Work Text:
When Aizawa Shouta slumps into the narrow confines of his newly assigned plane seat with a thirty-minute delay, he can’t help but wonder if this day could possibly get any worse. He and Nemuri had spent the past week taking their senior years on a school trip to Fukuoka, giving the students a final chance to make some shared memories before many of them will inevitably go their separate ways. The whole affair had gone relatively well if he overlooked how strenuous it had been to keep in check a horde of energetic teenagers around the clock for a total of seven days.
That, and the fact that he had nearly lost two students at Fukuoka Airport at this ungodly hour in the morning. While Shouta had been busy forcing himself to look somewhat awake and attentive throughout his conversation with the personnel at the check-in desk, nodding at both their explanations and apologies about the unfortunate necessity of some last-minute changes to his booking, Midoriya and Todoroki had somehow managed to slip out of sight. As it turned out later, Nemuri caught them lurking behind an arrangement of potted plants, apparently watching some sort of celebrity enter the building, Midoriya’s notepad out and ready to be signed.
Shouta takes a moment to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose in agitation, willing away his exhaustion as well as what he’s sure are the first signs of a budding migraine. On top of this, the restlessness of the past few nights has drained him of the energy required to conceal that the prospect of their imminent take-off fills him with nothing but dreadful anticipation. The one person who knows about his little issue is Nemuri.
To Shouta’s dismay, Nemuri is seated several rows in front of him, currently engaged in an animated conversation with Yaoyorozu Momo. For reasons that he, in all honestly, can’t recall in their entirety, the airline had been forced to adjust the economy class seating arrangements, resulting in Shouta’s seclusion from both his colleague and students. Nemuri certainly wouldn’t let him live it down if she ever caught wind of the extent to which her absence is making his flight anxiety skyrocket.
Before Shouta gets the chance to further obsess over the alarming amount of things that could go wrong during this two hour journey, a heavy thud, accompanied by the feeling of a body pressing into his side, abruptly brings him back down to reality. Warily side-eyeing the stranger, who had just plopped down in the seat adjoined to his own, he catches a glimpse of golden hair shimmering in the dim glow of the overhead lights as well as a flash of bright green eyes. The man isn’t only unabashedly invading his space but also most definitely staring at him.
Not bothering to hide the annoyance in his eyes, Shouta decides to stare back. Usually, people are quick to back off when faced with his blatant gloominess and general disinterest but it seems to simply roll off the stranger’s shoulders, who meets him with the widest smile that has ever been directed at Shouta, all teeth and crinkles around the corners of his eyes.
Shouta can’t tell what catches him off-guard more, the man’s carefree attitude or his outrageously handsome looks. His blond hair is falling over his broad shoulders in smooth, waist-long strands, framing high cheekbones and a sharp jawline, his shirt is tightly hugging what appears to be a well-toned chest and stomach in all the right places and his long legs are crammed awkwardly into the small space between the stranger’s seat and the backrest of the passenger in front of him. Unlike Shouta’s own untended stubble, he seems to keep his facial hair neatly trimmed. However, it’s the stranger’s warm eyes, a rare shade of green, that strike Shouta as the most staggering part of his appearance.
Not that any of this makes up for the invasiveness of his entrance.
“Hi, nice to meet you! Looks like we’ll be stuck together for the next two hours, yeah?” the stranger attempts to initiate a conversation. “I’m Yamada Hizashi, by the way!”
Yamada holds out his hand with enthusiasm.
Shouta all but glances down at it with a blank expression on his face before turning away to lean his head against the small window to his left and block out the world around him.
—
Regrettably, his moment of peace turns out to be short-lived. Barely fifteen minutes later he’s startled awake from his light dozing by the feeling of the plane’s engines roaring to life somewhere beneath him. The sound makes every muscle in his body constrict with tension and he uncomfortably shuffles around in his seat, readjusting his slouched position, back going ramrod straight as his fingers are violently digging into the armrests.
In his utter misery, Shouta had almost forgotten about Yamada, who appears to be deeply immersed in whatever he’s listening to on his phone, a large pair of headphones covering his ears, foot tapping along to the rhythm of some unknown melody. Now that he’s become aware of it, the soft, repetitive noise is driving Shouta to the edge of insanity.
When the plane finally sets itself in motion, rapidly gaining speed on the tarmac, Shouta finds himself being pressed into his seat, feels his stomach lurch in horror at the sensation of the ground falling away from under his feet. Still too prideful to allow anyone a glimpse at his inner turmoil, he channels what little energy he has at this moment to keep his face schooled into a bored expression.
Yamada, unfortunately, doesn’t appear to be deceived so easily.
To Shouta’s complete bafflement, long, slender fingers graze over his wrist where the sleeve of his black, worn out sweater had risen up to expose a small sliver of pale skin. The touch is so light it’s barely there, yet Shouta feels his skin burn where they’re making contact.
“It’s a bit unsettling, isn’t it?” Yamada comments and surprisingly, Shouta can’t detect any hint of mockery in the man’s voice.
“I fly a lot but I don’t think I’ll ever get quite used to it.”
Even though Shouta doesn’t say anything in return, Yamada smiles at him, that open, radiating smile of his and Shouta’s heart involuntary skips a beat.
“It’s gonna be okay, though. Just try not to think about it and focus on something else. Like this,” Yamada rambles on, as it seems without ever stopping to breathe, and all but leans across Shouta’s lap towards the window, pointing down to where the glimmering lights of the city are slowly shrinking into the distance.
“It’s so pretty!”
“Yeah …” Shouta drawls while internally wrestling down the incriminating thought that he won’t need to look that far if he’s interested in a pretty view. Not that he is, in any way.
He doesn’t really know what to do with his hands, just sits there a little awkwardly with Yamada basically half draped over him, his body heat seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. Despite the fact that Yamada is clearly more than a bit too much in Shouta’s book, he can’t deny that his presence is strangely soothing, his boldness helping to distract Shouta from his discomfort. He hadn’t thought about the inevitability of crashing to his certain death ever since the stranger had touched his arm and started chattering away at him.
As he glances over the top of Yamada’s head and down row upon row of headrests ahead of him, his gaze meets Nemuri’s, who has turned around in her seat, presumably to check if he’s alright. Shouta can’t say that he likes the suggestive gleam in her eyes, darting between himself and the handsome stranger next to him. With a small huff he gestures her to mind her own business, rolling his eyes for good measure.
“You alright?” Yamada asks, pulling back a little, expression mildly concerned. Shouta does not allow himself to be disappointed at the loss of Yamada’s weight resting against his body. Instead he simply nods and decides to fumble for his bag, which is currently tucked away safely underneath his seat.
Unsurprisingly, it takes less than a minute for Yamada to speak up again.
“Do you want to listen to music?”
The unconcealed enthusiasm in his voice almost makes Shouta feel guilty about the blatant honesty of his response.
“I don’t really care much about music. Besides, there’s some grading that needs to get done,” Shouta deadpans.
“Oh, come on, seriously?” Yamada whines dramatically, as if Shouta’s statement was some sort of personal offence, but quickly switches from exasperation to a more serious, genuinely curious tone. “What do you mean, grading?”
Letting out a half-hearted sigh, Shouta gives in.
“I’m a teacher,” he explains, “High School. These kids over there, they’re my seniors.”
“Class trip, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He places a folder of neatly organized papers on the tiny tray table at his disposal, the one on top covered in an excessive amount of red ink.
Shouta winces internally before the other man even gets the chance to open his mouth.
“Wow, so you’re a strict one …”, Yamada teases, sending Shouta’s mind into overdrive as he’s struggling to figure out whether he’s imagining it, merely projecting his own desires onto the situation, or if Yamada is, in fact, trying to flirt with him. He shrugs, eyes downcast, stubbornly forcing himself to focus on his work.
Half a page later, his curiosity gets the better of him.
“So, what do you do?”
Yamada’s face splits into a victorious grin.
“I’m a dancer and choreographer, only just got back from a tour. Nothing too impressive, I suppose.”
Taking the time to let his eyes trail over Yamada’s body once more in what Shouta sure hopes is a subtle fashion, he can’t help thinking that it makes sense. Neither Yamada’s shirt nor his ripped jeans that are stretching tightly over his muscular thighs leave much of his sculpted body to the imagination and Shouta’s throat runs dry when his mind drifts to uncalled for fantasies of Yamada sensually rolling his hips and tossing his hair back over his shoulder as he’s getting lost in the music.
He’s fucked. Totally fucked.
“That’s not true,” Shouta replies more calmly than he feels, hand clenching around his pen. Yamada meets him with a pensive stare, a shadow of uncertainty crossing over his face.
“Would you … no.”
“What?” Shouta prods, tilting his head ever so slightly.
“Would you like to see? I have some videos from practice on my phone, in case you’re interested.”
This is a terrible, terrible idea, yet Shouta finds himself unable to decline. Papers abandoned, he attempts to convince himself that he’s doing this out of politeness, not because he doesn’t want Yamada’s hopeful, glowing smile to turn into a disappointed frown, let alone because he has actually, tentatively begun to care.
Yamada, again, carelessly leans over into his personal space, their shoulders bumping together as he holds his phone between the two of them so they both have a good view of the screen. A few taps later, Yamada has pulled up the video of his choice. It shows him in his training outfit, laughing at the camera before getting in position and waiting for the music to start.
Meanwhile, Shouta’s having severe trouble deciding whether to keep his eyes on Yamada’s ass — those skintight pants are complimenting his backside so perfectly that Shouta is positive they must have been created for the sole purpose of making him lose his mind — or the look on his face that can only be described as sinful, all parted lips and bedroom eyes.
“And? What do you think?” Yamada asks cheerfully but his constant fidgeting betrays his nervousness and brings out Shouta’s first, small smile of the day. It’s barely even there but makes Yamada’s face light up nonetheless.
“I …” Shouta mumbles, “It was good. So much for ‘nothing too impressive’.”
This is the closest that Shouta is willing to get to admitting that he has, in fact, been thoroughly impressed. To his relief it seems to be good enough for Yamada, who gazes up at him from where his chin has come to rest on Shouta’s shoulder, golden hair tumbling down the front of Shouta’s black sweater in a stark contrast.
When the hell had Yamada gotten this close?
Shouta will most likely never learn the answer to that question because Yamada proceeds to distracting him with his own.
“Do you dance?”
“Do I look like it?”, Shouta counters with a snort.
After a brief moment of hesitation, Yamada says: “You look like someone, who I’d gladly allow to step on my feet if that was the price.”
Too mesmerized by bright green eyes, the way Yamada nervously bites down on his bottom lip and his own thundering heartbeat, Shouta doesn’t notice Nemuri suddenly looming above them in the narrow space between the left and centre aisle of the plane.
“Sorry to interrupt you two,” she finally announces herself. If the sly smile playing on her lips is anything to go by, Shouta is in for the most humiliating of interrogations once they set foot off this plane.
“I was just going to check up on Aizawa here. He doesn’t like to show it but he tends to get a little overwhelmed.”
Shouta fights the urge to snap at her for barging in like this, disrupting whatever it was that had been about to happen between him and Yamada. Sparing his best friend a withering glance, the words get lost radiating from his entire posture, he continues their conversation in silence. The last thing he’s in the mood for at this point is Nemuri making another embarrassing comment and after having known each other for half of their lives they understand each other just fine, no words needed.
He feels Yamada’s gaze on them as he watches their quiet dispute and something about the way his smile slowly falters doesn’t sit right with Shouta. The fact that Yamada remains curiously silent, hiding under his headphones, avoiding eye-contact at all costs and acting like he hadn’t just made a pretty obvious move on Shouta, affirms Shouta’s growing suspicion that something is distinctly off. His stomach sinks a little and this time it isn’t because of the fact that they’re 35.000 feet above ground.
Biding his time until Yamada disappears to the bathroom, Shouta reaches over and snatches the other man’s headphones from his tray table, carefully balancing them on his knees as to not accidentally drop them. Under closer inspection they look quite professional, probably expensive. He feels a little bad, resorting to such methods, but Yamada hasn’t really given him any more opportunities to speak to him since the incident with Nemuri.
Shouta doesn’t remember the last time that he’d bothered putting an effort into talking to anyone like this. Yamada’s boldness and, measured by Shouta’s standard’s, overly enthusiastic personality, his lack of filter or respect for personal space would be off-putting in anyone else but, against all odds, in Yamada he finds it kind of charming. Somewhere deep down he has a feeling that if he was to leave this plane without at least having tried to resolve this awkward situation between them, he wouldn’t forgive himself.
“Show me more of the music that you dance to”, Shouta all but blurts out the moment that Yamada re-emerges in the aisle, not giving him the opportunity to demand he hand back his headphones.
A slight frown forms on Yamada’s forehead, who glances at him warily, green eyes searching Shouta’s face for something that Shouta can’t quite put a finger on.
“I thought you didn’t care about music.”
I think I might care about you, Shouta thinks in frustration, willing Yamada to somehow understand.
“Well, now I do.”, he retorts flatly, instead.
Jesus, he’s bad at this.
Shouta doesn’t blame Yamada for not looking entirely convinced when he pries the pair of headphones out of his fingers and gently places them over Shouta’s ears, soft fingertips touching his temples and making his skin prickle with warmth in their wake. Their eyes meet for the split of a second and Shouta realizes that he’s been holding his breath.
Wordlessly, Yamada fiddles with his phone while toeing off his shoes. He shifts around until he faces Shouta, drawing his knees up against his chest, socked feet on his seat, head resting against the small pillow attached to the headrest. Finally, an unfamiliar dance track starts playing. It doesn’t sound too bad, which, coming from Shouta, can almost be counted as a compliment. Nonetheless, he racks his brain for a more appropriate response. If only he didn’t have such trouble concentrating with Yamada sitting across from him, absentmindedly toying with a loose strand of silky hair.
“This is better than most of what I’ve heard so far,” Shouta concedes after having listened through the first few songs on Yamada’s playlist. This earns him an amused chuckle from Yamada.
“Well, I’d hope so.”
For a while neither of them says anything. Yamada busies himself with tapping away on his phone, doing god knows what, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. It’s fainter than before though, almost distant.
“Why did you stop talking to me earlier?”
Raising his head with a look of poorly disguised incredulity, Yamada hesitates. Eventually, he begins to speak in a tone too casual, words slightly clipped.
“Your girlfriend seemed to be under the impression that I was making you uncomfortable.”
Shouta hadn’t known what to expect in the first place. This clearly wasn’t it.
“Nemuri is my colleague and best friend.”
“Oh.”
There’s a light, pink flush dusting Yamada’s cheeks as he averts his eyes and Shouta can’t help wondering if Yamada is aware of how unfairly attractive he is, of the effect that he has on people. Probably.
“Yeah.”
Since Yamada doesn’t appear to know what to say to that, Shouta reluctantly adds: “I was supposed to sit next to Nemuri on this flight but they messed up the seating so I ended up over here. As you put it so nicely during take-off, being on an airplane tends to unsettle me so she wanted to make sure that I was doing okay.”
The events of the past one and a half hours hadn’t given him much of an opportunity to dwell on it but now that they were sitting in awkward silence, Shouta feels his chronic, bone deep exhaustion crash back down on him in waves of increasing intensity. Where Yamada seems to be blessed — or cursed, if you asked Shouta — with an abundance of energy, Shouta barely manages to prevent his eyelids from drooping on a good day. He doesn’t normally care to hold lengthy conversations, considers them draining at best, and although he impossibly doesn’t want to stop talking to Yamada, his tired mind can’t come up with a way to ease the lingering tension.
What’s worse is that Shouta’s having a hard time guessing what’s going on in that pretty head of Yamada’s. He considers his ability to read people one of his greater strengths, yet when it comes to Yamada, he’s somewhat at a loss. Shouta isn’t stupid. He knows when he’s being flirted with, that he isn’t unattractive in his own gruff way. Unfortunately, he also knows that a man as dazzling as Yamada, the epitome of effortless beauty and confidence, turning heads left and right with every step, is less than likely to take an interest in him beyond some casual messing around. The thought comes with a certain bitterness that Shouta tries his best not to acknowledge.
Not bothering to wait for Yamada to finally think up a response, Shouta puts the headphones back on and lets his eyes fall shut, surrounding himself in blissful darkness. If he’s lucky, he’ll nap straight through the dreaded landing approach to Haneda Airport.
—
Twenty minutes later Shouta is startled awake by a rough jolt searing through his body, eyes flying open wide in an instant. Cold fear makes his breath hitch in his throat and the light swaying of the plane further fuels the feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach.
“Hey, Aizawa,” Yamada tries to get through to him. His voice sounds like it was coming from somewhere far away and when Shouta’s sleep-blurred vision zeroes in on his face, he can make out the way Yamada’s brows are knitted into a small frown. Shouta can’t stop himself from thinking that it looks kind of adorable, which is fucking hilarious, considering the fact that they’re all about to fucking die.
“It’s okay, these are just some minor turbulences, nothing to worry about.”
Shouta stares at him with what he’s sure is a slightly manic expression.
“Minor turbulences,” he huffs, incredulously.
A barely audible sigh escapes Yamada’s lips before he fixes Shouta with his vibrant green eyes, patient and calm.
“You can hold my hand?”
The suggestion takes a moment to fully process and when it does, Shouta makes a point of carefully keeping his face blank of any emotion that he may or may not be experiencing. After a minute of warring with himself, he eventually, slowly turns over his right hand that has been clutching onto the armrest separating his own seat from Yamada’s, palm facing upward.
“Better?”
“Maybe.”
Shouta watches the corners of Yamada’s mouth twitch up at that. When the other man’s thumb idly starts rubbing small circles into his palm, he acts like he doesn’t hold on a little tighter.
—
With the ghost of Yamada’s touch lingering on his skin, Shouta slings his bag over his shoulder and indecisively fumbles with the metal clasp. Next to him Yamada is reaching up into the overhead bin to retrieve his own carry-on, consisting of a small, pink suitcase and a leather jacket. In the process, his shirt rides up ever so slightly, revealing a narrow strip of smooth skin and a glimpse of sharp hip bones but Shouta’s too intent on studying Yamada’s face to pay too much attention. Not that he isn’t tempted. However, figuring out Yamada’s uncharacteristically closed-off expression seems like the more pressing matter right now.
So does the question where the hell this whole thing is supposed to be going from here.
Shouta knows where he wants this to go. He wants to get to know Yamada better. Wants Yamada to ask him for his number and take him to dinner and kiss him breathless on his doorstep with Shouta’s hands buried in his hair. The problem is that if he doesn’t make his move right now, Yamada will walk off this plane and out of his reach, fading into a blur of faded memories, missed opportunities and nagging regrets.
From the other end of the aisle Nemuri’s shooting him a long, meaningful glance before turning on her heel and beginning to herd the kids towards the exit of the plane.
She’s buying me time, Shouta realizes.
Damn it, just say something.
He’s never been good at this, has never felt the need to be.
In the midst of Shouta’s frantic attempt at grasping for the right words, he feels Yamada’s gaze on him again, searching, waiting, expectant. Shouta opens and closes his mouth in frustration and a few seconds later Yamada forces his lips into a tight smile, taking his leave with a small wave and a mumbled well, goodbye, I guess.
Here’s the thing, replaying the past two hours in his mind, Shouta finally gets it. Yamada had been generous with his affections over the entire duration of this flight while Shouta had hardly given him any reason to assume that the feeling was mutual. Yes, he does hate this kind of situation, the complicacy of verbally expressing his emotions and usually wouldn’t think it was worth the hassle. But this, he decides, is different.
Glancing down the aisle where Yamada’s tall figure is slowly disappearing into the distance, shoulders slouched ever so slightly, Shouta all but tears open his bag and scrambles for a pen and an empty piece of paper from his calendar, a line of cat paw prints decorating the margins. He scribbles down his phone number as neatly as he can in what little time he has left and, after a moment of hesitation, adds:
You promised you’d gladly let me step on your feet if we ever happened to dance? Does that offer still stand?
Before he can give himself the chance to second-guess every possible way that his make-shift plan could blow up in his face, he folds the note, drops it into the envelope, containing a copy of Yamada’s plane ticket, that Yamada had abandoned in his seat pocket, and hurries down the aisle to catch up to him.
“Wait,” he calls out more confidently than he feels.
Yamada freezes in his tracks.
“You left this,” Shouta mutters without glancing up, therefore missing the way Yamada’s eyes cloud over in disappointment.
“Ah yes, thanks!”
Something about the chipper tone in Yamada’s voice doesn’t seem genuine and Shouta wouldn’t blame him if he was wondering why Shouta’s even bothering to bring him this.
Shouta doesn’t care to move for another long minute after Yamada has left, acceptance of the fact that he’s managed to fuck this one up big time sinking in further with every second that’s ticking by. It’s only when one of the stewardesses politely but firmly ushers him out off the cabin and towards the exit that he notices that he’s the last passenger who’s stayed behind on board.
The moment he steps on the staircase, leading him back to the comfort and safety of solid ground under his feet, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He feels the fresh air on his face, hears the faint sound of familiar voices chattering somewhere in the distance but doesn’t really take in any of it as he’s lost in thought, numbly fishing for his phone.
The two notification bubbles that greet him on his lock screen nearly make him trip over his own feet.
Unknown Number: well, looks like we’ve both been a little stupid
Unknown Number: anyway, your private dance lessons can start anytime ♡
His head snaps up and there, at the bottom of the stairs, stands Yamada, golden hair flying in the spring breeze, eyes sparkling as his whole body is shaking with laughter. It’s the best sound that Shouta has ever heard and in that moment, he thinks, Yamada looks entirely out of this world.
Lips cracking into the hint of a lazy smile, Shouta closes the gap between them in a few unhurried strides. The sun is beating down on them mercilessly, making him squint after his eyes had gotten used to the relative dimness inside the airplane, and he glances up at Yamada through half-lidded eyes, lightly but deliberately stepping on Yamada’s toes as he moves into his space.
“Aren’t we being a little cocky, calling me stupid and asking me out in the same breath?”
The words are hardly above a whisper, dry but with no real bite to them.
Yamada leans in a little closer, tone silky-soft.
“Feisty.”
“Oh, yeah?” Shouta snorts, challenging.
They stare at each other for a long moment until, eventually, Yamada tears his gaze away to glimpse over his shoulder.
“I’d love to continue this conversation but there’s twenty or so nosy teenagers staring holes into my back for trying to steal away their teacher so …” Yamada trails off for a second, drawing Shouta’s eyes to where he’s biting his bottom lip, “Give me a call?”
Shouta just about manages to stifle a groan but ultimately resigns to his fate and nods. As he brushes past Yamada, not without the both of them lingering for another heartbeat, he lets his fingertips gently graze across the back of Yamada’s hand in what he hopes resembles a sign of reassurance.
Ducking his head into his scarf a little deeper than usual in a desolate attempt to hide the miniscule smile that’s tugging at the corners of his mouth, he sets off to rejoin his class.
His plans for the day had been neatly laid out. He was going to drop off the kids with their parents back at the school, then head home and directly to bed with only the familiar weight of his tabby kitten curled up on his chest for company. When the image of Yamada’s face, split up with laughter, all sunshine and dimples, flashes before his mind’s eye, Shouta idly wonders if napping together could be considered a socially acceptable suggestion for a first date.
—
Three weeks later, Shouta’s dozing on Hizashi’s couch, face buried into the soft fabric of his boyfriend’s t-shirt, arm loosely slung around his waist.
“ ‘Zashi?”
Gentle fingers start running through his hair and across his scalp and the feeling is so delicious, it nearly puts Shouta right back to sleep.
“What’s up babe?”
“Why would one of my students ask me for your autograph today after school?” he inquires drowsily.
He rolls over on his back just on time to see Hizashi’s eyebrows quirk up in surprise, prompting him to elaborate.
“This kid in my senior year, Midoriya Izuku … He came up to me, rambling on about how he spotted Present Mic at the airport the day of our return from the class trip but Nemuri caught him stalking the guy at the entrance before he could bring up the courage to walk up to him. He then saw me talking to you when we all got off the plane and came to the conclusion that me and Present Mic must be close,” Shouta explains flatly. “How “unimpressive” is your dancing career, exactly?”
The question draws an amused chuckle from Hizashi, who starts tapping his his finger against his bottom lip thoughtfully.
“I might have danced and choreographed for a couple big names in the industry but obviously most of those artist’s fans don’t recognize my face, y’know? I can’t say that I’m not flattered, though.”
Shouta shoots him a glare, unimpressed by Hizashi’s vagueness.
“Spit it out. What big names?”
They end up watching every video of Hizashi’s performances that they can find on the internet until late that night when Hizashi grabs him by the hands and pulls him up from the couch to dance to some some slow, cheesy pop song that, according to Hizashi, is supposed to be a classic. Shouta rolls his eyes but doesn’t put up any resistance, just places his socked feet on top of Hizashi’s, the way he always does, and lets himself be swirled across Hizashi’s spacious living room.
If he’s completely honest, the last thing Shouta had expected was for him to ever fall in love with a man as loud and vibrant and impossible as Yamada Hizashi. Now that he’s here, he silently thinks to himself, he wouldn’t want it any other way.