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Hizashi was being followed. This was not unusual— between villains and fans, Hizashi was a popular person to follow. Usually, this ended one of two ways— he’d be cornered and asked for an autograph, or he and his stalker would take a short trip to the police station.
He didn’t think either situation applied here.
Meow.
It had been two blocks— long city ones, no less— and still the cat was trailing him, showing no loss of enthusiasm or volume. Hizashi honestly didn’t know how it was keeping pace— it was a tiny thing, a ball of fluff so small he hadn’t even realized it was a cat at first.
Meow.
He sighed, a loud gust that whoshed into the air, reverberating across the empty street. It was late, nearly two in the morning. He’d only just gotten off duty and it had been a busy night— he’d stopped a would-be bank robber, blasted out a mugger’s ear drums, and nearly taken a knife to the gut. All he wanted was some sleep.
The kitten had other ideas.
Hizashi stopped, shaking his head. No more than a minute later, he felt a tiny impact against his leg. A low purring started up, faint and high pitched but constant. It was far from the rumble he’d heard from other cats, and Hizashi felt his heart-strings twinge at the sound.
He bent down, leather pants creaking with the movement. The first thing he registered was small and the second was cute. It was mostly black, with an ice-white face. Its fur was thick and fluffy, slightly matted in a few places from neglect. A pair of coal black eyes stared up at him. If Hizashi squinted just right, it looked a little like Shota.
Meow.
Resigned, he scooped the kitten up. It was late, and he wasn’t cruel— the kitten couldn’t stay out here alone.
He began murmuring to the animal as he walked, keeping his voice several decibels lower than normal. “You are too cute, adorable little pest. Why are you so far from home? Do you have a home?” An excited purr was his only response, the tiny head nudging against his fingertips. Teeth gnawed across a finger, and Hizashi went warm and fond.
It was only after unlocking his front door and depositing the kitten on the sofa that he realized he had a problem.
Perhaps he should be more specific. Hizashi had many problems— the sink in his kitchen had shit water pressure, he’d run out of hair gel, and his stomach was grumbling unpleasantly.
But this problem was a little more pressing. Hizashi stared at the heart-wrenchingly adorable kitten curled into a pile of pillows. He had no idea how to care for a cat, hadn’t owned a pet in his life. What did they eat? Did they need exercise? Shit, did he need to get a litter box?
His phone was pressed to his ear and dialing before he could think twice. A gruff voice answered him, rough with sleep. “What the hell do you want, Hizashi?”
It took everything Hizashi had not to let out a happy sigh. “What do kittens eat?” There was silence from the end of the line.
Eventually, “What?”
“Do they need milk? What kind of food? I just sort of assumed chicken would be okay, but I don’t really have much else.”
“Don’t give him milk, cats are lactose intolerant. Chicken is fine.” A beat later, almost like an afterthought. “Hizashi, why do you have a cat?”
Relieved, he moved towards the fridge. He had some grilled chicken tucked away. That should be fine, right?
“He followed me home.” It was a weak defense, and he knew it. A tiny plate of shredded meat later, and the kitten was purring happily across his lap.
“Hizashi. Have you ever had a cat before?”
“Uh, no?”
A sigh echoed down the line. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Hizashi stared down at the phone, blinking. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was in fact still 2 A.M. Was he dreaming?
Shota appeared at his door exactly eight minutes and ten seconds later, proving that no, Hizashi was not dreaming. His hair was tied back in a pony tail, and a large box was tucked under one arm. There were faint bags shadowing his eyes.
He looked tired. Hizashi felt a twinge guilt.
What was worse, though, was the shirt— it was a little too loose, fitting wide across the neck and showing a tempting swath of pale skin. Across the front, in bold, stylized font, read PUT YOUR HANDS UP!!
Hizashi swallowed through a suddenly dry throat.
“Shota! You didn’t have to come out here, you know.” His eyes trailed down Shota’s exposed neck, across the lettering, the shirt he wore like a brand, the shirt that was Hizashi’s merchandise—
“Where is it.”
“Huh?” He dragged his eyes off the shirt and up to tired face. As their eyes met, surprise flashed across Shota’s expression, before it settled into something more thoughtful.
“The cat, Hizashi. Where is the cat?” Shota’s words were sharp, his tone exasperated, but there was a note of something Hizashi couldn’t quite identify. He opened his mouth to reply—
Meow!
The kitten scrambled between his legs to collide with Shota’s, purring viciously. Somehow, it sounded more excited to see Shota than it ever had with Hizashi. He felt mildly offended.
“How come he likes you better than me?”
“Good taste. Let’s get him settled in.” Without further ado, he started pulling supplies out of the box. Shota was terrifyingly efficient, as always— it took him only a few minutes to arrange a litterbox, as well as food and water. Hizashi offered to help, but Shota just waved him off.
He was strangely glad— he hadn’t quite recovered from the shock of that shirt. The whole night was feeling surreal, dreamlike around the edges. In the light of the twilight hour, Hizashi could pretend that Shota was here for something else, that this was so much more than a favor for a friend.
He ran a hand through his hair, pulling it back. The tug grounded him, made him lurch back into focus. He couldn’t let that thought play out, couldn’t think of his closest friend that way.
But damn if it wasn’t hard.
Hizashi collapsed down on the couch, falling in a dramatic slouch. It earned him a quiet snort from Shota, who settled beside him with the kitten held gently in one hand. Hizashi still couldn’t quite believe it was a cat— it was so small, only just filling Shota’s broad palm.
He reached over to scratch fluffy ears and earned a purr for his efforts. “Would you believe this guy followed me home? Meowed at me until I finally stopped. Wouldn’t take no for an answer!”
A smile crept up Shota’s face, tiny and genuine. “He picked you. Are you going to keep him?”
Hizashi hadn’t really given it much thought, but now that Shota had said it, he couldn’t imagine anything else. “Yeah, the little guy needs a home.”
A fluffy paw tugged on Shota’s shirt— Hizashi’s shirt, god, how was he ever supposed to look at his merchandise again— dragging it down across a toned chest. Like silk over steel, Shota’s chest was toned, chiseled.
It was official, Hizashi was dead, an ex-hero, no more for this world, killed by the combined cuteness of best friend and cat.
Shota raised an amused eyebrow and gently pulled the kitten further down, tucking his paws underneath him. He began happily gnawing at Shota’s finger, tiny teeth doing little damage.
It was the perfect picture.
Hizashi couldn’t deal with this. It was late— too many of his defenses were down, and the rest had been stripped away by that soft smile.
But he was also weak— it had been too long since he had spent time with Shota, too long since they’d just hung out. So instead of leaping up from the couch and thanking Shota right out the door, Hizashi sunk deeper into the cushions and just basked in his friend’s company.
They didn’t move for a long while, lulled into relaxation by a constant purr. When Shota moved to get up, Hizashi stopped him.
“You can stay, you know. No point in going out this late, not with work in the morning.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think. It wasn’t an unusual offer— the two of them had lived out of each other’s pockets since high school and becoming heroes and teachers hadn’t changed that— but it was the first one in a while. Hizashi had been keeping his distance, trying to draw some clean boundaries, mostly for his own sake.
In the face of that smile, Hizashi couldn’t remember why.
Shota paused, gaze lying heavy across Hizashi’s face. He didn’t know what the other man was searching for, but he must have found it— “Fine.”
“I can drive us to UA, and I know you have a spare— oh, okay, cool.”
The bedtime routine was easy to slip into, familiar like well-worn shoes. They moved around each other fluidly, switching places before the bathroom sink without a word exchanged. Exhaustion was catching up to Hizashi, and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open.
“I’m borrowing pants.” The voice broke into Hizashi’s daze, dragged his attention to Shota. The man was walking towards his bedroom, undoing the belt from his jeans with one hand.
Hizashi tore his eyes away and resolutely did not think of Shota in his clothes.
“Ah yeah, that’s fine, second drawer on the left.”
There was a silence from the corner of the room. “I know.” Shota’s tone was sharp, low and harsh.
Hizashi blinked, surprised at the vehemence, but the moment was gone— Shota had already slipped into the bedroom. A rustling of cloth floated through the open door before he came out, still in the same shirt but with a pair of Hizashi’s old sweats slung low across his hips.
Sometimes Hizashi forgot Shota trained as a close combat fighter, that he was lethal in a fist fight. He was bulkier than Hizashi— who was by no means out of shape— a little broader across the shoulders and thighs. All that hard-earned muscle meant one thing— the pants were tight.
Now Hizashi remembered why he’d been trying to set boundaries.
He plastered a sunny smile across his lips and pulled out blanket and some pillows from a closet. A nervous hum slipped out of him, strained and awkward in the quiet room, but there was nothing to be done— he’d already dug his own grave.
“Couch still okay?”
There was a small nod, and Shota sat down on the smooth leather, hands reaching for the cat. A purr rumbled into life.
“Hizashi.” His tone was low, intimate in the late-night haze. It sent a poorly concealed shiver up Hizashi’s spine.
“Yeah?”
Shota stared at him, gaze serious. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
Hizashi’s voice caught in his throat, and he was, for once, left without words. He cast around, desperate for something.
“I—” What could he say? I’m not was a coward’s move, and patently untrue. What he should say was, I realized I’m in love with you. What he did say was, “I’ve been busy.”
Shota’s expression went cold, eyes shuttering into oblivion. “I see.”
Hizashi realized his mistake quickly and raised placating hands. “No, shit, that’s not right. I’m sorry Shota, I’ve just had something on my mind. Nothing bad, I promise. Just something I have to think through.” Something he had to get over, really. He forced himself to look at Shota’s face. Despite fifteen years of friendship, of fighting back-to-back and side-by-side, Hizashi couldn’t name what he saw there.
“You aren’t going to tell me.” It wasn’t a question. Hizashi scratched his head, brushing through his hair in a nervous gesture.
“I’d, ah, prefer not to.”
Shota was still just looking at him. Nothing slipped onto his face, no trace of emotion that Hizashi could use to figure out what he was thinking.
Eventually, he said— “You are my friend, Hizashi. I’m not letting you take that away.”
The word friend coming from Shota was both a deep compliment and a knife to the heart. “Don’t worry, I won’t let this get in the way.” He coughed, looking away. “Anyway, sleep well and all that.”
He fled the room, tail between his legs. As the door shut, he heard, low and soft— “You already have.”
He fell towards the bed, collapsing on it with a thump. Soft blankets covered his face, enveloping and suffocating in equal measure. He idly wondered if he could die of shame.
Meow!
Clawed paws dug pinpricks up his back, ending with a furry head shoved against Hizashi’s neck. He groaned weakly, turning to stroke gentle fingers up the kitten’s back.
“I’m fucked.” The kitten meowed in agreement. “Royally screwed.” Another meow.
Hizashi didn’t notice— couldn’t have noticed, not with his preoccupation— but in the living room Shota’s face had gone thoughtful. He plucked at the fabric of his shirt, staring down at the design. After a moment, his eyes narrowed, resolve painting his face.
Hizashi wouldn’t know what hit him.
After that, all Hizashi’s attempts for distance were clawed to pieces by a tiny, adorable kitten. Every day that week, without fail, Hizashi would pack up from a long day of teaching or hero work, ready to collapse and listen to an old record. And every day, without fail, Shota would fall into place behind him.
The first time, he’d been surprised—
“Shota?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you following me home?”
There was a long slow blink, a subtle shifting of feet. “To see the kitten.”
It was matter-of-fact, said in so deadpan a tone it whispered shouldn’t this be obvious?
Hizashi hadn’t bothered to put up a fight after that. Not that he really wanted to— how could he ever dislike Shota’s company? He’d stayed for dinner, too, even helped chop vegetables. Coming from a man who subsisted on juice packets, this was unexpected to say the least.
And still, Shota kept coming.
Hizashi didn’t quite know what to make of it, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind. The sight of Shota, hair tied back and barefoot, leaning against a smooth counter with a beer in one hand and a content expression— it made his chest ache.
It was on one such evening that Shota spoke, curled around the kitten and gently playing with its paws— “What are you going to call him?”
Hizashi hummed, thoughtful, and stirred the soup simmering on the stove. Roast cauliflower and nutmeg, yum. The smell was wafting through the entire apartment, rich and nutty. Cooking always relaxed his shoulders, pulled the tension of life out of him and let it puff into the air.
“I’m thinking Rock ‘n Roll.”
Shota snorted, giving him a flat look. “That’s an awful name. Pick something practical.”
A playful frown bloomed across Hizashi’s face, and he pointed accusingly at Shota. “Hey, hey! My names are awesome!”
With raised eyebrows came the word— “Eraserhead.”
…
Yeah, that was a fair critique.
Pulling out silverware, he flashed Shota a grin. “Fine, then you think of a better one.”
“Patches.”
Hizashi stopped, blinked, and looked over the sight of Shota petting along a black and white head. Patches. It was so very cute. The kitten laid a paw across Shota’s face, demanding and all too adorable.
The name fit.
“Patches it is! Thank you, dear listener!”
Shota had long ago honed the skill of the eye-roll— his were deadly. Hizashi paid it no mind, cheerfully stirring away.
Still, no matter how much he enjoyed Shota’s company— or perhaps because of how much— Hizashi needed some space. There was only so much of Shota his heart could take— only so much of Shota curled up on his sofa with Patches in his lap, invading Hizashi’s life. He was glad when Friday rolled around, glad for the distraction running the show took.
He made his excuses to Shota, and headed straight to the station from work, ducking into the building happily. Three hours of hard rock later, Hizashi was pumped and thoroughly distracted. The music he’d put together had blended beautifully, there had been a couple of really interesting call-in requests, and damn had that one guitar riff been good.
It was a good night.
“Alright, listeners, that’s the show for tonight! See you next week for Put Your Hands Up!”
The walk back was quick, all the quicker from Hizashi’s good mood. He practically danced down the street, feet and heart light. A few times, he chanced a glance over his shoulder— a little paranoid— but he didn’t hear any meowing. Apparently, the world only wanted him to have one cat.
Hizashi stepped into the apartment, humming a jazzy tune on his tongue. “Hey, Patc—”
The words caught, held. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Shota looked up from the couch, wrapped in one of Hizashi’s old shirts and a pair of old sweats. The shirt was scandalously tight, stretching across a broad chest in a way that left just enough to the imagination. Across the front, neon lettering read SCREAM for Present Mic.
It had been a gag gift from Nemuri— she’d gotten her hands on it from a fan and passed it along with gusto. He’d taken to only wearing it around the house— the few times he’d gone outside in it, he’d had people screaming at him the entire day. Seeing it on Shota was—
Hizashi didn’t really have words for how hot that made him. It took him a moment to find his voice, and even then, it was just— “Holy shit.”
Shota was in his apartment, in his clothes, petting his cat, waiting for him like a patient lover. Granted, Shota had the spare key to Hizashi’s apartment, had for a long time, but he almost never actually used it. It was more for emergencies than anything else.
Maybe this counted as an emergency?
Shota’s eyes flicked up to Hizashi’s, searching for something. He must have found it— Shota stood from the couch, the stretch, flex, of lean muscles easy to see under that damn shirt.
This was definitely an emergency.
Hizashi scrambled to think, raising his hands and working a smile onto his face. His greeting died on his tongue as Shota spoke.
“I thought so.” Something satisfied flashed in tired eyes. “That night— there was only one logical explanation. You are attracted to me.”
Hizashi almost choked at the heart-stoppingly blunt words. “Ah, wait—”
Shota didn’t let him finish. “Is that what has been bothering you? I’m not upset, Hizashi. I —” He paused, opened his mouth a few times. Eventually, “It’s fine.”
Feeling vulnerable and embarrassed, Hizashi stared at Shota, his oldest friend, his closest friend. His posture was firm, but there was something in his face— he couldn’t put a name to it.
Shota had given him a path. It would be such an easy out, to just say yes and move on. To pretend that was all it was. But Hizashi has spent a month damaging their friendship trying to keep this a secret, and Shota— Shota deserved to know.
“It’s not that.” He let out a pained laugh. “Well, not just that. I, uh, realized that I have feelings for you. Wanted to figure things out, try to push past them. I didn’t want to make things awkward.”
And then he’d proceeded to do just that. Hizashi would kick himself if he wasn’t feeling so raw.
Silence swept through the room, heavy with honesty and regret alike. It curled tight around Hizashi’s throat, making it hard to swallow. He resolutely did not look at Shota’s face.
“And have you?” The words hit, broke, the silence, but all Hizashi felt was confused.
“What?”
“Have you pushed past them?” Still Shota’s gruff voice told him nothing.
Stumbling in the dark, blind and hopelessly in love, Hizashi smiled. It tasted bittersweet. How could he, when Shota was Shota? “No.”
At the word, Shota moved fluid, fast, darting in close. Hizashi instinctively brought his hands up, fighter’s reaction kicking in, but Shota was quick, had always had the advantage of speed in close combat.
So the kiss caught him defenseless. It was a firm press of lips, no hesitant touch or coy brush, but it was still— chaste. A statement, but one that wanted— needed— a response.
And, oh, would Hizashi respond.
He opened his mouth and it turned hungry. He tugged Shota closer, closer, trying to pull him in and never let go. Moments, years, decades passed and still it wasn’t enough. When they parted for breath, Hizashi leaned forward to rest his forehead on Shota’s. This close, he could see the strain lining his eyes, the prominent scar carved over a cheekbone.
He was beautiful.
He wanted to wrap him in a sleeping bag and just hold him until he fell asleep. He wanted to get down on one knee and honor him in the best way he knew. Scratch that, he wanted to get down on two knees for this gorgeous man.
Shota huffed out a light breath, cheerful across Hizashi’s lips. “Sorry, I should have asked.”
The idea that Shota thought he had to ask was both sweet and hilarious. “Shit, you have blanket permission for all future kisses. Like, anytime.” He leaned forward, chasing the taste of coffee and juice across chapped lips. A broad hand curled across his hip, fingers tracing lower, lower— Hizashi’s blood went hot.
He could feel the quirk of a smile, and god, that was addicting. “I’ll still ask.”
But there was doubt— lingering and ruthless— in the back of his mind. Hizashi couldn’t do this just for the sex, and while he didn’t think that’s all Shota wanted, he had to know.
Reluctant, Hizashi pulled back. “So, uh, does this mean those feelings go both ways? Because if not, I need to take back the kiss permission. For my health.”
Shota leveled him a flat look. “Hizashi. I’ve been in love with you for fifteen years.”
Oh. Oh. There was only one response to that.
“Can I take you to bed, Shota?”
Several productive hours later, Hizashi was lounging across his bed, muscles lax and well-used. His hair was hopelessly tangled, they’d knocked a lamp over at some point, and he was drunk on a delirious happiness.
“I think you just killed me. Goodbye, world.”
A snort sounded somewhere near Hizashi’s hip, gusting across bare skin and leaving a trickle of sensation in its wake. “Death by orgasm isn’t real.”
He cracked an eye open. “You sure? Because that sounds like a challenge. Give me twenty minutes and you can be the test subject.”
That earned a laugh, low and dark. Teeth bit tugged at the taut skin across his stomach, sparking wildfires of sensation. “Twenty minutes? I think we can make it ten.”
Hizashi groaned at the promise in that rough voice. He sat up, pulling a smirking Shota up and in—
Meow!
Tiny claws pressed against Hizashi’s bare ankle, sharp and painful. He yelped, the quirk-enforced sound going high and loud directly into Shota’s face. The man winced and collapsed back down, face first into the covers, bringing hands up to cover his ears.
Shit.
“We forgot to feed him, didn’t we?”