms, Fumikage is quiet, leaning against him comfortably. Hitoshi is happy to let him snooze, blinking lazily at the game, which is now starting to attract a small crowd of onlookers.
He thinks Fumikage may have actually fallen asleep, when he suddenly lifts up his head and opens one eye.
“Does it bother you?,” he asks, and Hitoshi blinks. “That we can’t make out. You know… properly.”
Hitoshi just scoffs. “What do you take me for?”
It’s hard to put into words how close he feels when they’re like this, when the boy’s warmth radiates into Hitoshi’s skin. When he can listen to the calm breaths and soft rumbles of Fumikage’s breath, can almost feel the slow, steady beat of his heart. He’s not about to throw that away for the ability to tongue-wrestle.
But he doesn’t know how to say that, so he takes Fumikage’s hand, slots their fingers together and rubs his thumb over the boy's palm. It’s a soothing motion, a silent plea for understanding and it seems to do the trick.
Fumikage relaxes again, passively lays his hand in Hitoshi and lets his eyes flutter closed.
His palm is warm and dry, with hardened skin on the pads, no doubt from prolonged hero training. Aizawa-sensei doesn’t exactly go easy on his class, Hitoshi thinks, as he absent-mindedly traces circles over skin.
“Ok, my turn,” he says, working up the courage to breach the subject that’s been sitting in the back of his mind since the first time Fumikage came up to him. When he was still Tokoyami, from Class A. The Douchebag Class.
“Doesn’t it bother you?,” Hitoshi says quietly. “Most people seem to think I’ll go and brainwash them at a moment’s notice.”
He whispers it, almost, as if calling too much attention to it will shatter this moment, will suddenly open Fumikage’s eyes to reality and make him bolt.
“Hitoshi,” Fumikage says in that deep, soft voice of his, and Hitoshi loves how it sounds when he says that. He drops most of the ‘hi’, so that the syllables almost become ‘toshi’, a whisper floating on the breeze.
“Hitoshi,” he says, “I am host to a dark presence. I have some experience with first impressions being wrong. I trust you.”
“Mmm,” Hitoshi says, looking away, out over the field.
There’s a large black patch on the grass and Iida is wildly gesticulating at an angry Bakugou while Kaminari rolls on the floor laughing.
Hitochi tries not to, but he sighs.
And his boyfriend notices. Even with his eyes closed, even with the noise of some electric storm going off across the field, Fumikage notices.
He leans forward and turns until he’s sitting on his knees between Hitoshi’s legs.
“Hitoshi,” he says, and it sounds like wind rustling in the leaves.
He puts both hands on Hitoshi’s cheeks, bringing their foreheads together.
“I trust you,” he says again.
He rubs his head against Hitoshi’s forehead, and Hitoshi laughs, closing heavy lidded eyes before pulling the boy closer, his cheek brushing against soft feathers.
He could get used to this.